Tales of the Dead 2 - Contest Entry Thread

benphantom

Fenn Vidstil foot soldier

day 104
day and night it's all too familiar. I have been on post for over three months now.
It lurks in the shadows at night, the stench of a sickening sweet aroma that covers the air luring me to the woods , the noise of grunts in the distance and the lights of fire burning through the bushes
I have been told not to leave my post, the temptation is too strong.

day 105
My commander has gone, nothing but strange footprints leading to the woods, I am starting to see shadows in the woods, silhouettes of wolf like men with spears
i think the aroma is making me create monsters in my mind

they are getting closer.. no commander , no friend, I move east

day 110
it's quiet , it's been five days since I abandoned my post , I'm running low on food, I have my trusty flask and nothing more than a block of cheese . There is no food to salvage , the forest is dead.

day 114
The noises are back, I have been followed for days, I'm too weak to move, I have taken shelter near a rock, i will see them coming, hoping someone from the guards to find me first

waiting....

still waiting

FoyaBeninax

It took me a bit while to find the sixth corpse, totally a skeleton as other five ones were, with flesh consumed by hoarvors, ravens and vultures. Of course those savages would never learn how to behave in meals as me, an Altmer noble did. They took some body parts away: arms, lower limbs, a head and even a torso. But this one was completed, sitting against a rock with wine and cheese next to him. I could imagine this poor guy was about to enjoy his supper when the sudden attack happened. He never got a chance to defend himself before a spear crashed into his head.

I started digging a grave for my former teammates. It was not far away from the main road here and I was not that stupid to leave the bodies as they were.

These people were in my treasure hunting team. There were four members at the very beginning: me, my bodyguard Atonmor, a Bosmer mage Lennolia, and a Breton woman Selie Nearony. Three Imperials joined us in Cyrodiil right after we rescued them from some trolls.

Zenithar rewarded us generously for our industrious exploration in the past year. But on our way back the Imperials began to act suspiciously. They sometimes walked away together from the camp with food and drink, talking for hours. None of us were naïve enough to believe their tale. A private picnic? Come on!

We were sure they had some conspiracy against us, as anyone could imagine, slaying all of us in darkness and taking the lion's share of the treasure. Unfortunately, we had the same plan for them.

Finally we settled our plan. I stayed in the camp and the other three went to give the Imperials a ‘surprise’ when they had their little conversation. To earn their trust, I volunteered to be imprisoned in the camp. Lennolia created a magical ward lasting for three days to keep me here. Actually, they believed they could get everything done in three hours, with the assumption that the water they took with them was safe.

Sorry. Nope. And I got enough poison for anyone coming back alive.

My plan worked out even better than I thought. All six of them died in the battle.

When the pit was done, I was so exhausted. I prayed to The Eight that the hoarvors around were well fed on the corpses so they wouldn’t attack. I dragged the skeletons one by one into their grave. If I had more time I would have to go find the missing body parts. But I had to get it done before dawn.

As soon as I grabbed the sixth corpse, I realized something went wrong—it fell apart! For some reason the body parts were severed, and barely connected by the armor.

I thought I had found the missing parts of those five corpses. But it was too late.

While a dagger pierced my chest, I saw the grim smile on Selie’s face.

Siluen

Drunken Death

The hunter had followed the Dunmer woman relentlessly. Looking over her shoulder and noticing the distance that sometimes grew and sometimes evaporated, she felt annoyed by his determination. She felt stupid for being caught unarmed, whilst the trusty spear of her enemy never left his side. The veins on her hands had grown dark and her mouth was wry with thirst, as she gritted her teeth and decided to rest her legs on the higher branches of a tree. Swift and nimble she scurried along the bark, her pursuer catching up with her on the forest floor. Taking a few steps back, the Breton looked up the tree. Not feeling very confident about his climbing abilities, he squinted his eyes, tilting the spear in a throwing position over his shoulder.

Her eyes widened as the spear neared towards her. With her remaining strength, she propelled herself away from the tree’s stem. She clawed at the nearest branch she was able to find, only just able to hold on. The cracking sound it made indicated it might have been a little too weak to hold her full weight being propelled at it; she decided to stay very still. The branch slowly silenced due to her decision and she very carefully lowered herself onto a thicker branch below. As she sat down, trying to be as defiantly comfortable as possible, she glanced sideways to see the man’s spear, lodged firmly into the tree’s bark.

“Let us test our resolve, fiend! Man versus leech!” he bellowed angrily. The Dunmer proceeded to make some sort of rude gesture to which the Breton took out his knife, briefly cutting the palm of his hand and dropping some of his blood onto the foliage. His adversary snarled as the smell of it taunted her.

The hunter took off his helm and seated himself. From his bag he lifted a nice chunk of cheese and a bottle of wine. He raised the bottle in a toast, lacking a glass to do so. The mer remained silent, crossing her arms. As the night fell, small bats fluttered around in the moonlit sky. They made her feel comfortable as a rustling noise filled her ears. The forest had truly awoken with the sounds of all kinds of life… one of them being a deep, drunken snoring.

The man awoke to the cracking of a small branch, not thinking too much of it, he glanced at where his bottle of wine should have been. Looking around him, he could vaguely make out two red, glowing… dots nearby. The now empty bottle was reacquainted with the rocky surface beside him. He yelled in anger as his predicament became clear to him.

Death took the shape of a grinning little Dunmer.

Drunk on his wine and armed with his weapon.

bertenburnyb16_ESO

ow another of these only-for-a-specific-part-of-the player-base-contests
greath way to disadvantage, well just right out exclude a certain part of your player base (and paying customes I might add) just because they dont live in one of the countrys specified

-_-

Axsom

Rorik took his time, watching his bounty walk from his old steed, with a bottle of indistinguishable wine, probably stolen along his many skirmishes with traveling tradesmen. He followed in the shadows as the man he is tracking came to a clearing. He could see the remnants of a campfire, that by the looks of it had been used several times over. Rorik sifted through the brush, wanting to get a better angle on his target. The man’s name was Plack Wollow, and though Rorik cared not what his crimes were, the five-thousand gold bounty spoke for itself. As Plack reached a boulder, just a stone’s throw from where Rorik was biding, he sat down his wine and pulled a block of cheese from his pack. The man stretched out, letting out a bellowed yawn, and plopped against the bolder, sliding to the ground slowly.
“Plack Wollow?” Rorik thought, “He’s as white as snow, apart from the red whiskers he’s trying to grow, couldn’t be older than 19 or 20.”
Rorik drew up his custom silver tipped spear, which had become his trade mark calling card. Lying in wait for the perfect moment to strike. Plack Wollow looked around before picking up his wine and cheese, apparently seeing nothing. Before consuming his modest acquisition, Plack decided to remove his half-helm. “Finally,” Rorik whispered to himself. As Plack placed his feast on the ground next to him, and began removing his helm, Rorik readied. As his helm left his hand Plack new something wrong had happened, as the spear pierced his cranium, and in that moment he was gone.
“Dam it,” Rorik said discouraged, “Now his head is ruined, can’t bring it back in this condition.”
As Rorik walk toward the still warm corpse he remembered an identifier on the bounty poster, “Plack Wollow has four wooden teeth in this lower jaw.” Rorik knew what needed to be done, as much as he didn’t want to he removed the jawbone from the corpse, being careful not to damage the teeth. Standing tall Rorik looked and the precision of his work, with a smile he mumbled to himself “On to the next one.”

Yerena

I have never thought the life of the Seeker could be so exhausting. Today is my 7th day in the jungle. The traces have led me here. Definitely unusual traces. I feel enormous power and divine`s presence in them. Such an oddity in these gods-forsaken woods of eternal rain and silent ruins.
<…>
It`s the 11th day. Feels like everything has become rain. I`ve become rain. It`s me trickling down my own body. They sky has never been so close to cry out on me. But I should go deeper in the woods, further into the  kingdom of dirt and weird lianas. The Presence is much stronger there. I almost feel it with my fingertips.
<…>
16th Day. Twilight.
Impossible. The calling I`ve heard wasn`t from the rock. I have just found a corpse in the western side of it. Well, not a corpse literally, but a skeleton. I suppose it is “he”, cause his ancient armor`s too big for a woman. He is radiating Power indeed. I need to search more thorough.
<…>
16th Day. Midnight.
The corpse had nothing but old strongly enchanted armor I`ve mentioned earlier  and a little stone wrapped in a piece of parchment. Probably it is some kind of a glyph or maybe a soul gem. The parchment covered with illegibly text… hard to comprehend. Okay, glyph goes into my pocket and text needs a good translation. But all it can wait for tomorrow morning, it`s too dark to see anything.
<…>
17th Day. Noon.
I tried to dry the parchment. Well, text has become more readable then.
Old notes.
“It was just an ordinary day in Shadowfen. Ordinary mission. Ordinary  village with ordinary problems. Nothing interesting for the Hero of Tamriel and someone called living legend. These villagers and all living beings in Nirn couldn`t learn just 1 simple thing that there are no gift from a daedra but a curse. Once they dealt with Vile they had to regret twice. I decided their fate. I let them rest in peace. I need no reward and left this village. I guessed that something went wrong when I met a group of Stendarr vigilantes who attacked me. I didn`t fight them back, just couldn`t. My mana, my strength were completely gone. I narrow escaped and covered behind the rock. When I rummaged for potions I noticed how my hands were look like. Rotten bones. I am rotten-boned-being. All I had in my sack was useless: food, the most expensive potions, unique herbs... I`m wounded now and can`t heal, can`t pick up my sword, too weak. I`m hanging between life and death. I hear vigilantes  looking for me. I`m choosing death. I hope I can scream to attract them…”
<…>
18th Day.
I woke up with a strange feeling. I didn`t feel rain anymore. I didn`t feel the touch of my silk robe. I quickly reach out my hand. I saw my guild ring on my middle finger. On my rotten-boned finger.

burgwaella

Relqo set out while all the world slept, carrying his backpack and his bag of lock picks, passing through the woodlands down the paths he'd memorized by heart, leaving no trace of himself. It was a frigid, moonless night, a first rate night for a plunder, so he hiked to the Slayer camp along the shoreline of North Point in Tamriel. With a master's twist, he clicked open chest in the dining hall, scanning the goods with his magelight.

Eidar cheese! A perfect match for the Ungorth at his camp. Sweet rolls, a new liner for his pockets. On a previous raid at the Slayer camp, he'd stolen a key to the cellar, and now he used it to open the heavy wooden slab.

The rogue was silent in the camp but pulled the gaze of a nearby scout, who alerted Slayer Sergeant L'at. She raced to the camp on her pitch colored mount and sprinted to the rear of the dining hall.

And there he was. The safecracker appeared entirely too put together, his mixed leather armor had the sheen of a well worn but cared for suit. Was this really he who had plagued the community for so many Seasons?

Determined to find the man's camp, L'at waited for the thief to commit his crime and take off into the night. The burglar slipped silently into the waning darkness, the Seargant noiselessly creeping after. She trailed him to the spot where Relqo slept each night after feasting on the bounty of the area.

As Relqo took his seat with the Eidar cheese and Ungorth, L'at took the chance to surprise. The thief complied, no resistance, and put his hands in the air, sweetrolls spilling out of his pockets. L'at's scouts had been following, and now took their place at his side. The officers asked his name. He refused to answer.

The Seargant left the suspect alone with the officers to examine his encampment. He started to speak. A little. He said he was ashamed. He spoke uncertainly, but over the next hours he opened up.

His name, he revealed, was Relqo Infestius III. Born on Meridia's Summoning Day 26 Seasons ago. He said he had no address, no mount, did not pay homage to the lords of Tamriel, and did not receive post. He said he lived in the woods.

"For how long?" wondered L'at as she listened from a distance. But for Relqo it was too late. The officers, full of spite for this man who had vexed them for too long, had already hushed him with the blade of a spear.

MasterSpatula

"Are you sure about this?" she asked, staring at the apple in her hand, a weak smile masking none of her nervousness.

"Of course," replied her husband as he tested the weight of the spear. "I am Sir William S. of Burroughs, and skooma only improves my aim."

NorseNerd83

An unlikely group of companions wonder around the woods together scavenging around for herbs for their alchemical studies. A large statured Nord boasting about how he’s going to collect the most herbs for the professor, an Altmer simply rolling her eyes at the lummox of a man, and a Kahjiit paying no mind to them as she picks some mushrooms from a nearby tree. The three companions are all wearing the same blue and white robes usually worn by Mages Guild members.

“AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!” The Altmer let out a blood curdling scream.

To which the Nord and Kahjiit went running over to see what had her in such distress. Rounding the corner of the large rock they see the long sense dead and thoroughly decayed corpse, not single piece of fleshed remained on the bones.

“Wha…what do you suppose happened her,” The Altmer woman questioned.

“Well isn’t it obvious! The poor fella took a spear to the head.” The Nord laughed loudly.

“You big oof that’s not what I meant and you know it!!!” She replied scowling at him.

The Kahjiit knelt down to examine the remains, “This one thinks she can find out why he died.”

She then reached out and plucked one of the knuckle joints from the deceases hand. Walk away a little bit and took a meditative sitting position then placed the bone on the ground before her. She motioned for the others to join her with one hand as she pulled candles out of her pack with the other. Placing the candles around the knuckle she lowers her head, closes her eyes, brings her hands together, and begins to chant.

It doesn’t take long for ghostly figures to appear recreating the scene that took place. A Bosmer male stumbles around in a uncoordinated manner through the woods. He braces himself on some nearby trees to sturdy himself before attempting to move again. Finally he decides to rest at the rock formation and the ghost like figure overlays the skeleton.

“Ha ha ha, stupid Orcs *hiccup* did….di…..didn’t even see it *hiccup* comin,” The Bosmer said as he pulled a plate from his pack followed by a wedge of cheese.

“I….I……Imma the great….greatest thief in the world!!!” He continued as he pulled a fancy looking bottle of wine from the pack as well and pulling of the cork before taking a swig.

“They’ll never find me out here” he continued talking to himself as he took off his helm, and taking a few more swigs of the wine. It wasn’t long before the wood elf passed out in his drunken state leaning against the rock behind him.

Another ghostly figure appears and walks to where the skeleton is and without hesitation plunges a spear into the Bosmers head so hard the tip of the spear sticks into the rock behind, pinning his head in place.

The orc laughs, “That will teach you to steal from me!”

The Altmer Cringes, “Sorry I asked”

Argantis_Dragonheart

Captain Juron could feel something warm, red, and annoying beating against his eyelids as he cracked them open. The sun glaring down angry and merciless, his head pounding in pain, he began to recall the circumstances which lead to this most unfortunate predicament. There was a furious storm that overtook the Black Adder, his beloved ship, even if the crew was not thought of so fondly. But such was the life of a pirate. Gold for all and all for gold, every thief and cutthroat on land or sea knew there was no such thing as honor among thieves. Though it was rather ironic that he had lost his ship to weather rather than the justice of any government or monarch.

It was even more ironic that Hargor was laying not fifty paces down the beach. Lamelle, Juron thought, mentally spitting out the name in vile contempt, turning it over in his mind. How ironic indeed. The one man Juron wished to see dead, the one man who had crossed him in an unforgivable way that no amount of gold could purvey the grievance of. The man who had attempted to steal the favor of his lady.

Even as Lamelle began to rise, Juron knew he needed to be smart about this and wait until the timing was absolutely impeccable. Lamelle was a crafty little man with a dagger, and it would surely be in his back with one misstep. So Juron propped himself up against a rock where he could rest with something solid against his back. It seemed hours passed as he lay there, regaining his strength, keeping his eyes peeled just enough to see what the vile, little man was up to. Crafty indeed, Lamelle had managed to walk up with a block of cheese and a bottle of wine he had scavenged.

“For you me captain. We not always be seein each other in the eye and I be thinkin this be an offerin fer truce.”

“Sit Lamelle, I will offer my own truce as I find some wood for fire and we shall share in the spoils as is the custom”

As Juron rose he dragged his foot in a shuffle, not only to make Lamelle think he was injured but also to locate the spear he had buried there when Lamelle was off weaseling around for something to offer a truce on. The look of shock on Lamelle’s face was priceless as Juron flipped his foot, launching the spear into his hands and the business end was at his Lamelle's throat in the blink of an eye.

“There will be no quarter for you Lamelle.” Juron stated as he placed his boot on Lamelle's throat.

“No one favors a liar and a coward.”

With one quick thrust it was over, and so was Lamelle.

Yokothespacewhale

The Insults of Fas

“We raise our glasses in honor of Juvenis the Brave!”

Laughter erupted in the West Weald Inn.

“Juvenis the Ambitious!”

Laughter burst out again.

“Juvenis the Proud!”

Again: laughter. Juvenis faked a smile at the head of a long table full of his friends, but secretly couldn't wait to be away from all of them, even if it was on his first campaign as a legionnaire.

“The Strong! The Tall! The Able”, prodded Fas, his lifelong friend.

Some friend, thought Juvenis.

The old woman working the tables that night looked upon the party with a knowing grimace, and shook her head as she lifted empty steins off vacant tables.

Juvenis, red in the face and wet in the eye, lifted his glass and shouted “I only joined the legion to please my father!” He paused for a moment, looked around the table, lifted his glass further, and said “To our Fathers!”

Without hesitation, Fas interrupted , “Maybe when you start paying for the drinks, you can decide who we toast to. And maybe if you were good at anything yourself, you’d have a way to make some coin besides the legion!”

The table continued its drunken laughter, but the older, quieter patrons fell silent. The weight of a forgotten, nay, ignored, dark truth fell upon them.

“Barmaid, some cheese for my friend’s wine!”

She shot a look meant to silence Fas— a look packed full of emotion and memory that words could not convey— but he was a brazen young man and was not shaken by the wrinkly, battered face of experience.

He went on, “Young Miss (laughter) I am the greatest insulter of this young man, I have been forever, and before he dies under the scrawny foot of an Altmer insulting him for being scrawny, I want to make sure he knows the insults of an enemy are never as good as the insults of a friend.”

“Hear, hear”, Juvenis said, standing in defense of his friend.

“Hear, Hear”, the rest of the table replied.

The campaign had reached its sixth month. The recent shipment of letters and care packages from home was a welcome respite from the battlefields made daedric plane by the fire and the fell creatures conjured by the Aldmeri hand. He felt a long forgotten and oddly comforting pain when he read “From: Skingrad, To: Juvenis Donum.” It contained an amulet from his little sister, nothing from his father, a note from his mother, cheese and wine with a note from Fas tied to it. The note from Fas simply read, “For my friend.” Juvenis smiled and immediately took his two gifts to his favorite spot away from camp where he often went to be alone.

This day, however, it was also a spot within yards of scouts from the advancing Aldmeri army. Luckily for Juvenis, the javelin now firmly stuck where his ear used to be prevented him from hearing his attacker jest, “well at least he died having cheese with his wine.”

Yokothespacewhale

MasterSpatula wrote: »

"Are you sure about this?" she asked, staring at the apple in her hand, a weak smile masking none of her nervousness.

"Of course," replied her husband as he tested the weight of the spear. "I am Sir William S. of Burroughs, and skooma only improves my aim."

lol william s of burroughs.

Dejavous

I still remember my drill sergeants overbearing voice “NEVER take off your armor even when you sleep in a combat zone, it will save your life!!” Well I guess that old Nord was right because here I sit looking at my old corpse and the helm still wrapped in my fingers, my meal long forgotten, my corpse left where it fell the giant spear pinning my skull to the stone I felt safe behind.

Who am I? I’m no one, a countless member of some long forgotten king’s army who trod across this land looking to expand and claim the resources for their liege, or so the history books would tell you. My name was Davent, Davent the mouse as my fellow platoon members called me as I stood half their height and was the perfect scout, quiet and cunning far better at my job then the hulking brutes that surrounded me in the camp.

But how did I come to this you ask? Simple I failed to follow the grizzled old Nords advice after long hours of sitting rigidly motionless counting the enemy numbers and making notes of the placement of their leaders I was exhausted and wanted food. I made my report to our platoon leader who dismissed me to some down time so I grabbed a bottle and food finding a quiet spot where a mouse could feed in quiet not too far from a fire but close enough that I could hear the chatter and literally dropped like a sack of grain to the ground. I undid the strap holding the helm to my head sliding it off with my right hand, scratching the stubble with my left. I heard a sound close to me that was foreign and raised the alarm, but before I could raise the streak of a spear, blinding pain, then blackness consumed me. Now I come here to make sure that my skeleton does not rise without me, and to wonder if those that were my friends survived that night and if they did why did they leave me behind as I am now.

Amicole

Eninea trotted along down the path humming a tune. Bow at her side "Father is going to be so pleased with me, I shall have dinner caught and skinned by the time he and Mother return."

From over the hill she heard a heated discussion. She crept up the hill on her hands and knees silently. Her heart fluttered in panic at the sight. A hideous spider held a man captive in some sort of glowing chains. "I will not eat anything more from you beast, I would rather die than live a life with you. You say that you are different and you love me yet you torture me like your brethren torture others keeping me captive here having to look at you!" He screamed at the spider. "Mother was right all along" muttered the beast. Eninea thought she saw the glistening of tears in the beast's eyes only seeing the spear on the ground as the spider bent to pick it up, she gasped as the spider turned to face the man "You are all the same, you mortals. Vain, greedy, and unforgiving!!" Screamed the spider as it thrust the spear through the man's unprotected head. "May your beloved Aedra have mercy on your wretched soul." it seemed to cry. Turning toward the worn path it walked away head down. Eninea faintly heard it say "Mother I am coming home." as it disappeared around the bend.

Eninea scrambled to her feet running to the man but within feet of him a flash of blue light knocked her backwards. Momentarily blinded she tried to focus her eyes on the man horrified at what she finally saw. All that remained of him was his skeleton. Beside him was a book. She picked it up realizing it was his journal;

#25
She's a monster. My Olandra, my wife. Seven years we have lived together, fought this damned war against them together, but she has been one of them all along! Since her Mother, that witch came and removed her disguise for me to behold her true face she has held me captive here with the promise of love and happiness. I could never love the hideous spider creature she really is. I have lost everything to that beast. My love, my happiness, and my freedom.

#26
I have no idea how long I have been here. She tortures me daily. Reminiscing about times we have spent together making me realize this has all been a lie! She brings me cheese and wine trying to prolong my misery. I am done, I will no longer eat this, the food from that beast.

#27
No matter how much I fight this the magic is too strong I can't get out. There must be another way.....

#28
I will tell her!! I will scream it at the top of my lungs! I HATE HER!!!! This must end!!!!

A chill coursed down Eninea's spine as she backed away. "I think I will leave dinner for Father catch tonight....."

KingSirrith

“Keep your helmet on!”, my mother would always say. My name is Jelnof, son of Melnof, son of Delnof, son of… well, you get the point. I am a strong and brave nord. I come from a infamous farming family. We’re not infamous for bad or illegal reasons, not at all! Our family is infamous for always wearing helmets.
Since my father’s father’s father’s time, everyone in our family has always worn a helmet, the type of which doesn’t matter. As long as it is a helmet, you're set. If you wonder why we all wear helms, well… my Great Great grandfather died in a most gruesome manner. A pitchfork stabbed him in the head. This certainly was no merit for concern, as there are far more gruesome ways to die (Kicked to death by a mule, drowning while attempting to drink a whole mead barrel, getting too drunk and asking a hagraven on a date, for example). My family thought it was a normal death, until my Great Great uncle died from being struck by a flying tankard in an inn.
Then my family thought it was peculiar. It took many more deaths by strokes to the head before my family decided we were in trouble. Then, my Grandfather began wearing a helmet. He would go out and farm, and he was never hit or killed until he took it off in the outdoor bathroom… let’s not go into how he died. Since then, my family has worn helmets to forbode this odd fate. I, like my family, would go out with my helmet on and farm the fields. I never had an incident.
Eventually, like most people, I grew weary of the same old life. I wanted to do the one thing I liked most; Adventuring! I wanted to explore and discover tombs and tunnels of old ancestors. My mother was completely against it; there were far more dangerous and gruesome fates facing adventurers. Despite her, I went off anyway.
After a week, I discovered an old cave. I went in, feeling that this was an excellent test of my capacity as an adventurer. I found many rocks before being chased out by a black bear. It was exhilarating! I wanted to celebrate my first adventure, so I sat underneath a nearby ledge and unpacked my ‘special’ items. I took out a slice of my favorite cheese, and a 20-year-old wine I snuck out of my family’s cellar.
I was so enthralled, I took off my helmet, feeling like facing the bear was far more dangerous than any object. BIG MISTAKE! The last thing I remember seeing was that barbarian and his pointy spear. Now I wander as a ghost, never able to take my helmet off again. So remember this advice: Listen to your mothers, and always wear a helmet!

Morbaine

Vaulketh inched forward, positioned tightly against the cool glass wall of the mausoleum.
This place was so much different than most the Lion Guard had sent him to. An odd sense of accomplishment crept into his thoughts between his careful calculations of motion. “Perhaps I have seen my final days of clearing out Pact spy dens.” Vaulketh thought to himself. “Full of filth and lizard stink.”
He had found himself in tombs before. Tombs, caves and all manner of makeshift hideouts the Pact would us to station spies deep in Covenant territory. Vaulketh hadn’t thought this mission would be any different. The tomb seemed similar enough. Normally he’d find a large gray mausoleum with the entombed fallen, disgracefully removed and replaced with plotting Pact soldiers. All crouched over a central table, planning some misplaced strike against Covenant forces. “Dull brutes!” Vaulketh thought grudgingly.
Disagreeable as they where, Vaulketh found himself longing for a Pact spy to hunt. He was familiar with Pact soldiers. In this strange mausoleum, Vaulketh didn’t know what to expect. Despite reports he felt this place had some greater and more sinister nature than a den of enemy spies,
A trap door in the center of the tomb had led Vaulketh down into an underground network that dwarfed the size of the unassuming mausoleum above. After going through the trap door however Vaulketh was not met with the dank dark he expected in such a place.
The tomb looked like it was carved from glass but shimmered with a wispy green. After several minutes of wandering. Vaulketh finally came to what he thought must be the focal point of the Tomb.
Luminous jade walls spanned out to either side of him forming a large hall. Energy whirled and crack behind the walls of glass. All the glimmer of the tomb vanished in the room ahead in a sudden silhouette of black. Though in most tombs a black corridor would not be out of place, but most tombs did not glow like the bones of a phantom. Vaulketh tried not to think what twisted art of magic would cause such strange things
Frightened but duty driven Vaulketh breathed deeply before stepping beyond the ghostly hallway into the dark rotunda ahead.
A brilliant flash of green white light engulfed Vaulketh as loud shrieks bounced off the walls of Vaulketh’s mind. They were not the cries of strangers. His wife cried out to him. First hearing their voices then he saw visions as each speaker materialized into hallucinations. He saw his beautiful wife Thesha torn apart by a large daedra, her hot blood blinding him. In a frantic daze from the scene of carnage Vaulketh wiped at the blood in his eyes. His vision finally returned only in time to see his son smashed under the great, mauled arm of a flesh atronach.
Vaulketh woke with a panicked jolt. “I must stop the dreams.” Vaulketh whimpered before plunging his spear deep within his skull to quiet Vaermina’s whispers.

Nabdo

“Honestly, Gorrock, what do you plan on discovering here,” grumbled Tillenian. “This is obviously the work of bandits ambushing a lone scout.”

“Perhaps,” Gorrock mumbled quietly through his orc tusks. He never looked up from his deep inspection of the scene in front of him though. “It does seem strange,however, for a young man of such a profession to be caught so impeccably unaware.”

Tillenian rolled his eyes skeptically but found it difficult to counter his colleague’s assessment. So, he remained quiet, but his expression made it very clear what he thought of any continued investigation of the murder scene before him.

Gorrock, as usual, was completely unperturbed by his Altmeri partner’s disdain. He was a flurry of movement and cloth. His checkered, mid-length cape flourished behind him as he peered over every conceivable inch of the corpse. One second, he was ogling the victim’s toes, the next he was focused on a nearby plate of cheese and overturned wine bottle.

“A rather unintentionally bland last meal,” The orc chuckled quietly to himself.

He remained bent over at the waist, hand-lens pressed against his eye, pipe tightly pressed between his lips. It was almost as if he never moved his feet. He simply was here, and then there… and then there.

“Hmmm,” Gorrock sounded over his pipe.

“Yes, hmmm,” replied Tillenian “Rather open and shut. There is a giant spear protruding from his skull. A spear, may I add, which is engraved with the markings of the bandits we have been pursuing. Now can we please return to the general and file our report? It’s late and I, quite frankly, am tired and hungry.”

Gorrock seated himself on the ground next to the corpse, and leaned against the boulder the poor scout had been impaled to. He stilled seemed to be ignoring Tillenian. His gaze was scouring the surrounding environment. Perhaps he was imagining what the victim was seeing in his final moments.

Suddenly, he pulled a handkerchief from his shirt pocket and lifted the bottle from the ground. He sniffed deeply and winced.

“Quite right, Tilly,” Gorrock said, “Open and shut. Our unfortunate friend here has been poisoned. And judging by the, as you put it, ‘giant spear’ lodged in his skull it was meant for us to believe this nothing more than simple thievery-gone-wrong.”

He paused only to take a brief breath and then continued his deluge of facts.

“However, given that this man was sitting so calmly during the moment of his death, he was either taken completely by surprise - unlikely given the maximum range of such a weapon - or he was blind - also unlikely as eyesight is a requirement of his profession.”

“Secondarily, poison suggests premeditation. Not something common bandits looking for easy riches are known for. Additionally, this wine is quite rare. A gift perhaps? Yes, Tilly, I do believe it’s time we return to camp. If I recall correctly the general has quite the collection of fine wine, yes?”

ElderonSyrialles

Luminous eyes like swamp-lights in the dark. The sound of claws on wood. They caught our scent long before we knew where they were. When we did, we were surrounded. No room for sword-talk; diplomacy would have to be our watchword.
For that we were grateful the Queen had sent her son, Javad, to negotiate with the tribesfolk of the Blackwood. Euraxia Tharn, Queen of Rimmen, required our company to muscle in on a tribe of Khajiiti savages whose haunt straddled the eastern border. They were to join Rimmen as marchers or be crushed. Javad put it subtler, in his sweetest Ta'agra.
'We do not bear claws to you, we bring but friendship.' he treated. Cautiously their shaman, K'sharra, offered us guest-right to share their fire. That was my undoing.
Javad forbade us from eating for fear of poison, and we were to drink only the swill we had brought. Yet these savages had made cheese-pressing an art, and after months of filth their cauldrons wove spells in my senses. Javad and K'sharra spoke with guarded hearts while I sat fireside and stared at the cheeses they had laid on boards. The more they argued the more dazed I became. My stomach groaned. Olroy, they called it.
As I dreamed, words between Javad and K'sharra turned sour. Javad promised provender in winter and arms in summer, but the Khajiit would not be strung like puppets. Euraxia was a fool to think she could enlist their loyalty or drive them out; they would remain here till the end of days.
Meanwhile their warriors were putting paws on war-spears and I had forgotten our mission; there was no mettle in my stomach, only hunger.
Before long I was in shadow and all the light of the fire was on the two bickering leaders. I forgot them and crept into the storehouse where the Khajiit-wives had taken their untouched cheeses. The smell was overwhelming. I took a slice of Olroy into cloth and stuffed pewter into my leathers. There was a flash of firelit steel as I left the hut. The music of swords and claws soon sundered the night. Yet the shouts were overcome by my heartbeat, drumming as if I was eloping with a lover.
I ran until dawn and collapsed behind a boulder. The itch of pursuit was on my shoulder all night, but at morning I put it out of my mind that they had seen me as I fled. Relieved I took out my prize and set it to the plate. The wine too. I removed my helmet and drew in the lustrous fumes of the Olroy. I had chosen this meal over war. My ancestors would be ashamed, but desertion seemed a petty sin when I'd been starving for months.
No longer. My gut was purring. With the scent in my nose I closed my eyes and leaned back against the rock to steal just a moment of rest before my feast. Just a moment of rest...

Domokun

Day 3:
Jasmine is yet to be seen, even though she was never late to our "private meetings".
I just hope that idiot of her husband didn't find out.

Day 4:
Weird and weirder. Of Jasmine not an hint, but I can swear to Kynareth that someone was spying on me between that rocks...

Day 5:
Someone is chasing me, I'm sure now. I'll hide here until they leave me alone.
Oblivion take her and her damn brute of a husband.

Ellix

Doremir crept further along the wall, his fingers brushing the splintered wood. His feet fell soundlessly against the twigs and leaves, and there was no moon to shed light on the assassin inching toward the tavern window.
It was his first contract. The importance of this assignment was not lost on him. He recalled the night not long before, when the cloaked elf had approached him with a proposal that was too lucrative to turn down. It was not his usual way. He had killed, yes. One might even say he had a penchant for quick and soundless murders, but he had always worked with his own motivations. Still, the promise of steady gold was too appealing to refuse.
It wasn't long before a speaker approached him with an assignment. Doremir accepted, sealing the contract, and now crouched below an open window in the dead of night. The target was just inside. He could hear the restless tossing and turning of one who could not find sleep. He reached for the dagger holstered at his knee. As he slowly drew it from its sheath, he emptied his mind and prepared to execute the woman just beyond the window. He quickly stood and braced his hand on the windowsill. One deft motion had him over the sill and into the room. As his feet softly thudded onto the floor, the figure in the bed grew suddenly still. This was it. Doremir quickly sprang forward, knife raised. As he moved, the woman quickly sat up, eyes wide with stunned fear. Her blanket fell away, revealing a stomach very large with child. Doremir froze, and stumbled backward. He had killed before, but always men. Grown men who possessed something he required, or had a particularly plump bag of gold hanging from their belt… but never a woman with child. He took another step back. His eyes met hers for what seemed like eternity, before he finally turned and leapt back out the window.
Doremir ran swiftly through the forest, his only objective to get as far away as he could before someone came looking. Tendrils of fear crept into his mind as he realized what he had done. He had broken his contract. Whispers of the Silencers danced through his thoughts, but he pushed them away. They were only myths. He slowed as he reached a clearing, and sat beside a large rock. He pulled out pack that he had hidden earlier, and tried to shake the unease he felt. He would calm himself with some food and ale, then disappear into Tamriel.
He laid out his provisions, and removed his helmet. Suddenly, a shadow fell over him. Surprise and terror gripped him as he looked up into a hooded cloak so dark, it didn't seem to contain a face. Before he could take another breath, a spear flashed and ended his life as quickly and suddenly as he had ended countless others. The cloaked figure silently kneeled down and whispered, “We know.”

ForfiniteStories

There was the normal kind of hunt. The hunt that was sport, in which you would go out alone, with a companion or perhaps a gang, and search for game to kill and eat. Or at least I'd hope they'd put the poor animal to use ...Otherwise, wouldn't its death be in vain? There's thousands of other things to throw a spear or fire an arrow at if just shooting things was what one fancied.

I tried speaking to them about it, but their excuse was that we'd have no place to carry what we did not need - and they always wanted to move, not plunder in the flesh of our fallen prey as we sit down and rest to camp. Only on occasion was this the case, as we had to camp eventually, but there was so much game, most of the corpses were left to rot as we moved forth.

I don't see the sense in killing something only to put it to waste. And it's not just to shed at least some dignity for the animal, but all the hungry who could have used that meat. Heck we could even sell it if we didn't want anything to do with it!

But I guess they just like things that move, regardless of what it was. So long as it didn't fight back.

I wonder how they'd react to something that did.

That is their false hunt, the hunt of my so-called companions. But there is another hunt. The hunt of Hircine, like the other kind of hunt, but the more respectable of the two. And one directly involved with this revered Prince. The hunt in which the hunters become the hunted.

That is my kind of hunt.

In which case, I encouraged them to hunt down a white beast. Something you'd probably not want to skin and eat anyway. A target that was stricken down for my own sake, unbeknownst to them.

In retribution for the wasted, in that for the hunted and the innocent, I shall hunt. I shall hunt those who are not innocent. A lesser of the two evils, but I give thanks to my own sincerity, and the acknowledgement given to me by Hircine himself.

In the days to follow, our numbers thin. Unlike the others, I only pretend to be afraid. Their attention is focused on whatever is robbing us of our already small numbers.

Significant members of the gang are gone, their corpses found mutilated and even eaten to a degree.

There is too much to carry for the rest of us. The nearest denizenry is quite distant, so we will have to make due in the wilds, and we'll require to bestow this weight upon our shoulders to survive until we do reach a safe haven. Make a living in the wilds. It's about time I saw some of my companions make use of a dead animal in more ways than one. That's how you do it!

But you know, it's not like all of us will survive. No no. That would be against the point...

I swear, it was as if the eyes of the forest were laughing at us - that the inhabitants of the Valenwood were so accustomed to carnivorism that the sheer sight at the waste of flesh was not only absurd, but hilariously stupid as well.

I used them as bait, blamed them for our deaths and why. Yet one by one, no change of plans and conjuration of maturity would cease our deaths.

Eventually, we'd catch on to the sight of a beast. A wolf that stood like a man. That helped remove some of the pressure from my shoulders, as the Wood Elf that I was, was obviously not to blame as they soon figured... And mistakingly so.

Eventually it was just me and another. The one who I preferred to be alone with and perhaps let live, for she could soon bear our child. In all honesty, she was my ulterior motive. I would not only do this for the forest, whose lively stock replaced it as a source of food and therefore protected it, but also for her.

I always liked her, and she seemed to listen whenever I spoke about my problem - and did not begrudge me because I was the only Wood Elf, strapped in this foreign armor uncomfortably, despite her being one of the quietest of the bunch. Though it was rather the loudest of mouths that were the most rude and crude. They spoke and did not think, which leads me to assume that the ones who don't blabber on like a bunch of hooligans are the ones who'd listen. Hear the werewolf before it manages to get into position...

Indeed it is the quite that are often the most observant, so maybe letting her be the last would be my mistake. Perhaps she'd accuse me of working with these so-called eyes of the forest, because I am also a Bosmer. Maybe she'd recognize this ring, the Ring of Hircine. Or perhaps, as embarrassing as this might be, she'd stumble upon this random, unnecessary letter I had no idea why I'm writing in the first place, and the Truth will be revealed to her.

Spending time amidst nature, contemplating things... roused my creative qualities. I am not only scheming, but writing as well, and intricately so. I do not talk to her all the time, she is rather introverted after all, and since there is no one else to speak to, I tend to mumble to myself. Sometimes I forget to check if she is near before I subconsciously do. I do not plan on stopping this creative flow, if that is even a rational term in this case, though if this letter ends here, it could only mean that the hunter became the hunted once more.

derek_jonesb16_ESO

Engraved on a rock nearby:

Here sprawl the bones
Of Remedio Gurdes,
Left in the open
And picked by the birds.
From a shaft to the skull
Remedio lies dead
In the hope that this warning
Will stick in his head.

When you woo Ragnfridr
With cheese and bervez,
You'd do well to remember
What this message says:
You can eat, you can drink,
You can sing, you can dance;
But get her consent
If you'd take off your pants!

indorilwitch

many tales speak of the cheesemongers challenge, sheogorath himself, had thought of the amusement.

this is the story of my brother in law, a fearsome breton knight, had also heard of the cheesemonger challenge, and above that someone had told him, where the entrance to the arena was.
the landscape seems to match the location of the stones, now where is the cheese.

theodor looked around the rock steeles. "here it is", the cheese plate. now the ritual.
he sat down to prepare for what was to be done.
bring wine , eat cheese, say the verse. the portal should open.

pretty sunny. the cheese must be warm he thought. unsnapping his helmet, he dropped it. cool breeze staddled his brown hair, and with a slight "plop" the wine bottle decorked.
like all bretons, theodor was familiar with cheese. taking a small nib to taste its saltiness. slight nord aftertaste went thru his mind, no matter, the verse now.

cheese, cheese, chesemonger!

sheogorath appeared in a smoking cloud of godlyness.
theodor could not believe his eyes. he looked up to the god himself. speechless.

lackey, sheogorath beamed. did you bring the wineglasses?

a second cloud of godly smoke puffed up. "le conaisseur" the winegod's servant appeared.
no glass, no wine. failed you have , shouted sheogorath
le connaisseur stepped forward, and in one mighty stroke he lodged the axe between theodors eyes.
boring. sheogorath said. both dissapeared back into oblivion.

MrTtheDK

Answered Vengeance
2E 283 Second Seed 25th
A dummer begged me today to spare his life. HA! It was pathetic. He pleaded for mercy...I told him that I would not harm him...instead I ordered my lieutenant to do so. In all we were able to slaughter and pillage most of the village before their warriors returned to find what had happened. We even defaced their heathen idols.

2E 283 Mid Year 4rth
I had the strangest of nightmares last night. It was of our base outside of Bravil. I was in the courtyard when dark shadows began flooding the walls and charging the men. I watched as my men begged for mercy, but were offered no quarter. They then rushed upon me and I awoke in a cold sweat. I have to remember not to drink that mead that Kjald brought from Skyrim. Terrible stuff.

2E 283 Mid Year 7th
This morning I felt as if I was being watched. I have ordered my men to increase patrols and have stationed guards on continuous watch around the camp. Haven’t found anything yet.

2e 283 Mid Year 9th
While going through the loot from the last raid I found a note with a back hand drawn on it and the words, “We know”. Why did someone grab this? This is the problem with bandits, no intellect.

2e 283 Mid Year 10th
Awoke today to find half the camp on fire and the sentry’s throat slashed. I have ordered our men back to our base in Cyrodiil. Enough raiding for now.

2e 283 Sun's Height 7th
We have arrived at our camp. There were no problems along the way, but I kept feeling as if we were being watched. We will regroup and return to Morrowind in full force

2e 283 Sun’s Height 9th
Dead! Half the camp is dead! We awoke to find them slaughtered and carved into each of their faces the words, “We Know”. I must escape this. I can’t trust anyone.

2e 283 Sun’s Height 14th
I haven’t seen anyone in days. I plan on heading to Hammerfall and escaping whatever is happening.

2e 283 Sun’s Height 24th
I am nearly to Craglorn but I can’t shake the feeling of being watched. I haven’t slept in days. I pray that this will just end. I want it to end…

2e 283 Sun’s Height 25th
Let this man be an example to whoever reads this. We beckon the call of the Night Mother. Through our actions we carry her righteous vengeance. From the swamps of Black Marsh to the Adamantine Tower, no place is beyond our reach. No call goes unanswered.

Silerastak

The past years have been the most trying time of my life. But these last few hours of waiting have tried me even further. I have decided to write my story to pass the time. I will tell my tale from the beginning. It starts with the most beautiful elf you or I or anyone in Tamriel has ever seen. She has the most gorgeous long wavy dark red hair around her soft face. One rebellious curl often betrayed her hairstyle and dangles in front of her green round eyes. How could any man not fall in love with her?
But too often with love and in life, things were not so simple. She was from noble birth and I was the lowly son of a hunter. But as I grew up I knew she was the only prey I sought. She first noticed me at the training yard, a lad of ten. We would frolic in the fields, she would play a wizard and I her knight. I would bring her flowers. She would adorn her hair with my humble tokens. We would sneak off to the high rocks south of our town.Once I even stole some wine and we both shared our first drink as well as our first kiss.
When I enlisted in the Army. She watched and wept as I said my vows and marched away to Hammerfell. She even waved to me. I needed to become more then a mere hunter, so I set out for glory. But in truth I dreamed of when my love and I could be together.
I served for a many years, bringing bloody war to the battle hardened Redguards. I won glory for my name, with every honor I wondered if it was enough to earn my true love. I wrote my beloved a letter every week. Sometimes she would write back telling me of her court ladies gossip and local politics. Then the day came when I read the worst letter to ever cross my eyes. It told of her father betrothing her. Through all the war and death and brothers I lost I never cried, that day I wept.
When I was released from my service her forthcoming marriage did not matter to me. I sent her a letter telling her to meet me back by the high rocks south of town tonight. I told her of the spot we shared our first drink together. I laughed at those memories.
I brought her favorite cheese and a pillaged bottle of Nirnroot wine from a Redguard Lords keep. 18 men died that day in the Alik'r desert. But for me the war is over and I am home again. I will profess my love to my Lady, I know she is promised to another but our love is true and pure. I hear a noise in the distance. It doesn't sound like she is alone. I will finish my journal when we are done.

mike_king59b14_ESO

*torn page from a book*

The God of Fools
A folktale by Nulaz-Nur

This is the tale of a god
not Mer, nor Man, or anything at all.
A monster that thought itself wisest,
sought to make children its Thralls.

For their minds were small, weak
Easier to mend, break, sculpt, or tweak.
Until one day a child came unto his lair
and asked for a chance to speak.

“My name is Sheo.” The young boy said.
“I have come to offer myself instead.”
The beast was surprised by the boys courage
and decided he would make quite a spicy porridge.

Sheo drew a wicked smile on his face,
“I can also give you all the children in my place.”
The creature was wise and suspected a trap
"And how exactly will you do that?"

"I'll lure the children through the night,
If you can best me in a fight."
The monsters laugh echoed for miles.
"A mere child is not worth my while!"

But the boy stood strong and firm.
And the god took pity on the little worm.
"I will accept your offer young fool!"
"When you fall I shall make you my tool!"

Still Sheo didn't flinch, not a bit.
This angered the god into a fit.
"You are afraid I can sense your fear!"
"I could best you with a simple spear!"

The god conjured a plain wooden shaft.
Then upon it a pointed metal craft.
Sheo watched the beast become a fighter.
Yet Sheo stood none the lighter.

"I am but a child, small and weak."
"Lend me your spear, then we shall see."
"Surely a god is not afraid of a strike,
by a mortal boy with a wooden pike!"

The angered beast threw forth the pole.
Which Sheo picked up and struggled to hold.
The spirit then lunged with mighty strength.
A great battle of very short length.

Sheogorath had bested the mighty god.
And absorbed his power into the rod.
The Daedric Prince vanished without a trace.
Leaving the wisest of monsters dead in his place.

It is said that for ages and ages more
During the dead of night and close to shore
If you listen you can almost hear,
the screams of the Spirit
searching for his spear

*the next part is written in blood*

"To the fool who never saw it coming, thanks for the opportunity and the girl."
-Z

LoreScholar

This is the story of Edwane, a Covenant Scout.

2E 582, 20th Sun's Height

I've infiltrated in the Dominion's territory , It was very difficult with all those elves guarding the docks... I'm deep in Grahtwood now, my mission here is to make a full report of the garrison stationed in Elden Root. I will not disappoint Commander Gilbert. For the Covenant!

2E 582, 23th Sun's Height

I've successfully scouted the garrison in Elden Root, I had some problems though... a guard saw me and I had to took him down, one less elf to give us trouble. Their garrison is consisted by a Regiment of Altmer Warmages, a large force of Bosmer Rangers wich are called "The Vinedusk Rangers", as far as I know they work for the Bosmer king. But they got some reinforcements this morning, a Khajiit Scouting party. Believe me when I say that those cats know how to throw a javelin... During my last mission with my squad in the outskirts of Dune, we're ambushed by some Khajiit skirmishers and the last thing I saw before escaping was one of my men being hit in the head by a javelin... Arkay protect his soul.

2E 582, 24th Sun's Height

My report is complete, I shall return to Commander Gilbert at once! Still, the damned Dominion doubled the patrols... I need to come up with a plan to get out of this forest. At this moment only one thing is certain: I'm soo hungry! I haven't eaten all day... I can't wait to taste that Altmer Wine that I stole from their warehouse.... Oh, and my tasty piece of cheese from Wayrest...I miss home, I hope to return to my farm in Wayrest soon... Well, now it's time for dinner!

(The rest of the paper was ripped off by what appeared to be bloodstained claws)

gigi911

Modern Haiku- "Gem of the Skeletal Visage Woes part 1"

Wax in my ear
cotton on end
of long spear, relief

s.fulton426eb17_ESO

Dear Diary,

Just another day in Cyrodiil training the young recruits on siege weapons. Got 3 young dark elves to use and abuse and the moment.
You know the drill, get them doing all the awful jobs know one else wants.
- like latrine duty and standing watch in the poring rain.

- Got one cleaning my pants at the moment after wading through a bog.

- Another I have serving my dinner, good quality wine and cheese his mum sent him for his birthday, wasted on him I tell you.

- The other I have greasing the racket on the Ballista. The little pointy eared smear of excrement keeps pointing it in my direction. He will have someone's eye out one of these days. I have told him a thousand times not to......

Tierbook

13th of Rain’s Hand, 582
That fool Cynrier seems to have taken a particular offense to my comments about Sheor. He seems to believe that the false deity is actually the cause of his family’s crop failure. As a true Nord it pains me to see people blaspheme the great Shor in such a way and so I set out to correct him. Being as drunk as he was, however, he seems to have taken it particularly bad and now wishes to kill me. I suppose I shall have to leave town before he rounds up those highway robbers he calls his friends…..
15th of Rain’s Hand, 582
I have decided that it would be best to make my way to Daggerfall in order to lay low for a while and give Cynrier time to cool off. The brash youth will come to his sense eventually I hope, otherwise I will be stuck in that uncouth city until Jester’s Day at least. I have heard that there is no end to the horrors that occur in the city from werewolf attacks to assassination attempts on the High King, Akatosh guard him. For now though I must make my way through this wilderness and hope that there are no bandits around when I make camp.
20th of Rain’s Hand, 582
I am lost. There is no denying this now, I am well and thoroughly lost. Had it not been for my decision to mark my surroundings I likely never would have discovered this, as luck would have it I brought plenty of cheese to tide over my appetite until I made it to Daggerfall and figured it would make a grand trail if left in small bits.
22nd of Rain’s Hand, 582
It appears that Cynrier and his lot were the least of my worries. Unless I am mistaken there are now savages surrounding me as I write this down. I fear I may not live to see the morning but if I shall die I shall die on a full stomach, with a strong cheddar and a mellow Apple Ale.