Umaril
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Post by Umaril on Dec 17, 2007 19:18:31 GMT -5
I'm alive and kicking (writing) Prologue: ThieveryGalain was not one to thieve, but when he found himself in Countess Narina Carvain's Private Quarters, the opportunity of great wealth made him too curious to pass it up. He had served as a pathfinder in the War of the Red Diamond, a deeply religious war, and had ended up on the slightly more lawful side. He was only twenty then, but age had now crept up on him, and he was not quite the eager soldier he once was. The things he witnessed in those times made him vow never to steal again. He had broken that vow once or twice already, but he still liked to say he was still a righteous sort of man, not a paladin by any means but still... righteous. Back to the present however. The draped silk curtains above the bed hid anyone who might think of attacking the elf; a magnificent piece of furniture it was, with it's huge oaken posts carved by master craftsmen into the shape of roaring Akaviri snakemen. The eagle of Bruma was embroidered onto the curtains, set on the usual guard cuirass yellow. A glance around the room suggested this woman was more than wealthy - she was ridiculously rich, huge tapestries dangled from the enormous wooden beams that spanned the length of the room. Akaviri blades hung on every wall, and one side of the room was dedicated to a large, mouth-watering collection of rare items, each with it's own display pedestal or box. Rings, amulets, swords, maces, precious stones... you name it - it was there. However, one item caught his attention, not because it was the most dazzling of all items displayed, but because it was the most inconspicuous, battered-looking book there. A closer look revealed a title written in rather fancy handwriting; The Legend of Ivellon by Marcus Scribonia. The book's display was locked, but nothing a dagger wouldn't break. Sure enough, the lock prised open with little effort, and his dear stiletto came out undamaged. He then lifted the display cover and picked up the old weathered tome. It was a stupid thing to be so hasty, as the case could have been trapped or cursed. However, something was drawing him to that book; an overwhelming wave of curiosity had hit him - as though he was possessed by some evil spirit, egging the elf on. Old and battered as the book had looked from the outside, the pages were undamaged and wholly intact. Reading through the book revealed the legend of a once prosperous keep and dungeon from the First Era, Ivellon, one of Alessia's earliest Prisons for her Ayleid captives. It was unknown whether the Alessians built it, or the early Nedics, or any other race for that matter. But what was speculated (by some) is that the dungeons and great keep held hordes upon hordes of treasure waiting to be discovered by some daring and intrepid adventurer. At the time, it remained legend, but the events which were about to unfold were to show the real truth as to what happened these dungeons and how they seemingly disappeared off the face of Mundus.
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Post by me on Dec 18, 2007 16:25:52 GMT -5
I'm glad to see that you are writing another great Oblivion Fic Umaril I'm sorta wondering how this one shall be told though
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Post by Khornate Marksman on Dec 24, 2007 19:57:31 GMT -5
Umaril, it's good to hear from you again my friend. This story definitely has my interest.
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Umaril
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Post by Umaril on Feb 18, 2008 18:59:32 GMT -5
Chapter One: An Unpleasant Visitor
A warm blast of welcoming air greeted Galain as he pushed open the rickety door of the Grey Mare. A storm was raging outside and most were in their homes, safe from the biting winds and freezing rain of Evening Star. A friendly-looking Nord woman stood behind the bar handing drinks to her regulars and a minstrel sat on a chair beside the fire, singing an old favorite of the common sellsword - which Galain considered himself to be at this stage in time - travelling the province, seeking work wherever it would be found, though unlike most mercenaries, he tended not to work for the... less pleasant (or outright evil) costumers he might stumble on. He settled down at a table near the minstrel, welcoming the cozy glow of the fire as he began to gather his thoughts.
The day had brought many tidings that would bring him ever closer to discovering next major riddle of his quest to find the fabled dungeons of Ivellon. The news that Marcus Scribonia of Chorrol had died many years before had not surprised him, as the book was written over a century ago but he had found comfort in knowing that his ancestor, Casta, still lived and was probably asleep now not a hundred yards away in her own home. Speaking to her had revealed nothing, as she refused to speak of her great-grandfather to this strange elf, whose intentions were unknown to her and the community in the highland town of Chorrol. Galain knew he would have to resort to sneaking around, and possible thievery once again if he was to find any more information on Marcus and his works.
As the clock struck nine, more and more townspeople entered the tavern and it was now bustling with people. They cheered and danced as the minstrel played a more common tune to the people of the Colovian Highlands. However, Galain eyes were on more than the lute which was being plucked by the singer in the corner next to him. A man in the opposite corner of the bar sat fingering a small pointed dagger. His face was hidden by a shadow cast from the black cloak over his head and the leather cuirass he wore was equally as black. A quiver and shortbow were slung on his back and a selection of dirks and stilettos hung from his guarhide girdle. A padded trousers was tucked behind knee-high boots and fingerless archers gauntlets gripped the dagger he twisted on the table at which he sat. The man caught the Altmer's eyes with a piercing red glare, and Galain knew at once that the man in the corner opposite him was a vampire.
Fearing a commotion, the elf didn't stir and waited for the creature to move first. He knew the vampire was after him, but for what reason he did not know. He felt a chill as the door swung open once again and a huge man entered the door. His rough leather jerkin and chainmail undershirt indicated he may have been a mercenary, and the torn and dirty woollen cloak pulled about him indicated he had travelled quite a distance. He scanned the room and sat at the nearest available seat, the one in front of Galain. The Elf saw the vampire retreat further into the shadows as he noticed the huge man. He pulled back his hood as he sat and revealed an untidy mass of black hair and an unkept beard. A huge black crossbow was slung on his back and an ornate longsword hung at his waist. "I see the foul thing has made an impression on the townsfolk already." He said, when he noticed Galain glancing into the corner. "You know of it?" Asked Galain. "Yes, I've been following the thing for three weeks now, and yet he still has not figured the old priest." Chuckled the man. Changing his tone he said. "Ah, but I am forgetting my manners," The man pulled his hand from under his cloak and presented it to Galain. "Brother Ithroten of Julianos, more commonly known as Ithura the Witchunter since I left the chapels in search of a more.... fulfilling life." The Wood Elf took it and introduced himself. "I am called Galain, lightfoot by some, and I did not get the name by chance; I served as a pathfinder in the War of the Red Diamond." "Good to meet you, Galain Lightfoot. It's nice to see a friendly face after weeks of travel in the wild. Now, forgetting the formalities, I have business to attend to. Care to tag along pathfinder? You may spill vampire blood yet, the night is still young..." "Do you perchance know why the creature is here?" The Elf asked in hushed tones, as the crowd in the tavern had begun to disentigrate. "I follow the undead regardless of their cause. He's of a fresh brood and his stealth skills are equalled by that of the common Nibenay boar." He chuckled again at his own joke as he walked for the door.
Galain was starting to like this holy man, his sarcastic and light-hearted manner was appealing to a man who spent weeks at a time wandering the countryside and muttering to himself as he went. He joined him outside without hesitation - eager to find what a vampire was doing in Chorrol, in the heart of town going about his business without hardly a care.
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Umaril
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Post by Umaril on Feb 18, 2008 19:00:00 GMT -5
Chapter Two: Foiled Assassin
Galain gazed at the bloody, gaping hole in the vampire's chest where Ithura's silver quarrel had passed through his body. He had been killed instantly by the force of the bolt and by the amount of bone, flesh and organ it had torn from his body. He watched as the remainder of the body disentigrated into dust and the gear he had worn not a minute ago formed a hollow shell around the charred remains of his corpse. He had emerged from the tavern when Ithura and Galain were hidden behind a stone wall at the opposite side of the street. And before Galain could react the quarrell had launched from the old priest's crossbow and plunged into the creature's chest.
"Another soul for Dagon, another day for Brother Ithroten." Sighed the man as he pulled the knives and other weapons from the belts that lay in the dust. He scanned the dark patch of ground and as his eyes moved to where the creatures neck once was, he froze. Partially covered by the dust, a dark amulet could be just seen. Ithura reached down and picked up the piece. A blood red gem set into a black metal glistened in the waning moon. The old breton stood staring at it for a while and tucked it in his pocket. His face had paled and his hands shook.
"What is it?" Asked Galain, obviously disturbed by his companion's behaviour. "It is the symbol of Friedrich Volkreim - overlord and patriarch to the vampires of the underground city of Volenstein, beneath the Valus Mountains on the border with Morrowind. I have not seen his kind in many years. But thing that puzzles me the most is the fact that Friedrich Volkreim is dead. Gone. I killed him in his cursed halls over two decades ago." Ithura hung his head. "But you fear him?" "Yes, he almost killed me as I duelled him. Two days and two nights we fought in that demented hell-hole until I got lucky and he tripped on fallen candlestick. I took my chance and severed his head from his body. As I returned to the outside world I stuck it on a pike near the door as a warning to his kin.
"This is dread news Galain. If Volkreim really has returned, some dark magic is at work in those mountains and could be a threat to the empire. I must travel to the crypts of Volenstein once again and find the roots of this power." "When will you leave?" Asked the Elf. "I will make up my mind tomorrow morning, but for now I must rest. You are staying around I'm sure?" "Yes... I have some things to sort out first, but I'll be staying in the Grey Mare tonight." Galain turned and leapt over the wall across the street. "Good night Witchunter." "Until the morn, Pathfinder." Ithura said grimly as he turned towards the tavern once again. The warmth of the fire beckoning him to shake off the effects of winter's chill.
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The last light was extinguised in the house of Casta Scribonia as Galain crept behind the graveyard walls. He vaulted up and followed the path behind a derelict house and arrived at her back door. It was locked - unsurprisingly, but a quick look around revealed a large window which was slighted cracked open. Out came his stiletto again and he prised the window outwards. He gripped the stone sill and pulled himself up. The window was so large a Daedroth could have climbed in. It was almost as if Ms. Scribonia wanted to be robbed. Using his woodcraft skills, he listened for the slightest sound. Nothing. He swung his legs in and crept into the master bedroom. She slept soundly, but Galain was not to be fooled, he descended the stairs gingerly and entered her study. A trapdoor could be seen, clumsily half-hidden by rolls of parchment and snapped quills. He pushed them aside and pulled the up ring. The door creaked open and a musty, damp smell greeted his nose. He dropped down into the pitch darkness of the dank basement.
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Umaril
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Post by Umaril on Feb 18, 2008 19:00:31 GMT -5
Chapter Three: A Second Encounter
Galain lit the dusty iron wall sconce. The light revealed aged ceramic crockery and kitchen utensils upon lice-ridden wooden shelves. He crept forward; dodging the stringy grey cobwebs hanging from the ceiling and walls. He looked around the room for clues. There was old landscape paintings packed in one corner, the paint peeling from them with age. The opposite corner housed a few overburdened wine racks and barrels, but tucked in between the wall beside them, there was a small pinewood chest. Galain lit another candle overhead, the cobwebs danced through his black hair, and he looked aged.
The chest had gone untouched for countless years; a cloud of dust billowed from within as the Altmer pathfinder lifted the lid. He stopped suddenly and pricked his long, pointed ears towards the ceiling. He thought he heard a footfall on the floor above. For five minutes he stood stock still, then resumed his search. The chest housed a tarnished bronze key and a manuscript. Its cover was battered and torn, but the handwriting was pretty and neat. The title on the first page read "The Dungeons of Ivellon" - he had found the object of his toil.
Then a huge silver-tipped quarrel scattered off the stone wall above his head; sending lumps of rock several yards across the room. Before the Elf had a chance to turn, a body fell upon him, and he felt a warm trickle down his back. Whatever had landed on him was dead, and had most likely been killed by that bolt which had hit the wall - the bolt of Ithura the Witchunter. He felt the corpse roll to the floor and he turned. Brother Ithroten stood beneath the trapdoor with his crossbow upon his shoulder and the ornate longsword in his left hand. "You should be careful, Lightfoot; I won't always be behind you to stop any would-be assassins." the old priest chuckled. "I am in your debt, Priest of Julianos." Galain rose to his feet and looked to the ground. A pile of grey dust had begun to settle on the already dirty floor. "Another Vampire?" he asked. Ithura nodded. "I think the cursed blood-suckers have it in for poor Galain of Summerset here." he leapt away from the ladder as a shrieking voice shouted; "Thieves! Guards, I have thieves in my house!" a woman's head disappeared from the trapdoor-opening as the witchunter shouted up after her: "Sorry for the intrusion my lady, but we were dealing with an uninvited guest of yours; a vampire no less." He waited until her head shot back into view. Galain tucked the book and key into his overcoat.
"Vampires?? In MY house?" her face was contorted in anger. Casta Scribonia looked at the two men standing in her basement, weapons drawn. Her eyes hovered over Galain, then roared. "You... you're the Elf that they've all been talking about; asking questions, sticking your nose in places where it is unlooked-for. How am I to know you're not the vampire?!" Ithura glanced at the pathfinder and winked. "Milady, if this man here was a vampire I'd doubt very much that you'd still be alive." she frowned at the huge Breton. "Sheath your weapons." she ordered, and she spoke in a tone that was not to be argued with. The men did as was told and she climbed down the ladder. "Where is this vampire?" she asked. "Is it dead?" "Yes milady, there it is." Ithura pointed at the the ashes on the floor at Galain's feet. "I suppose it is, then." she said and climbed back up, motioning for the two men to follow.
"Well I believe thanks is in order for saving your life." said the priest. Galain shot a don't-push-our-luck glance at him. He ignored this and looked expectantly at the young woman. She frowned again, but Ithura did not look like he was going to give up so easily and leave the house empty-handed. "Fine then, rogue, here is your payment." she pulled a small bag of coins form the desk and threw it to the Breton. "Now leave this house lest I call the guards!" the priest weighed the purse in his hand, and by the look on his face, Galain guessed there was enough for both of them. The two men walked towards the door. "Sorry again for the intrusion, but that vampire had quite long teeth." She slammed the door behind them and he chuckled that trademark light-hearted laugh. "You are most greedy for a priest of Julianos." stated Galain. "Yes, but at the end of the day, justice has been served." he winked again, and the Altmer felt warmed by his manner. "But I must ask; why were you in that poor woman's house?" "That is something for the morn I reckon." said the pathfinder grinning, and the two men headed back towards the now-quiet tavern for a good night's sleep.
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Post by me on Mar 9, 2008 14:52:49 GMT -5
Oh my, I am rather beginning to like that priest... He acts like I would >.>
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Umaril
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Post by Umaril on Apr 19, 2008 8:52:04 GMT -5
Chapter Four: Deciphering The Puzzle
"Breakfast!" roared a voice from behind the door. Galain shot out of bed and hastily threw on his clothes. He pulled open the door and saw Ithura with his mouth open, about to shout "Breakfast!" again. He had combed his hair and beard and looked totally a different man. Galain would have mistaken him for an earl or count, but for the wide grin half-hidden by his beard. He had a large crooked nose and small shining eyes which peered out from under large eyebrows. His hair was combed neatly to his shoulders and his beard was cut and as straight as a bowshaft. Galain stared at him for a long minute until Ithura gave him a questioning look. "Something the matter, Galain?" he said. "It's eggs on toast, you know." he smiled. The pair descended the stairs and sat at the furthest table from the bar.
"So Lightfoot, why were you in that woman's house last night?" he began to wolf down his toast. "I suppose I'll have to tell you at some stage..." he briefly thought over how he was going to tell the story, then he began; "Ever hear of the Dungeons of Ivellon?" The priest nodded. "Oh, I've heard of that place alright. It's never been found, yet they still say it exists. It's supposed to be buried under ground somewhere in the Valus mountains. Packed full of treasure they say, and I wouldn't doubt it, if it's been sealed off for nigh on two thousand years. You going to try your luck searching?" "Marcus Scribonia, the man who wrote the book "The Dungeons of Ivellon" used to reside here in Chorrol." said Galain. "I was in his great granddaughter's house when you found me. I was looking for a legacy he may have left, and I was in luck - yet I do not know how much luck I am actually in, if you catch my meaning." Galain pulled the manuscript out of his long coat. He opened it and pulled out the old bronze key he had found next to it. "My heart tells me this is the key to the next clue, and this old book is the first - unless my instincts tell me wrong." "Let me see" the priest took the manuscript and opened it on the first page. His eyes danced across the parchment and he was finished reading in minutes.
"There are a lot of mistakes in this..." he said, scanning the pages again. "Look." he extended his arm to Galain and put the book in front of him. "There, he's misspelled words in every paragraph, which isn't something you'd expect from a writer like Scribonia. But there's something strange too... see this here?" he pointed to the word 'ddungeons' and next to the word 'thenn'. Galain's eyes shot up. "Every mistake is one with a double letter instead of a single... it's a puzzle!" He pulled a slip of parchment from his coat and wrote down each letter that was misspelled with a piece of charcoal from last night's fire. After a minute he pushed it over to Ithura. It read:
"My good frend bried he lies in Cheydinhal"
"Looks like you missed a few letters pathfinder. Here, see this?" He pointed to 'iits' and then to 'uunderground'. "So, it should say: My good friend, buried, he lies in Cheydinhal. That's a bit coincidental don't you think, Galain? I'm setting off for Cheydinhal at noon, and I'm thinking you'll be tagging along if you want to discover your next clue. Anyway, you look like you need some fresh air, these vampires are making everything a bit gloomy." "Yes, I'll be going with you. After all, two make the road shorter. I'll go upstairs and get properly attired for the journey to the mountains." Galain shot up the stairs, dashed into his room and threw open his large footlocker.
He discarded his coat and shirt, and pulled a light black cuirass over his head. It was of elegant design, made by the Elves in Alinor over two hundred years ago for their pathfinder captain in the War of the Red Diamond. Mithril plates wrapped in select black leather overlapped each other, elegant golden embroidery of Elven fashion were weaved into each and they were pulled together by gold buckles made by master smiths. Only a man of high renown and prowess would deserve such armor. His gauntlets, pauldrons, and greaves were of similar fashion, each made with mithril and leather and made by masters of their craft. His longblade, Ithildin, also made in Alinor, was then strapped onto his back along with a quiver of redwood arrows from Valenwood. And last but most definitely not least, he lifted his longbow Ilendiul. He gazed upon for a while. "It has been long since my enemies have heard your deathsong Ilendiul... too long. But that will change soon. The Valus mountains await us, and much more than rocks will seek to foil us there."
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Post by Khornate Marksman on Apr 19, 2008 20:42:58 GMT -5
Hehehe, Ithura is my kind of priest. Nice work Umaril
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Post by Maliku on May 9, 2008 16:39:24 GMT -5
I just read this story all in one sitting and I'm definitely enjoying it. I can't wait to read some more. =)
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Post by me on May 18, 2008 0:37:47 GMT -5
I really don't think that most people in real life would have been thinknig well enough to solve any sort of puzzle, but whatever, its fiction >.>
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