I'm baaaaaaack...
It's been a long time since I updated here, and to be honest, I was starting to miss it. But, here I am, up and writing again and so very much ALIVE!
Well, lets get back to the story, but with one further message:
Special thanks to HaloGreen, for getting me writing again.
The violet-scaled Argonian stirred, shifting his arm through the thin coat of ash that covered his body and startling off the crows that had begun to land on his immobile form. The black-feathered birds cawed raucously as they fluttered off, their harsh calls echoing through the utter and complete silence that enveloped the city of Anvil. The reptilian man coughed as he pushed himself up on his forearms, sending a small cloud of stinging dust into his large eyes. Clutching the wound in his chest, the scaly Argonian stood, wincing, and examined his surroundings. His eyes widened as he took in the scene.
He stood in an utter wasteland, a shadow of what the thriving port city had once been. The rustic buildings lay in smoking ruins, burned and caved in by the rapacious storm of vengeance that had ravaged the once picturesque town, leaving nothing but a hollowed skeletal shell in its wake. Mangled and twisted corpses lay where they fell, slain in all sorts of horrible manners, often with several limbs hacked off or with their innards strewn about, feebly held close to the body by cold, clenched hands. Carrion birds perched on the roasted carapaces of the houses and shops that once stood, feasting on the macabre buffet that was laid out before them. The Argonian man wandered aimlessly through the scene of immense horror, blankly taking in the traumatic reality. Slowly, he felt himself drawn towards a particular building. The front face of the building was smashed in, and only the frame and outer walls were left standing; the roof and upper floor had collapsed onto the first floor, smashed and blackened timbers lying strewn about the foundations. Taking a step forward, his foot bumped a peculiarly shaped piece of wood. Looking down, he saw that it was a sign. The only word that was legible on it was the word Mage, but it was enough. An epiphanous flood of memories flashed before Amori's eyes, bringing with them his identity… and the identities of those dear to him.
"Soul-Swimmer! SOUL-SWIMMER!" he cried frantically as he ran through the smoking ruins, stumbling haphazardly over the splintered bones of the once vibrant town, searching frantically for his beloved. Amori searched the entire town, until eventually he found himself once more at the place where he started: standing above the splintered sign to the Anvil Mage's guild. Wounded and exhausted, the soot-blackened man crumpled to his knees, all vestiges of life drained from his body. As the fallen warrior sank into despair, however, he noticed a blue glint shining from the rubble. Amori scrabbled across the rubbish strewn about the dusty ground, and brushed away the ash from the glistening blue spot to reveal an extremely familiar blade, a blade that rang with a clear, clarion note as Amori's metal hand struck it's surface: Song. Lifting the blade, Amori's brow quivered, and his eyes narrowed as he picked up the peculiar odor carried by perfumes worn by Dunmer, and noticed the odd hacks and scorch marks that had rent a hole in a pile of timbers.
The Argonian stood, slipping Song across his back, the blade oddly fit in the spot designed for his own personal blade, and set off to search for the dark elf with the flaming sword.
Padfoot crouched in the rubble of a shattered home, grimacing in agony as stray rays of sunlight shone through the thin cracks and shone upon her unprotected flesh. She didn't know if the slight rays would kill her, but she did know one thing: they hurt like the fires of Oblivion itself. Suddenly, the planks above her shifted, letting larger quantities of light through. The pale khajiit hissed in the pain that was life, and shied away into the darkness, her mind consumed by the agony that constituted her existence. A dark, humanoid shadow blocked the hated light, a serpentine tail coiling about its legs. A hand reached out to her, brassy and glinting in the pale morning sunlight. The Khajiit's drew back, hissing like a wildcat. Suddenly, she was soaked, reddish fluid dripping off her face and running into her mouth. The pain subsided slightly. Eagerly, she began to lap the liquid out of her fur, and as she did, the pieces of her shattered mind reconsolidated into a single whole.
"… Amori?" she whispered, coming to her senses. Padfoot shook her head, clearing her mind of the blood-frenzy she had experienced before, during the battle. The Argonian stared down at her, his bronze hand outstretched, a grimace spread across his face.
"They took her…" he whispered, murder in his voice. "They took all of them. You will help me find them, Padfoot." Padfoot scowled at the Argonian.
"I appreciate your help in bringing me to stability, Amori," she said, choosing her words carefully, "but don't you think you've brought me enough trouble? I just wanted to live out a normal life, and now, because of you, I'm cursed with this… this… disease." Padfoot spat the word, as though it tasted foul in her mouth. "Why would I help you?"
"Because," the argonian said slowly, "if you do, 'll break the seal.
Soul-Swimmer stirred, her eyes slowly opening and revealing her surroundings to her bleary vision. A lance of pain shot through her head, and she felt a surprising warmth in the center of her scalp. She was sitting. Moaning softly, she tried to stand, only to find a that a peculiar force was holding her in place.
Her eyes opened.
She was in a dark, dank cell, somewhere underground, the very air seeming to crush down on her body from all angles. A thin layer of misty blue fog coated the floor, and the walls were lightly covered in a layer of greenish algae. She was seated in a sturdy, oaken chair, bolted to the floor by metal brackets fastened to the legs. Thin, slightly barbed chains ran around her body, coiled around her midsection before wrapping around her arms, securing them behind her back, and running over her shoulders and back through the holes in the chair before wrapping down about the smooth wood to secure her legs in place. A heavy piece of metal was fastened around her kneck, pressing down on her shoulders, with the single, long length of chain fastened to a large steel ring in the back. Soul-Swimmer winced as the tiny barbs on the chain drew thin lines of blood on her kneck, shredding the collar of… the ornate dress she wore? Soul-Swimmer jerked about in the chair, looking around, examining herself. She was clad in an ornate, azure dress, with skin-tight sleeves and collar, and an oriental-style body-piece. A long, blue skirt ran from her waist to the floor, covered in golden markings and patterns. A strange sense of dread washed through her body, though she hadn't the faintest idea why. It was almost as if some long-forgotten memory had been aroused by the dress and the chain and the chair, some vague familiarity warning her to run, to hide, to crawl into the deepest, darkest crevace she could find and never to emerge again. She racked her brain, searching frantically for the answer, until finally, she realized where she had last seen this dress.
It had been on her mother's corpse in Morrowind.
She tried to cry out, but the metal ring around her kneck tightened, pressing the barbed chain into her flesh, cutting off the air, silencing her, and all that she could utter was a soft gurgle of pain.
A faint chuckling echoed from behind her, and a voice, an all too familiar voice accompanied with the scent of sulfur and a red-orange glow, uttered short, terrible greeting.
"Looks like our guest has finally awoken. I'ts been a long time, little girl."
Ah, looks like Soul-Swimmer's in trouble again! Honestly, how she manages to get herself tied to chairs in the clutches of villains so often I have no idea... *whistles idly
Anyways, looks like a villain from the past has returned, back once more to seek revenge against the one that got away!
Stay tuned for more updates in the future!
Sincrerely
- Baeowulf
The winds of time blow on, shifting the sands of reality into ever changing patterns.