For Love of Magic

Chapter 1

"You're endangering everything that we have held sacred for centuries!" Radaam Ulfson tried futilely to keep his the anger from his voice.

"Father," Rolan Ulfson, Radaam's oldest son and knowing source of his ire responded in a low voice, "you know I would never implicate our family or its secrets."

"Knowingly, perhaps, Rolan," the older man turned to his eldest and switched to his all-too-familiar lecturing tone. "You would never knowingly betray your family. Don't you see, however, the Arcane University is filled with mages who are skilled not only in their arts but in discovering the talents others would normally overlook in themselves."

Rolan turned away as his father's trump card was held up yet again.

"Rolan, they will take one look at you and know what you are."

"Not necessarily, Radaam," a voice to the side of the sitting room caught their attention.

Standing in the shadows was a form measuring well over seven feet tall with skin the deep color of precious sapphire. Sprouting from either sides of his forehead were small horns colored crimson. Muscular though he was the most impressive feature – at least to Rolan – on his body were his glowing amber eyes.

"Don't talk nonsense, Maxil," his father addressed the familiar. "He can't hide what he is, not from them."

"Under normal circumstances I would agree, my friend," Maxil, a Xivilai from the deepest reaches of Oblivion, and Radaam's best friend for the last thirty years, stepped forward. "However, some of us have been anticipating this day."

Narrowing his eyes, Radaam turned to face the towering creature. Although Maxil stood head and shoulders over the smaller Breton, he nonetheless took a step back as his friend came to stand before him.

"What do you mean 'some of us'?" the small man glared up at the Xivilai.

Obviously uncomfortable with the shift in tension, Maxil tried looking away, but Radaam was having none of it. Each time he turned his eyes or head, Rolan's father was right there to intercept. Thinking to rescue the poor creature from his father's well known temper Rolan spoke up.

"I asked for their help, father."

"You what?!"

In the corner of the room Raji, a young Clanfear, and the first creature Rolan ever learned to summon, raised her head from napping. She sniffed the air and decided it would be best to relocate her sleep to another room.

"It was obvious that you were not about to assist me in this, so I asked the only others whom I believed could lend aid," Rolan suddenly found it very difficult to swallow.

By some miracle his father didn't lash out the obviously brimming verbal berating. Instead, he took a deep breath and sat down at the small table in the kitchen. Taking great care, Radaam took the single clay pitcher and poured himself a cup of water. With a calm that was more unsettling than his normal demeanor he placed his hands on the table and exhaled.

"And what, pray tell, is this brilliant plan of yours?"

Taken aback by the sudden change of tone and the possibility of success looming on the horizons, Rolan spoke quickly.

"Maxil said it may be possible to suppress my abilities through enchantment magic," he explained. "Using daedric skills he could construct an amulet or other such item, then with the proper spell, it could serve to lessen my Conjuring abilities. At worst an attentive exam would yield that I have a gift for the art but not to the degree that they will suspect."

"An amulet would be too obvious; they would confiscate any such item. Initiates are not allowed into the University while bearing magical items, you know this," Radaam's tone was argumentative but not dismissive.

"A ring then," Rolan looked to his Xivilai instructor.

"It is still too obvious. You would need something that could be concealed underneath your clothing and avoid casual inspection."

"Yes, I suppose that's true."

"It is true," Radaam grumbled. "And just who would be the one to enchant the item? Neither Maxil's nor your skills lie in that arena, Rolan."

"I would, of course," a soft voice piped in from the stairwell nearby.

None of them had to turn around to know the source of the voice. Sweet, collected, and calm, as always, Syrah Ulfson stepped into the space and made her way to the table.

As soon as he'd heard her voice, Radaam's shoulders slumped and his head fell to the table, making a loud thump. He began to shake his head and mutter under his breath and Rolan began to understand that their newest ally had definitely turned the tide.

Imperial by birth, she bore the classic features of her race. Narrow cheeks framed her bright blue eyes which shone with an inner radiance. Her posture exuded strength that was belied by her small, distinctly feminine figure. Raven black hair cascaded down past her shoulders ending in well-groomed and lavish curls that were the envy of every woman in the nearby county of Anvil. In her mid-forties, Syrah was the most beautiful woman Rolan had ever known in his fifteen years of life. She didn't walk into a room so much as glide into it.

Although her beauty was a distinct weapon in itself, it was by no measure her only means of attack. Syrah had been one of the most powerful magicians of her guildhall. Skilled in the arts of Destruction, Illusion, and Alchemy all of those paled in comparison to her skills in Enchantment. Considered a prodigy at the age of twelve she could have advanced quickly through the ranks of magicians and even become the youngest Archmage in history and that had been the very course she had set upon until the age of nineteen.

All of her aspirations were set aside, however, the day she met Radaam Ulfson.

While it wasn't exactly "love at first sight" – a circumstance which Rolan understood completely since his father's physical looks could, at best, be described as frumpy – Syrah had never the less become infatuated by the man. Introduced by her guild-mate Hannibal Traven, Master of the Anvil Mage's Guildhall and Radaam's childhood friend, she had taken quite an interest in his father. In time she had come to learn the truth of their bloodline and eventually trusted with their secrets.

"You too, Syrah?" Radaam whimpered.

"Don't be so dramatic, Radaam," she chided. "Our son is growing up, and part of that journey includes stretching his wings."

"So he can fly into the sun?"

Syrah sighed, "He has more sense than that. You taught him better."

"Yes, and if he had listened, then we wouldn't even be having this conversation, would we?" even as he spoke, his forehead remained fixed on the tabletop.

"Be glad that he is asking our help, dearest," she paused, looking directly at Rolan. "Imagine if we had woken one day to find his bed empty with nothing but a note farewell to mark his leaving."

With that said aloud, Radaam sprang his head up to look at his son in shock.

"I… I would never-," Rolan stammered.

"I know, Rolan," his mother smiled, "but your father needed to hear that, I believe."

From then on, Radaam's position had gone straight downhill. The three of them had filled in the rest of their plan to obscure Rolan's talents from the Mages Guild. In the end they had won, and after purchasing a horse and sufficient supplies, Rolan had set off to begin his apprenticeship.

Against his parent's wishes, he had not begun his journey at the Anvil guild. Master Traven had been a family friend too long and Rolan held the man in too high regard to face him with such inexperience. No, Anvil was to be his final stop before joining the Arcane University. Besides, he was eager to be on his journey and spending his first apprentice year in his home town seemed rather anti-climactic to him.

Several agonizing days later, he set forth for his first destination, the city of Leyawiin.


"Three years," Rolan mused. "Three years almost to the day."

"What was that?" asked Attlan Beryan, a fellow Breton and Rolan's companion of the last year.

"Oh, nothing," he shook his head, trying to focus on the moment.

With a knowing smile, the young man riding next to him replied, "Looks like you were off in your head again. Another moment worth remembering, perhaps?"

"Perhaps," he smiled back.

The two had met in Cheydinhal studying the arts of Alteration for the last eight months. Both had lacked a talent for the magic and learning had been slow and tedious. With each other's help, however, while not exactly excelling in the craft, they had acquired a moderate understanding and passed the tests. With their recommendations secured the pair were moving on to their next destination: Bruma.

Rolan looked over at his companion to see the young man twirling a large pad-lock on his index finger. With each spin the mechanism popped open only to be shut again as it fell into his palm. Impressive enough a feat standing still, but to do so while riding horseback on a slightly uneven road…

"Deceiver!" Rolan accused.

"Pardon?"

"You were struggling just as much as I was during the exam. Supposedly it took all your effort to just work the latches while sitting stationary and now here you are opening it at will as the horse walks!"

"I'm sorry, is this supposed to be difficult?" Attlan's eyes were full of innocence.

Rolan's eyes narrowed.

"So, I've been practicing."

"No more than I."

"Maybe I had a breakthrough."

"You did not."

"It's… possible."

"Don't lie to me, Attlan."

"Fine," he let out a disgruntled sigh, "I held back during the exams."

"But, why?"

Catching the small bundle swiftly in his hand, he lowered his gaze, "I'm sorry for the ruse, my friend. It's… it's just that… back home, I never had any friends. In a small farming village like mine those with magical talents are treated differently. Not only is it assumed they will leave when of age to train formally, but it's also the hope of all that they will never return.

"I met others during my time at the guildhalls but you were the first that I ever truly felt close to," he juggled the lock in his hand a few times then continued. "My father told me something when I left home. He said that if I should ever find someone that I could truly call a friend then I should do all that is possible to develop that bond."

The admission caught Rolan more than a little off-guard, and initially he was unaware of how to proceed. While it was true the two of them had developed a fairly strong bond in the last year, it was a relationship that he had been wholly unfamiliar with in the past. His father had never encouraged him to have friends back home in Anvil. There was too much risk involved with their family's dark history. That being the case, to hear such a confession from another, even though he felt much the same, he still didn't know quite how to respond.

Then, it came to him. Grinning ear to ear, he replied.

"Are you courting me, then?"

"Shut up," Attlan sighed and shook his head.

"I would just like to make it clear that, whilst I do not find you to be particularly unappealing, physically," Rolan tried to make his voice as amiable as possible, "I just do not think of you in that way."

"You're a fool."

"Now, if you had a sister which bore a striking resemblance to you," he gestured in a grandiose fashion, "I would not be entirely put off with her as a prospect."

"Forget it."

"Then again, perhaps given enough time," he made a show of eyeing his friend up and down several times, "and alcohol… lots of alcohol, perhaps a romance may ensue between us."

Unable to stifle his humor Attlan's face split in a grin, "You're a right bastard, you know that, don't you?"

Chuckling, Rolan patted his friend on the back, "Yes, but I'm your right bastard, my friend."

He saw Attlan eyeing him sideways.

"I'm glad you stayed," he admitted. "It certainly made things a little more bearable."

Attlan nodded and smiled back in response before going back to twirling the lock.

As the pair continued their journey towards the county of Bruma, and their next apprenticeship, Rolan took the time to study his friend. To say that Attlan was appealing to women was an understatement. While most Bretons were possessed of rather rounded faces, his square jaw and sharp features gave his companion a more regal look than the rest of his race. Likewise, standing at over six feet high he dwarfed Rolan's more common five-foot-nine frame. He couldn't help but wonder if there were other bloodlines at work within his friend's veins, perhaps he had a Nordic ancestor.

Otherwise, his features were distinctly Breton. His sandy brown hair, dark eyes, and square frame were typical of his people. The only feature Rolan possessed which was contrary to his people were his eyes. Reminiscent of his mother, his own eyes were deep blue in color, the one redeeming feature in his otherwise forgettable face.

Most of his own physical traits had been cursed upon him by his father's rather dominating blood. A face that could at best be considered pudgy, and a smaller rather unremarkable frame – when compared to Attlan – had not done much to impress any of the women he had interacted with of late.

A love life was not his focus of late, he reminded himself. He was an initiate seeking admission into the Arcane University. Furthering his skills so that he could pass the exams for entrance was his life now, and he would not fail. He had invested too much of his time to be distracted by petty wants of the flesh.

Yes… that was the reason he had not found a female companion. Of course it was.

"An inn," Attlan's voice brought him out of his musings.

From their distance he could barely make out the sign of the structure, but he had heard from other initiates that there was a place to rest between the county of Cheydinhal and Bruma. They were almost a day's journey out of the city, and it was going to be another day or perhaps two before they reached the walls of their destination. While the sun wasn't quite low on the horizon it wasn't very high either. Perhaps spending the night under shelter would be best.

"What do you think?" he asked. "Should we stay here for the night?"

"We certainly have the coin."

That was true enough. His father had insisted Rolan take a more than modest sum of Septims with him but neither of them had counted on the fact that the Guildhalls would provide meals and beds for all initiates. Now that he thought on it, his mother had been oddly silent on the subject. Surely she would have known he would be want for little while on his sojourn.

As they closed in, however, the inn quickly began to resemble a shack more than anything else and quickly lost it's appeal. Both travelers looked to each other in agreement. They would not be staying the night there.

"A meal, then?" Attlan proposed.

"It seems busy enough," he looked on to see an Imperial Legionnaire dismounting near the gate. Next to the Legion horse were three other mounts, each contently chewing on the soft undergrowth at their feet. "The food is likely to be fresh."

Their bellies now rumbling, the two made their way towards the gate.

"The Roxey Inn," Attlan commented.

They dismounted and were headed toward the entrance before they noticed a fellow Breton sitting on a bench out front.

"Greetings, lads," the man said.

Remembering every lesson of manners his mother ever berated him for, Rolan quickly replied, "Hello to you, good sir."

"Welcome to the Roxey Inn," he nodded in greeting. "For a few Septims I would be happy to tend your horses while you rest."

"We won't be spending the night," Attlan answered. "But we had planned on having our evening meal here."

"Ah, you won't be disappointed," the man grinned, "Malene makes an excellent wild boar stew and her sweetrolls are baked fresh every day!"

"Thatdoes sound appealing," Rolan remarked.

"If you like, I could tend your mounts while you enjoy your meal."

Impressed with the man's tenacity, Rolan nodded, "You'd have my thanks."

"Howmany Septims?" Attlan's voice took on a suspicious tone.

Scratching his head, the man pondered the question a moment – glancing at their slightly unkempt robes and meager dispositions – before answering, "Six Septims each?"

Attlan mulled the price over then nodded, "That seems fair enough."

"Fair is my middle name, young sir," the man winked.

"And what would your first name be?" Rolan asked, extending his hand.

"Baurion, young sir," he took Rolan's hand and gave it a firm shake.

"I am Rolan Ulfson, and this is Attlan Beryan."

"Pleased to meet you, sir," Attlan politely shook Baurion's hand.

As they entered the inn, Rolan quickly realized that there weren't many tables but managed to occupy one just as its previous inhabitants rose to leave. Attlan went off to negotiate the price of their meal while he maintained their claim.

He tried his best to clean off the table top, but most of the boards were uneven and he knew too much brushing and he would risk receiving several splinters. While suckling on his palm where one of the nasty invaders had taken residence he noticed that Attlan was speaking rather vigorously with the owner – whom he assumed was Malene – and the Imperial Legionnaire they'd seen earlier. Rolan could only guess at what mischief his friend was conjuring up for them.

A few minutes later, steaming bowls and cups in hand, Attlan was only too happy to include him.

"You'll never guess," he was grinning ear to ear, as usual.

"Oh, but I think I can," Rolan grumbled.

Attlan only chuckled in response as he spooned in a mouthful of the – surprisingly – rather tasty stew.

"There's a small Ayleid ruin near the road to Bruma," Attlan was practically shivering with delight.

"No," Rolan's voice was firm.

"Didn't you hear me? An Ayleid ruin!" his friend whispered excitedly.

"No," he repeated.

"Rolan, don't be dull," Attlan complained. "This could be exciting!"

He couldn't keep his eyes from rolling at that, "Oh, of that, I have no doubt. Much like Kemen was going to be exciting?"

Attlan shifted nervously at the reminder. Several months back he'd let his older companion talk him into exploring a similar ruin near Cheydinhal. The two of them had barely made it out with their lives. To make matters worse, the "ancient Ayleid artifact" they had discovered turned out to be a rather commonplace ceremonial weapon with no real value.

"Kemen was different," Attlan tried to reason.

"How?"

The older Breton boy shrugged in response, "There were undead there."

"Yes, and your obsession with the undead is what almost got us killed."

"I'm not obsessed," he argued, "just… interested."

"We both know that's the only reason you're applying for the Arcane University," Rolan sighed and went back to his stew – he fully intended to get the recipe from Malene before they left.

Again, Attlan shrugged.

"There are no undead, there, Malene already confirmed that."

"Then why go?" Rolan looked up, confused.

"I may have made an arrangement or two," he answered, toying with some meat in the bowl.

Rolan's eyes narrowed, "What sort of arrangement?"

"There's a wizard, see?" Attlan's plan came out in a rush. "He has his own tower a day's travel from here, just off the Red Ring Road. Apparently he came by a few days ago in need of Welkynd stones, but Malene had none but she suspected there were some in the ruins of Sercen – that's the name of the Ayleid structure – however none of the frequenters could be bothered to make the trip for the price of a few stones. Now since Ancotar's – that's the name of the wizard – need and finances are rather impressive the price of stones may well be negotiated to our benefit. Malene figured that since the ruins are between here and Ancotar's tower, we could make the trip to bargain."

"Wait, if the ruins are between us and him, why doesn't this Ancotar just get them himself?"

Attlan grinned, "Because he abhors violence and does not wish to risk a confrontation with the inhabitants."

"Nor do I."

"But, Ancotar's a master of Illusion. His work has made him acquainted with enchantments, so I was thinking we might persuade him to create a pair of magical items for us."

"What sort of items?"

He looked around before answering, "Imagine being able to walk around unnoticed. Blending with the shadows as if you were a part of them."

"A Chameleon enchantment?"

"Yes!" Attlan's eyes sparkled. "Imagine the places we could explore! We could walk right by the inhabitants of any Ayleid ruin with ease. Reach depths and riches that even the most hardy of adventurers would fear to tread towards. We could come and go at our leisure."

The prospect was tempting, Rolan had to admit. He had been interested in learning more of the Ayleid histories ever since his mother told him stories about the ancient elven race. The regions of Kavatch and Skingrad were littered with ruins, but he had always been dissuaded by the tales he'd heard of adventurers who had ventured unaware into the dangers of the ruins and were never heard from again. But, to be able to sidle past them with ease… was it worth the risk of one more ruin?

"No," Rolan growled, shaking his head. "I won't be talked into another one of your 'adventures', Attlan. The last one very nearly killed us! We're initiates, not wizards, and don't have the necessary skills to take on whatever we might encounter. There are too many unknowns. No."

"Rolan," Attlan leaned in, still grinning.

"Absolutely not!"

Chuckling with mischief, Attlan was not deterred, "Yes, Rolan."

"NO!" Rolan was determined to hold his ground. He resolved that he would not budge from his seat until Attlan gave in. Rolan was done being the follower, now he would lead.

Several hours later, Rolan found himself muttering various curses and openly questioning the purity of his companion's mother – all to Attlan's delight – outside the ruins of Sercen. The two of them had settled on creeping up to the outer perimeter of the structure after Rolan had spotted the light of a campfire from a distance. Not knowing if they would find goblins or beings with some degree of intelligence, they chose to play it safe.

As they neared the light, Rolan was able to make out the shapes of two people. One, wearing an impressive suit of Ebony armor was sitting near the fire, apparently tending whatever concoction was brewing in a pot suspended over the flame. The other, obviously an orc from the size, was walking along the inner perimeter, a sentry no doubt. He couldn't make out the race of the man by the fire, but neither looked to be in the hospitable mood.

Unconsciously Rolan found himself fingering the armband concealed beneath his robes. Made of plain bronze and wrapped high around his right arm it was the only thing keeping his strong connection to the plains of Oblivion in check. While he had given his word to his family that he would never remove it while in the company of others, he'd already broken his promise once before. His powers had been the only thing to save Attlan and he from the undead denizens of Kemen. As his friend had lain unconscious and bloody on the floor before him – having taken a diseased blow from a zombie meant for Rolan – the decision had rather been made for him. It had been done out of circumstance, but their foolishness had made the choice of putting themselves in that precarious position. Rather than learning from the incident, however, they were making the same wrong choices again.

Rolan wasn't about to let his best friend risk his life on his own, though, and he knew if it came to it, he would not hesitate in removing the armband again should the need arise.

"I'll take the Orc, you take the Imperial," Attlan whispered as he turned.

For a moment, Rolan was taken aback at the sight of his friend's eyes. They flared mutely with a reddish glow and he realized that Attlan was using his skills in Mysticism to see their opponents very lifeforce. His skills were impressive indeed if he could see both clearly enough from this distance to make out their races. Briefly he wondered what other secret skills Attlan had concealed from him. A pang of guilt immediately followed, however, as he realized there were more than a few secrets he had kept from his best friend.

Bringing his thoughts back to the matter at hand, he nodded his consent. As Rolan surveyed the scene, he worked out the best method of attack. Much to his dismay, the idea of killing these two men did not affect him as he would have thought. Perhaps the unsavory nature of the pair alleviated his conscience somewhat. It seemed he was doing the world a favor by ridding it of such dangerous individuals. At least, those were the thoughts he kept repeating to himself internally. Mayhap his conscience was not quite as tranquil as he initially believed.

Still, Attlan was going to go through with his plan with or without him, and Rolan was not about to allow his friend to venture into such dangerous waters alone. He would use every weapon at his disposal – meager magics as they may be – to ensure both Attlan and he emerged unharmed.

In his mind Rolan made a quick listing of the spells which might be of use. While Destruction magic was not particularly his forte, he nonetheless possessed a moderate skill in the craft. A few fireball spells coupled with lightning and frost, both with area affect and more powerful direct contact variations were perhaps the most effective of his limited library. Of course, his most powerful spells, those dealing in the school of Conjuration, were the ones he was least likely to employ.

He thought on that a moment. While it was true he could not risk summoning some of the more powerful denizens of Oblivion, surely Attlan would not suspect him for bringing forth a lesser being. His Clanfear companion for example, Raji, would be low enough on the tier to not arouse undue interest. She was extremely effective in close range combat and certainly fast enough to avoid any serious injury.

Leaning over, he whispered in Attlan's ear informing his friend of his plan.

With eyes full of his typical mischief, Attlan accepted the proposal and moved off to a better vantage point.

As his friend disappeared into the brush he felt the adrenaline begin to rise in him and Rolan closed his eyes in an attempt to calm himself. Focus was his best weapon right now. If he allowed his mind to be taken over by his natural instincts, then the magic would be lost to him. Determined to maintain composure, he ran through the meditation exercises the Mages Guildhalls had taught him.

Once his mind was focused he drew the enchanted dagger strapped to his hip and reached inward to call forth Raji.

Deeper and deeper his mind fell and soon he began to feel the very flames of Oblivion lapping at his thoughts. His senses were bombarded, the heat of the lava pits which permeated the realm, the stench of sulfur hung bitter in his nostrils, the sounds of everlasting fires burning, and finally, the touch of a familiar soul.

"Raji," he whispered, allowing the smile to find his lips.

As he felt her crossing through the boundaries that separated his world from hers, she touched his very soul and merged with it partly. It was the only way a creature of the realms of Oblivion could survive in Nirn. They had to share their soul with the summoner. In doing so, they formed a bond deeper than any parent and child could know.

It was impossible to form such a bond without trust and skill, of course. By connecting with a mortal, a Daedra was risking its very existence since an unskilled summoner could easily destroy both beings. Many of the greater beings would not answer a summons unless they maintained a high degree of respect for the mortal, which was not an easy thing to inspire in a Daedra.

Raji and Rolan had known each other for over a decade, however, and their bond was as deep as any could go. He knew she would never hesitate to answer his call and feeling her transcending space and time itself to come to his side never ceased to amaze him.

As glad as he was to see her materialize, the Imperial Marauder was equally dismayed. Before he had a chance to draw his sword, Raji lunged forth and knocked him from his feet. The shield he had laid by his feet went flying through the air and disappeared into the bushes nearby.

"Korash!" the Imperial shouted, the fear evident in his voice.

"What?!" the Orc was on the other side of the structure and hadn't heard the commotion. He was moving now, and Rolan could hear the clanking of his boots as he closed the distance to his friend.

Before he could reach his distressed companion, however, Attlan gave him a surprise of his own. From a high perch overlooking the entrance to the subterranean ruins a lightning blast that Rolan could not hope to equal blasted with a thunderous boom and sent the Orc flying backwards. The large claymore in his hands skid off and embedded itself in the roof of a small tent.

Charging from his spot, Rolan set off toward his opponent who wasn't in a position to put up much of a fight by the time he reached the man. The marauder was holding his right arm which had gone limp and waving his sword awkwardly with his left hand as Raji pelted him with blow after blow. His armor was riddled with dents and it was clear there wasn't much strength left in him.

Sure enough, even as Rolan readied his dagger Raji let forth one final blow sending the man sprawling to the ground. When he looked to be getting up Rolan sent his boot flying into the marauder's face. Satisfied he would not be getting up for quite some time, he turned his attention toward the Orc.

Attlan's opponent had not fared nearly as well as Rolan's, however, and he watched in horror as the Orc ran headfirst into a stone structure. His senses stripped of him due to the flames engulfing his entire body Rolan doubted the poor creature had even registered the impact. At first he writhed on the ground for a few moments but soon after, he lay perfectly still, the only sound in the air the crackling of his skin as it was seared off by the relentless fire.

Unable to stand the sight any longer, Rolan reached into himself and summoned forth the icy storms of the north. As the frost blast struck the limp body, the fires finally dispatched.

"Why did you do that?" Attlan asked, hopping down from his perch.

Rolan could only look at his friend for the ridiculous question.

"He was my kill," his friend grumbled. "I wanted to see how long the fires would burn."

"We are not monsters, Attlan," Rolan tried to keep the disgust out of his voice. "There was nothing to be gained from it."

Attlan's frustration became apparent in his voice, "This isn't some practice session for Guild exams, Rolan. It's life or death out here. We don't have any senior mages to protect us should things go wrong. All we can rely on is each other."

"I understand that, but he was dead already."

"Then he couldn't feel the pain, could he?"

The obvious answer nonetheless eluded Rolan, "It's not right. It's just not right, Attlan."

"Trust me, my friend," Attlan clapped his hand on Rolan's shoulder. "They wouldn't have shown us any mercy."

"Your friend is correct," a new voice said.

As one, the two of them turned to regard the newcomer, both had their weapons ready. Raji, sensing Rolan's distress charged out to stand in front of them.

They calmed quickly, however, as the speaker emerged from the shadows, clad in the armor of an Imperial Legionnaire. Raji, no longer feeling thoughts of fear, relaxed as well.

The soldier held his silver claymore resting against his right shoulder as he spoke, "These men were murderers and thieves as vile as any you may have heard tales of. They would not have hesitated in taking both your lives if they suspected you carried anything of worth. Shed no tears for them, young sir. You have done the Empire a service this evening."

"Were you here the whole time?" Rolan asked.

Nodding, the soldier answered, "I followed you from the Inn. Malene can be rather convincing with her proposals, in my experience, and I was concerned that you two were heading into a situation neither were prepared for."

He looked around before continuing, "But I can see I was mistaken. An impressive performance from two initiates."

Suddenly realizing that Raji had been present far too long to not arouse suspicion, Rolan mentally dismissed her. He felt her twang of disappointment that they would not be playing longer but, before she vanished completely, he assured her that she would probably be summoned again very soon.

Behind them, the Imperial moaned softly before becoming quiet once more.

The Legionnaire pulled forth a set of shackles and walked towards the unconscious man.

"I'll take this one in later," he said. "I'm assuming that you two are intent on venturing into the ruins of Sercen?"

With a wide grin, Attlan nodded.

"Very well, I'll accompany you, then. I had received reports a band of marauders was working out of this location, but with our forces scattered so thoroughly, I knew reinforcements would be a long time coming."

"Perhaps this circumstance will benefit us both, then?" Attlan asked.

The Legionnaire looked up at him and thought for a moment.

"Very well," he sighed. "Thirty gold pieces for each member you and your friend dispatch."

"Fifty."

"Thirty-five."

"Forty-five," Attlan crossed his arms and stroked his jaw, his usual pose when negotiating.

Both stared long and hard at each other, then, in unison, they both spoke, "Forty."

"Your friend is a shrewd one," the soldier remarked to Rolan. "He should be a merchant."

"How do you know I wasn't?" Attlan grinned.

With the quirk of an eyebrow Rolan silently asked his friend the obvious question.

A wink and a slight shake of his head was all the answer he received.

"Indeed," the soldier grinned. "Let's go, then. Ready yourselves for anything. There may be as many as nine more men down there and an Ayleid ruin is a danger in itself."

Rolan took a deep breath as the three of them gathered by the entrance. He was glad to have someone with some actual combat experience, even so the nervousness was beginning to creep up on him again. It took less effort to quell the sensation the second time around, though.

With a quick nod, the Legionnaire opened the doors and hustled inside. Attlan and Rolan quickly followed.