NationStates Jolt Archive

Please post all OOC chat on the sign up (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=440104) thread and leave this one for the actual RP.

For sixty-five years I have ruled these lands. Generals and Kings have knelt at my command. But a darkness grows. From the West, monsters pour over the lands, bringing death and disease with them.

These are the closing days of the third era, and the final days of my life. But the Gods have not abandoned the people; they have told me. They say that three individuals, born on a certain day to uncertain parents, will rise and push back the evils.

Oblivion, the dwelling of daemons and monsters foul, hell. As time passes, the darkness grows. We must find these three chosen warriors of the Gods, and close shut the jaws of Oblivion, or all is lost...

-King Uriel Septim VII


Cyrodiil. The small planet of water, housing only one small island. The Kingdom of Cyrodiil. Ruled from Castle Cyrodiil in the middle of the island, and home to the populus of the three towns.

In the snowy north, amongst the tall snow capes of the mountains, Boria; the winter paradise. It's timber houses covered in snow, but kept warm by the fires burning inside. A place of beauty, strange portents, and secretive people.

The vast grasslands and hills of the south, it's population being mostly the wild animals. But the small town of Green Field sits there also. It's people living in their red brick homes surrounded by farmland.

The great forests of the east. Beautiful and dangerous terrain leading towards the white sandy shores of the sea. On those shores, the town of Mor' Gan sitting protected by the green forests and the animals within that keep intruders out. Their houses built into hallowed out trees; and their wooden dock full of fishing ships when the sun goes down.

Castle Cyrodiil. It's high walls protecting the stone buildings and the great Castle of the King. The largest town in the world, and the most defended. The invincible legions of the Kingdom are garrisoned here in Fort Moonmoth. And the Temple of the Gods sitting high and mighty next to the Castle.

The high dirt mountains and deserts of the west. The homeland of many tombs, and cave systems. The infamous tunnels under the surface seemingly unending, and twisting so much that even the most experienced of adventurers get lost in their dark halls forever. Deep within the mountains, underneath the rock, sits the Cavern of Mornhold. Within it, the twisting tunnels leading to the interior of the mountain range, and to the gates.

The darkness of the cavern room was dispelled when a ray of red light penetrated, and grew. The black portal thrust open, and the red light expanded to all the reaches of the room. The gates had been pushed open, and the evil was free...




Briel Threndar, Renimar and Zarathustra Anatole; all in seperate towns and complete strangers to everyone including themselves, fell into deep sleeps that frightfull night. The storm outside raged, and the rain came down hard. The thunder boomed, and flashes in the sky as lightning whiped.

The same dream came to all of them. A woman, fair and beautiful, lead them through the island, taking them to every corner and showing them everything about the land. She led them to the sandy mountains of the west. Turning to them, she moved her lips, but no words came. She continued to speak, but still nothing; and then, as if afraid, she turned and looked at a small doorway that they had not noticed before. And with a tear in her eye, she turned back to them, and cried out, this time the words coming loud and clear, screamed and desperate.

Close them, close shut the jaws of Oblivion!

And then they awoke from their sleep, and starred out their windows at the now calm night sky. And they all noticed it, the single star in the whole sky; shining bright and beautiful amongs the dark clouds.

Sat in front of a small campire was Etfid Red-Wolf, a male Nord who had long untidy blond hair and blue eyes. He had come out in order to do some tomb raiding, a favoured past time of him. His gaze moved from the flames up to the night sky. It was a clear night so he could see the stars twinkle above.

"A good night to be out," he said to himself.

His camp was just off the road, that way only someone looking for the camp would find it. Of course, the light and smoke from the fire would alert passersby. Etfid was ready for any kind of trouble that was bound to come his way, he had his trusty dagger and had the ability to cast fireballs.

His main aim for tomb raiding was treasure and the money that came with it. Rich people did often require to be buried with their riches and that was what drew him to it. There were of course traps and guardians in some tombs but that was all part of the fun.

Close them, close shut the Jaws of Oblivion.

Zarathustra Anatole brooded on these words for a long while after he woke from his dream. Yet, what was a dream, execpt Illusions and shadows? Perhaps he had recived a prophecy, then? No, he decided. He had only been told What to do, not how to do it. Prophocies usually had guidelines to go with them. Zarathustra finally came to a conclusion: Fate. It must simply be his destiny to close this dream door.

But, Zarathustra Anatole thought, why should he be chosen for this task? He, who had, in a past life, paraded with demons and helped to summon unspeakable evils? He, who had recived the gift of thunder, to electrify any who opposed him at will? Zarathustra cursed his past and his power. He had never mastered the ability-indeed, he had only used it once, and it had nearly killed him. Zarathustra had not even tried to conjure a bolt of lightning since. Him, close shut the jaws of Oblivion? It seemed more apropriate that he be shut inside it along with the rest of hell.

Zarathustra, despite what he had done in his past, still had little knowlage about Oblivion itself-only what the childhood stories had told him. The gate of hell, they said, the source of all evil. To even imagine that he would be chosen for such a task as this...Hadn't the gates been sealed shut long ago, anyways? Still, Zarathustra thought he was missing something. In his dream, there had been two others beside him, two others who the woman was speaking to. Who must they be? So many questions...

Zarathustra quickly decided what his course would be. After leaving Mor' Gan, he would have to travel to the west, to Castle Cyrodiil, and to the king. From there, he would seek out these two people from his dream...Zarathustra could not think past that point. He started packing as fast as he could, then realized that he needed a weapon-something more than his power. He gulped. The only thing that would suit would be his father's Cicada Sword, a staff with a pair of sword blades potruding from each side. Zarathustra grimiced. He had never known his father, who had died before he was born, and this was the only thing that his sire had left him. Zarathustra hesited a moment before taking it off it's mantel, then plucked it up with his hand and gave it an expirimental spin. It would do.

Zarathustra wondered what he was heading towards, and what we has leaving behind, as he started to make his way out of Mor' Gan. It would take a while to navigate through surrounding forests, but he was a more than capable traveler. After the forests, it would be time to pay a visit to the king. Zarathustra wasn’t sure what he would run into on the way, but he had to find those men…and that women…He glanced up at he sky and beheld a single, large star, glowing brightly, and wondered what it had in store for him.

Reminar the High Elf of Green Fields traveled upon the great plans of the island in his suit of chainmail under the hot sun going to Castle Cyrodiil there he planned to rejoin the army at his past rank of Knight Errant though he realized that was onlikely though. As he entered the great castle city he decided to get some Nordic Mead the strongest of the land and there he entered the nearest Nord Tavern while he entered he heard strange rumors abound being spoken by the patrons of this place. Then he came upon the Nordic bar keep and said," Give me your strongest mead, please."

(OOC: Scandivans, please save all OCC talk for the sign-up thread.)

IC:

The Nord turned his head. He was in the middle of cleaning some mugs when the elf had bothered him. He looked the little golden man up and down and grunted.

Sure you can handle it, fella?

I think I can

Then that'll be five gold pieces

Slinging his dish towel onto his shoulder, the barkeep picked up one of the clean glasses and filled it with the ale. Placing it on the table he waited for his payment.

The High Elf tossed five coins unto the table and drank his ale and then said to the Nord," Man, that was some strong stuff worth every peice of gold snd sorry for the occ: statement."

Picking up the coins, the Nord grunted again as he pocketed them and turned back to finish cleaning his mugs.

On the other side of the bar, an Imperial(human) and a dark elf sat together talking over a beer. They seemed pretty into the conversation, and watched carefully for anyone that might be ease-dropping.

Did you find it?

Yeah, I found the crypt, and went in.

And? Did you get the goods?

I barely escaped with my life. You know as well as I do that those damn deadra things have invaded almost every ruin, crypt and cave out there. We're going to have to start flying straight if it keeps up, there won't be any places left that are safe to raid!

Shut up! Don't raise your voice.

"Damn stupid creatures!"

Briel's wail never reached the sheep: instead it was grabbed, frozen, into the wind, the wind that howled down the valley, whipping across the flat white fields and tearing splintering chunks of limb from the cowering trees, and spat back into his face. His ears burned raw, and as he gouged gritty ice from his eyes, he realized how foolish he'd been to set out without a head-scarf. But...the blizzard had been...it wasn't even sudden. Valley storms crept up, slipped their writhing fingers over the crests of the mountains, worked up from murmuring purrs to bloody roars. But this – it had just appeared. One moment he was clumsily fiddling with his lute, the next quivering in the snow-slush as the air rent open around him. The ragged gulps of thunder...it was drawing breath.

And the sheep were insane – piling over another, trampling their own young, snorting with flared nostrils. They'd never seen anything like this – how could they have? He'd raised most of the flock from birth, and he'd never seen anything like this. There were storms every winter, and he was used to snow and wind, thunder and lightning. An arcing flash tore through the sky, pure white at its jagged, raging core, fingers crackling out in every direction, and every colour: pale gold, bright blue, dark red. He wasn't used to this.

He carried on desperately swishing around with his staff until his white fingers could no longer cling to the thick emblem of his duty, and he was left to watch it spin off, borne aloft like a tiny twig. He tried to move the sheep with his bare hands, slapping and flailing wildly, trying to lift the panicking animals in his arms. But it was futile. He yelled out again and again, completely deafened by the awesome roar of the wind, finally crumpling to his knees and showering a mouthful of blood out onto the brown snow. People were showering down the mountains: shepherds, travellers, merchants. One red-eyed ewe reared up before, bleating pathetically. He could barely breathe now, his ribs squeezed in the bitter wind. He stood up, and run.

As he tore down the mountain, stumbling wildly, tripping on jagged rocks, his legged scraped and torn by the thorny bushes clinging low to avoid the winds, his face scratched and spattered by the gritty grey blizzard ice, he fought back jagged tears of rage. It was stupid, he knew – it wasn't his fault. He dared not glance back over his shoulder for fear of losing his path, but knew the sheep would still be squirming in a maelstrom of wool – it wasn't his fault. Stupid kid, a weakling, a dreamer, head in the sky without feet on the ground. Not yet a man. And maybe they were all right: he couldn't even keep sheep. It wasn't his fault.

All around, the mountain sides slid and twist with mudslides, flurries of snow and rock avalanching down around the few fools like him still tumbling in desperate hope of reaching Boria. In conditions like these, he'd have expected the gentle curls of smoke that usually fanned up from the cluster of houses to have been smashed aside. But he could just see, through the almost impenetrable wall of ice thundering from the skies, columns of black, sparking red and orange – they must have lit the beacons. And, comforting as it was to know he might now make it home, it filled him with a chill terror too: they hadn't been fired up in a long time.

Finally, he was down onto the valley floor, still running as hard as he could, feet pounding and slipping dangerously on the ice. The streets were deserted, the houses huddled in silent, despairing darkness. The wind was if anything louder and more violent here, pooling its power at the base of the slopes. Another bolt of lightning cracked forth, opening up the heavens in blazing glory. The reflection from the driving sleet was dazzling, sending Briel spinning to the floor. It gutted him, all the air gone from his chest in a moment. Despite the dull pain in his elbow, the raw gash splitting his knee open, the pounding in his temples, and above all the shivering, crippling cold, he had to lie like a baby in the snow and suck at the air.

He pulled himself up unsteadily, creaking some crippled ancient, and staggered on. He was nearly home. As he careered down the alleyways, he searched desperately for the key. The cord still flapped about his neck...but now there was nothing from it. What if they had it battened down, and couldn't hear him? There it was: the inn, the castle of his childhood suddenly a crouching hovel in the face of this siege. He was ready to claw at the stout door, to try to burrow through – but there was no need. It swung open, whisked from his outstretched hand, and he felt powerful arms wrench him in. Compared to the staggering brightness of the storm, the room was a paltry, reedy butter-amber of torchlight. Nervous faces blinked up from behind piles of timber and old sacks. There were mutters, and suddenly he was swept up.

"Briel! Spirits, we thought you were dead!"

Sara sprang into him, embracing him so tightly he was worried she might freeze to him. She buried her head in his chest: "I thought...I thought..."

She broke down into snivels and was gently eased off by her mother. Briel's father sighed, and bear-hugged his trembling son. And Briel could no longer hold it back, and erupted into a cataclysm of tears, tearing aimlessly at his jagged hair.

"Briel! Briel, shh, shh. You're alive. It's alright. You're alive, you're safe. The storm will pass."

The reassurances meant nothing. He pulled back, unable to look up at his father, and blurted out, "I've lost the flock."

Suddenly the storm didn't seem so fearsome by half. Instead, the terrified souls who not one minute earlier had believed themselves to at the hub of the storm to end all things were writhing and shaking with laughter. Even Goldran Threndar, never one to even smile at the drunken ramblings of his customers, chuckled.

"Briel, what are a few sheep? I thought I'd lost my son?"

He'd fought for hours, battled to keep going, and finally left only when he knew that he would surely die. And now they mocked him with this? He lashed out a wrist – he couldn't punch, not like his brothers, and it only ended as a wet slap – that nonetheless span his father back. The room fell silent, the wind taking up its cacophonic backing once more. Briel stormed up the stairs.

Hours later, Sara found him sitting on his bunk, staring into a dark corner. His head was bowed, and he still wore the sopping clothing, shredded to rags by the blizzard's claws. The storm hadn't abated: half the town was now clustered in the hall, fearing for their own smaller dwellings.

"Briel, we only meant to..."

"Get out." His voice was of cold metal.

"Your clothes."

"Go, bitch!" he snarled, turning on her. She clattered away sobbing, and he sunk his head into his hands. He was too tired, and too cold, even to care about this now. In the morning, his head would be clear.

He bathed briefly, and found some dry robes. He was even joined by his father again for a moment, taking bread and wine in silence. And, with the banshee howl of the gale still whipping round his solitary room, he snuffed the candle, and lay down to sleep.

As a child, he had never been able to sleep in storms, always running to curl up to his mother. Now that he couldn't do that, perhaps he felt calmer – forced to survive, he rose to do so. Or perhaps he was merely shattered by it all. In any case, his sleep was the deepest, darkest, and calmest of his life.
Until suddenly he sat up. In a forest – dry, and calm, and quiet. And filled with the vague dazing awareness that this was not him, but some unspeakable fantasy. Leaves crackled, and he sprang up, legs lithe and fresh. It was a woman – taller than any woman he had ever seen, maybe even as tall as his father – and so beautiful. Not the warm tenderness of Sara's features – but a pure, cold, sculpted elegance. She stretched out a hand, long nails of black pointing at him, and dabbed at her impossibly white tresses with the other. She did not speak, but he knew to follow her.

She turned, and ran. He followed, soon picking his feet up into a trot. He tried to increase his pace, to catch her – but she matched him and more at every turn. They were blurring now, through this strange forest, and then out. In a flash, he was...out. Out of Boria, and into the world. He had never seen them, yet he knew these lands like they were fond childhood reminiscences. Hot, sandy beaches, rich, tropical jungle, dark, rising hills, swaying, golden fields. She stopped, and he lurched to a stop with a sickening jolt. She spoke, but no word. And a door. Something...his mind thickened like soup.

Until he suddenly sat up. In drenched bed-cloths. He was awake, and it was real.

Close them, close shut the jaws of Oblivion!

He pulled himself from his bed. Outside, there was silence. He dashed down, pushing aside sleepy townspeople rising from their slumbers. Out into the cold night, not minding the ice that crept up between his toes. He gazed up into the skies. Not a trace of wind in the set clouds, not a drop of ice, not a flicker of lightning. A few hazy spots of stars. And, without needing to think where to look, one that stood out like a thousand diamonds – a burning hole in the sky. A beacon.

* * * * *

He had bid few goodbyes. A gruff grunt and no less gruff a hug with his father. Nods and shakes here and there. And whispered words to Sara that would be laughed in the morning. But he had to go. They sighed, and asked again where. He did not know. So why? He did not know. But he knew he had been chosen. Why? He did not know. But it wasn't his fault.

Now he clunked along the dirt track uneasily. He had started off wearing the 'armour' Hern had lent him. Mostly boiled leather and rusty chain-mail – nothing that would withstand a feather blow. But it was hot, and now it sweltered in his sack. His father had pressed coins into his hand, and others had followed suit – but they were a poor town. He stopped for a moment to look back at the small sprawl of wooden houses. He didn't know if he would see them again. So he walked on.

Zarathustra breathed a sigh of relif as he slipped out of the village. He had managed to slip past the human guards, and that was a difficult thing to do, for the men of Mor' Gan were known to have superb hearing. Zarathustra had accidently snapped a fallen branch as he was exiting the village; luckily, the guard who was on duty must have had a bit too much to drink, as he dismissed the sound with a slurred, "ItH nuthun...." and took another swig from his canteen.

Although he had survived the expert archers who guarded Mor' Gan, Zarathustra did not fancy his chances in the forest. Although it was only a short time until dawn and the first rays of sunlight were starting to creep up over the ocean, the forest was still almost pitch black. Zarathustra wasn't too worried about being attacked by most animals, as he had been around living creatures all his life-Birds and Wolves seemed quite fond of him. Still, this forest was not quite...Natural.

Although Zarathustra heard many strange sounds and felt very entrapped by the huge winding trees of the forest, nothing special transpired through the night. The traveler soon breathed a sigh of relif as blades of light finally broke through the tangled treetop of the forest, illuminating his way and making the path much easier. The true beauty of the forest was revealed, as the sunlight shone on gigantic mushrooms, vibriant flowers, and ancient oaks. Feeling content, Zarathustra stopped next to a large pond to refill his canteen. As he lay against an young cherry blossem, he heard movement in the water behind him...something hissed...something quite large...

Cicada sword in hand, Zarathustra turned to the pond that he had filled his canteed from to view the most massive water snake he had ever seen. He was probably the only person to see one this big as well; the massive serpent did not look like it ever left behind any survivers. The snake hissed angrily and tried to strike it's disturber. Zarathustra jumped backwards and gave the snake an upwards slash; his swordstaff bounced his enemy's scales, which were almost as hard as steel.

Zarathustra knew he was in trouble. He was wearing only the tight green clothes that were customary among his people, as well as a wide-brimmed, dark colored hat. He had chosen not to wear his chainmail, which was stuffed securely in his pack. He had always found the armor to be very burdensome, and never liked to wear the stuff, even in a battle. Still, Zarathustra reasoned, that snake could crush a man in full plate armor.

Zarathustra's debating came to an end as the great serpent's tail whizzed out of the water and nearly took his head off. He had to now fight two enemies-the head and the tail. Attack the head, and the tail strikes back, He thought, Attack the tail and the head strikes back. Look's like I'll have to gut him through the middle!

Zarathustra leapt forward, avoiding the two expected blows, reached out with all his might, and managed to push the Cicada into the snake's belly. The serpent roared and flung about with all it's might, slamming Zarathustra into an huge elm tree, stunning him. Zarathustra looked up, knowing that the snake's mouth would be his last sight. Suddenly...

Of Course!

Lightning! Zarathustra shouted the word out loud as a bolt of electricity leapt from his right hand, hitting the serpent square between the eyes. The snake hissed in pain as the energy dug into his eyes, then traveled downwards, into the water. The Reptile started to thrash violently as the liquid around it began to boil. Zarathustra took advantage of the situation and struck upwards, his blade sliding through the snake's exposed throat and stopping at the creature's brain. The mighty serpent fell dead.

Zarathustra breathed heavily; his blast of magic had expended all his enegy. He slowly began to saw at the snake's gigantic teeth, which would undoubtedly fetch a hefty fee. He then extracted the serpent's venom, which would make an extremely handy poision if he ever needed one. Strapping the four giant fangs to his pack, Zarathustra breathed a sigh of relif. He had overcome one of the greatest foes of the forest; hopefully he would not have to face anything stronger. After resting a good deal and recovering his streanth, Zarathustra pulled himself to his feet and began to walk. He was sure that he would reach the edge of the forest in a matter of days-a week at most. He could already see the treetops beginning to thin. Then, he would head to Castle Cyrodiil, and find the great king!

The meat was just about done. Etfid proded it once more before taking it out of the fire, charred but cooked. It had once been a mammal before he had hunted and killed it, what kind? He never bothered learning much of the differences. Though it was safe to say it wasn't a rat.

"A feast well done," he said to himself.

Using his dagger he cut a slither off and ate it. Tasty, he thought and looked towards the road. No one was about, he had hoped to at least see a few travellers along the road, maybe even fellow tomb raiders. There was safety in number, well not too big a number. Two or three often accompanied Etfid on some of his raids, but the last of his friends had been lost in one tomb raid that had gone wrong. A trap had been set off and they had fallen to their deaths, Etfid himself was only just lucky to survive. He had clung to the side of the hidden pit as he had watched his friends become impaled upon the spikes below.

He still mourned them.

"To you my friends."

Briel wasn't sure he'd be good at navigation if he had a map. Right now, he had no map. And he knew he was very bad at navigation. And he was lost.

Ever since he'd tried a Water Walk over to this side, he'd been moving parallel to the river, and now a heavy dusk was setting in: away from the mountains, the light would last for longer, but he still recognised the heaping clumps of broiling red clouds gathering in tumultuous anticipation at the pinch of the horizon. And it was taking him the wrong way: west, into the fading sun, not south. In truth he didn't really know the exact direction. But if he could find a town, or a road, he knew it would help him on. He was too tired to possibly attempt to Water Walk back. He was stuck.

He sat down on a rock, heaving his pack down. Close them, close shut the jaws of Oblivion. It made no sense – why him? He was a shepherd, and a bad one at that. He'd seen things before, of course, and not just when he swiped mysterious packets of foreign spices from travellers. Everyone who'd lived in the mountains had encountered apparitions before, or been draped in the embrace of ghosts, or caught glimpses of souls fleeing to the heavens. But that was the thin air – in his dream, the air had been thick with the smell of reality. He knew it had to mean something. And, though he didn't know what yet, he was sure the answer would lie at Cyrodiil. So he was headed there. Or trying to.

He sighed, tossing aside the apple, bruised into an unrecognisable brown squelch under the weight of the armour. His bread and cheese would last a day more at best. He'd already wolfed down the meat. Soon he'd need to stop and buy supplies. Still, he reflected, as the cider washed into his dry mouth, he had nearly fifty coins in all – more than he'd first realized.

The river was broad, and whipped along at a ferocious rate. Occasionally he'd spot a flash a debris washed down from the storm. Sometimes even things that made him turn from the path for a moment. The cider gourd was empty: he walked to the edge of the river to refill it. The water wasn't as dark as he'd first thought – it must have been the rocks at the bottom before, whereas now he could see right through it, to the light, fine gravel. Eyes flashed at him.

He landed hard, bruising his rump. Almost instinctively, he shot a knowing glance to his left to defuse the laughter. But, of course, he was alone. And it was only a fish. Still – he tried to defend himself – a big fish. In fact...a very big fish.

He rooted round in his bag. He knew the armour would be useful at some point, but right now it was a bloody nuisance. He usually had a twirl of wire with him, to mend gates, or his lute, ore just to fidget with. Now, though, he couldn't find any. He went back to the water, and swished around for a moment, fruitlessly trying to impale the fish on his dagger. He sat back on his heels, and sighed. Yet another failure. And then the world peeled back his ears, and told him very loudly and very abruptly that he was in a danger that made the storm dwindle away a thousand years.

He didn't need to turn round – he could see the reflection in the water. Eight, nine, ten maybe, ten feet of bear. Its fur was long and shaggy, matted with sweat and shit, and its mouth opened up to emit another cavernous roar. Huge fangs, some twisted into grotesque spirals, others blade-straight, and more than he could ever count. He shrivelled into a ball.

And then it occurred to him that for the first time in his life he was utterly alone. He'd fought off wolves before, batted down snakes, even confronted a bear – but always with his brothers, and his staff. Now it was just him. Claws like the big nails they used to batten down roofs in high winds sprang up. He had to defend himself. The dagger slipped out, and he punched.

The bear's third monstrous bellow died on its teeth. Briel grimaced in disgust – he could feel the warmth of the creature's belly embracing his hand. He pulled back – the blade was remarkably intact. The crash as the beast tumbled away was as almighty as its roar. How had it ever got so close, then? He pulled himself up, and couldn't help but jig from left to right. He'd just killed a bear! Not even his father had ever slain an animal like this, with just his knife. He bent down, and began to scrub at the tin to get off the dark splodges. Faces bobbed up at him again, but this time he didn't jump – not he, Briel Threndar, Bear-Slayer. Jump at fish? Pah. He noticed another set of eyes. A reflection.

The first blow was actually less bad than he might have expected: it merely slashed open his arm. It was the second that really hurt: a gouging scoop of his back that rocketed him forwards like an arrow from a taut bow. The water's bite was fiercely cold, but for once he had more immediate concerns than the temperature. He spluttered up from the seething river, scrabbling for a hold on the bank, and just submerging himself again in time to duck a mighty swipe. He pulled himself half-put again.

The bear towered up, and rent the heavens with its cry. You think a tin dagger could kill that, boy? Briel could have kicked himself. He had to get out of the river though – it was too fast to swim in. And he knew the distant grumble of a waterfall. He managed to drag shivering legs up. The bear dove, and slapped its paw down, missing his head by an inch. It would have flattened him. Briel staggered up. The bear was in front of him. Behind, the river. The dagger and armour behind the bear – he couldn't reach them. He had no staff. So he kicked.

The brief pause for reflection his flight through the air was sufficient time to realize that hadn't been wise. He landed with a crunch. The bear was howling now – it was a terrible noise, one that curled Briel's toes and ran up his spine to tickle his neck. Ok, he got the idea – now shut up already. The tiny black eyes swivelled on him. He was going to die. He scrabbled round him, and his hand settled on a loose rock. Even shape, light weight, jagged edge. It was perfect. He stood up again, ignoring the screaming pain all down his back, and took aim. He couldn't resist it:

"I am Briel Threndar. Bear-Slayer." He hurled the rock, aiming straight between the two black dots.

The faint splash was at least consolation that he had reasonable power in his arm. Accuracy, however...the bear roared a mocking howl of derision, cocking his head. Time for a new plan.

Briel scampered right. He could run, but he wasn't sure how far he'd be able to go. And it would mean leaving his pack. It wouldn't matter if the bear killed him – without money, he'd be dead anyway. He had to get to his pack. He edged right. The bear lurched forward, the towering stench of its jaws hitting him for the first time. He gazed deep into the black expanse of its mouth – he hadn't envisioned this being the jaws of oblivion...

At that, he held himself up again. He had a quest. He would reach Cyrodiil. And he would return in triumph in Boria. He turned, and fumbled around for every rock he could find. Turning, he began to fling them indiscriminately. Most were barely pebbles. But the bear's advance did slow, and it gave Briel time to dart forward, and stoop to pick up his dagger.

The bear hit him in a blur of speed that defied its size, and as he was driven down into the cold, churned mud, he thought he might be crushed. But he had no time to be crushed – men on quests didn't crushed, Briel, he snapped. So he snapped, and his arms exploded in a volley of stabs and punches and tears. The bear's roars mixed with his own in a shrieking volley of death-screeches. And, just as he felt the steel press of tooth at his neck, he managed to free himself enough to slash across.

The beast obligingly picked itself up, cleared the space, and produced a noise next to which its previous screams had been more whimpers. But Briel pressed on, hacking at its heaving chest, trying to keep his eyes from the horrifying mess dangling from its throat. Finally, the noise died in a gurgle of blood, and the bear dropped, this time into the river. The splash tore up walls of water and sent fish spinning out to flap idly at Briel's feet. Still, he remained cocked, ready for the bear to spring up again. It did not. Briel sank in a pile of blood.

* * * * *

When he awoke, it was light – a day must have passed. Maybe two. Groggily, he checked: his pack was still there. Something stank. Him? No – fish lay rotting in the sun. He looked down his left flank, and then up suddenly. It was not pleasant. He'd have to find mosses, and tear up his spare shirt to bind it. The day was long and slow, agonising and tedious, hot and tiring. But by the end of it, he could just move his left arm from beneath the pile of clumsy bandages. And, as he sat, spitting the rotting fish over a dribbling fire, he knew that the deep scars on his back were permanent. And he was proud.

Zarathustra walked through the forest with a newfound zeal. Since his newfound discovery that his lightning could be controlled, he was testing his power out more and more, checking his limits. He could now light fires with little effort, or shock small game without hunting it down first. Fishing was no longer a problem either. A very useful thing, this lightning ...still, Zarathustra was careful not to over-do it. He didn't want to exasut himself.

The next four days passed without any major events, save for Zarathustra accidently walking into a large beehive. He was forced to endure a few sharp stings on his neck before he found the energy to zap the bugs. Now, however, Zarathustra knew that he was just about out of the forests entirely. He spotted a few beaten trails-not very beaten, mind you, but beaten nonetheless-and he could easily spot patches of sky through the treetops.

Zarathustra stopped to smell a large blue flower when an unnatural scent caught his nose-the scent of charred meat! He looked around carefully to see if anyone was nearby, but he could see no movement in the trees. There! A thin black colum of smoke trickled up into the sky a bit south-west from his position.

Zarathustra eventually came to spot a large, outlandish looking man hunching over a small fire and chewing on a bit of meat. The big fellow probably outweighed him by a good hundred pounds-probably more-so Zarathustra though it best not to show himself and startle the man at the same time. Who knows? The outsider might be a robber, or a slaver, or worse!

Zarathustra ducked under the roots of a ceder tree not too far from the man and gave a sharp shout.

"Hello there!" Zarathustra stopped abruptly, realizing how loud he was talking. He continued in a quiter tone. "I mean you know harm. If you promise the same and give me your name, I will show myself."

It had been a long week. Briel was used to hard work – but nothing like this. He could barely stop to rest at night, instead snatching sleep in two- or three-hour goes, in between long slogs on. Since his encounter with the bear, his left arm had become ever more sore, and each day he'd stop to pry yet more clots from his back. But the hunger was the main thing. He'd managed to snare a few fish, but nothing sizeable, and with the bread gone, he was reduced to scrabbling in the dust like a worm, gobbling at...well, worms. He didn't dare eat more than a handful of berries and mushrooms for fear of ingesting some deadly toxin.

He was unsure what was happening with his power, too. One day he'd be able to skip across vast rivers, and the next find himself floundering in slight ponds. For two days now he'd save himself, even wandering the long way round a small forest pool. The woods had grown more dense, their talons creeping in on him, and attacks by everything from boars and birds to creatures whose names he hadn't been able to utter in the blackest of nightmares became more frequent.

It was a warm morning, the sun low in the sky, but Briel had been trekking for two hours. His armour was slung over his shoulder again, his dagger tucked into the back of his belt. His belly growled again, and he began to rue the decision to pass up a pigeon carcass. It had been cold – but there'd been little sign of decay. He swept aside the long fronds of a huge willow. And before opened up the expanse of true daylight in all its glory.

The forest continued down the slope, but was much sparser. He could see evidence of controlled logging – blacking stumps between even rows and circles. Some of these were massive – almost as big as houses. In fact, if he squinted at that one the right way...

"People," he breathed, and leapt into the air with detail. The heavy clunk of a pad of hard leather onto his ripely oozing shoulder reminded that he was in no shape for anything like that.

He picked his way down, treading carefully. He could now see people – distant dots milling along the pure, long white sand of the beach that curled right to the edge of his vision – and decided to don his armour, more for protection from accusing eyes at his scars than from their blades.

Nonetheless, as he began to approach the first recognisable edge of settlement, he could sense the mutters, the stolen glances. He knew he was filthy and bloodied – and more than that, a stranger. When he was growing up, his hair had kept the hint of blonde that most of his fellow Borians had lost. It was rare, apparently, and now it would make him stand out. As if the bear scratches didn't already.

He stared himself, of course. This was a port town evidently. He'd seen travellers before in Boria – but nothing like this. Some of them looked barely human to him; others paraded in colours he hadn't know existed. And the houses – they were all scooped out of vast trees. Dirty children's faces peered from between branches; old women looked up from seats carved from century-old bark. This was a strange town.

He managed to get quite far without being questioned. Once he flashed gold they were only too willing to serve, no questions, and soon he was feasting on a steaming plate of rice and meat slivers, and gulping at foamy, light ale. He counted out the gold, and left. Eyes stayed pinned to him, of course, but no one questioned him.

His shoulder still ached, though, and he knew he couldn't continue without the aid of a healer. In Boria they had a huge building that dwarfed even their hotel, a Mages' Guild. He'd been in a few times – there he had first learned how to Water Walk. Surely a town like this would have somewhere similar.

"Excuse me."

He turned. It was a girl – his age, maybe younger.

"Yes."

"Are...where are you from? The Court?"

"The Court? No. A town called Boria."

"Oh." She bobbed disappointedly, and made to leave.

"Wait! This town –"

"Mor' Gan."

"Mawgan?"

She giggled. "Close enough."

"Yes. Ha, ok. Is there...a mage?" He clenched his eyes half-shut, in case she thought he was a fool.

Instead, she merely smiled prettily. "Oh yes. Over there." She scuttled off.

She had pointed him to a particular non-descript tree, no taller or broader than any other. But it stood apart in a way only a house of magic could. Briel stepped forwards, paused, and then stepped again. He made for the Guild.

As Briel reached the door to the Mage Guild, a man with an Einstein hair style, smoking billowing out of his ears exited, a dazed expression on his face.
"I've done it." He was muttering.

Briel could see into the Guild, there were mages wandering around, cauldrons full of odd-smelling potions simmering and many other oddities, like a odd silvery contraption whirling around, and what appeared to be a storm-cloud floating in the middle of the room, zapping anyone who came near.

A mage in silvery robes with odd designes on them, seeing Briel stepped out of the guild hall, "May I help you?"

The tavern was a nice place, for a tavern that was. The natural wood room provided by the tree gave it a homely alure. It was mid-day, so not many people were in there, maybe two or three. But then the oddest thing happend. A man, all cut up and bruised, stumbled in through the door. He paid a good twenty gold pieces and in return got some food, which he obviously needed.

As Briel made his way back out of the tree, he saw the wastness of the town. Many huge oak trees, about 30 in all, made up the town. All of them had stained glass windows, and many dirty kids hanging about in the branches.

When he peered into the Mages Guild, the Guard Captain accidently bumped into him.

Oh, I'm sorry. Please, go about your business, keep moving.

Then he walked away. The legionaire glanced back over his shoulder for a moment, noting with disapproval the look of the inadequate armor, and the beaten look of it's owner. Kids these days, always wanting to venture out into the world in search of treasure, he thought to himself, The least they could do would be to join the legion and get some decent armor.

Renimar then after resting and relaxing for a while in the main taver hall went forth to the barracks of the Legion. Crossing the great city he remembered it as it was quite a few years ago when he was still in the army. He remebered that the city back then seemed much more happy and full of life, but no the people of the city to him at least seemed to be much more saddened and hopeless as the armies of darkness had begun to overwhelm the land. Even when he was still in the Legion the darkness he had been able to notice as he was an High Elf had beun toinfest the land, but nowhere near the degree it was now.

At last after a good long walk he had came upon the barracks of the Legion. He stared at it for a while thinking bacl to his good old days in the Legion. Them after leaving his memories and nearly being hit by a few horses entered the barracks. Inside he was not remebred well as most of his old cmorades had either died or left the Legion, but his old room mate was now commander.
He marched up to the Imperial wecloming desk and thinking of his past experinces then said," Where may I find the Legion commander here?"

Reminar stood there waiting for the response of the Imperial.....

The imperial looked up from his paper work to view the man who had distrubed him. He took a quick look at him and went back to his work.

Knight Errant Darius is the garrison commander. Down the hall to the left.

Etfid leapt up and looked around. He still had the half eaten lump of meat in one hand and his dagger in the other. Though the man said he meant no harm, the large Nord wouldn't believe that.

"The name is Etfid," he announced. "If you do not harm me then I will have no reason to harm you."

His eyes narrowed as he continued to look for the source of the voice.

"Now show yourself."

Zarathustra peered carefully over his ceder tree and noticed that the large man was only armed with what seemed like a tin knife in one hand and and a piece of meat in the other. Zarathustra doubted that he would get very badly hurt if he attacked with bits of meat, and a dagger would be resonably easy to deal with, even if his opponent outwieghed him. He cautiously moved out from the roots of his tree. swordstaff in hand.

"I am Zarathustra Anatole, a snake-slayer and a traveler heading towards Castle Cyrodiil to get an audience with the king for..." He hesited for a moment. "...For reasons of my own. Where might you be going, and what is your business here?"

Reminar then said," Thank you and have a fine day."

Then Reminar procceded down the hall way and there he came upon his old friend Darus in his office and there he said," Darius my old friend it has been to long pf while. Look at you now garssion commander at the very center of the kingdom."

Etfid looked over the man, taking in whether he was a threat or not. He decided that perhaps he was not, but you could never tell as appearences could be decieving.

"I am an adventurer," he said, almost sounding proud of himself. "I am just looking for sites of intrest."

Darius was looking over some transfer reports when his "old friend" walked in. Looking up, he saw the man and took on a harsh face. Standing up, Decius walked around his desk to go stand right infront of the man.

Remius you know you were banned from the Legions, so what are you doing here?!

A harsh silence ensued for a good minute befre Decius suddenly smiled and threw his arms around Remius.

How you doing old buddy? And what do I owe the honour of your visit to the Imperial Capitol? Last I heard you were down in Green Field, living the farmers life.

Zarathustra hesitated, then lowered his weapon. He did not think that Etfid meant any harm, or would mean any harm in the future. Just a simple adventurer, out to explore every facet of life. Zarathustra paused. Perhaps...

"It can get quite dangerous, as well as very lonely in these woods, especially at night. Perhaps you would join me on my way to Castle Cyrodiil? It's always safer traveling with two, and I could use the company. Besisdes, there's bound to be plenty of time to stop at 'sites of intrest.' What say you?"

Zarathustra hoped that Etfid would accept. It would be nice to have some company around, and Etfid did look like a valuable fighter. Still, he wasn't completely sure that he trusted the man.

"Darius I have come here to say I wish to rejoin the Legion," Reminar said in a slight tone.

Etfid rubbed the stubble on his chin. "Certainly is a good offer," he said. "It is always good to have an extra pair of hands at these sites of interest." He nodded. "I will join you."

Zarathustra smiled and clapped his hands together.

""Excellant! Let's get going, then!"

And so, Zarathustra the Snake-Slayer and Etfid the adventurer started their quest to Castle Cyrodiil. Zarathustra wondered what the pair of them would find in between the forest and their destination, but he was sure that both him and his new companion could handle it the journey.

Etfid picked up his stuff and headed off alongside Zarathustra. He smiled as he held up his dagger.

"It has served me well," he said. "But now is the time to gather gold to buy a sword and go after even bigger treasure."

It was true, he had been meaning to do so for a while now. His current total of 50 gold was no where near enough for a good quality sword.

Zarathustra nodded knowingly.

"Yes, one should be armed with more than a simple dagger if one travels as much as you. While I am well-armed," He said, motioning towards his Swordstaff, "I am in great need of better armor. Chainmail has never suited me, and just weighs me down. What I need is something that is both light and offers protection. Hopefully I can find such armor when we reach our destination, although I'm sure my current budget wouldn't allow such a thing."

Etfid nodded. "I have more then a dagger," he then said. He held his hand outstretched, as if to demonstrate something. After a few moments a fireball appeared and then vanished. "Serves well for defeating monsters and building a campfire."

But of course he was limited in how many he could cast in one go and he had to rest after using several.

Briel trod cautiously at first. This Guild, this box of charms, brought a thousand smells and sounds rushing. He took a glance back at the legion commander. Tough, strong armour; a long, lean sword swinging freely at his side. His shoulder twinged again, spreading its legs for a moment to scuttle down his spine, and he stepped fully in.

It was lighter than he had expected and, although he realized the old eccentric was waiting for an answer, he took a moment to pace about, his eyes drinking deeply of it all. Strange, hissing potions that frothed in myriad hues; enchanted horns and skins of beasts whose countenance Briel could not have in the most convoluted of daze-dreams; charts of runes and inscriptions that danced and paraded in shrouded unreading. Finally, he turned to the old man.

"There is much that I could learn here."

"Perhaps, young one."

Damnit. He'd put on his best gruff voice and everything. He pulled back the armour.

"Firstly, have you any healing charms? I have gold."

"Where's the injury?" The mage that had addressed Briel asked, looking him over for signs of injury or illness. "Oh and don't pay any attention to him," He gestured to the 'Einstien' haired mage. "He's brilliant, but completely insane, seems to be obsessed with water-proof fire."

"Darius I have come here to say I wish to rejoin the Legion," Reminar said in a slight tone.


Well Reminar, that is possible, but you can't regain your previous title. You would have to start at recruit, and work your way up, Darius answered.

Briel followed the mage to a small table, and eased himself down on a crooked chair. There was a small pot of herbs, and a thick, tallow candle, sputtering out a reedy yellow light.

"My arm and, ach-"

"Your back?" smiled the mage as Briel caught his breath on his teeth, the corner of a leather pad catching in a deep furrow of pain.

"Yes. It was a bear. I don't mind the cuts," he lied through gritted teeth. "But I can hardly move my left arm: I'll need it free again if I'm to - can you help?"

He heard a slight clicking of teeth. "Yes, I tried to bind it...but probably not...not well." He slid lower, crouching in shame.

"Let me see it, off with your shirt." The mage said, "Oh and Vitor, you have a patient." He called out.

A female mage in a flowing black robe with silver symbols on it arrived, and once Briel had his shirt off, began examining the wounds.
"Hmm" She said as she examinied the wounds/arm. "Lets see. For an anti-infection, and healing potion, it would be.." She trailed off, "But the arm. Alright, I can deal with the injuries on your back and take some of the pain out of your arm for fifteen gold, but to get your arm back to full condition, I need a vial of blood from a deer."

"FIFTEEN?" hissed Briel. But then, the stories he'd heard - of charms and hexes beyond mortal comprehension. Perhaps better not to barter with mages. He counted out the coins reluctantly, thumbing each down firmly onto the hard table. The woman's fingers were long and spindly, brushing on his skin like cobweb fibres. It stung, but he dared not move, lest he impale himself on her probing nails.

"But to get your arm back to full condition, I need a vial of blood from a deer."

Briel slumped, pricking back up in an instant as raw heat shot down his side. It was a salve, clearly, and it would doubtless do him good - as foul vegetable broth and cold baths and the crack of winter birch did.

"A deer."

"The very beast."

He could swing his right arm. But without his left, he would be unable to parry any blows, or carry a shield. Could he risk it?

He pulled himself upright, and reached for his armour.

"Very well. I assume there are deer to be had in the forests back west?"

"Correct." The women replied, seeing the look on his face when she said the cost, "It would be cheaper, but a few of the cuts were starting to gangren(sp) as well as your arm's been partially broken." She finished the spells for the back, disease, and the light amount of healing possible for the arm.

Zarathustra looked at Etfid with wide eyes. Another magic caster! No wonder his new friend only carried a dagger. He hesitated. Dare he reveal his own power so soon? He would be stuck with Etfid for a while, and the large norse was bound to find out anyways. Zarathustra raised his own hand; A bright blue bolt of energy cracked from it and disintegrated a sapling.

"Lightning," huffed Zarathustra, his energy partially drained. "I'm not very experianced using it, but it sure comes in handy. That's how I got these."

He motioned towards the massive fangs strapped to his pack.

"I managed to slay a giant snake a ways back before I ran into you. I must say, I never knew Magic was so darn useful."

"Always useful to know a few tricks," Etfid said.

He eyed the fangs that Zarathustra had strapped to his back. Those could fetch a few if he decided to sell them, though he didn't know what kind of person would buy giant snake fangs.

"I think there's a tomb around these parts."

A tomb raider. Etfid had exposed his trade too easily. Zarathustra hesitated with his response. Though he knew that they both needed a fair amount of gold to get what they wanted, and that Etfid would go to the tomb even if he refused. Zarathustra did not think it completely ethical to raid a tomb. He wasn't any king of morals himself, and he knew it, but to steal the last treasures of a dead man...It just didn't seem right.

Still, Zarathustra reasoned that the results of raiding a tomb far outweighed it's moral wrongs. He decided that he would participate in this kind of thing once, and only once.

"A Tomb, eh? I wonder what could be inside. Want to see what we can find?"

"Yes," Etfid replied, noting the look upon his face. "It's fine to take treasure from a tomb, they no longer have a need for it."

That was how he always got over his conscience about tomb raiding. You can't take your possesions into the next, he had decided. So then they were free for the taking, first come, first serve and he wasn't the only tomb raider around.

"Some tombs are empty because sometimes they have been looted before," Etfid then said. "Then of course there are tombs of legend, stacked high with gold."

Zarathustra nodded.

"Then let us hope we find the latter. I assume you know the location of said tomb?"

He was glad, at least, that he would travel into a tomb with an experianced raider. Etfid was sure to know what he was doing...at least, that's what Zarathustra hoped.

Etfid smiled, he raised his arm and pointed forwards. "About a mile or so up the road," he explained. "Just off the road, a small roadside statue points to the tomb."

Etfid of course knew what he was doing, the only reason for the lack of gold and a sword was because of escaping from the previous tomb.

Zarathustra smiled.

"Well, let's get going!"

The pair started up the road; minutes later, the statue, then the entrance to the tomb itself, marked with a tall, jet black, circular obolisk sitting on top of the small mouth of a moss-covered cave.

"You had better go in first. I'm not completly sure of what I'm doing."

Etfid nodded. He brought out his dagger, even though it wouldn't be of much use against most monsters and headed inside. The air felt dry as he took an unlit torch and using a fireball he lit it.

"If you are that worried just stay behind," he said. "And do not think about stabbing me in the back."

Zarathustra gave a small chuckle.

"That wouldn't get me much gold now, would it? Anyways, you might need more than a dagger and fireballs to take on whatever is inside here. You'd have to knock me out for me to stay behind."

"Hmph," Etfid replied.

The tomb spirrelled down in front of them before coming across a large stone door. He pushed against it but it wouldn't budge.

"Interesting."

"Technically you are correct, but since I never recieved my discharge papers I still am in the Legion."

Zarathustra took his own shoulder to the stone door in front of them, with the same result as Etfid. The door wouldn't move an inch. He looked around for a solution to this prediciment, baffled.

"Perhaps we need some sort of a key or password to get through? Or mabey it's sealed with magic. What do you suggest we do?"

"Technically you are correct, but since I never recieved my discharge papers I still am in the Legion."

Just because you didn't give us your location to send them to you, Darius chuckled, But yes, you may rejoin as a recruit, shall I sign you up?

"Come on, at least let me start out as an trooper," he rolled his eyes and then said,"Well I am looking to join so sign me up."

Sorry old friend, orders are orders. Sign this please.

Darius handed Remius a form and a quill pen freshly dipped in ink. He then wrote on another form and handed it to Remius also.

Go down to the armory and give this to the man down there. He'll fit you with a standard chainmail quirass; and if you'll remember you must wear that or another legion quirass at all times when on duty or infront of someone of higher rank.

Remius signed the paper quickly then he said to his old friend and now his commander," Can I at least have my old sword hopefully and my old helmet back?"

Zarathustra took his own shoulder to the stone door in front of them, with the same result as Etfid. The door wouldn't move an inch. He looked around for a solution to this prediciment, baffled.

"Perhaps we need some sort of a key or password to get through? Or mabey it's sealed with magic. What do you suggest we do?"


Etfid rubbed his chin. "Usually you can break through," he said.

The large man took a step back and looked at it. The stone door certainly looked quite thick and that was a bad thing.

"But this I doubt we cannot break through without immense force, one that our strength alone cannot grant."

He rubbed his chin once more.

"Your lightning?"

Zarathustra rubbed his forehead. He doubted that his magic would make much differance, but it was worth a try, at least. He raised his palm.

Lightning!

A bolt of electricity lept from his hand and hit the door. Nothing happened. Zarathustra concentrated with all his energy. Instead of hitting the entire door with energy, he concentrated just on the center of the door.

Lightning!

The door gave a shudder, and a small peice of stone in it's center started to burn with an enormous heat.

Lightning! Lightning! Lightning!

The entire door was glowing red now. Zarathustra hoisted his swordstaff over his shoulder and drove it through the stone like a knife through butter. Using his weapon as a simple lever, He pulled down as hard as he could; the door finally gave inward and collapsed into several peices.

"There we are," Zarathustra huffed, sweat running down his face. "I won't be casting much for a while, though."

Remius signed the paper quickly then he said to his old friend and now his commander," Can I at least have my old sword hopefully and my old helmet back?"

If you have enough gold to buy them with.

Etfid breathed a sigh of relief as the stone door came crashing down. "Glad that worked," he said with an uneasy grin. Though he didn't want to admit it he said it anyway. "If it hadn't worked, I would have been out of ideas."

"I would have been as well. Now, let's continue, shall we?"

The pair of adventurers crept past the door to find a large, poorly lit spiral staircase; after a few minutes of stumbling downwards, they reached what seemed to be, as far as Zarathustra could tell, a large underground cavern. It was completely dark, and Zarathustra thought he heard a quite shuffling of rocks in the distance. He looked at Etfid.

"What now?"

Etfid looked around, he couldn't see anything that would seem out of place in a tomb. He also couldn't see any guardians of any kind, that would be a good thing.

"Could be anything," Etfid replied. "The tombs old, the door brashing down could have caused something to fall."

His eyes crossed the dark cavern looking for signs of treasure.

"Good point."

Zarathustra walked into the cavern, using his swordstaff as a walking stick lest he trip on anything. The floor felt strange. Grooves were found in some places, heading in a line to the back end of the cavern. The grooves turned suddenly to a small, in-ground bowl of liquid. Zarathustra smelt it carefully.

"Etfid! Give me your torch!" Etfid obliged, and Zarathustra dipped it in the pool. It immidetly lit up with a spark of light. Oil. The liquid traveled down the grooves and into dripped into a massive bowl of metal, presumebly also filled with oil. The resulting spark was enough to light up the whole room.

"Wow..."

The cavern was smaller than Zarathustra had expected. It was wide, with a A low ceiling covered in mysterious holes that eventually rose to fit a ziggurat of gold bars thirty feet tall, surrounded by countless precious stones and coins. It was an amazing sight. He looked back at Etfid.

"Looks like we hit the jackpot."

Reminar then from under his chainmail looked around looking for some gold and then he found his sword and said," So that where it has been for all these years right under my chainmail. Guess that is what I get for rarely taking it off."

Etfid's eyes widened, it was so much more then he could have expected.

"This much I did not expect," he admitted. "This would explain why the door was so hard to break down."

Then something dawned on him, it seemed a little to easy to take.

"Careful, there was to be traps around here."

Zarathustra nodded. It was about fourty of fifty feet to the Pyrimid of gold. What would lay in store for them?

"You want to go ahead first? You are the experianced one here, after all."

Etfid nodded and looked around at the pyramid. Looked safe from here and so he took a step forward, nothing happened. For each step he took it would appear that there were no traps.

"It is safe," he said.

Zarathustra followed Etfid quickly. He waded through the coins and jewels, stopping at the pyrimid. A cold shiver ran down his spine. Something's not right here. He reached out and touched the pyrimid. Nothing happened. Zarathustra looked at Etfid.

"I guess we're all right, then?"

At that moment, a huge shape vaulted over the priceless pyrimid. An massive axe was in it's hand, it's huge horn ready to gore any that got it it's way. Zarathustra snorted. Just thier luck. It was the reanimiated skeleton of a Minitor. Several more zombified human corpses rose out of the gold, brandishing swords and pikes. Zarathustra retreated to stand with Etfid.

"We've got a big problem, my friend."

"Spoke too soon," Etfid groaned.

He held up his dagger even though he knew it would be of no use. His other hand he was prepared to use fireball, he would hope that the reanimated corpses would burn well.

"What is the plan?"

The deer watched him intently, its body stiff, its ears daggers. He approached - steadily, steadily, nothing sudden, nothing sharp - watching his own footsteps in its deep, black pools of sight. Gently, he slid the dagger from his belt. The tip clipped a trailing strand of mail with a light zing. He was now ten paces in - he could now hear its shallow breaths, and smell its musk. Nine. Its rear leg quivered for a second, and he paused before putting down his left boot, finally sliding it into the leaf mulch. Eight. It bolted.

He ran as hard as he could, blood rising in his ears in a low throbbing hum, but it was pretty pointless. At every jagging turn he was forced to tumble to a halt, and check his path. The deer merely sprang on through its native paths, away. Finally, Briel felt his boot catch on a root, and decided just to drop. His ankle skewed, but only lightly. His shoulder however wrenched in agony. He lay in the muddy pool for a good ten minutes, finally feeling strong enough to pull himself up. As he scraped dirt from the blade, he realized two things: he really fucking needed that blood. And this wasn't getting him anywhere.

* * * * *

The deer shuffled in the leaves. It pried along, very slowly, so slowly, nosing between the bushes. Briel had to bite the end of his fist, as he had when a boy hunting birds in the mountains - he was almost squealing. The deer nosed towards some berries.

"No, not those!" hissed Briel to himself, struggling to clamp his lips shut.

Finally, the deer spotted the much juicer, much bigger, much better berries.

"Eat! Eat!" Briel was almost hysterical, and just checked an evil cackle.

In the event, he had to turn away at the wicked snap of the rope, and found his teeth grinding at the screams of the deer: deep, primal, raw. It lulled into dazed hush, and he stepped out to inspect his catch. It was swinging lightly in the breeze, dangling three feet in the air, its head at a sickening angle - but it wasn't broken. Briel paced round it for a moment, and then drew his dagger.

A good stab in the thigh would probably get enough - the vial was pretty small. But, now it was in pain. He had no choice. He slashed hard, and missed completely. He opened his eyes, aimed, and sunk the blade deep into the deer's throat.

The force of the spray caught him off guard, and as he fumbled for the vial, he had to move his face out of the way of the torrent of blood that poured forth over him. It was warm, and sticky. He was worried his mail might rust. Nonetheless, he stuck his fist into the darkening stream, and corked it when it was full. He strode away, leaving the drained skin hanging.

His entrance back in the town was suitably spectacular: wading through crowds on onlookers, plastered in blood and mud. But he didn't care: his shoulder was playing up again, and he needed to get to the Guild. Quickly.

It was the same, but now the air was washed with a kaleidoscope of new smells; the runes had learned new exotic dances; the crazy mage was blowing up a tube of a colour Briel had not imagined existed before. He headed straight for the table, and slumped down. His hand was dark brown, coated in blood, and prised the once-green vial gently from his palm.

"I have the blood. Heal me."

"You take on the human ones. I don't think you can do much to that minitor with just a knife and some fireballs."

The Minitor in question snorted angrily and pawed the ground, preparing to charge. Zarathustra grimiced; he didn't have much magic left, perhaps just enough for one last bolt of lightning. Before he had time to think anymore, the Minitor pounced, trying to gore his prey with his huge horns. Zarathustra leapt back, parrying with his swordstaff despretely. His mighty foe roared and rasied it's huge axe; Zarathustra barely dodged. He roared out in pain as the massive weapon skimmed his arm, partially tearing it open. He fell back into a wall. This was the end, he knew it. He could fell a giant snake, but not this monster. The Minitor prepared for the last strike.

No.

Zarathustra Rolled to the side as the axe came crashing down, barely missing him. Lightning burst from his hands and traveled up his staff, sorrounding the blade in a bright blue aura. Zarathustra sweps the weapon out; it sliced through the Minitor's legs like they were twigs. The undead monster swerved unsteadily for a moment before collapseing backwards into the large flaming copper goblet behind it. The Minitor gave one last roar before it was devoured by the fire. Zarathustra collapsed, out of energy; he forced himself to turn around to see if Etfid was still alive.

snip
The same mage that had preformed the earlier repairs, added the blood to a cauldron, causing a woosh of technicolour smoke. Reaching in to the bubbling vat, she picked out a indistinct lump. Returning and spreading it over the arm she muttered something.

The oozing goo glowed before fading and disappearing. Briel could feel his arm completely recovered.

Etfid nodded, he cast a fireball that hit the closest of the zombies. A few fell away in flames, a good start. As long as he could take the lot of them down with his fireballs. Problem with zombies was with their complete lack of intelligence they didn't even notice they were on fire and now a few zombies were coming at him completely engulfed in flames.

"Curses," he muttered.

The smell of old rotten, burning flesh began to fill the tomb. Not a good thing, the stench was almost overpowering. Etfid put it out of his mind as he ran to a safe distance to blast the zombies with a fireball once again.

Soon howeer he was spent and was in need of a long rest. His eyes moved up as the last flaming zombie fell to the ground. A job well done, a close one at that. He looked towards Zarathustra.

"Well that was fun," he grinned.

In Cyrodiil, the King Uriel Septim had become sick. All the mages in the kingdom couldn't cure it, and it was known that he would die soon. This would be horrible luck for the kingdom, as the evils continued to spread over the land, and without a leader, it would surely triumph.

Zarathustra nodded satisfactorily as the last zombie burst into flames. He quickly ripped a peice of his tunic off and bound his wound as best he could.

"Let's get as much gold as we can into our packs, then get out of here. I'll need some medical attention after we get out, or at least I'll need to rest a bit."

He grimicedm then opened his pack and started to shove gold bars into itm wedging them in has tightly as he could.

Etfid nodded. He grabbed his pack and began to fill it up with as many gold bars as possible.

"This is going to buy me a huge expensive sword," he smirked. "I could use one."

As he did so, he continued to keep an eye out for any more signs of trouble.

Zarathustra grinned.

"Look's like I'm going to get that armor after all."

He lifted himself off the ground and secured his pouch, then started to walk to the other side of the tomb. Suddenly, the floor under his left foot started to sink. He groaned.

"Mailcall! Run for it!"

The holes in the walls and ceiling started to groan; a moment later, dozens of Javilens were flying out from them. Zarathustra dodged and blocked with his staff as best he could, but his wound was slowing him down. He gasped as a shaft buried itself in his thigh. Zarathustra gaev one final push and flung himself out the tomb door and onto the hard spiral staircase; he looked around to see if Etfid was alive.

Etfid came up after Zarathustra, panting and dropped to the floor. He had blood coming from several wounds but still had his pack full of gold bars with him.

"That was rather fun," he smirked.

His eyes looked up, it was time to leave. He stood up and began walking.