Seanu Reaves
The Shogun of Gaming
Chapter 10
Malus was running, the sun beating upon his sweat drenched body. It stung his burning red eyes which were still a bit sensitive. He was young. Only twenty summers at the most, not that he even knew his birthday. He was clad in some old and worn Stormcloak armor, the blue actually contrasting with his light blue-grey skin. Upon his hip was a rusted and plain iron sword. His equipment looked awkward on the elf, as it was obviously meant for a heavy muscular Nord man. It impeded his run but he was still faster than most of the other soldiers he had seen. His fellow storm cloaks still hated him. Which actually lead to him being spared. He thought back onto what had happened.
He was assigned to a small detachment of soldiers meant for Falkreath hold. They decided to make camp in the plains of Whiterun. Malus didn’t know when the attack occurred but he could have summed up that it likely occurred when the clouds blocked out the almost full moon. The men were likely disoriented from drink and fatigue. They were weak, Malus often thought. City folk that bared the cold but never suffered it. He heard noises from the camp. He wouldn’t have even noticed it if the wind didn’t happen to shift. Silence. That awkward absence of sound that rarely ever pierced civilized folks existence. Malus knew it well, after all when escaping racist Guards and drunkards who enjoyed harassing the people of the Grey Quarter you had to be able to hide even when there was nowhere to. An owl hooted, as Malus dropped into a crouch. He moved within that silence like it was a second home. It was suffocating but he moved deeper into the camp. Something is wrong, Malus thought and knew in his heart. Not even a snore to break the camp’s silence. There was no sign of even a struggle but Malus knew if he checked the tents there would be dead men within. Suddenly one of the tent flaps opened and out came a large Nord. His face was covered in shadows but Malus could see his eyes as the figure looked around the camp. Satisfied with his work and Malus also saw something in those eyes that made his heart want to stop for fear of catching the figure’s attention. The figure turned towards Malus and the dark elf quickly ducked behind the corner. Hearing the footsteps come close, and ever closer.
Malus’ eyes slowly opened as he sat up, he could feel his body covered with a thin film of sweat. As his mind came to he realized he was in the forest still. He realized that the crown was likely still in the snow. Malus cursed to himself, after all that made all his work for naught. He turned to see Slade, wrapped in a gray and white patchwork cloak. He was nearly impossible to see, the only hint was his orange face paint, and Malus was awed by his technique. It would be quite the tool for ambushes, Malus thought, putting the idea into the back of his mind. Malus turned to see the imperial in a standard bedroll. His face twisted into a slight smirk. Dreaming of Family, Malus thought with a tinge of jealousy. Or a lover. As Malus stood he nodded to Dales who returned the salute. His armor was stiff from the cold, but if Malus moved he could thaw out what bit of frost formed. Because the fine elven material didn’t stick as much as steel while also insulating that much better. Malus had a shiver down his spine waiting for a crossbow bolt that didn’t come.
Dales watched the elf turn towards Windhelm. Funny, Dales thought. You would think he would head back to the ruins. Dales thought about the strange artifact that the elf had with him when he was shot. He doesn’t seem like just a tomb raider, Dales began to deduce. He isn’t even like an adventurer, he is a soldier. And so Dales looked in the direction Malus went. Wondering what it was about that elf that so interested him. Maybe it was all the strange occurrences Dales assumed. Maybe Malus was just the old guard experiencing another. “Talk of dragons, Stormcloak corpses at that ruin, Thalmor movements, butchered Orphanage Matrons,” Dales whispered to himself. “What do the Nine have planned for us?”
Malus was running, the sun beating upon his sweat drenched body. It stung his burning red eyes which were still a bit sensitive. He was young. Only twenty summers at the most, not that he even knew his birthday. He was clad in some old and worn Stormcloak armor, the blue actually contrasting with his light blue-grey skin. Upon his hip was a rusted and plain iron sword. His equipment looked awkward on the elf, as it was obviously meant for a heavy muscular Nord man. It impeded his run but he was still faster than most of the other soldiers he had seen. His fellow storm cloaks still hated him. Which actually lead to him being spared. He thought back onto what had happened.
He was assigned to a small detachment of soldiers meant for Falkreath hold. They decided to make camp in the plains of Whiterun. Malus didn’t know when the attack occurred but he could have summed up that it likely occurred when the clouds blocked out the almost full moon. The men were likely disoriented from drink and fatigue. They were weak, Malus often thought. City folk that bared the cold but never suffered it. He heard noises from the camp. He wouldn’t have even noticed it if the wind didn’t happen to shift. Silence. That awkward absence of sound that rarely ever pierced civilized folks existence. Malus knew it well, after all when escaping racist Guards and drunkards who enjoyed harassing the people of the Grey Quarter you had to be able to hide even when there was nowhere to. An owl hooted, as Malus dropped into a crouch. He moved within that silence like it was a second home. It was suffocating but he moved deeper into the camp. Something is wrong, Malus thought and knew in his heart. Not even a snore to break the camp’s silence. There was no sign of even a struggle but Malus knew if he checked the tents there would be dead men within. Suddenly one of the tent flaps opened and out came a large Nord. His face was covered in shadows but Malus could see his eyes as the figure looked around the camp. Satisfied with his work and Malus also saw something in those eyes that made his heart want to stop for fear of catching the figure’s attention. The figure turned towards Malus and the dark elf quickly ducked behind the corner. Hearing the footsteps come close, and ever closer.
Malus’ eyes slowly opened as he sat up, he could feel his body covered with a thin film of sweat. As his mind came to he realized he was in the forest still. He realized that the crown was likely still in the snow. Malus cursed to himself, after all that made all his work for naught. He turned to see Slade, wrapped in a gray and white patchwork cloak. He was nearly impossible to see, the only hint was his orange face paint, and Malus was awed by his technique. It would be quite the tool for ambushes, Malus thought, putting the idea into the back of his mind. Malus turned to see the imperial in a standard bedroll. His face twisted into a slight smirk. Dreaming of Family, Malus thought with a tinge of jealousy. Or a lover. As Malus stood he nodded to Dales who returned the salute. His armor was stiff from the cold, but if Malus moved he could thaw out what bit of frost formed. Because the fine elven material didn’t stick as much as steel while also insulating that much better. Malus had a shiver down his spine waiting for a crossbow bolt that didn’t come.
Dales watched the elf turn towards Windhelm. Funny, Dales thought. You would think he would head back to the ruins. Dales thought about the strange artifact that the elf had with him when he was shot. He doesn’t seem like just a tomb raider, Dales began to deduce. He isn’t even like an adventurer, he is a soldier. And so Dales looked in the direction Malus went. Wondering what it was about that elf that so interested him. Maybe it was all the strange occurrences Dales assumed. Maybe Malus was just the old guard experiencing another. “Talk of dragons, Stormcloak corpses at that ruin, Thalmor movements, butchered Orphanage Matrons,” Dales whispered to himself. “What do the Nine have planned for us?”