Tales of the Dead 2 - Contest Entry Thread

SantieClaws

I know a poem did me no good last time but I'm stubborn so here goes ....

The dead they do their secrets keep
Of battles lost and wives that weep
But look closely at the clues they leave
And give your heart to those that grieve

Long ago a bard named Broyn
Set off to seek his fortune’s coin
He left his wife with weeping eyes
And promised to return with a worthy prize

She had packed his bags with cheese and ale
And many a songworthy tale
He turned his back and walked the path
To his own songworthy fate alas

Afternoon gradually turned to dusk
And with fading light diminished his luck
For only a few miles from his lifetime home
He ended life’s journey as dust and bones

Tis a poor decision for a bard of high voice
To make his place of sleep a dangerous choice
For behind the wall of sheer grey slate
A group of quiet bandits did wait

Our Broyn he thought to tune his chords
Between the time of dusk and dawn
Our quiet bandits heard him sing
About a red diamond or something

The word diamond perked up their ears
And golden coin was all they could hear
Seconds later poor Broyn was quite, quite dead
With a rather large spear stuck out of his head

His wife she waits by the fireside still
Hoping for the best but fearing ill
And Broyn his voice for ever quiet
Rests by rocks in the dark of the night

So ends our tale of songs and spears
A caution to remember through the years
When setting up camp on your worldly travels
Stay at an inn or risk your life and valuables!

This epic song has been brought to you courtesy of the Tamriellic Inn and Tavern Keepers Association. Yes we have rats but you’ll be safe from the bandits.

sarttsarttsarttub17_ESO

ZOS_GinaBruno wrote: »

The second Tales of the Dead contest is here, and we’ve returned with another macabre screenshot from Tamriel. How did it come to this? What led up to such an unfortunate and untimely death for this traveler, and who was he or she? If you can come up with the best fictional entry, you’ll be a winner!

To participate, take a good look at the image below. Then, create your own fictional entry of 500 words or less that tells us more about the scene. You can write a short story, a journal entry, or any other kind of fictional text. Once you’re happy with your creation, post it in this thread.

We’ll start accepting entries today, September 22nd, and will close the contest this Friday, September 26th at 11:59PM EDT. If you’re one of the three winners we announce, you’ll receive a $25 electronic gift certificate to the Bethesda Store and an ESO t-shirt of your choosing!


You can read the contest rules here.

Good luck!

Was about to eat some cheese and drink some wind, then he got shot by a Lethal Arrow.

End of Story.

eldris

Dearest Alice,

I leave you this note dear sister, lest I fail in my feat. I know that you are against this, but I cannot turn down the challenge. If I succeed we will be wealthy beyond our greatest dreams. He told us this. I do not see why you think him so odd. All I see of him is that he has a good appreciation for the lighter side in life. Yes, he laughed at that bonnet of yours, but really, it is hideous. Everyone else is just too polite and you never listen to me.

I digress.

I have set the ballista up on the hill. If you look from the southern window you will see it. If your bonnet doesn't block the view of course. I will fire it at noon. Watch for me then, or I will share none of the wealth with you. Our good friend will be hitting the firing pin, so I am in safe hands. He is awfully excited about this, he's practically handing me the gold already.

Should I fail, promise me one thing. Burn that ugly bonnet.

With affection, your brother,
W. Tehll

batz1989

A note is roughly stuffed in the pocket of the skeleton's jacket. Should you decide to pull it out, it reads:

"Here lies an unknown Breton male. He slept with my wife, then made of with the contents of our pantry. Although he attempted to flee, it seems he slipped and broke his ankle. I found him eating our cheese and drinking our wine. Upon my approach he began to weep, up until I stuck my spear through his skull.

Consider yourself warned: do not steal my food or alcohol.

Palinor Lindell of Grahtwood"

Sindala

That's the last time I mix Cheese with Rotmeth.......I've got a splitting headache this morning.

Beggerwolf

It's out there somewhere, I can hear it. Marianne said it was Hircine himself, and now I'm starting to believe it. The way it's hunted us, no mortal could be so relentless, what else could it be but a daedric prince? What else but a daedric prince would torment me so much. It doesn't matter now, I can't run anymore. Marianne is dead, they are all dead.
I never knew how much she meant to me, the way we would argue, Merrik would practically have to pull us apart to keep us from killing one another. Why couldn't I have realized it before? I saw it just before the shadows claimed her, just before she was taken by that... thing. She loved me, and now that she's gone I feel so empty. Maybe she's not dead. Maybe this is just the local guards, maybe she is alive in a cell somewhere, and soon I will join her. Yeah, that has to be it. There is no way they are dead, they can't be. We've faced death before and have always come out on top, so why should this be any different? Mara be willing, I can't wait to see Marianne again, we'll do our time and then when we get out, I'll ask her to be my wife. I'll look into those beautiful green eyes of hers, and pledge myself to her.
I mind as well open this wine we stole. They say it's priceless, originally stolen from Sanguine himself in the first era. I think I even have some left over cheese to go with it. Cheese and daedric wine, not a bad final meal before being thrown in a dungeon. I hear the guards getting closer. It's strange though, it sounds as if there is only one of them out there. He sounds like a big fella, I hope he's not too angry about the chase I gave him.


But what if Marianne was right?

Mr_Mcfetlock

" One day a wrathful young Imperial lad

Went to bargain with the God so Mad,

Said he, I need power, Old Sheo, and I need it now!

Replied the God, Oh power I can give, but the question is how?

The Spear of Bitter Mercy, let me feel its power!

Said the God, Are ye sure ye'd not prefer this flower?

No, said the lad, give me brimstone and fire!

And the God said, Use this cheese to unleash your ire!

I do not need food, I need a weapon fine,

Well all I can spare is this bottle of Wine,

Sheogorath, curse you, said the Imperial lad

Don't offer me wine, do you think me Mad?

Do not test me, said the Imperial whelp,

Well, said Sheogorath, I was only trying to help.

Give me the Spear, let me feel its Dread!

So the Mad God did send it, straight through his head."

- A Cyrodilic Children's Poem

siggeawesome

"it seems at last that i have found the treasure i have been seeking all these years"

it is in my belief that i contains unknown piles of gold, i have risked everything to get to this point of my adventure and i hope it was worth it.


i have uncovered the treasure but cannot seem to understand it's message, i believe it is a riddle the only thing it says is:

"the forest it is watching, any step can be your last step"

another day has passed and i have yet to understood the chest's riddle. it is no keyhole so it must be something else. i have gathered some courage and i have decided to activate the spell and use what i think the code is.

i have activated the chest's mechanism and said my sentence. the chest started rumbling and i thought i had done it

suddenly out of nowhere skeleton warriors raise from the earth and i hear a whisper in the air "any step can be your last"

i had by this time understood this was the wrong code and the skeletons where approaching. i grabbed my sword and did what i could

but it wasn't good enough i god slammed and sliced more and more and now i am wounded for death and i gently lean towards the mountain side to finish my note.

"the forest it is watching, any step can be your last step"

a skeleton is approaching he has a spear this is my final words, i lived a good life

- Sigg Nielsson

rotiferuk

ESO Dev team finally get their comeuppance after repeated refusals to address stamina combat issues.

Ourorboros

It had been months since the carnage at Bleakrock, and the Imperial had thought himself safe. But he had made two mistakes. First, he had left a survivor in the village, a small boy who had hidden under the floorboards, listening in terror as the Imperial had used and killed first his mother and then his sisters scant inches from where he lay. The second mistake was that the boy knew of our Brotherhood.
In the few weeks since the ritual had been performed and the Imperial had received a note with nothing but the imprint of a black hand, the Imperial had been on the run. And he was good too, to have lasted so long. He changed horses as often as he could as he made his way out of Skyrim, sticking to rocky tracts to make tracking difficult. He slept fitfully, with a hand on the hilt of his dagger. He kept moving, making only brief stops at the villages along the way, never saying where he had been or where he was going. He never traveled long in one direction, sometimes moving east, sometimes west, sometimes south. In the end though, it was easy enough to see he was scurrying home to the Imperial City. It was easy enough to guess his next move and get ahead of him. It was easy enough to become an old man traveling in his direction, grateful enough for his company and protection to offer him some wine and cheese, which he accepted as though he were entitled to it. Ah, the look of surprise on his face at the first sip of wine when we had stopped near a rocky copse for a break. Of course, the wine was poisoned. But I had used a paralytic, not a deadly poison. The boy had prayed for the Imperial to know pain and terror before his death. So as he sat there, wine and cheese before him, unable to move, to speak, barely able to breath, I stood before him, no longer an old man, but revealed as a Dark Brother. I whispered to him all the deeds he had done in Bleakrock, as I cut away his pants, and then, watching the terror in his eyes, cut away his manhood. He could not move, he could not scream, but his eyes were filled with terror, and pain, and remembrance. Finally, I removed his helm, and thrust his own spear into his head, sending him to eternity with the Night Mother.

****likely to be disqualified for contest rules of sexual imagery, but it feels right this way and was fun to write.

arkanidous

well i used to be an adventure like yal till i pissed of my little brother and took a spear to the head

Randigo

"Finally," he said as he slowly slumped against the rock wall and slid down, completely exhausted from the battle. The Nords had been attacking all day. It seemed as though their ships were an unending cornucopia of marines and fiery ballistae.
"We've done it," he thought to himself as he pulled out the bottle of wine and set the cheese down on a plate that washed ashore from one of the now sinking ships. "A little reward for a fine day of battle. Cheese and wine, hah! If Marissa could see me now, covered in blood, dirt, and split leather, but eating like the Dunmer nobles of Morrowind." He drifted off in thought as the day's battle slowly filtered through his mind.
The Nords had attacked so suddenly after the negotiations fell through that their own ambassadors had not even rowed out to the safety of their ships yet. It seemed as though they had planned this contingency the whole time, not willing to give up their claim to power over this small island of non-alliance natives.
"Being a mercenary isn't as bad as you made it sound, Marissa," he thought. "When the chieftain called for aid, he bargained that we could have not only the pay he was willing to give, but also the spoils of the Nords and their ships if they decided to attack. There must be a fortune of military equipment out there, just sitting in the bay." He could hardly wait to get out there and start looting, but first, cheese and wine, along with rest, were in order.
Though defeated handily, and reeling from the battle, there were some Nords who had escaped to their supply ship. Namely, the chief ambassador, the thane Randwulf, had given the order of retreat and led his hardy (but beleaguered) marines to safety. "I will not let this defeat define my time here," he thought as he climbed up the netting into the ship.
Peering out toward the shore, he saw the mercenary sitting down with his food and drink. Vindictive and full of fury over the mercenary captain's interference in the "talks", he rolled out the one ballista the supply ship was equipped with. He ordered a "special" concoction the alchemist had made to be coated on the spearhead. A foul-smelling mixture of rotgut, acid, and a necrotic substance of unknown origin, the semi-liquid stuck easily to the projectile. "One shot; I have one shot," he thought, as he rolled the warrior's quickly shrinking image into the crosshairs.
"I should write a letter to Marissa about this day," the young mercenary thought. Pulling out his parchment and quill, he wrote about all the things done that day, as well as his plans for the future. "Dearest Marissa," he began to close his message. "I've loved you since we were kids. When I get home, I would like you to be my wi...."
The thane was happy, and so was the captain that found the letter.

Sak_Master14

It was just after dusk when Jerik finally sprung the lock to the window. Everyone had laughed when he told them that he, Jerik Stormfist of the Whiterun Stormfist’s, wanted to be in the Thieves Guild. Yet here he was, past the wall and the sentries. Inside the house. A Nord, about to complete his first real heist as a thief. All he had to do was grab the box of gems and be on his way.

Up the stairs he crept. Into the bedroom of Councilor Kels and slipped the box into his pack. On his way back through the kitchens he couldn’t help but notice a plate set with a wedge of cheese, some bread and a bottle of Honey Mead, his favorite. Slipping all three items, and the silver plate for good measure, into his bag he made his way back to the window. As swift and silent as he could he climbed back out the window then turned around to secure the lock. Then Jerik turned…and locked eyes with one of the patrolling sentries across the courtyard! In his haste to leave he forgot their route took them right past this window.

Jerik sprinted as fast as he could, an arrow arched after him, narrowly missing him. Vaulting over the low wall that surrounded the compound, the noise of alarms and yells organizing a chase echoed after him. Ducking into alley after alley, trying to throw them off his trail, he ran. Finally reaching the edge of town, the sounds of the shouts slowly diminishing as Jerik gained ground on the guards. Not wanting to give them any time to close on him, Jerik took to the forest on the outskirts of town. Jerik had no idea how he was going to escape, but he vowed to give up his dream of being a Nordic Thief if he could manage to escape the guards chasing him.

As dawn finally approached, Jerik stopped by a stream to catch his breath and slake his thirst. He had not heard sounds of the pursuit for some time now, so he opened his pack to enjoy his stolen spoils. Walking over to a boulder to rest against, Jerik noticed that in his flight, the bottle of mead had opened and leaked all over his bag. Tossing the soggy bread into the stream, and the empty bottle on the ground next to him he took off his helm, grabbed the cheese and examined it. He took a bite…and immediately spit it out. Wax. He truly was the worst thief ever.

Hearing noise across the clearing he dropped it onto the plate and looked around. Jerik noticed the imp staring at him. Then, he noticed a mage a few feet over. And the three House Guards accompanying him on the chase.

He had just enough time to mutter, “I hate mages” before the spear thudded into his skull.

This is why Nord’s don’t become thieves.

Pseudolo

2E 634, 13th Rain’s Hand

Dear Thervyn,

my studies are proceeding quite rapidly, as corpses in this war torn land are an all too common occurrence. With a bit of luck, I’ll be able to write my treaty on anatomical pathology before the end of the year. Those blathering cards in Mournhold will have to stop mocking me and my studies when they’ll see how complete and useful, especially to the healer and the investigator, my magnum opus will be! But enough of this, and to the matter at hand.
As you can see from the attached drawing (a fairly accurate depiction of the scene, if I might say so myself) the subject is a man or a mer, approximately six foot tall, dressed in a leather armor. Since the armor style is very similar to that in use in Highrock, I’ll venture to say we are looking at a Breton foot soldier, probably a mercenary archer. The cause of death at a glance appears to be a violent trauma to the skull, caused by a spear thrust through it from left to right. I use the verb “appear” because there are other clues to take into account. First, the helmet: no proper soldier would throw it aside during a fight. Second, the food: it’s still intact after all these years, while the certainly more resilient soldier’s flesh has been completely decomposed. Third, the marks around the wound: there is no trace of blood on the skull.
These three facts lead me to conclude that it was no spear to kill our soldier, but he was in fact poisoned. Poison would explain all: the helm cast aside in a moment of relax, while he was eating food, which is in turn so strangely preserved that it makes me think of some kind of very powerful poison, something that a human couldn’t detect but perhaps an animal could. The fact that the wound on the skull has no residue of blood could be explained with the fact that the spear has penetrated the skull only sometime after the death, maybe accidentally.
Since I’m a man of science, I can’t be content with suppositions and clues. Therefore you’ll find a sample of the man’s bones in this envelope, which you should analyze right away.
I hope my letter finds you well as usual, and wait to receive your response.

Thankful as ever for your assistance,

Drevith

StopDropAndBear

Her words are in my head, they whisper like the dawn's first breeze.

I hear them, so faintly, like the clink of crystal goblets or the babbling of a brook. She tells me I am handsome, she tells me I am strong, she tells me I will be a great general, a noble lord, a respected scholar.

Her words are in my head, they dance like the stars on a moonless night.

I see a young Nord woman bathing in a stream. "Drown her", she says in my head. No, I can't, she's done no wrong. "Drown her", she says again. "Drown her now". Her words are like ice, now her hands are like ice, and the current carries her away.


Her words are in my head, they burn like a sinner wrapped in a pyre.

I am in the tavern, I drown in my drink. All around are voices, singing and laughing and shouting. But I hear only one. "Kill them", she says. "Kill them all". No, no, please, I can't. I know these men, they are friends, they are fathers, they are soldiers, please, there are too many, I can't. "Kill them now", she screams. She screams so loud, all screams become her screams. The blood and the wine and the ale run together. I cannot even see the floor.

Her words are in my head, they sting like the poison of a thousand scorpions.

I need to get her out, I need to get her out. I will dig her out. A spoon? No, no, too small. A knife? Too small, too small. She's in so deep, she hides so deep, she screams and howls and whispers all at once, but I will dig her out. I know now.

Her words are in my head, but I can get them out.

kingjames18

Tale of Vengeance and Death

One day Riccard a fairly renowned sellsword who earned his coin doing odd jobs for farmers and minor Nobles outside of Cyrodil, was walking down a forest path. He was on his way to do a job for a local merchant who had been having run ins by bandits stealing his goods. So Riccard was on his way to find out the location of their hideout and make sure no such run in happens again.
What Riccard didn't know was that he was himself being stalked. See a few weeks back he didn't finish a job. He was sent to kill a man who had been stealing from a minor Noble. But when Riccard found the man it turned out he was no mere regular thief but a Master at his profession and a very deadly one at that. Riccard barely got away with his life. He had thought that he had long lost him and covered his trail but sadly that was not the case. So now unbeknownst of Riccard he was being hunted.
After a few more miles he sat down at a great big weathered tree with nice shade and took off his helm and grabbed some food out to eat. He was munching on some bread when he heard a whirring sound as if something was flying towards him at great speed he quickly looked up just in time to come face to face with the sharp end of a spear and with that a last thought of. "Oh no...-".

tylerdavidsonb14_ESO

"Oh come on St. Peter. How can you say that I shouldn't have been so careless while eating my cheese and whine? Huh? Do you HONESTLY expect me to believe that my crappy little Rawhide leather helmet would stop THAT spear? I mean look at it dude. The shaft alone is bigger around than my thigh. Not to mention the orc that threw the darn thing. I mean did you see that guy? I am pretty sure that if that freaking Orc punched me as hard as he could in my leg I would have died. I mean come on Pete...give a guy a break. Here I am, begging for eternal peace, hungry as all get out because I didn't even get a NIBBLE before getting got and YOU want to tell ME I shouldn't have been so careless?????" says the Ghost.

Daenerys

Part One: Flaenia and Mertis

Many eras ago, Mertis Falandas discovered, quite accidentally I must tell you, the secrets of time traveling. While plundering a secret shrine to Molag Bal in Yansirramus, Falandas happened upon Muatra. Muatra, for those of you less informed readers, is a mighty spear once wielded by Vivec himself.* Falandas examined the magnificent weapon with awe, calling for his colleague, Flaenia Amiulusus. "Flaenia, come quickly," he exclaimed, "look what I have found!"

Flaenia Amiulusus was a shrewd sort of woman, charming, though not considered beautiful by Imperial standards. She used her charms wisely, and to her benefit. Flaenia knew Mertis fancied her, though the thought of that Dunmer made her skin crawl, she saw an opportunity to get what she desired most. And what she desired most was to be the best Spear Trainer in all of Tamriel!

Flaenia slowly sauntered up to Mertis, "What have you discovered Master?" she inquired.

Mertis, being a bit taken back by her flattery, for she rarely grudgingly acknowledged that he was the superior Spearsman, showed her his prize, the mighty spear Muatra.

Watching her gaze with wonder upon the spear's peculiar markings, Falandas knew what he must do! He must share his masterful knowledge of the Spear with everyone! The spear was the most glorious weapon ever to behold, and Mertis, being the crusaderly fellow he was, knew that this was his destiny.

Mertis grasped the shaft of the spear, while Flaenia, mildly annoyed that he had broken her reverie, delicately fingered the tip. At that exact moment they both noticed some peculiar script on Muatra. Together they murmured the slightly glowing daedric writing on Muatra, "Can ghosts or justice change with time?" and all of a sudden they were no longer in Yansirramus, no longer in Morrowind, and with a brilliant flash of white they were unceremoniously deposited on their behinds in an unknown land.

Flaenia was the first to recover, and wildly looked around for her prize. Quicker than you could say Yansirramus, Flaenia picked up Muatra and thrust it into her teacher's skull. Mertis Falandas should have died instantly, but Sheogorath happened to be passing by and the scent of unrequited love and blood caught his attention.

Sheogorath giggled to himself and brushed Mertis Falandas' soul aside, taking the body for himself. "Flaenia, my love, how could you do this to me?! Don't you know I've always loved you? Here dearest, you must be famished, would you not like some fine wine and cheese?"

Continued in Part Two: Flaenia and Sheogorath

*Authors note: Dear readers, I suggest reading 36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 14 to fully appreciate the uniqueness of Muatra.

angusademcpherson622b16_ESO

The first raindrops began to splatter on the dirt as the sun began to set over the city of Riften. By nightfall the storm had worsened and thunderbolts streaked across the sky, illuminating the mountains.
“There is something evil about tonight I swear” muttered a small Dunmer as she began to sharpen her dagger
“You are just nervous Idesa, because it’s your first time out of the city since you came here” a tall Nord laughed “this is just like any other storm, and anyway we will only be here for another few hours”
“It’s not the just the storm the air feels strange, I can’t really describe it” she said “I think we should head back and go out tomorrow Bjen”
“What can go wrong?” he said “we are both strong warriors, and all we are doing is observing. In fact I doubt there are even any Daedra worshipers, we have been sitting here since about noon, and nothing has happened!”
To prove his point he started yelling and jumping up and down.
A flock of birds took flight from a nearby tree but nothing other than that there was silence,
But a serious look suddenly appeared on Bjen’s face and he drew his sword signalling for Idesa to get behind him, she looked behind her just in time for here to see a spear hurtling towards her and to duck out of its way. Now she could see a group of hooded figures advancing towards them, at the front of the group a tall silver haired high elf towered above the others, he was he loosely gripped a long staff in frail hands and limped as he walked, reminding Idesa of a wizard.
Bjen drew his sword “looks like I was wrong anyway, get ready to fight”
Another spear came hurtling towards the pair; it crackled with a kind of arcane energy and exploded in a shower of sparks when it hit the ground, in retaliation Idesa threw herself at her attackers swinging her daggers expertly taking out one after the other of the oncoming elves. But a swinging spear caught her in the stomach, sending her down to one knee, in the moment she was down through the mass of bodies she saw Bjen fighting for his life wildly swinging his long sword at anybody who came near him, but it was no good they just kept on coming.
It happened as If in slow motion a thrown spear exploded into with Bjen’s Skull knocking him down crashing through the table. As blood streaked down his brow he managed to yell “Idesa, run” before he collapsed into the ground.
Idesa roared swinging violently in rage, but it was useless, she felt a searing pain in the back of her head as the worshipers swarmed her and the last thing she saw was a dark chain descend from the sky and come crashing into the earth.
And then there was nothing.

srawlings316_ESO

"CURSE the mad God!"

Cantus spit in front of the Daedric prince with a scowl usually reserved for the lesser races. "Curse the ma-"

"C'mon Cantus! Don't let th'fact y'already lost yer boots stand in th'way o'solvin' this! Spittin' boring curses at th' GREAT and HILARIOUS Sheogorath is like paintin' hogs with mead BEFORE th' carnival! An' believe me, I've tried!" Sheogorath smiled brightly, far too amused. "So if ya don't mind; try again. Think hard before ya answer, tenderfoot, mindful of the...." Sheogorath glowered, "bare... consequences..."

Cantus pursed his lips, silently cursing again. "Is it... " the Altmer paused, "uh..."

"Duhh-UHH... DERRR. WRRROOOOOOONG!!" Sheogorath laughed, and Cantus's gloves disappeared in a slow fade of purple light. "Wrong again! BAHAHAHAHA!"

Cantus gawked. "That's not fair!"

"FAIR?! Don't tell ME about FAIR, mortal! I've BEEN to PLENTY fairs, and YOU SIR, aren't NEARLY entertaining!" He chuckled slow, voice turning sinister, "Here... I'll give ya somethin' fer all... yer... WHINE!!"

A flash of purple light materialized a bottle of wine in Cantus's hand. The Altmer chucked it to the soft earth in a huff, "That's not funny!"

"O'course it was! I'm gonna laugh about it right now! BAAAAAAAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAAAAA"

Cantus stared, incredulous at his luck, taking a deep breath to consider the riddle once again, this time more careful. Sheogorath beamed.

"Is it. . . fur?"

"WRRRRRRRROOOONNG!" Sheogorath laughed again as Cantus's pants disappeared. he laughed even harder as the poor Altmer tried to cover himself by removing his helmet and holding it over himself. "Y'better git it quick, Needle-Nethers, before ya run outta clothin' ta trade fer INEPTITUDE!"

Cantus frowned at the petty insult, but stood fast.

"It's... skin!"

Sheogorath cackled again, and Cantus was sure he'd guessed wrong. He braced himself for something else to disappear, but nothing happened except Sheogorath's continued laughter, leaving one half naked Altmer feeling quite silly in his summoning circle.

"And they called ya a half-wit, Cantus, I tell ya, I never believed them! Since ya won, ya git yer prize!"

"Immortality?"

"Aye, quite so! Forever just you, an yer tiny... puny... expendable littl-"

"I get it." Cantus interrupted flatly, grasping the helmet.

"Good! Well then, are ya ready ta go?"

"Go...?"

"Ya sold me yer undying soul so you can live forever! But, you can't live forever in a mortal body, so you will reside, well, in your soul! With me! In my little-"

"You TRICKED ME! This isn't fair!"

"Again with th'whining! Have some CHEESE ta compliment your POOR ATTITUDE!" Another flash produced a cheese wedge next to the bottle of wine. When Cantus looked back up, Sheogorath held a spear aloft, leveled with the elf's head. Cantus started laughing.

"Somethin' funny?"

"A spear? Who uses a spear?!"

"That's rich, comin' from you, Short-Sword! Got'a bit'a spear envy do ya?" Cantus kept laughing.

"NO ONE uses a spear!" The mer kept laughing hysterically, "That's madness! Spears are broken! They're pants-on-head lunacy!"

"YA DON'T EVEN HAVE PANTS!" Sheogorath bellowed as he thrust the spear into the elf's head.

betty0boop0b14_ESO

If you are going to make cheese, hire a Khajiit!

An imperial dairy farmer, whom made his living from selling his special blend cheese made from goat and oxen milk called well-aged cheese, had set up an elaborate trap to kill the thieving skeever named Skeevs who had been stealing his well-aged cheese. This elaborate trap was staged on the outskirts of the farmer's property near the nest of Skeevs. A spear was placed in a tree aimed at the rock face that would trigger when the cheese was moved from the plate, A trick the farmer learned from when he was a soldier many year ago. He grabs a bottle of mead and dons his old imperial armor ( at least that of which still fit)and hides behind a bush to see his plan fold out.
Old Skeevs smelled the well-aged cheese, and scurried down the hill side to where the cheese was placed, he nibbled a bite, the trap snared missing old Skeevs. Skeevs darted off into the coming night carrying the well-aged cheese. The farmer replaced the trap knowing old Skeevs can't resist his well-aged cheese. The farmer grabbed another bottle of mead and hid in the bushes once more.
A few hours and a dozen or so bottles of mead later, old Skeevs came from behind the rock face looking at the drunken farmer, who was not out of view anymore. The drunken farmer having temporarily forgotten about the trap, do to his drunken state, ran down toward Skeevs with sword drawn yelling "for the emperor". Skeevs had turn to run knocking the cheese lose from the trap with his tail, as the old farmer crossed the trap path, with sword in one hand and empty bottle of mead in the other. The farmers trap snared.
The drunken imperial dairy farmer, who at this moment had just remembered his trap, paused slightly before impact to his head. Not quite dead yet, the farmer set up against the rocks tilted his bottle to take a last drink, only to realize it was empty. The farmer muttered "look at that. Am I Drunk? Skeevs you smell of old cheese, and your wits, YOUR WITS! Should not be greater than mine. Have the cheese. I have no MEAD! ..."
Old Skeevs did not have of the cheese but instead ate at the flesh from the dairy farmer which happened to smell like that of well-aged cheese. When Skeeves was done he carried the farmer's sword to his nest.

Horkerloaf

"They couldn't hit a mammoth at this dist....".

OtheldoRalnor

The weary thief skidded to a stop, scurrying through undergrowth to rest behind a rocky outcropping. The hail of arrows and angry cries from the King’s men had long since ceased. He hunkered down and removed his prize, the leather helmet which had previously belonged to the King’s son. This was one of the greatest heists in Tamrielic history, equal to The Master Thief snatching the cloak of Nocturnal herself. His rival, Kraccer never had a chance, since they arranged the competition over some drinks in a squalid tavern he had already won. He withdrew a bottle of spiced wine and a plate of cheese. Time to celebrate. He uncorked the bottle and took a swig, before munching on some cheese. A dog barked off in the distance, and the thief began thinking about the various Daedric Princes, Clavicus Vile was supposed to have a pet dog. And then there was Sheogorath famous for his cheese. The wine would suit Sanguine. The dog barked again, closer this time. The thief thought that he should probably get moving, but the wine had made him a bit tipsy so he stayed instead and continued his meal. Suddenly the dog was only metres away, and then a voice, from through the trees;
“You didn't get very far did you?” The voice of his rival.
“Yeah, but I still won” he replied.
“Not yet” answered Kraccer stepping out from behind the trees, a spear aimed at his head.
“How did you even find me?” the thief dejectedly questioned.
“My dog knows the scent of that helm. You see, I got into the King’s armory long before you did but I didn't take the helm”
“I was so proud of myself too” the thief sighed.
“Well I’m afraid I’ll have to kill you now”. The thief looked down at the helm,
“Go ahead then” he murmured. His life ended with a whoosh and a loud crack. Outwitted, just like that Khajiit girl in the story.

UareGone

Aaron was the last runner. He had to be by now. Two weeks had passed since he and his band of mercenaries took a contract to kill an Altmer drug lord and his bosmer buyer. It was supposed to be a simple job, even started out well enough. Aaron and the other Breton Sell Swords arrived and positioned themselves hours before the wood elf Arringoth walk right into their carefully laid out trap. The arrogant high elf Skooma dealer never knew his death waited in the very sunbaked gorge of Reaper’s March where he had felt so safe hiding in. The elf even carried in a solid oak table and a pair of fine chairs for fine dinner he had planned. When all was said and done, the Breton crew of rouges left the two elves and all their finery shot full arrows.
As an added bonus taken at their own leisure, the lawless gang helped themselves to the cheese, wine, gold, and of course, a small fortune in Skooma. After that, Aaron and the rest hauled tail to the nearest tavern in Dune. Drinks though the night and pay in the morning, that’s where the trouble started. Rather than payment, another band of thugs was waiting to relieve them of their heads. The hung over Bretons won the fight at the cost of half their number. A letter carried by the sober opposition told the how and why of the failed trap. They killed the Altmer clear as day, but for every day, there’s a night waiting. None of the Breton mercenaries guessed or cared if their victim had a wife. The elf the outlaws killed had lived a long life before they bought a violent conclusion. The unfortunate Altmer spent several centuries in a blissful marriage, leaving behind a vengeful widow with enough coin to see her vengeance done tenfold.
The surviving scoundrels skipped town. They ran south and east just as fast as they could manage hoping to hide in tall oaks of Grahtwood till their trail went cold. They barely made it ten miles before a second gang got the jump on them. The handful that made it out scattered. Aaron never looked back. He couldn’t afford to. The hunted Breton did his pathetic best to cover his tracks as he fled across the savanna. Grahtwood still sounded like a safe haven. Then the first of his pursuers, a wood elf with a spear, came to close for comfort. Besides Solstheim, Aaron hadn’t seen anyone use a spear since Morrowind. That was two days ago and Aaron needed to rest. He laid out what little food he had left, some cheese and a bottle of wine, by the rock he was resting upon. The Sell Sword tried to keep his eyes open but he was too tiered. Just before he passed out, he saw movement in the trees. He couldn’t move fast enough before a spear thought his skull halted him permanently

Pyxsol

15th Rain’s Hand

It is my birthday! I am 20 and despite what my overbearing mother says, I am prepared for life on my own. I refuse to sit in this house for the next two hundred years looking down from my window while a servant dusts my mantel. I have already prepared my satchel. I managed to grab some of father’s old war armor and a reliable looking short sword. I know mother will disapprove of my leaving so I plan to steal away at midnight.

17th Rain’s Hand

So far, so good! I do feel bad about leaving without saying goodbye, but it is for the best. I will come back to them once I have proven that I can handle whatever the world throws at me. I took some money from father’s safe, just to get me started. I am not at all sure what I will encounter, so I figured 200,000 gold would do for starting funds. I am certainly glad I brought it with me because I have already run across a few traveling merchants. I thought it wise to purchase healing potions from the first merchant I met, and even managed to haggle his price down to 50,000 for five potions! Quite the steal!

21st Rain’s Hand

Gone.

All my money and most of my food. I was walking along the path to…(I forgot to pack a map so I am quite sure I have no idea where I am). Anyways, I was walking along the path when I saw three cats arguing behind some bushes. I figured I could help out and began to approach them. I must have startled them because one dropped a bunch of bottles, spilling white powder everywhere, and all three drew their weapons. I immediately began to explain that I meant no harm, but those cats came right at me! There was a brief struggle and they knocked me right out! (I’m actually quite sure that I passed out before any struggle, but I will leave that bit out at parties.) I woke up to find they had robbed me blind! My money, my sword, and my best bottle of wine- gone!
I must admit that this has diminished my spirits, but I must press on! Nowhere but up, as they say!

22nd Rain’s Hand

I spoke too soon.

Not even a full day after the cat incident did a group of Bosmer attack me for munching on some herbs growing by the river! I once again found myself unconscious and when I came to, those savages had (rather embarrassingly) made off with my pants! For the life of me, I could not tell you why.
I’ve found a shady tree under which to rest. I think I am going to drink my wine, get a good night’s sleep, and go back to mother and father tomorrow. Hopefully they will not be mad. I am sure they will just be happy to see me again.

MrRodriguez55Carlosub17_ESO

Read one below for entry plz.

MrRodriguez55Carlosub17_ESO

2E 324, 13th of Morning Star

Volunteer work sure is a pain when working with new guild mates for our Order of the Beast guild. I still can’t believe that I am in charge of all these new recruits and guiding them through the terrain of Valenwood. Either way at least I get the chance to try out this new blade I received from the Daedric Prince Meridia. Such an awful grind to bring a dead beast to the shrine, but I will see if it was worth that effort.

Each of these recruits are are such a bore. It’s been a week since I have been on training with them and each is scared of the smallest daedra. Why do I put up with such jokes?

So today while I was testing out the new blade when I noticed that one of the recruits was spying on me while I was training. Since then the recruit has been distancing himself from me. Either way if we are to be a successful guild I must continue trying to toughen up these new recruits.

To think that one of those filthy pit dog tried to take away my new blade from under my feet!? I have to be careful now showing this blade to others or else I will have to go through the risk of losing my blade or my life.

Incredible! As I was killing undead skeletons I was using Meridia’s blade and I found that the undead exploded on impact the moment I killed them off. This is an awesome encounter! I need keep this blade with me at all times so that I don’t find myself being robbed like the other day.

Great news, my wife Esther is having a baby soon and I can finally call myself a father. The stars are kind to this one. I must find some time to relax and rejoice, and I do believe that field would be a good place to enjoy this news.

Envy and power can be the death of a person. I find myself dying in this forest. That filthy recruit has trapped me here to the ground with some sort of spellcraft and I am immobile. The filthy pit dog keeps pushing to reveal the location of Meridia’s blade, but unlucky for the pit I gave it to my wife after she told me the good news. I feared something like this would happen so I left the blade with her, not to keep the relic, but to provide stability for my family for the day I am gone. This is the end of me, but if you are reading this I plead with you to reveal the name of the murderer that is about to take my life. His name is written in this account, so please warn my fellow Guild members about his actions, and please let me wife and child know that I love them.

Sincerely,
Fate Linegod

Smokintraveler

I was born in the mountains of Eastmarch on the eastern edge of Skyrim. I was an orc in a nordic land and therefore lived in a stronghold. I never really wanted to live in the orc stronghold. It seemed like our people only cared about what happened within our tiny little world and I always had an adventurous soul. When out hunting one day I ran across a fort under heavy siege. As an orc child I had heard tales of people so different from ourselves, but I never imagined how beautiful and multifaceted the world was until I set out.

The next month I returned to the fort and enlisted in the Imperial Legion. I spent years touring with the legion, and while Skyrim and Cyrodiil were certainly lovely, I always wished to journey farther across the face of Nirn. When I was finally able to retire from the legion, my joints were worn down, my hands calloused, and I could not cover much ground. However, I was determined to see the homeland of my people, Orsinium.

Alas, I never made it past the Cyrodiil-Hammerfell border. While climbing in the Colovian Highlands I lost my footing and broke my leg. This is not the way an orc dies, battered, old, and dying due to dehydration rather than by battle. Rations were dwindling, I had only two drops of wine and one slice of cheese left. I believed I was hallucinating when I saw a striking young imperial woman walking straight towards me. When I told her of my story she broke out in a smile that even Mara would be jealous of.

We battled. With the last of my energy I was able to bring down one great hack with my greatsword. It glanced off her pauldrons with a loud clank, and grazed her arm as my sword fell to the ground. She hit me square in the chest with the bottom of her staff, and I stumbled back into the alcove that would certainly be my grave. With a flash of light I felt separated from my broken body. One second later, I saw her run and jump with such grace that I didn't even realize it when the sharp point of her staff lodged itself deep into my thick skull.

She gave me that which I wanted, death in battle. I have no more pain in fact I was no longer encumbered by my broken body at all. As she walked away, she felt the warmth of the gem resting in her pocket. As she lifted the gem I saw her face, and heard her say lightly, "We're going to Orsinium. In return for my favor, you will help me wield the most powerful sword in all of Nirn."

I had been soul trapped, and to this day I happily continue my adventure in the hands of an imperial woman with a smile as powerful as the divines.

Messy1

An armored Nord Templar, the renowned Tris Grendelson, tipped the spear with the skull impaled upon it onto the skeletal corpse’s body.

“By Arkay’s beard!” he chortled. “It’s a bloody good fit; I think we found our fugitive lads.”

His group consisted of some beleaguered peasants who occupied a farm inn called the Blessed Barkeep nearby and his squire Ordo. They had found the impossibly intact skull impaled upon the spear about half a mile earlier and they had followed a trail of half eaten cheese wheels and broken wine bottles to this rock.

The peasants looked not amused and more than a little frightened. Tris sighed.

“Well, what’s the matter? We found the bones of your runaway grandsire and your stinking cheese wheels and rancid wine,” scoffed Tris. “Although, you did not tell me it was the bones themselves that actually made off with the plenty of your inn.”

Pate Traxius, the innkeeper, looked at the scene and rubbed his grubby hands together nervously, his gut slightly hung out from under his ill-fitted stained and oily tunic and his eyes were still red from lack of sleep.

“Ah, yes, it appears we have found all that was lost, ahem . . .” he cleared his throat. Pate shifted his weight and made for the rock intending to start the work.

Thumping could be heard behind them, someone running to meet them. It was only the innkeeper’s wife, Lexius. The inn was not far from the Cheydinhal settlement, if you could call it that, and Tris had been commissioned by the Ebonheart Pact to help the local imperials with their problems as a sign of good faith. This ridiculousness was turning out to be a problem indeed.

“Just a moment you blackguards,” cried Lexius. “I found a found this Daedric totem near the grave of Pate’s grandsire, there’s necromancy about for sure!”

Tris shot Ordo a troubled glance and shouted, “Bring it here woman!”

Ordo took the medallion from her with trepidation and showed it to Tris on his horse. Sure enough, the circular pendant showed the black mark of Molag Bal.

“Right, let’s have the truth of this now you skeever-ridden mongrels. You told me this was most like to do with grave robbers or pillagers, not the foul touch of necromancy! I’ve a mind to thwack the lot ye with this skull of your venerable grandsire that’s somehow stuck on this spear ‘til I get some answers. Now line up so I can knock ye one by one or by the eight I’ll ride you down!” exclaimed Tris.

It was not necessary. Pate came forward and confessed.

“All I wanted was to ask me grandpa how to make the best cheese and wine in Cyrodil; the fool took them secrets to his cursed grave. A cloaked traveler gave me this and said it would allow me to talk to his spirit. Well, I learned something, but Arkay preserve me, I didn’t mean to raise his dirty old bones!”

Eekshnerf

Twenty-two miles they had marched that day, and another eight remained for the next. Roland's feet throbbed as he snuck off to hide, far from where anyone in his platoon might find him. After all, he reasoned to himself, he would just join up on the march in the morning, and no one would suspect a thing.

The captain's tent had provided the provisions to make his late-night mischief worth the risk, and he had already finished half the wine by the time he threw down his sweaty helmet and plopped against a boulder. The first wedge of cheese had gone down nicely, and he was working up the stomach to begin the second when a sudden tiredness overtook him, and he was fast asleep.

Roland woke with a start. He didn't feel drunk, but he was sure he couldn't be thinking clearly. The moon was shining a strange, deep purple all around him, and this was certainly not where he had fallen asleep. The trees loomed hundreds of feet overhead, and the peaceful sounds of the night had all gone silent.

It was just as he was rising to his feet that the blast of a great horn shook him to his very core. The sound came from all around, reverberating in the great forest and the mountains and the valleys, and then only Roland's heartbeat thundering in his ears. He stumbled back, feet fumbling in the strange light, when another, small sound reached his ears. The baying of hounds, the howling of wolves, and the low rumble of hoofbeats in the distance.

Roland turned and sprinted, feet blindly flying over rock and root, branches tearing at his face and arms as if the earth itself saught to halt his escape. Louder grew the sounds of his pursuers, the yips and snarls of the pack closing in on his heels, and the roar of hooves crushing all in their path. So furious was Roland's intent to escape that he couldn't see the great wall of rock that loomed before him, and blindly he charged headfirst into it, falling to the ground in a daze. He scrambled on his hands and knees until finally he was backed against the wall. The great horde, silhouetted against a foreign moon, stopped but a few feet before him. A towering man wearing an antlered cloak raised his spear, and Roland let out his final shriek as his vision went dark.

He was still screaming as he lurched forward, the familiar scents of wine and cheese wafting up to him, and the bright light of friendly moons shining down. With a sigh he leaned back against the boulder, his sweat chilling him in the night wind. As he regained his composure, something scurried by in the brush, and he peered deep into the shadows of the forest. Squinting, he almost thought he saw a great pair of antlers in the moonlight.

And then he knew no more.