The New Yorker

Elder Scrolls: Terror of the Padomaic

Leon5431 said
I will be posting once I get home gotta get to the combat phase.

When might that be? Just interested.

Elder Scrolls: Terror of the Padomaic

EliteCommander said
A very nice post, that. I find myself unable to describe things in such detail.

What do you mean? I find your writing to be concise but still descriptive.

Elder Scrolls: Terror of the Padomaic

Alright, there's that.

Elder Scrolls: Terror of the Padomaic

The night before was drowned in an aeriform mess of passion and wine. Sarel wasn’t even entirely sure if he’d preformed, and for that he was rather solemn as he rose the next morning, the flush of the grass drawing him into the world. He laid on a rough-hewn bedroll settled under a slanted leather tent. The cool sea-breeze rushed in on a parcel of air over the small cliff where Sarel had made his camp. The air rustled the nearby trees and blew black and white ash from a fire-pit near Sarel’s tent. The Elf tumbled from the tent, head fuzzed with a nightlong of wine, and armored himself. The sun was not yet risen but was beginning to cast a bright purple and slices of orange into the dark blue sky. Sarel collected this things, packed his tent, and set off down to the water, where he was to meet the crew.

Everyone seemed to have made it, as Sarel counted the same number of people there had been before. And, there was the primary crew, the one’s who’d risked their lives to rescue Sarel from a prison. The Dark Elf remained to the side as Sharee began to speak. He felt a welling of warmness from his stomach but pushed it down, he allowed himself peace for now. He thought about the upcoming event, he thought of his training.

Sarel was a child when his training began, about twelve; he was lanky and tall for his age, but not particularly strong. That changed quickly enough—just as Beilin had said, “Your arms are like straw, boy. But that will change, ha, that will change quickly enough!”
The two would spar under a vast gazebo somewhere in the wilds of Solstheim, Sarel couldn’t remember now. However, if he were taken there, if he were there now, he could find it easily enough. The ancient stone pillars were etched into his memory as clearly as the stances he learned under their endearing support. *Crash, crash crash* went their blades in the cool dry air. krumph, krumph, krumph went their chitin armor as they paced themselves around each other. Years passed by quickly as they trained in the wilds in the gazebo, soon Sarel was practically a man, and he found himself a warrior. But he was not bloodied, and he was not battle-scared, but he knew the workings of a fight like, almost, no other of his age.

Sharee mentioned that those who wore heavy armor would go to the docks to provide reinforcement and defense. Sarel was used to controlling enemies on the battlefield, he was a blitzer, which fit the dock position quite well. Besides, his chitin armor was a little too heavy to be worth swimming in—now that Sarel thought about it, he’d need to get a good pair of plain leather armor. So, with that in mind, and seeing that Sharee had started speaking to one of the Bretons at her command, a pirate in his own right—Sarel could tell—, The Dark Elf walked down the road, with his right hand dancing over the hilt of his katana.

In no time Sarel was on a small bluff overlooking the docks. He peered to his right just in time to see Sharee and the rest of the crew submerge. Sarel was quick then, he jumped from the bluff to the ground below him and dashed to the docks, he held his armor in all the right places to keep it from making any noise. Just as Sarel reached one of the many entrances to the dock area he saw Sharee climb over the ships bannister and take down a guard. Several of the other crew members on the docks came to life and drew their weapons, keeping the loading dock safe from any guards who thought to interfere. Sarel came to a jog as he unsheathed his sword, in front of him was a small junction where several guards had communed for a moment, perhaps it was a shift change. Sarel saw this as a perfect opportunity to strike.

Sarel still felt the deep regret for needing to kill Imperial soldiers in order to complete this task. He wished he could pay Sharee back some other way, he wished they could steal a ship from some other damned pirate. But this was the way Sharee needed it to be, and if that was the case, so be it.

Sarel was quick, he knew he had to be since he was about to bust up a close-knit four man party. His katana sliced through the first guards neck like butter, skin and bone and sinew eviscerated by the ebony tempered steel. The sword was as razor sharp as when Sarel sharpened it last, ten years ago. The guards head, and helmet, flew into the air, and ultimately plopped into the water. He crumpled to his knees and collapsed at the feet of his peer. The guard to the right of Sarel went to grab his sword, his hand was freed from his arm in a bloody instant, the next moment Sarel drew his wakazashi from behind his back and stuck it into the guard at his left; “hold that for me, won’t you?” Sarel thought but did not say. The one across from Sarel was quick enough to have his sword out, and ready to strike. It came down on Sarel with unexpected strength, to which the Dark Elf responded with his own strength. The swords collided between the men, the guard to Sarel’s left collapsed to the floor in agony with the wakizashi plunged into his rips. The gentleman on the right screamed in terror as his stump bled profusely, he tried to grab his sword with his left hand, he was having trouble. Sarel and the guard who was still intact traded a few sword blows, and then Sarel jumped back and spun in midair, his katana extended to his side. The intact guard was so no more. His guts hung from his side as a precise slice was able to pin point the most lethal course of action. Sarel stood from his crouched position, which he landed in after his spin, and stabbed the guard in his throat. There was only one capable guard left, and he fumbled with his bloody sword in his left hand. Sarel saw no use in killing this man. He kicked the guard in the chest and sent him into the water, to float next to his friends decapitated head. Sarel then turned his attention on the man writhing in pain on the floor. He removed his wakazashi and hit the man in the head with the handle of it, knocking him unconscious, and likely killing him if he didn't receive attention soon. The Dark Elf sheathed his weapons as he walked down the dock, toward the loading ramp, which was currently being defended by four crewmen, and being attacked by three guardsmen. The fight on the ship had turned messy, and people were falling left and right, Sarel couldn’t tell who was winning. He could see, however, that the loading ramp was indeed being defended, no matter how sloppily. The crew members were little more than bandit rabble-rousers, they were brutish and vile. They screamed as they fought, they had bloodshot eyes and their hearts were beating faster than they were.

Sarel drew his katana once more as he approached the loading ramp, only two guards remained facing off against the remaining two crew members. Sarel cut one man’s leg, allowing him to be felled by a mace blow, and the other man was stabbed from behind, just under his armor. The two crewmen smiled at the Dark Elf and nodded their appreciation. Then their faces turned to stone, they were pallid and nervous and they looked a little like fools. Sarel turned to see an onslaught of soldiers pouring from the barracks located on the docks and running down the lane. Sarel sheathed his sword and faced the oncoming mass, he spread his hands out like waves and fire flowed from them like a fountain. The fire curled from his fingers and into his hands, Sarel smelled like the sweet-bitter aroma of magika, he was exuding the stuff. Soon giant balls of fire were settled in Sarel’s palms, he moaned loudly as he tried to remain composure with the vast amount of power welled in his hands. Tears dropped from the Dunmer’s crimson eyes as the strain bore on him. He eventually felt like the orbs of power were big enough, and unleashed them forth, just as a few guards passed by a stall jetting from the shore. One of the orbs exploded on the dock lane and blew it to bits. It’s wooden shrapnel flying into all directions. The other landed in the side of the stall, blowing a chunk out of the wall and setting it ablaze. Sarel drew his blade in preparation of the few guards who made it through, the dimwits next to him did the same. Before the fray began again Sarel looked over to the boat, Sharee was atop it, in her violent majesty. The Dunmer merely smiled and winked, hoping the Shadowscale would be able to see it. This was a signal of his confidence, because, as far as Sarel could tell, they would be able to pull it off.

Elder Scrolls: Terror of the Padomaic

I'll have something up tomorrow afternoon. You guys are really cranking these out.

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

That's actually a good point about the beer. I can see how that could be problematic for my vision. Pot brownies could only enhance that experience though. I've never known brownies to cause dizziness.

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

definitely going to see it. A college buddy and I were thinking of having some beers then seeing it in imax.

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Igraine said
Sounds good, and have a great time NYer/Serge! *waves*

I feel like this phrase is causing inflicted schizophrenia (distasteful mental health joke out of the way). Please, everyone just choose whichever name makes you happiest, and stick to that. I respond to either (internet identity is a weird and stupid pet peeve of mine).

Anyway, thanks, my dear! I will venture to have as good of a time as I can. Which could be dangerous as there are bound to be all kinds of mind altering items at the venue. Oh, the pleasures of being back in this damned city.

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

There it is. I decided to shorten it because I was running out of time and coming closer and closer to a date I have tonight. I had some more stuff about the trumpet planned out, but that'll just have to wait. Anyway, let me know if I'm stepping on anyone's toes.

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Semyon, the large man with the face of death, was quite pleasant. He told Gabriel where he might stow his luggage and maintained an air of civility and niceness. Suddenly Gabe felt a little underdressed, literally and figuratively, and without proper credentials. He brushed aside the insecure feelings and sent a “Goodbye,” after Semyon as he left the angels side. Nestor seemed nice enough, despite the vileness of his companion, one with uneased Gabe to no end. The thing quoted scripture, in an attempt to mock the angel, perhaps offend him. Offend in the sense of causing defense, she wanted to start something. The instant the thing spoke, it’s hissing and terrible reverberated voice splashing over Gabe like oil, the Archangel knew what kind of creature he was messing with. He brought his hand up to meet the grip of his pistol as the demon came face to face with him, it’s steel holiness calling out to meet the creatures end. Nestor said somethings that Gabe could hardly make out, he was drawn—no, more than that—captivated by the demon. Gabe allowed himself a breath of release as Nestor bid him farewell and walked off, the demon following behind. The angel realized his brow was heavily furrowed and calmed himself, he took another breath, this one directed, and lifted his bags, then turned to the hallway behind him.

Gabe stood before the wooden door unmoving, his luggage and bags were sat at his feet. It was now that the Angel started to question his choice of “necessities”. He had to haul the group of bags from the main room into the hallway where he stood just then, hand steadily on the doorknob. The angel opened the door and drug his bags into the room and off to the side, regretting the unpacking he’d have to do after the formalities. It was very difficult to understand why someone like Nestor would be associating with the likes of the being which was so clearly tethered to his form—though, to be fair, Gabe hardly knew Nestor. Gabe took the pistol from his holster and placed it on the dresser next to him, then looked into the mirror above it. He looked like he usually did, comfortable and witty. This was the image forced upon him by the cruel fates, and not something he would have chosen himself, because now he felt very uncomfortable and not very sharp in the least. Gabe then caught something out of the corner of his eye, a flashing. With the flash came a fwooshing sound. Gabe looked behind him to see a golden-colored trumpet sitting patiently on his bed. Gabe stood still for several moments, taking in the complicated scene. He knew not from where this came, and knew not how it got here, but he knew what it signaled. Gabe was God’s whistle-blower, and this was his whistle.

Gabe didn’t get much time to take in the scene, a tear fell from his eye and he thought of the implications of this, perhaps all of his blaspheming was forgiven; perhaps God simply did not care about Gabe’s action in the field. The slamming of brick against brick, the smashing of glass, it sounded throughout the castle with impunity, and it was constant. Gabe grabbed his pistol and flew from the room, wiping the tear from his cheek. Confusion swam through him like the waves of exhilaration from the trumpet. He looked over the scene of broken glass and blood and wondered what could possibly be the reason. He heard the announcement from the man on the precipice of the room and understood him to, perhaps, be one of the men who owned the company. Gabe eyed the ballroom floor, hoping to see the assailants for himself, and assist in any way he could. At the far end a man looked to be embattled. Gabe stepped forth, gun raised before him with resolve, and began sliding. He took that as a positive as he propelled himself forward by kicking with his other foot. He slid on the slick, glassy floor, and shot at the distorted figure before him. He could not be sure if any of the bullets hi his mark, but that would not stop him from shooting. Once the clip was empty—so roughly 15 bullets later—Gabe tossed the pistol into his holster.

He was upon the figure he understood to be a Werewolf, and realized he must act now, he could not stop himself from sliding. Gabe fell to his knees and drew his holy sword, it glistened as it’s ions picked up water from the floor as it traveled overhead. The sword found its mark in the wolf’s hind legs. Gabe slashed with all of his might and then slid along, passed the wolf and his opponent. Blood gushed from the wound onto the wet floor, Gabe was too busy looking at the crimson fountain to stop himself before he crashed into the bar. The Arch Angel couldn’t help but feel a little bit foolish. He stood himself up and looked at the group he understood to be B&H agents assorted at the other end of the room. Gabe had hardly noticed all the brilliant transformations. Gabe needed to accept that the visible wolfs could or could not be enemies, and relinquished that thought as he focused on seeing the invisible Werewolf somewhere in the grand room. Gabe grasped his sword with both hands and directed it’s perfect point toward what he knew to be the wolf. The angel pushed himself forward, like he would from the solid-soft surface of his home, and slid himself along the floor. He hoped that he’d crash into the werewolf from behind, his sword getting itself lodged somewhere in the slick-stiff mess of the wolfs stomach.