» Sat Feb 19, 2011 9:23 am Prologue
There was an old man, once upon a time, that lived on the edge of the Elven Garden District in the Imperial City. He was a nut, some said, he was a lunatic. They looked upon him with distaste, and grabbed their children close when he walked by. His home was dark, though it was the exact color of the houses next to him. It was haunted, but no spirits fluttered about the hallways. When looking upon this building, one would shudder, cross themselves, and head to the nearest temple to confess secret sins that they would usually take to the grave with them. What they didn’t know was that there was a man of greatness who inhabited this house. He was not a scientist, a noble, nor a great adventurer. He was a chaser of dreams, and a chaser of ghosts. He thought the irrational was rational, that the unbelievable was believable.
And that is why he chased the Stone.
He was decades into his studies, searching ayelied tomes for any mention of the Stone, scrutinized the daedric, and scanned folktales and fairy tales. He had done great work, had come far, and his blind faith that such a thing as the Stone actually existed led him to the fact - which most every other person on the face of Tamriel denied - that the Stone actually did exist. It was very much real. However, just knowing its existence wasn’t enough, not enough to Mr. Hans Jeffords. The eccentric Imperial was able to cut down the Stone’s location to one of two places. One was Vvadenfell, an ancient, forgotten ayelied ruin deep within the mountains of Skyrim. The other was an unnamed cave far under the vast deserts of Elsweyr. He knew not where the actual places were, he just knew the names. However, with further scrutinizing--
A knock on the door. Mr. Hans Jeffords, an old eccentric Imperial, grumbled to himself. He didn’t like being interrupted during his work, and, didn’t most locals find him frightening anyway? He limped over to the door, one hand on his hip, another on a twisted wooden cane. Another knock pounded on the door, causing the old man to shout a pair of insightful, if not crude, words.
He opened the door, slightly startling the eccentric Imperial as it creaked, and saw a short, pudgy man with dark eyes. The pupils shot back and forth, flying across his eyes in quick succession. Mr. Jeffords was about to shut the door in the man’s face when the man stuck his foot in the doorway.
“Hold ‘er there, mista’. I gotsa ask’ee sum’in’. Abut te stune.” The pudgy Breton’s voice was thick and raspy, and Hans couldn’t make out a word.
“I say, I don’t understand a word you say. Now I must ask you to vacate --” He stopped abruptly as he heard a book tumble to the ground. His first instinct was: what if it was a book with no mark in it, how will I find my place now? But as he swung around to look, he felt something press into his back. It was sharp and made him jump.
“Get inside, ye ol’ cur. Rit’ naw.” Once again the words were unable to be translated, but he understood the gist of it and stepped inside quickly. As the old man stepped in, the pudgy Breton followed and quickly shut the door. Mr. Hans Jeffords felt a chill run up his spine as he heard the bolt lock. Mr. Hans Jeffords wasn’t going anywhere. He felt the sharp thing leave the small of his back, but he felt the thick hand of the Breton on the back of his neck. He could feel himself shaking, and a hot liquid run down his legs. His house had many dark corners, as it was barely lit, and Hans always played with the thought that there were people in the corners, watching his work. But he could of swore he saw something swish in a dark shadow, and another cold chill crept up his body, leaving gooseflesh in its wake. He tried to speak, tried to move, but he found himself paralyzed. He never believed one could be paralyzed by fear (one of the very few things he didn’t believe in), but here he was.
Out of the shadows appeared a man, but to Hans, it seemed as though the darkness manifested itself into a body-like shape and shot itself at Hans. He tried to scream, but his jaws were locked, mouth slightly opened. The man was wearing a moonless night cloak, dark as a raven, dark as death. In his hand he held a book.
“Mr. Hans Jeffords, I presume? I must beg your pardon, as I accidently swiped the book of the desk, losing the place.” He had a magnificent, tinkling voice. One that both astounded and terrorized him. The man in the cloak held out the book for the old man, but he could only stare at the man in the book. He, in the hands of the situation, noted the sincerity in the cloaked man’s voice, and dared to hope. Though he hoped, he knew deep down that his time was almost over. Fate had decided Hans wasn’t the one to hold the stone.
“Oh, Mr. Jeffords, I insist. You must take this book. For in this book, you have a couple things to point out.” He placed the book in the old man’s hands, and that’s when Hans could see the smile. That awful, terrible smile hiding in the shadow of the cloak. The pudgy Breton led him to his desk, forcefully, and sat him down. Hans could only stare blank faced at the suffocated desk with drool leaking out of the corner of the mouth. Once again, he felt the dreaded cold steel of a blade lie against the tender skin of his neck.
“I also insist that you please tell me where the stone is.” And the tinkling voice drifted through the empty, dusky house again. And, as if that tinkling voice was some magical key, his jaw was unlocked, and a horrid string of words shot out of the eccentric Imperial’s mouth before he could stop them.
“I WILL NEVER TELL YOU WHERE THE STONE IS! YOU COULDN’T TAKE IT ANYWAY!” He quickly realized the severity of what he said, and quickly covered his mouth. His eyes wide in surprise. But worst of all, that cloaked man still held his demonic grin. Hans felt his mouth dry up. His body had gotten suddenly warm, as if he couldn’t control it anymore, and went limp. He began to slide out of his chair and lolled his head.
“By gods, something must be happening! We can’t let him die…not yet!” The cloaked man yelled. He grabbed the lolling lunatic by the shoulders and shook him. His pupils, though the eyes rolled about, stared straight at him.
“Tell me, or I will get it for myself!” The cloaked man’s voice had changed. It was no longer tinkling, and his smile had disappeared. He was angered, but Hans wasn’t able to tell that it was only fear, fear that he might not learn the location. And that old eccentric man, whose house was shunned by society, whose presence enstilled fear into the heart of children, began to laugh. And within that laugh were the rasping, dying breaths that ended in a horrible death rattle that filled the empty air. The cloaked man shrieked and then screamed in fury. He grabbed his own dagger, a silver one, and began to thrust the dagger into the dead man’s body. He did this over fifty times before the pudgy Breton pulled him away.
He was held in his accomplishes arms, and pulled down his hood. His face, which will not yet be described, was plagued by tears.
“How many will suffer by my hand?” Silence.
“TELL ME!” The cloaked man’s roar filled the empty room.
“Nun’ mo’ if I have any’tin to do ‘bout it.” Responded the Pudgy Breton. He pointed to the dead man. He released the cloaked man and they walked over to Mr. Hans Jeffords, deceased, natural causes.
The eccentric Imperial had carved the instructions on his arm. Covered by the man’s sleeve, it was impossible to tell. But, it seemed to the duo, that the map was worth losing blood over.
And the cloaked man once again smiled.
