It was a moonless night.

Mordereth heeled his steed on, down the path faster and faster. He left Weye behind him with almost as gusto as he had the Imperial City. His assailants had harrowed him from Bruma to here, and a dozen places in between. But he had arrived to find his promise of salvation no longer existed. Now a new foe, or rather one he'd had since birth, hounded him through the night. His familiy. How long since he'd fled Vvardenfel? How long since he'd seen what they did with the dead?

Being killed at the hands of the Black Hand seemed quite preferable at this point.

Or was it their fault? Had that skimmer master not been there because they wanted him to be caught in Balmora? Wanted him to depend on them?

Curse the bastards, whatever the circumstances. The dead haunted him enough in dreams without literal reincarnation. But that was precisely what he faced. A talented Necromancer he didn't think he'd have the heart to kill. But she was heartless. He must remember what she was. What he was. She was an embodiment of all that was wrong with his life, a catalyst for his anger. He must feed it. He rode past the ruins of destroyed forts, and as he did, he saw the wandering souls of dead Legionaires. They watched him, silently from their ruined ramparts.

He paid them no mind.

Soon, the path was enveloped by woods. He heard the yells of feral trolls, though these roads were far to well patroled for any to exist. He heard the holw of werewolves, and he saw the face of a Nord he'd called friend. He popped the reins three times in rapid succession, trying to get away. Fleeing what could not be fled. The shadows.

Gradually, the path began to slope upwards. The cries of horrible beasts echoed deep from the forest. Grew more distant. Grew more distant as he rode upwards, the slope growing more inclined with every moment that seemed to take an eternity. Sweat beaded on his brow, and he wiped it with the right cuff of his cloak. Returning the hand to the reins and his eyes to the road, he saw a figure, fully clad in black, blacker than the moonless night's sky.

Mordereth drew his bastard sword, and dug his feet into his mount's sides. He would never again run from this foe. Never again.

The robbed figure stood at the peak of the hill he'd been riding up, but as he grew closer, the path seemed to grow impossibly steeper. He could not advance, no matter how he tried. He spurred his horse on. This must be some trick.

Memories flashed before him, wandering through the woods to no avail. How had he escaped? He still could not remember. But he knew that he persisted. Persistence. With the slope now threatening to grow so steep his mount might fall vertically, Mordereth crouched on the saddle, one hand on his blade and the other on the horse's neck.

He must persist.

Suddenly, with a feat of acrobatics to stun a Cat Man, the Dunmer launched himself over his horse and forward, lunging forward with the sparkling silver blade his right hand facilitated. He flew through the air, almost to his target, but stuck short. His blade stuck into the path, now totally vertical. The path moved down, as more took it's place. On either side trees were sideways to him. He could not fail. The path was cobbled, and if he could climb cobbled roads, he could climb cobbled paths. Setting his hand higher up, he planted his blade only a foot below where the figure stood, now looking down on him. The figures hood obscured their face, but there was no question in his mind who it was, as he reached up to grasp the edge, the stone moved down, filled in by more coming out from under the layer of stone the figure stood on.

And so he planted his blade again, and kicked with his feet, but he just got inches and inches further away. Persistance. With a might heave, Mordereth planted his blade between two stones where an especially large gap existed. Grasping the hilt, he turned to face the trees to his left. They seemed further away then ever, but unmoving. With much energy, Mordereth began to sway too and fro, began to make the sword bounce with his weight. Like a pendulum, he rocked back and forth until he launched off his blade. He flew past stone and grass to his right, landing on a tree. Looking up, he saw another tree suitable to land on. So he leaped for it, grabbed it, and clambered onto it. Again he leapt, grabbed, and calmbered. Closer, closer he came.

Yes, yes his persistence would win in the end.

Finally, he was on a tree where he could walk onto the horizontal grass. The figure had turned to look at him, but he paid her no mind. With a burst of energy, he lept to the grass before the vertical motion could be resumed with the grass.

Now, they stood facing each other. Mordereth produced a silver dagger from his belt, and flourished it.

"Are you ready to die, sister?" He asked, peering into where her eyes must be. Suddenly, he was sure he met her eyes.

They grew red within the darkness.

The red of a Dunmer's eyes, indeed. One foot infront of the other, Mordereth began to approach his older sibling.

"So much hostility little brother, tell me, what makes you think that will harm me?" She asked, giving a sinister giggle. The innocence of that giggle had gone when Mordereth saw her giggling as she reanimated Guars to pit them in mortal combat against each other. Tearing each other apart.

"Lynchdom is only for the first born male, and as we all know, that's neither of us." She laughed, this time.

"You miss understand me, brother. I mean to say you'll never hit me." Mordereth stopped his approach. He seemed to think.

"Perhaps you are right, sister..." She was clearly pleased, and began to speak. "This will have to do!" His left hand shot forward, and from it flew a massive fire-ball, smashing into her torso. Aflame, she screamed and went flying backwards, but not before skeleton warriors emerged from the woods.

Throwing his dagger square into the skull of one he found directly behind him, he ran over to where his sister lay. Two skeletal warriors, one with mace and shield and another with two blades, faced him. He stopped in front of them. Confused at his seemingly stupid action, the warrior with the mace swung down, and the blade wielder forced his weapons forward as if to skewer him. With an artful hope backwards, Mordereth watched with pleasure as the skeleton with the mace swung down onto his compatriots blades, the force ripping the latter's arms off.

A second of bewilderment was followed by a very irritated and now gimped skeleton head-butting he fellows skull off. In retaliation the rest of the body smacked into the assailant with his shield, sending the gimp off the ledge. However, now headless the rest of the body fell over, and dropped it's weapons in attempt to grope for it's head.

Mordereth approached his sister, the flame now extinguished. He crouched quickly and reached to touch her, for it would only be a moment before the warriors coming in form the forest overwhelmed him. But as he did, she wheeled around on the ground, as if spun by air, and her cloak flew open to reveal a shadow with red eyes. A maniacal laugh ensued.

"You'll never hit me." She reiterated.

A dark tentacle reached forth from the darkness and smacked his backwards. He landed, surrounded by a semi-circle of skeletons, the other half of the circle being the ledge.

Now, a true assassin never leaves home without a trump card, and Mordereth viewed himself still to be a professional assassin. So it should come to no shock to most when he rolled off of the ledge and drew a teleportation scroll from his sleeve and screamed the incantation.

He landed face down on stone at an Imperial Shrine in nearby For Alabaster. Safe again, if only for so long. That trick would not work again.

Well well well, it looks good, if strange. The plot intrigues me, as well as your very poetic writing. So poetic it makes it difficult to read at times ^^ So many hints of his past, yet nothing learned, very good technique there. However, that also leads to confusion. I have no idea what's going on...I know that she's a necromancer, he's an assassin and seems to be having delusions of some kind O.o Strangely written battles left me a little frazzled, but I figured out the result, so it's all good ^_^. All in all, nice work. I am left asking many questions, which is what should happen with an opening post. Thanks for writing, and come back again

Oh, and a few minor grammer errors, but not enough to comment on individually. Thanks again.

Haha, thanks man. First time I've gotten anything other than Grammar Nazi's around here :celebration:

I know my action sequences don't make much sense but I'm working on that. Hopefully something will take form (i.e. his past, the nord) in the next post, which will be Chapter 1 and HOPEFULLY a good deal longer.

EDIT: Flay that last thing, it'll probably be about the same length.

Smack, Mordereth's face collided with the stone, and he heard the definite crunch of breaking.

Exhausted and with a feeling of defeat, Mordereth allowed darkness to over take him. He would be safe in Alabaster... for a time.


In his dreams, he saw the dream again. The dream that witch gave him every so often, to remind him. He saw a tall burly man, clad in furs and pelts, walking across a bridge of ice from one mountain peek to the other. Wind blew him from his right, and he veered left to compensate, already huddling as he moved. The wind changed, and this time brought with it snow flurries. He again adjusted his course, but did not for a moment pause. He persisted, for he knew that letting up for an instant would be even more horrid.

The wind shifted once more, and this time the man would have been smacked in the face by a large clump of snow that seemed far to large and sustained to fly vertically were it not for his already raised arm to break it's impact. But as suddenly as the switch had happened, another did. It didn't seem to stop. Switching, switching, every time the snow getting thicker.

Finally, the man began to skid, but so soon as he did he fell instinctively to his knees. This had happened so many times all his actions and reactions were instincts. Nothing new ever happened.

Nothing new? A voice laughed.

What was that? Who was- No, not her.

Suddenly, he was no longer watching, he was there. He was facing the Nord as he progressed across the bridge, shuffling on his knees. He seemed to notice him behind his arm, but clearly didn't recognize who it was. He wouldn't believe it if he saw his face. The wind blew, and Mordereth knew it did, but it did not affect him. He did not skid as the Nord would. His presence was surreal.

"Move," said a muffled, cracking voice, "move," he repeated, tired and thirsty. Thirsty amongst all the snow. Suddenly, the wind was even more intense. He was dragged to the side, but in a final act of resistance slammed his body down onto the ice. His face was directly in front of him. Kneeling, Mordereth used magic to warm his hands, and reached out to the ice in front of the mans face, at first he was startled and recoiled, but then stopped. He saw the ice slowly turn to water, a bit, a small layer. He began to lap it up with his tongue madly.

Then the dream left him. There was only the darkness of sleep.


Upon awakening, he realized his security was of the utmost importance to the Imperial Legion. So much so he was locked in a cell. A small beam of light shone into the room through what must be a window in the wall above him. He lay on his side, facing the bars of his cell. Adjacent to his cell he could see another, with an occupant he couldn't make out between his dizzy half-awake state and the dim torches lining the halls.

Foot steps were heard, steel boots striking the stone. It echoed.

His new neighbor seemed to stir, and a voice from else where came. A groggy noise one would make when just awakening from a slumber which had maybe not lasted long enough. He heard a strange sliding noise, akin to the drawing of a blade.

He forced himself to push off his straw bed and come to one knee, where he gathered strength. But no, it was not a blade, he heard more scrapping. He heard the noise of eating, as well. A guard came into vision with a tray with venison on it. He put a bit through the bars of his neighbor, and then turned to him. He wore full legion garb save a helm, but not what he was accustomed to from his home land. In place of embroidery or shiny steel, the darker, more plain looking Cyrodilic set was what kept him clad.

His hair was brown and an unkempt longish style was his choice. But though that surely did nothing to endear himself to Mordereth, the Imperials act of throwing a leg of venison- the remainder of it on the trey- at him, definitely helped. He caught it against his chest, and looked down at it. It had a good deal of blood on it, and as he looked down he saw that either side of his chin below his nose did, too. He was certainly in a sorry state.

"Hey," A voice, he looked up and the guard was gone, but an Altmer had moved to the bars in the front of his cell. They were separated by two barriers, but the discourse was quite easy flowing.

"Hm, looks like they did a number on your nose," said the individual, a female. "Though I can't imagine your face was much brighter before hand." The cheeky wench was smiling.

"Flatter yourself while you can Altmer, these fools have no idea who I am." He stared at her, unblinking.

"Oh, now is that so, red eyes? Well you'll forgive me if I do, then." That was unexpected. Seeing his eyebrows rise, she continued.

"Word was sent from Bruma. Evidently, your Breton mistress didn't think you competent enough to travel unaided." She would have to send word to one of her contacts.

"Our relationship is purely professional. She catches felons," He was going to continue, but a smart voice put in,

"And you attract them. Yes, yes like I said I know who you are. I also have a price piece of news that hopefully won't reach our friends here until we're good and gone."

"What?" He said, obviously uninterested.

"There is a price of 10,000 septims on your head." Damn!

"'ve had worse."

The passage of time was slow. Mordereth had found a small rock that acted as chalk on his cell walls, and began devising an escape route.

Yes, bound down the stairs, do a back-flip, land on the guard and then disarm him whilst standing on his shoulders.

From there, he would make his way to the box which held all his taken possessions. Naturally, a guard should be around who had the key. Then, all it would take would be stealing a horse and ridding to a thieves guild correspondent...

He stopped humoring himself and just made a line down to the floor in an arch, just letting it fall. He was doomed. He'd never get a bounty that big to 'go away', even if the thieves guild liked him. A lot. And he regularly had tea with the Gray Fox. He had no idea where is weapons were, no clue as to how to escape the fort or where to go form there, and probably never would. More important than all of that, he needed to get out of here.

"Dunmer," came the Altmer women from across the isle. "I can get you out of here, if you listen to me." That was an interesting idea.

"Oi," came the other voice he'd heard, in the cell to his left. "What about me, elf? How long have I been in here with you?" He couldn't discern the race by voice, but his accent certainly suggested he was from Hammerfell or Highrock.

"You, too, swordsman. We'll need you. Now, are you going to listen to me or just rot?" Mordereth, chalk in hand, moved over to his bars whilst crouched.

"I'm in, what are you planning, Altmer?" He met her gaze. What emotion did those eyes hold?

"The name's Estird. Now listen to me, you imbecile, we'll..."

The conversation went on, and she highlighted an escape route. The plan seemed simple enough. It also, to the joy of the "Swordsman", depended on him. If all went well, they should all have their possessions back and steeds to boot with a minimal number of Imperial Legionaries dead.

Very good. I like the style you write with, but try to be a little more clear. I don't understand how Mordereth ended up in Imperial prison. Once again, your style of writing is very good. Keep it up. Also check out my fan fiction *link is in my signature*

Read the end of the first post again, he uses a scroll to teleport to the nearest Imperial Shrine. This happened to be at the made-up Fort Alabaster.

Ahh.. I see. Thanks for clearing that up. I look forward to the next chapter.

With the plan highlighted, and all three members fully aware of their part, the next day dawned. This would actually be the fastest he'd escaped prison without a lock-pick or exterior help. Well, unless you wanted to count that one time he goaded the guard into his cell to attempt to murder him. That had taken a total of, at the most, three hours. Of captivity, not insults. The insults lasted maybe the better part of a half an hour.

The same guard came through with water, and they were ready. This was the "Swordsman"'s part.

"Here you are- grragh!" The sounds of smacking against the bars as the man struggled were evident. Clanging, clashing. This was the most pivotal part. He had to wrest the blade from the guard and stop him from escaping. Presumably by killing him.

Shriing!

"Ah, ah, ahhhhh." The sounds of coughing ensued. Violent, blood-filled coughs. That man didn't need to die, but he had. Such was life. It was only a bit longer before he head the fumbling of keys. This was the worrisome part. Would the Swordsman just make off without them? It seemed a logical course of action, actually, but then again he may need help killing any more guards he crossed. Unless he was a sneaky swordsman.

"Oi, Swordsman," Mordereth called, "feeling sneaky?" At the edge of his cell appeared a man, and he moved more into view.

The Swordsman was a Redguard, wearing only sack pants and petty sandals. He held a bloodied Imperial bastard sword. With a quizzical look at Mordereth, the man tried a key on the cell door. No luck. He tried another, and it clicked open.

Already ready and on his feet, Mordereth moved through the door with gusto.

"Hold out your arm," The Redguard inclined his sword towards his left wrist, caught by a silver manacle of venomous design. Complying, Mordereth was quickly reunited with the feel of Magic. It came back slowly, but it was there again. It was no longer siphoned as it appeared. The Redguard proceeded over to the cell where Estird was grasping the bars and watching as events unfolded.

"With haste, Swordsman, we must be far from here come night fall." She met the gaze of the Redguard.

"And it is dawn. Do not worry yourself, Altmer," he said, swinging open her cell door. "We will be good and gone. With some more good and dead, I suspect." With that, he hacked down onto her shackle that adorned her left wrist. They were freed, and slowly Magic returned to them. "Let's be off." In silent agreal they walked, ascending the spiral stairs. They came out to a landing with a fork. Straight ahead was a door, and to the left the stairs spiraled on. The group elected to move forward. Jiggling the doorknob did naught, and so the Redguard gave the door a stout kick. The impact resounded through him, and commotion sounded from the other side of the door. It opened, and on the other side was a startled Legionnaire. A red glowing ball shot through the air and hit him in the chest. With a final gasp for breath, he fell to his knees.

Fell dead.

With two innocents killed, they walked through the door and into the courtyard. Well, Estrid and the Swordsman did. Mordereth knelt and retrived a bastard sword from the dead man first. Coming out of the door he noticed two things.

One: There was a stable next to an open gate.

Two: There were archers on the walls with knocked bows, and a Legionaire sprinted to correct the issue of the gate's state.

"Run!" Arrows flew, all missing in the first wave. Soon, the party was almost halfway across a green. The keep of Fort Alabaster was somewhere to the front-left, if conventional directions were as those on a compass, and the gate and stable were due front. The greenery they passed over must be used for drilling, as it was mostly dirt.

Thudthudthudthudthudthud-

More arrows struck the ground, some barely missing Estrid's heels. She was the furthest behind. Closing the gap, the group pushed. Three quarters of the length was covered, and only one more volley remained. The sprinting man was practically vertical, arms swinging. The heavy armor weighted on the man, but it seemed it should weight him more. He ran with admiral speed, considering the fact he had come from a part of the wall by the keep and had barely less ground to cover than the group.

But there was no point in admiring the man when his efforts would lead to Mordereth's demise. Faster the group ran, and-

Thudthudthud-

Almost to the steeds, the Swordsman broke ahead and lept to the back of one. He cut it free from it's bindings with a sweep of his blade. Estrid, with a burst of speed no doubt magically induced, pulled ahead of Mordereth, all in an instant-

-thudthudthud-

He could almost smell the manure. Just a bit more. Estrid was already there. Smell the manure.

Thud.

An arrow struck Mordereth's side mid-run, and he bent over in mid air and went flailing forward. He landed right at the feet of a white stallion, and it reared it's hooves. Mordereth rolled, barely missing being crushed by the hooves as they came down, and cracking the arrow and painfully causing it to tear more at his inerds in the process.

"Mordereth!" Estrid called, how had she already mounted? She reached out a hand, and Mordereth barely managed to get his torso up to extend a hand.

She grabbed to outstretched arm, and dragged him. The Swordsman was ahead of them. Estrid tried to no avail to bend her arm and bring him aboard the steed. The gates started to close. Estrid popped the reins of her mount with her one hand not grasping Mordereth's wrist. The gate was a quarter closed, and they came under it, it lowered.

Halfway, and they were right under it. It threatened to cut of the black horse's buttocks.

A quarter of the way down. His legs! The steel spikes on the bottom of the gate hardly missed him. With the gate closed, Estrid momentarily stopped to help Mordereth onto the horse. With him ridding behind her in the saddle, they took off.

Thudthudthudthudthud-

That was-

Thud-

An arrow protruded from a tree in front of where they had been a moment earlier.

Close.

Mordereth turned around. The same man who had sprinted to close the gates watched from the ramparts with fellow archers. He had taken that shot, and damn near hit. Hole heartedly, none of the party wanted to see him again. But those three never got much of what they wanted, and always in short supply.

And so he was a free man on the lamb.

Out of curiosity, do people read this?

I am!

As am I.

Really, just because we don't post doesn't mean we don't read

Good work so far I'll keep reading, for sure.

Ah, hehe well I didn't realize. I'll keep writing then :hubbahubba:

I read it as well. Your writing it very enjoyable.. keep it up :]

The place was light. Had he been asleep? He could hardly remember.

He was lying on his back, and had been for some time. Tall trees towered above him to create shade. Light funneled through breaks in the branches, but he could not make out the location of the sun. The woods of Cyrodiil were great and many compared to his homeland. So much differed from Morrowind.

"I think he's up," the Swordsman's Redguard voice boomed through whatever manner of glad they were in.

"Indeed." That was Estrid's voice, and not a doubt about it. Sitting up, Mordereth felt a sharp pain where the arrow had been and clutched his side. With a grunt of pain, he maintained his position while holding his side. That helped. A bit. "Dunmer, the only thing for you is rest. I've used what herbs there were to be found to heal your side, but I'm continuously casting detect life to keep tabs on those following us. You're simply going to have to wait until were safer for me to turn my attentions to Restoration. By the Nine, I haven't had a quarter of my Magic return to me since captivity." She seemed more irritated by that then upset at his condition.

The Redguard looked over his shoulders, and then stepped backwards to lean on the trunks of one of the trees. He now had a saber at his side, though from where Mordereth couldn't guess. Estrid, who had been standing not three pace from him, sat down and crossed her legs.

"How long have I been in such a state?" He asked, twisting his mouth as the pain in his side become abruptly sharp. "And what of our pursuers?" Estrid seemed to smile. Faintly. Typical high-elf, golden skinned knowledge fonts they fancied themselves. More like gilded woman.

"Quite some time, I dare say. We had to leave the horses tied on the other side of a stream." She sniffed, as if it hadn't been part of her master plan. "It was to avoid the dogs following their scents. Damnable things are all over the woods. Which brings me to pursuers. At first it was perhaps three men, but after they left, it became a patrol of a half-dozen, and now two more patrols of a dozen each. The dogs happened within the last few hours. They must have sent for thief-catchers." Estrid looked up, and out into the woods. Trying to angle his head in the direction brought only pain and failure, so Mordereth ceased his attempt.

"What is it?" The Swordsman had turned his head to face the same direction as well. He didn't seem to see anything.

"Their patrols grow closer in their patterns. Rest, we will have time for speaking later." Grudgingly, Mordereth laid back down. Though he was quite glad he had once he did. The pain significantly lessened. Seeing as rest was the fastest way to restore his own Magic, as well, he did. Sleep did not come easily, and the passage from waking to dreams was a blurred one. While all he did was stair up, the passage of time became skewed. Seconds turned to moments, moments to hours, hours to what had to be days.

Then that was gone.

He was alone inside his dreams, and infinite white void. He say in the single solitary object that inhabited this place, a stool. A wooden stool for him to think. So he did, he sat and thought. How did the Breton know this Estrid, and why had she suspected he'd be captured? Was the Redguard to be trusted in any great capacity? What was his name? How did his sister plan to find him? Were there others of his family who'd stayed in Cyrodiil to hound him? Questions never ceased.

Suddenly, an opening appeared in his dream. A disturbance. It was as if though something cut the very air, and created this doorway. It was a hole looking through into a cobbled street, and through it stepped an old human woman. She may have been Imperial, by the looks and size of her. Sh wore a brown cloak that covered here head to here heels, and walked with a hickory walking stick. The door closed behind her.

"Whom are you, who would dare molest me whilst I do not wake?" Mordereth happened to be facing the direction the woman had entered. Or then again, perhaps she had entered in front of him.

"I am many people, and you," she raised a hand to point, "Are many things."

----

"What do you mean, they lost the scent?!?" Ildoni barked at the man the man in Huntsman's garb. "Your damned mutts had better find that scent, or I'll have you on your knees sniffing!" With that, the thief-catcher returned to frivolously searching the path they marched.

Percan Platorius had no doubt they would be found, however. He had wounded the dark elf, and he couldn't see how that last arrow had missed the horses [censored]. He was quite infamous for [censored] shooting, actually. A horses [censored] should have been an easy target, but it also missed the two riders. But it mattered not, he would correct this issue, and shoot all three of their arses.

Yes, all of their arses. Especially that damn dark elf!








OOC:
Sorry for the kinda short one I have to be somewhere.