» Fri May 27, 2011 9:55 am By Verlox
High Rock, the land of the Bretons, has produced more than its fair share of wizards, sorcerers, and witches. A good few have gone on to dominate the world of magicka, becoming guild mages or even going to the Isle of Artaeum. But some?.some serve magicka's darker side. These men and women strike fear into the hearts of commoners and nobles alike.
But luck, or perhaps the Divines, would have it that there are those that choose to fight the growing evils of warlocks, and dark wizards. From the lands of Meir Thorvale in the mountains near Shornhelm, one such man was born. The second son of the lord of that land, he was raised to be the embodiment of honour, perfection, and good. As he grew, so did his strength of arm and the strength of his soul.
When his father finally died and his brother became the new baron, the young man, now a knight of the realm of Shornhelm, took what possessions he had; his armour, his sword, his squire, and his horse, and left his brother's lands, in search of adventure and fame, just like so many had done before.
*
They crossed the border in the Reach towards dusk. They found themselves in a silent land, one shrouded in a spectral mist. Bran showed no concern, commented that it was merely foul weather. His squire, Henry, however, was not so sanguine. All people were told tales of the Reach, how the civilization that was brought by the Empire did not stretch into that foul land.
"My lord," Henry began, "be you sure that it is safe to be this far from the main road. Might it not be wiser to turn around and go back?" Henry was very much in awe of his lord. Bran stood at six feet and three inches, uncommonly tall for a Breton, had a mane of jet black hair, and icy blue eyes that could go from jovial to wrathful in the span of moments.
"Dear Henry," Bran laughed, "have you lost your faith in me? Surely you do not believe that the barbarians that roam this wooded land could best me in swordplay!" Bran's laughter split through the fog like a knife through butter, rousing the local wildlife from their places beside the track and sending them scampering off deeper into the forests.
"Surely not, my lord." And Henry meant it. He had never seen a more skilled swordsman than Bran. He had once seen his master defend himself from three blood-crazed nords using only his sword. But it was not bandits or Reachmen that Henry did fear, no, it was those beings that no longer had place in the world of the living.
Tales were told in inns and alehouses of the restless dead that walked the mist shrouded forests, terrorizing the normal inhabitants and traveler alike, leaving only the mangles, half-eaten corpses of what the creatures couldn't stomach. It was Henry's misfortune then that his master, as was his like, insisted on taking the shorter, much more dangerous route in the attempt to cut the time it took to get to the city of Jehanna, and then on to Solitude.
Spurring his horse forward so as to ride at Bran's stirrup, Henry asked the question he had been meaning to ask since the pair had left Evermoor three days ago. "My lord," he began, as was his wont, "you do have yet to tell me why we are going to Solitude. It is so far from Shornhelm that I can not fathom any reason for we to be going to that desolate city."
"I suppose it can not hurt to tell you now." Bran halted his horse and dismounted, leading it off the track and into the trees. Henry did likewise and soon the horses were picketed and watered. Henry then began to set up camp for the night as Bran began to tell his tale.
"You see," he began as he sat on a fallen log, massaging his wrist, "I heard from my cousin in Meir Darguard that Giles le Boufont was spotted leaving Jehanna two weeks ago."
Henry dropped some sticks he was carrying for firewood when he heard the name. "He's still alive?!" Henry exclaimed, "but how? I thought your father had hunted him down!"
Bran nodded, causing a lock of black hair to fall in his face. He brushed it away as he continued. "I know, tis a strange thing indeed. No man comes back from the grave unless he was never dead to begin with. It is my theory that somehow Giles tricked my father into believing he was dead. Stendarr knows it isn't the most difficult thing for a mage the likes of that man. Why, even Jagar Tharn has done it, casting a spell to place one face on another's body."
The thought of powerful mages brought a grim feeling to Henry as he stooped to pick up the stick he had been carrying. "What do you plan to do once we catch up to him?" Henry instantly regretted the question, for it was not one that needed to be asked. Henry knew the answer. Bran, however, forbore to chide his young squire, and answered him. "I intend to slay him, properly this time." Henry nodded then knelt to light the camp fire as Bran moved to remove the light mail shirt he wore for protection while traveling.
It was while the pair of Bretons were preparing for sleep that a loud moan echoed through the woods, followed my three more. Henry burnt his hand with the first moan, stood up on the second, burnt his foot on the third, and tripped on the fourth while trying to get to his sword that he had foolishly left on his horse. Bran, however, was instantly on his feet, sword drawn, and down in stance. He twisted his neck around, searching intently for the source of the hair-raising sounds. His attempts were rewarded when, as he craned his neck to check his rear, that he saw the silhouettes of four figures.
"Henry," he called out to his now terrified squire, "keep close to the fire, and tell me if more of these abominations begin to creep up on us." Bran turned to face the ghouls as they shambled towards him.
The four monsters were all rotting corpses, with gaping holes in their bodies and even some missing limbs. Unfortunately, that did not slow their advance. The two that had been in the front arrived at Bran first, stretching out their arms to grab hold of the dashing knight in attempts to devour his neck. Bran never gave them the chance. Raising his sword, he brought it down in an arc, the steel blade slicing clean through one of the zombie's shoulder, severing the arm from the already rotten body. This did not affect the creature to badly, only kept it from using that arm. Acting quickly, Bran brought the sword from its position pointed towards the ground and up into the side of the same zombie whose arm he had severed. This only managed to get his blade lodged into the creatures side. Deprived of his sword, Bran called to Henry who was cowering in fear with his sword sticking in front of him to hand him the blade. Henry, snapping out of his fear, moved to comply with his master's order, but, as luck would have it, he tripped, sending the blade flying into the air.
The sword must have been guided by Arkay, for only the Gods could have done something so perfectly. As the blade began its descent, the zombie who had not lost its arm, was grappling with Bran. In a once in a lifetime occurrence the blade, now descending point down, fell and lodged itself into the zombies head, destroying the brain and making the creature go limp.
Bran had no time, however, to marvel at this divine intervention, as he tore the sword the zombie's skull and swung it in a wide arc, connecting with the other creature's neck, severing the head from the body. Throwing Henry's sword back to the sniveling squire, Bran retrieved his own sword and met the other two zombies in charge. The dead muscles could not react fast enough as Bran, in a most nord-like rage, rained blow after bloody blow on each of the monsters heads and bodies until they were nothing more than bloody heaps on the ground.
The threat was over, and Bran stood in the middle of the mess. He was covered in blood and brains, as was his sword. His chest heaved as he came down from his rage. Turning around to survey the carnage he had wrought, Bran grunted.
"I guess the locals weren't lying about the creatures that lurk in the woods." He then began to laugh lightly. "Henry," he said after he had laughed himself out, "give me your cloak." Henry instantly complied, utterly in shock at the sheer amount of blood that stained everything around his master.
Bran, using Henry's cloak, first cleaned himself off as best he could; wiping away the blood, brains, and chunks of bone, then clean his sword. Handing the bloody cloak back to Henry, who seemed most unpleased as to be receiving it, Bran went back to the stump he was setting and stirred the fire. "Henry, get the meat out will you."
Henry couldn't help but laugh at that. Bran had a way of going from battle to peace like day to night. He didn't dwell on what was done, he lived in the now. Henry only wished he could, too.
