| Story Two: Beginnings | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Sep 13 2009, 06:03 PM (263 Views) | |
| Darkom | Sep 13 2009, 06:03 PM Post #1 |
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Cyrodiil: the seat of the Imperial Empire, the center of the continent, and the melting pot of Tamrielic culture. Each of the cities near its borders exhibited the culture of its neighboring province, be it Nordic, Bretonic, Merish, or beast. Such unique cultural equality allowed for racial freedoms that the past could only dream of, but so many of the citizens took for granted. Jassan never did. He capitalized on this freedom, moving from city to city without qualm, knowing the province would not evict him merely for his Bosmeri heritage. Nah, they were far more likely to evict him for his chosen pastime; but he always managed to remain one step ahead. Or in this case, one rooftop. The Wood Elf crouched upon the timber roof of one of Bruma’s residences, the toes of his boots locked in between the slats. Somewhere below, the candle lit lamps cast the shadows of the guard upon the street as he walked on his patrol. Jassan narrowed his sapphire eyes, shuddering slightly in the chill of the night in his burgundy tunic and breeches. Standing still for long was becoming difficult. Finally, the guard moved down the street and out of sight, and Jassan leaped down from the roof, landing in the snow with a soft thump, a small bag tied to his side clinking softly. The Bosmer grinned slyly, slicked back his raven hair, and calmly walked out into the street towards the inn, innocent as a kitten. Olav’s Tap and Tack was rather busy tonight, likely because many of the patrons were too lazy or drunk to brave the night’s chilled walk home. Jassan waltzed in without hesitation, coming right up to the counter and holding up his small leather pouch. “Got a gift for you, Olav.” Jassan announced with a grin, plopping the sack down. It rested on the counter, followed by Jassan as he leaned forward. His arms lay rather flat, considering his four foot, nine inch frame came about shoulder level with the bar. “You know I can’t do business with you, Zartuck. You aren’t in the guild.” Olav scolded, plucking up the sack and dumping its contents into his open palm anyways. A golden chain attached to a pearl pendant dropped, along with several rings and an ivory comb. “Well if it weren’t for those damnable cats I would be, Olav, and you know it.” Jassan grumbled, pointing to the trio of rings. “Consider them payment for my drink and the pendant, for my room.” “And the comb?” Olav inquired, pocketing the jewelry. “Eh, a man’s gotta make a profit, mate.” Jassan grinned, shrugging. “Now how’s about some Tamika spirit?” Olav snorted, rolled his eyes, and relented. Seeing as most of the seats were taken, the diminutive elf rather happily resigned himself to leaping upon a barrel in the corner, crossing his legs, and watching the tavern. He noted the regulars, an occasional misfit adventurer –sadly they had little looking of worth- but turned his head when the door opened, along with the rest of the tavern’s patrons. In the dim light of the doorway, one would think the exit nothing but black void, as a shadow overtook the doorframe almost entirely. However, the figure stepped in soon after, shutting the door behind him and straightening, as he had been forced to stoop his head upon entry. For a moment, he had central attention, as drunken eyes gazed upon the massive man. His steel suit of armor gleamed in the firelight, covering all but his chiseled, rough face and short trimmed but uncontrolled blond hair. His blue eyes met the gaze of each patron, upon which they promptly turned away, noting the claymore and large bowl-shaped bronze shield on his back. He didn’t have a killer look, but just gave off a serious, business air. Like a soldier. Jassan watched the man walk up to the bar, overshadowing Olav with his seven foot frame. But his eyes were drawn irresistibly to his hip, upon which was strapped both a shortsword, and a pouch that was rather large –if one were thinking from the Bosmer’s view; it would probably be small in the Nord’s hands- and clinked against his greaves. “I would like a room, if you have one available.” The Nord spoke very kindly for a man of his stature, furthering Olav’s hesitation. “We do… but… well…” The Nord looked up at the ceiling, then at the stairs, and chuckled. “Don’t worry, good sir, your building is sturdy enough.” “Very well then. Any drinks?” Olav asked after handing over the key to the man’s room. “Mead, if you wouldn’t mind.” Taking the drink and thanking Olav, he turned around and looked for a seat. Seeing none, he opted to lean on the wall and drink. Jassan watched him the entire time, unaware just how much he was staring. I could rob him tonight… he’s in the room right next to mine, and the locks are so simple. But just look at him! He’d kill me in an instant… Jassan thought, frowning. Besides, I have enough heat on me already. I’ve got to get to that cave and ditch this city. His decision made, he hopped childishly off the barrel and walked up to his room, Tamika still in hand. He must be one of them bandits… Guy’s got at least 16 knives on his person. Who knows how many more he’s hiding, and he’s perfectly built for thievery. The Nord thought, having noted Jassan’s eying but not returning the favor purposely. He was here on business, and if that Elf was part of his business, he did not want to give himself away. It was midnight when Jassan ventured out of his room, the Tamika bottle remaining there half full. He went down the stairs as sober as any proper man; surprising considering his size. After giving a polite wave to Olav, he left the tavern, no one giving much thought to the matter. Jassan, however, did, and after rounding the block with no people in sight, he scaled a building, landing deftly upon the rooftop and looking through the moonlight. There, in the distance; his target. He moved towards the back of the house, heading for the wall of the city, and stopped when he saw a familiar figure. What’s Huge doing out so late? He briefly wondered as he watched the Nord head off towards the Gate. Remembering his business, he shrugged and jumped to the wall, before jumping down into a pine tree with ease. Each successive tree in the dark, sparse forest shook as he moved through them with the skill of a Valenwood Bosmer. The cave was surprisingly warm compared to outside, which put Jassan on his guard the moment he slinked through the entrance. Twin steel daggers were removed from his belt as the short elf walked slowly down the tunnel, his leather boots making whispers upon the floor. When he reached the archway to the next room, he crouched, pointed ear facing the entrance and tilting forward to try and get a peek. Three shadows he saw on the nearby wall, flickering in firelight and holding what might be tankards. But from his angle, they could not see one another; Jassan could see the sleeping form of one, though, and several sleeping bags. Crap. There wasn’t supposed to be this many… Ah well, it’s a challenge! His pessimism lasted milliseconds before he was grinning again, one dagger already flipped and held by the tip of the blade to be thrown. A soft whistle and wet, slick noise bit the air as the dagger darted into the neck of the most visible sleeping bandit. “What was that?” “Sweet Mother of Mara!” “Let the fun begin, boys!” Jassan cut into the exclamations with one of his own, spinning out of his cover and tossing two more knives. Weapons were drawn and dropped promptly as leather was punctured and flesh cut; two of the bandits dropped, injured, while the third ran out of the room. “Dammit.” Jassan cursed, two more knives flicking casually into the throats of the wounded bandits. Wasting no time he rushed to retrieve his knives, and took to the shadows. “Arm yerselves ya lazy dogs!” A man clad in iron barked, already with longsword out and rushing into the room. Jassan pulled back his arm to throw. “Won’t help you much.” A deep, calm voice snapped back at the Bandit leader, followed by the clank of heavy armor as the gleaming hulk of steel barged into the man. The forceful equivalent of a bull charge sent the brigand tumbling to the ground just as six other bandits rushed into the cavern room. They paused, all manner of clubs, swords, and axes at ready and gazing upon the intruder. What the heck is he doin’ here!? Jassan gawked, holding back his throw to curiously regard the back of the towering Nord. With a calm that screamed of battle experience, the man drew his claymore from his back, held it out to his side, and dropped to one knee, planting the bowl-like bronze aspis before him. For a normal man in this posture, the shield would have covered him completely. Then again, a normal man wouldn’t be holding a claymore steadily with one hand, either. The leader rolled onto his side, propping himself up and slowly rising. “Get tha’ bastard, don’t gawk!” He snapped, and his comrades jolted to purpose again, spreading out and charging to the Nord’s flanks and front. It was rather impressive, Jassan had to admit. The moment the iron battle axe descended the Nord raised his aspis to greet it, slamming forcefully against the axe and curving his shield down upon it, forcing the bandit to collapse. An armored boot kicked out, impacting on the torso of another as he brought the sword to his left and swept it in a backhand to his right. The leather armor was hopeless, severing from the force and allowing its wearer to be cleaved in two by the claymore. In the span of a second the Nord had taken out one, and severely wounded two. He turned to slice at another coming from behind, unlikely to stop the raised club coming from his flank. Something sparked, something surged; perhaps it was the adrenaline from watching the Nord’s inspiring fighting. Regardless, Jassan kicked off the cave wall, rolling along the ground and stopping at the bandit’s feet, burying a knife into his thigh.The man screamed in pain and rage, smashing his club down. Jassan swung himself behind the man, pivoting on the buried dagger and swinging his legs up. The bandit surprisingly found boots against his ears before the weight of his enemy toppled him backwards, Jassan whipping out his other hand and turning his torso in unison to stab a second knife into his gut. The victory was short-lived as he was forced to release his knives and back flip out of range, the Nord’s claymore slicing the air where he once was. The rib-kicked bandit rushed behind the Nord, only to have the pommel of the sword crush his face in. Blue eyes met each other briefly, recognition in the Nord’s and confusion in Jassan’s, before he ducked to the side as Jassan’s dagger flashed past his bicep. Unknown to him, the blade dug into the eye of a bandit just behind hulking warrior, poised with axe ready. The Nord charged, thrusting the sword out and down to stab, but Jassan quickly slid between his legs, narrowly missing the blade. “What gives man?!” Front flipping behind the Nord, he twisted his hip in midair and dug his heel into the cheek of another bandit, landing and drawing a blade from a sheath on his shoulder. Promptly it sank into flesh, ensuring death. “Nothing personal, midget.” The Nord responded calmly, his sword clanging against the longsword of the leader as he tried to flank the Nord. The brunt force of the locking blades sent the man stumbling back. “Just business.” “Business, eh?” Jassan inquired, rolling away from a sword blow of the last remaining grunt. A dagger flashed out from his thigh sheaths, spinning at his opposition but burying itself in his wooden shield. “What’re you in for?” He chuckled as he jumped over the charge of the bandit, landing with a crouch and a smirk. The bandit came to a stop and fell to his knees; a dagger imbedded hilt deep in the crown of his head. “Simple.” The Nord responded, his opponent’s blade clanging against his shield before he slashed out, steel grating loudly over the man’s iron chest plate. The leader stumbled backwards, gripped his sword in both hands, and charged. “Kill some bandits.” The bandit was low, hoping to take out the Nord’s legs, but he stooped and flung his shield up, scooping up the bandit and tossing him back like a doll into the wall. Steel shattered iron, the blade piercing through the gouge in the armor previously made. “Well, I’m not one of them, so lay off will ya?” Jassan whined, but kept his weary crouch. Remorseless and stunningly brutal considering his tavern behavior, the Nord jerked his sword out from the bandit’s chest, spun it around, and gripped tight again, sword rigid at his side. Blood rained around him off of the blade, a splotchy trail of intimidating death. Jassan wasn’t fazed. “I highly doubt you aren’t, kid. I’ve seen plenty of outlaws in my time; you’ve got that look about you.” He replied, the polite air he had with Olav returning once more to his voice with cruel irony. Jassan grinned. He ain’t stupid. Well… maybe a little stupid! He was forced to leap back again, kicking off the wall to launch himself over the Nord as the sword sought to dice him. “Jeez you’re a stubborn one!” He cried, landing and bolting to one side as the sword came up and back down from above, the warrior turning around with the motion. Desperate for his life, the elf chucked a dagger at the Nord’s face, only to have it bounce off the aspis and clatter to the ground a few feet away. “I saw you in the tavern, kid. Eying me up, seeing what would be good to steal, I reckon.” The Nord proclaimed, poising his sword to thrust. “And yet I killed these scumbags with you! Don’t that mean something these days?” Jassan snapped, already drawing another dagger. “I’m here for the same reason you are! Well… maybe not… but close!” He nodded furiously. The Nord didn’t move from his stance, bearing down on the elf. “Explain.” “I heard word this place has some really good stuff. You’re right about me being shady, but I’m not some common bandit; give a guy some credit! I’m a Procurer.” He seemed proud of this, but the Nord raised a curious eyebrow. “It’s a sort of freelance, classy thief… bit of style, pizzazz, you know… classy stealing. Sometimes I steal for people, sometimes for myself.” Jassan explained, waving one hand casually and grinning. “Your informant hire you to retrieve the Countess’ treasures, then?” The Nord asked, and it was Jassan’s turned to look perplexed. “The stuff down here is the Countess’?” “Yes. The Countess’ Court Mage hired me to retrieve the treasures before her daughter’s wedding. It’s her dowry.” The Nord elaborated. “I’m a mercenary. It’s what I do.” “Hmm… well then we seem to be caught up in one hell of a mistake, huh? The reward for this rather large?” The Nord nodded, soliciting a grin from Jassan. “You get jobs like this often?” “On occasion.” He returned, the claymore lowering until the tip touched the floor. “You look thoughtful.” Jassan nodded. “Here’s my thought.” He rose to a stand, fully displaying just how massive a difference in size there was between them, and held up on finger. “Hear me out now. What if we work together? You’re good at what you do, I’m good at what I do; together we’d be spectacular! And that means jobs usually you’d be unable to do… we could do together and still get the money. Whaddya say? 60-40?” He pointed to himself and the Nord in turn, grinning slyly. “50-50.” He retorted, catching the elf off guard. “I’m not stupid, kid.” “Noted. And the name’s Jassan, by the way. Jassan Zartuck.” The Bosmer gave a regal bow. “Hukral Ox-man.” The Nord replied, sheathing his claymore and bowing surprisingly well in return. Jassan wasted no time in getting friendly, jumping into Hukral’s shoulder as he bowed, and steadying himself as the Nord rose to his feet. It was like sitting on the branch of a tree, being on this man’s shoulder. “This is kinda fun.” Jassan grinned ear to ear. “Don’t get used to it.” Hukral grumbled, turning to head further into the cave to finish what he came here for. “What the-?!” A cry rose up behind them, and Hukral turned along with Jassan to see the source, a Breton man in an expensive emerald vest and tunic, fuming. He clutched his fists at his sides, fire crackling sporadically. His head was dark, reddened with anger, covered by only a ring of sparse hair. “Gan Luseph… Why are you here?” Hukral asked, instantly familiar with the man. Jassan frowned. This guy, that name, struck a chord in his head but he’d be damned if he could figure out why. He leaned one elbow on Hukral’s head, puzzled. “To check on you two, and it’s obviously a good thing I did!” He snapped. His gaze flickered to the bodies around him. “Rabble, all of them. Guess you really have to do it yourself to get it done.” His hands lifted up at his sides, arms spread, and the sporadic flames became steady. Hukral reached back, leather and steel covered hand wrapping around the handle of his claymore just behind Jassan. The elf continued looking puzzled, but drew one dagger from his belt. “Don’t I know you?” He asked. “He’s the Countess’ mage.” Hukral answered. “Fresh out of University, I hear.” It sounded almost jesting. “I got sent to this frozen wasteland because of you!” One flaming finger pointed at Jassan, conviction glaring in him. “Me?” Jassan put a hand to his chest innocently, gasping. “Why I never- oh… Yoouuu.” It seemed to finally dawn on him, and the elf grinned widely. “Still sour about that, eh?” “You ruined me, you little fiend! And you!” The finger now pointed at Hukral. “You were supposed to kill the damned thief, not get friendly, hulking imbecile!” “So… There isn’t really any treasure down here, is there?” Hukral reasoned, his sword slipping a little out of the sheath. Jassan already had a second dagger drawn, now in a half crouch on Hukral’s shoulder. “I was just an accessory to revenge, wasn’t I?” “I’ll get rid of you both myself, since you two are so incapable!” Gan snarled, both hands flaring to violent infernos. Hukral and Jassan exchanged glances, a small smirk passing across both their faces. |
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7:07 PM Jul 11