» Tue Jul 10, 2012 7:07 pm Chapter One
Path to Damnation
My story begins in the swirling depths of a Blight storm, the volcanic ash tearing at my tattered flesh, distant voices in the wind singing sweet hymns of respite, though I knew the songs were but fabrications of my mind. I trekked on, up and up, my feet dragging through the craggy terrain of Red Mountain, ash caking into the bloody lacerations that covered my feet like crude tattoos. It felt as though I had been walking (shambling?) forever, the burning sensation of vigorous activity replaced long ago by a moaning ache that was only matched only the horrendous agony of my flesh, which felt as though it was peeling off in the savage winds.
But on I trudged. I had nowhere else to go, nowhere else that would provide any sort of sanctuary. Like most, my will crumbled. I was broken. The hymns, the voices, the dreams- they all promised salvation, power, and restoration. Through the Heart my flesh shall be mended and my soul eternalized I repeated to myself for the hundredth time as I climbed up the narrow path, still ignorant to the meaning of the message which was constantly being relayed to me. So on I climbed.
I almost collapsed onto my knees when I had ascended to the edge of the caldera, and my eyes, or what was left of them, met the sight I had been searching for during the last week. Tall, metallic spires jutted forth from the rocky interior of Red Mountain’s crater, the ruins of ancient Dwemeri structures haphazardly strewn together above the pit of boiling rock. And there, in the midst of the rubble was a door. The portal was wide open, the ash drifting up against its circular frame, the darkness inside containing an almost comforting glow.
Come beckoned the voices. Come, come! they urged gently, my legs moving without much mental backing, as if an outside force was influencing my actions. Come I did, the shadowy portal slowly becoming larger and larger, like the open maw of an approaching beast as I slowly stumbled through the ruins. It seemed like an eternity before my feet finally made contact with the floor, its metallic texture an utter relief for my damaged feet.
I skirted along the walls, my hands groping an old pipe that ran the length of the corridor. My eyes, which I believe had filled with pus and ash by now, rendering me blind, showed me nothing but darkness, though my ears could hear the sound of distant clockwork machinery rumbling under the stimulus of pressurized steam, the sound of cogs turning in a well-oiled machine.
I opened my mouth to speak, but I could not produce a sound. During my travels, my throat had swollen, dried, and literally cracked open, my windpipe being filled with blood, pus, and ash, and I wouldn’t have been surprised to discover that my vocal cords were utterly torn to shreds. I really would have appreciated someone to jump out with a glass of water and shout “You made it! Congratulations!”, but alas, no such thing happened. Instead, a soft whimpering sound escaped my lips, drowned out by the churning of Dwarven machinery, and I fell to my knees, pain erupting from my throat like a geyser. I vomited, the excrement doing little to soothe the lacerations in my throat, and I crumpled onto the floor. If I was capable of producing tears, I would have wept like a child.
Then the voice, this time stronger, louder spoke to me. Rest he told me. A sickly sense of dread and endlessness overtook me as I slipped into darkness, silently praying to myself that death would come, release my tortured soul from my devastated body. Wait- this is not the beginning of my tale. No, of course not, my tale started a few weeks before, when a stranger stepped into my life and sent me spiraling down the path to damnation…
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I was sitting in my usual table, tucked away in the corner of the smoky cornerclub like I was every night, a jug of Mazte sitting on the table before me. Yes, this is where my story truly begins, in the midst of the vast Foreign Quarter of Vivec. I was sitting there, my mouth wrapped around the clay mug, the brew of my homeland running down my pampered throat. The liquor like Flin and Sujamma was too pricey for my purse, so I stuck to the cheap stuff. Tasted like Gaur piss, but it did its job well enough.
Away I drank, drowning my sorrows and strengthening my debt as I did everynight. This night, however, was different, though I had yet to realize it. Nor did I realize it when the door to the Cornerclub creaked open and the finely outfitted Colovian man entered, the obviously bitter and orthodox Dunmer offering him dirty glances through the haze.
My eyes probed the man- tall, chest out and chin up; he held an air of superiority and nobility, something that did not mix well the foreign establishment he resided in. People like this came in sometimes, curious about the Waistwork cantinas of Vivec, seeing all the sights to be had in the glorious city of Vehk. Tourists. But this man was different, though I had yet to realize it. Beneath that rich wool and silk finery was a heart, something all men and mer have, a heart that held purpose, ambition, and most importantly, a plan. A plan that I was a part of.
“Anyone here know a certain Saryn Ommek?” he asked after no one provided him a greeting, his voice curious, yet holding a tone of caution, a rare trait for ignorant tourists. Maybe he had been pummeled by angry locals in a cornerclub sometime in the past? Regardless, my attention was captured as soon as he spoke my name, and the scowling barman merely nodded at me, sitting all alone at my table in the corner of the bar.
The Colovian followed the barman’s nod, his face brightening as his eyes made contact with my own. He walked calmly over to my table, his chin still held high in the smoky air, and I felt my hand move to the hilt of my tanto. “I’m looking for a certain Saryn Ommek” said the Imperial as he pulled out a chair, and sat himself at my table. “Do you happen to know-“
“Depends on whose asking” I replied, my eyes cautiously observing him, my hand still on the hilt of my blade. He didn’t look like someone who wanted me dead, but more likely a person of learning and wealth. His eyes held a certain tone of curiosity that made me relax a bit; if someone is out to kill you, they are not too curious, just angry. Anger was not present in this man’s stature, only inquisitiveness and business-like determination.
The man smiled. “My apologies” he said, extending his hand to me. “Tyranus Aurrus, scholar and archeologist of the Arcane University, Cyrodiil.”
Ah, so he was a person of learning. This relaxed my fears a bit, for I didn’t have any enemies in the Imperial heatland. I reached out slowly as my shoulders sagged in relief, our hands clasping together. “I am Saryn Ommek” I replied.
The man nodded. “Excellent” he said, and awkward pause forming in the conversation as he carefully composed his words, wary of offending me. “I have come into contact with a past client of yours, a client who has highly recommended you for your … services.”
“Oh? Which client would this be?”
“That is not important to the current-“
“If I asked, then it is important” I said sternly, my words cutting him off. I had no time or patience for pompous tourists. I also like to harass arrogant Imperials, but don’t tell anyone.
The man stopped speaking, his face a mask of neutrality, though I could tell by the surprise boiling within in his irises that he was shocked by my audacity. I suppose he wasn’t used to such filthy foreigners interrupting him. Then he smiled, an obviously forced expression with a hint of anger and displeasure hidden behind it. “Orvus Dren. He recommended you. Claimed you to be the bravest and most cunning sellsword he had ever hired.”
I smirked. “Indeed? I haven’t seen Dren in a while, though that’s probably for the best” I said, a morbid tone inhabiting my tone. “But of course, let’s get to the point.”
“Yes, indeed” replied Tyranus, a hint of annoyance in his voice letting me know that he got the hint. “My colleges and I have, through long periods of laborious research and revision of historical documentation, have happened upon the location of an ancient fortress- an icon of days lost. After much peripatetic traveling and interviews with local-“
“To the point, mister Aurrus” I said, clearing my throat. Gods, I love my job.
The anger on his face was now palpable as his features narrowed in frustration, though he surprisingly reined his emotions under control, and proceeded with the discussion. This told me that he was not only a determined man, but that he thought he needed me. Why he though this, I will never know, but the fact stands regardless. “We are mounting an expedition to an ancient ruin. Our sources have all indicated that it is dangerous, and that hired protection will be required. That, of course, is where you will come in.”
I sat in silence for a while, considering the man. I had already declined his offer before his little speech was over, he just didn’t know it yet. I was done adventuring, done exploring, done selling my sword. Many years ago I had hung up my spear and shed my armor, living a simple life, and I wasn’t about to just jump back out there again without rational reasoning. But I found that I loved to irritate this man, so I held the silence for a lengthy amount of time, the tension slowly building on his face, my own remaining a mask of stone.
“So, will you accept my offer? Payment won’t be a problem, I assure you” he said, breaking the silence.
“I find that I must decline your offer” I said casually. “My apologies and best of luck to you in your explorations.”
The man smiled, an unexpected, and somehow unnerving manifestation. “Dren said that you would decline, though I was hoping that you would be feeling a bit more… adventurous than this” he said, indicating the smokey cornerclub in which we sat, the remark earning him many sneers from the other patrons in the bar.
The tables had been turned, and now I was the one to be offended, though I was too foolish to see the manipulation. “I’m sorry to disappoint” I replied, keeping myself in check.
The man nodded, and pushed back his chair, rising from the table. “Thank you for your time” he said, and reaching into his pocket, procuring a small piece of a sealed parchment. “My offer still stands, Saryn” he said, another knowing smile growing on his face as he placed the paper on the table, and walked away.
I watched him stride from the cornerclub, wondering just how long it had been since I held my blade in my hand, how long I had felt the rush of adrenaline as I traded murderous blows with an opponent. I sighed, leaning back in my chair, taking another deep swig of Mzatle, which I noticed to taste more and more dissatisfying with every sip. Reaching out, I undid the wax binding of the parchment, and read the neat, small lettering.
241, Aurrus Manor, Vivec, Foreign Quarter.
