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Tales of the Dead 3 - Contest Entry Thread

  • Gallam
    Gallam
    Soul Shriven
    I was shocked and disturbed by the scene I walked into. A Feeling of sadness
    Fell over me. The sight of skeletons in this cellar was, well it was depressing.
    As I gazed around the room, I noticed a small journal in the lap of the one skeleton. It was old and showed its age. I opened it up and found the last entry.

    "Today is the Final day I shall write. The day has come to sing our way into
    Clavicus Vile's embrace. We wish for Clavicus Vile guidance in this world and the next. Clavicus Vile is the way and the truth. Clavicus Vile shall be the ruler of Tamriel. We shall bring the Daedric Prince to the world of the mortal."

    I nearly passed out. Could they have really brought a Daedric Prince here?
    I read the last paragraph.

    "We sung our songs and prayed our prays and nothing happened. I am starting to wonder if he was angry at us. I have this pray that a Daedric Priest gave to me, perhaps we should read it instead."

    I skimmed the book looking for more. I found no more entries and no more words. No pray no words at all. I was truly confused all this information and no answers. I stood up from the chair and that is when I seen it, It was something no one should see. I looked at the Fire place and there is was a stone with Daedric carvings on it. Before I could reach for it I heard a voice.

    "YES!!!! Please release me from this cage." The voice was deep and menacing
    "You will be granted all your desires" I froze. Thoughts and fears raced in my mind. I stared to walk to the Stone when I heard a soft sweet voice.
    "Please don't do it" I looked around and saw one on the skeletons speaking to me.
    "It is a trap he will kill you and take your soul, He needs only a few more to break the vale and destroy the....." the Skull burst apart into tiny pieces. An evil laughter filled the room. I ran and grabbed the stone and tossed it on the ground breaking it in half. I ran as fast as I could with both pieces. I reached the water’s edge and tossed on in to the seas. No one shall ever Find the two and make them whole again. That is one moment I shall always remember.
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  • justsammich
    justsammich
    Soul Shriven
    Madman's Message

    The throbbing light of the sky darkened to a black sheen across Ida’s eyes as she and her siblings descended into the cavern. The silence was eerie. Until, of course, a loud, shrilling sound rang into her ears.
    “By the Gods, this really does scream ‘ghastly’ don’t you think?” cackled Jalaspar, who had ears as big as his empty brain.
    “The only thing screaming is your thick mouth,” Ida replied, “so if you could, close it so we won’t walk into a death sentence.”
    “Blasphemy! No enemy of mine would cut the hairs of my head before stripping me of my clothes and tossing me into bed.”
    “Just shut it, will you?”
    “All you had to do was ask,” Jalaspar stated simply, thrusting himself ahead of the rest of the group with a challenge in his hips.
    Ida wanted to rip out Jalaspar’s locks until he was bald and weeping in the streets. Their family was outrageous, ever since their parents died right after Ramell was born, and Ida seemed to be the only right minded one in it.
    “Pardon me, but I do think we have arrived at our destination,” declared Ramell with a small giggle, snuggling his ‘pet skull’. Ida looked over to Ramell, the only man in Ida’s life who seemed to find a drug within the Luminous Russula plant. Apparently, the advantage to slowing down an enemy seemed to be advantageous within the confines of someone’s own home.
    “You are correct, my dear Ramell!” confirmed Jalaspar as he advanced toward the decadent altar that stood before them.
    The altar gave off a peculiar glow, reflecting unnatural fiery from the flames of the torches that should have long since burned out. The Power of Imprisonment was long forgotten after a quiet attempt to enslave a dragon. When Jalaspar took another step, though, the flames shot into the air, surging onto the stalactites and cascading into an almost fishhook-like appearance.
    “Who dares awaken the God of Captivity?” came a booming voice that shook the cavern, leaving tumbling rocks in its wake.
    Ida stepped forward, “We, as your mortal link, demand-“
    “Demand?” It hooted with a thousand giants.
    She cleared her throat, “We request you give us the souls of the emperors, rip our rags and create riches, deny the names of the kings and leave us the power of the gems.”
    “You come to the God who can turn love to lust, the God who can create blistering rage out of loyalty, the God who can bind the emperor to Molag Bal himself, for fame? You deserve nothing from the Gods!”
    With that, Ida and Jalaspar incinerated into a thousand fragments, leaving nothing more than bones dropping to the floor in rubbles.
    “You, though?” the God of Captivity directed at Ramell, “will serve to heed my warning, to deliver the message that I am not some plaything to ‘request’ fortune from. Now, begone with you!”
    Ramell grew a smile as wide as the flames on the altar.
    Am I the only one that gives my characters background stories?
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  • Austech
    Austech
    Soul Shriven
    Plane Meld off swamp gas
    Yorrick, we hardly knew thee
    Nay, per chance to dream
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  • hishikiroda
    hishikiroda
    ✭✭
    "One Final Song"

    Sorion looked over his meager audience and… somehow he knew that this performance would be his last. It was not an illness which gave him this insight (for he was perfectly healthy)… nor a man battering at the door whilst screaming for his payment (he never gambled). No, this dreadful feeling came from something else entirely, and he was fairly certain it had to do with that Bosmer talking to a dismembered head from those horrible shelves.

    The other audience member looked like a relatively normal Altmer, other than the fact that he seemed utterly disinterested in Sorion. That simply doesn’t happen, everyone has heard of the great Sorion! Kings and beggars alike fall to their knees before him and kiss the bejeweled toes on his regal feet as they beg for him to play even a single note!

    “Perhaps he hasn’t heard of me before” Sorion thought, “It’s possible I suppose… rare… but possible. He’ll warm up once I begin to play.”

    So consumed by these thoughts about the man who didn’t care to be here, Sorion barely even noticed the wood elf placing yet another head on the floor beside his chair. Almost by reflex he picked up his instrument and began to play, slowly at first, and then building into the greatest song in his repertoire. Imbued by the fire of passion for his work Sorion’s fingers glided over rough metal strings, and his voice bounded throughout the room with perfect clarity.

    Glancing up in the middle of his song, sure to find both living spectators transfixed by his performance… Sorion was alarmed to see the Altmer slumped over in his chair, a thin line of drool sliding from his mouth to pool on his breeches. Turning his eyes to the Bosmer he saw the man still intently conversing with the head in his hand, happily disregarding everything else in the room.

    “THE NERVE! How dare these fools badger me to perform for them if they are simply going to ignore me!? They will never live to forget this slight!”

    Playing faster now, his melody changed in pitch from a sultry low, to a frantic tenor. His fingers bled from the force of his strokes on the now-slick strings, and his throat grew shrill from the strength of his screaming. His words also changed, from a song about love, to a dirge of madness laced with magic.

    Lights began to flicker around the room, the temperature dropped to a freezing chill, and then finally with his last note everything grew still.

    Wearily Sorion thought to himself; “This may not have been how I saw my final performance going… but I have to say… It certainly was one hell of a show!”

    Allowing his hands to slip to his sides, his instrument fallen into his lap, Sorion took his last breath… a hoarse wheeze of a laugh, and watched as his 2 guests’ eyes glazed over and their breathing finally slowed to a frozen final moment.

    Edited by hishikiroda on February 19, 2015 2:44AM
    BRETON NIGHTBLADE MAGICA TANK!? Yes please!!!

    My Portfolio:
    wix.com/mg_laird/leveldesign

    Ideas for Housing in Elder Scrolls:
    forums.elderscrollsonline.com/discussion/111725/housing-in-elder-scrolls-online/p1

    Thoughts on the Dye System:
    forums.elderscrollsonline.com/discussion/112510/thoughts-on-the-dye-system
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  • DrMrCole
    DrMrCole
    Soul Shriven


    An Eternal Play

    Our story begins off a small town that is off an even smaller lake. A small boy who was raised in a small hut with his loving mother and father. Life was good.

    One day the small boy and his loving mother and father went to the small town to visit the local theater. The boy has never been to the theater before, but has heard his mother and father talk about it many times. He heard of times where bards could say huge speeches right off the top of their heads. Times when bards would run on and on and on just talking about something and never once mess up. But one time the small boy’s mother and father told him about a time a bard did mess up. How he forgot his line mid speech and how he just stood there with nothing to say. The little boy was curious about this. How that would look. He couldn't wait to see the play. He wanted everything to go right. But at the same time he wanted it to all go wrong. He wanted to see a bard fail. He didn't know why he wanted this, he just did.

    The small boy and his loving mother and father finally arrived at the theater and took their seats. The play was about a tragic tale of a man who gave up everything he had; to live a life of adventure. But in the end he lost it all. It was the last act and the man was in his biggest speech yet when all of a sudden he stopped. The small boy was confused about what was happening. "He forgot his line!" The small boy said to himself. The bard on the stage stood there with a face of shock. His face grew red, eyes wide. It was such a long pause the small boy even got embarrassed. Soon the small boys face got red and his eyes widened. A person in the back of the crowd started clapping, and so did others and others and others. Soon the whole audience was full of clapping people just wanting this tragedy to be over. The bard gave a quick bow and walked off stage with the small bit of pride he had left.

    That night at the small cabin off of the small town that is off of the small lake, the small boy laid in bed. He thought to himself of how bad that was and if he knew that it would be like that, that he would never want that to happen again. But at the same time he loved his trip to the theater. He loved it so much that he wanted to write his own play.

    Years pass and the small boy has grown into a young man. And the small town off of the small lake has now become a big town off of a small lake. The young man, may I remind you who was the small boy, has become famous for his play writing all across the land. He has also picked up the representation of having the highest standards. He never accepts anything less than perfect. One night he was performing for house Dubal. A noble house of the Dunmer people. This was his big chance to prove to the world how big of a star he could be.

    So on that night the young man, who was once the young boy, who came from a small town, which was now a big town, which is next to a small lake, which is still a small lake, was putting on his best play for nobles. His loving mother and father would be proud. The play starts and is a hit right off the bat. The play is about a woman and how she won’t marry. Her father wants her to marry the duke but she refuses. The climax of the story hits and the father has tied the daughter up in her room until the wedding the next day. Then the duke, who does love her, comes to save her. He is letting her go so she can be happy even if he’s not. Truly an act of true love. But as the woman is giving her speech on what to choose, the duke or freedom, she freezes.

    The play was ruined. She forgot her line. The young man, who was once a small boy, reputation was killed the moment the leading lady paused. The young man had gotten so upset that he kidnaped the leading lady and the leading man, and took them captive to a cave to practice the play. He would tie them both to chairs just as the father in the play had and had them redo the play from start to finish every time they messed up. He told them they won't get food or water till you do the play fifty times with not a single error. They never got past thirty.

    They tried and tried but they could never prevail. And well... I'm sure you can figure out what happened next.

    And that my friends, is the story of a small boy who grew up next to a small town that is next to a small lake that just couldn't handle failure.


    -The End
    Edited by DrMrCole on February 20, 2015 3:08PM
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  • Area51Visitor
    Area51Visitor
    ✭✭✭
    I wish I carved that lute from the trunks of Eyevea, rather than the roots of the Hollow. I am damned, along with that lute, and will burn in the depths of the deepest forge. The sweetest memories of Luv will last in the songs we sing at night. The daedric madness, the curse, the lute and all it's jealousy and death will burn; and I with it. It's finally over.
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  • farrier_ESO
    farrier_ESO
    ✭✭✭
    https://us.v-cdn.net/5020507/uploads/editor/ai/ugrqndsgrc9j.jpg

    Clavicus: Replaceable... heads.

    Cutlass: Yeah. Makes sense, innit? You gots yer perfectly ordin'ry skellingtons, or 'ex-pirates' as we nautical ladies of lower bodyweight like ter be called. Just walkin' around, mindin' their own business, or okay so they've been instructed to bash out someone's brains, but it's not like it's THEIR fault, it's a wossname, a geese.

    Clavicus: Do you perhaps mean 'geas'?

    Cutlass: Yeah, been a while since I had a good goose, lemme tell yer, I'd give my left arm for a set of tastebuds.

    Clavicus: I believe you said you already did. To a crow. Last week.

    Cutlass: Oh yeah. Well no, that didn't count, I reckon. I got no use for tastebuds wot've been through a crow. I din't wanna be tastin' his insides fer the rest of eternity. Anyway, he ripped me off, he did, is what I'm sayin'. Along with me hook-arm, from me days of piratin'.

    Clavicus: Yes. Quite. But... look, back to the replaceable heads thing.

    Cutlass: Oh, yeah, well like I was sayin', yer gots yer gentleman of the elbowier persuasion, and all of a sudden, along comes some hero with a soddin' great mace. Bosh! Skull gone, no amount o' vinegar an' brown paper'll fix that, right? So I thought, wot about sellin' *spares*? Smart or what? Two heads is better'n one!

    Clavicus: Twice as smart as that target dummy, I'm sure. Also three times. At the same time.

    Cutlass: Yeah, and ten times, too! Genius, was'nit? I boned up on business, and I had all tha right connections! I was all ready for me to flesh out my bare bones business plan. Thought I'd make a killing, make no bones about it! Buy all the tastebuds I wanted! An' beer!

    Clavicus: And a mop, I'm sure... I hesitate to ask, but where were you obtaining your inventory?

    Cutlass: I'd just grab 'em off sticks. They're all over the place, bein' used as decorations. Lots more skulls than skeletons, innit? Stands ter reason.

    Clavicus: How exactly did you intend to profit in this... empty-headed venture? Your target market was skeletons! Like us: Os Personus! We don't have pockets! We can hardly be expected to buy things.

    Cutlass: An' that's where tha grand plan fell down! It were bone-headed, but at least I wasn't bein' bone-idle! I'm tryin' ter improve out lot, give everyone a way to get a head in unlife! Ter get riches, and get mesel' a man! But now... I've got nobody.

    Clavicus: And you've got no body.

    Cutlass: Hah! [The pirate pauses to pick up her skull from the floor. ] You see that there? I actually laughed my head right off. This spare almost come in handy. Good one. Quite the rib tickler. Really tickled my funny bone.

    Clavicus: I do pride myself on being quite.... humerus.

    Cutlass: Yohohohoho SKULL JOKE!
    Edited by farrier_ESO on February 18, 2015 9:47AM
    Yet another indie games programmer.
    Upvote the change you want to see.
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  • speener1138b14_ESO
    speener1138b14_ESO
    Soul Shriven
    Laughter. It had all begun with laughter. I first heard the screams and laughs of what I thought to be a babbling buffoon near the back alleys in Glenumbra. It was nearing midnight and not a soul was anywhere to be seen. But as I approached the dimly lit alley, the laughter grew even more hysterical and I could see a shadow cast on the outer wall. It was the shadow of a man holding a head that was dripping and oozing something from under the cap. Just then a light voice with quite a serious stench to the ear, spoke and said, ahhh I do believe you have arrived just on time. The man wore what seemed to be the clothing of one preparing for a jest, but a royal one if any. He smiled wide and for a moment I swore I could have seen the shape of sharp fangs. He held his staff high and then swung it in my face, but only just touching the nose and giving a good laugh. “You do realize that I will have to kill you if you don’t do exactly what I say, right”? I defensively replied “why would you kill me, I’ve committed no offense to ye”. “Oh, but you have my sweet little friend, you’ve seen my last project, and I believe you saw more than the average chap should see”. He shrieked up and down and giggled hysterically whilst mumbling, “oh yes, oh yes yes, that’s good, perfect”! He held his staff up a little higher, and pointed it behind him. You know there’s a waterfall just outside of town, you know, exit the eastern gates, head south a few horse gallops and boom there it is? Yes I replied, “Well, get you and your wife down there immediately, bring a sack with all of your valuables, give them to me there, and I will let you go freely. I knew that it was a stupid trick. He thought he could get me to bring all my valuables? Tosser. He disappeared in a flash of purple smog, and I ran to my wife as quickly as possible, explained the situation, gathered small and cheap things into the sack, and took off. Upon our arrival there he was next to a table with 5 skulls. There were 2 chairs and there he held a contract which had been written in red ink. My wife patted me on the shoulder and said “hurry, I want to get out of here as quickly as we can, he scares me”. I took the contract and handed him the sack quickly, and scanned it over. It seemed to say my valuables are his and this was to be receipt of it. I thought, fine, sure. I signed the document and after a purple poof once more, I found myself listening to the sound of laughter, deep and hysterical laughter. I saw myself and my wife sitting in the chairs we had just been looking at. There was a haze, and all color was lost unto us. “You should have read the fine print sweet little friend”. “You don’t know the great prince Sheogorath when you see him”? My wife began to sob and I cried out in protest “what have you done Sheogorath, what is this madness”? Just then I realized we couldn’t leave the chairs. We couldn’t move anything except our arms. Just then I saw what looked to be my wife and I approaching, I saw myself hand Sheogorath the sack, and start to overlook the contract. My wife and I while sitting in the chairs began to shout at our other selves, NO! DON’T DO THAT NO! As soon as my other self had signed the contract, Sheogorath took out a large daedric dagger, and with a 1 and a 2, 3, he sliced both of our heads off, he laughed hysterically, and handed both of us our own heads to hold. My wife screamed almost in agony, dropped her other head, and slouched herself and looked down in complete depression, but I myself held my head up to my very own eyes. I stared deeply into them, and began to laugh. Laughter, it had all begun with laughter.
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  • j_gm_fordb16_ESO2
    j_gm_fordb16_ESO2
    Soul Shriven
    Bone%20Men%20Folly_zps8gaooxn3.jpg
    Sabbicat
    Argonian Nightblade
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  • EmissaryofHope
    EmissaryofHope
    Soul Shriven
    Middas, 3rd day of Heartfire 2E 595

    The sun had set
    And the moon's rise marked their demise,
    Shrouded in secrecy and silence for almost a year
    Tonight we dined and reveled in their fear

    They thought themselves so high,
    Esteemed, those swine!
    That is why they had to die

    In their clothes of fine thread,
    High in their stature
    Now we have their heads

    Tales and Tallows
    Their headless bodies rose from the shallows,
    The muddy depths of death is nil
    With trained incantation and skill

    Never shall their souls know rest,
    Subjugated to the infernal
    Now puppets for time eternal

    Ridden with decay and fetor,
    They will heed our call
    For we are now their creator

    Nirn will tremble
    As necromantic armies assemble,
    And when the ash settles
    The Aedra shall be devils

    Skulls will line our shelves,
    In mockery we shall sit
    With the heads of man and elves

    All shall remember the 3rd day of Heartfire,
    How the day of Tales and Tallow
    Turned the land of Nirn hollow



    A tattered page from a journal long since lost
    Edited by EmissaryofHope on February 19, 2015 2:33AM
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  • Amelyssan
    Amelyssan
    Soul Shriven
    Tales_of_the_Dead_2_11.jpg

    After the worst harvest in living memory, Skyrim suffered the harshest of winters. Famine swept the Nine Holds, the populace became desperate and many turned to banditry. Two such men were Haftan and Grumdel, once Housecarls to the Jarl of Whiterun, exiled on charges of thuggery. Loosed like rabid dogs from the leash, they were freed from service and turned to a life of murder. Winter deepened and word of their barbarism spread, food was scarce yet they remained fat and healthy, it was said they roasted their victims and consumed them. Despite hefty bounties, endeavors to find Haftan and Grumdel failed, their rampage continued and their names invoked terror.

    One night on the outskirts of Ivarstead, an old farmer Harrald Snow-Song lay dying surrounded by his seven daughters. He refused to eat what food remained, insisting that his children eat lest they die before him. Dismayed by this, the sisters decided to sneak into woods to find food, even though they were forbidden to leave the house at night. Torches held aloft they followed a trail of brambles which lead them deep into the woods, until they came upon a lone cottage. Haelga, the eldest sister, knocked on the door which was opened by two scarred men with coarse beards. “Our father is ill, please spare some food”. The men thoughtfully scratched their heads and nodded “First, dine with us, for you are all too thin”

    Haelga and her sisters entered and were fed soup by the fire, it was delicious but no sooner had she finished, her eyelids grew heavy and she lost consciousness. She awoke later bound with her sisters in a darkened basement, their hosts stood over them “Silly beauties” they laughed “We’re Haftan and Grumdel, each night we’ll feast on one of you” and they took Haelga’s sister Alva to eat first. Haelga fought back tears and offered a prayer to Stendarr for deliverance, but the next night the men returned for her sister Tilde, so Haelga prayed instead to Mara. But still she wasn't heard and the men came again for Maeva. “Akatosh, I beg you” she cried, but not even the Dragon God seemed to care and Svana was the next to be taken. Haelga grew desperate and chanted to the Daedric Prince Meridia, but the fifth night passed and Frea was seized. Haelga now clutched her last sister Malene, offering their souls to Mehrunes Dagon in exchange for freedom. On the sixth night Malene was dragged away and Haelga was alone.

    On the eve of the seventh night Haelga noticed a horrid stench fill the air and turned to find an old woman shared her prison. “I will take your soul” she croaked “But I'll not free you, for you forgot me in your prayers. I am Namira and I'll only offer this; I can foul your flesh with pestilence and poison so that you can have revenge”.

    That night Haftan and Grumdel shared their last meal.







    Edited by Amelyssan on February 19, 2015 2:46AM
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  • Aruvyn
    Aruvyn
    Soul Shriven
    Everything will be alright

    Something's not right
    The trees, they move like the waves. I can't see. The world is a blur covered in fog.

    "The lights are beautiful here" My memory, it whispers your whispers. They crash and buzz in my head. Can't escape. Can't get them out.

    "You are home." The muffled voice calmly states, a cool touch enters my side.

    "It's cold" My memory. The voice is back, her whisper.. where are we...

    Trees.
    "They are beautiful this time of year"
    "Yes, they are" I smiled to her. I'm.. Cold.

    Sharp pain, like daggers digging into me. Are we outside? Why can't I move. My eyes have a moment of clarity. There are flowers everywhere. Beautiful flowers, red as can be. I always loved red. My wife wore read the first time we met.

    "There are others" the muffled voice stated beyond my dreams. "you will not be alone. You will be..."

    Alone. I have my wife.. why did I..

    A scream pierces through the fog, through the memories.

    That was real. Where did the call come from?

    Flashes of light. Glimpses of a figure. Darkness... Those flowers.

    Another scream. Her face flashes over me.

    "...Loved"

    Her voice is calm. Soothing. I grow more dizzy as the trees whirl around me. The stars form shapes and figures. Memories.

    Screaming.

    Why won't the screaming stop? I can hear it through the fog, through the flashes of light. My legs. Why won't they move. They are covered in flowers. So beautiful. So cold.

    "It is almost time"

    Another sting of ice shoots through me.

    "We will always be together" Her face comes briefly into view. She's holding something. Light reflects like a mirror off its surface.

    "This is beautiful" another memory. It's nicer than the fog. A serene stream with trees gently swaying.

    "I love this place" I look to my wife. She extends her hand.

    "We will always be together"

    I smile. I'm looking into my wife's eyes. She smiles back, softly holding my head in her hands. She has the flowers too, they run down her face.




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  • robknob
    robknob
    Soul Shriven
    "I sat in the cramped little house in Vivec with Jothbert and Randal drinking cheese wine and I remembered Jothbert getting on my nerves or not getting on my nerves. I told him none of us are leaving till Jothbert eats his own head. Hold on....hold on...... wasn't Martin the skooma addict there too? Who's head did Jothbert eat? Was good cheese wine hahahah. And then I recall I left them there with no way out. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH. Wait a minute have I even been to Vivec in the last 400 years." Sheogorath remembering his trip or not trip to Vivec with Jothbert, Randal, and Martin, or no one at all?
    "And Fry you have that brain thing." "I already did."
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  • Cobblesworth
    Cobblesworth
    Soul Shriven
    Cougdoer hastened along the path as much as the starlight and his fat legs would let him. He pulled up at the waist of his robe to avoid tripping on the unseen brush below. He'd only been on this path twice before. Once, when he was a fledgling in the mages school; skipping lessons to follow some more advanced trouble makers to a place mages weren't supposed to be, and the other time a fortnight ago, when his master had shown him where he should be to receive orders.
    He cursed inwardly, again declaring his disdain for being unable to use a lantern, at the strict guidelines set forth by his master. No one was to be able to follow. No one should see him, or know where he goes. He couldn't even risk a simple magelight spell. He wouldn't risk his chance to finally be someone. His master was powerful. He'd seen it! He promised him the same kind of power. It seemed a simple task. He thought greedily of the talisman in his pocket; a small token of his master's promise to give him all that he desired. It felt cool to his thigh.
    He came to the clearing before the manse. The old trees refused to grow near its domain. He looked up at its old and ancient frame. It's beaten down and looked like it'd collapse, but Cougdoer somehow felt that it wouldn't, that it couldn't. The wood looked weathered and the shutters on the windows were missing in many places. He walked to the front door and trembled as the night air suddenly felt heavier. An unseen lethargy crept in his mouth and echoed through his limbs. He steadied himself and opened the door to the darkened entryway.
    He bumped his hip against an object and his foot set another scurrying across the floor making a loud click'n clack with whatever it collided with. Casting a torchlight spell, Cougdoer succumbed to his need for sight. The light revealed hundreds of skulls and at least a dozen skeletons in the room. This reassured him, for he knew this was the home of an ancient insane necromancer. What didn't reassure him was the, “Thwip, thwip, thwoop!” of three daggers pinning his hood and robe to the wall.
    “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” said a female voice. “Cougdoer, I wrote specifically not to make any light. How will your master respond, when he finds out his lackey can't follow orders?” Cougdoers' hairs raised on the back of his neck. He recognized that voice.
    “You,” he said.
    “Me,” said the voice. In through the window glided a lithe dark elf with silver hair that seemed to catch the starlight even through the strange angle of the window. She landed briskly on her toe tips and smiled at Cougdoer.
    “I don't deal with the Morag Tong anymore!” Cougdoer cried.
    “That's sweet. Neither do I,” said the woman. Just then, all the skulls began to laugh.
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  • Commodore_Fury
    Commodore_Fury
    Soul Shriven
    Tales_of_the_Dead_2_11.jpg

    [Two figures stand there, one draped in thick blackened robes, tattered and torn, whispers emanating from the dark corners of the room where they stand, the other dressed in pure white clothing, almost a robe of sorts chains drape from around his neck and wrists a Lute strapped onto his back, blood soaked were his hands, not that he seemed to notice, a chill strikes down his spine he can see the being before him speak, his blood runs cold as he has no choice but to listen]

    Unknown Figure: "Death. Death is the everlasting, the constant, the one factual inevitable in the constant variable known as life, You are dead, having died beyond a time past, and tonight I shall recount to you how it quite has come to be that you find yourself in my presence."

    Sorion: "What? How can I be de..dead? I was just sitting there, just, just musing away with my Brother. We had, we had just composed a new song it would have been beautiful oh the lyrics that bore into my soul upon recounting them a warmth I have not felt since her, but cold now, so cold am I truly dead?"

    Unknown Figure: "Yes, you and your Brother both young man, naught but bones remain now a cycle has passed upon the mortal realm and yet to you but a second, you gather dust a smile upon the bones you once bore still remains and a frown upon your Brother's."

    Sorion: "But, but I had so much needing doing, I had--I still had to find her again, now she will never hear my words, the song will never be sung and my Brother and I are doomed to remain here of all forsaken places..."

    Unknown Figure: "Oh it is not all bad, do not worry yourself time has no hold over you now--Of course it also means you are trapped down here awaiting Death himself to greet you and commit your Soul to peace, with nothing left for you, and no one who would care enough to find you now that your Brother has passed over it seems you are the only one left in your 'life' so let me know when you're ready to move on unto the end."

    Sorion: "I..I am not ready, what if I am never ready? Is..is there no way back? No way out? Does Death not have a heart? If I am truly dead, ah, what is the use my words have left me likely still on the parchment clasped in, in my bones. Ha, I..I guess I am ready, if what you say is true, what point is there sticking around here...Wherever here is..."

    Unknown Figure: "Very well, open your eyes."

    [The robed Man in white is taken aback shifting his weight in shock and confusion, however moments later he 'awakens' it was the Inn he and his Brother were at, unable to move, his gaze would see all around him but nothing could have prepared him for the tragedy and pain before his eyes within his palm a Skull, his lovers he would recognize the face beyond recounting instantly he would wretch back in horror, still unmoving, a grimace crosses his face, horror, fear, dread from the corner of his view another pile of bones sit, his Brother, dust covered and brittle, thoughts alive swirling, so many questions and so much pain, it was only then he had realized he was nothing but bone himself, cursed for his sins, in his mind he spoke to Death himself, and as payment was forced to bear the chains he had forged for himself in life, no hero of song was he, and now, back awake he is forced to sit here, in the Inn where it all began, frozen in time, bound in a cage of bones forever cursed to gaze upon the face of his lover, and the Brother he had betrayed to steal her in secret, nothing there but the dead within an Inn that time had forgotten within a place where sins were pure, sat a Minstrel who would suffer eternal for a crime within the prison of his own making and by his feet did lay another Skull atop the hay, a random lover whom she did slay, for everyone has a sin, and a price to pay.]


    Edited by Commodore_Fury on February 19, 2015 10:05AM
    Commander Satharn of Bastion.
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  • stonelisticub17_ESO
    "In the cellar of the Sweetbreeze cottage,
    Where a Wood Elf gardens away,
    The wandering Minstrel Sorion came to play,
    He sang songs of love and romance,
    Only none were meant for she,
    Unknowning the difference between Altmer and pumpkin,
    She ate both of thee,
    Locked in her cellar,
    Lobelathel is his love forever,
    As all others are nothing to me.
    "
    Edited by stonelisticub17_ESO on February 19, 2015 9:48AM
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  • Pamrsz
    Pamrsz
    Soul Shriven
    Scorned.

    As he writhed in pain on the floor of the cellar, she pondered her own madness. It was much too late now to go back to the sanity she once knew. She ran her fingertips over his chest. She could almost feel his agony. Alas, the empathy she could once feel had been buried in darkness long ago.
     
    He shouldn't have used her, shouldn't have left her for that horrid woman he now calls a wife. Ah yes, the wife. She'd gotten wind that she was here, looking for him. If only she knew what a sham he was. How he'd lied to everyone. She must end it now, before she was discovered. Too bad, she would have liked to make him suffer a while longer. She enjoyed seeing him in pain.
     
    The great, talented minstrel Sorion. Ha! What a joke! If only they all knew, that it was SHE that had given him the talents he so enjoyed. It was her alchemical talent that tapped into his abilities and given him the gift of song and music. So selfish. What a fool she was for thinking he could have loved her.
     
    Now she would use her talents to make him pay. She got up and walked towards her alchemy table, caressing the skeletons of former lovers as she did. They all deserved it. The concoction was ready. She poured it over her hands, as daedra everywhere rejoiced. Darkness enshrouded her. What little sanity she had left was gone forever. She felt the power of a thousand scorned women flow through her as she made his way back to him.
     
    She grabbed a fistful of his hair and dragged him onto the stage. A talented minstrel indeed. She would make him scream. She threw him down and knelt next to him, then dug her fingers into his chest as he cried out. She kept digging, aware of his inability to move and the burning agony that must be surging through him. Inside him it was warm. Blood and flesh and sinew caressed her hands. More warmth than he'd ever given her. She kept digging until she could feel his heart. She grasped it, and pulled the damn thing out. Sorion's eyes widened and she reveled in the living pain he must have felt. She laughed, as she brought his heart close to her face.
     
    Whether he liked it or not, his heart would be hers, forever. She looked at him, and then bit into his heart. Hers forever, yes. What a fool he was, to think he could use her and come away unscathed. Oblivion hath no fury like a woman scorned. She was sure, whatever hell he would end up in after he had finally died, after she had eaten every inch of his flesh while he was alive, that it would be better than the agony he was in now, and she was glad of it. She let darkness take her, as the skeletons watched, in horror.
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  • rfpikeco
    rfpikeco
    Soul Shriven
    diary page found near fire

    "Sorion, I am sorry the way things turned out. You smelled so of pumpkin, and I couldn't resist a taste. What will I do without my sweet Sorion? To honor his memory, I will set up a final performance in Sweetbreeze Cottage's cellar: My lover on stage with his lute, and a full audience of other people that smelled of pumpkin. The arrangements will not be hard. Since everyone is already in the cellar, I'll just need some chairs, a stage, and Sorion's lute..."
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  • GreyAzazel
    GreyAzazel
    Soul Shriven
    Author's Note: I tried to make this story as lore correct as I could, whilst allowing some personal shine through, I hope you enjoy!


    Fargaliel's Tomb



    Tales_of_the_Dead_2_11.jpg

    Azazel of the Fighters Guild and En'Ros of the Mages Guild. The first was a dashing, brave and strong imperial warrior, the second was an exquisite, intelligent and gifted Bosmer mage. They were handpicked by their respective guilds to find a valuable artefact that would help the guilds achieve victory against Molag Bal.

    Azazel had taken leave of his position as Provost in Daggerfall to join this quest. Touted by many within the Fighter's Guild to become the guild leader after Jofnir, instead the Fighters Guild council chose Sees-All-Colours and then Merric at-Aswala after she betrayed the guild. Azazel rejoiced in the fact that the guild had a strong and just leader and had no qualms about the change in leadership. Now he could focus all his efforts to fight, which was what he was born to do, despite being an effortless leader.

    En'Ros had left her studies at Woodhearth Mages Guild to join this pursuit of power. As a Master Wizard magic flowed from her hands as sap flows through a tree. Not much is known about her origins as she was found wrapped in a giant leaf by a Bosmer hunting party as a baby. Distinctly mer in origin her appearance is subtly not quite Bosmer which gives her a unique beauty. Her associates in the Mages Guild, often stunned by her easy magics have suspected that she is a direct descendant of the Ayleid race who respected and adhered to the Green Pact upon leaving their homeland during The Alessia Wars.

    In ancient Aldmer texts it mentions the hidden mysterious tomb of Fargaliel containing ancient magical power. The Scholars of the Mages Guild upon reading those texts organised a joint expedition to Valenwood. They believed, from references in the texts, that the hidden tomb, and the power it contained, existed deep within the forests the wild fey of old once roamed. They would harness that power to defeat Molag Bal and banish him back to the Oblivion plane of Coldharbour.

    When Azazel and En'Ros finally found the entrance of Fargaliel's tomb hidden deep within an old hollow of a tree, they were surprised to hear voices coming from inside. Intrigued as to the origin of the voices, our adventurers descended down the hollow to find a wooden platform. Displayed before them was a macabre scene of disembodied skulls talking in heated debate in the unknown language of the dead. Sensing deep and dark magics surrounding the tomb En'Ros tried various spells to understand the skulls and their magics. Frustrated by her inability to communicate with the skulls she decided the only way to do so was for the pair to shed life itself. She believed that as long as their skeletons held together she could reverse the spell.

    When Azazel and En'Ros became the skeletons you see in picture, they were finally able converse with the skulls who had detailed knowledge of magics and fighting techniques that could be used against any evil daedra.
    Edited by GreyAzazel on February 19, 2015 2:17PM
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  • fmcisaac
    fmcisaac
    Soul Shriven
    "Hey Nelson you really lost you head over that joke." Yup Damien really went stir crazy being locked up in here.

    It doesn't pay to be a criminal. It wasn't too bad the first couple of days but when the hunger starts to get worst and then the thirst and then the delusions start. However for Damien the delusions started from the beginning.

    We pulled multiple jobs over Tamriel and never got caught or had a problem we were doing alright for ourselves that was until Damien started to get bad advice. To be a nice guy I just played along I figured it couldn't hurt right? Boy was I wrong and it only got worse. As time went on he stopped listening to anyone but his adviser and well you see how well that worked out for us. Nelson is why we are trapped here.

    Oh did I forget to mention, Nelson is that skull Damien's holding, his trusted adviser. Now you can understand that expression on my.... well skull.

    Thanks a lot Nelson and Damien.
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  • dafox187
    dafox187
    ✭✭✭
    These skeletons were two little know adventures named Rondar [orc male right side nightblade] and Gha'ti [khajit male left side sorcer]. one day there fate was concluded by a simple mistake of theirs. Rondar suggested they venture the depths of greenshades caves, Gha'ti thought of all the loot they would have and agreed to the idea so they prepared for there adventure. Rondar made clothing and weapons while Gha'ti made 3 health potions.
    They set out to there demise walking in to the cave they saw 2 sprigins they weren't very hard to take down but as they fought there way though they got to the end of the cave there was a bandit leader by imps and a small camp site with chairs, skulls ,broken boxes and a attack dummy. Rondar started attacking the bandit leader while Gha'ti summoned a clanffer and started healing Rondar. Rondor was very near death then secretive archer ran in the cave and attacked the bandit leader killing it then looted the body and left Gha'ti and Rondar sat down on the chairs and started talking about how they need more practice if they wanted to be successful Gha'ti was looking at a skull and about to drink a health potion when one of the imps came back and burned them both alive.

    don't get mad at my spelling, autocorrect doesn't cover fantasy.
    Why couldn't the Khajiit go to the party? She had to be Elsweyr.
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  • TomasZee
    TomasZee
    The lights dimmed when he cast his last protection spell. He could feel the excitement in his veins. Twenty years of searching for the skull of Guldaran and now it was his. The knowledge of everything that ever was, is and will be at his fingertips.

    It took him ten years to confirm that the legend of the wizard who received the gift of all knowing from the god of madness was real. Another ten to find the lair of the Archmage who found that skull. All the sacrifices, the deaths and sorrow along the way. All that for this very moment.

    It was the Archmage who found out that by looking into the skulls eyes anyone with enough magical power could see what Guldaran did. He apparently had to go through a number of skulls until he found the right one, as attested to by all the skulls on the different shelves in the lair.

    He was happy he did not have to go through that again. He found the right skull sitting on the table, the skeleton of the Archmage staring into its dead eye sockets.

    He knew using the skull was dangerous. Not only did the legend say as much but the skeleton of the Archmage confirmed it. Apparently looking into eternity was addictive. Or there were protective enchantments and traps. But he was not afraid. He was the best and brightest mage the Telvani ever had. He was offered the house stewardship more than once. He had no equals. He battled daedra and other beasts. He dueled the best mages the Elves and Breton had to offer. He always prevailed. Even the Tribunal never dared to challenge him. They knew that he knew where they power came from and although not afraid, they were weary.

    Now came the true test of his power. The protection spells he put around him would last for hundreds of years and withstand everything short of the combined power of the house Telvani and the Tribunal. He put his hand on his knee holding the skull so he could look straight into its empty eyes.

    At first nothing changed. Then the room around him disappeared and he could see… EVERYTHING. He knew how it all started and how everything developed. Eternity played in front of his eyes, moment after moment. Everything that ever was is and would be at his fingertips. And he could change it. He could move a grain of sand and see how the worlds changed. And there was not just one world. Their numbers were countless. The daedra insignificant amongst them afraid to go places where divinities much greater roamed.

    In the room time passed. Slowly the lights went out. After years the protection spells winked out one after another. The last grand soul gem disintegrating into dust, its energy used up. The body became a husk and the husk became a skeleton. A skeleton staring into a skull… for eternity.
    Edited by TomasZee on February 19, 2015 5:05PM
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  • Savvas28
    Savvas28
    Soul Shriven
    The three weary travellers were four days into their perilous journey. They had just entered the southern side of a forest when the tallest of the three, a Nord called Tobias, noticed a note pinned to the base of tree. The note read:

    'To my dearest and most jaded of travellers,

    Please join me for a veritable feast of the finest cheeses my beloved and most violent of Shivering Isles has to offer. You can find me in a cabin directly north of where you stand this cool Summer's eve.

    Yours enviously,

    The Skooma Cat'.

    The Nord instantly felt uneasy, and so too did his companions when he read the note aloud to them, yet they all felt the same longing to meet the author of the note. None of them questioned whether or not they were doing the right thing in answering the call of the note, even though the resigned looks on their faces suggested they knew it had to be a bad idea.

    After a silent walk through the forest, the nervousness the group felt subsided quickly when the cabin unexpectedly presented itself. It was a small cabin, but there was nothing unusual about it, and in their eyes that was a good thing. They were all hungry, so without hesitation approached the cabin, the Nord leading the way as he always did. The Nord knocked expectantly on the cabin door and was greeted by a well-dressed man. His beaming smile soothed the famished travellers and they soon found themselves sitting around a table full of cheesy delights.

    The Nord, chewing feverishly to appease his hungry stomach, looked keenly around the room. It was in every way like any cabin he had ever sat in, aside from row of wax-work heads sitting on a shelf beside him. The man must have been a model maker, the Nord thought to himself, and for the rest of the time he sat in the cabin, he thought nothing more of it.

    'I am going to tell you a joke!' the travellers' host unexpectedly announced, just as the last morsel of food on the table had been devoured.

    'If you do not find it funny, which I highly doubt, you can leave here and continue on your way. If, however, you do find that it tickles your juicy and slimy little ribs, you are invited join me on and adventure that will make your current one look as pointless as a Skeever's tail.'

    The three friends looked curiously at each other. They then looked on in silence as their host walked to the back of the cabin to retrieve a staff. The staff was very long, and at its peak a strange looking eye sat ominously between two long spikes. The travellers felt their own eyes transfixed on the peculiar staff as their host started to talk once more.

    'Have you heard the one about the talking grapefruit from Paswall?' he asked, as he stretched out the staff before him.
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  • xdisasterx
    xdisasterx
    Soul Shriven
    Tales_of_the_Dead_2_11.jpg

    My name is Dorian Blackwater... and that's me on the left.
    That's my friend Ronald sitting in the chair next to me... still staring into the eyes of that slave girl he'd picked up at the tavern in Mournhold. She had died of starvation long before the others. I still can't believe we ate her. Her name was Shelby... We ate Shelby!

    We had been trapped inside of this ruin for almost a fortnight, the tunnel caved in on both sides of us, and there was no hope of escape. Hlallyn (the second one from the right, I believe, up there on the shelf) was supposed to be an "expert" guide but I've seen squirrels in The Rift more prepared for a long stay in the wilderness. And Gorg (far left) was supposed to be our fearless leader, but under the circumstances he showed the grit and resolve of an abandoned orphan girl. We hadn't been trapped for two days when he burst into tears and fell on his own sword. We tried to give him a respectable farewell... we pushed his body off the platform into the fires of the Dwemer forge below, but he snagged on a rock outcropping and just sort of hung there. Oh well.

    After Shelby died, the rest of us were getting pretty desperate for a bite... something... anything! We all agreed it was for the best and we would never speak of it if we ever got out of here. It's not like we hadn't all been eyeing her with an appetite since we left.

    The others were soon to follow, and fairly soon Ronald and I found ourselves sitting there looking at each other. It had been three days since we had anyone else to talk to and a few hours since we ourselves had said a word. Mostly we were at our wit's end... tired... delirious... dehydrated... hungry... and bored out of our minds! We didn't even fear the inevitable anymore, we had accepted our fates!

    Ronald leaned over and picked up Shelby's head. He began to make her jaw move up and down and saying, "Maw maw maaww!" That's when I lost it! Whether the heat-exhaustion or insanity of being trapped in here I began to laugh uncontrollably. And that, my friends, is when it happened...

    Gorg's body slipped from the rocks into the fires of the Dwemer forge below along with all of the alchemical supplies he was carrying. The blast hit us so quickly it seared the flesh straight from our bones. This was the last thing I remember seeing before the darkness took me and I felt the cold pull of Oblivion. There I am... that stupid, idiot laugh on my face, my arm drooped to my side in pure entertainment. I cannot help but laugh at myself now. And Ronald... his inappropriate, lunacy-inspired, humor... frozen in time for some new era adventurers to stumble upon and wonder what in Oblivion was going on with us.
    Edited by xdisasterx on February 19, 2015 5:27PM
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  • disasterstorm
    disasterstorm
    Soul Shriven
    The Song of Sorion

    There was an Altmer minstrel called Sorion the Goldentongue. His lyrics brought joy and sadness to everyone who heard him play. He was loved by all in Haven, and loved most by his wife, Edna. When Edna's belly began to swell with child, it became obvious that Sorion's meager wages couldn't support a family. After many arguments, they decided Sorion would take his Goldentongue on the road.

    He wandered all across Valenwood, from village to city, playing in the streets by day and the pubs by night. He counted his earnings after a month. The expense of traveling had already outweighed his profits and with great reluctance he returned home, unsure how to tell his wife he failed.

    Nearing Haven on the 3rd of Hearthfire, Sorion dropped his stoneware jug by the roadside and played the saddest song he knew in the desperate hope some wealthy traveler might happen by. One man passed, turning his head away. Then another came, tossing a septim into the jug. By the end of the song, he had five more coins.

    Just as he was about to leave and face his shame, he noticed an old woman watching from the trees. She approached when she caught his eye, pressing a septim into his hand. She had a wrinkled, toothless grin and wore a gray cloak. The woman gave him an uneasy feeling, even though she seemed harmless.

    “Such a lovely tune...” she whispered. “I'm having a party today. It's my birthday. Would you play for my friends and I?”

    “Sorry,” Sorion muttered, turning away.

    “I'll pay you,” she said. She was holding a sack of coins, Sorion guessed about 200 septims. That was more than he was bringing home. “And I'm sure my friends will be generous tippers.”

    She led him to her house, and her guests were already waiting in the cellar. He set his stoneware jug at the edge of the stage, and began to play. The feeling of unease intensified in the darkened cellar, and this gathering didn't feel like a party at all.

    The “guests” seemed uncomfortable as well, and the old woman loomed in the back, steeped in shadows. During the song, each guest stood, dropped a septim in the jug, and sat back down in turn. They continued doing this over and over again, and the grimaced expression they wore deepened. Soon the jug was overfilled, but still they added more. Sorion wanted to stop them, but he couldn't tear his fingers from the strings. When he looked down at the instrument, he felt as though his hands weren't his. He tried to scream, but his singing only became more impassioned.

    Slowly, the realization dawned on him, the last thought that was truly his own. He looked towards the back of the room. He could see twinkling in the old woman's eyes, indicating a smile. Sorion, the Goldentongue, thought: “This song should have ended hours ago.”
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  • kdrmickeyub17_ESO
    kdrmickeyub17_ESO
    Soul Shriven
    Theater of the Dead
    By Meadriel Argentono

    I was traveling through the bitter cold of Eastmarch a province of Skyrim, when I came upon a lone Khajiit . A strange sight, this tall male Khajiit from the southern reaches, looking up at birds nested in the tree above him. But, i must confess, not any stranger than a person coming upon a lone Bosmer such as myself in these parts. I approached him, giving fair notice of my presence.

    Without averting his gaze, he spoke. “This one knows you are there. Come look at this a clutch of birds, strangers to this land like you and I.” I came closer and looked at the birds. “This one once saw these birds in my travels in your homelands. Come I will tell you the story.”

    I recognized the carrion birds, a tristis, a small grey and black bird which stories have claimed entered into their own green pact with Y’ffre.

    “This one was walking the valleys of Grahtwood” he began. “When this one saw a black cloud erupt from the cliff side. Yet it was not a cloud, as it pivoted and returned. The nature of Khajiit demands that this one see what caused the birds to flush. climbing a small winding path, This one comes upon a strange scene. There the flock of birds were parading around and preening skeletons in the remains of an amphitheater. The cawing was trumpetus upon my approach, as the birds took flight. There on the stage were two skeletons seated in chairs one precariously holding a skull, littered about the stage and on shelves were other skulls.”
    A caw from the tree above broke the story and visibly shook the him.

    “Please continue” I said trying to draw his attention away from the tristis in the tree.

    “Yes, yes. This one crept closer to see more skeletons strewn about all in different states of decomposition. I approached the stage wondering: Why would the birds be here? Was this their nest? How do they taste? Then a soft voice came from behind this one.” “ahh another guest for our dinner theater.” Imitating his best bird voice “Never before has this one ran so fast.”

    I interrupted “I know these birds are highly intelligent, so is it possible that the birds spoke to you?”

    He replied “This one knows not. That is why this one looks at the birds. This one believes that the birds lured people to the theater, killed them, eat them, then amuse themselves with the remains.”

    “There are members of the Aldmeri ornithology at the crystal tower who would love to study this behavior.” I began, but was cut short when he turned and started to walk away. “ Wait I called. Can you please give me more information, where this was, or perhaps we can travel there.”

    “ No, this one shall not return to the Theater of the Dead, or this one’s name is not M’aiq” and he walked away.

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  • Failwin
    Failwin
    Soul Shriven
    The Journal of Adger the Clown

    10th of Rains Hand –
    Fandagh; that stupid Orc thinks he’s so untouchable. I don’t know why he feels the need to pick on me, just because I said his pony-tail makes him look like a tired wench. He should’ve expected it from me, Adger the CLOWN. He pushed me down today and I almost fell into the well. I played it off as a joke but my rear end is aching now. I’ve got a bad feeling that he’s mixed up with some bandits, probably Colborn’s gang; I’m worried that he might have them come after me. I’m scared, and Inchel isn’t back in Daggerfall until the morrow.

    11th of Rains Hand –
    I knew it! By the gods I knew he was messing with those good-for-nothing bandits. They chased me down in the street today and beat me behind the mages guild like a rotten skeever! I ran to meet Inchel and told him what was happening, he always makes me feel better. We talked, and he wants us to move away from Daggerfall, but I know so many people here. I don’t want to move just because of some empty-headed Orc and his cronies.

    12th of Rains Hand –
    I went back to the mages guild today. I found a book for summoning spirits from Aetherius. Maybe some of my ancestors can help me. If I can speak with them, they can tell me what to do. It’s Day of the Dead tomorrow, so I hope they’re willing to talk to me. I just want to make people laugh and be with Inchel, no matter what it takes.

    13th of Rains Hand –
    Today is the day! Late in the night I was visited by Molag Bal, he promised me that Inchel and I can be together forever, without any threat from bandits, as long as I relinquish our souls when we die. We’re both young, so I agreed. Then he told me of a secret cave where we can live alone. I didn’t want to move away at first, but I’m just so happy that my prayers have been answered. I’ve got to go and tell Inchel, he’ll be so happy when I tell him the good news.
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  • DarkFoxArcher96
    DarkFoxArcher96
    Soul Shriven
    ‘18th of Sun’s Dawn, 2E 575
    Farkas and I got in the cave we heard about from town just before the weather picked up. I don’t know about any Daedra but there sure is a big stash worth taking-- that the Bard was right about. Farkas is concerned he hears whispers coming from deeper in the cave but I told him to quit blubbering and fill up on the goods.’

    “Great, bandits.” Orion said as he crumbled up the note at the cave’s entrance. He took the torch from the sconce on the wall and followed the wall of cobwebs to a larger opening with odd symbols carved into the walls. Riches climbed upon piles in the old mine shaft filled with small drifts of cold air from outside.
    A dim light caught Orion’s eye as he glimpsed among the tempting plunder. A candle flickered and danced in a far-off corner of the room which he thought peculiar of a seemingly abandoned cave. Childish laughter trailed in the back of his mind but he merely brushed it off as a folly of the mind grown from the tiresome journey to this night respite.
    The candle burned lightly on what appeared to be an odd alter of an unknown metal with blood, thorns, and a golden statue of a woman upon it. Temptation carried Orion’s feet across the old wooden floor towards the statue as a chill made the hairs on his neck stand. His hand slowly raised reaching towards the boon…
    His eye twitched and he spun to greet the eye of a gorgeous Breton woman standing a few feet back behind a chair in the center of the room. “Interesting thing, it is.” She said with a smooth beauty. “I became quite interested in it as you have but it doesn’t seem to have the same draw on me as it appears to have on you, or, as it appears to be, on these poor fellows.” Orion only just noticed the skeletons sitting on the chairs near her and on the floor before them. The two upon the chair must have been Farkas and the bandit Vernon from the letter.
    “Why does it not tempt you as well?” Orion asked the Breton.
    “It must be the woman’s charm about it.” She said with a sly smirk. “I say, what’s the harm in taking it, right, Advar?”
    Orion winced, “You know my name?” he said, catching the temptress’ slip-up. She let out a small laugh. “Ahh, you are much smarter than many of the men before you then. Ignorant pigs the lot of them. These bandits were so full of greed the man Vernon didn’t even realize the golden bauble he held was a young fool’s head! Oh his scream as he came to realize!”
    “You will not live to do this to anyone else…” Advar threatened.
    “And who are you to challenge me?!” She exclaimed after twisting to her natural Harvester form.
    “I am the Vestige. And your reckoning.”
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  • MortimerSwiftpaw
    MortimerSwiftpaw
    Soul Shriven
    She had just placed a pie on the windowsill to cool when the two soldiers stumbled down the path out of the woods. They observed the fresh pie, the little cottage and the pumpkin shell littering the earth. “Stendarr’s sweaty sword arm, what have we here?” the taller one exclaimed, beginning to laugh. The shorter soldier bared his teeth in a wolfish smile as Lobelathel stepped into the doorway. She leaned against the frame and eyed them levelly whilst drying her knife on her apron. “Why hello, Elf,” the smiling man quipped, “Might we try your pie? We’re famished!” They did not look famished so much as drunk, Lobelathel thought. She smiled innocently back at him. “Of course you may have a slice, but it must cool more yet before it can be cut. You’re welcome to rest here until it does.” The laughing soldier’s gaze swept over her as he grasped his friend by the shoulder and whispered in his ear “Arkay’s beard, she’s a looker!” He slurred. He stumbled off a few feet and began to ***. She quelled her repulsion and desire to look away as the one with the wolfish grin sauntered up to her. He put his arm against the frame and loomed over her, stinking of sweat and Voljar’s Mead. As her claustrophobia arose her grip on the knife’s handle tightened exponentially. “What about my slice!” The taller soldier reappeared suddenly and startled her into dropping her knife. Vulgarly adjusting his leather guards, he picked it up. The soldier pinning Lobelathel withdrew his arm and entered the cottage, bypassing the kitchen and travelling directly to her bed where he sat and presumptuously began removing his boots. His comrade blocked her in at the doorway. Lobelathel smiled at him and started toward the hearth in the kitchen. “It’s chilly. The fire needs another log so we’ll all stay warm,” she said, seemingly casual and compliant. She heard the door shut and saw the laughing soldier approach from her peripheral vision as she bent over to get a log. When she felt his hand slap her behind she turned quickly with the log and knocked him senseless with one hard blow. She then retrieved her knife where it fell. “Starting without me?” the other man questioned, wondering at the thump he’d heard. Lobelathel came around the corner, now smiling wolfishly at him. “Your friend can’t handle his drink. It’s just us now.” The soldier grinned broadly, welcoming her sultry approach, but soon found he was to be sliced before the pie would ever be.

    As she arranged the skeletons of the licentious soldiers for her beloved’s next performance, it occurred to Lobelthel to add a finishing touch. She detached the rowdiest man’s arm, the one who’d smacked her bottom, and placed it beneath his foot. “There! Now you’ll keep your hand to yourself!” She reveled in having the last laugh as she stepped back to admire her handiwork.
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  • Azzari
    Azzari
    Soul Shriven
    “Why would you want that?” Sheogorath cried. “Madness is a gift, not a punishment. How about instead of taking it away, I give you some cheese, and you can be insane on a full stomach.”

    “No,” Cicero groaned. “I can’t take it anymore. Get rid of them!” The voices were in his head, laughing, urging him to do terrible things. He glanced back at the body of his latest victim, poised holding a head that had come from the Dunmer woman he had murdered last week. Cicero almost threw up at the sight of what his own hands had done.

    “Get rid of the voices? Are you that heartless? Imaginary voices are people too, you know! Are you sure you don’t want that cheese?”

    Cicero... One of the voices whispered. We love you, Cicero. Why would you want us to leave?

    “Please,” Cicero begged. “Take them away.”

    Sheogorath gave an exasperated sigh. “Mortals. So single minded. Even cheese can’t divert you. You remind me of a mudcrab I knew once. Poor Crabsey... but anyway, that’s a story for another time. Now, I can’t destroy the voices- they are a part of you- but maybe I can move them.”

    Sheogorath waved his hand, but nothing happened. The voices were still there, still laughing at him. “I can still hear them!” Cicero shouted, clutching his head. “Why can I still hear them!”

    “Look behind you,” Sheogorath said impatiently. “Honestly, Crabsey would have figured it out by now.”

    Cicero turned, looking at the nightmarish scene taking place behind him. His victims, the assorted skulls sitting on the shelves and the bodies that he hadn’t gotten around to decapitating yet, were laughing, speaking. The voices that for so long had resided in his head were now emerging from the people he had killed. Cicero… one of the skulls hissed. Why do you hate us. Look at the beauty we’ve created! The other skulls laughed as if this were the funniest thing in the world.

    With a terrified scream, Cicero turned and ran, fleeing the sound of laughter, the cries of We love you! that followed him.

    “Rude little man,” Sheogorath grumbled once he was gone. “Running away like that, and not even a goodbye! I do apologize for his behavior,” he said, addressing the skulls. “He’s more like Crabsey than he cares to admit. Did I ever tell you the story of Crabsey?” Sheogorath conjured a plate of cheese and settled down into a chair. “Nothing beats good Skyrim goat cheese,” the Mad God sighed with pleasure.



    Cicero ran for the rest of his life, convinced that those skulls were following him, that they would come back and do to him what he had done to so many. When the brother of one of his victims finally caught up with him and ended his life with a well placed arrow, the last words he spoke were “I can hear their laughter.”
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