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Tales of the Dead 3 - Contest Entry Thread

  • Suru

    "Oh dear Sorion, you talented minstrel you.

    Do you know how many men have tried to woo me Sorion? How many do you think have suceeded?

    It makes me laugh how you High Elf men think I, a Wood Elf would swoon solely by your Altmer Heritage.

    The past few Altmer men to cross my way looked at me in disgust when they saw my garden of vegetables Sorion. I had to seduce them into my cellar to reveal to them my favorite hobby. Curving the ears of High Elves. Curving their ears brought me much joy as a Bosmer. What a pompous race to look down on all others and I...Do you value your ears Sorion?

    To enjoy my hobby, I had to dispose of the lovely volunteers. Sure I did not enjoy their taste like my garden did, but bless their souls for making my pumpkins taste so delicious. They're the secret ingredient after all.

    It can be pretty quiet and lonely sometimes when you are busy defying the green pact you know; I like to have fun as you can tell.

    Oh handsome Sorion, how well of a fit you will be. The audience I have for you had been getting pretty bored 'till you showed up.

    Alas the joy you will bring to me and my vict...volunteers is exciting Sorion. You will now be the minstrel of my guests. Your amazing talents in life pale in comparison to your new talents in death now....Only you can make them lively once more.

    Are you ready for your never ending show show Sorion? I don't think being our bard will be too hard."
    Edited by Suru on February 20, 2015 12:15AM

  • gjarvis25
    Soul Shriven
    She sat beside me, my young listeners, laughter on her wicked lips as her eyes searched the dead man’s face. Her motives and desires remain a mystery to me still, but the results of her depraved actions live on in our bones like a twisted sculpture, frozen and macabre.

    The dim tavern light accentuated her delicate Elven features and it wasn't long before I was following her along the path out of town, across the fields, through the woods, down, down into that cave. I followed her flickering shadow as she led me to a subterranean room; a rankness pervaded my senses. Turning about face she pressed down on my shoulders, lowering me into a damp chair. I had become increasingly drowsy, and the last thing I remember before falling into a deep sleep were her cold lips grazing mine.

    Opening my eyes I found pieces of the dead laying around me in varying degrees of corruption, some in neat piles, others strewn wantonly. She pacing about the room, her fingers creeping through the pages of an ancient and esoteric text. Many a phrase she uttered from that book for what seemed like hours, until with a childish growl of frustration she cast the heavy tome into the brightly crackling hearth. She glared at it for a moment before angrily taking a seat close to me, drawing up a rotten head from the floor in one fluid motion.

    As she sat toying with the grisly object, I soon became aware of strange disturbance in the fire’s burning logs. An unearthly orb grew in size in front of the hearth, and from within were displayed strange and disturbing scenes. The images I saw were fleeting: bones, tentacled faces, a swirl of cold stars maliciously bearing down upon me, all equally as terrifying as the last. I lost all control of my body as horror paralyzed my shrinking brain.

    She screamed beside me. Her eyes, which previously gazed upon the dismembered head she held in front of her, were now fixed in mortal terror on the chaotic portal opening before us. Her mouthed stretched unnaturally, the jaw dropping to her heaving chest as her screams crescendoed to an ungodly eternal shriek. In an instant her flesh, along with that of the head she clutched, burst forth from her figure and was sucked into the opening as if drawn by a fierce wind.

    Her screaming stopped and my vision faded around the edges, the only distinction my eyes could make was the woman's structureless skin floating as if weightless in the space on the other side of the portal. Unwillingly I leaned forward as my dimming eyes fought the growing darkness. Blackness enveloped me. I felt my feet leave the ground, the air leave my lungs, and soon, soon my mercifully breathing listeners, I felt nothing at all.
  • aelfwinemcml
    Soul Shriven
    GATHERED MOSS INTERVIEW: The Numb Skulls by Rocky Mounds

    The following interview took place at The Linen Shroud Tavern just before it was burned to the ground during the Numb Skulls act. The prevailing rumor surrounding the incident suggested that Bally (shown on the floor next to Mortifer's left foot) was kicked into a stage candle by a dunken zombie.

    Rocky: Hi guys, would you mind introducing yourselves to our readers?

    Mortifier: Hi Rocky, I'm Mortifer, this halfwit I'm holding is Dummy, my prop for the ventriloquist act.

    Dummy: Liar, you're my prop, I'm the one keeping this sham of a show going.

    Mortifier: Pay no attention to Dummy, he doesn't know when to shut up. Anyway, that fine specimen sitting next to me is Dead Head.

    Dead Head: Whooo hoo hoo.

    Mortifer: That's about all you can expect from Dead. In life, he was a jester for Sherogorath's court until he cracked a joke about his highness’s wardrobe. Since then all Dead can do is laugh. We usually plant him in the audience to help folks loosen up a bit.

    Rocky: What brings you to town?

    Mortifer: We’re on tour to try to bring a little levity to the undead armies. You know, try to bring a little fun into their dead time.

    Dead: Har har har

    Dummy: What my prop is trying to say is that as former members of the undead army we consider it our duty to raise their morale.

    Mortifer: You never know when to shut up do you?

    Dead: Heh heh heeee

    Rocky: I notice you’re missing your left arm, what happened?

    Mortifer: Yeah, Slaughterfish bit it off, right at the funny bone.

    Dummy: Groan, not that again.

    Dead: Haw Haw Hawww

    Bally: That’s right, just ignore me.

    Mortifer: Oh yeah, how could I forget, you’re always underfoot.

    Dead: Snort

    Mortifer: Bally here is our soccer ball, we bring him out when the crowd gets crazy.

    Rocky: That’s all for now. Once again, The Numb Skulls, appearing at The Linen Shroud Tavern, through Thursday.

    Dead: Yuk yuk yuk.
    Serial Pixel Killer
  • iSpam
    Soul Shriven
    “... So I says to her, ‘How’s about you give me a lick of your private stock?’ And then she bloody slaps me!” A boisterous laugh fills the air. “*** should have used that pretty little head of hers before I decided to.”
    His fingers moved to her lips, spreading them at the corners of her mouth to resemble a smile, her jaw hanging open. He stared into her lifeless eyes, the blood still fresh dripping down his hand as he held her severed head there, imagining what her final moments had been like, licking his lips as the memory lingered fresh in his own mind.
    “Pro’lly get more use out of it now than she ever did, eh?” His companion retorted as their boisterous laughter once again filled the air.

    In the dark outside their cabin a shadow clung to the wall, darker than those that generally filled the night. It stood there, trembling with rage, listening to the drunken *** recount his tale of the tavern ‘***’, who just so happened to have been his bride-to-be. He felt nothing, not the bitter wind upon his cheek, nor the hunger within his belly. The rage within him consumed all. All that was left was his unrelenting search for the cowards who murdered his bride.
    And now he had found them.
    He heard another round of drunken laughter, echoing loudly into the otherwise silent night. He twitched slightly as he heard her referred to as *** once more, and nearly lost control as one mentioned deciding to use her head. Gripping his staff, his knuckles white, his entire body tensed, he managed to silently slip into the cabin.
    Stepping inside, the first thing that came to him was the stench. Then he saw it. The head of his lover in the hands of a despicable little man. The mouths of both men agape as the noise of their laughter forced his head to pound and his body to quake. He could not bear it any longer. He lowered the tip of his staff to the ground, touching it ever so gently.

    Through their rowdy laughter, he noticed the weight in his hand disappear. Then he noticed his mouth refused to shut, as the laughter of both men dissipated. Panic began to rise within him, he tried to stand up, but not a single muscle within his body responded. Then a figure moved before him.
    “I see you enjoy examining the head of my love more so than the others. I hope you enjoy all the time I have provided you to pore over her features.” With that, the figure removed himself from sight, followed by the ominous sound of a tomb sealing.
    Confusion wracked his brain. His eyes returned to the severed head, whose features were frozen in a smile and eyes were fixated directly at his own, grey and lifeless. The smile no longer amused him, and silent terror screamed through him, which no soul would ever hear.
  • Monkeybob
    Soul Shriven
    The Killer Joke

    A comedy show my friends and I went to
    They always loved that kind of stuff
    No matter what we went through
    Laughing was never enough

    The place we went was outside of town
    The old butcher's who made the finest roast
    Out came a man dressed as a clown
    “My name is Bob; I'm your host!”

    As we walked in, only two seats
    My friends went and sat
    I stood hearing only hearing my heart beats
    Something was wrong, I knew that

    Bob said he had the best joke
    One joke; nothing more
    So funny you would choke
    You would laugh as you hit the floor

    As he said the joke, I covered my ears
    Something inside told me to
    What I saw next has haunted me for years
    A scene no person should go through

    My friends began to laugh
    Harder than ever before
    That's when I saw Bob's staff
    As one of my friends hit the floor

    Three faces, surrounded the top
    Wabbajack I think it's called
    The eyes of my friends had eventually popped
    Blood sprayed the wall

    As the demon bowed, he said his name
    “Sheogorath, if it's all the same!”
    I ran as I continued to hear my friends laugh
    Never forgetting that three headed staff
  • Exrence
    Soul Shriven
    "They're all cowards." Sorion hissed "The lot of them!"

    "You can never be too certain Sorion" Amelia replied in a much sweeter tone that her companion. "Everyone in the village seems convinced that the legends are true!"

    Sorion scoffed, raising his lute with a grin. He strummed the strings deftly, looking up at an amused Amelia. "The necromancer of this cave is nothing more than a shadow and a child's imagination my love, I intend to prove that on this very day." Sorion stood tall, running his hand down the old oaken door by which he stood.

    Amelia sighed, stepping to his side. "Go on then!" She cried desperately as Sorion pushed the door open to reveal the black void of a passage that lead downward into the cave.Sorion gulped, his previous confidence fading at the sight of the rather intimidating passageway. "This isn't so bad..." He said hesitantly.

    The pair crept down the slippery stone of the passage and into a large cavern, complete with rusted braziers staggered about the stone floor. It wouldn't have seemed all that suspicious if it weren't for the emerald flame which rose high from each brazier as they entered, prompting a scream from the startled Amelia.
    "Guests!" called a gravelly, disembodied voice that echoed throughout the cavern in which the couple stood. It wasn't long before Amelia had left Sorion to face the source of the voice alone, nothing but his lute in hand.

    "It's been far too long since I've had guests." the eerie voice continued, bouncing off of the stone walls of the cavernous room. Sorion flinched, his feet firmly planted where he stood, but not by his own will.

    "Come, have a seat." the voice echoed, a harsh chuckle following suit. It was now that Sorion had realized that his feet were compelled to move on their own accord, without the permission of the one to whom they belonged.
    I'm certain you've heard of me." The gravelly voice stated. It was as if no time has passed at all, and Sorion found himself sitting in a chair, unable to move. Before him was a tall shadowy figure, its hand grasping the shoulder that sat next to a familiar face. "Amelia!" Sorion whimpered, struggling to break free of the curse that bound him to his seat.
    Amelia stood, dead eyes locked into a stare. Her face began to sink, followed by the rest of her body. Sorion closed his eyes, not daring to see what would happen next to his beloved. Dead silence filled the room, followed by a brief thud as something hit the ground by Sorion's feet.

    He opened his eyes to find nothing more than a headless skeleton before him, skin having melted away at the touch of the shadowy necromancer. He screamed, only to find another pair of skinless bodies beside him, the brothers from the legends.

    His voice was stolen from him by fear as the black hand of the necromancer inched towards him.
  • vespidprime
    Soul Shriven
    Lorkhaj, the trickster god, is not one of the divines. However, that doesn't mean he can't have his fun. Seeing the prominence of the skooma trade in Elsweyr, he had to seize the opportunity to play a trick on the divines, especially with all the "sugar tooths" to blame. Tamriel, being the vast and mysterious land it is, has many occurrences that fall under the watchful eyes of all the races and pacts; but the eyes of the divines are always watching. Deep in the desert of Corinthe a group of Khajiits use abandoned cabins as a center for their skooma trade. They had dealings with many individuals and groups from Argonians to the ‘holier that thou’ Imperials. These Khajiits had a skooma shipment with an Imperial Captain for his superiors happening later that night.
    The Imperials were notified by a shady individual in a homespun robe, that has seen better days, to meet for the skooma shipment in an abandoned cabin on the border of Riverhold and Nibenay Valley. The Captain set out with eight of his best soldiers in the midst of night as a blood moon lit the road before them. The Captain and his men left in common clothes for fear of attracting unwanted attention with their swords tucked tightly away. As they approached their destination an unsettling feeling started to pass through the men. They could feel an overbearing presence lingering over them, and yet none could figure out what it was. As they arrived at the cabin a note rested pinned to the door by a single nail:

    “The shipment waits for you just inside, leave your payment against the back right corner. If you speak of this deal or of whom you have received it from, our kits will play with your organs”

    A shudder passed through the Imperials as they finished reading the note and in unison they all drew their swords. They all eased towards the door and opened the cabin to see what awaited them and to their surprise it was just their shipment of skooma. The Cyrodiliics made their way into the cabin one by one. The final one to enter was the Captain who pushed his way to the front to check out the order. In one foul movement the door shuts behind them and all they can hear is a resounding voice that surrounds them: “Brothers and sisters, Lorkhaj here offers you nine of your own Imperials, one rotting soul for each of you”. Just like that the voice faded and the Imperials were sealed in that cabin to drink themselves into madness as they watched each other die, stacking the skulls of each passing friend on a shelf until the madness was too much. The Captain was the last and he died trying to speak into the skull of his brethren in hopes that the divines would answer. Lorkhaj had the last laugh as he watched his final sacrifice fade into Oblivion.
  • Dyegochi
    Soul Shriven
    When I saw the four horses grazing, a vast farmland, and a well dressed man entering the remote property; I began to fantasize on the riches that could be within the abode. Waiting day and night on the peculiars of the residence I decided to make my move. The mystery man had many others on grounds that patrolled or maintained aspects of the land. So if I am going to make this happen, I will have to use all I've learned over the years and put it on the line.

    Silently, I enter the house and begin my exploration. Ground floor, nothing... Upstairs, nothing.... What is happening here? The house is barren and . .

    Well that was my last living memory. I began to see things faintly but never able to move. I saw the wealthy looking man standing above me body wielding a makeshift scythe of some sort. I realized then that I was dead, it may have been the crimson stained clothing or the dripping blade but I would have to say that the sight of my own feet was what gave it away. This monster had decapitated me, and then stored me with other heads. Have my life choices have cursed me to an eternity of watching?

    I lost track of time but I do remember the day it all changed. The house had become still, the butcher had long since passed and only his remains existed alongside his cohort he had managed to mentor and betray. I began to hear sounds... Creaking footsteps approaching me. A Bosmer and a Khajit stood in the room, looking around. This is what they said.

    "Who ever lived here was a freak. Look at this skull collection.", said the Bosmer as he checked the wooden shelf.

    The Kahjit stood at the entrance of the room as if hesitant to enter and replied,

    "Da air in dis room is restless, we should leave. Der is no-ting here anyway."

    The Kahjit watched as the Bosmer kept searching.

    "Huge house and nothing in it. What a waste of time... wait I got an idea.", chuckled the Bosmer as he began grabbing chairs and various objects.

    The Khajit stood in confusion and asked,

    "Why you do dis? Is bad luck."

    "Cause when I hear tales about it in the pubs, I will know it was me. And its funny, people will be wondering what happened here and pounding their own skulls trying to figure it out.", the Bosmer proclaimed while rustling the dust off his hands.

    So here I am. Frozen in time, stuck staring at my killer. What's your story.
  • Master_Kaiju-Yeager
    Soul Shriven
    The Basement Of Skulls

    As we paced around, the basement, we could hear banging from outside the barricaded doors. My brother Varlun, turned to me with fear in his eyes. “What are we going to do? How did they found out that we murdered those people?”
    “Don’t be scared,” I assured him, “The barricades are strong and we are not going to die by their hands.” I walked to the shelf where we kept our trophies and lifted two skulls. “Are you calm?” I asked.
    “not really.”
    “Sit down then and sing a song.”
    “It will take your mind off of things.” Varlun glanced at me, smiled, sat down and started singing. He always had such a beautiful voice. he would often use it to entrance his victims before I stabbed them in the neck. “Marlow, when I die, will you watch over my body?”
    “Yes,” I replied, pouring poison into the head of a skull. I gave him the skull of a child that held no poison inside it. “Is this to remind me of the crimes we committed?” he asked. “Yes. I don’t want you to forget that what we did was right and those travellers were vermin.” slowly I drew my knife and plunged it into his neck. He jolted up, trying to scream but instead gargling the blood inside his throat. I sniffed back my tears while trying to hold him still. After a few seconds he stopped moving and became limp. “I won't let them kill you,” I whispered, letting him go and allowing him to slump over. He dropped the skull and I watched as it bounced across the floor. I pulled the knife from his neck and sneered as I threw it down one of the gaps in the floorboards. picking up the poison filled skull I sat down next to him. I gulped down the poison. “This better kill me,” I thought to myself. I lifted my knee and placed my skull wielding hand on it. I made sure the skull was head height so I could easily stare at its dusty face. Soon my vision faded and I blacked out. for some reason I had awoken but I was in a different form. “A ghost,” I thought to myself. “But why?” I heard the men break down the door and barge in. They surrounded me and my brother. “Why are they naked?” I heard one of them ask.
    “I have no idea.”
    “forget about that. Cut off the older mans hand, we need evidence of their deaths.” With that a hooded man cut off Valun's right hand. “He’s not the oldest you idiot, the other man.” He nodded, dropped it and cut off my arm.
    “Are you stupid, only the hand.” They cut off my hand and dropped the arm. Satisfied with their findings they left. To this day I watch over our decrepit skeletons, hoping that someone will rid me of my ghostly curse.
    Edited by Master_Kaiju-Yeager on February 20, 2015 7:52PM
    Good Hunting and Safe Travels
  • Interi
    Soul Shriven
    Come closer and listen to me
    I will sing you a song for free
    (and a beer maybe…)
    about magic and witchcraft
    men who lose their beloved
    about darkness and tragedy
    an old vengeance-symphony

    In Tamriel, once upon a time
    the world witnessed a truly cruel crime
    at a dark place, in a dark age
    there lived a dark elf, as a dark mage
    he ruled over the land with cruelty
    death was a statesman is this society

    all were found by his piercing looks
    his might and runes from his books
    the mage spoke a sentence of death
    to draw one's last breath
    with an unjustified condemn
    he worked his spells over them

    dwemer tools and daedric words
    dunmer force and breton herbs
    resulted in malevolent magic spells
    with whom the witcher unleashed all hells
    but the most brutal was his own creation
    just one word for a total cremation

    the mage was a gatherer of pale bones
    powerful scrolls and innocent souls
    black magic spread through the land like an infection
    hundreds of victims become part of his morbid collection
    every execution was a constant expansion
    his house was called Qeth-Ruhn, the cranium mansion

    after what seemed like a shady eternity
    one hero fought back this evil sorcery
    not strong, not mighty, but smart
    and with a strong, mighty heart
    he knew even more will die to the mage
    that knowledge filled him with sorrows and rage

    this modest man had a brainwave
    which could bring the mage to his grave
    people said he is just a larking fool
    but he did not lost faith in his tool
    a simple soundcatching-spell
    which let the words echo in his shell

    Our hero stepped into the lion’s den
    faced in a chamber the sorcerer then
    the power hit him right at this place
    the hero died with a smile on his face
    and when the mage grabbed the mortal remains
    his own spell was what he obtains

    the villain suffered his own ferocity
    from the hero’s positive energy
    who vowed ultimate vengeance
    out of loving intentions
    sacrificed himself for the community
    to bring back peace, luck and harmony

    this is the song I promised you
    and I swear, the gods know it is true
    about a villain, a big heart and a good guy
    two skulls looking into the other eye
    (and now my throat is so dry…)
    about magic and misery
    this was the vengeance-symphony
  • Winterwolfstorm
    By Winterwolfstorm

    “Oh look Kiri! A secret dungeon - How exciting!”

    Kirani Quillshade groaned internally and hefted her dozen packs a little higher on her presumably warped back, lurching like a Graht-oak through the cramped hut. As she walked towards her lifelong hero, now standing above the dark, leering maw of a trapdoor the lithe Bosmer’s copper skin paled a shade. Somehow this adventuring had seemed so much more romantic in Valentine’s stories.

    Master Valentine, I ah, I’m not to sure about this… There’s a vegetable patch outside - this must be home to some barbarian…” she whispered, silver eyes lingering adoringly on the athletic altmer looming above her.
    “NONSENSE!” bellowed Galran Valentine, swinging around to face his erstwhile apprentice with a grin almost as comical as the one he wore on the back cover of his books.
    “Just because they actually eat a civilised diet is no reason to degrade them, besides - I’ll defend you my girl! Now into the belly of the beast!”

    With that the renowned author-adventurer leapt down the trapdoor as Kirani groaned with relief, setting the bags down and resetting her vertebrae. She timidly climbed down the ladder, a click sounding under her feet, to find Valentine peering into the dungeon as two magelights hovered around his head like anxious cherubs.

    “Sir, did you hear tha-“

    “Loook at all this! ” Valentine shouted, marching through the mildewed cave, oblivious to Kiri’s concerns. The magelights made the moss-covered stone seem to move around them as the imperious Altmer and diminutive Bosmer walked onto a boarded passage where two chairs stood idle. Kirani immediately collapsed into one, writing out the last of Valentine's dictations on her notepad.

    “What are you doing Kiri? Adventure never rests!” boomed Valentine jovially, examining a row of skulls that were quite happily arranged upon a dresser.

    “I’m afraid Bosmer do however sir.” Spoke Kiri.

    “Pft. Fine. Five minutes then. You are my number one fan I suppose. Wait.. Did I agree to pay you?”

    “I don’t believe so...” Kiri mumbled, her eyelids sinking as she slumped in her chair exhausted.

    “Great! Oh, Look at these skulls - Perhaps they’d like to hear some of the novel!”

    Ignoring Kiri’s lack of comment and the wisps of green mist tugging at his ankles Valentine grabbed a particularly well-preserved skull from the shelf and settled into the second chair with it.
    “So here is a little snippet for you – a teaser of the “Green Menace, latest in the thrilling works of Galran Valentine!” he crowed, before stopping with a start as the skull did the most amazing thing - Speak.

    “That’s a lovely story – Such a shame it’ll never be published.” it said as Valentine’s jaw dropped open, his gasp drawing in the poisoned gas that swirled around him. Kiri slumped even further in her chair, her last thoughts - ‘So much for adventure...’ Before like the two magelights above them the lives of Kiri and Valentine were extinguished without a sound.

    Paradise is not found but made
    The Winterton Blog
    Personal Blog

    Tea With the Wolf and Fox
    ESO and Lord of the Rings Original Fiction

    Si hortum in bibliotheca habes, deerit nihil.
  • alexmartin62588b14_ESO
    Soul Shriven
    Odd Procurement

    Day 1:

    Recently I procured an odd relic of sorts that I just had to add to my collection. I happened upon it during a midday visit to the town bazaar. An oddly dressed man, grey haired and jovial beckoned me to his stand and offered to me what seemed to be an ordinary fork. After asking what was so special about it he said to me;

    “Aye, tis a fork, but what is a fork anyway hmm? Something you eat with? Fight with? Or possibly something you could wear!”

    The man was clearly excited about his curio, and his overzealous speech had begun to draw a crowd. Naturally I had to spend my gold to have it.

    Day 3:

    The newest addition to my growing collection of oddities is spectacular! Although I can’t explain how or why, I feel as if something isn’t quite right with the utensil. It is almost as if….

    Day 4:

    I realize I hadn’t finished my previous entry but even as I wrote down how odd I felt with the fork around, I heard a loud crash outside my cellar door. Panicking for fear of thieves I ran over and locked the door shut. In my frightened state I fumbled my keys dropping them between the floor boards…..

    Day Five:

    Yesterday as I contemplated how I was going to survive locked inside the cellar of my own house, I had the brilliant idea to use Forky to fish out my keys between the floorboards. Forky, as I now like to call the fork I purchased from the grey haired man, failed me in my moment of need. Worse yet I managed to drop Forky down WITH my keys!

    Now what am I going to do….

    Seven Days?

    I figured it out! The best thing I could possibly do in this situation would be to put on a show to honor my fallen comrade Forky! I gathered up some of my oldest friends and colleagues from my collections and arranged them near where Forky and my keys lay defeated underneath the floor.

    Everyone is in attendance! Bjarne, Alessa, Groshnab, Artorius, and Trebon all sit atop my workbench, while Eron rests on the floor. Of course the lovely Hellen has been given a seat of honor on a bench nearest the action. Perhaps Forky would enjoy a puppet show as much as I know Bjarne, and Alessa would.

    Strange…..I can’t help but feel like I am forgetting something?

    The Day of the Show!

    The final guest has arrived!
    Forky told me through the floorboards that I forgot to invite one of his oldest friends to our festivities. I found him hidden away in the back of the cellar, behind an old target dummy.

    “My friend goes by many names.” Forky told me as I held our new guest in my hand and sat in the chair beside Hellen.

    “But he tells me,” Forky had continued.
    “You can call him Sheogorath.”
    Edited by alexmartin62588b14_ESO on February 21, 2015 6:13AM
  • LikeableKrab
    Soul Shriven
    This is my story for tales of the dead 3.

    The dark winds of death swept over this foul land with an archer precision killing many a men in a room so foul. Deaths twist and turns shown as avenue’s of pain, torture and despair are so inexplicably harsh. The devils sharp tongue silences all who attempt to shout and scream in pain and despair. Bones rattle even after death from the horror of the place they abide. The worlds cruel joke of the afterlifes true nature changes once a blade pierces a heart, a shallow hole in the heart that devoirs all hopes and beliefs in one whisper of a wind from deaths fair hand with which he conceals the very blade used to send you to your despair. Darkness swoops overhead as shadows envelop in nights sweet mistress saves the walkers of the night. As friends sat around a campfire as gloom took over the thoughts of the tired minstrels as lutes chords struck as the night rings out in silence. As eyes quickly shut and blinked open as they took in the small changes to the scene around them the quite howl of wolves echo in the background, sounding too far away for anyone to care as a merry dance and song sprung to life around the minstrels. Bosmer, Altmer, Nords and Orcs all danced so merrily around the fire unaware what would happen in years to come. My name lost in years of wandering, singing and dancing but I would not forget this day. As I see movement in the shades of the glint of light on steel I knew my time had come. As I tipped my head up and looked towards the sky awaiting my imminent death. The tip quickly pierced my chest as I felt the light leave my body in the gaping hole in my sternum, my head dropped back down as my assailant creeped into the dark as screams of horror filled the night once again

    Thanks for reading,
  • Xepla
    Like an old cat eyeing a bird, Lobelathel watched Sorien play. Her calm belied a curious mind, buzzing with hungry schemes. His cinnamon skin was a light golden brown, moist with salty sweat. His grey hair shimmered like the scales of a Silverside Perch. All her thoughts were consumed with plans to lure him back to her home, to her kitchen, to her chopping block. She stared at his glistening face and squeezed a deep-fried dusk beetle in her palm. It popped disgustingly and she smiled at the oozy mess, muttering, "I wish it were that easy."

    Butterflies obscured her vision: Her train of thought derailed, and a figure appeared. She knew better than to scream. Sheogorath, The Prince of Madness, sat grinning beside her, motioning to Sorion. "If that's your fish... may I offer bait?" Her eyes were wild at first, but curiosity triumphed. She nodded, and Sheogorath unveiled a beautiful lute. In the space of a mad-man’s giggle, its headstock lit aflame and extinguished, leaving a smoldering inscription behind: "TO SORION - LOVE, LOBEL." At once the Bosmer understood his insidious gift. Before she could express gratitude, Sheogorath vanished in a whirl of butterflies.

    “This may have been the best night of your lives,” Sorion bragged, “but all good things must come to an end.” He moved for the exit, but Lobelathel interceded, cradling the exquisite lute.
    “Truly, Sorion the Talented, I’ve waited years for you to play Valenwood. Please, take this humble gift...” The bard beamed with pride at its ashen etching. “I ask only that you play it tonight in my cottage.”
    Sorion boisterously agreed, beckoning his friends to follow. "Farulan! Farulas! Don’t miss my encore performance!” Twin Altmer staggered over, sloppily bashing mugs. Lobelathel smiled predatorily, as one who prepares for a simple dinner and receives a three-course meal.

    “I’ve just about head enough of you,” joked Farulan, holding up an old trophy skull.
    “I’m drunk out of my skull,” Farulas squealed, spewing beer from his nose.
    Lobelathel watched them contemptuously, wondering which to carve first. They were appetizers, she mused, less meaty than the bard.
    “For my... *hiccup* Lobel,” the minstrel slurred. Marinating in alcohol may tenderize them, she thought.

    Sorion strummed once, but instead of music, screams filled the air. All were blinded with purple light and gore exploded across the cellar in a bloody shock-wave of carnage. An echo of the lute's single note rang in Lobelathel’s ears, and nausea overwhelmed her. The others’ skeletons were intact; like caterpillars in a cocoon, they'd shrugged off their flesh, abandoning brains, fingers, and ears in a careless mess of renewal. Their bones were clean, frozen in time; Farulan’s jaws lay open, laughing, mocking the grim relic. Gelatinous chunks of still-twitching organs singed images in her mind - unnatural, scorched into her memory like the lute's fiery inscription. For Lobelathel, The Green Pact was broken.

    A butterfly fluttered above the slaughter. She swatted it desperately, sobbing, “This isn’t what I wanted,” as if it were listening.
    Edited by Xepla on February 21, 2015 12:51AM
    Those who listen at doors always wonder what is beyond them. - Mephala, the Webspinner
  • Drafo
    Soul Shriven
    I don't really expect to win this but I figured I'd leave my story here anyway.

    ~~~~~~~~~~The Curse of Sanguine~~~~~~~~~~

    Jorin and Jerin, the twin bandit leaders, crept through the forest, their subordinates trailing behind them.

    “Are you sure this is a good idea, brother?” asked Jerin.

    “Of course! You know how religious types like to leave sacrifices. This shrine’s got a huge pile of treasure, and an even bigger stash of booze!”

    “I dunno, Jor. Cultists can be awfully sensitive about their shrines….”

    “That’s what these are for,” Jorin replied, patting his sheathed sword. “Now quiet down, we’re almost there.”

    Everyone in the group began to step quietly as they neared the clearing with the shrine. After a moment’s hesitation, Jorin pushed aside a branch and peaked into the clearing.

    “Coast’s clear. Let’s get the treasure and get out.”

    The bandits followed Jorin as silently as possible. They were halfway to the shrine when the loud snap of a branch from the rear made them all freeze.

    Nothing happened. The group sighed in relief. At the shrine, they all stood in awe at the treasure before them.

    “Well, let’s not waste time gawking. Grab as much as you can and start moving!” Jerin snapped.

    Everyone seemed to go for the crates of booze first. Even with their numbers, the bandits were only able to carry a few sacks of treasure along with all the alcohol.

    “No use complaining. We’ll come back for the rest later,” Jorin said.

    The bandits were far from dissatisfied, however. They walked cheerily across the clearing, none of them noticing the robed Bosmer peeking from behind a tree, struggling not to laugh.


    “We’ll sell most of the booze, I take it?” asked Jerin, back at the camp.

    “I suppose so…. But we should still keep a crate or two for ourselves, right?” replied Jorin wistfully. Jerin pondered his brother for a moment.

    He sighed.

    “We’ll get enough gold once we go back to the shrine. Who’s to say we can’t drink it all ourselves?”

    Jorin brightened up instantly.

    “Better tell the rest, then,” he said, standing. “Oi, everyone! Open up the new liquor! Let’s put some life into this party!”

    A roar of approval greeted Jorin as the bandits passed around the mysterious bottles of liquid.

    “To the cultists! May they always be rich and stupid!” Jorin shouted, raising his bottle to a gale of laughter. The entire company drank as one.

    Out of nowhere, one of the bandits stood, grabbed his sword, and sliced off the head of his closest compatriot. It landed at Jorin’s feet. Shocked, Jorin picked up the head and sat back down next to his brother. Still holding the head, Jorin gaped as the skin began to melt. Jerin stared at Jorin in horror as the same thing began to happen to his entire body.

    Chaos reigned. Another bandit got beheaded by an axe. By the time his head landed near Jerin, it was already a skull.

    Something in Jerin’s mind snapped. There was nothing he could do. Faced with this inevitability, Jerin picked up Jorin’s bottle with eerily calm hands. Sitting back down next to his brother, who was now merely a skeleton holding a skull, Jerin poured the liquid on himself and threw the bottle away. He settled in his chair and awaited his fate.
  • dangutang
    "If I die, don't bring me back." She said this a long time ago, a plea and reference to the subtle but enduring rift between us. My name is Orin Bedwyr, and before I make this choice, I need to make sure someone will know what has happened here.

    Ariadne and I met one night in a mercenary camp near Hammerfell. She, a hostage, and I, the son of a necromancer become Lich, halfheartedly emancipated and pressed into service by the group of mercenaries who slew him. Ari is a proud Redguard; strong, bold, kind, but hateful of magic, especially necromancy.

    Her father had led a raid into my father's lair. When he didn't return, she went looking for him. She witnessed his raising at the hands of my father and this memory haunts her. Mercenaries hired by the town—the same who would later liberate me—found her near the lair and abducted her, figuring they could get more gold from the townspeople if they had some additional leverage. Maybe it was because I saw a way to atone for what my father had done, or maybe it was simpler than that, but one night, I released her. We fled together and became adventurers.

    Decades later, we find ourselves here. An old house in a dark forest on a black night. She has taken sick recently and tonight, suddenly, has severely worsened. She can no longer walk, and the woods are not safe at night. We took shelter in this decrepit house, where only the cellar offers shelter. A macabre sight greeted us: five skulls on a shelf, one on the floor, a seated skeleton gaping at the wall. My spine shuddered as a force compelled my body forward and seated me on a chair beside the charnel. A voice spoke.

    A mad spectre, a macabre prankster. Crazed, cursed disciple of an unnamed Daedra. It revealed the supernatural origins of Ari's sickness and assured me of her doom. She will die tonight unless I play its game. One of these skulls is its favorite, and I must guess which it is. If correct, it explained, it will allow me to transfer my life to Ari. If incorrect, we will both die.

    And now I sit here, brokenhearted, trying to make a choice.
  • shad0wfunk
    Soul Shriven
    Entry 1
    Today my band and I raided a small caravan that was passing our camp. We laughed in their faces as we slaughtered the family. The old woman with them was strange. She told us as we were about to kill her “Laughter is the best medicine” and waved her hand. Must have been senile. We found this journal among the caravan and since I am the most educated out of the group they gave it to me to note our adventures.

    Entry 2
    Today was full of fun and laughter. We just could not stop laughing the whole day. It seemed like everything was funny, even when Orian just stared off into the fire he just kept pointing at the fire and laughing, making us laugh.

    Entry 3
    This laughter is beginning to hurt our insides. We are physically having trouble stopping. Everything just seems so funny. Horindus keeps picking up skulls from his conjured skeletons and used their mouths to tell jokes. His jokes are the funny....

    Entry 4
    We cannot stop..... trouble writing...ha... cannot stop....ha...Orian died from laughter.....hahaha...

    Entry 5
  • Krist
    Loot to Die For

    Well this was quite a stash. The Nord was too stupid to post guards at his house. Harold and I killed him good, and took the loot he had taken from the Breton who was stashing it after killing the guards and robbing the bank house. Hard to keep up with who exactly the bag and it's contents belonged to, but it now belonged to us. Or rather will soon belong to me. Harold was laughing as I played with the nord's head, making it talk as such, telling jokes. Harold was also drinking the wine I gave him, that was now working on him. He was still smiling, but he was looking far away, as the poison I slipped into the wine ran it's course.
    Harold was soon for Oblivion.
    As I pondered how smart I was, I began to feel the Breton Liqueur course through my own bones. It was the only good alcohol there was. I stared at the face of the dead nord and wondered how many he himself had killed, before I, and Harold I guess, did the deed and took his life.
    I was out of drink, and it was beginning to get depressing in the hide out, with no other to talk to. Harold was no longer breathing. I searched high and low and found no more of my own liquor, so I stole old Harold's wine. He would not miss it at all. As I flopped down into the chair and took a few good swigs, I made the head of the dead nord tell me how funny and smart and handsome I was. I would add his head to my others, along with Harold's, eventually.
    It wasn't until I felt the rumble in my belly that through my drunken fog I realized........the wine..........

    Smidgeon snuck into the hide out, having not seen anyone enter or leave in some time. Both thieves were dead, apparently poisoned or something. One had a dead nord's head in hand.
    Smidgeon confidently walked over and grabbed the big bag of loot. Upon turning about, he thought of how smart he was to have let the two Bretons do the deed with the nord. He began to proudly walk out but tripped on a pile of bones. He tried hard to catch himself, but his head hit at just the wrong angle, and there lied another dead body.

    Months later, Steels With Switness entered the hide out..........
    "Krist the Lionheart? No. Lionheart was my dog" -Krist
    "Darling, if looks were everything, I would be king of the world" -Luke
    "That place, between day and night, that purple color just before dark, that is where you will find me"- Hughe
  • TheFormalGamer
    Soul Shriven
    Wow, there are some amazing submissions here! I wish you all good luck and I hope you had as fun a time creating your tales as I did. With that said, here's my tale:

    The Medium

    You hand the skull to the Altmer woman as you sit down in the chair beside her.

    “Ah, finally a Nordic bard for my collection! Took you quite a while to obtain it.” she says, while studying the skull.

    “Well getting the skull of a Nord bard is… more specific than the jobs I normally receive.” You respond, looking at the woman as she stares into the skull you found in a troll’s dungeon. After some time, her brow begins to furrow, and she turns once more in your direction.

    “If you don’t mind me asking, what is your name?” she asked.

    “Roggvar Bronze-Helm” you respond slowly.

    “Ah, a good name. Especially at this moment.” She responds curtly and you feel the hair begin to stand on the back of your neck.

    “What do you mean?”

    “I mean I’m getting a Nord skull one way or another.” You try to stand but feel the prick of a henchman’s sword through you’re clothing. “Please, sit. No need to leave quite yet.” You feel the man’s hand grab your shoulder and shove you back into your chair. The chair creaks as you fidget, now very aware of the man behind you. “Would you agree, Roggvar was it? That I specifically hired you to obtain a Nord skull?”

    “Yes ma’am, you did.”

    “Why did you bring me the skull of Mr. Woodton, then? He assures me that he is neither Nord nor bard, but rather a Breton Farmer. And don’t tell me you didn’t know, it was your job to know.”

    “I well… I…”

    “…Didn’t think I would know the difference?” She scoffed a little and stands up. “Trying to trick me out of my gold is not very polite.” She says as she grabs your jaw in her hand and tilts your head back and forth, peering behind your ears and under your chin. “I assume you visit taverns frequently?”

    “I suppose so…”

    “Good, then I will also assume that you also partake in the revelry and dancing.” You say nothing. “I will interpret your silence as confirmation, then.” She releases your jaw and sits back down before sighing deeply. “You’re no bard, but I suppose you’ll have to do…” The man behind you steps closer and the woman picks up the skull once again. “Now, Mr. Woodton, I am terribly sorry about this whole mess, but I will have my men deliver your remains to your family, if you just tell me where you lived.” After a brief pause she began again, “Ah, yes, I know precisely where you mean. The trees and streams there are simply gorgeous!” With that she rises and approaches another of her henchmen. She hands the skull to him and whispers something in his ear. The man turns and disappears into the darkness. Then you feel the blade in your back. You gasp in pain and try to think. But right before everything goes black, the woman sits again and mutters “What a mess.”
  • tobybenson
    Soul Shriven
    Bone dust hung thick in the gloomy air, the blood moon gloomy of its own accord, dark magic permeated with a binding of agelessness, and a melody echoes through the night....

    It was on this very night that the fabled singing skull of Daemohn was whispered and tasted on the lips of Sorion. It was with a blind fervor he searched over old tomes and found an accounting of Daemohn. In the far depths of an unnamed cavern, he came upon a box cluttered among a vast trove of skeletons animal and humanoid alike. Runes glittered across the box with a malevolent purpose unsurmised by Sorion.

    It took several weeks for him to find a mage able to decifer the runes, the words made little sense to the lost Minstrel.
    Daemohns Melodies contained within, are taken from you and given to me, set me free to sing aloft..........
    The mage opened the box and in a flash the most beautiful sound Sorion had ever heard made him sink into his chair hardly noticing that he was holding the Skull of Daemohn.

    The mage sensed that something had him in thrall, but a malaise overtook him and a calming smile came to him as he sat for a spell.
    Slowly the night wore on and Sorion felt himself at peace like never before, he had heard songs only imagined and melodies from ages past, he sat until the end of himself. The very last thing Sorion heard was a faint laugh.

    In the darkest corner a shadow was forming, and a with a loud crack and an explosion, a form took place and laughter filled the room.

    Daemohn was free again, it was time to get back to work.........................
  • Senshon
    Soul Shriven
    Tales of the Dead Contest

    Last Laugh

    Sorion sat in the chair by the fire. He wore a mask of subtle anxiety, amplified by the unnerving silence surrounding him.
    He had come to Grahtwood looking for opportunities to play his music. As a renowned Altmer bard, it felt only natural to expand his talents to the quiet Khajiit and base Bosmer of the newly-formed Aldmeri Dominion. Sorion was the kind of Elf who sought perfection; like his High Elf brothers and sisters, he never had enough.

    His wife was worried his troupe of admirers had gone to his head, but the reality was that Sorion paid them no mind. All of his focus was set on one goal: to create the grandest symphony of all time, a song to be sung throughout the ages. He had dreams of hearing soldiers singing as they charged into battle, that he, once a lowly Altmer Bard, would become the warrior minstrel of the Aldmeri Dominion.

    The door to the kitchen opened. Lobelathel, the kind wood elf who had accepted sorion into her home entered the room. Sorion’s demeanor changed once she set foot in the chamber; he felt as if a weight had been lifted from him.
    “Sorry I kept you waiting,” she said, smoothly, “but I couldn’t offer the greatest Altmer bard my home without offering him something to drink.” She smiled warmly.

    Sorion laughed awkwardly. “Nonsense,” he said, a hint of eagerness slipping through his voice. “I am glad to be here, even without the wine.” He took a sip from the glass Lobelathel had just handed to him. It was delicious.
    “Have you read it yet?” Sorion had not only come to the wood elf seeking temporary shelter; he also sought advice, a second opinion on his work. After he had asked around, the locals directed him to Lobelathel, the former Bosmer Bard from Haven. She knew her way around music almost as well as Sorion did.

    Lobelathel shook her head absently. “Not yet. I will soon, though. I wanted you to get comfortable first.”
    Sorion nodded and smiled, but inside he felt a bit upset; he was impatient and wanted to publish his song quickly. He also felt confused; did Lobelathel think he was staying the night? He had only planned to pass by quickly for her advice.

    “I’m sure it’s great, though. Anything written by a minstrel as great as yourself must be awe-inspiring to hear.”

    Sorion grinned at the praise. Even though he was used to it by now, he still adored it. Still, he stood up, about to announce his departutre.
    “I’m afraid I must leave you, Lobelathel. As much as I would like to stay and chat, I am a busy Elf. I trust you will send word of your opinion on my piece once I reach Elden Root, yes?”

    The Wood Elf’s eyes burned with anger. “No!” she yelled, startling Sorion. “You can’t leave! You only just got here!”
    “I’m sorry, my lady, if I was unclear. I simply wanted your advice, not your hospitality.”

    Lobelathel stood up. Although she barely reached Sorion’s chin standing her tallest, the bard felt intimidated. “I will not let you leave. You cannot leave. You WILL not leave.” At this, Sorion fell back into his chair. He had lost the feeling in his legs, and drowsiness took over. He realized the filthy Bosmer must have spiked the wine with some sort of sedative.
    Lobelathel sat once again, and smiled. “I’m sorry, Sorion. I never fancied myself an admirer of yours. Rather, I always thought you were quite talentless. You’re never going to leave, High Elf. I’m going to keep you here until we’re both a pile of rotting bones.” She stood up brusquely and went towards the door, Sorion’s eyes following her helplessly.

    Suddenly, she turned. “By the way, Sorion, I was lying before. I did take a look at your piece. From the moment I picked it up until I laid it down I was convulsed with laughter.” She smiled. “Someday I intend to read it.”
    @ObscurusVeloces, Dark Elf Nightblade for EP
    @Dreams-In-Fear, Argonian DK for AD
  • shenron_killerb14_ESO
    Soul Shriven
    This entry was created by Katana Sohma and posted on her behalf by a friend(Me) due to technical difficulties with forum access.

    25th Sun’s Dusk 2E 392

    We’ve been wandering around Elden Hollow for days. After being on the road for the past month it feels peculiar to linger. Her fixation on this quest rivals the madness of one possessed. To think, this developed out of mere curiosity… Damn that traveler and the stories he shared that night. “The gateway to the training grounds of the Gods lies within the hollow scream of one who has no fear of death,” her recitation reverberates disturbingly off the dank cave walls. I rue the day that we met that stranger.

    18th Evening Star 2E 392

    I’m beginning to fear for her sanity. Nightly, she repeats that damned traveler’s proverb, much like a child rehearsing a fairytale in lilting verse, never paying heed to the marked threat within those words. How she deduced that this “gateway” even existed, let alone within a skull, is unbeknownst to me.

    13th Sun’s Dawn 2E 392

    She sits before me at our austere campfire, once a renowned Dominion fighter, now a mere shadow of the living. Of course she’d be drawn to those tales of grandeur, perpetually seeking to improve her nearly perfect maneuvers. Now all of that intensity she hones into one task… this frenzied hunt for the skull.

    30th Second Seed 2E 393

    She has begun keeping each skull she finds! None yet have been the one she seeks, yet she insists on carrying a sack filled to the brim with them! The reasoning for this expedition eludes me… We’ve set up camp in what looks like an abandoned mining operation near the southern coast of Cyrodiil. She has lined the shelves of the rudimentary dwelling with her cherished skulls. When we are not searching the seaside caverns that line the coast, she seems content to sit next to me under the gaze of our silent companions.

    23rd Sun’s Height 2E 393

    She has found it! Even now, she must be crossing blades with the Gods! She returned triumphant from her expedition today! As she approached, she held up her prize. I could not ascertain any difference between this one and the last 500 skulls we’ve retrieved. Thoroughly elated, she sat in her chair and gloated over her find. Vitality appeared to flow through her as I had not seen since before this mad journey began. “Join me if you wish my love, but I leave now,” she stated as she locked eyes with the skull’s cavernous sockets. Ever so slowly, the skull’s jaw began to part. My beloved’s lips mirrored the movement. I witnessed a silvery substance being drawn out of her mouth and inhaled into what remained of the skull’s mouth. Alas, I watched my beloved’s essence being drawn out of her body! I am certain that she has found her way to the training grounds of the Gods! To any who uncover this journal and our remains, please do not bury us! We shall return once our training is complete. I go to join her now…
  • 16BitForestCat
    The point of Uncle Forin’s sword jutted through Dalithiel’s chest from behind, streaked with blood. Dalithiel’s travel pack slid through her limp fingers and thumped to the floor.

    “Ewww, she’s bleeding!” cried the childishly delighted voice of her cousin Mirgorin. But he wasn’t Mirgorin anymore…was he?

    The skeleton who had once been Aunt Erilneth grinned at her. At least, Dalithiel thought she was grinning. She didn’t have much experience with skeletons. Especially not ones who had been living, breathing, beloved relatives.

    Erilneth’s three skeletal sons sat in chairs nearby, thrilled at seeing their cousin, and tickled at her speechless shock. Loud guffaws belted from creaking jawbones. The boys had always loved surprises in life. Apparently, they loved darker surprises in undeath.

    “Now you see why we had to trick you into coming home, dear,” Erilneth’s skeleton said. “You never would’ve responded to my magicka summons if you’d known we were like this now, would you? Those sick murderers there--” her bony arm indicated the skulls lining a workbench and littering the floor “--killed us all during that famine last year. They ate every last scrap of meat on our bones! A great stroke of luck for us, too. I’d laid a curse on this house as I died. ‘No death within these walls is final against my will.’ Very dramatic.” She chuckled. ”While those pigs slept off their gluttony, we awoke and discovered how much better we felt without all that nasty flesh weighing us down! My curse was actually a blessing. Still, we had to punish the intruders. Unlike us, they’ll never wake again.”

    Dalithiel faded more with each breath, but she managed a whisper. “Why…did you…stab…me…?”

    “You’re our favorite,” pointed out the oldest son, Dalivir, like it should’ve been obvious. He was named after her.

    Forin jerked out his sword. Dalithiel gasped, collapsing. Bleeding out, she barely heard Forin’s words. “We couldn’t bear not seeing you again. You’re the only family we have left. Now, you’ll never have to leave us.”

    “Papa! Mamaaaaaaaaaa!” wailed the skull of Rilthor, the youngest, held in Mirgorin’s one good hand. “Make Dali and Mirgo stop hiding my bones! I wanna hug Dalithiel when she wakes up!” His brothers snickered.

    “Boys, don’t pester!” The exasperated tone was so like Erilneth that tears tracked down Dalithiel’s cheeks. Why bother fighting to breathe, with all her family gone?

    Moments later, her heart stopped.

    “Y’ffre bless her,” Erilneth sighed. “She’ll feel so much happier when she wakes.”

    Nodding, Forin pointed at their sons. “Mirgorin! Give your brother his bones back, now. Dalivir, get Dalithiel’s bones clean. I just swept in here. I’ll not have her waking up a zombie, dropping disgusting flesh all over my clean floors. I want everything ready when Dalithiel awakes.”

    Erilneth’s skull was definitely grinning. “I can’t believe it!” she laughed. “At last, our family will be complete. Forever! It’s so simple—who would’ve thought that all we had to do was die?”
    PC/NA: getting lost in TESO Tamriel and beyond since Beta 2013!
    Alliance agnostic: all factions should chill the fetch out and party together.
    If you ever wonder why certain official fandom spaces are so often toxic, remember: corruption starts from the top.
  • fadingidealsb14_ESO
    Five skulls sat atop the shelf: flesh stripped from aged bone. They were either a testament of devotion to the Night Mother, or the abandoned playthings of one ensnared by Sheogorath. Still. They were dead. Even at a glance, though, they left a chill in my heart. And no matter how desperately I grasped onto the notion of them being, shall we say...expired? No. In those darkened, empty sockets I felt presence. There, or near. And, as though to confirm such dark suspicions, I could nearly see the skulls move. Only as my gaze was nearly gone would they move, but one thing remained clear: they followed me. They tracked my actions and, in their movements, showed and awareness of me.
    I thought to run. To flee into the night and hope never to return, but...the promise of riches weighed my soles. I know not why I trusted him so, but I did. Whatever manner of foul entity made residence in these dark halls – they would have to do more than move dusty skulls. I wanted to believe such courage ran through my veins with every beat of my heart, but truth be told I barely suppressed tremors in my hand from fear.

    My heart froze. My eyes felt as though they were adjusted to something that had always been there, but I only now saw. Two sitting skeletons, one holding another skull. The light from my torch wavered as my hand finally shook. ...but the playing of light over stone walls was all wrong.

    I understood. The skulls never moved. The skeletons had never appeared.

    “Illusion Magicka...”

    I'd swear against it before any other, but my voice shook with fear. I couldn't know how she'd react, you see. Her laughter, though, was shrill and cacophonous in the most hollow of ways. It told me something of her. The skulls moving in darkness told me of her own fear of actions unseen: the hand within the cloak, finding ready steel. The skeletons appearing from nothing spoke of her fears of conspiracies: the menacing threats in the shadows.

    The light being wrong, though: that had given her away. Still, were it not for the laugh – I wouldn't know where to aim. The torch left my hand. I gripped my bow firmly. An arrow was fitted – and ignoring the lies being told to my eyes I let loose an arrow slightly below the origin of the laugh.

    It only took one more arrow to pierce her armor, and as it did the room around me changed. It felt rather like the moment of collapsing into drunkenness being played back in reverse.

    Her body lay awkwardly, taken either by death or blood loss. My torch and her own both burned from the boards of the floor. My hands made quick work of searching her belongings, but no promised riches...

    A torn letter and a dagger.

    “He has eyes the see through the darkness. Recruit the new Brother.”

    Who was she?
  • Nurrasana
    Everything is black. I force movement, though it is strenuous. I can see, but my eyes are blurred and refuse to focus. I get on my feet, and I am enveloped by dust. I stand still to make sure I don’t create any more.

    “Jo’Dara cannot believe his eyes. It has finally worked!” The accent is awful, but I’ve heard it before. This must be a khajiit. The dust settles, and I can see my own limbs. I have lost a considerable amount of weight – you could almost say I’ve the look of a skeleton! No, really though, I am a skeleton. I must have died against that rabid orc-man. Such a shame, though I was sure he was fatally wounded, inevitably done for. The dust recedes, and I can now see the source of the outlandish voice. It’s as I thought, a khajiit, but stranger. His fur is matted and scraggly, eyes wide and wild, much like an obsessive mage left secluded for much too long, but it mostly just makes him look like a rabid feline. That can’t be though, not if he awakened me, so he must be the former. I want to ask, but my mouth cannot speak. He didn’t just awaken me – he silenced me! He has power over me! No matter, he will slip up, and his power will fade.

    The crazed cat speaks strange words, and there’s movement across from where I stand. A monstrous body stands before me, but as the dust recedes again I see that he’s merely another skeleton. He must be the orc! I did gut that barbarian! This Jo’Dara creature makes some strange noises, which I can only assume are sounds of delight. He speaks to us.

    “You will help Jo’Dara. Jo’Dara’s moon sugar candies have been stolen by a thieving caravan! You will take them back and more, yes?” He says this as a question, but I know that it’s really a demand. My body is compelled to do this, with or without what’s left of my mind.

    It’s not difficult to get the moon sugar candies. Jo’Dara leads us to a hidden area nearby the caravan. There are only a few there, and they tire out fast and have pains that I no longer can feel. It also helps that these caravan-thieves are thoroughly intoxicated. We easily tear them down as I foresaw and gathered an unfathomable amount of moon sugar candies. We deliver the candies to the cat-mage, and he leads us to a secluded hut outside of town.

    It’s here where he eats the candies, many of them, and his grip on the orc and myself dissipates. I watch the khajiit as he eats the candies. His demeanor changes, and he begins singing and dancing, then rubbing himself in pleasure along the walls and floor. A sound escapes me – a laugh! The orc makes a snort! We sit together, the cat’s failed experiments scattered around us, laughing at the kitten playing with his yarn.
  • Sabriel7
    For the Worm Cult!

    “Heniel! Put that down!” barked Veric from across the dimly lit alchemy lab. “But Veric you’re taking FOREVER, and there’s nothing for me to do” whined Heniel as he placed the soul gem he was tossing up in the air back into its box. Ignoring his idiotic younger brother’s whining Veric went back to his alchemical work. Finally the two of them could move up the ranks of the worm cult! Earlier that day most of the cult members had left the base for an urgent mission, leaving only a few members left to maintain it. Veric took the opportunity to sneak into the lab, and of course his brother tagged along. Bored Heniel began opening random drawers and shuffling through them to see if he could find anything interesting. “Hey Veric, you sure we are allowed in here? I thought only full members could use the labs?” Heniel opened one drawer to find a few human hearts wrapped in linen inside, he quickly shut it gagging slightly. Rolling his eyes Veric replied “That’s why we’re here; if I can create something that will impress the cult then maybe we can actually become full members! We would have been already if someone hadn’t set most of the members here on fire!” Veric cast an accusing glare at Heniel. “Well it’s not MY fault if the incantation was pronounced wrong” sulked Heniel “there was dust in my throat and I coughed”. Heniel wandered over to where Veric was working and peered over his shoulder at the potion his older brother was almost finished completing. Annoyed by his brother’s hovering Veric edged away from him and concentrated on his work. Only the bone meal was left to add, and as soon as it was the potion thickened, its color resembling amber. “You done YET!?” asked Heniel making Veric jump, he was so absorbed with his work he had completely forgot about his brother. “Yes! Quit asking!” Veric poured the potion into a flask, but before he could stow the potion safely in his bag Heniel grabbed it from him “really Veric!? Let me see!” Furious Veric tried to snatch it back but Heniel dodged him. “HENIEL GIVE THAT BACK!” Veric shouted at his brother, “but I just want to look!” Heniel whined back. Veric leaped at his brother forcing Heniel to step back. Heniel slipped and fell taking both of them down with the sound of breaking glass. “Um Veric I think your potion worked…” looking up Veric gasped. The potion had spilled all over himself and his brother and both of them had been transformed into skeletons. “HENIEL!!!” screamed Veric, furious at his brother’s stupidity. Standing Heniel picked up a skull on a nearby table and sat down “Hey Veric! Who’s the better looking?” Heniel asked moving the skull closer to his own so his brother could compare. Moaning Veric got up and sat on the chair next to Heniel dreading what the other members would say when they got back.

    Edited by Sabriel7 on February 21, 2015 6:09AM
  • hammerwinn
    Paralyzing fog starts to fill the room, a cold draft falls over two adventurers. "What do you think this could be?" One said to the other, an alert, silent stare came from the other. The adventurers, already feeling the effects, sit down and notice shapes appearing on the floor.

    Looking around they both feel confused, if not immediately out of place. They both knew they walked into a dark room which lead from the sewers. Feeling slightly at ease, they notice childrens toys.Bright colors, Toy balls and wooden puzzles. The silent adventurer did not fall for the ruse and he was certain his companion was already regressing into childhood. He leans over to plan his next move.His companion, already fascinated by the ball, seems to have received a glossy stare at the object he's been ever so fond of.

    A familiar voice cheerfully exclaims!

    Welcome two to, Ha! Tu-tu. Mongers, maniacs and dinner for you too!
    I'm slightly funny and deviously mad, I'm afraid your ending will be quite, well..


    This can be dodged and avoided however, although and on the contrary my puzzles can never be solved.
    You really have no time to decide the answer at all.

    (laughs ring out)


    Okay, okay OKAY! it said, I'll give you the answer since you're obviously no fun.

    Sheogorath screams out the words "IT'S A GUAR, IT'S A GUAR, GET IT?"

    Realizing he had pumped far too many poisons into the room, soon said in a confident voice.

    "I know better for next time, or last time, or later? or earlier, either way, I'll get to make puppets. Now, where did I leave my cheese? I have dinner guests and I'm dreadfully late"
  • deepseamk20b14_ESO
    And there they sat. Waiting for loyalty rewards to return.
    Hey everyone! Look! It's a signature!
  • ZOS_GinaBruno
    Community Manager
    Thanks for participating, everyone! We're going to close this thread as we are no longer accepting entries. We'll post the winners on Friday, March 6th. Good luck!
    Gina Bruno
    Senior Community Manager
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    Staff Post
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