» Fri Sep 16, 2011 8:08 pm It was cold. Very cold. Verick had been hoping that the stone fortresses would provide some sort of solace for the deathly chill of Skyrim’s climate, but he was not so fortunate. The prison’s roughhewn stone passages and open air windows did little to insulate the interior from the elements.
Verick did not complain though, and continued to follow the Nord guard down the corridor, savoring what heat he could from the blue touches that lined the walls. It was a desolate place, this prison, making the Breton noble pleased that he was here on business, and not as a “guest”. The inmates he past were dirty, sick, and uncouth. They ate their slop of a meal off of the stone floor, and were dressed in nothing but rags. The intense cold had turned their extremities black and blue, and some were even missing fingers and toes.
But there was more to them than just dirty and ragged. There was something in the hearts of the men and women cramped in the cells. They were not desperate. They did not reach through the bars, begging for food and warmth. They did not devise escape plans and try to tunnel out of their cells with spoons. They just sat there, staring at the wall with blank eyes. They just sat there, waiting for death. These men were broken beyond repair.
“S’ you’re here t’ see our number one guest?” grumbled the burly man who lead Verick though the sea of human cattle.
The Breton shivered. “Yes, I suppose you could say that” replied Verick, his voice sounding meek and unimpressive compared to the Nord’s powerful baritone.
The Nord grunted. The Breton couldn’t tell if it was in humor or contempt. “Mind if I ask why? Jus’ seems odd to me why anyone would wanna see him.”
“It’s nothing you need to worry about” said Verick solemnly. The nature of his business wasn’t secretive, but life would be easier without the oaf spreading gossip around. Things could easily turn ugly with the superstitious locals.
“Prolly nothing I need ta’ be knowin anyways” grumbled the guard as they continued onwards. The number of cells began to decrease, until they were just walking through a wide hallway. Then large, cast iron doors began to appear on each side of them. Verick shuddered to think who, or what, lay behind them. Eventually, the pair made it to a spiral staircase, and promptly ascended. It seemed like they had gone on forever, but in reality, they had only be traveling for a few minutes.
The pair emerged from the staircase and into another hallway, this one not quite as long. At the end of the corridor was a door. It was large, and finely crafted from what seemed like Ebony, and Verick’s eye caught a faint glow emitting from its surface. Being a noble from High Rock, he almost immediately identified it to be enchanted.
The guard stopped at the door, and procured a small ring of keys from his pocket. “This door here is magical” he said. “It’s designed to absorb magic. Makes it impossible fer him t’ get out from the inside.”
He placed a large, worn key into the lock, and turned. Several audible clunks were heard , and the Nord pushed open the vault like door. Verick felt an impatient anticipation dawn over him. He had traveled thousands of miles, all the way from Wayrest. He had created a mental image in his mind of the man he had fought so hard to meet. Tall, powerful, elegant, deadly. Dressed in black robes and dripping with dark shadows. It was the man he had researched for a little over a year. The realization of finally meeting him was almost overwhelming.
But the Dunmer who sat in the cell, gazing out the barred window into the horizon was not the man he had expected. For a moment, Verick had thought he had been tricked. It was just a normal looking prisoner. He was gaunt, dressed in rags, with long, dirty hair and with unkempt stubble. The man in rags slowly turned his head towards the guard and the Breton. His expression was blank, almost broken like the other prisoners. Almost.
“You got a guest t’day” groused the guard.
It was silent for a moment, before the man who Verick had heard so much about finally spoke. “I see this.”
And that was it. I see this. The elation Verick was feeling just moments ago had already died. But no matter, he was Breton Royalty, and he would get what he came for. Clearing his throat, the noble spoke up. “Greetings. I have traveled far too finally meet you.”
The guard slowly shut the door, as Verick has ordered him to earlier, sealing the two men in the room. There was another long silence. “I’m sure” replied the Dunmer.
Verick was taken aback yet again. It was as if he did not know who he was talking too! As if he didn’t even care! “I suppose an introduction is in order” said the Breton, pushing his anger and impatience aside. “I am Verick Lirian, Noble and Loremaster of the Kingdom of Wayrest. I have made it my personal quest to document important and powerful people in Tamriel’s history.”
Another long pause. “I see” said the Dark Elf. “You wish to know the truth behind my life and put it in your precious little books?” His eyes remained blank and uncaring.
“Well, erm… yes, sort of” stammered Verick. “As I have said- I am the Loremaster of my house, and I will surely record and reproduce all the history accurately.”
The Dunmer snorted. “History is full of lies. Mine is no different.”
Frustration was beginning to overtake Verick. Had he traveled so far just to meet with a tight-lipped ass? He was not used to things not going his way. “Well, sir, I am extending the offer to you to get your story out. I am giving you the option of telling the story through your eyes. Maybe the facts you provide will be able to improve your reputation-”
The man began to laugh. It was a course, dry noise. “My reputation? What makes you think I care what those fools think?” he snarled, while his eyes maintaining their blank, broken stature. “Even if I did care, I’m scheduled to be executed soon. Death cares not for the opinions of mortal man…”
“Just… please. You know the truth. The truth of your flight from Vvardenfell, of the sacking of Alinar, of the raid on Stos M’kai, of the siege of Kvatch-“
The Dunmer held up his hand, immediately silencing the raving Breton. His blank and broken eyes stared ominously at Verick. They seemed to be dissecting his soul, taking apart the Breton piece by piece, and observing each fragment in exquisite detail. Finally, the Dark Elf spoke. “Come back in the morning. I will tell you my… story.”
With that, the man turned and looked back out the window, and into the evening light. His crimson eyes no longer held the morbidly blank expression. They were sharp and hardened, like the eyes of a predatory bird. The average man would not have noticed the blank look in his eyes replaced by a glare of hardened steel, nor would they notice that his posture was leaner and taunt, as if he suddenly had the purpose. They would not notice that he was no longer a broken prisoner; he was Varthlokkur, the most infamous wizard and assassin of the era, who had defied gods and burned cities, saved damsels and slew kings. And suddenly Varthlokkur was gone again, replaced by a broken old man.
