CHAPTER ONE

Sentinel, Hammerfell

Tusamiel waited, hiding deep in the shadows created by the high tan coloured stone pillars. Even in the depths of night, the air tasted strongly of the salt blown in from the bay. The extravagant architecture of Sentinel, the Capital of the province of Hammerfell and a renowned market town, had gradually become less opulent the further he got from The Palace of Sentinel, and now leaned towards the downright shabby in the warehouse district. Further along the direction in which he was hiding were the desolate desert sands which had claimed the lives of so many travellers, sending them to their unmarked sandy graves, that same sand that was now blowing into his eyes as it was carried on the warm night breeze.

He listened, ears straining for the sound of approaching footsteps or that low uttered exclamation of surprise that signified discovery, but heard nothing. Just the quiet scratching of the sand as it brushed against the buildings. Time to go. He straightened from his crouch, pushed his back as close to the wall behind him as he could manage, and moved slowly along, letting his outstretched hand guide him as it rubbed across the rough surface. At the end of the wall he stopped, and listened again. When he was certain nobody was aware of his presence, he inched his head around the corner, carefully looking for potential guards. An Altmer, he had the golden skin and tall frame associated with his race. Wrapped around him was a tan coloured robe and hood, merging him to the background. The only colour came from cool green eyes, like the glow of dulled emeralds, dispassionately surveying his surroundings.

Nobody was around. He moved swiftly across the opening between buildings, reaching the side of a large warehouse. No windows were on the ground level, but high above, on what looked like the fifth storey some were visible. The only entrances to the warehouse was a large double door at the front, used for loading goods inside, and a small door at the back. Two guards stood there, one on either side of the door, trying to stand straight. Neither wore armour, he'd have been surprised if they had in this heat, choosing instead only white loose fitting shirts and trousers with brown cloth sashes tied around their waists. Each guard grasped two wickedly curved scimitars, one in each hand, though both were pointed lazily towards the ground. Tusamiel almost felt pity for them, it was far too hot to draw guard duty.

Out of his belt he carefully pulled two darts, each poisoned with a combination of Wickwheat and Hackle-Lo Leaf. Unlike most of his race, he'd not been born with an affinity for magick or in a family that could afford to send him for training, but his experiments in the Blade's had taught him how too make some extremely useful potions with alchemy. He put far more faith in field tested knowledge than in the theoretical teachings so beloved back in his homeland of Summerset Isle. He crept slowly forwards, inch by inch, letting the soles of his feet settle only gently on the sandy ground, until he reached a close enough distance. Carefully, he bent his knees and went into a crouch, taking care not to move too quickly as to draw attention, and aimed.

The darts flew true. The first hit the guard on the left, causing a slight groan as he slumped heavily backwards against the wall. The second guard glanced across in puzzlement for a split second, before slumping back himself. Tusamiel ran swiftly across, not leaving to chance how long the paralysis effect on the darts would last. There was no time to waste. A second patrol coming now would cause real problems. He reached the two defenceless guards, and grabbed a scimitar each from their unresisting grips. Tusamiel plunged the blades straight into their unarmoured chests, pushing through muscle, flesh and splintering the bones of their ribs, till he felt the jarring of his wrists as they struck the stone of the wall behind them. Neither made a sound, still suffering the effects of the paralysis, though their eyes seemed to follow his actions with silent horror. Their blood soaked the white shirts red, spreading out like an inkblot on a piece of paper, and their eyes slowly lost all lustre.

Tusamiel pulled the curved blades out of the dead bodies, making sure he stood to the side to avoid the two miniature fountains of crimson blood that came spraying out, and wiped the blades against the deceased guards white trousers, noticing with interest the swirling patterns that were left. He placed the blades flat on the ground, knelt in front of the door, and swiftly pulled out a lock pick. A second later he heard the satisfying click, and firmly twisted the iron handle, opening the door. With the door open, he grabbed the still warm hands of the dead men on the ground, and pulled them inside the warehouse, then picked up all four scimitars. Nothing I can do about the blood on the ground, he thought, I'll just have to hope I get finished before the relief guards turn up. With an irritated final glance at the wet blood on the sandy ground, he went inside, and closed the door behind him.

Very well done. I definitely like the location of your fanfic. Nice to see somewhere else other than Cyrodiil or Vvardenfell.

I agree, that was very good. I saw a few spelling mistakes though.

There shouldn't be :unsure: , I ran it through two different spellchecks and got it proof read first, however...I'm certainly not immune from making mistakes, so if you do see any, please let me know. Bear in mind I use English spelling, not American though, seeing as I'm, well...English.

And thanks very much to both of you for your comments, I appreciate it

This is the second thread you have posted that and I see no mistakes. <_<

Can you kindly point them out? If so then I will admit I need glasses.


I liked the story though. I thought it was descriptive, but not overly descriptive like what happens to some pieces....

Good work.

Woops, only one.

The inside was quiet. No alarms sounded, no running footsteps charged towards him. It seemed deserted. Tusamiel wasn't convinced though. There wasn't a warehouse in all of Tamriel that didn't have security of some sort inside, and especially not when it contained a cargo as precious as this one supposedly had. They were around somewhere. Tusamiel turned and knelt down, and used his lock pick to lock the door behind him again. If anyone came along and found the door still locked, he hoped, they'd assume the guards from outside had slacked off in the heat, and wouldn't be too suspicious.

He pushed himself back up, and pulled the tan robe and hood off, and stood in a black shirt and trousers. Better, he thought, and wiped the gritty sand from outside off his lips. Out of a pouch on his belt he pulled a small flask of water, and drank deeply to rid himself of the taste. The robe went over the dead bodies, and he took one of the scimitars, leaving the rest. He padded slowly along the corridor, dimly lit by the occasional free standing torch, savouring the damp cool air inside the building. Caius had provided a map of the interior back in Balmora, which Tusamiel had memorised, and he now traced that route. Take the corridor to the right, turn at the first left, then head up the staircase to the top floor.

The staircase presented a problem. It was made of iron, both the steps and the handrails on either side, and rose imposingly upward in the centre of the room. The distance between the rails and the steps was several feet, and offered nothing but air as protection. This went up for five stories, Tusamiel knew, following the same pattern. It arose forwards to a small landing, then back on itself to the second floor, shaped like an arrow head. The other problem was that it was only wide enough for one person to climb at a time. If anyone happened to look down from above he would be spotted immediately.

He held up the scimitar he'd taken from the guards, and ran softly up the stairs. At each landing he paused, and strained his ears listening for any sound that might signify danger, then continued his nerve racking ascent. When he reached the top floor he dropped to one knee, and listened. Footsteps. Not close, but on this floor. It sounded like two different patrols, one man each, walking clockwise around the level. Tusamiel nodded in satisfaction, silently arose and moved straight ahead, sure in his directions. The room he was looking for was close, if he was quick he'd make it before the guard's returned. He pulled out his lock pick as he moved, came to the door he wanted, and eased it into the lock. The door wasn't locked. Tusamiel froze, and looked warily back down the hall. Something wasn't right. He considered his options for a second, then dispelling his doubts, turned the handle firmly.

The room was more luxurious than he'd expected, with a wooden table and comfortable looking chairs in the centre. On the opposite wall from the door lay a window, one of those he'd seen from the street below, with white silk curtains tied back at either side. The window was breathtaking, stretching from floor to ceiling, and patterned with mosaics in different coloured glass, and almost six feet wide. Two lamps emitted a soft, warm red light from the corner's of the room, the candle's still burning, releasing the soothing scent of heather into the air. On the table was a bottle of wine, almost empty and an ornate goblet with some liquid still inside. Next to that a leather bound book, still open. It looked as if someone had just suddenly left. Tusamiel shook his head, trying to ignore the connotations, and concentrated on the job in hand. He moved straight towards the wall to his left, on which three paintings of Redguard royalty were hung, and stood in front of the one nearest the window. With both hands he grasped the sides of the frame, lifted it carefully off the wall, and looked at the safe behind it with mounting dismay.

The heavy steel safe door was wide open and the inside empty. It's a trap, he thought bitterly. They knew I was coming. No wonder it was so easy to get in. He closed the safe door quietly, withholding the urge to slam it, and put the painting back on the wall. Tusamiel looked around the room, thinking quickly. After a brief second, he walked to the side of the window, and peered out. He couldn't see anyone on the streets. Maybe I've got here quicker than expected, and they're not prepared. He looked around the room once again, his face grim, and purposefully headed back to the door, scimitar readied.

Tusamiel crept down the stairs, alert for any sign of movement. There was any number of places an ambush could be launched, he thought. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he breathed out slowly, and crouched to the ground. He knew where they'd be now. His fingers traced the items in his pouch, taking inventory. Two vials of potions, his two throwing stars with whatever remained of the paralyse potion, and a dagger which had been dipped in poison. It would have to do. Tusamiel took the throwing stars, hid them in his left hand, and stood slowly up. He rotated his neck from left to right, grimacing slightly as it made small cracking noises, and let the tension leave his body. With a final breath, he walked forwards and turned the corner to the entrance. There were eight of them. All Redguards, with broad shoulders and wearing scars of previous battles on their dark skin, they were dressed in the same white shirts and trousers as the guards from outside. In their hands they each held one of the wicked looking scimitars, and on the ground to the side of them lay their slain comrades, the tan robe that had covered them now tossed to one side. Tusamiel walked towards them, not saying anything. When he reached ten feet away, he stopped, raised one of his eyebrows, and waited.

"Sorry Altmer," said one of them, stepping forward. "I guess you didn't find what you were looking for."
Tusamiel didn't reply, just continued to look at him calmly. The Redguard's lips curled up to the side, a cruel smile that suggested that was the response he'd expected.
"Lost your tongue Altmer? Never mind, there's some good news. Do you want to know what it is? Of course you do. Everyone likes to hear good news."
The other Redguards laughed, enjoying the little scene. Tusamiel kept his face blank, and remained quiet. The front Redguard leaned forward slightly, as if about to share a confidence with Tusamiel. "The good news is that we found what we were looking for." Then he smiled, his white teeth gleaming with vindictive pleasure.

Lol at you, thats the right spelling

Tusamiel looked straight at him, a small smile on his lips. I can't take on eight, he thought, not all at once. I need an advantage. His mind raced, as he sought a solution. The staircase! That's only wide enough for one at a time. His mind made up, he leaned forward, and said,
"We've got off on the wrong foot here. Maybe we can come to some arrangement. I have money..."
The lead Redguard laughed in contempt.
"Money isn't going to help you here Altmer! I expected more from you than that, you're just a..."
With breathtaking speed Tusamiel launched the two throwing stars in his left hand at the group, and swivelled on his feet. He didn't waste the split second it would take to see if they'd hit a target, the diversion was enough. His arms pumped furiously by his sides, as he sprinted back toward the staircase. Behind him he heard a voice angrily order, "Get him!" and then the sounds of feet running after him. He'd bought himself a couple of seconds, Tusamiel estimated.

He took the stairs two at a time, the blood in his head rushing furiously, running full pelt until he reached the first landing. He turned, and saw the first of his pursuer's turn the corner. Tusamiel bent his knees, making sure he was balanced, and adopted a defensive posture. Left leg forward, sword raised to chest height pointing forwards, ready to thrust.

The first man leaped onto the stairs at a terrific pace, landing on the fifth step, and continued charging straight up. He's not going to stop, Tusamiel realised, a spilt second before the man crashed straight into him. The force of the Redguard's body, and the momentum he'd built up, clattered Tusamiel into the solid iron railing behind him. Tusamiel cried out in pain, his spine having taken the brunt of the damage. The Redguard swung a punch with his left hand, hitting Tusamiel on the cheek, and raised the scimitar in his right hand as he staggered backwards. Tusamiel spat, trying to remove the coppery taste of his own blood from his mouth. His opponent slashed downwards, towards Tusamiel's chest. Tusamiel frantically jerked his own scimitar up, deflecting the blow. Over his adversary's shoulder he could see the other's arriving, the next already starting up the stairs. As the first Redguard lifted his scimitar once more, Tusamiel nimbly pulled his knee up towards his own chest, and snapped his kick forwards.

The blow hit the Redguard just before he could strike, knocking him off balance, and sending him stumbling backwards. Grabbing his opportunity, Tusamiel lifted the scimitar in his right hand to shoulder height, and threw it at the next man coming up the stairs. The blade spun through the air, towards its target. The man's eyes widened as he realised what was about to happen, but he couldn't stop his legs driving forwards. The sword hit him, blade first, in the mouth, splintering teeth and ripping flesh as it made it's way through his face. With a gruesome squelch, the tip of the blade emerged on the other side of his head. For a horrifying second, the man's momentum kept him moving onwards, up two more steps. Then his knees gave way, hitting the iron steps beneath him with a loud clapping sound, and swayed backwards. The body tumbled back down the steps, smacking straight into the legs of the man following behind him, knocking him off balance as well. He grabbed desperately onto the rail with his left hand, but the weight of the dead man pushing against them was too much for his legs to withstand, and he too toppled over. The sword he'd been holding clattered on the iron steps, followed by a duller thud as his body joined it.

The instant the sword had left his hand, Tusamiel had turned back to his original assailant, paying no more attention to what was happening below. The man had rebounded off the frame of the staircase, and was coming forwards again. Tusamiel launched himself forwards, his right shoulder crashing straight into his adversary's torso, and with his left hand grabbed the wrist of the man's sword arm. The Redguard grimaced, and brought his other hand over, in order to grab the sword with two hands. Tusamiel ignored that action, and slammed his right knee into his opponent's groin. He uttered a guttural retching sound, and his upper body lurched forward at the waist. Tusamiel raised his right arm above him, and with all the force he could muster, brought the point of his elbow sharply down on to the back of the man's neck.

The Redguard slumped, and Tusamiel turned his focus to the scimitar the man still held. His left hand moved from his assailant's wrist to the handle of the sword, and with his right he jabbed his thumb into the soft flesh of the Redguard's exposed wrist. His grip was loosened from the scimitar, and Tusamiel was able to grasp the handle with ease. In one fluid motion he swivelled on the balls of his feet, and swung the sword in a smooth arc in the air above, bringing the sword down with venom onto the rear of his opponent's exposed head. Tusamiel's wrist jarred from the impact, as the blade carved through hair, skin and bone. His muscles strained, as the blade started to slow the deeper it got, before finally coming out at the side. There was a heart stopping moment, as a section slowly started to separate from the Redguard's head. Blood started to pour out from the cut at all angles, followed by a svcking sound as it finally broke free, and dropped to the ground. Tusamiel glanced up, and saw that the men at the bottom of the stairs had pulled their fellow comrade from off the dead man, and were starting to climb over him. Tusamiel placed his foot under the man on the ground, and with a heave kicked the body down the stairs. He watched it bounce off the first two steps and start to pick up speed, then he turned and started to run upwards again.

What?!? That does not look right at all...

On topic, I think the combat scenes need some work, they seem weird to me (sorry, I can't really describe it all).

Other than that it was pretty good.

Two down, six to go. He had reached the next level, spun off to the left and raced around the corner so he was out of sight from the steps. With his back pressed to the wall, he composed his breathing and listened attentively. The Redguards had arrived at the top of the staircase and were in the midst of an animated discussion about how to progress. He brushed away the sweat stinging his eyes and smiled. His pursuers had decided to separate, uncertain of which route he had taken. Tusamiel flexed his fingers around the scimitar's handle, tightened his grip, dropped soundlessly to a crouch, and waited. Remaining as still as possible, he took inventory. The scimitar was the only weapon, and all that remained in his belt was herbs and lockpicks. With a weary hand he poured out a small amount of saltrice into his palm, and started to chew thoughtfully. Cruel, to be born a High Elf in Summerset Isle, and have no talent in magick whatsoever. An invisibility spell would be very useful right now. At least my lack of ability drove me to master other skills though. Stop! No more thinking with your conscious mind, let your instincts take over, they know what to do better than you. What was it Caius always said? Rational thought is the enemy of action? Not sure about that, surely that would, damn stop...ok, here we go. Maybe the God's are on my side after all. There was only one man walking down the corridor in which he hid. Tusamiel remained motionless until the last second, until he was certain the oncoming man must hear the thunderous beating of his heart, pounced out, his scimitar flashed down, and he grimaced in disgust. He had miscalculated by a fraction of a second, and his blade sliced through only air. He frantically tried to recover his poise and balance, painfully aware that the Redguard's eyes had proceeded through the collective range of surprise, shock, fear and had come back around to anger. Whatever advantage Tusamiel had possessed was almost gone, and he desperately tried to capitalise. He propelled forward aggressively with a barrage of slashes, and inwardly groaned when his sword clashed loudly with his enemies.

The Redguard regained control of himself, stepped back out of range and pulled his sword back into a defensive posture. Tusamiel observed his eyes intently as they cautiously circled one another in the passageway. He made a short chopping motion with his left hand to distract his opponent, and thrust the blade in his right hand directly for the Redguard's stomach. A thrust that his opponent effortlessly defended. Time was not on Tusamiel's side and he knew it. Forcing himself to remain patient, he returned his blade to the ready position, positioned his feet steadily on the ground and retained close eye contact with the Redguard, trying to determine in the man's expression what he was going to do. Nothing. He's going to stall and wait for his allies to arrive. Oh, for the love of Auri-El, what am I doing? It's not an honourable duel, he thought angrily to himself, win by any means necessary.

Tusamiel stepped back, all his weight balanced evenly on the balls of his feet, then lunged swiftly forwards with his sword. The Redguard nimbly stepped to his left, and made as if to continue circling. With impressive speed, Tusamiel spun around, his scimitar swishing through the air in a wickedly curving backhand swing. His foe barely averted being struck, as he sprang frantically backward. As the scimitar flashed in front of his enemy, Tusamiel leaned his head forward slightly and spat the remains of the saltrice he had been chewing into the Redguard's face. A combination of chewed rice and saliva spray arched through the air and landed with a soft splat in the left eye of his opponent, who instinctively raised his hand in disgust to wipe the sloppy substance off. The Redguard fleetingly distracted, Tusamiel seized his opportunity. He shifted slightly to the right and slashed viciously downwards towards the back of the man's knee. His blade cut smoothly through the flesh and tendons, emerging victorious out the far side, as the Redguard unleashed a primal scream of pure unadvlterated agony. For a brief second Tusamiel had the illusion of time slowing, as the Redguard started to topple forward, before everything returned to customary speed once again. Tusamiel grabbed the back of falling man's head with his left hand, roughly tugging the wiry black hair towards him and slammed his right elbow into the onrushing face. His opponent grunted in distress, but Tusamiel gave him no time to recover, his clenched left fist yanked the head back up as he stepped backwards to create a sufficient distance, then he plunged his scimitar deep into the man's chest and let go.

As Tusamiel witnessed the man keel forward, he heard the sounds of the other Redguards running towards him, the strident metallic clashes of weapon striking weapon having betrayed his location. With a deep breath, he jerked his scimitar out of the now lifeless corpse, the blood dripping off the edges of the blade. He listened to how close-at-hand the voices and footsteps seemed to be, trying to make an instant decision. Speed or prudence. If he took the time required to wipe clean his blade of the blood, the others may arrive while he was doing so. If he did not clean it, the drops of blood would lead them straight to him, a bloody map on the ground pinpointing his position. No advantage from hiding, just him against five more men, all armed and all less exhausted than he was. The footsteps made his decision for him, as they materialised at the end of the passageway, and the exclamations of anger at seeing him standing over the dead body of another of their colleagues alerted him that he had been seen. With a burst of energy Tusamiel did not realise he still possessed, he whirled around and sprinted away from the converging men. With the footsteps behind him being joined by the sound of more boots pounding the ground, he peered ahead and glimpsed the door he had been in earlier. Willing his legs to carry him faster he ran towards it, through the door, across the room, around the heavy wooden table and skidded to a jarring halt.

very good, i don't even care if it has spelling mistakes, its still a good story!

and in Hammerfell, good place!

Well, I know you told me to wait til you'd posted more, but I'm ignoring you

First of all, Sentinel is probably my favourite city out of the whole of Tamriel, and your descriptions put me right there. I love how you describe the juxtaposition of the sea and the desert, the luxurious and the shabby; there are elements of them all in Sentinel, which to me is one of the reasons it has so much character. I could picture the setting perfectly; you create a great sense of atmosphere.

So far this has a real Thief feeling for me, with Tusamiel's actions being very Garrett-like. And I like the little details you put in, lore-wise ? identifying the poison on the darts, for example. The apprehension while he climbs the staircase was very effective. Not to mention the fight scenes ? they are gritty and tense, full of little nods to realism that make the whole thing very visual. I felt slightly sick when he cut part of his opponent's head away At the same time, though, it doesn't have a hack-and-slash feeling. It feels very desperate. Tusamiel is fighting to survive, and he's not an uber warrior who could just cut down eight guards with ease. The realism makes it more frightening, and more relatable.

So I'm really interested to see where this goes. What is Tusamiel looking for? How is Caius involved? Is Tusamiel a Blades member or just on their payroll? As a character, I really love the idea of an Altmer who isn't so skilled in magic ? inversion of expectation is so pleasing like that. Looking forward to more Thanks for a great read!

Whilst I attempt to polish the next update for this, with the aim of posting it tomorrow (hopefully), I thought I'd try to make use of the thread. Seeing as we're only allowed to have one fiction thread open at any one time, I thought I'd just post a link here to two short Morrowind stories I wrote.

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/4341446/1/Home_Is_Where_The_Hearth_Is <----- is here.

This was originally posted back in 2005, and is a short tale about the perils of being a door to door salesman in Morrowind.

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/4341458/1/A_Beautiful_Duel <------- is here.

This was written mid last year, and is a short tale about... well, a duel. As the name implies

Hope people enjoy reading them, and like I said at the start, the next update of "Poisonous Garden" will be up tomorrow.

I looooove A Beautiful Duel. I still have it bookmarked in my "Favorite Fanfics" category.

Tusamiel glanced at the desk, then glanced at the open door. Without hesitation he vaulted across the desk, landed with his back to the door, and started to pull the desk with all his strength towards it. The desk was made of an old polished wood, thick and strong, and was extremely heavy. There was a faint smell, sweet, probably from whatever local brand of wax they had used to seal the wood. Tusamiel wondered if the desk itself was new. Although there were weathered looking patches, it did not seem to have a scratch or a chip anywhere to be seen. It was like whoever had made it had been told to make it look used and busy, rather than just ornamental. Every sinew in his body strained, every muscle felt like it was on fire, his back, his arms, his thighs, as he tried to drag it across the room. The approaching footsteps sounded closer and closer, until he dared not risk delaying any longer. He arose, turned away from the desk, took the short step to the doorway and slammed the door shut. While it was still closing, he vaulted back over the desk, turned and pushed the desk with all his strength against the door. Tusamiel then bent his knees, grabbed the front wooden feet, and pulled the desk onto its side, so the top surface was against the door. The first of his pursuers announced his arrival a split second later; slamming into the door with what Tusamiel guessed was their shoulder. Despite the heavy thud, the door held firm. For now anyway, he thought. They still have swords. It will not take long to cut through some of the door and then they will be in. He strode across to where the desk had been, picked up the chair and threw that against the desk to add more weight, then moved over to the window. A second thud sounded from the door as reinforcements arrived. Tusamiel glanced back, glad that the frame of the door itself was not wide enough to have more than one at a time bashing against it.

The door still held, although he knew that he would not have much longer. Tusamiel turned his attention away from the commotion behind him, and back to the window. Cautiously he prodded the glass, and leaned forwards to examine the frame surrounding it. It was good workmanship. The frame was solid, and the glass had been doubled up, either to reduce noise from the outside or to offer more security for the occupants inside. He placed the scimitar down on the ground, and then with both hands he pushed against the glass, then when that had no success he tried pulling the bottom of the window upwards. He stopped, temporarily confused. How does this open? There is no lock, there is no handle, how do they get air in here? Not that it matters, Tusamiel thought, either way it is not going to break easily. I will need to get some force behind me to break through it. Moving on from the window itself, he peered into the street below. It was still extremely dark, the sun not due to break for another couple of hours yet. The lanterns hanging on the edge of the buildings opposite cast the only light, the breeze making them swing and that movement causing the light to flicker, the shadows created sashaying on the walls like private dancers trying to seduce. There were no signs of anyone waiting, no groups of people looking up ready to jump into action. It looked as if the men already in the building with him where the only ones who knew he was here. Rapidly he scanned the area directly below. There were no awnings sticking helpfully out, no poles for him to grab onto, nothing that he could see that would help to break his descent. Just a long drop directly down to the solid, unforgiving ground five levels below.

He paused, disconcerted. Something felt wrong. The source of his discomfort came to him in a flash. Silence. There was no banging on the door anymore. He looked across the room in concern. Uncertainty is a killer, he reminded himself, and rapidly strode across to the wall next to the doorway, placed his ear against it and strained to hear what was happening. A murmur of indistinct voices. Footsteps. Something being dragged, something metallic and heavy, scraping against the floor. Realisation hit. They finally have tired of banging their shoulders, he thought, they have found something to use as a battering ram. And that changes things. He glanced back at the window, took a couple of steps towards it and then flinched, as the first blow with whatever this new item was, struck the door.

Okay, decision time. I do not have long now. Come on, damn you, think this through, and fast. What are my options? Simple. I can run or I can stand and fight. Simple, right? Well, not run exactly. I can throw myself through a window and land five levels below. Not ideal. Or. Or what? Alternatively, I can stand here against five armed and extremely angry professional killers. Tusamiel smirked and shook his head. They will cut me to ribbons. Think logically. Put yourself in their mind. Stop thinking what, and think how. How will they do it? He looked closely at the door, his eyes narrowed in concentration. They will break the door, that is a given. Then what? How will they come in? One at a time? You could pick them off if they do that. No, that will not work. Even if they did do that, they would change their strategy the instant I strike the first one. They are professionals. They will follow protocol. One man to climb through, covered by one other. The first one stalls me, and before I know it, the others are in, and I am done for. Fighting is out; the odds are too stacked against me. So, I jump? How do I do it? I need to break the glass, which requires force. I can throw the chair through the window, which should leave me enough room to get through. How will I survive the fall though? There is no way in?

He thrust his hand into the pouch on his belt, and started rummaging through the herbs he had stored there, pulling out all Shalk Resin and the strips he had cut from the large Kwama Eggs that he could find. This was the one school of magick in which he did have extensive knowledge. Thousands of hours of preparing, testing and experimentation, some successful, others less so. Ordinarily, these would be ground up and turned into potions, using alchemical apparatus, but this was an emergency and would have to do. The ancient way, he thought. Rather than mix them, chew 'em. Not as potent, and certainly not as pleasant, but it will have to do. He steeled himself, placed all the ingredients in his mouth, and started grimly to chew.

His taste buds contracted in disgust, as the two raw ingredients mixed. The chewing of his teeth increased dramatically in speed, as he tried to control the lurch of his stomach upward. After a brief time of determined chewing, the sharpness started to dissolve and the juices started to squeeze through more freely. Best not to swallow them yet. Just keep chewing. I will need the full effects of these as late as possible.

The next slam made him stop chewing. The door creaked alarmingly, the hinges loosened. There was a moment of silence, the sounds of the men outside preparing themselves for another assault, then a roar from them as they slammed their battering ram into the door again. There was a monumental cracking sound, as the door split down the middle. Shards of wood flew into the centre of the room, and then Tusamiel regained his composure. He rushed back over to the wall, and got as close to it as he could. Not a moment too soon either. A heavy thud signifies the object had been dropped, as the Redguards returned to using their scimitars. Blades slashed against the destroyed door, pieces knocked to the ground, until a space had been cleared in the midst. There was a sound of shuffling, as they arranged themselves in position, then a grunt of exertion as a head appeared cautiously through the gap in the door.

Tusamiel's heart pounded, and he was very aware that the roof of his mouth felt unnaturally dry. Instinctively he used his tongue to try to put back some moisture, before he realised what he had done. Stupid, he thought. You cannot lick away fear. He concentrated, trying to control his short, shallow breaths. The man in the doorway was not committing himself too much, unwilling to push himself any further through in case of attack. The head withdrew, and low muttered voices that Tusamiel could not make out started an urgent discussion back in the passageway. I do not think they saw me, he thought. However, they will, and soon.

Are you ever going to continue this story? I like it very very much.

Yes, absolutely! Sadly, my job has been crazy the last few weeks, hence the lack of updates, but I had earmarked this weekend as a time to post up the next bit

Oh cool! It's probably one of my favorites, it's very original!

You've got several segments out there so I'll comment on them one at a time. I like the way you describe Tusamiel moving and the swiftness of the violence.

Firstly, I'm distracted with wonder by one thing you said "the Capital of the province of Hammerfell". It was the capital for a time during the second empire, is that when this takes place?

The way your story starts with a quick buildup to action makes certain parts where you expain things about your character Tusamiel or the city not flow well. The character was mentioned, then you talk about the sea and the grandeur of the city, then the character again, then the backdrop of the city. I'd say either use the details that character is seeing and interacting with, or establish the city as a lead-in to what Tusamiel is doing. You're kinda low on chances to show a lot of the city later on though.

This isn't for or against you because it deals with the description of the city in the pocket guide, but as an observation, where does the city get fresh water? It can't be a common thing to set up a metropolis on a coast without access to fresh water.

You say that even at night he can taste the salt of the sea, but the sea is usually out there, isn't it? Or are you saying the character expected not to taste the salt of the sea during the night? But then, you've got another wind blowing the opposite direction sending sand toward him. Also, the novelty of saying he is hiding in a direction is amusing.

In the second paragraph after he checks the corner for guards, I thought the next sentence you put was a description of what he saw around the corner. It threw me a little when you went on to the next paragraph without mentioning an interaction with the Altmer, so I did a double take and understood it. Though it doesn't seem necessary to say he is an Altmer and then say he is tall and golden skinned, the only time you would need to point out his height and skin color would be if they were different than usual for that race. A little later in this same vein you make a note about his lack of magical talents which separates him from the stereotype TES players would have about High Elves, but I think you describe the Tusamiel strongly enough that this distinction isn't necessary.

The Redguard guards in their hometown on the north coast of Hammerfell catching cooler sea breezes from High Rock in a desert in the middle of the night are too hot to wear their armor? Deserts tend to be cold at night.

You'll have to forgive me for saying this because it's disruptive, but it seems like Tusamiel had been taking his time and being careful through the story up until he decided to stab the guards in their chests. He's brought the means with him of being a silent and efficient dispatcher of guards, and then he risks being caught outright by leaving large bloodstains out to pasture. You could write something in to say he was caught up in the moment and regretted his indiscretion as soon as the blood began to spray. Also then have him hastily kicking sand over the blood after he drags the bodies inside. It depends I think on clarification about the second patrol because I read it at first meaning that if a second patrol were to come along it would be trouble, but I can see that it could also mean that a second patrol was coming and he panicked. I'll be reading the next segment soon. Keep up the good work!

Happy birthday!

Thanks!

It was a really good day too, wish they came around more often

Sorry for not getting that update up last weekend, time is not on my side at the minute. I will get it up sometime this week though.

And Shades, thank you for your comments and for picking up a few mistakes throughout. Much appreciated and you can be sure when I come back to edit I'll be bearing those thoughts in mind.

The anticipation you build up with this section is great. Even with the earlier preparation, he's got reason to be cautious.

This is minor, but there were two times where you used the word "lock" three times close together, maybe trade one of those out. Maybe say tool instead of lock pick for one.

This comment won't affect your story but it makes me wonder: Consider that you have a five story warehouse with a thin switchback staircase in the middle of it. This would probably mean that all the floors are the same size above as they are below, but you can't carry stored materials up the thin staircase, so they have four stories of office space? That would mean a lot of columns out in the warehouse space. What you might throw in instead would be an attached five story shipping office with this thin staircase running up the inside wall of the warehouse. The redguard warehouses in Redguard didn't have this, but I don't think it would be out of order.

Once he discovered how he was set up, it strikes me as a bit foolish to leave the way you came: The seemingly only staircase around. Throw in a sentence where he thinks about hiding on another floor or taking to the rooftops, it would justify his action in this part. But then I don't get why he intentionally walked into the trap after he realised where it would be. Especially since they all could have seen each other while Tusamiel was coming down the stairs.

Tusamiel has put preparation into this job such that he wouldn't be taking inventory halfway though. You've put that part in just to tell us what he has with him, but (I haven't been reading ahead, so I don't know yet) unless he uses it, I'd say we don't need to know about the item till later. For the things he does use, mention them with other interactions earlier about his belt. Mention the potion being near the water flask when he drinks, mention the throwing stars being near the dagger when he draw it, or something.

Last thing, just a quirk, is saying "Altmer" too formal for the situation? If I catch a thief in my house, I'm not going to call him a Caucasian or whatever, I'm going to use a derisive term.

In the start of the section, I'd say a better way to present Tusamiel would be to indicate that he had a plan at the end of the last section, and then show him enacting the plan in this one. That way it gives a strong reason for him to walk into the trap. Maybe set a tripwire on the staircase. Is "full pelt" a phrase? I've never heard it.

Now we have some serious action going, I love it. First guy though charges chest first into the pointy end of a sword and lives. Did it go right through him? Problem here too in that the first guy also has a sword and the attack is generally bestowed upon the weapon arm. What I would suggest is that you have Tusamiel stab through the first guy, and the second guy slams him backward while he tries to disengage his sword. The second guy has reason not to swing away then, as he doesn't want to hit his own buddy.

That next paragraph where the guard gets hit in the face with the sword was very visceral, and very well done. The last paragraph though he's a bit too reflective on the violence considering the time span. Speed that paragraph up a bit (I don't mean make it shorter or anything like that) and it wraps the section nicely.

Wah wao

Closed by request - at least for the moment.