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What was Taken, What was Lost

Discussion in 'Skyrim Fan Fiction' started by The_Deadliest_Troll, Mar 7, 2013.

  1. The_Deadliest_Troll

    The_Deadliest_Troll Melon Lord

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    What was Taken, What was Lost
    Thanks for reading, and leave a comment. All kinds are welcome!
    TABLE of CONTENTS:
    Chapter 2: What was Taken
    Chapter 3: Lucine and the Thief
    -Iron Doors and Iron Jaws-

    "Wake up, scum!”

    It smelled like piss. Not the good kind of piss either, if ever there was such a thing. This was the kind of piss that must have been festering in a corner for longer than the roaming trees of Valenwood had born leaves. It was a stinging smell, like something toxic to the senses. This stench burned into Eärendur’s face suddenly, causing his eyes to water, although they were firmly shut.

    There was a creaking sound like metal against metal. “Ye hear me, elf bastard?” The Nord’s accent was thick. A sharp pain went in waves up and down Eärendur’s side as something struck his ribs. He stirred and finally looked up at the Riften guard, towering over him and rearing his leg back for a second kick.

    “I hear you.” Eärendur sighed as he sat up on the cold, stone floor, holding his arms in front of himself as if to block the still potential kick from this guard. “I just wasn’t interested in accepting the reality of the situation.” Thankfully, the guard placed his boot back on the stone and crossed his arms.

    This cell was certainly nothing to brag about. The walls themselves seemed to drip whatever was making it stink in the place, and the darkness of the place seemed to engulf everything but the hopelessness. He’d only been thrown into it just last night, but Eärendur felt that after the blackness of that night that he had been there for ages. Even the lines of this guard’s face spoke of the direness and tired nature of this place; a prisoner of occupation.

    The stench was bad, and the feeling this place gave one, worse. But what had to be the most awful thing about this prison were the screams. Deep in the fullness of night, Eärendur heard them: men crying out as if they were children and some that must have been experiencing pain unimaginable. It truly was a terror of a thing, and Eärendur thought that surely if he were to ever leave this place, he would not be the same elf that he was.

    He had no more time to dwell on these things. The guard that had been standing there almost statue-like was now joined by another, younger looking guard who walked right to Eärendur. This man took hold oh him by the collar of his ragged shirt and heaved him to his feet. “Up!” the guard grunted.

    “Excuse me,” said Eärendur, startled by this event, “might I ask where we are going, lads?” The harshness of the guard’s movement had caused Eärendur’s shirt to rub quite uncomfortably against his neck.

    The two dragged him with little effort past dreadfully rusty looking iron bars that made up the front of the cell he had found his new home in this cold land. Eärendur noticed that they had taken his shoes. His bare feet dragged across the ground and his heels felt the force of every bump and ridge as the two dragged him along backwards. “Ye have an appointment with the Iron-Jaw.” The older one called over his shoulder, trying to sound more menacing than he really did. These guards exchanged glances for a moment and continued trudging along down the hall toward a foreboding iron door.

    “Iron-Jaw, eh?” Eärendur chuckled at the ring of the words.

    “Aye, the captain of the guard.” It was true. Jorn Iron-Jaw was the newly appointed Captain of the Guard in Riften. The Jarl had him hired to put an end to the Thieves’ Guild once and for all and by any and all means needed. He had done everything to fit the shoes, aside from eliminating the Guild that is. He had, as of late become a desperate man. Eärendur had heard the stories among the street-crawlers of the city since he had entered its gates, but thought that was all they were; stories. Now, he thought, he might have right to worry.

    This unfortunate party of three neared the door with each heavy step the guards took. At first it only seemed that the hall, lined with mossy walls and frightful cells filled with more frightful residents was getting darker the further they went. But in truth, the walls here held far less torches than where Eärendur was housed only minutes before. The folk inside the cells here were pale and thin, their hair grown long and wild. Eärendur couldn’t see them until they hurried to the bars of their cells as the three passed and reached out their hands, begging for something they didn’t know they wanted and didn’t expect to get. The fingernails on these slimy, ghostly hands that hadn’t fallen off were long and dirty. Some whimpered words like, “Please.” Or “Help.” Others only growled and grumbled as if the perpetual night had stolen their language.

    Some of the hands got too close and the guards took heavy swats at them. Yelps almost like animals began ringing out through some of the cells and left Eärendur’s stomach feeling very uncomfortable. Then, a crackling and a light of torches seemed to fill the void out of nowhere. Two torches sat on either side of Iron-Jaw’s door. A heavy knock on the metal and then a barely audible bellow marked their entry into the room. Eärendur felt as if he would have rather been left to these animalistic prisoners out in the hall. In dealing with animals, he had much experience. The matters of Nords and their laws were quite new to him.

    He was placed in a wooden chair and his hands bound, and then a loud slam of the door as the guards left Eärendur alone in the Iron-Jaw’s room. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the light of the room. This was a plain room: very small with two chairs and a wooden table in the center. On the table sat a single steel dagger. And across the table from him sat Jorn Iron-Jaw, the Captain of the Guard.

    It was clear to Eärendur why they must call this man the Iron-Jaw. His face was aged and it seemed his jaw was clenched so tightly that Eärendur was surprised his teeth didn’t turn to dust under the weight of it. This made him look eternally angry, or perhaps he was. His head was cleanly shaven and a scar like a memory of a stinging blade ran across his face diagonally. He made no movement but to raise his eyebrows at his new wood elf guest.

    His blue eyes seemed to burn the elf right through. They looked into him more than he liked and it made him feel almost feverish. He looked down toward his hands; tied together and resting in his lap. A layer of dirt covered his tan, Bosmer skin. His forearms seemed smeared with grease and sweat. Then, a strand of his brown, shoulder length hair fell over his face and he looked back up, meeting the searching gaze of the Iron-Jaw with his own redish, piercing eyes.

    “Do you know why you are here, wood elf?” The Iron-Jaw said in a deep voice seemingly without releasing his jaw.

    “Erm,” Eärendur was trying with all his might not to show fear to this man, “attempted pick-pocketing, sir?”

    “Right, well that is your evident crime.” The intimidating man stood, revealing that he was as tall as he was wide. He paced back behind the seat that Eärendur sat in, clapping his hands in an aggressive way with each step. He spoke suddenly as if deciding to get to a point he was trying to make, “I have reason to believe that you are a Guild member gone rouge.” Laughing softly, he walked heavily back to the side of the table where Eärendur sat and the two made eye contact again. He picked up the dagger from the table, playing with its tip with his thumb and continued, “I am here to get information from you on your organization...” The dagger was slammed down violently in front of Eärendur, the blade piercing the wood of the table just inches from the edge. “by any means I see fit.”

    “I’m sorry, sir, but I-“ Eärendur was cut short by the iron door of the room being slammed open and the younger guard from before pushing himself in.

    “Apologies sir,” he sounded short of breath, “she wouldn’t let us stop her, she just-“

    “Out of my way!” There was a woman’s voice entering the room. Eärendur turned his head just in time to see a young and beautiful Bosmer woman walking in dressed in a fine-looking silk tunic. He wondered who this woman could be to make Nord men tremble. Surely, things were about to become interesting if they were not already.
     
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  2. imaginepageant

    imaginepageant Slytherin Alumni

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    Hooray!

    I'm very much looking forward to a story with a Bosmer protagonist. I love me some Bosmer. I also love how, through what little dialogue he's had so far, you paint a picture of a polite, well-spoken, and well-mannered individual, not unlike a proper British gentleman. The contrast to the gruff manner in which the guards speak is brilliant.

    The one word of advice I have is to not use Times New Roman. It's really hard to read. :sadface:

    Okay, I lied, I have one more suggestion. Give "Wake up, scum!" it's own paragraph. Since it's dialogue from one character, and the following description is from the perspective of another character, they should be separated. Also, having the dialogue stand alone makes it a more punchy opening.

    Now go write more, post haste, my good man.
     
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  3. The_Deadliest_Troll

    The_Deadliest_Troll Melon Lord

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    Haha thanks iPag! :D Yeah, I just wrote it up at work on Microsoft word, I should have definitely considered changing the font! :p Thank you for the suggestions!
     
  4. Wolfbane

    Wolfbane Why change the past when you can own this day?

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    Really well written! Kept me reading! I would definately follow this!
     
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  5. The_Deadliest_Troll

    The_Deadliest_Troll Melon Lord

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    Thanks! I do very much plan on writing this story to its end. I already have made good progress on the second chapter! :D
     
  6. The_Deadliest_Troll

    The_Deadliest_Troll Melon Lord

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    -What was Taken-
    It was then, as she walked past Eärendur and right up to the Iron-Jaw’s leathery face, meeting it with her own soft features that were etched with fury that he recognized her… or her backside rather; full and round as it was. She was a beautiful Bosmer, surely, with features and elegance that would have made his own sister jealous. Her eyes were a hazel color that now seemed to be flushed with an angry red and her brownish hair fell over one shoulder in a tidy braid. He would have known her anywhere, he thought, but he had only ever seen her backside; just as he crept up behind her in the market and only moments before she was shouting, “Guards! Thief!” It must have been an unfortunate first meeting for the two, and this now held the potential to be an even more unfortunate second.

    “And what’s the meaning of this, Jorn?” Her blood was boiling and she poked his large, barrel chest with every other word. “Are you to torture him?”

    She glanced over her shoulder at Eärendur. He thought he caught a glimpse of caring in her eyes. They turned from the red of hate to a compassionate green if only for a moment it seemed.

    “The only one of my ilk aside from that skeever, Anuriel, I’ve seen in this plops city and you’re to torture him? And for what crime?” She nearly spat on him.

    The Iron-Jaw took a step back without changing his stony expression. “Miss Nienna, we ‘ave good reason to accuse this elf of being the rogue Guild member we’ve been searching for. The one who-“

    “Never mind that, you oaf!” Nienna took an aggressive step toward him again, nearly pinning him to the wall now. “You think a thief of that caliber would be caught for a pick pocket?” She did spit on him now.

    Eärendur could hardly believe what he was seeing. A large, bear of a man being threatened like a child by his mother by an elf half his size. The man’s facial expression did change now. It was one of concerned terror. For his life? No, obviously not. But certainly for something. What has this elf over him? He wondered. Eärendur could do nothing at this point but watch.

    The Captain of the Guard finally opened his mouth, his iron jaw seemingly becoming a bit more flaccid, “You may be right.” His eyes met the floor beneath him, shamed. “But what would you have me do with him, m’lady?”

    M’lady? Eärendur could only now imagine what kind of grandeur this one may have come from. When she spoke again, the words were more like silk than the fire she had been speaking moments earlier.

    “It is not your fault, Jorn.” She took a few measured steps away from him, and the tension seemed to leave the air. “I know the pressure the Jarl puts upon you to be thorough.” She looked over her shoulder again, her features relaxed. “I’d like a time with him. Alone. If you would allow me to ask a few questions.”

    This last part was not directed at the Iron-Jaw at all. She had now turned her full body to face Eärendur and was addressing him instead. Clearly, the captain would have no say in this. She looked at his face; the weathered, etched face of a hunter, and he knew that it was she and not the Iron-Jaw that he would rather be in this room alone with. He knew that he would be dealt no harm. He nodded, politely.

    “Good. Jorn, if you would.” She hadn’t need to say this because he was already halfway out the door. When the door closed behind him, she looked at Eärendur again, this time with purpose. She sat across from him at the table.

    “M’lady-” Eärendur spoke up, knowing he was out of place.

    “We have no need of formalities here, please.” She said to him before he could finish. “Nor do I have time to get acquainted. I’m sorry to say.” She shifted her weight in her seat. “What is your name?”

    “Eärendur.”

    “And, Eärendur, how long have you been in Riften?” Smiling at him, she folded her hands upon the table in front of her.

    “I know not the length of time, but I arrived upon the last breaths of summer. That is if this gods-forsaken land ever feels the embrace of a summer season.” He blinked for what seemed like the first time since he had been pulled from his cell. His eyes were dry. “No Valenwood, this place, eh?”

    She brushed off his attempt for a joke, her face speaking purely business now. “And what purpose had you to come to such a place as Riften?” She peered into him. Perhaps it was to catch him in a lie, or perhaps it was because she hadn’t seen another Bosmer in ages.

    “It was the first site I had seen where smoke was billowing comfortably from chimneys, and the promise of food and gold seemed good.” He laughed at himself, wondering where she was trying to get. Then he realized, and went on before she had chance to ask another question. “I have been living in the Ratway for ages now, trying to get by how I could. I’d never picked a pocket until I failed at yours. And that was out of pure desperation.” He looked back at her, uneasy now. “And I know not of the Guild of Thieves, m’lady.” An awkward smile crossed the table between them. Eärendur could tell by the feel of it that his lips were dryer than the bark of a tree.

    “I believe you.” She said finally to his relief. “And please, call me Nienna.” The atmosphere in the room seemed to grow lighter, but then her hopes seemed to shrink suddenly. Her gaze shifted to her lap and one of her hands met her forehead in seeming exhaustion.

    “If I may, Nienna,” Eärendur was unsure of his words, “has something happened?” For some reason, he wished he could reach out and hold her hands, but his were unfortunately and undoubtedly bound. She seemed too far away now.

    “Yes.” She looked up at him now, tired tears forming in the corners of her eyes. “Something has happened. But it is not of your concern. I’m sorry.” She stood and began to make her way toward the door to call the Iron-Jaw back in.

    Eärendur wanted desperately to find the words to stop her. When Jorn was brought back into the room, he was sure to be thrown back in his cell for a time. Perhaps he would become like the animals of the crypts that lived in the dark down here; howling at the moonless sky of a stone ceiling that he would live under and barking at anyone that passed. He couldn’t bear the thought. “I owe you a great debt.” The words had left him before he knew he had them. Nienna stopped where she stood, mere paces from the door. “My life and my bow are yours, should you need them.” Now he could only pray that she had heard him and that his words would strike a chord. His bow arm was strong. Surely she could have use for it. She only paused for a moment longer and then left the room.

    He was alone.

    And he was left here in this cold and all but empty room for longer than he had expected. It seemed like seconds dragged to hours as he sat, and minutes dragged to days. A slow dripping sound came from somewhere across the room. Then, he heard them. They were faint; the voices of Nienna and the Iron-Jaw speaking in hasty, hushed tones just outside the door. Every now and then one of the prisoners would yelp as if to include himself into their secret conversation. Eärendur could not, for all his trying, make out the words they were saying. Perhaps he would catch one or two here and there. “Thief.” “Dangerous.” “Can’t trust.”

    His heart raced. They still thought him a thief. And none less, they thought him a dangerous one. He would be locked up in this dark place until he was old and had lost all his senses, he was sure of it. His ears strained to learn what plans they had for him, but it was useless. The dripping sound in a far corner had become like a waterfall and the voices in the still air seemed to be screaming to him now. He could not hear anything from beyond the door anymore. Like a hammer on a smithy’s iron, his heart pounded in his ears and in his throat. He had never been so afraid as he was now.

    Then, as if breaking through a wall of complete hopelessness, Nienna emerged back through the iron door into the room. She was all smiles and cheer now. Eärendur wondered what kind of sick game the two must be playing at. Jorn followed close at her heels, but stood by the door like a sentry. She took a seat across the table from Eärendur once more.

    “Jorn and I have considered our options here, Eärendur.” His heart stopped as she paused her words for a moment. “And I’ve taken your words to heart. A debt is owed. And you will pay it.” She looked at him, eyebrows raised, waiting to see his reaction. He gave her none. His heart had halted. “This rogue thief from the Guild,” she continued, “has taken something from me. Something very valuable. You are a hunter, yes?”

    “Yes, yes!” He blurted, “I am!” He couldn’t help but wonder what sort of thing could have been taken from her, but he thought better than to ask.

    “Good.” She nodded at the Iron-Jaw who moved to remove Eärendur’s bindings. “We know not where this thief has gone, but we hope with your help we can track his movements.”

    “Wait just a moment.” Eärendur’s hands were now free. The chains had left his wrists raw and bleeding. “You don’t know where this man has gone? He could be anywhere! Skyrim is much larger than any of the forests I hunted in Valenwood. How am I expected to track prey across a continent?”

    “We have reason to believe he hasn’t left The Rift.” Jorn spoke up, taking his place back by the door, chains in hand. This did nothing to raise Eärendur’s hopes. The Rift was far more immense still than any one forest. “Of course, no man has been fool enough to offer his help until now. But it seems you don’t have much choice, elf.” He chuckled and shook the chains in his hand lightly.

    Nienna glowered at the man. “You’re no ordinary hunter, Eärendur. You do not fool me.” She looked back at him with quiet concern. “The night you were taken, a beast showed up outside the prison walls, howling sad, mournful songs. Know you this beast?”

    “Khaliah!” Eärendur thought he ought to have kept his mouth tightly shut as the Iron-Jaw on this. The words were said, however, and it was too late to take them back.

    The look on Nienna’s face brightened. “So you know the wolf?”

    Indeed he did. Khaliah had been his hunting companion since he was a young elf. She had come to him early one morning after he had killed a boar. The young wolf with golden fur and bright green eyes had tried to pilfer his kill. Eärendur thought her looks strange, yet captivating. But none the less, this kill was his. The wolf was small and pack-less, yet she stood her ground when Eärendur approached with blade drawn. He had taken a few swings and jabs in her direction, but she stood unmoving, growling. Eärendur had admired the courage of the pup and let her take her share of the boar. After this, as if in a show of gratitude or servitude, she had followed him home. The wolf was his best and only friend now.

    “I do. I am not sure I know how or why it matters, however.” Eärendur placed his hands on the table, rubbing his wrists gently.

    “The beast can pick up on the thief’s scent, or the scent of his horse.” Jorn spoke again in his rough voice. “She can follow it farther than any man or elf could.” Eärendur couldn’t disagree.

    Nienna nodded in agreement. “Then it’s settled. We will leave at dawn. Jorn will arrange a room for you at the inn and return your belongings. I expect to see you at the stables bright and early.” She stood and made way for the door. Eärendur couldn’t help but notice the elegance with which she walked and how lovely she was. “We’ll get your debt paid yet, Eärendur!”

    Her eyes shone brightly back at him for a moment, but only in passing. Eärendur thought he would have liked that moment to last much longer. It was the warmest he’d felt since he left Valenwood with his sister. He had want to say more to her for some reason, for any reason. But his breath was gone and the words would not come.

    “Right then,” she said after a silence. She was clutching the handle on the heavy door and pulling. “See you in the morn!” And with that she closed the door behind her.
     
  7. The_Deadliest_Troll

    The_Deadliest_Troll Melon Lord

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    -Lucine and the Thief-

    “Ah, there you are. Finally.” Lucine sat at the head of her table, alone. The dark stone walls around her seemed to sing tales of the lifelessness of the place. Sk’Risha thought she would have rather been working for anyone else, but the Necromancer had paid a pretty fee for what she had asked, and her evil was more than convincing. “I expected you last week, Sk’Risha.” The woman’s tone was commanding.

    “Apologies, master.” Sk’Risha bowed her furry head, only daring to risk short glances up at the dark witch before her. The woman was slender and pale; her face almost skeletal. Her dark eyes looked out through the lightest wisps of hair that Sk’Risha thought she had ever seen. Her master struck fear into even her own heart. “Sk’Risha was trailed across The Rift by guards. She had to be sure their hounds had lost her scent. Sk’Risha hates hounds...” She hissed.

    “I did not ask for your excuses, Sk’Risha!” the Necromancer boomed, slamming the glass of wine she had been indulging onto the wooden table at which she sat. It cracked and shattered; pouring the crimson liquid all across the old, wooden table. Sk’Risha started and looked up finally. Lucine was standing, brushing crumbs from her bloody black robes. “I want only what I have asked of you; nothing more.” The master had a frightening look in her eyes. She had expected none less than the best, and if she was not satisfied, Sk’Risha thought, pain, suffering and death were certainties. “The amulet. You have it?” Lucine was walking aggressively toward her now.

    Sk’Risha nodded hastily, reaching her grey, furry hand into the collar of her own leather guild armor. When her hand emerged again, she was clutching an amulet of pure silver by its shining chain. It was beautifully crafted and adorned with a spectacularly shining green stone. Around the stone, the amulet was etched with old looking runes that Sk’Risha only dreamed the meanings of. The thing glimmered even in the darkness of this crypt that her master called home. When she held it out for Lucine to take, the chain jingled lightly and echoed through the halls of the place.

    The Khajiit was covered in dirt from the top of her pointed, cat-like ears all the way down to her brown leather boots. It had been a hard journey from Riften to this place Lucine had drawn on her map. Tired and beaten, the Khajiit stood, feeling helpless; alone. She felt the eyes of her master heavy upon her, her green eyes shifting to the floor and her heart beating quickly. Then, the Necromancer snatched the thing from her hands violently.

    “Good, good.” Lucine eyed her dangerously. “It seems that you weren’t a useless prospect after all. Not to be trusted, however. That’s for certain.” Her lips turned up in an odd half-smile that made Sk’Risha uncomfortable. “Not to be trusted, indeed.”

    The Necromancer was right. Sk’Risha was not to be trusted. At least that was certainly what the Thieves’ Guild would say of her. They would be searching for her, if not the entire province along with them.

    It was to be a simple job for the guild; find their way into some foreign noble’s home and take an old amulet that the elf kept locked up in some secretive place away from the prying eyes of the world. Lucine hadn’t told them what the importance of the artifact was, but she had promised much gold for its safe deliverance into her hands.

    Sk’Risha had been sent on the job along with one of the newer guild members whose name she hadn’t yet learned by their superior, Brynjolf. What Brynjolf and the rest of the guild didn’t know was that mere days before the heist was to take place, Lucine had come to Sk’Risha with a dark offer. Sk’Risha would murder her partner in crime in cold blood after finding their prize, forsake the guild and receive the entire sum of reward gold into her own pockets… if she pledged to serve the Necromancer faithfully and without question. She hadn’t wanted to go along with it. She had wanted to decline. But Lucine’s tone gave her no choice. The offer was given more as a command than a true choice to be made. When the day came, Sk’Risha would be bound by a blood contract and hunted by her own people; the ones she had called brothers and sisters and friends... the ones who had taken her in while she was starving and hopeless. It pained her still, but she valued her life more than her thief’s honor.

    The sound of coins tinkling against each other brought Sk’Risha back to the present. Sk’Risha loved gold, and the sound of it made her happier than most things could. Lucine was holding out a large, heavy leather purse filled to the brim with gold. She bounced it upon its draw-strings, making the coin inside sing joyful songs of promise. Sk’Risha reached out her paw and received the bag in her palm quickly. It was heavier even than she had expected. She wondered if it was worth it. That man’s blood was on her hands, and his muffled screams were playing in her mind. Before she knew it, her master was back at her seat at the table and wearing the amulet around her thin, ghostly neck.

    “Would you like to know what it does, Sk’Risha?” Lucine asked menacingly. She had a daring look upon her, dying for the chance to give a demonstration. Sk’Risha nodded nervously, thinking it best not to decline her master on this. “Come stand by my side. If you do not, I cannot guarantee your safety.” The dark woman laughed at this, the sinister sound bounced off of the deathly walls and the tombs of the crypt around them. The dead seemed to stir.

    “Yes, master,” was the thief’s reply. It was all she could muster. Sk’Risha shivered; a chill running down her spine. She walked sheepishly toward Lucine, ever so slowly; dreading what may come next. When she was next to her, the Necromancer clapped happily almost like a child. Sk’Risha thought her insane at best. Now, she thought, the dead were laughing at her. Sk’Risha is losing her mind, she told herself.

    Slowly, ever so slowly, the Necromancer raised her hands skyward as she stood from her seat. “Do not cry out,” was what she said next. “They will hear you!” A blood-curdling laugh rang out through the crypt again as Lucine’s eyes rolled back in her head. Sk’Risha wanted to run, but her legs were frozen stiff; wanted to scream but all her breath had left her. The master now had plumes of purplish magic creeping around her arms from finger tips to elbows and was speaking words Sk’Risha had never heard in any language; deep, guttural noises that made Sk’Risha think that surely this must be the end. If the dead all around them had been stirring before, they were tirelessly dancing now; an evil, wicked dance that had no place in this world.

    Loud cracking and grinding sounds like stone against stone rang out all around. Dust filled the air. Sk’Risha could hardly bear it any longer. She felt faint, but her eyes could not be diverted. One by one, they started crawling out of what was meant to be their final resting places. The eyes of the dead, some merely sunken sockets looked upon her from all around. Some of them were fresh, the flesh of their bodies hanging loosely off of their bones in a grotesque matter and blood and whatever else dripping from their ever-opened mouths; others were naught but skeletons animated by the Necromancer’s dark magic. All around them, the horde gathered, looking to the wearer of the amulet for some command. Sk’Risha felt sickened by the smell of death that was filling the air.

    “You see Sk’Risha, with this I am more powerful even than the gods themselves!” Lucine cackled in an ear piercing tone. The dead seemed to take notice of this, and took hold of her wildness.

    Before either of them could as much as blink, the dead were upon each other. Lucine had lost all control. Corpse turned against corpse in a melee from Oblivion. Sk’Risha saw one rather large beast with skin black as night and one eye hanging from a thread of tissue strike another with its fist in the side of the head. A crack rang out as his victim’s skull shattered and useless brain jelly splattered on the floor. It wasn’t long before this terrifying, dark warrior was overtaken by half a dozen smaller ones, hungry for his rotting skin. Sk’Risha couldn’t look away, despite all her trying. She found herself wishing that she had been the one who was betrayed by the servant of Lucine. She would have welcomed an eternal sleep and its cold embrace next to this bloody ceremony she had found herself a part of.

    Limbs were being ripped from bodies and some of the animated were feasting upon the flesh of others who had fallen and been trampled. It was nothing more than a disturbing orgy of death and decay. Things were being thrown from one end of the room to the other and the grunts and growls of these creatures made Sk’Risha’s stomach turn upon itself. “No! Stop!” Lucine was howling, desperately, but it did nothing. “DAMN YOU! STOP!” Some of the undead beings heard and turned themselves upon the living. Sk’Risha and her master were surrounded by a sea of the monsters, and they had taste for living flesh now. The Necromancer dropped to her knees, her eyes were wide in the realization that she had no power any longer.

    Sk’Risha took action swiftly. Kneeling, and cursing the gods, she ripped the chain of the amulet harshly from her master’s neck. When the metal lost contact with the mage, the magic stopped. The animated around them fell where they were, a heap on unmoving flesh, bone and rotting things now. Both sighed in relief. The cat looked down upon Lucine who was tired and defeated. “Sk’Risha thinks that next time the master should be more careful what she does.”
     
  8. The_Deadliest_Troll

    The_Deadliest_Troll Melon Lord

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    I was on a hiatus from the interwebz but not from writing! Chapters 2 and 3 are up and chapter 4 should be done soon. I'm especially proud of the work I've done on the fourth, so keep your eyes peeled folks! :D
     
  9. ultimatedovahkiin

    ultimatedovahkiin Now's not the time for fear. That comes later.

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    i can't wait until the next chapter this story is really good!
     
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  10. mamali

    mamali Well-Known Member

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    i don't understand half of it :) but i can say it great , i'll be reading it every night :)
     

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