Stutta
Member
Children of the Alik’r are raised to fear the restless spirits of the dunes, for it is not the way of Satakal to allow one to remain after His cleansing. The whispers of un-dead which had filled the tavern worried Cyrus. He shuttered thinking he had let down his guard the previous night in the presence of an abomination. He would check the house and the cemetery above, for he had been taught by the shaman that a spirit must have a vessel. He gathered his wits and courage as he prayed to Tava. In the midst of leaving his room, a booming yell from the bar caught him off guard.
“Well, well. If it isn’t the red-skin with fists of steel!”
The glow of Benor’s cheeks revealed that he had been drinking since the end of his shift. Cyrus didn’t appreciate the distraction, but he knew better than to disrespect a local in his tavern. He stared at Benor, unwilling to lose the focus that his mistress had granted him.
“Where ya headed at this hour night-prowler? All the doors are locked, you won’t find anything to take,” he followed with a laugh that filled the small room.
“The grounds of Hroggar and the burial site of Mort’al. For there lie secrets.”
“Secrets, ha! Well I’ve just spent my last septim thanks to our little bout earlier and all of a sudden I’m in the mood for breaking something. Plus, it couldn’t hurt to keep an eye on this one,” he guffawed as he looked around the bar.
Cyrus had no qualms over having an extra weapon on his side, so the two ventured forth together. As they approached the house, Benor hung back, his many pints taking their toll. Cyrus could see a slight glow emanating from the left corner of the house. He crept up, iron dagger in hand, prepared for battle. As he crossed the threshold, Cyrus lunged at the spirit, but to no avail. His point pierced nothing but the burnt wall behind it, he stumbled back, fearful that he’d been caught in a trap. He heard the spirit release a giggle at his bewilderment. It was but a little girl.
“Let’s play a game,” she laughed. “Try and find me!” With that, she disappeared.
Cyrus cursed under his breath. Ghosts, spirits, wraiths, even in the heat of the desert, they all sent shivers down his back. The mysteries of this marsh seemed endless. He left the house, looking to explain the situation to his drunken friend. Benor was nowhere close by but he could make out a distant figure standing on the edge of the dock, urinating whilst whistling a horrid tune being played in the nearby inn. “Benor,” Cyrus muttered. He pitied a man without purpose, for his own gave him strength. He continued the march to the cemetery without the drunkard, not bothered to interrupt a man absorbed by his own thoughts.
Spotting the shadow of a silhouette against the cliff side, the Redguard dropped to his stomach, cursing the thin fabric of his rough tunic. He swore to find better clothes in the near future. An unknown incantation began to echo from the cemetery. Cyrus, again, readied his dagger and prepared a healing spell which his protector had once taught him. He stood up and called out, “In the name of Satakal, reveal yourself!” The creature appeared human but turned and emitted a seething hiss when it caught sight of the intruder. It charged before Cyrus knew what to do. He swiped with his dagger. But the cut closed nearly as quickly as it was opened. He felt the warmth of the vampiric spell emanating from the beast's hand sapping his life force. The Ra Gada countered with his own spell, restoring what was taken. As he struggled to power his defense, he could not figure an escape. As he was slowly drained he thought to himself, “I have failed my clan, my people,” and whispered, “Forgive me forefathers.” His own power was not enough to overcome his foe’s. He sank to his knees, no longer possessing the strength to stand. Embracing his mistress, he looked to the stars above, where he caught a glint of steel, Benor’s hammer. It dropped from the heavens, snapping the creature’s spine in half with a thunderous blow, saving Cyrus’ life. The Nord stumbled to the side then helped the Redguard up, placed a rough, massive palm on the back of his neck and slurred, “Friend.” With that, he returned to the tavern.
Cyrus was shocked, unsure whether to thank Tava or the mead from Moorside Inn. He managed to prop himself up and gaze into the pit. The spirit from the house emerged, with a smile on its face. As before, it laughed, and explained that the vampire wanted to play her game forever. It revealed the creature's name. Cyrus had heard before of this Laelette which now lay dead at his feet. He had heard a man at the mill speaking of his lost wife by the same name, and so the story was woven. He would investigate further after a good night’s sleep.
Cyrus pitied the man whom he would confront. The curse of undeath is feared and loathed among the nomads of the Alik’r and there is no worse fate than to become what is not. Cyrus spoke with Thonnir about Laelette, and piercing through the man’s grief he was led to believe that Alva, Hroggar’s lover, was likely at the center of the marsh town’s curse. He strode across town, anxious to repay his debt to the Jarl. Knocking on the door received no response, and without a lock pick he found himself stranded for he could not very well knock down the door in broad daylight. The honor of his family could not be upheld while he bore the burden debt. Seating himself on the steps to Alva’s house, he pondered his next move. He could think of no solution other than a trip to Solitude, the nearby city which Idgrod had spoken of. He would need supplies and enough coin to purchase the many goods he had been unable to find in Morthal. His arms would tire once more as he spent the rest of the afternoon laboring at the mill.
As the day drew to a close, his pockets full of coin and his recent near death experience still on his mind, Cyrus knocked at the door of the wizard he’d heard of at the inn. Unlike the people of Morthal or many of his countrymen, Cyrus possessed a curiosity regarding the workings of the occult. For much of his youth, he’d been raised by a nomadic shaman, his protector. He had learned much, but very little that could be useful in battle. The hut was cluttered with magical items, potions and curiosities. Cyrus couldn’t help but to sate his curiosity by examining the shelves running from wall to wall. He’d never seen such a collection, not even under his protector’s tent.
The two outsiders conversed for quite some time. They spoke of the townspeople and their apprehension towards foreigners and anything unknown. They spoke of the divines and of the occult, and they spoke of the young orphan that Falion had taken in, one who reminded Cyrus of himself at another age. As the moon rose high above the marsh, Cyrus left with a spell tome he intended to study late in to the night. Returning to the inn, he wanted nothing more than a warm meal and bed. But this was not to be.
Curiously, in the corner of the tavern, he saw the man he believed to be Idgrod’s bodyguard. “A protector who leaves his subject’s side is of little use, and a useless man is usually waiting for something,” thought Cyrus suspiciously as he approached the housecarl. Catching his eye, he pulled out a stool next to him.
“I’m beginning to doubt Jarl Idgrod’s ability to lead,” began the Housecarl. Cyrus was intrigued by the man’s openness but kept his mouth shut, wondering where this would lead. “Since your new here, with few allegiances, I was hoping you could do me a favor. I could make it worth your while.”
“Of what would this favor concern itself?” Cyrus ventured.
“Simply the delivery of a message to a captain in Solitude. But – it would require some discretion. I’d rather you not open the letter.”
Cyrus agreed to deliver the message, but concerned for the Jarl, he opened the letter over dinner in his room. It spoke of former conversations, and the setting in motion of plans in a grave tone. The Redguard pondered whether or not to trust the man until sweet dreams of hot desert days enveloped him
“Well, well. If it isn’t the red-skin with fists of steel!”
The glow of Benor’s cheeks revealed that he had been drinking since the end of his shift. Cyrus didn’t appreciate the distraction, but he knew better than to disrespect a local in his tavern. He stared at Benor, unwilling to lose the focus that his mistress had granted him.
“Where ya headed at this hour night-prowler? All the doors are locked, you won’t find anything to take,” he followed with a laugh that filled the small room.
“The grounds of Hroggar and the burial site of Mort’al. For there lie secrets.”
“Secrets, ha! Well I’ve just spent my last septim thanks to our little bout earlier and all of a sudden I’m in the mood for breaking something. Plus, it couldn’t hurt to keep an eye on this one,” he guffawed as he looked around the bar.
Cyrus had no qualms over having an extra weapon on his side, so the two ventured forth together. As they approached the house, Benor hung back, his many pints taking their toll. Cyrus could see a slight glow emanating from the left corner of the house. He crept up, iron dagger in hand, prepared for battle. As he crossed the threshold, Cyrus lunged at the spirit, but to no avail. His point pierced nothing but the burnt wall behind it, he stumbled back, fearful that he’d been caught in a trap. He heard the spirit release a giggle at his bewilderment. It was but a little girl.
“Let’s play a game,” she laughed. “Try and find me!” With that, she disappeared.
Cyrus cursed under his breath. Ghosts, spirits, wraiths, even in the heat of the desert, they all sent shivers down his back. The mysteries of this marsh seemed endless. He left the house, looking to explain the situation to his drunken friend. Benor was nowhere close by but he could make out a distant figure standing on the edge of the dock, urinating whilst whistling a horrid tune being played in the nearby inn. “Benor,” Cyrus muttered. He pitied a man without purpose, for his own gave him strength. He continued the march to the cemetery without the drunkard, not bothered to interrupt a man absorbed by his own thoughts.
Spotting the shadow of a silhouette against the cliff side, the Redguard dropped to his stomach, cursing the thin fabric of his rough tunic. He swore to find better clothes in the near future. An unknown incantation began to echo from the cemetery. Cyrus, again, readied his dagger and prepared a healing spell which his protector had once taught him. He stood up and called out, “In the name of Satakal, reveal yourself!” The creature appeared human but turned and emitted a seething hiss when it caught sight of the intruder. It charged before Cyrus knew what to do. He swiped with his dagger. But the cut closed nearly as quickly as it was opened. He felt the warmth of the vampiric spell emanating from the beast's hand sapping his life force. The Ra Gada countered with his own spell, restoring what was taken. As he struggled to power his defense, he could not figure an escape. As he was slowly drained he thought to himself, “I have failed my clan, my people,” and whispered, “Forgive me forefathers.” His own power was not enough to overcome his foe’s. He sank to his knees, no longer possessing the strength to stand. Embracing his mistress, he looked to the stars above, where he caught a glint of steel, Benor’s hammer. It dropped from the heavens, snapping the creature’s spine in half with a thunderous blow, saving Cyrus’ life. The Nord stumbled to the side then helped the Redguard up, placed a rough, massive palm on the back of his neck and slurred, “Friend.” With that, he returned to the tavern.
Cyrus was shocked, unsure whether to thank Tava or the mead from Moorside Inn. He managed to prop himself up and gaze into the pit. The spirit from the house emerged, with a smile on its face. As before, it laughed, and explained that the vampire wanted to play her game forever. It revealed the creature's name. Cyrus had heard before of this Laelette which now lay dead at his feet. He had heard a man at the mill speaking of his lost wife by the same name, and so the story was woven. He would investigate further after a good night’s sleep.
Cyrus pitied the man whom he would confront. The curse of undeath is feared and loathed among the nomads of the Alik’r and there is no worse fate than to become what is not. Cyrus spoke with Thonnir about Laelette, and piercing through the man’s grief he was led to believe that Alva, Hroggar’s lover, was likely at the center of the marsh town’s curse. He strode across town, anxious to repay his debt to the Jarl. Knocking on the door received no response, and without a lock pick he found himself stranded for he could not very well knock down the door in broad daylight. The honor of his family could not be upheld while he bore the burden debt. Seating himself on the steps to Alva’s house, he pondered his next move. He could think of no solution other than a trip to Solitude, the nearby city which Idgrod had spoken of. He would need supplies and enough coin to purchase the many goods he had been unable to find in Morthal. His arms would tire once more as he spent the rest of the afternoon laboring at the mill.
As the day drew to a close, his pockets full of coin and his recent near death experience still on his mind, Cyrus knocked at the door of the wizard he’d heard of at the inn. Unlike the people of Morthal or many of his countrymen, Cyrus possessed a curiosity regarding the workings of the occult. For much of his youth, he’d been raised by a nomadic shaman, his protector. He had learned much, but very little that could be useful in battle. The hut was cluttered with magical items, potions and curiosities. Cyrus couldn’t help but to sate his curiosity by examining the shelves running from wall to wall. He’d never seen such a collection, not even under his protector’s tent.
The two outsiders conversed for quite some time. They spoke of the townspeople and their apprehension towards foreigners and anything unknown. They spoke of the divines and of the occult, and they spoke of the young orphan that Falion had taken in, one who reminded Cyrus of himself at another age. As the moon rose high above the marsh, Cyrus left with a spell tome he intended to study late in to the night. Returning to the inn, he wanted nothing more than a warm meal and bed. But this was not to be.
Curiously, in the corner of the tavern, he saw the man he believed to be Idgrod’s bodyguard. “A protector who leaves his subject’s side is of little use, and a useless man is usually waiting for something,” thought Cyrus suspiciously as he approached the housecarl. Catching his eye, he pulled out a stool next to him.
“I’m beginning to doubt Jarl Idgrod’s ability to lead,” began the Housecarl. Cyrus was intrigued by the man’s openness but kept his mouth shut, wondering where this would lead. “Since your new here, with few allegiances, I was hoping you could do me a favor. I could make it worth your while.”
“Of what would this favor concern itself?” Cyrus ventured.
“Simply the delivery of a message to a captain in Solitude. But – it would require some discretion. I’d rather you not open the letter.”
Cyrus agreed to deliver the message, but concerned for the Jarl, he opened the letter over dinner in his room. It spoke of former conversations, and the setting in motion of plans in a grave tone. The Redguard pondered whether or not to trust the man until sweet dreams of hot desert days enveloped him
