The tavern hummed its usual merry discord, a drunken harmony that more
often than not could be heard throughout the small fishing village of Mar
Salem for well into the early hours of the morning, as her patrons drank,
talked and made merry before the sun rose, bringing with it a new days
labour. The people were poor. Life was hard. Most of the time, a good ale
was all they had to look forward to.
And so the people of Mar Salem drank well, oblivious to the world around them save what news passing traders and the weary adventurer brought with them. Bits of this, bits of that, snippets of the bigger picture bought with an ale or two before they passed on, usually to the North where the Ashlands lied, "onwards to darker skies", so the local saying said. Some came back with further news of the outside, or tall tales of lost tombs and ancient beasts slain at last. Some didn't come back at all, however.
This night was no different: Locals chattered with there visitors, most of them guests, some of them regulars and hardened travellers at that, and the tavern was alive with talk, as par usual. The world, it seemed, was well.
But it wasn't. Not at all.
Slowly, through the closed curtains of the tavern's two windows, a light shone through, weak and pale at first, but steadily growing stronger. Those nearest them noticed it first, but paid it little attention. A passing silt strider, for sure, they thought. They came and went every now and again. Nothing to get fussed over with. But the light continued grow stronger.
No, not stronger....closer. It was getting closer.
By the time the majority of the patrons had worked this out, beams of light were shining through every crack and orifice in the door wall, cutting a path through the smoke and dust, giving them the illusion that they had substance and making the whole spectacle that bit more alien. The tavern suddenly went very, very quiet. Everyone listened, hard. Only silence and light prevailed.
Finally, with the door wall now completely illuminated, faint footsteps could be heard. The silence was shredded apart as twenty weapons were unsheathed almost in unison, and everyone prepared themselves for what seemed to be the inevitable conflict. Something heavy gripped the door. It shuddered, creaked on its hinges, and was then flung open, wide.
The tavern was filled with the light, to the point where it excluded everything else from the inhabitant's vision, forcing them to drop there blades and sticks and shield there eyes...those closest to the door were literally driven back towards the bar, some stumbling over the furniture as they panicked, fearing this monster that they could not see.
Vall, one of the more seasoned patrons, saw it all happen in front of him and yet stood firm, his heavy silver claymore still in his hands, raised and ready. An adventurer of some skill, he wasn't prepared to go out into the light without some sort of a fight. He was a professional. It was a matter of pride, he thought to himself, watching the light enter the tavern and steadily pulse its way towards him.
Taking a moment to judge where the entrance of the tavern used to be before it was eradicated from his vision, he raised his weapon, yelled defiantly for what he thought was the last time, and charged his unseen foe.
Suddenly, within the blink of an eye, the light faded away, and the tavern, doorway included, returned to its occupants. Standing in the middle of it, though, was a figure, clad in armour and robes.
(An Ordinator!?!)
That was the first and final thought that the charging Vall made before he bought his silver claymore down over his head in a clumsy yet powerful ark, the blade seemingly destined to crack through the Indoril helm that stood before him and cleave its wearer clean in two. Instead, however, the helm moved out of the way in a single, swift motion, and Vall felt the armoured boot slam into his left ankle, sending him sprawling into a cracked wooden table, smashing it apart. His blade was flung up into the air, and Vall watched it rise and spin through fading vision: Rise and spin, rise and spin, spin....fall and spin. Fall and spin...towards him. Watching it happen, he became vaguely aware that he was about to die.
A hand shot and caught the blade mid-air, its tip a mere hand-span above the weary face of Vall. It hung there for a second, before it was lifted up and away from him with one hand and carried towards the bar. The bartender, fearing for his life, shrank back and considered running towards the cellar that only he knew about, and locking himself in it until the Demon had sated itself and gone away. But before he could, the figure placed the claymore onto the bar. The sudden clang it made paralysed the bartender with terror, and he dared not move at all. Looking at him...or it, rather, he noticed that its helm still glowed with that same eerie light, although now it had somehow been muted somewhat by whatever dark forces controlled it. Its glow made pale the staring faces around it, as everyone stared in awe of this....robed ordinator?
Dace Capashan, realising that perhaps he should have taken off Hawks Helm a little bit sooner than he did, sighed wearily, and took off his enchanted item. It ceased to glow immediately, and his dirtied red robes and scared indoril pauldrons could now be seen clearly for the first time. Placing a single Dwemer coin in front of the bartender, Dace looked up at him and spoke.
"This will cover the damage. A bottle of flin, if you would, for both myself and our head-strong defender over there."
Dace turned and looked at Vall, now shakily getting back up onto his feet with the help of a few others, and then turned back towards the bartender. He grinned at him sarcastically.
"Friendly little place you've got here, don't you think?"
---------------------------------------------------- ----
And so the people of Mar Salem drank well, oblivious to the world around them save what news passing traders and the weary adventurer brought with them. Bits of this, bits of that, snippets of the bigger picture bought with an ale or two before they passed on, usually to the North where the Ashlands lied, "onwards to darker skies", so the local saying said. Some came back with further news of the outside, or tall tales of lost tombs and ancient beasts slain at last. Some didn't come back at all, however.
This night was no different: Locals chattered with there visitors, most of them guests, some of them regulars and hardened travellers at that, and the tavern was alive with talk, as par usual. The world, it seemed, was well.
But it wasn't. Not at all.
Slowly, through the closed curtains of the tavern's two windows, a light shone through, weak and pale at first, but steadily growing stronger. Those nearest them noticed it first, but paid it little attention. A passing silt strider, for sure, they thought. They came and went every now and again. Nothing to get fussed over with. But the light continued grow stronger.
No, not stronger....closer. It was getting closer.
By the time the majority of the patrons had worked this out, beams of light were shining through every crack and orifice in the door wall, cutting a path through the smoke and dust, giving them the illusion that they had substance and making the whole spectacle that bit more alien. The tavern suddenly went very, very quiet. Everyone listened, hard. Only silence and light prevailed.
Finally, with the door wall now completely illuminated, faint footsteps could be heard. The silence was shredded apart as twenty weapons were unsheathed almost in unison, and everyone prepared themselves for what seemed to be the inevitable conflict. Something heavy gripped the door. It shuddered, creaked on its hinges, and was then flung open, wide.
The tavern was filled with the light, to the point where it excluded everything else from the inhabitant's vision, forcing them to drop there blades and sticks and shield there eyes...those closest to the door were literally driven back towards the bar, some stumbling over the furniture as they panicked, fearing this monster that they could not see.
Vall, one of the more seasoned patrons, saw it all happen in front of him and yet stood firm, his heavy silver claymore still in his hands, raised and ready. An adventurer of some skill, he wasn't prepared to go out into the light without some sort of a fight. He was a professional. It was a matter of pride, he thought to himself, watching the light enter the tavern and steadily pulse its way towards him.
Taking a moment to judge where the entrance of the tavern used to be before it was eradicated from his vision, he raised his weapon, yelled defiantly for what he thought was the last time, and charged his unseen foe.
Suddenly, within the blink of an eye, the light faded away, and the tavern, doorway included, returned to its occupants. Standing in the middle of it, though, was a figure, clad in armour and robes.
(An Ordinator!?!)
That was the first and final thought that the charging Vall made before he bought his silver claymore down over his head in a clumsy yet powerful ark, the blade seemingly destined to crack through the Indoril helm that stood before him and cleave its wearer clean in two. Instead, however, the helm moved out of the way in a single, swift motion, and Vall felt the armoured boot slam into his left ankle, sending him sprawling into a cracked wooden table, smashing it apart. His blade was flung up into the air, and Vall watched it rise and spin through fading vision: Rise and spin, rise and spin, spin....fall and spin. Fall and spin...towards him. Watching it happen, he became vaguely aware that he was about to die.
A hand shot and caught the blade mid-air, its tip a mere hand-span above the weary face of Vall. It hung there for a second, before it was lifted up and away from him with one hand and carried towards the bar. The bartender, fearing for his life, shrank back and considered running towards the cellar that only he knew about, and locking himself in it until the Demon had sated itself and gone away. But before he could, the figure placed the claymore onto the bar. The sudden clang it made paralysed the bartender with terror, and he dared not move at all. Looking at him...or it, rather, he noticed that its helm still glowed with that same eerie light, although now it had somehow been muted somewhat by whatever dark forces controlled it. Its glow made pale the staring faces around it, as everyone stared in awe of this....robed ordinator?
Dace Capashan, realising that perhaps he should have taken off Hawks Helm a little bit sooner than he did, sighed wearily, and took off his enchanted item. It ceased to glow immediately, and his dirtied red robes and scared indoril pauldrons could now be seen clearly for the first time. Placing a single Dwemer coin in front of the bartender, Dace looked up at him and spoke.
"This will cover the damage. A bottle of flin, if you would, for both myself and our head-strong defender over there."
Dace turned and looked at Vall, now shakily getting back up onto his feet with the help of a few others, and then turned back towards the bartender. He grinned at him sarcastically.
"Friendly little place you've got here, don't you think?"
---------------------------------------------------- ----
