[STORY] Awakening

Writer

I've been working on this off and on for a few days. I am currently working on Scene Two. I will give you a fair warning that I tend to write very long fan fictions. I can easily have a word count of 150K when I'm finished. However, seeing as this is just a short story, it can be anywhere from 2500 to 20K.

Summary:
In the 2nd Era, Cyras, a Nord woman, ventures into a Worm Cultists' lair with Cycnus, a Dunmer, and Vaene, her current husband, to retrieve the body of Sven, her deceased husband who remains trapped within Oblivion. Within the depths of an immense cavern, they battle the enemy; however, they soon discover a greater threat than the mass of warriors in their path.
Updated: 4.18.2014

Descent

“We can't leave his body here,” she called back to the other two that was traveling with her, her voice fading within the blackness of the cavernous maw opening before her. Dirt, dotting her head and shoulders, collected upon her cloak.

“Lovely,” the masculine voice beside her grumbled, barely audible over the suffocating darkness. He tucked his head down, a sudden rare breeze ruffling his hood. “We're going to die as we dive into the heart of a den of Worm Cultists for a corpse.”

She didn't answer the dark knife-ears as they descended into a narrow chasm. Long stalagmites rose from the floor as they reached from the ceiling. This was the only entrance into the room, and it would be the one that was swarmed with worshipers of Molag Bal. It will be guarded well, she thought to herself.

With each rumble of earth and spouting of the geyser ahead of them, nature pulled at their cloaks, rustling the thin fabric against their cheeks. The garments, ramming against their legs, billowed.

“Do you have faith in anything besides money, milk-drinker​?' Vaene barked. Cyras knew that Vaene didn't like the vagabond, but she couldn't quite put her finger on the reason why. The elf was an assassin without a mark, a killer without purpose, nothing more than a wandering rogue since he had turned his back on his people years ago. He was as untrustworthy as an elf came.

From Vaene's frustrated tone, Cyras could tell he was fed up with the task of rear guard. After all, it would seem to him that every conversation excluded him.

“Actually, I do,” Cycnus drawled. “I believe in a beautiful woman back in Ebonheart. She's better than any amount of money.” There was a bite in his tone that left little doubt about what he truly was talking about.

While Cycnus' comment brought a fire to her cheeks, she ignored it. The nightblade was as subtle as a sword thrust to the neck. She did not want him to distance himself from them, however. At the moment, Vaene and she needed the assassin's help.

A whine came to her, soft at first before picking up in intensity. The sound sliced through the silence that surrounded the trio. She, squinting her eyes, tilted her head.

“Hold,” she commanded, testing her new found leadership status. Cyras held up her hand as she continued to listen to the whistling turbulence.

Cyras knew that sound. It was something that she heard many times in her journey to ferret out the worm cultists. This was something that she prepared for. It was why she brought the other two men.

“Vaene!” she called out, his name rolling off her tongue naturally. She learned very early in her life that he was one of the only ones that she could count on. She, withdrawing the sword at her waist from its swordfrog, unsheathed another one from its scabbard hooked to her thick, leather belt.

“How many, Cyras?” Vaene bellowed, readying himself. Within moments, he was beside her, immense shield hoisted before her and him.

Cycnus had vanished off the path, and he was nowhere to be seen. Typical, she thought, I should never have trusted the mer.

The arrow whistled through the air, screeching like a bird of prey. It bounded off his shield with the hollow reverberation of a hammer striking an anvil.

“I'm not sure,” she answered quickly, scanning the area ahead of them. “At least six from the sounds, but I only saw two.”

Vaene gritted his teeth hard. “This should be fun,” he hissed, and they waited for the enemy to be upon them.

The Onslaught

“Where did that vagabond go?” Vaene growled, his irritation breaking as the enemy finally spilled forth from the corridor before them. “Coward! I hope Oblivion takes him.”

Cycnus may be many things, she thought, but a coward is not one of them. From the time that she had spent with the Dunmer, she didn't know him to be a deserter. He had his own ideals, and, while she may not agree with them, she could count on him when she needed to. She would have told Vaene that to alleviate him of his fears, but the time for talking had passed.

Four men were bearing down upon them, armed and obviously unwilling to talk about things. Two had actual swords as weapons, while the others carried makeshift cudgel and pitchfork, respectively. They weren't trained soldiers; they looked more like a town militia.

“What's going on here?” Vaene asked with a quick glance to Cyras. She shrugged, as lost as he was.

“Stop asking questions and defend yourself, Vaene!” she shouted. There was no more time for words; it was not the time for distraction. Even against untrained opponents, inattentiveness could spell death.

The men circled around them. One of the swordsmen engaged Vaene, while the other three elected the cowardly path of attacking a woman. Apparently, they thought that she would be an easy target, then they could gang up on Vaene. Not only were they poorly trained, but it seemed that they weren't all that terribly bright.

She sidestepped a swift blow from one of the shillelaghs, and the wooden mace whistled in the air in its failing arc. Cyras glanced over at Vaene.

He brought his sword up in a glinting arc. His opponent parried, but the force of the blow knocked his arm away, and he was left defenseless against Vaene's next attack. As he brought his weapon back, he bashed his enemy in the face with the metal dome in the center of the large, round shield.

Blood burst from his opponent's nose, streaming from his nostrils like a crimson river. The swordsman stumbled back, and he swayed on his feet.

Vaene raised his sword and thrust it down into his attacker's neck.

The sword slipped easily into the other man's flesh, the blade sliding within his neck muscles. Before the body had even hit the ground, Vaene was moving towards Cyras, ready to dispatch her aggressors.

Inwardly, she chuckled. He liked to claim that he was her protector. Originally, he was. It was still a gallant idea, but she was fully capable of taking care of herself, even when she was confronted by three attackers.

I'll let him hold onto the idea, though, she concluded. There was no sense in taking it away from him when it did not harm for him to believe it. If it became a problem, then she would address it.

A swordsman lunged with his blade. The weapon quaked in his untrained grip. It nicked her upper bicep. Blood trickled from the wound, cascaded down her arm, twisted over the muscles, and dripped off her fingertips.

At least, it wasn't my primary sword arm, she rationalized. She prayed to her mother for the strength to prevail with an injury.

She breathed deeply, concentrating on the three militia soldiers before her. Hardened scales sprouted from her body, slithering downward over her leather breastplate, and covered her entirely.

Pain roared within her body as the reptilian laminae forced their way out of the tiny pores of her skin. She hissed, trying to relieve the agony within her body, and, at the same time, she kept her gaze upon her attackers.

The cudgel bounced off one of the thick scales with a wooden crack. She grunted as the repercussion resonated through the newly, organic armor covering her.

Cyras waited, looking for her opening. With three attackers, it would take longer for that opening to present itself, but it was an inevitability. She could evade their blows long enough for them all to tire themselves out. Untrained, they wouldn't have the stamina to keep it up for very long. Besides, Vaene was on his way, and he would no doubt thin the ranks of these men with her help. At the very least, he would distract them long enough to give her the opening she was waiting for.

As Vaene came charging in as best as he could with the shield that he held, one of the three men surrounding her, turned his attention away to face the arriving Nord. He jerked the sword towards Vaene. The point of the blade glittered in the dusty cavern. He overreached Vaene. His weapon banged over the steel of the protective plate covering Vaene's breast.

Vaene sucked in air, a Nordic curse forcing its way past his lips, and planted his feet into the dirt floor.

Vaene sucked in air, a Nordic curse forcing its way past his lips, and planted his feet into the dirt floor.
The ground was littered with pebbled and mounds of excrement and muck. Dirt clumped together. It glistened with drops of sanguine gore.

This was exactly the moment she was holding out for. As he turned, he exposed his side to her. Foolishly. She thrust her blade, aiming for the space under his arm where he wouldn't be armored.

The blade slid into his flesh like a spade cutting through soft soil. The man yelped, the noise quick and rising, ending in a sickly gurgle. His body slid to the ground. The linen of his tunic billowed in his lifeless descent.

There is only two left, she reasoned. Each of them was armed with makeshift weapons. The advantage had swiftly swung to Vaene and Cyras, and still Cycnus was nowhere in sight.

Cyras gnashed her teeth together. Her jaw throbbed. She didn't understand how the mer could simply vanish. Did she place her trust in the wrong person?

As the Breton closest to her swung his wooden club downward, he let out a gurgled shout. The cry infused with the sounds of their fighting. It drowned out the spouting geyser in the next room.

She brought her blade aloft. Sparks erupted as the ligneous mace struck the edge of her sword. Vibrations shot down her arm, making the flesh numb. Cyras grunted.

The man leaned forward on his foot as he tried to force his weapon to overcome her own. He balled his free hand into a fist, swung at her shoulder, and bashed the segmented, hinged scales covering her skin.

Flakes of the crimson layers chipped off. Pieces of her organic armor lacerated his hand. It cut into his fingers, his palm, and his wrist. Blood pooled from beneath the scales, trickled along the surface, and dribbled to the ground.

Quickly, she stabbed her other saber into his gut, and he shrieked in pain. She jerked it out of him, ignoring the gore that trickled onto his trousers.

He dropped his cudgel, and it hit the ground with a dull thunk. The Breton pressed his hand against the large laceration and tried to hold his innards in.

These men provide even less of a challenge, she inferred. For some reason, when their compatriots were killed, they didn't run, even when it was clear that they stood no chance. They threw their lives away trying to stop Vaene and Cyras. That is good. They must be on the right path.

When the dust had settled, Cycnus sauntered back into view. A wide grin pulled at his lips, illuminating his sharp features. He wiped the flat of a dagger on his thigh, one side and then the other. He sheathed the blade in a quick motion.

“Where in Oblivion have you been, Snowberries?!” Vaene burst. “Hiding like a frightened woman?”

“Hardly,” Cycnus droned back. His dark gaze flicked to Vaene. “There were three further ahead. Notice what I said there, S'wit. There were.”