Chapter 1

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Killing, it is a dark affair.

Too Barbaric for me.

I hearken to the cries of my prisoners as my guard, the Black Bludgeon as they have come to be known, extract the truth from them. I stride through the dungeon in my lordly attire. Gasps of near death, near mind you, rattles and cries of pain. Tears. Blood.

Really a lovely sight.

I am Lord Benediction, why am I allowed to do this, you ask?

Simple, there's no one to stop me.

A young woman is hanging by her feet, her face in front of me. She looks at me in silent awe. Awe of who and what I am. I remember vividly that she had turned up on our island and started causing trouble. Ship-wrecked, mayhaps. It matters not to me. She is an Agitator and a Usurper. But will I kill her? No. I won't. I'll let her hand there for a while, let the blood rush to her brain. Then we can have a nice chat about how I am her lord and master and she must wordlessly obey me.

Ah, yes, I haven't had one of her ilk in a while.

You see, I know not where this, Tamriel lies, but occasionally one from over there shows up. Some of them are useful, a prime example being my Archmage Rumare. Apparently he's a "High Elf". He says that they have the trouble some Argonians, too, though they are dressed up like civilized people when they leave their swamps.

Others from this, Tamriel continent try to usurp my power. Like this one her. Isn't she just so sad? The way she looks at me. Some might call it hate, or a veritable flame in her eyes. But I know this look. This look proceeds directly the look of failure. It's in my book I'm writing.

The book is a pet project I'm putting together from my journals, on torture and other lovely things of the nature, how to break people's wills. You see, we don't have need to kill anyone.

Killing is barbaric.

I just humanly torture them, and, when they are through, when they are mine, I let them go. Go to where I will them to go, that is. This looks at me now, pursing her lips, some might call it defiantly. But she can't defy me hanging upside down, now can she? I've stood there long enough.

"Darling!" I turn around at my Wife's call. "The Tea is ready, darling!"
"I'll be right there, Raesaia my love. Right there." I smile and nod to her reassuringly, she smiles back and returns up the stairs. She is oh so beautiful. She reminds me of our second daughter. Never can remember that one's name.

"Right, then." I say, turning to the girl hanging upside down. "Have a nice think about this, freedom idea of yours while I'm at tea, would you?" There is no response. With a broad smile I turn and walk up the stairs. My robes fine and red, my crown is light as a feather, thanks to my Archmage's enchantments. It also never ruffles my hair anymore. He has been oh so useful, my Archmage.

My guard's, in their shinning steel armor, stand at attention. Pike's in hand and Sword's at their side's. My retainers, whom never follow me to the dungeons as it is my haven, come out from a side passage and walk behind me as we come into the dinning hall, where me and my love sit and sip tea.

We discuss trivial matters.
Yes, the plants are lovely.
Yes, that Assassin has become most handy with a watering pale after I had a word with him.
Yes, I should to sleep in the main bed chamber tonight.
No, I've given little thought to which line I intend to give the throne, because it has always been to your first born.

"Well, Arthur isn't quite what Clagiu is in sparring." She said. Clagiu is her second born male. "He's coming along, give him time and his bother will find himself landing on his bosom every time, he's just holding back. Did the same thing with my brother's and half brother's, then one day, when everyone thought me a laughing stock, I challenged them. All thirty of them. To a tournament."

"Oh yes yes Darling, always with this story. And no rungs, they just came out and faced you, and one-by-one you bested them." She paused. "But what if Clagiu were to persuade Arthur..." She really hates the boy for some reason, can't fathom why.

"Arthur would not become in such a position, and unlike Clagiu, he reads my notes. He knows how to withstand. By the time Clagiu thinks about it, Arthur will perceive and have him on a rack before you can-"

"He wouldn't!" She seems to think cutting me off helps.

"He would. He's learned well."

"His own brother?" She asked, half-heartily, knowing the answer.

"I'm afraid say, as would Clagiu, only one I can think of who wouldn't his Fentula's son, Artemas, but that boy is different."

"Stupid, a real rock-brain." She puffed.

"No no," I respond, "You forget so soon that he is currently the master at sparring, not just out of the children but in the whole of the castle. He is an expert archer with his long-bow. He is trained in the cross-bow as well."

"Yes, perhaps a suitable captain of the guard, but-"

"And practices Magick with Rumare. He is a wise one."

"And yet squeamish to torture, and you hear the rumors of how he looks at your latest captive." Always so incriminating, she is.

I sigh, tell her it is not for everyone, and excuse myself. I return to the dungeons. The tea wasn't to bad, but the conversation annoying. Not that I'm not one for pleasantries, but why must my wife always try to better her second sons standings? Why is she always politically vying? Ah well, it is why I married her. Such a nuisance it's amusing.

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The dank dungeon is filled with cries of pain. I haven't washed since I embarked on that fateful trip several months ago, and I'm sure as hell not going to get the chance now.

This is a hell hole. I've not see this mad-man have anyone killed yet, but how long can it be? A small Breton like me won't be able to stand the trials of his evil stretching racks, I'm barely holding up with being upside down as-is. These Imperials! And I thought the one's in Cyrodiil were bad. Maybe Artemas will tell me more tonight. For now all I can do is wait, and wonder. Could I escape my bonds, sure. Survive these guards? No. My situation is, for the moment, quite helpless.










Comments, questions, and complaints welcome!

The story itself is devilish. But it doesn't appeal to me (yet), because you apparently use torture as a goal, not as a resource. To torture simply for torture's sake doesn't strike me as an act of evil. It strikes me as act of arrogance and arrogant people are not quite so elegant as evil people should be. Arrogant strikes me as want-to-be-evil-but-not-able-to-perform-well.

This single chapter doesn't tell me much. It's a setting, not a story. Also, the dialogue is a bit disorganized, I didn't understand some parts.

I saw some spelling errors. You use the comma way too much when you should have used ... or - . Comma is not the one for creating hesitation in one's speech, at least not with my sets of rules.

Great setting, the beginning is a great draw in but your spelling needs alittle work. Such as your use of aloud: Which is to speak louder. You mean Allowed. Its great overall but I would like to see more depth, more intrigue to it. That and torture as a sake of enjoyment yes evil but over done. Theres got to be a finesse applied to it.

Right, thank you, I'll keep that in mind for chapter 2, though I'm busy with other matters at the moment.

Or it could be the, insane evil, type of evil.

As other's have said, a comma doesn't mean hesitation, it means "and". You also capitalized words like "sword" that shouldn't be. (I don't know how many times I've said the last part to people)

Torture is a resource, to force them to except his unquestionable rule. I'll try to capitalize on that on the upcoming chapter, I'm writing it right now.

Chapter 2

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My name is Joslin, I'm just a Breton healer who had signed aboard a boat to make use of my practice, make some money, and I thought it would be fun.

Fun.

That fun has me hanging upside down in a mad-man's dungeon for several hours a day. A man named Artemas, apparently my captors illegitimate son, comes to see me at night. I have no way of keeping time, but I think it's night because everyone else goes away.

Now I'm in a dark cell, waiting. My arms are shackled to a wall.

They can't keep me dangling there all day, so they take me down whenever someone wants to talk to me, and sometimes they just take me down and throw me in a dark cell. It's frightening, really. From what I can gather from the one man I talked too, couldn't get a name out of him, they "fix us here." When I asked if he suspected we'd be killed, he gave a start and exclaimed "Killed? Killing is barbaric!" I asked him what he considered torture if killing was barbaric, that one stumped him.

I browse, for the thousandth time, my horribly limited options. Option number 1? Unlock my bonds with a spell and try to sneak away. It's fault? I've no place to go, and I wasn't awake when they dragged me down here. I know where the stairs are, they lead down to the room the keep me hanging. But lost in whatever is above this hell hole... It's almost as bad as if I'm caught up there, just being up there. Option number 2? Wait. I take option number 2.

The thick wooden door to the cell swings open, and in steps Artemas. He's in some fine lordly silks, with a bastard sword at his hip. He hold a lantern in one and, and closes the door behind him. The light of the lantern illuminates the floor, strewn with hay. It also illuminates a wooden chair, which he sets the lantern next to and sits in

"I greet you, Joslin." He said, giving a little bow of his head.

"And I you," I respond. This little formality these Imperials have is so strange.

"I have come again, to talk to you. My father says you begin to break. Is this so?" He queried, as if we're having a cup of tea.

"It Damn-well isn't!" I bark at him. "The only thing I'm close to is killing him, getting out of here is the only problem."

"Define 'here'." He's a witty one, with witty debate and witty reasoning. I've seen brighter, but he's still a bit beyond me when it comes to being a smart alic.

"Well, this dungeon." I wave my right arm around as much as my restraint allows. "Then this island, there must be a boat I can charter."

"Not that can carry you to your, Tamriel." He laughs. Laughs! The nerve of the man, sometimes I forget he's not my captor. Or is he? "As for killing my father, I would love to just tell you 'Killing is Barbaric', but I get the feeling you wouldn't agree."

"I wouldn't! And can you really call him your father when he's married to another woman?" He shrugs in response.

"Raesaia was just the first to catch my father's eye. Just the first." He said again. I scoff. Considering the likely-hood of him laughing off me yelling at him about decency, I try to take the conversation somewhere a little more valuable.

"How long have I been in here?" I ask him. I honestly have no idea. A week, a month, who knows? He does.

"You were brought here a fortnight ago." 14 days! Blast. I purse my lips, not talking. He shifts in his seat. We remain silent for a while.

"Why am I here?" I ask again, I know the answer.

"Again, all I've been told is you were usurping my father's justice. Just admit to it and he'll release you into some manner of menial servitude, which I can then use my position to free you from. It's a very simple plan, really." He spends plenty of time thinking about 'freeing' me, does he?

"And where would I go, once freed, if no boat to Tamriel is to be found?" I ask, exasperated by how little information I can get.

He shrugs again, "I have several positions open in my domain. It's on the opposite side of the island, and it would be quite a ride. Through Argonian territory. But fear not, me and my guards could slay them with ease."

"Oh, you can't kill your fellow Imperials no matter how evil, but putting an Argonian to the sword is nothing?" I ask him, my frustration mounting. I never did like racists, and this is beyond extreme.

"What are you implying? Are you partial to the lizards? If so, keep that from my father, he'd see to it you get worse than a dose of upside down! Women who take to the lizards, or any whom rise against my father in their name... I can't even speak of it anymore." His face as turned darker, with less expression. "Well, you can go there, or you can live the rest of your life here, which do you prefer?"

"The one you didn't propose," I said. "My plan."

"Well," he says with a chuckle, some color returning to him, "what is your plan?"

I outline the basic damsel-in-distress idea. He makes a daring rescue, perhaps with a side-kick, we escape off into the sunset and (I deviate a little from the normal here, but he doesn't seem to be too familiar with these kinds of stories) he sends me on my marry way with a fat purse of gold and an invitation to stay at his house whenever I want. Well, at least that's how I wish damsel-in-distress stories worked out.

"I see one key flaw in that," doesn't he always? "what's to keep my father from realizing it was me and coming to get you? I can not go against my own father openly. Not without good reason." I open my mouth, but he reads my expression and continues, "Not unless your life were to truly be at risk. This is merely discomfort, which I mean to amend soon. Now, when morning comes, do you plan to tell my father you repent, or do you want to suggest a flaw in my logic?" Always acting like there's another option after he eliminates it.

"Yes, I'll lie to your father, I'll lie my head off. I'll even tell him your not insufferably stubborn." He raises an eyebrow at me with a smile.

"Stubborn? That's an amusing accusation from you." I laugh, too. The rest of the night I forgo drilling for information, and we have pleasant discussions about his domain. After he leaves, I wait there in the dark and practice in my mind how I plan to dupe my captor into thinking I've snapped.



Sorry for any spelling or grammatical mistakes, will take another look over it in the morning.

I noticed that you tend to mix modern talk with the archaic speech of literature.

Also, I am unable to fathom why would Artemas even want to rescue Joslin. The situation sounds like they once knew each other well and now as they find themselves in this predicament he thinks about saving her. But this is not the situation here so I'm kind of lost.

Artemas is curious. He Isn't into the whole 'torture' idea. He thinks it's wrong, too. You will later he learn he often helps different people escape whom he deems to be innocent. By escape I mean give them a job in his fief, but you get the idea.

The reason they know each other so well is (and I realize now I should not have done this) that he has come to see her every night for 14 days. Their well acquainted. Yet again, I'll really try to clear up any points you guys consider 'foggy' in future chapters. Things will make more sense once Joslin escapes and interacts with more people, and once Benediction gives a few more insights.

Chapter 3

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Note to self, have laundry boys beaten. Or flogged. Yes, flogging is more appropriate. There's a damp splotch right on my pants! And their a fine tan linen, too! They haven't made a blunder like this in three years, since I found those bread crumbs on one of my extra pairs of robes and had then whipped until they couldn't sit! Evidently, the effects have worn off, and they sit a bit too comfortably.

I'm in my casual attire. Tan linen pants with a brown sash, and a sea-foam green shirt. I walk through the gardens, marveling at the beautiful flowers. I have no weapons, but the gardeners still edge away and hide their face. I've come to see one of my more recently rehabilitated new comers. He has dark skin, and red eyes. He bares strange semblance to that cannibalistic neck-bitter we drove into the swamp seven months ago.

He is an Assassin by trade. Assassin! His purpose is to kill! If it isn't the most barbaric thing I've ever heard of!

But now he stands about, pan in hand, watering the flowers. Bringing life where as he once wrought death. He was good at it, too. If it weren't for him running into Rumare and getting into a swearing match. Shouted something about 'Altmer', I meant to ask Rumare but never got around to it. Evidently the golden-skins don't get along with the dark-skins. It's more of a dark blue, really.

His name is Mordereth. It just sounds barbaric, doesn't it?

I see back, hunched over, muttering something to himself. The other gardeners keep a distance from him. A great distance, indeed. No one is over in this part of the courtyard. They all hide behind hedgerows. or along the patches lining the inner sanctums walls. Three layers of walls. The reason Castle Benediction is so well fortified is because of The Great Savagery, a siege by the Argonians that resulted in them scaling the walls, killing, and stealing much food. Though they were beaten back eventually.

I forget what the castle was called then, hard to keep track when it changes with it's ruler.

He stands there, but I have the feelings he knows I'm here. He remains in the position he is in, I walk up to a mere five feet behind him. He continues to water. Does he defy me? I nod my head at him, and one of my retainers steps forward and gives him a kick. But, right as he does, Mordereth stands up, twirling around to his left, letting the mans kick carry his other leg into the air and land him flat on his bosom.

"Ah, my liege, it is a pleasure to see you, truly." He gives a smart bow, so that his brimmed gardeners hat will cover his smile to all but my retainer, who gets to his feet. He looks ready to take action but I clear my throat, he looks at me, and steps back behind me with his three fellows.

"I see you, Mordereth." Even that is to much for him. He is an ex-barbarian. But I want to converse with him. Maybe my gesture will give him cause to be loser with words.

"And I bow to you, King Benediction, lord and master of all you survey." He likes to add that last tittle, and I have to admit I'm partial towards it. I should talk with my scribes about that. Though I feel he may be taunting me. From what I understand from Rumare, these assassins like to not be seen when they do their killing. I'm still wary of him.

"I have come to speak with you on Magick, Mordereth. The only people who know of Magick aside from the lizard-beasts are my Archmage Rumare, and you." He has risen from his bow, and the smile is gone. He raises his eyebrows. "Tell me, Mordereth, what can Magick do? Can it heal the sickest beggar and kill the strongest Argonian at my whim? My Archmage says it could, but he does not know of healing and killing. Do you, Mordereth?"

"Yes." He replied simply. "It can, it does. I've used it to heal minor wounds on occasion, but I know some who could take one from near-death to battle-ready in a minute. But my specialties lie in other directions..." Yes, no doubt. No doubt. Rumare can make poultices of extraordinary nature, potions to make a man invisible, and make you think things are there that aren't. I think that he retains some of his skills, though. Sometimes he has the look of... A barbarian. Someone who has killed. He knows how to kill with Magick but doesn't want me to think ill of him.

"These directions might pertain to death?" I ask.

"I know some things about it, yes..." He is cautious, elevate his fear of retribution for such practices, or to the point? To the point.

"Could you teach my men to do battle against the savages using your Magick? In return, I would free you from this service and give you a suitable office and title." His eyes seem to light up, if for only a moment.

"Well, yes, I suppose I could do that. It's not an easy thing to learn, but I could at least, with the proper ingredients, poison and enchant some of your men's weapons. I know some spells and concoctions that work especially well against Argonians. How soon could I begin?" He seems to have taken warmly to the idea, good.

"The end of the week." I neglect to mention he and Rumare will be working together, which may create a problem, but they might have declined if I had told either of them that this early. I should get to the bottom of this dislike they seem to have for each other. Well, whatever it is, it's unimportant, he bows and bids me farewell as I stride off.

I'm going to see my little friend in the dungeon. I've decided not to put her upside down today. She'll be cooling off instead.

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The chains turn the wheel, the wheel I'm strapped too, into the water once more. I try to make a show of gasping, but other than getting wet in that horribly dirty water, I've got a spell for under-water breathing that doesn't take all to much Mana.

But that doesn't make it any warmer.

I'm freezing, and the hooded men turning that wheel always look like they might just leave me underwater while they take a breather. I'm submerged, and my water-sodden clothes are getting even wetter. I think I might lose whatever that vile tasting much was, and the pitcher of water I'd been permitted this morning. Or I think it was morning. Hard to tell. There's no sun light down here. The room is lit by torches on the wall. From what I can see there's this water wheel, the mechanism to turn it, and a flat table at an angle with metal cuffs to snap someone into place.

I'd find this more frightening, but I know that it will soon be at an end. Benediction always comes to see me at least once. He has to. I'm out of the water, and pant for breath (though I don't really need it, it's always best to put on a show around here). The water I'm being dunked in isn't still, either, it must be some under-water river that runs out of the castle. Drinking it wouldn't do, even if it wasn't so dirty, it's probably salty, too.

Here he comes, and right as I'm about to go in in. I've been entering feet first, so I come out upside down. This imprisonment has been far too disorienting.

He walks in the single door, across a piece of floor that bridges the stream. His minions instantly stop, right with my feet at the top of the water, and come over and remove me from the wheel. I'm thrown over one of them men's shoulders. After being jostled a bit, I'm taken by either arm and locked onto the wooden table, that's slanted as if I'm half-way between standing and sleeping. My clothes keep me cold, and the wood does nothing to help warm me. For the first time I notice that an Altmer has followed Lord Benediction, or King Benediction, he gets called both.

"Stand over there, would you? Your scarring the poor girl." That's my captors mocking voice. He's standing to the left side of the table, looking down at me. His Altmer friend is standing to my right. "Now, darling. I'd like to have a talk with you about some things. This, freedom idea of yours. My reign is supreme, and I like to keep it that way. I can decide to tell whoever I want to do whatever I want them to do, do you understand?"

"Yes, mighty Benediction, I do!" I say, managing to cry. I don't have to try to hard.

"It's King to you, my girl." He looks down his nose at me waiting for a hurried apology, which I deliver.

"Oh yes, king, yes! Of course, my king! King Benediction, I mean no disrespect!" He smiles at this.

"Yes, I'm sure you didn't, now, Rumare? This girl seems a little cold, could you help her with that." He asks. Girl, eh? Well, I suppose the only people he's used to seeing are other Imperials and that elf, so I must look like a young Imperial to him.

"Of course, my liege." His hands rise, and my clothes begin to warm. My natural resistance to Magick stops me from warming up to fast, but my clothes make it go faster. The woolen rags absorb the heat well.

"Do you prefer to be hot, or cold?" That's an odd question, I think about my answer a bit but can't see a problem with telling the truth.

"Hot." I say.

"What? Are you forgetting something?" The heat begins to scathe, though my natural resistance does well to keep the Magick from effecting me directly, this Rumare fellow warms the table and my clothes, and he's a strong Magician, too. His hands glow red as he holds them over me.

"Ah, not this hot!" He smiles even more. Too hot. I'm sweating. What mistake have I made? The heat is insufferable, I can feel the sweat coming out of my pores. Titles, his titles!

"King Benediction, please stop! Please! Make me colder! Please, my liege!" He smiles, and without needing to command him, Rumare make it a more comfortable warm.

"Good, my deary. Now, what do you have to say about your actions in the docks of my fine capitol city?" The fire in his eyes grows, he's clearly enjoying this.

"I was wrong to tell those people you had no right to make them work without pay. I understand now that they are yours. I was wrong." I try to hang my head in shame, but find a telekinetic barrier has been made under my chin by the Magician. "I ask your forgiveness and accept your assignment without question." That line had been taught to me by Artemas.

"Good! So you've come to your senses. I'm sure I'll be able to find a place for you. I'll give you plenty of time to recuperate with Marl." I've been afraid of hearing that. According to Artemas he's in charge of the harsher beatings and other torture. He says he's inventive, too.

"Wait, my liege, perchance I know of a more... immediate role that she could fill?" Rumare had lowered his hands now. "Clagiu, is, as you know, in search of a wife. Who finer than this young lady?" He knows I'm a Breton. Maybe he's trying to get me out of here sooner in return for what he's had to do to me? Who knows, but Artemas said, when this possibility came up, 'It will take months for a wedding to be arranged, but it will be tricky to procure you from that situation...'. When I asked him what he meant, he said that he'd have to find another woman and suggest her, putting them into contention. Even if he picked neither, it would stop or at the very least re-set the marriage process.

Makes me glad I'm not getting married here. If I can ever get away from where ever 'here' is, that is.

"Hmm, a good idea. Clagiu does have an eye for those a bit younger than him." I'm glad their not asking me my age, I have no clue how how this Clagiu character is. "Well then, in that case, we'll need you presentable, there's a ball in a week and after what Clagiu did to his last one, he's got no companion. Men, have her up to the Mistress of Wardrobes and tell them to find room for her in the Guest Wing. Be quick!"

Well, that went well. Even if frightening. It occurs to me, now, that I smell awful. I hope they've got some place to bathe. I'm unlocked from my position, thrown over a man's shoulder, and carried out.

Oddly enough, from my view point, I could only see my three long-time torturers and Benediction leave. No trace of Rumare.


EDIT: Spelling

Chapter 4

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Clagiu is his name, pain is his game.

I'm a little disturbed, honestly. He seems to take joy not from the final victory, but from bringing pain to others. It sickens me at times. The girl was lying, that much is plain to see. She did not go through all necessary stages that all these people who wash up from Tamriel have before breaking. Only fifteen days.

I thought Marl would be the punishment, but Clagiu, that is a punishment in and of itself. The last woman he courted wasn't bad, but she had a tendancy to stutter. Well, I don't know how it really happened, but he did something to her to try and put a stop to it. Such a blind disregard for women, though he would have done the same to a man with an annoying habit. I suppose he's a fitting end to her insolent lies.

He can tell when they lie, and he doesn't like it.

Clagiu, is, a manner of spoiled which cannot be helped by the father, merely nurtured by the mother. Arthur is a master of the trade, and kinder then I to those whom he breaks. He has a respect for those who last longer, and much less so for those who don't. The last man, a food thief, who lasted only an hour was sent to the Fourth Wing of the castle with a very particular set of instructions. Apparently, the Mistress of the Fourth is beside herself with laughter.

Arthur would never break to Clagiu, Arthur will inherit the throne. I shouldn't dwell.

I'm walking through the foundation of the tower, to be called, Rumare's Arcanium. It is where Rumare will teach my people his craft. He oversees some of it directly. He wants the directions followed to the letter, the diagrams matched to the quill-mark. Whatever he knows of the architecture behind these things, it's important.

A lazy worker is leaning against a large stone brick. As I walk by, the insolent man does nothing, though he clearly sees me. As I walk past, the noise of one of my retainers steel gauntlets smashing into the man is like a little symphony.

Crunch, "Ah!", Crack.

And then the kick,

Swack, "Ouff!", "Ahhhh."

Music, music to my ears. To think that in times long, long, past, times of war and murder, the man would have been killed. I almost don't catch the ensuing shutter.

Killing, how barbaric!

Walking through the construction sight, teams of men powering cranes, scaffolding rising, and a circular shape taking form. It is in the Monument quarter. A walled off section of the city, filled with statues and monuments. They are the only traces of kings long gone, other than history books. The Capitol's name may change with the rulers, the paintings in the castle, in the beach-side palace and country estate my be of the current ruler, but not here. Here, things are left as they were when the ruler died. None of them, those there was always fear of them being so by the ruler, were half-finished. He let this be named after Rumare in honor of him being the first Archmage in the history of the great nation of Mill Spire, or to grace this fine continent of Markos. Rumare says its more like an island, but seeing as Tamriel is clearly far away from here, there's no way the two would be compared.

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Well, this is quite a change. I've had a nice bath with warm running water, a nice hot meal, and I've got a nice red dress.

I'm sitting on the bed of my room, holding an opened box. Apparently Clagiu keeps jewelry on-hold for the next woman who takes his fancy, so I've already received this red-diamond necklace. It's on a golden chain, and lowering it over my next, I can't help but wonder if he recycles these from woman to woman. It doesn't really matter though. By the time he gets any fancy ideas, I'll be long-gone by whatever manner of conveyance Artemas fancies.

At any rate, I've thought of how to avoid anything at all. It's quite simple, paralyze him, club him in the head with telekinesis, and then, when he wakes up, pretend we've had 'quite the time'. I'm hopping he's so clueless about Magick he falls for it. I won't have to deal with talking about it, either. He'll probably think he fainted and want nothing to do with me. Or maybe he's persistent? I can do that as many times as it takes.

The Mistress of wardrobes and I had quite the talk about Clagiu. Apparently I should avoid any and all annoying habits taking hold of me, lest I end up like the last one. Apparently the Mistresses felt so sorry for her they send her to the 'Fourth Wing'. I asked what that was and she laughed.

His favorite color is red, and he likes his girls dressed that way. Entirely that way. I've got red hair band, keeping my neck-long main behind my face, a red dress, red shoes, red everything. The sheets were removed and replaced with red ones. The pillow cases even! This man is a little obsessive to say the least. A knock at the door, I put the box on the bed and go over. The room is the size of an Inn common room, complete with a liquor cabinet. Opening the door, I greet a man holding the front of a carpet.

"Hello," he nods at me.

"Hello, ma'am. We're here with the new carpet ordered by lord Clagiu." I step back, opening my mouth to speak as he walked in, the back held by another man. entered as well.

"Where are you to be putting it?" I ask, looking around, the only place would be at the foot of the bed, but there's already a green one there...

Placing the one they were holding down, they rolled up the green carpet, unrolled the new, red, carpet, both gave me small bows, and made off with the green carpet. I went back to sitting on the bed. It's soft. There's a lounge, it's also red. The fabric is so soft. These clothes are also nicer then anything I've ever had or purchased. Perhaps this place isn't so bad after all. I've never missed High-Rock, and though the Bosmer nation of Valenwood held my interest for a while, but not too long.

But this torture business is a little to gruesome. Apparently, from my conversation with the Mistress, my torture will continue. A good first date is apparently going out for a night on the town, and then going back to his place for a nice private flogging.

She says that that's odd. I thought about remarking on the oddness of torture being so ordinary, let alone excepted. But I refrained. If he's ordered me a carpet, and sent me this necklace, how much time do I have before he comes? Casting detect life, I take a look around. There are five other occupied room on this hall way, which has twenty five rooms. Evidently, they party quite a bit here, and need a nearby bedroom. There's someone at the bottom of the stairs, and I'm on the fifth level. Fifth level! That's one less then the height of the ball room, and not even the top! He could just be a servant or messenger, or it could be Clagiu.

I search my mind, how to avoid Clagiu? Perhaps pretend I'm not here? That's a good idea, and what happens when I'm found? I have a walk-in closet and a washroom. The closet? Close the door and say I'm not dressed? Sure, but how long will he wait before the bluff is called? The Washroom might be a better idea. I can see the person is now at the fifth level and walking down the hall. My hall. The washroom seemed like a worse bet, so into the closet I went, feeling the life move closer to my door. Almost... and they pass by.

"Few," whipping my brow I realize I expired a bit. Remembering what I once heard about Satin clinging, I decided it would be better to relax. Another person is coming up the stairwell, at the third floor right now. I reconsider the washroom, and decide to stay here. The person is on the fourth floor. What am I worrying about? If he comes he'll probably drop in to say hello and be gone. I sit down on a chair for trying on shoes. My attention is immediately drawn to a long, row of shoes. Oh, my, the wonders! All high-heeled, I'd never seen anything like it. I put myself to putting on shoes.

A few minutes later, I hear a rap at the door. Damn! But I have finally found my favorite pair, after trying on all thirteen several times. Their red, though not all in the selection were.

"May I come in?" A voice calls. Can he? Well, if I don't say anything it could cause a problem.

"Yes!" I say loudly, "I'm in the changing room, you can come in." The figure opens the door and walks in, the detect life spell wears off. Without thinking of casting another, I crane my neck from where I sit to try and here his foot steps. The neck craning isn't too necessary. He makes no secret of his approach, knocking on the door.

"Are you... decent?" I take a minute to think about that one, which is odd, I realize, and spur tout a minute later.

"No! No, stay there I'll be-" Then realizing there's no one to help me put the dress on and it wouldn't make to much sense if I delayed longer, said. "Yes." I opened the door. I look up to see a stunning, blond Imperial. I never was partial to Imperials, or blonds being a brunette myself. But he, in his striking red silk, looked quite dashing.

But not that dashing.

No, but at least he's not ugly.

"I've been eager to meet you, I'm sorry for my delay, but there was a rather brutish fiend whom had bloodied several nobles noses in bar fisticuffs while drunk. Once I heard that you had taken interest, I put my hand to work." He smiled, proud of himself. "But that need not concern you, ah, I missed your name?"

"Joslin, and you are Clagiu?" I hope we don't have to make small talk about torture.

"Clagiu I am, at your service." He gave a small bow as he stepped backwards and I exited the closet.

"So, I hear you are from... Tamriel." he said, "across the seas in an unknown direction, ten times the size of Markos..."

"Yes," I said. "it's magnificent." Small, general talk about a continent. Not what I would have done, but then again, that's not where I'm trying to go.

"Tell me of your Tamriel, I am curious." And so we launched into a long, dull conversation, sitting on the bed and sharing a bottle of wine, glasses in hand and the bottle on the night table, about Tamriel. After a while long while, hours, he left. The clock- a grand-father, reviled that it was nine at night. Well, that wasn't too romantic, but quality wine and dull conversation practically comes with getting involved with nobles, doesn't it? Not that I'm going to be involved. At any rate, for the first time in fifteen days I had no only something more than wet hay to sleep on, it was the softest mattress I'd ever felt.

I hope Artemas has a room like this, or I'll have to be dipping my hands in his coffers. I plan to spend the rest of my time on this island in style.




No, there is no innuendo, go read some Cosmo if that's what you want. This isn't a romance.