A/N: Only five reviews for chapter 21? Have my exhortations fallen upon deaf ears? If you read, review. Simple.
Underpaid Critic: Fear not, reviews will never affect my rate of uploads. Only my own determination to see this finished long before the release of Skyrim can do that.
Random Reader: Modryn's a favourite of mine as well, so you can be sure he'll play a part. Also, I rarely play Oblivion any more, and right now I'm happy with it as it is, but if it ever gets stale... I'll know what to look for. And if someone attempts to strangle Gnaeus (understandable) they'd better move quickly if they don't want his blade in their ribs. He wouldn't be as bad if he knew he couldn't back it up.
Iyrsiiea: Merging, a good thing? Now we have no way of seperating Morrowind, Oblivion, and Skyrim fics. What if we only want to read fics about Skyrim, or only Oblivion? It'd be impossible.
Anyhow, I'll shut up for now. Just leave a review. It can only help.
Chapter Twenty-two: Duty Calls
Modryn Oreyn looked up as the door to the Chorrol Guildhall banged open. It would be time for lunch soon, and he was alone on the ground floor, unarmoured, filling out some accursed paperwork. Eager for a distraction, his eyes fell upon the Orc who had just entered, who wasted no time in stomping up to him and placing a large, almost completely unreadable, age-worn journal on the desk before the Dunmer. "I believe that this is the journal that Maglir was sent to retrieve," rumbled Gorgoth. Modryn felt the floorboards under his booted feet vibrate.
"Yes, it is," grunted Modryn. "No idea why the client wanted such a piece of crap, but I'm not about to question idiocy that we can profit from." He glanced up to meet Gorgoth's eyes, his own crimson eyes sharpening. "Why is it you standing there and not Maglir?"
"Maglir was a coward. I found him drowning his sorrows in ale in Skingrad, and dragged him down to Fallen Rocks Cave with me." If Gorgoth was feeling any satisfaction about making life uncomfortable, he did not show it as he made his report, which was brief and to the point, but covered all the vital facts. "In my opinion, Maglir is a disgrace to the Guild and should be removed as soon as convenient," he concluded, folding his arms and looking expectantly down at Oreyn.
"Leave that with me, Journeyman," sighed Modryn, rubbing his eyes and standing. He could use a break from the paperwork. He'd used to wear his jet-black hair in a Mohawk, but the arrival of a helmet with his new suit of armour had put an end to that. Now, it was tied back and hung loose at the back, brushing the tops of his shoulders. Standing this close to Gorgoth, Modryn felt small; the Orc overtopped him by almost a foot, and made Modryn, bulky for a Dunmer, look almost anorexic. He didn't like the insinuation, however unintended.
"I received a report this morning from our Leyawiin branch," he continued, gesturing towards one of the papers on the table. "Some of our men – Vantus Prelius, Rellian, and Dubok gro-Shagk - have taken up residence in local tavern, and are causing nothing but trouble." According the report, 'trouble' was a feeble way of putting it. "Letting your hair down after a gruelling contract is fine, but not when it makes the entire Guild look bad." Modryn took a step closer to Gorgoth and firmly poked the Orc's breastplate. "Fix it." With that, he turned and sat back down to tend to his paperwork, putting the Orc out of his mind. With half an ear, he registered the sound of steel on steel in a salute, then the sound of the door slamming as Gorgoth made his exit.
The braziers really did work wonders. Jauffre briskly rubbed his gauntleted hands together over the crackling fire, and immediately warmth started to run down his arms. Soon, the heated blood would reach the rest of his body, reducing the effects of patrolling the battlements for over an hour. Belisarius and Cyrus seemed just as appreciative of the heat as their Grandmaster, having just finished their pre-lunch sparring. At the moment, Jauffre was in a good mood, but in the current times, good moods could be shattered in the blink of an eye. Captain Renault joined the group around the brazier and motioned him away for a private word. Jauffre sighed and followed her over to lean against the West Barracks.
"My man in Orsinium confirms that what Callia said is true," she told him. Jauffre's good mood diminished slightly, but he'd expected the news.
"Well, I'll wait to hear Gorgoth's side before jumping to conclusions. Are you sure that your source is fully reliable?"
Renault's eyes were attempting to bore into Jauffre's skull. Even question one of her sources, and she took it as a personal insult. "Of course, Grandmaster," she replied, an icy tone slipping into her voice. "It's Caius." Jauffre smiled. Caius Cosades might be getting on in years, but he was still the best spymaster in the Blades.
"Is that all?" he asked. Ilend and Aerin drifted into his peripheral vision on their way to stand on the battlements, probably to admire the view. Renault gave a short nod and returned to the brazier. Jauffre paused for a moment, squinting up at the sky. A handful of small clouds periodically obscured the sun, but for now, the skies were clear. That didn't stop it from being cold; winds from the north meant that the snows had barely melted.
Ilend and Aerin seemed to be deep in conversation, leaning on the outer wall, and didn't hear the Breton as he crunched over to stand behind them. Clearing his throat prompted them both to turn; Aerin folded her arms and causally leaned back against the wall, hood of her cloak hiding half her face, while Ilend stood awkwardly halfway between standing to attention and slouching, evidently not knowing which posture to assume. Jauffre resisted the urge to smile.
"We have good news," he told them. "Martin and Selene have deciphered the first section of the Mysterium Xarxes." After hearing Martin talk at great length about the evils of the book, merely speaking its name brought a twist to Jauffre's mouth. If it was not of such great importance, he'd have had it burnt along with anything it had touched during its stay in his fortress. Unfortunately, that course of action was not open to him. "We need reagents... ingredients, if you will, to open a portal to Camoran's Paradise."
"I take it these ingredients aren't going to be a few sprigs of morning glory?" inquired Ilend, finally settling back to lean against the outer wall. His cloak hung loose, exposing his chainmail, and the wind was whipping his hair like a black flag.
Jauffre grunted. "I wish it was that easy," he sighed. "No, we need the blood of a Daedric Prince."
"So we waltz into Oblivion, stab Dagon in the arm, and job done," laughed Aerin. "Should be a piece of cake." She paused. "Wait, you're serious, ain't ya?"
"Fortunately, I doubt the Xarxes is to be taken completely literally at this point," continued Jauffre, ignoring the Bosmer. "I think it might refer to daedric artefacts; the Princes sometimes imbue some of their essence in these objects, giving them their power: that is what we are looking for."
Aerin moaned and closed her eyes, head dropping back to rest against the fortress wall, ignoring the hood falling back from her face. "I'm sure there's a few of those handily lying around that we can use," she muttered mirthlessly.
"I've already informed Gnaeus and sent a messenger to Gorgoth," said Jauffre, shooting a warning glance at the Wood Elf. "In fact, I think-"
"You're damn right, Jauffre, I am ready to get some wear into these boots," came a gravelly voice to Jauffre's left. Gnaeus Magnus had from somewhere found a cloak, and he had two saddlebags swung over his left shoulder, with a staff clasped in his right hand. "I've been sitting, bored, in front of the fire for too long," he continued, ignoring the shocked expressions of Ilend and Aerin. "From what I recall, there's a shrine to Boethia in the middle of nowhere; shrines don't move much, so we'll head there."
"The shrine far to the south of Cheydinhal? You'd be far better off going to the nearby shrine to Azura-" Jauffre was cut off once again.
"For what? I'm not prepared to freeze my arse off even more than it already is just for some heir's convenience." Gnaeus harrumphed and beckoned Ilend and Aerin to join him. "Pack up, you two. I don't intend to travel on my lonesome, though no doubt you'll annoy me so much that I'll lose my sanity within the first hour." Jauffre was left standing alone on the battlements, watching with raised eyebrows as the three headed off to the East Barracks.
"Since when did you become so hyper, old man?" asked Aerin as they entered the barracks and she started throwing her meagre belongings together, ready to stuff into a saddlebag. "I thought you'd stay in front of the fire until spring, maybe summer."
Gnaeus snorted. "I may be old, girl, but my feet still itch. They've been cooped up on a tiny island for thirty-five years, and when a Daedric Prince decides to chuck a fire at said island, you'd think that they'd start roaring for action."
"Why Boethia?" asked Ilend, slinging his saddlebag over his shoulder and checking his sword belt.
"It's the only shrine I know," replied Gnaeus simply. "Jauffre tried to foist me off onto a shrine to Azura, but that's even higher up in the mountains." Aerin's sigh of relief was audible halfway across the barracks. "You can thank me later, girl, but now we need to scratch my itch." Aerin visibly recoiled. "Metaphorically," barked Gnaeus, turning on his heel and stalking off towards the stables.
Ilend and Aerin exchanged a glance. "Ya know, I think I preferred him when he slept eighteen hours a day," observed Aerin.
"Look on the bright side," replied Ilend, sounding optimistic. "At least he won't push as hard as Gorgoth; his horse isn't as fast." The Imperial followed Gnaeus out of the barracks. Aerin took one last, almost wistful, glance around, then followed him.
The noonday sun meant that the shadows were barely visible on the sands of the Arena. Beating down mercilessly from a near-cloudless sky, it also served to make the weather seem hotter than mid-autumn. Having lived in Cyrodiil for a few years, Saliith was by now used to the weather, but at times in winter he found himself sorely missing the warm, humid climate of Black Marsh. Now was not one of those times. Right now, all he could do was focus on the Blue Team Hero across the sands, both watching each other warily.
Saliith's opponent, light-skinned for a Dunmer, had been Gladiator for months, and when he was finally promoted to Hero recently, no-one had claimed that it was undeserved. While he'd been in the Arena for so long that he rarely used his name any more – Saliith himself did not know it – with that experience came lethal efficiency. A scimitar hung from his hip, a war axe was strapped to his back, and a bow was held in his hands, an arrow half-drawn. The Dark Elf could use them all with skill approaching mastery.
Having left his armour in his room at The Merchants Inn, Saliith had donned a new yellow raiment, Owyn predictably grumbling about the demise of the old one, which was irreparable; after he had removed it, only a few stitches had stopped it from breaking in two. The Argonian's shortswords were as sharp as ever, as were his throwing knives. His mind was sharp as well; fighting was just about the only time it was ever focused these days. Thoughts still in turmoil, Saliith had resolved to fight until either he'd reached a decision about what to do, or received word from Gorgoth.
In under a second, the Dunmer had drawn the arrow to his cheek and loosed it at Saliith, who had been expecting it. He rolled to the side, coming up in a crouch, ready to dodge again, but his opponent was being conservative with his arrows. The crowd was growing restless, but they could wait. Each gladiator blocked out everything but each other. The Dark Elf's bow was a composite, with a balance of speed, range, and power, but in this case, it was too slow; a short bow would have caused more problems for Saliith, but now he was already jumping out of the way before the arrow left the bowstring.
Saliith whipped a throwing knife from his back and threw it, sun reflecting off the steel as it flew towards the Blue Team Hero, who sidestepped rapidly to avoid it. A small cloud of sand rose from where the knife hit the ground and slid to a halt. Saliith rushed forward, closing the distance rapidly. The Dunmer loosed an arrow, but Saliith smoothly leapt into a forward roll, feeling the flight of the arrow as it passed over his back, and rose up to strike at his opponent with both blades. Throwing his bow aside, the Dark Elf drew his scimitar and parried Saliith's strike with such force that the Argonian's other arm was thrown off balance and his attack merely grazed the light blue raiment.
Falling back, Saliith gave his opponent no respite and struck again, left sword darting towards the Dunmer's stomach while the other moved to decapitate him. Sidestepping, the Dark Elf blocked the swing while somehow using his right arm as a sword-breaker, slamming his arm into the side of the blade to press it against his ribcage. As Saliith attempted to cut upwards through his bicep, the Dunmer brought a foot up with stunning speed and kicked Saliith in the stomach with such ferocity that the Argonian was knocked off his feet, losing his left shortsword.
Saliith flipped back to his feet, throwing a knife in the same movement. The range was too short for the slightly unbalanced Dunmer to dodge easily, and the blade sliced his cheek open, sending a trickle of blood down his face, the crimson contrasting sharply with the ash-grey skin. Releasing Saliith's trapped shortsword, the Dark Elf caught the hilt and flipped it round, ready to use it against its owner. Saliith pulled another knife from his back and clenched it tightly in his left fist. The two Heroes circled each other warily, neither willing to resume the conflict, despite the howls of the crowd. Saliith had drawn first blood, but was disadvantaged by the loss of his shortsword.
The Blue Team Hero charged. Saliith met the scimitar with his shortsword and fell to a crouch, stabbing up at the Dunmer's stomach with his knife as his own shortsword grazed his arm. The Dark Elf spun away and swung again at Saliith's flank. Turning, the Argonian rolled under the attack and flipped up, kicking his opponent in the back and sending him staggering forward, but the experienced gladiator recovered and turned before Saliith could capitalise. His throwing knife was easily avoided. The Yellow Team Hero grimaced and pulled another one off his back. His supply was rapidly decreasing.
Once again, the nameless Dunmer charged in, slashing across Saliith's chest with a swing strong enough to slice the Argonian in two. Saliith sidestepped and threw his knife. Through freakish luck, it deflected off the shortsword clenched in the Dark Elf's left fist and flew into his ribcage, cutting through the raiment until it came to rest between his lower ribs, dangerously close to his kidney. Not wasting his opportunity, Saliith darted in as his opponent stumbled, ignoring the shocked gasp of the crowd, and started a relentless series of slashes, driving his wounded opponent back across the sands. While slowed and undoubtedly in considerable pain, the Blue Team Hero was able to keep Saliith at bay, aided by the Argonian missing half his normal offensive melee arsenal.
Despite his valiant attempts at survival, the Dunmer had effectively lost the battle; while not a fatal wound, it was enough to slow him, and in a hotly contested fight, that was enough. Slowly, Saliith was backing him into a corner, prompting some of the crowd to rise to their tiptoes, stretching their necks for a better view. Any attempt at a counterattack was immediately destroyed by Saliith, who had flown into a frenzy, using his limbs as well as his blade in attack, occasionally even throwing his shortsword from fist to fist. The audience knew the end had to come soon, and waited with bated breath. The announcer gestured for more water to cleanse his throat in preparation for announcing the winner.
Abruptly, the Dunmer smashed aside Saliith's blade with enough force to stagger the Argonian, then stepped back, both swords falling to his side, slumping. The sheer pain and exhaustion was evident on his face, his crimson eyes dull. Roars from the crowd urged Saliith to finish it quickly. The announcer rose to his feet. Less experienced gladiators watching from their viewing area started to head back down to the Bloodworks. The more experienced ones stayed.
The Argonian's clear green eyes met the Dunmer's scarlet eyes. Saliith didn't move from his crouch, within striking reach of his opponent. The audience, almost frenzied with anticipation, howled for Saliith to rush in and end it. But Saliith had made the mistake once before of assuming an opponent was defeated; he had barely got out with his life. He stayed where he was, a slow smile creeping onto his face, sword raised, ready to attack. A snarl contorted the face of the Dunmer, his partly faked exhaustion banished from his features as he roared a war cry and leapt at his adversary, swinging both blades. Saliith rolled under him, slashing his blade up just as he rose from his roll. A moment of resistance slowed the blade, and the screams of the crowd almost overwhelmed him as blood splattered the sands. Saliith rose to his full height and turned.
Blood was pooling around the Dunmer; Saliith's shortsword, aided by the momentum of both combatants, had cut through the light raiment, flesh, and bone, splitting the Blue Team Hero, creating a huge, gaping wound running from his groin to his stomach. Effectively, Saliith had lengthened the Dark Elf's legs.
Kneeling by the side of his opponent, Saliith strained to catch his last words. Blood spurted out of the Dunmer's trembling mouth as he attempted to force his words out, only to helplessly gurgle as his long Arena career came to an end. His hand lifted in a feeble attempt to grasp Saliith's wrist, then fell back as his eyes glazed over. Ignoring the rhetoric of the announcer and the cries of the crowd, Saliith gently slid his opponents eyes closed and straightened slowly.
He never had learnt the Dunmer's name. Neither had the crowd. They didn't care. What they wanted was a spectacle, and if a hero rose from that, they named him themselves. A gladiator was just that to them; a source of entertainment; someone to be cheered on in the relentless search for excitement. Their personal thoughts, feelings, past – none of them mattered to the crowd. In the end, it didn't matter that the Dunmer had been nameless; no-one would remember him anyway. Just another corpse to be chucked in the sewers to rot and be forgotten. A fate that Saliith was determined to avoid. Glory would be hard-won, but he doubted that Agronak would ever be truly forgotten. Agronak would get a grave. Agronak might even have a bloody plaque with some of his words of wisdom engraved upon it. Because he was the Grey Prince.
Saliith retrieved his other shortsword and collected up his throwing knives. Ignoring the crowd, he walked slowly back to the Bloodworks. Branwen had never considered becoming just another anonymous corpse, but it had still happened. Their shared dream of immortal glory was over for her, but not for Saliith. She was forgotten no matter what he did – no-one would ever appreciate a loser, no matter what any gladiator said – but, if she could talk to him now, he was certain of what she would say. Don't let me hold you back, Saliith. Live the dream. Win the glory that I couldn't. I know I'm not forgotten by everyone.
Bypassing the Basin of Renewal – he had suffered nothing more than bruises in the battle – the Argonian walked up to Owyn, who wordlessly handed him a heavy bag of gold. Saliith hung it from his sword belt and left the Bloodworks. He never trained in there. Too cramped.
Apparently, he was quite an attraction, as there was a steady stream of spectators leaving the Arena after collecting their winnings, apparently having showed up just to watch him fight. As Saliith watched them, wary of Agronak's fan – the yellow-haired Bosmer had taken to rehearsing his worshipping routines on unsuspecting gladiators – two young Argonians spotted him and approached him, both grinning eagerly. Saliith noted that they couldn't be much more than sixteen, but he wasn't too surprised; the Arena attracted just about every race and all ages. The two Argonians, looking like a brother and sister, both wearing slightly ragged tunics over their light green scales, approached him somewhat nervously.
"Hey there, gladiator," greeted the boy, his rasping voice betraying his nervousness. "That was-" he was interrupted by his sister.
"Didn't you hear the announcer?" she asked her brother indignantly. "He's a Hero, not a Gladiator." Turning back to Saliith, she attempted a smile. "That was some fight, Hero, we were watching."
Saliith had been warned about fans by various higher-ranking gladiators, though thankfully none were as bad as Agronak's personal Bosmeri terror. It appeared that the tales of mobbing by squealing girls were false, at least for Argonians. "Thanks," he grunted. "He was a good fighter." Saliith paused. "What name do you know me by?" he asked, somewhat interested as to what he was known as.
"When you started, there were hundreds of names for you," piped up the boy, his tail jerking in eagerness. "Now, we only ever hear you called The Scaled Slasher, The Green Whirlwind, or Bloodscales."
"It's a process of elimination, really," chipped in the girl. "As you get higher up, your names get changed, and lesser ones get eliminated, before you end up with just one left." She had a burst of purple scales at her throat, unlike her brother, who had orange creeping up the sides of his neck. Apart from those splashes of colour, they were all light green.
Saliith leaned back against a nearby pillar, folding his arms, tail twitching slightly. "And what are your names?" he asked. Out of the corner of his eye, he observed Agronak crossing the Arena grounds quickly, with a harried expression on his face. His haste was not enough; his fan burst out of a nearby bush and promptly knelt in front of his hero, bowing so deeply and repeatedly it looked like he was heatbutting the paving stones. Saliith jerked his attention back to the two Argonians.
Both seemed taken aback that their idol would take even a passing interest in them, but they swiftly recovered, talking over each other in their eagerness to answer, all awkwardness leaving their postures as they attempted to please their hero. Saliith managed to work out that the boy was Huzei and the girl was Neesha. He held up his hands, and instantly their babble cut off. "It was good to meet you," he rasped. "But right now I have to keep up my training, or it's likely that you'll see more blood on my scales than my Arena name suggests." They giggled at that, and scurried off to their home on the Waterfront. He watched them leave the Arena grounds, then shook his head, sighed, and headed over to the training area that he'd once shared with Branwen.
Before he reached it, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning, he found himself looking up into the pale face of Agronak gro-Malog, who had apparently successfully fled from his fan. They'd exchanged words in the past, but no more than the odd sentence. "We need to talk," muttered Agronak, his face unreadable as he led Saliith over to the paved training area that the Argonian had been heading to. Not many gladiators trained in this section; Saliith was quite protective of it.
"What is it?" asked Saliith, somewhat warily. It was the opinion of some of the gladiators that he was the biggest rising threat to the current Grand Champion, as the Yellow Team Champion, Hroadis, had been sitting on her rank for four months now, with no sign of wanting to challenge Agronak, and certainly not skilled enough to survive such a battle.
"I'll be blunt, Saliith," rumbled Agronak, leaning on a pillar and folding his arms. "You want to duel Owyn, and I can tell that you won't rest until he's dead. I saw the look in your eyes when you confronted him upon your return, and they're not the eyes of a pacifist."
"So what does that have to do with you?" asked Saliith, but he already knew. He'd thought about it often enough.
"If you succeed in killing Owyn, the only available option to replace him as Blademaster is me," grunted Agronak. "I might not want to retire early. Ten years as Grand Champion might not be enough for some people. And it's unheard of for a new Grand Champion to be proclaimed without a fight."
Saliith was nodding. "So you want me to put aside my differences with Owyn for now?" he asked, heart sinking slightly. He'd prefer to watch Owyn take his dying breath sooner rather than later.
"No." Saliith's head snapped up, and he started Agronak in the eye. The half-Orc was not joking. "Ten years as Grand Champion is more than enough for me. You might be able to challenge me, one day, but you would need years of experience first. Gorgoth gro-Kharz might be my equal, but he cares nothing for the Arena. So I'll retire and become Blademaster... IF you kill Owyn."
Saliith swallowed. "What about the new Grand Champion?" he asked.
Agronak snorted. "Hroadis will be promoted unless there's a challenger from either team, which is quite likely. She won't last a month as Grand Champion." The half-Orc spat, his saliva staining some of the sand that had blown onto the paved area. "So, Saliith, the ball is in your court." The Grand Champion nodded and walked off in the direction of the Arena, head swivelling, on the lookout for his fan, leaving Saliith alone with his swirling thoughts.
It took Gorgoth three days of hard riding to reach Leyawiin. He stabled Vorguz as the sun started to touch the horizon. Upon entering Blackwood, Gorgoth had immediately become aware of the humidity; he'd never experienced such conditions before, had never seen a swamp in his life. Reading about the area in books had prepared him somewhat, so when a land dreugh leaped out of the River Niben, which the road ran beside, he had taken it in his stride and vaporised it before it could take two steps.
He immediately headed for the Fighter's Guild, receiving directions from the gate guard. The Guildhall was similar to most other buildings of the town; built with wood from the Blackwood, the colour made it seem permanently damp, though the construction itself looked strong and sturdy. Pushing open the doors, he walked in, ducking under the doorway to find the large Guildhall virtually deserted. Numerous wings meant that it could hold a large contingent, but Gorgoth could immediately only spot two Guildsmen, an Imperial and a Redguard, who were talking with the kind of attitude that indicated that they were bored out of their minds. This was not good, and that bad feeling was enhanced by the fact that the Guildhall was dirty and falling into a state of disrepair.
Stomping up to the pair of Guildsmen, who turned their heads somewhat lethargically to regard him, Gorgoth did not waste time with introductions. "I'm looking for Vantus Prelius, Rellian, and Dubok gro-Shagk," he rumbled.
The Imperial, in a suit of light plate armour with a longsword at his hip, looked up at the ceiling and muttered something to himself before turning back to Gorgoth. "Figured Oreyn would send someone soon," he mumbled. "They're in the Five Claws Lodge, going wild because the bloody Blackwood Company has stolen all the jobs around here." He pursed his lips and spat, imitated a second later by the Redguard.
"The Blackwood Company?" asked Gorgoth. He'd seen some shady-looking characters wearing uniform light plate and leather armour on his walk to the Guildhall, all wearing the same insignia: a sword and an axe crossed in front of a tree. "Who are they?"
This time, it was the Redguard's turn to speak, after spitting again, her saliva making a small pool on the dark wood floor. "A load of bloody profiteers, ruthless ex-mercenaries," she told Gorgoth, hatred evident in her voice. "When they failed to reclaim parts of Black Marsh for the Empire, they set up shop here, undercutting us and doing work that we'd never even think about doing." She shook her head in disgust. "I'm pretty sure they're involved in smuggling. I wouldn't put murder past that lot."
Gorgoth nodded, tapping his canines. "This does not change my assignment," he rumbled. "Where is the Five Claws Lodge?"
"You probably passed it on your way here," the Imperial told him. "It's within sight of the West Gate." He hesitated. "Good luck." Gorgoth paused on his way out of the Guildhall.
"Find cleaning equipment and bring it out into the hall," he ordered. They were still blinking in confusion as he swung the doors shut behind him.
The Orc was halfway back to the West Gate, mulling over what he'd say to the Guildsmen after he'd assessed the situation, when an elven voice called his name. He recognised that voice, and it very nearly brought a smile to his face. Turning towards the source of the sound, he folded his arms and stood still waiting.
Many people said that Dunmer were one of the more reserved races on Nirn. Those people had clearly never met Dralasa Helas. At this moment, the short, slender Dunmer mage was sprinting towards Gorgoth as fast as her long legs would carry her, then leaping at him, wrapping her arms around his bulky neck and her legs around his waist, ignoring how the skirt of her knee-length blue silk dress rode up almost to her hips. She never had cared about much apart from what she chose to focus on at the time.
"It IS you, Gorgoth!" she squealed in delight, beaming up at him, her large scarlet eyes virtually brimming with tears of joy. Nearby passers-by were looking at them oddly and shaking their heads in bewilderment. Gorgoth merely grunted and returned the hug, gripping the Dark Elf hard enough to make her ribs creak, before gently putting her down.
"It is me, Dral," he confirmed. "How long has it been? Two months?"
"Two and a half, and that's too long," replied Dralasa, pouting briefly before her almost perpetual grin returned. She and Gorgoth – who could not be more different - had often worked together as mercenaries in Orsinium ever since they'd first met, over a year ago. Dralasa's strength lay not in martial might, nor in most schools of magic – she could barely heal broken bones and cast a moderate detect life spell – but in Destruction, where she could easily match him spell for spell, at least until her magicka ran out. "You know, I thought you were dead!" she exclaimed, reaching up and gripping his cheeks with both hands, as thought to confirm that he was actually tangible. Gorgoth removed her hands so that he could reply.
"And why would you think that?" he inquired, raising an eyebrow. "I recall you claiming that nothing could kill me, several times, in fact."
Dralasa's eyes darted towards Gorgoth's belt, searching. Confusion crept into her demeanour. "But... I saw Blood King the other day, and it wasn't on your hip," she told him, tracing a line in the dirt of the road with her shoe. "I thought... you know... that it can only passed on if the wielder dies, and..." she looked up at him, almost fearfully.
"The link still exists, Dral." He knew that for a fact; the link with his old weapon had been present ever since he'd won it, and he'd felt it just the same, if muted, when he'd woken up in the Imperial Prison. "I am still the wielder. Whoever had it now cannot realise its full potential." Gorgoth narrowed his eyes. "Who has it?"
Dralasa looked both ways, and furtively motioned to Gorgoth. He lowered his head, and she leaned forward to speak into his ear. Most other men in that would have been distracted by the Dunmer's impressive cleavage, enhanced by her low-cut dress, but Gorgoth had long since trained himself not to notice. "General Adamus Phillida, Commander of the Imperial Legion," she breathed into his ear. "He's commanded the Legions for forty years. Azura knows how many battles he won. He's a master of his art, Gorgoth. He's survived the Dark Brotherhood twice. And he's taken your mace." Dralasa smiled wryly and shook her head, stepping back. "May his Divines preserve him from your wrath."
Gorgoth tapped a canine. "He is stationed in the Imperial City?" Dralasa nodded. "And would you say he's a man of honour?" he asked.
Dralasa nodded vigorously. "Most definitely," she assured him. "He might even listen to what you have to say." She changed the subject with her usual rapidity. "So, what brings you all the way down to Leyawiin?" she asked, folding her arms behind her back and leaning towards him, smiling sweetly up at him. She did that a lot.
Gorgoth grunted. "It's a long story, Dral, and it's good to see you, but I've got pressing business," he muttered apologetically. She pouted in frustration. "If you ask around for me in Bruma, you'll get directions to where you can leave a message," he continued unwilling to reveal the actual location of Cloud Ruler Temple directly. "We have a lot of catching up to do."
"Damn right we do," laughed Dralasa, rising up onto her tiptoes and winking at him. Gorgoth understood the gesture and somewhat reluctantly picked her up, his massive hands easily meeting around her slim waist. She grinned and kissed him on both cheeks, before Gorgoth slowly lowered her back to earth. Denying Dralasa that would be denying the core of who she was, and Gorgoth refused to do that. The Dunmer might be slightly mad – many would say more than slightly – but she was one of the few Gorgoth would call a friend, and a reliable one at that. Most of the time.
"So, we'll see each other later, then," smiled Dralasa as she took a few steps backward, waving a hand in farewell. "Don't die, Gorgoth!" With that, she was gone, turning, skirt swirling, walking briskly back into the heart of Leyawiin. Gorgoth shook his head, lips twitching slightly, and continued on towards the Five Claws Lodge.
On the outside, the Lodge appeared to be in very good, very clean, condition. Even the grass and shrubs outside were well-trimmed. However, when Gorgoth ducked in through the small doorway, it was a different story; tables were overturned, the floor and walls were stained, and several floorboards were cracked. In the middle of all this was a Redguard, an Orc, and an Imperial, all wearing heavy armour, and all very obviously the errant members of the Fighter's Guild that Gorgoth had been sent to deal with. They didn't even look around to register his appearance. The Argonian innkeeper was steadfastly sat behind the bar, arms folded, glaring at the Guildsmen with a stare so full of venom and hatred that they might have spontaneously combusted there and then if looks could kill. A handful of patrons were seated at the few remaining tables, heads down so as not to cause trouble.
Gorgoth wasted no time in marching up to the three Guildsmen, glaring at each of them with a stare that would make most men weak at the knees. It at least sobered them up some. "Are you Vantus Prelius, Rellian, and Dubok gro-Shagk?" he barked, already fitting a name to each of them; Vantus had to be the Imperial, shorter than usual, but having an air of experience about him. Rellian was the Redguard, also appearing to be a seasoned warrior, with two katanas on his back. Dubok appeared to be the typical Orc 'berserker'; massive warhammer, and the heaviest armour of the three, heavy steel plates covering him from head to toe.
"That's us," replied Vantus, somewhat casually. "What-" Gorgoth let him go no further.
"Oreyn sent me here as his enforcer," he announced in a voice dripping with threats. While not technically his enforcer, Oreyn had given Gorgoth a task, and Gorgoth was single-mindedly set on accomplishing it in the most straightforward manner available to him. "Explain yourselves." The Orc's gesture swept around the devastated common room. Most of the patrons still had their heads down, though the Argonian innkeeper appeared somewhat relieved that finally something was happening.
Vantus took a step forward. He was over a full foot shorter than Gorgoth, but he didn't seem too intimidated as he stared the warrior-shaman in the eyes. "Blame the Blackwood Company," he growled. "They're taking all the jobs. We'd all be happy to pay and behave if we had any money." The Imperial rubbed his gauntleted fingers together, creating a few sparks. "My wife has to take in laundry just to feed herself," he snarled, his voice almost a whisper.
Gorgoth's attitude did not change. "You would use hardship to excuse this?" he asked, lip curling into his own snarl. Vantus's eyes widened in anger, then Gorgoth leaned forward slightly and gave him a look that made Skyrim seem like a tropical rainforest. Vantus took two steps back, then visibly made the effort to stiffen his spine, folding his arms and resolutely staring at Gorgoth's throat, not willing to meet his eyes.
"If you were troops under my command, I would have you publically flogged," said Gorgoth, his voice barely above a whisper. "I do not care for your ranks. I act as Oreyn's enforcer, and thus I carry the authority of the Champion." He paused. "You will leave this place and return to the Guildhall and await me there."
Rellian and Dubok grunted, then looked to Vantus, who was clearly their leader. The Imperial cleared his throat and began to speak, but Gorgoth cut him off with a sweep of his arm. "Move it!" he boomed. "Am I talking to Guildsmen who can obey simple instructions, or slugs from the lowest street worth less than the slime on my boots? MOVE, you witless halflings!" The Orc physically shoved Vantus towards the door, and the Imperial didn't resist; Rellian scurried out after him, and Dubok followed him out at a slightly slower pace, casting a look of both fear and rage at Gorgoth before ducking out of the doorway.
Gorgoth grunted and walked over to lean on the bar. The Argonian behind it heaved a huge sigh of relief, as did most of the patrons. "How much do they owe in drinks, food, damages?" asked the Orc, removing his wallet from his belt. He'd claim it as expenses from Oreyn later, if the Guild implemented such a policy.
"I'd say..." The Argonian frowned, looking around, analysing the damage, hissing in anger at the muddy bootprints. "A hundred drakes," she told Gorgoth, who forked over the coins without hesitation and left without another word.
Gorgoth made his way to the Guildhall quickly, flinging the doors open with such force that they bounced back off the wall. As requested, several cleaning tools, such as mops and sponges, had been placed in the hall. The three Guildsmen in question were in an animated conversation with the two Guildsmen from before. All flinched as Gorgoth stormed in.
"There is a very simple solution to your problem," he rumbled, folding his arms and looking them over critically. "You need work. I will find some for you." Their expressions began to show signs of relief. "However, there is no excuse for your indiscipline," continued Gorgoth, brows drawing down. The three guilty Guildsmen shifted uncomfortably, and the two resident Guildsmen moved subtly away from them. "This Guildhall is filthy," spat Gorgoth, directing his glare at the Imperial and Redguard, who froze. "You three-"Gorgoth motioned to Vantus, Rellian, and Dubok "- will ensure that it is clean by the time I return with work for you. If the work is not done to my satisfaction, you clearly do not deserve anything better than unpaid menial labour, and it will stay that way." He took a step forward, his menacing presence filling the room. Everyone took several steps back. "Do not even think about running and hiding," snarled Gorgoth. He turned on his heel and was gone.
Not knowing exactly who would have work for the Fighter's Guild, Gorgoth followed his instincts and returned to the Five Claws Lodge, where the innkeeper was organising a small army of serving girls, reorganising and cleaning the common room, and the handful of patrons sat just as quietly as they had before. The Argonian glanced up at Gorgoth and glared at his muddy boots, but said nothing. She straightened as he walked up to her.
"Do you know of any people in town who might have jobs for the Fighter's Guild?" he asked. She hesitated. "If those fools don't get any work, I'm sure they'll be back." That got her talking.
"There's not many in Leyawiin who would go to the Guild rather than the Blackwood Company," she rasped, rubbing the purple scales on her throat, deep in thought. "But you might try Margarte." The Argonian pointed towards a middle-aged Nord woman sitting alone at a table, deeply interested in some papers lying on the table in front of her, next to her untouched mug of whatever drink she was having. Gorgoth walked over and sat cautiously down in the chair across from her. The innkeeper winced as it creaked and groaned noisily.
"Can I help you?" asked Margarte, looking up briefly before returning to her papers, which appeared to be lists of some kind. Her broad Nordic accent had been somewhat diluted by living in the south of Cyrodiil for decades.
"I have been told that you might have work for the Fighter's Guild," prompted Gorgoth, leaning his elbows on the table and staring at the top of her head, covered with long hair that was more grey than brown.
Margarte looked up again, and this time did not look back down. "I do not trust the Blackwood Company," she started. "They are too... underhanded for my liking." She frowned. "But if you expect me to hire the delinquents that were tearing this place apart, think again."
"To judge someone solely on first impressions is foolish," rumbled Gorgoth, prompting a frown from Margarte. "They were disillusioned and possibly desperate. I sent them back to the Guild and set them to hard labour, but that will not occupy them for long. Would you want them coming back here and ripping it apart again?" Gorgoth leaned forward, fixing Margarte with a penetrating gaze. She stood her ground, but her brown eyes flickered away from those blazing amber augurs to focus on his chest. "You want something done. I am offering you the tools. Giving them paid work will only help their behaviour."
"I want proof," blurted Margarte. "I want proof that the Fighter's Guild can actually get things done." Gorgoth was annoyed and insulted by the insinuation, but his face never changed as Margarte reached under the table and picked up a small, clay amphora and handed it to him. "Fill that up with ectoplasm, bring it back here, and I'll hire your Guildmates to collect fresh ogre's teeth and minotaur horns," she told him.
Gorgoth nodded and stood, attaching the leather strap on the amphora to his belt and walking out of the Lodge. The sun had disappeared beneath the horizon. Perfect. He was turning to search for the chapel when a voice calling his name stopped him. Wondering how many times he would be recognised in the streets of a city he'd never been to in his life, the warrior-shaman turned.
A tall Redguard, in everyday clothing, was striding quickly towards Gorgoth. The Orc did not recognise him, but he did recognise the Akaviri katana swinging from his hip. Motioning for Gorgoth to start walking in any direction, the Blade increased his pace and fell in beside his fellow Knight Brother.
"I have a message for you from Jauffre," he intoned. "Some of the Mysterium Xarxes has been translated. Reagents are required to open a portal to paradise. The Xarxes indicates that one of these ingredients is the blood of a Daedric Prince; literally, a daedric artefact."
Gorgoth didn't hesitate. "Where is the nearest shrine to Malacath?" he asked, stepping around a deep puddle of murky water off to the side of the narrow street.
"North of Anvil. Someone there can give you better directions. But there are closer shrines than-"
"I am not prepared to sacrifice my religious views when the task can be accomplished without such a sacrifice," rumbled Gorgoth. The Redguard nodded in acquiescence, and, his task completed, melted into the background as inconspicuously as he had arrived. Gorgoth looked around, located the steeple of the Leyawiin Chapel, and headed towards it.
The chapel doors were open, Zenithar apparently welcoming any worshipper at any hour, but Gorgoth did not enter. Instead, he looked around furtively, checked the amphora on his belt, and entered the graveyard located next to the chapel. There were no guards, no townspeople paying their last respects. Perfect. The Orc moved over to the most shadowed part of the graveyard, and began his work.
He moved from grave to grave, muttering incantations in the Orcish language as necromantic magic descended into the depths of the earth, stirring the rotting bones of the dead. Within minutes, ghosts of the long-deceased were starting to appear. They were of no real use; their souls had long since departed for Aetherius, and they had been at peace; they were of no threat. Most just stood still, staring blankly ahead with blank eyes, while others had the energy to mumble a few incomprehensible words. Their silver glow was too weak to penetrate far into the deepening darkness.
Gorgoth moved among them, sending lightning silently coursing through their shimmering bodies. They collapsed into piles of ectoplasm, what little presence they had on the mortal plane departing from it once more. Once they were all gone, Gorgoth removed the amphora from his belt and started collecting the ectoplasm, using telekinesis to lift it off the floor and coalesce into a shapeless, formless, glowing blob that he proceeded to pour into the amphora until it started to overflow. He hammered the cork home and burnt the leftover ectoplasm. Leaving the graveyard five minutes after he'd entered, the only evidence of his ever being there were some deep bootprints in the soft earth.
Margarte was just paying her tab when Gorgoth walked back in, earning another sharp look from the innkeeper for his boots, which were even muddier this time around. The Lodge had been cleaned with military efficiency, and the tables were back in place, apart from the few that needed repairs. Gorgoth walked slowly up to Margarte and held out the amphora. She frowned suspiciously and eased the cork out, peering into the depths of the container. Satisfied, she put the cork back in and attached it to her own belt.
"That was quicker than I thought," she observed, tapping her chin, with a questioning tone.
"My methods caused no harm to anyone, and you have the results you desired," rumbled Gorgoth, speaking truthfully. The souls of the dead had long since passed to Aetherius, and had likely not even noticed the disturbance. "The Fighter's Guild will not go to the dark depths that the Blackwood Company is willing to explore." Gorgoth made no mention that he personally would quite willingly go even further than the Blackwood Company to make sure a job was done. "Hire the Guild, and you will not regret it."
Margarte pursed her lips, then nodded in acceptance. "Tell your Guildmates to report to me at my house at ten tomorrow morning," she told him. Gorgoth nodded and left the Lodge.
The three errant Guildsmen were hard at work when Gorgoth entered the Guildhall. The other Guildsmen were nowhere in sight, probably not wanting to get in the way of their understandably surly comrades, who turned to regard Gorgoth with barely-suppressed anger. Moving around the hall, Gorgoth made a point of looking into dark corners and checking the walls in detail. They'd done a good job of cleaning, but there were still the wings to consider. Gorgoth nodded and turned to the three of them. "Could be better. You will finish cleaning the Guildhall, and then you will report to Margarte at her house at ten next morning. You are to collect fresh ogre's teeth and minotaur horns." He turned and left without waiting for a response. Had he stayed, he would have observed three faces being split by large grins.
Gorgoth reached the stables quickly and readied Vorguz himself; the night ostler was nowhere to be found. Anvil was a long ride away, but the Orc didn't even think about cutting through Elsweyr. What few roads there were would be horrendous, and the jungle would slow him down. He and Vorguz would have to push themselves, especially as he planned to stop off at Chorrol to make his report on the way. Swinging open the stable gate, he led Vorguz out, mounted, and dug his heels in. The stallion sprang forward, a dark shadow disappearing into the night.
"Are you sure we're not lost, Gnaeus?" It was the thirtieth time in two days that Aerin had asked that question since the group had left civilisation behind at Cheydinhal and struck out into the wild. At times, it certainly seemed that way; the old Imperial was frequently consulting his map and searching out landmarks with dogged determination, but no matter how lost they seemed, every time he would spot a landmark he recognised and claim that they were on the right track. Ilend and Aerin could only believe him.
"For my ear's sake, girl!" snapped Gnaeus. "Of course we're not lost! What put such a ridiculous notion in your otherwise empty head?" The Imperial, mounted on his aptly-named Anvil white, Surefoot, was constantly rising to stand in his stirrups, straining his neck to scan the forest ahead of them. The canopy was thick enough to completely block the sun in places. "I was the best scout in my company. Maybe you should remember that sometimes."
"Well, for one thing, you've never even told us that before," protested Aerin, pouting in frustration. Ilend hid a snigger behind his gauntlet.
"Haven't I?" asked Gnaeus, turning around to regard her critically. "I was sure I did. Bah, you youngsters probably wouldn't remember a thing I told you anyway. Always eager to make rash decisions and rush off to get gutted." He turned back to look where they were going at a walking pace. Any faster, and there was a certainty that a horse would trip over one of the innumerable tree roots or fallen logs.
Grinning widely, Ilend nudged Javelin closer to Firebrand. The Bosmer and the Imperial had been like that all journey, but it never got old. "I think you're just jealous that he knows more about woodcraft and scouting than an average Wood Elf," he prodded, nudging her in the ribs.
Aerin spluttered in indignation and glared up at him. She'd put her cloak in her saddlebags soon after leaving Bruma, and he was grateful for it. "I'm not that self-absorbed, guardsman," she growled.
"So why do I get the sense that you're trying to memorise what he does every time he uses those navigation techniques of his?"
Aerin muttered something incomprehensible and shook her head. She knew he was right. "All I want to know is how he does it, but he keeps thinking he's already told us his life story," she said, keeping her voice low, to no avail.
"Sure, use an old man's senility against him, make him say the same story twice, get a laugh out of it, I know, I know," grunted Gnaeus from up ahead. "Well, here's news for you youngsters: My hearing is still good. Oh, and we're almost there."
Both of Aerin's eyebrows shot up, and she booted Firebrand forward to join Gnaeus, followed closely by Ilend. They were indeed entering a clearing, at the centre of which was an enormous statue of Boethia. The Daedric Prince was portrayed by the sculptor as a tall, elven-looking man, cloaked and wielding a massive battleaxe. His might and power leapt from every crevasse, every curve of the rock. Ilend and Aerin were slightly awed, but Gnaeus treated it as he would a simple lump of rock and promptly dismounted, squinting up at the sun, which was sinking towards the treetops.
"All right, dismount, secure the horses, and we'll set up camp," he ordered, following his own instructions and tying Surefoot's reins loosely to a tree and undoing the straps holding the saddlebags to his saddle.
"Aren't we going to summon him?" asked Ilend, motioning towards the statue as he dismounted.
"All in good time!" barked Gnaeus. "Don't be so hasty, young man, that's how you get killed. Who knows what he'll want you to do?"
Aerin blinked "'you'?" she asked. "Aren't you going to be doing the summoning?" The Bosmer had paused in the act of tying Firebrand to a nearby pine.
Gnaeus snorted derisively. "I'm too old to go running off on some fool errand for a Daedric Prince," he explained. "I'll be staying here and holding the fort while one or both of you runs along and does whatever he wants." The old hermit shrugged. "At least I remembered to bring the sacrifice," he continued, taking a small bag out of his saddlebags and fiddling with the strings. "We're lucky that they had something like this up in that fortress." He weighed the bag in his palm. It was wrapped around an object about the size of his clenched fist. "These are pretty rare, though not so much these days, I guess." Gnaeus barked a harsh laugh.
"Whatever," muttered Aerin, rolling her eyes and dumping her saddlebags and bedroll on the ground, far away from the statue. "I thought there'd be worshippers here."
"Do you see any way of surviving out here?" inquired Ilend, rolling out his bedroll, away from the trees but also a fair distance from the statue. "You yourself said the hunting around here was crap, and I doubt any cultists would be as good with a bow as you are."
Aerin mumbled something indistinct and shifted her bedroll closer to Ilend's. She'd taken his advice about dealing with nightmares to heart and had slept almost on top of him every night, much to the amusement of Gnaeus. The old hermit had flopped down onto his bedroll and was sinking his teeth into an apple almost as wrinkled as he was. Ilend sat down on his own bedroll and rummaged around in his food bag until he found a hunk of bread. He gnawed at it as he watched the sun set, some small rays penetrating the trees before the twilight moved in to dominate the sky. Masser and Secunda drifted into view.
After some time had passed, Gnaeus picked up the small bag once again. "Right, I think this is the way it's done," he muttered, undoing the strings and letting the heart of a daedra fall into his palm. Dark red and ravaged with orange veins, it had been a long time since this organ had been beating within the chest of a daedra, but Gnaeus had insisted that it would suffice. "You'll need to take a dagger –any dagger- and stab this heart at Boethia's feet," he explained, holding the heart out to Ilend, who took it without hesitation.
"Sounds gruesome," observed Aerin as she joined Ilend walking up to the statue. Boethia stared down at them with a frozen, imperious gaze.
"I'll admit, I haven't liked what I've heard about Boethia," muttered Ilend, keeping his voice low as if that would prevent the Daedric Prince from hearing him. "According to a worshipper of Azura who came through Kvatch a while back, he's one of the worst; loves anarchy and deceit, and would never say no to some carnage." Shaking his head, the Imperial laid the daedric heart at the feet of Boethia, then reached up and plunged his dagger into the soft, fleshy organ. There was no blood; it had long since been drained.
For a few seconds, silence reigned. Then a powerful, booming voice tore through Ilend's head. By the way Aerin clapped her hands over her ears, with no effect, she heard it as well. "Why do you summon me, mortals?" asked Boethia, sounding somewhat annoyed. "You are not of my faithful." It sounded like he expected an answer, but as Ilend opened his mouth, the Prince continued. "Tell me... do you hope to be counted among my Chosen?" Once again, there was no time for a response. "One of you will prove yourselves to me. I shall open a portal for you to one of my realms in Oblivion. Go, and take your place in my Tournament of Ten Bloods. Survive, and you will be rewarded. Fail, and your soul belongs to me." The dreadful voice faded into a threatening nothingness, and the two mortals sagged, Ilend leaning forward and clutching the statue for support. The daedric heart was gone.
A ripping sound jerked their heads to the left. A shimmering blue veil between two thin pillars of white, twisted rock formed the entrance to Boethia's domain. It was just about big enough to admit one man at a time. Aerin shook herself and started off towards the portal, checking her bristling quiver. "Might as well get it over with," she said, as brightly as she could manage.
Ilend's eyebrows shot up, and within seconds he was standing between Aerin and the portal, arms folded, jaw set. "Aerin, he said one of us," he growled.
The Bosmer smiled up at him. "Exactly," she chirped. "Seeing as I have the power to penetrate any armour in Oblivion, I think I'm best qualified for the job." She tried to move around Ilend, but he grabbed her arm.
"You might have the tools, but I'm the better warrior, and that's what will matter in there," he said, gesturing towards the portal. "This isn't something you can take lightly, Aerin." Looking into her eyes, his face softened slightly. "Besides, I'd rather he have my soul than yours."
A smile slowly spread over Aerin's face. "That's nice of ya to think that way guardsman," she murmured. "But it still doesn't change the fact that you'll have to get Gnaeus to sit on me ta stop me."
"That can be arranged," Ilend shot back, looking around for Gnaeus. The Imperial was watching them with a skewed grin on his face, leaning back against a tree. He muttered something, but made no movement. Ilend growled and shook his head in disgust. "Aerin, once I'm through, you can't follow me, and you know I'll be the first through," he told her. His innate stubbornness was rearing its head, but, apparently, so was hers. "You are NOT going through there."
Aerin glared up at him, then sighed. "Fine, fine, guardsman, you win," she muttered throwing up her arms in surrender. "But... let me wish ya good luck first." Ilend was caught completely by surprise when she placed both hands on his shoulders, reared up on her tiptoes, and kissed him.
His initial shock was swiftly scoured away by the fire that seemed to be running through his veins, his senses utterly overwhelmed. He could feel every part of the Wood Elf, her heart beating furiously against his, her mouth against his... her tongue searching for his. The fires peaked, removing all sense and thought, and slowly, hands trembling, he reached for her.
Then everything went numb.
Frantically refocusing his eyes, Ilend could only watch helplessly as Aerin sheepishly stepped back from him, her face blazing like the sun, but wearing an impish grin. He desperately attempted to move any part of his body, to grab her, but only his eyes were responding, and he was forced to watch as the Bosmer swaggered into the portal, immediately swallowed up by the shifting blue mists. The only sound in the clearing, apart from the blood pounding in Ilend's ears, was Gnaeus howling with laughter.
A/N: *grunts* Well, writing that last bit was excruciating. In any case, writer's block is a bloody big pain in the arse when you know what you want to write later, but then get stuck on just a few lines in an earlier section. Which is exactly what hapened in this chapter.
Reviews can only help me. In fact, they'll probably help me even more this chapter, because I'm not really all that sure of it. I don't think it's bad, exactly, but I think it could be better in places. Anyhow, don't forget to review, that's the important thing. Have I said that enough?