gozmonster
New Member
This is the beginning of my Skyrim epic "Kaldrin's Avengers". There is more to come but uploading another 8 pages in one go would cause my computer to implode, so If this is any good, please say so underneath and I will paste the rest. I'm looking for constructive criticism, but don't get the idea that I think its the best thing ever written. Its not, but its sure worth a look.
Turning in his heavy armor, Kaldrin surveyed the scene in front of him. This was a bad idea, coming here, he told himself. The promise of riches from the finding of the previous party had tempted his own, and led them into this Falmer ambush. Under a ceiling of rock and cobweb they battled against the goblin like troglodytes, staining the stone floor with blood. He was beset by two foul things, hunched over and bearing axes made from what looked like bone. Roaring with rage Kaldrin launched himself at the Falmer pair, ready to attack with his hefty mace and though they neatly dodged his charge his true intention was to manoeuvre closer to Byrlock, the wood elf, who was fighting another ambusher. Though the small man fought valiantly, he was obviously no match for the Falmor in close quarters.
“With me, Byrlock!” yelled Kaldrin, crashing into Byrlock’s opposition with his wooden shield and a handful of Nordic anger. The resulting collision knocked the Falmer off its feet and probably broke something too, as an audible crack was heard emanating from the fallen beasts ribcage as it hit the cold, hard floor awkwardly.
“My thanks Kaldrin!” muttered Byrlock, lifting his bow from the floor to rejoin the battle.
“Your thanks can wait until we finish these vermin” replied Kaldrin darkly. The rest of his party were still besieged by inhuman adversaries. Dro-gro-Bulag, fearsome as a berserker should be, had discarded his axe in favour of his fists as yet more Falmer poured in from a tunnel cavity in the far wall. Elkim was blasting a whole mob of them with ice magic from both hands, holding off the horde somewhat, and his familiar, a glowing spiritual wolf, was tearing at any that threatened its master.
“How these creatures breed so quickly is a science lost to me” mumbled Byrlock, sending an arrow into the heart of the horde being held back by Elkim. Kaldrin merely grunted; humour was never his thing, thought Byrlock. Damn good in a fight though. Dro-gro-Bulag had finally strangled the last Falmer surrounding him, and picked up his two handed battleaxe to enter the fray once more, but he was met with disappointment when Elkim’s last reserves of magicka were spent by creating a huge storm of lightning that leapt from Falmer to Falmer in the huge frozen group he had amassed with ice, causing them to convulse violently as they were burned by the searing bolts of magic. Finally with the immediate threat gone, Kaldrin could take in their surroundings with more detail.
The room itself was about the size of a drinking hall, and smelt like one too after the bloodshed. It was lit by a collection of strange blue fungi that glowed with ethereal light. The main feature was the numerous Falmer dead scattered around the room.
“How many, do you think?” asked Byrlock.
“About two dozen” answered Elkim with his cold, precise tone. Dro-gro-Bulag nodded slowly, taking in the carnage strewn about him.
“A fair number” he said slowly.
“Fair? Surely we must be heroes after this?” cried Byrlock in outrage.
“In Cyrodil I slew three times that number of Imperials” Bulag argued, staring into the ground intently “While they were killing my friends”
“So you have told us” resounded Byrlock “Many an evening spoiled by your gory war stories”
“Do not make the mistake of assuming I take pride in my actions that day, elf.” Bulag growled. Byrlock was about to remark but Kaldrin held his armoured fist up to stop the quarrel. He was pondering the way onward.
“Elkim?” he bellowed, and the high elf turned from the other side of the room, near the tunnel.
“Yes?”
“Is the way safe?”
Elkim sent his familiar forward to check, and after several seconds a ghostly howling indicated it was indeed safe.
“Then we proceed” He grated forwards in his full suit of iron armor towards the tunnel.
“Then we proceed” echoed Byrlock.
The party advanced down the stinking corridor. It was high and tall enough for them to walk two abreast, with Dro-gro-Bulag and Kaldrin in front and Byrlock and Elkim taking the rear. Byrlock was stalking backwards, his favoured longbow drawn, an arrow drawn and ready to be let loose. He was a dynamic fellow, ever ready to sing and laugh, but he had his moments. The wood elf was a former skooma addict, and before he served his time in prison was a dealer too. A few years in Whiterun soon sorted him but he never forgot the lessons old thieves had taught him in jail.
Dro-gro-Bulag was his polar opposite, solemn and silent, never taking pride or comfort, such was his burden. As a child he lived among a feral tribe of orcs, and though he was too young to take part they used to raid a nearby settlement frequently. When the Imperial Legion showed up to counteract them, he was fourteen. They attacked his tribe’s home and slaughtered his people, but as luck would have it he was merely knocked unconscious. He awoke in a wagon bound for Skyrim, saved from death by a group of Breton travellers.
Behind him stood Elkim, a cold and calculating High elf, and as intelligent as a graduate from the College of Magic should be. He was sent on an errand by his tutor to find evidence of Dwemer machines in Morrowind, but was captured by bandits and then mistaken as one when townsfolk retaliated to the outcast’s attacks. He ended up in Skyrim, lost, alone and with little to look for. Finally, the leader of the group, Kaldrin, was as shadowy as shadows themselves about his background. A big, heavily muscled Nord decked head to toe in iron wrought armor; none could doubt his skill in battle. Sadly the man lacked charisma, and was solely intent on the goal at hand, whatever that may be.
“Up ahead, light!” Bulag stated. True enough, light was streaming in from the end of the tunnel. Flickering fire light from a campfire of sorts. When the party arrived, it was a grave scene that met them.
“Who... how did...” stammered Byrlock in shock.
“The Falmer, that’s who” was the answer from Dro-gro-Bulag. The adventurers were dead.
Chapter Two
“And from there we came back here, battered, beaten and with nothing to hand in but bad news. Still, at least we cleared the place of Falmor, so the guard had better pay us something or Kaldrin here’s gonna have a word. Right, Kaldrin?” He grunted, sipping his ale. Byrlock was “entertaining” a few men from the farm with his latest tale of woe. The Meadery was packed to the brim, with barely enough seats to go around. It was pouring with rain outside and many were grateful for the shelter. The mead only added to the mood and many were flat out drunk at this point. “He’s only bothered about our bad findings. Don’t worry, old friend. We’ll make up our losses someday.” Byrlock was attempting to cheer Kaldrin up, but it evidently wasn’t working, as the barkeep pointed out. “I don’t care whether or not it’s working, only that he has someone to listen too.”
“Well, you certainly fit the bill” laughed the barkeep.
“Why you conniving little-“
“Give it up Byrlock, you couldn’t beat steak” came Bulags call from behind.
“Sure, now you lighten up you big oaf” insulted Byrlock. Dro-gro-Bulag simply turned back to his table.
“That’s right you simpleton” growled Byrlock. “Stab at me again and I’ll make a pincushion outta ya!”
“Sprightly little fellow aren’t you?” came a strange voice from the doorway. The drinkers turned to look, finding a new figure standing in the door, rain pouring down and onto the new arrival. He strode in slowly, water dripping from his raised hood. He wore a cloak over a fur shawl, with heavy metal boots clanking as he came in. His hands were armoured with iron gauntlets, their knuckles spiked with studs. He walked right up to Byrlock, soaking wet, and drew back his hood. “Fancy picking on someone else?” the stranger droned in his lizard-like voice. The hood had concealed a fishlike face, covered with dark green scales with lighter green under the chin. He had small horns the size of a goat’s and in place of hair were quills brushed back behind his head. His eyes were a deep red and his huge jaw was filled with needle-like teeth built for tearing. Byrlock was taken aback by the surprising appearance and was unable to answer, so Kaldrin stepped in.
“He has no quarrel with you, Argonian, or you with him. Back off”. He pronounced each word carefully and spoke in a low, menacing tone.
“Oh, it appears I have been mistaken. Perhaps my argument is with you” replied the Argonian. “Nord, if you value your honour, face me now and give these fine men something to talk about”. His words were met with a cheer from the drinkers. Someone yelled “Sock him one!” and another “Don’t let him say that!”. To Kaldrin, it seemed that the only way to quell this was to beat the newcomer into the dirt. “It seems I have no other choice” he said, and his acceptance was met with a roar of approval from the drunken crowd.
They both undressed to the waist, warming up for the brawl. The overcrowded Meadery forced a small space for the combatants to fight, and the air was heavy with excitement. The Argonian removed a scale from his lower chin, looked at it and then threw it to the ground. Kaldrin then realised that this Argonian was unusual. He was heavily built and very strong looking, and at least half a head taller than Kaldrin. He had a small amount of fat on his person but that only lent him more mass behind a blow. He was obviously enjoying the attention bestowed upon him, shaking hands and cracking jokes as if he wasn’t about to brawl with the man opposite. Kaldrin was far from relaxed, sharpening his mind on every detail that would help him in the coming fight. He noted the sack cloth trousers the Argonian wore, the amount of piercings he had dangling from his ears, the distance between them both and the length of the fish man’s arm. Finally he turned towards Kaldrin, smirking violently and raising his guard. They circled one another, the crowd’s noise unceasing and cries of encouragement hurling across the room as the entertainment began. Neither man broke eye contact for at least thirty seconds, at which point a drinker became impatient and shoved Kaldrin firmly in the back. He hurtled forwards, strait into the Argonians bare fist. His head was cracked backwards with the force of the blow and he barely recovered in time to see the next swing and duck. Seeing his chance, the Nord drove his right shoulder into the flailing thug’s stomach, sending him backwards a few strides but not felling him yet.
The Argonian grabbed Kaldrin by the back of his neck and literally ripped him off his body, following up with a combo of punches which the injured man struggled to block. The Argonian roared and hurled himself forward, right fist raised, ready to knock Kaldrin down, but was swiftly sidestepped and ran straight into the mass of bodies, sending a few recoiling in shock. The Nord managed a quick roundhouse kick in the ribs before he was up again, seething with rage. Kaldrin remained calm and dodged the Argonian’s wild swings, waiting for a chance to finish the fight. Unfortunately one of the drinkers had spilled his mead onto the wooden decking, and as Kaldrin backed up he almost fell. The Argonian capitalised, sending his opponent reeling with the strength behind the blow. He flew into the crowd, dizzy and bleeding from his nose. “Time for you to leave yet, Nord” came the voice of the panting Argonian. His answer came from Byrlock. “You’ve made him mad now.”
“What?” questioned the Argonian, risking a glance as Kaldrin recovered.
“Kaldrin’s normally laid back and calm, but when his blood starts flowing, you better watch out” Byrlock teased. “Pffff, that quivering wreck? He won’t even be walking when I’m finished!” the Argonian boasted. Byrlock was bluffing, trying to keep the Argonian occupied while Kaldrin recovered. Meanwhile, Kaldrin had been helped to his feet by the Nords around him, and was swaying slightly. His face was dripping blood, and he wore a grimace of pain and confusion. He looked around at the scene, taking in all the details. But he could not see a way to break his foe. He stood, dumbfounded, unsure what to do. “Well, Nord. If you want to give in, so be it. Deprive us of our fun like the sop you are.” Kaldrin was hurt badly; the hit he sustained was clouding his judgement. He was having delusions. He couldn’t stop swaying. He just needed to get a grip... Or let go. So that’s what he did. The Argonian never saw it coming. Kaldrin stared at him, and then let off a roar that had been building for some time right in the brutes face. The Argonians expression changed from smugness to terror, but he quickly replaced it with anger. Kaldrin surged forwards, barrelling towards the Argonian with all his might, launching a two fisted punch that landed squarely in his chest, knocking the wind out of the thuggish fish man. He followed up with two vicious left handed hooks to the stomach and then smacked him with a balled fist round the left cheek. He then leant all his weight and power into a last hammer blow that practically turned the Argonian brute into a missile that crashed into the bar and bent his back hard. Kaldrin added a thrust kick in his exposed chest for good measure, sending up a groan from his broken adversary. The crowd were struck by surprise for a few moments, but then a huge cheer went up, deafening in its magnitude.. Kaldrin turned from the crippled Argonian, but spun back round when he laughed painfully. “Why do you laugh Argonian?” asked Kaldrin. The Argonian picked himself up with difficulty. “I laugh, no-scales, because you have bested me, and that has earnt you a free mug of ale by my standard.” He extended a scaly hand. “I’m Robust Trop-Too, and I am honoured to have been beaten.”
Turning in his heavy armor, Kaldrin surveyed the scene in front of him. This was a bad idea, coming here, he told himself. The promise of riches from the finding of the previous party had tempted his own, and led them into this Falmer ambush. Under a ceiling of rock and cobweb they battled against the goblin like troglodytes, staining the stone floor with blood. He was beset by two foul things, hunched over and bearing axes made from what looked like bone. Roaring with rage Kaldrin launched himself at the Falmer pair, ready to attack with his hefty mace and though they neatly dodged his charge his true intention was to manoeuvre closer to Byrlock, the wood elf, who was fighting another ambusher. Though the small man fought valiantly, he was obviously no match for the Falmor in close quarters.
“With me, Byrlock!” yelled Kaldrin, crashing into Byrlock’s opposition with his wooden shield and a handful of Nordic anger. The resulting collision knocked the Falmer off its feet and probably broke something too, as an audible crack was heard emanating from the fallen beasts ribcage as it hit the cold, hard floor awkwardly.
“My thanks Kaldrin!” muttered Byrlock, lifting his bow from the floor to rejoin the battle.
“Your thanks can wait until we finish these vermin” replied Kaldrin darkly. The rest of his party were still besieged by inhuman adversaries. Dro-gro-Bulag, fearsome as a berserker should be, had discarded his axe in favour of his fists as yet more Falmer poured in from a tunnel cavity in the far wall. Elkim was blasting a whole mob of them with ice magic from both hands, holding off the horde somewhat, and his familiar, a glowing spiritual wolf, was tearing at any that threatened its master.
“How these creatures breed so quickly is a science lost to me” mumbled Byrlock, sending an arrow into the heart of the horde being held back by Elkim. Kaldrin merely grunted; humour was never his thing, thought Byrlock. Damn good in a fight though. Dro-gro-Bulag had finally strangled the last Falmer surrounding him, and picked up his two handed battleaxe to enter the fray once more, but he was met with disappointment when Elkim’s last reserves of magicka were spent by creating a huge storm of lightning that leapt from Falmer to Falmer in the huge frozen group he had amassed with ice, causing them to convulse violently as they were burned by the searing bolts of magic. Finally with the immediate threat gone, Kaldrin could take in their surroundings with more detail.
The room itself was about the size of a drinking hall, and smelt like one too after the bloodshed. It was lit by a collection of strange blue fungi that glowed with ethereal light. The main feature was the numerous Falmer dead scattered around the room.
“How many, do you think?” asked Byrlock.
“About two dozen” answered Elkim with his cold, precise tone. Dro-gro-Bulag nodded slowly, taking in the carnage strewn about him.
“A fair number” he said slowly.
“Fair? Surely we must be heroes after this?” cried Byrlock in outrage.
“In Cyrodil I slew three times that number of Imperials” Bulag argued, staring into the ground intently “While they were killing my friends”
“So you have told us” resounded Byrlock “Many an evening spoiled by your gory war stories”
“Do not make the mistake of assuming I take pride in my actions that day, elf.” Bulag growled. Byrlock was about to remark but Kaldrin held his armoured fist up to stop the quarrel. He was pondering the way onward.
“Elkim?” he bellowed, and the high elf turned from the other side of the room, near the tunnel.
“Yes?”
“Is the way safe?”
Elkim sent his familiar forward to check, and after several seconds a ghostly howling indicated it was indeed safe.
“Then we proceed” He grated forwards in his full suit of iron armor towards the tunnel.
“Then we proceed” echoed Byrlock.
The party advanced down the stinking corridor. It was high and tall enough for them to walk two abreast, with Dro-gro-Bulag and Kaldrin in front and Byrlock and Elkim taking the rear. Byrlock was stalking backwards, his favoured longbow drawn, an arrow drawn and ready to be let loose. He was a dynamic fellow, ever ready to sing and laugh, but he had his moments. The wood elf was a former skooma addict, and before he served his time in prison was a dealer too. A few years in Whiterun soon sorted him but he never forgot the lessons old thieves had taught him in jail.
Dro-gro-Bulag was his polar opposite, solemn and silent, never taking pride or comfort, such was his burden. As a child he lived among a feral tribe of orcs, and though he was too young to take part they used to raid a nearby settlement frequently. When the Imperial Legion showed up to counteract them, he was fourteen. They attacked his tribe’s home and slaughtered his people, but as luck would have it he was merely knocked unconscious. He awoke in a wagon bound for Skyrim, saved from death by a group of Breton travellers.
Behind him stood Elkim, a cold and calculating High elf, and as intelligent as a graduate from the College of Magic should be. He was sent on an errand by his tutor to find evidence of Dwemer machines in Morrowind, but was captured by bandits and then mistaken as one when townsfolk retaliated to the outcast’s attacks. He ended up in Skyrim, lost, alone and with little to look for. Finally, the leader of the group, Kaldrin, was as shadowy as shadows themselves about his background. A big, heavily muscled Nord decked head to toe in iron wrought armor; none could doubt his skill in battle. Sadly the man lacked charisma, and was solely intent on the goal at hand, whatever that may be.
“Up ahead, light!” Bulag stated. True enough, light was streaming in from the end of the tunnel. Flickering fire light from a campfire of sorts. When the party arrived, it was a grave scene that met them.
“Who... how did...” stammered Byrlock in shock.
“The Falmer, that’s who” was the answer from Dro-gro-Bulag. The adventurers were dead.
Chapter Two
“And from there we came back here, battered, beaten and with nothing to hand in but bad news. Still, at least we cleared the place of Falmor, so the guard had better pay us something or Kaldrin here’s gonna have a word. Right, Kaldrin?” He grunted, sipping his ale. Byrlock was “entertaining” a few men from the farm with his latest tale of woe. The Meadery was packed to the brim, with barely enough seats to go around. It was pouring with rain outside and many were grateful for the shelter. The mead only added to the mood and many were flat out drunk at this point. “He’s only bothered about our bad findings. Don’t worry, old friend. We’ll make up our losses someday.” Byrlock was attempting to cheer Kaldrin up, but it evidently wasn’t working, as the barkeep pointed out. “I don’t care whether or not it’s working, only that he has someone to listen too.”
“Well, you certainly fit the bill” laughed the barkeep.
“Why you conniving little-“
“Give it up Byrlock, you couldn’t beat steak” came Bulags call from behind.
“Sure, now you lighten up you big oaf” insulted Byrlock. Dro-gro-Bulag simply turned back to his table.
“That’s right you simpleton” growled Byrlock. “Stab at me again and I’ll make a pincushion outta ya!”
“Sprightly little fellow aren’t you?” came a strange voice from the doorway. The drinkers turned to look, finding a new figure standing in the door, rain pouring down and onto the new arrival. He strode in slowly, water dripping from his raised hood. He wore a cloak over a fur shawl, with heavy metal boots clanking as he came in. His hands were armoured with iron gauntlets, their knuckles spiked with studs. He walked right up to Byrlock, soaking wet, and drew back his hood. “Fancy picking on someone else?” the stranger droned in his lizard-like voice. The hood had concealed a fishlike face, covered with dark green scales with lighter green under the chin. He had small horns the size of a goat’s and in place of hair were quills brushed back behind his head. His eyes were a deep red and his huge jaw was filled with needle-like teeth built for tearing. Byrlock was taken aback by the surprising appearance and was unable to answer, so Kaldrin stepped in.
“He has no quarrel with you, Argonian, or you with him. Back off”. He pronounced each word carefully and spoke in a low, menacing tone.
“Oh, it appears I have been mistaken. Perhaps my argument is with you” replied the Argonian. “Nord, if you value your honour, face me now and give these fine men something to talk about”. His words were met with a cheer from the drinkers. Someone yelled “Sock him one!” and another “Don’t let him say that!”. To Kaldrin, it seemed that the only way to quell this was to beat the newcomer into the dirt. “It seems I have no other choice” he said, and his acceptance was met with a roar of approval from the drunken crowd.
They both undressed to the waist, warming up for the brawl. The overcrowded Meadery forced a small space for the combatants to fight, and the air was heavy with excitement. The Argonian removed a scale from his lower chin, looked at it and then threw it to the ground. Kaldrin then realised that this Argonian was unusual. He was heavily built and very strong looking, and at least half a head taller than Kaldrin. He had a small amount of fat on his person but that only lent him more mass behind a blow. He was obviously enjoying the attention bestowed upon him, shaking hands and cracking jokes as if he wasn’t about to brawl with the man opposite. Kaldrin was far from relaxed, sharpening his mind on every detail that would help him in the coming fight. He noted the sack cloth trousers the Argonian wore, the amount of piercings he had dangling from his ears, the distance between them both and the length of the fish man’s arm. Finally he turned towards Kaldrin, smirking violently and raising his guard. They circled one another, the crowd’s noise unceasing and cries of encouragement hurling across the room as the entertainment began. Neither man broke eye contact for at least thirty seconds, at which point a drinker became impatient and shoved Kaldrin firmly in the back. He hurtled forwards, strait into the Argonians bare fist. His head was cracked backwards with the force of the blow and he barely recovered in time to see the next swing and duck. Seeing his chance, the Nord drove his right shoulder into the flailing thug’s stomach, sending him backwards a few strides but not felling him yet.
The Argonian grabbed Kaldrin by the back of his neck and literally ripped him off his body, following up with a combo of punches which the injured man struggled to block. The Argonian roared and hurled himself forward, right fist raised, ready to knock Kaldrin down, but was swiftly sidestepped and ran straight into the mass of bodies, sending a few recoiling in shock. The Nord managed a quick roundhouse kick in the ribs before he was up again, seething with rage. Kaldrin remained calm and dodged the Argonian’s wild swings, waiting for a chance to finish the fight. Unfortunately one of the drinkers had spilled his mead onto the wooden decking, and as Kaldrin backed up he almost fell. The Argonian capitalised, sending his opponent reeling with the strength behind the blow. He flew into the crowd, dizzy and bleeding from his nose. “Time for you to leave yet, Nord” came the voice of the panting Argonian. His answer came from Byrlock. “You’ve made him mad now.”
“What?” questioned the Argonian, risking a glance as Kaldrin recovered.
“Kaldrin’s normally laid back and calm, but when his blood starts flowing, you better watch out” Byrlock teased. “Pffff, that quivering wreck? He won’t even be walking when I’m finished!” the Argonian boasted. Byrlock was bluffing, trying to keep the Argonian occupied while Kaldrin recovered. Meanwhile, Kaldrin had been helped to his feet by the Nords around him, and was swaying slightly. His face was dripping blood, and he wore a grimace of pain and confusion. He looked around at the scene, taking in all the details. But he could not see a way to break his foe. He stood, dumbfounded, unsure what to do. “Well, Nord. If you want to give in, so be it. Deprive us of our fun like the sop you are.” Kaldrin was hurt badly; the hit he sustained was clouding his judgement. He was having delusions. He couldn’t stop swaying. He just needed to get a grip... Or let go. So that’s what he did. The Argonian never saw it coming. Kaldrin stared at him, and then let off a roar that had been building for some time right in the brutes face. The Argonians expression changed from smugness to terror, but he quickly replaced it with anger. Kaldrin surged forwards, barrelling towards the Argonian with all his might, launching a two fisted punch that landed squarely in his chest, knocking the wind out of the thuggish fish man. He followed up with two vicious left handed hooks to the stomach and then smacked him with a balled fist round the left cheek. He then leant all his weight and power into a last hammer blow that practically turned the Argonian brute into a missile that crashed into the bar and bent his back hard. Kaldrin added a thrust kick in his exposed chest for good measure, sending up a groan from his broken adversary. The crowd were struck by surprise for a few moments, but then a huge cheer went up, deafening in its magnitude.. Kaldrin turned from the crippled Argonian, but spun back round when he laughed painfully. “Why do you laugh Argonian?” asked Kaldrin. The Argonian picked himself up with difficulty. “I laugh, no-scales, because you have bested me, and that has earnt you a free mug of ale by my standard.” He extended a scaly hand. “I’m Robust Trop-Too, and I am honoured to have been beaten.”
