12-22-2010, 10:24 PM
I'm not quite sure if the Literature forum is still active - the last post was quite a while ago. I also don't know if literature is still being accepted for the Silgrad Tower project - but if it is, here's the first "book" of a story that I plan on continuing to write.
- One -
The bleak alleyways of the Imperial City are the very harbingers of death. Crawling with Beggars, riddled with Disease, infested by rats – a sore sight for any eye. Yet, the Empire does not attempt to clean them; instead, it pretends that they do not exist. The funds of the Septim Treasury are stretched too far and thin, say they, to warrant any expenditure on a “minor” problem in a single City – whether that city be the capital or not.
The upper-classes tend to eloquently refer to all alleyway inhabitants as the “Scum of the Empire”, whose very meagre existence does tarnish the otherwise “impeccable” City. But alas; not all who reside there do so out of their free will, but out of necessity.
On one bitter Evening Star morning, a most peculiar figure arrived in the Imperial City. Clad in nothing but a tattered, weatherworn cloak and an equally dilapidated robe, the Stranger made his way through the Districts, trying earnestly to seek out a place of shelter for the coming night – to no avail. Saturalia was rapidly approaching, and all of the Inns and Taverns were full of merrymakers, celebrating in the warmth of a blazing fire.
And so, it came to be that the Stranger found himself in the most sheltered place he could find; an alley of the Market District. Even the lowly beggars looked down upon him, such was the state he was in. Shivering in the biting cold and retching – as the pungent air was an acquired smell – the haggard Stranger fell into a restless, fitful sleep, unaware of what the morrow would bring.
Beggars in the slums are not above the savage act of murder. One could think of them as the Ashlanders of Cyrodiil; accepting of gifts, welcoming of kindness - but they survive in a ragged climate aloft with many dangers, and so they do what they must to survive. After all, survival is the most basic instinct instilled into us all.
The glinting of a silver chain in the dawning sun caught the eye of a veteran beggar in particular. Knife in hand, he approached the Stranger cautiously. Experience had taught the beggar may things – in particular, to strike first, rob them blind, and then ask questions if the victim still drew breath. Noticing the Stranger was not an Imperial, but a Dunmer, was the last straw; for beggars are wary of all but their own kind. With a single fluid motion, the knife pierced the Stranger’s throat and left as it had entered; clean.
The beggar sheathed the shiv and took all that he could pilfer. A few measly Septims, the bedraggled (now sanguine, blood specked) travelling cloak, and the prize item itself, the silver chain. The Stranger’s eyes’ flickered only one, or twice, before the severity of his neck wound overcame him, and he slipped away into the Abyss. Uncared, unloved, and forgotten by all but the beggar -who moved swiftly into a barren doorway to examine his prize.
It was exquisite, as far as silver chains go; intricately detailed with patterns and symbols, most of which were alien to the unlearned beggar. Yet, the most striking aspect of the chain, hanging by a single link of silver, was an inscribed emblem. Emblazoned with gold and tinted purple, it was a sight which the beggar was sure would never be paralleled, at least not in his dreary existence.
Only a single extolled word was clear to his greedy, twitching eyes.
“Telvanni”
I plan on writing the second part of this story tomorrow, which will continue to story of the amulet - as it gets passed between various owners, and perhaps eventually back to House Telvanni.
- One -
The bleak alleyways of the Imperial City are the very harbingers of death. Crawling with Beggars, riddled with Disease, infested by rats – a sore sight for any eye. Yet, the Empire does not attempt to clean them; instead, it pretends that they do not exist. The funds of the Septim Treasury are stretched too far and thin, say they, to warrant any expenditure on a “minor” problem in a single City – whether that city be the capital or not.
The upper-classes tend to eloquently refer to all alleyway inhabitants as the “Scum of the Empire”, whose very meagre existence does tarnish the otherwise “impeccable” City. But alas; not all who reside there do so out of their free will, but out of necessity.
On one bitter Evening Star morning, a most peculiar figure arrived in the Imperial City. Clad in nothing but a tattered, weatherworn cloak and an equally dilapidated robe, the Stranger made his way through the Districts, trying earnestly to seek out a place of shelter for the coming night – to no avail. Saturalia was rapidly approaching, and all of the Inns and Taverns were full of merrymakers, celebrating in the warmth of a blazing fire.
And so, it came to be that the Stranger found himself in the most sheltered place he could find; an alley of the Market District. Even the lowly beggars looked down upon him, such was the state he was in. Shivering in the biting cold and retching – as the pungent air was an acquired smell – the haggard Stranger fell into a restless, fitful sleep, unaware of what the morrow would bring.
Beggars in the slums are not above the savage act of murder. One could think of them as the Ashlanders of Cyrodiil; accepting of gifts, welcoming of kindness - but they survive in a ragged climate aloft with many dangers, and so they do what they must to survive. After all, survival is the most basic instinct instilled into us all.
The glinting of a silver chain in the dawning sun caught the eye of a veteran beggar in particular. Knife in hand, he approached the Stranger cautiously. Experience had taught the beggar may things – in particular, to strike first, rob them blind, and then ask questions if the victim still drew breath. Noticing the Stranger was not an Imperial, but a Dunmer, was the last straw; for beggars are wary of all but their own kind. With a single fluid motion, the knife pierced the Stranger’s throat and left as it had entered; clean.
The beggar sheathed the shiv and took all that he could pilfer. A few measly Septims, the bedraggled (now sanguine, blood specked) travelling cloak, and the prize item itself, the silver chain. The Stranger’s eyes’ flickered only one, or twice, before the severity of his neck wound overcame him, and he slipped away into the Abyss. Uncared, unloved, and forgotten by all but the beggar -who moved swiftly into a barren doorway to examine his prize.
It was exquisite, as far as silver chains go; intricately detailed with patterns and symbols, most of which were alien to the unlearned beggar. Yet, the most striking aspect of the chain, hanging by a single link of silver, was an inscribed emblem. Emblazoned with gold and tinted purple, it was a sight which the beggar was sure would never be paralleled, at least not in his dreary existence.
Only a single extolled word was clear to his greedy, twitching eyes.
“Telvanni”
I plan on writing the second part of this story tomorrow, which will continue to story of the amulet - as it gets passed between various owners, and perhaps eventually back to House Telvanni.