Board Thread:Roleplaying/@comment-25828117-20190827204408/@comment-5543592-20190831170647

Four Centuries Ago
The Royal Crypt of Taneth was not the most lavish of mausoleums. It was primarily subterranean, for one, constructed long, long ago. The dead buried here were not exclusively al Din, the oldest parts of the catacombs held the past rulers of the al Danobia dynasty too. It was rare for their to be an excavation into these catacombs, in fact, there likely had never been. The Royal Crypt was only visited to entomb new bodies.

Whistling echoed through the dead corridors. It was high, and shrill, but the tune was merry. This part of the Royal Crypt hadn’t been opened in a long, long time. Right dead, it was, so to speak. Corpses didn’t make for good company, reckon they made for the worst company, maybe second only to cat people. And, intruding on their resting place as he was, Crimson figured it was his job to give these spirits some spirit!

He struck a beat, trying to add some real killer notes to the whistle. Doo doo, da da doo doo. Ba dum, tss, bad dum tss, doo doo doo. Tss. Tss. Tss. Ba doo doo. Ba da da dum. Da dum. Da dum, da dum. Yeah, good stuff, alright.

Tidon followed along not far behind, quiet. He wore royal regalia, in place of his usual armor, and it had gathered a far bit of dust. Crimson was still having a chuckle over that, the amatuer. When you were robbing graves, especially those of your own ancestors, you needed to dress for the occasion.

“Ya think when they built this place, they was tryin’ to make it so darn spooky?” Crimson asked, holding his torch up. It lit the narrow hall for twenty feet in front of them and then ended in darkness, darkness that seemed to extend forever.

“If I am being entirely honest, father.” Tidon said, glancing past his father. “No.”

“Gotta be a convention, right?” Crimson continued, as if he hadn’t heard. “Gather up all the weirdos and ‘ave ‘em design their little hearts out. Don’t see how it could be anything else. Everything spooky place has got the same aesthetic.”

They pressed forwards. Crimson took up whistling again.

“That’s not helping.” Tidon said.

“Too bad, ‘cause I’m not gonna stop.”

The torch light lit illuminated a dead end, a wall as dusty and ancient as those around it.

“Great.” Tidon muttered. “This was a waste of time.”

“Can’t waste time, Ty.” Crimson tsked, setting his torch in a nearby sconce. He held his ear to the wall. “You can lose it, spend it, and kill it, but ya’ can’t waste it.”

Tidon was not amused. “Well, I’m done spending time here, and I’m going back before I lose anymore.”

“Hey that was pretty good!” Crimson said, knocking on the wall at different points. “Boutta look real silly though.”

He stepped back, rearing up, and stomping a kick into the wall. It shook.

“Father!” Tidon was too shocked to react. “What are you doing?”

“What I should’ve done a long time ago.” Crimson said with dramatic gravity. Dust flew off the wall in a shower, revealing a faded two-dimensional mosaic depicting a powerfully built Redguard man--but for only a moment, as Crimson’s second kick collapsed the wall. It came crumbled down, throwing up more dust.

“Ack, gods.” Crimson coughed, waving a hand in front of his face. “Would it kill ‘em ta clean the place every once in a while? There’s dusty bones everywhere!” He grinned back at Tidon.

“I got it.”

The dust settled, revealing a further corridor. It extended as far as their limited light showed.

Crimson pulled the torch from its sconce and continued, but was stopped when Tidon called him back.

“Look, father.” The young prince was holding up a piece of the shattered mosaic.

“Whatta ‘bout it?” Crimson frowned, canting his head.

“It’s dated. Ninth century of the First Era. This part of the catacombs is ancient.”

Crimson held up his hands and looked over his fingers. “That’s higher ‘an I can count.” He dropped them to his sides and looked at Tidon. “What’d ya figures back here?”

The prince nodded forwards. “Only one way to find out.”

The torch light was unsteady, hazy, in this section of the crypt, as if it was being suffocated. It had began to dim when they reached the corridor’s terminus. Crimson knew they were there because the floor dropped a foot and he stumbled into it.

It was a large room that was a perfect cube, twelve feet by twelve feet.

At its center was a large, pristine marble slab that went as high as Crimson’s waist, and lying on it was a man.

He was tall, Crimson noted, but not overly so. The clothing he wore was loose but heavy, designed for fighting, and he was built powerfully. His feet were bare, the soles as dark and sun-beaten as the rest of his body. He lay with his eyes closed, face slack, as though sleeping very deeply.

Crimson stood up slowly, having trouble reconciling this with his knowledge that everything in this room was from the First Era. “Well… what the shit? There’s a fella nappin’ here.”

“He must be dead.” Tidon said, pacing the circumference of the room, made uneasy by the centerpiece. His hand was on his sword.

“He sure doesn’t look it.” Crimson said, striding up to the marble slab and its occupant. The man did look asleep, restful. Crimson pressed his fingers to the man’s neck. It was ice cold. “Yep, he’s gone and kicked the bucket already.”

“That doesn’t make sense.” Tidon said, approaching now that it was deemed safe. Crimson didn’t hold it against him, he wasn’t much more than a boy after all. “He should be dust.”

“Tell him that.” Crimson said. His toe brushed something and he bent down to see what it was. It was a shield, leant against the side of the marble. With it were a belt and a dagger.

“Father.” Tidon pointed at the man and Crimson looked up again. Clasped in the dead Redguard’s hand was the most magnificent sword Crimson had ever seen.

“Oh, mate.” Crimson said, hurrying around the slab to inspect it. “This thing is totally mine. Look, it’s even got’ta little inscription at the hilt. That’s cute, they actually expect me ta read?”

“I don’t think you should touch it.” Tidon said apprehensively.

“Why? Ya want first go?”

“No I mean…” Tidon lowered his voice and cast a worried glance at the corpse, “it’s his.”

“He ain’t using it, Ty.” Crimson said. Without further drama, he picked the sword up, making a noise when its edge scraped the marble. He pursed his lips as he inspected it.

Tidon leaned forwards, mouth forming a perfect ‘O.’

“Well?” The prince implored.

Crimson took his grip, and swung the sword about, cleaving the air. Each form was perfect. Each stroke unblemished in its execution. Crimson frowned deeply.

“What? What is it?” Tidon asked.

Crimson set the sword back down. “It sucks.”

“It what?”

“The sword’s garbage.” Crimson shrugged. “Fella was usin’ a shite sword.”

“But… look at it! It’s a masterpiece!”

“Masterpiece ov’ trash, is what. Wouldn’t cut the cheese with it.” He walked around the slab, putting his back to it. “Let’s get outta here. He kinda smells.”

Tidon cast one last look at the sword. Then he turned and hurried after his father.

Crimson was down there later that day bricking the hall back up, whistling to himself.

Somethings were better left dead and buried.

Today
Nyasia pulled herself out of the dirt, and pressed a hand to the stinging portion of her face.

“Ow!” She protested, throwing an accusatory glare at Baldr. They both wielded wooden swords and wore leather padding to soften the blows, but being hit in the face with anything by a man twice your size hurt no matter what.

The knight’s returning stare was one without empathy. “Your riposte left an opening, your majesty.”

Their practice arena was a square of dirt fifty feet off the side of the road. A neat campsite was made up next to it, and that was where their horses were hitched, as well as where Scaldor had set the food over the fire. The Altmer now stood by the road, watching for passerby, arms folded. His coat was a heavy leather, and the tail hit the backs of his legs when he turned.

“Master Gaffar never hit me in the face.” She growled, standing up. She took her stance again, sword held out in front of her.

Baldr didn’t respond, instead launching a powerful, full body swing at her. Nyasia expertly parried it, but his sheer strength knocked her off balance. She hopped on one foot, trying to regain equilibrium, and he easily shoved her down with his off hand.

Nyasia landed on her rear with an ignoble, “Oof!”

Baldr stood over her. “What was that hopping, highness?”

Nyasia looked away, scowling, both embarrassed and frustrated. “I was trying to get my balance back.”

“You should’ve back stepped.” Baldr told her. “On your feet, lady. Again.”

Nyasia stood up, stanced, raised sword. Baldr lifted his sword up and she lifted hers to meet his. By the time she realized she'd fallen for a feint, he kicked her in the gut, knocking her down again.

“Again.”

The Queen was curled up and coughing, holding her stomach.. “A moment…”

Scaldor looked over, scratching the scar on his chin. Everyone of his scars hurt, but the one his chin was the only one that itched. He imagined digging his fingers into the flesh of his face, peeling it back, squeezing out whatever sensation caused the itching. He imagined, too, the relief it would provide.

“Alright… alright…” Nyasia was up again, sword raised. She took a more defensive stance, keeping the distance between her and Baldr. “I think I’ve got it this time.”

The knight feinted for her side, but Nyasia ignored it, beginning a sudden offensive. Her sword cut two arcs, forcing Baldr back so that he could keep track of her sword, that ended in a stab at his chest.

He reflexively blocked it--Nyasia turned her wrist over, her sword gliding overtop his, and tapped him over the heart.

“Got you!” Nyasia grinned at him.

Baldr slapped the sword out of her hand and shoved a palm into her forehead. Nyasia was thrown flat onto her back.

“Hey!” She protested, sitting up. “What the hell?”

“That wouldn’t have killed me.” Baldr said. “You didn’t drive it in.”

“We’re just practicing, I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You should be trying to.” Baldr shook his head, never pleased nor displeased. “That’s enough for today.”

“I’m not finished!” Nyasia protested, hurriedly standing up. Dirt caked her hair, elbows, and knees.

Baldr ignored her, instead heading over to grab stew from the bubbling pot. He was a large man, and when he sat down on the ground it looked like he was bunching up.

“Wasting your words on him.” Scaldor was approaching, leaving his post at the roadside. He was large too, but in a different way. Baldr occupied space, but Scaldor loomed in it. The elf could scowl like nobody else, and his nose was locked in an expression of permanent contempt. He owned every room he walked into, something Nyasia was jealous of. Royalty or not, people tended to overlook her.

“He should listen to me.” Nyasia replied. “I’m his Queen.”

“My queen too.” Scaldor said. There was snide humor in his voice, dry rather than smirking. “And I don’t listen to a word you say.”

Nyasia glared at him. “You’re the worst.”

“And the best at it.” He settled down on a stump, across the fire from Baldr. “Eating well, big guy?”

Baldr didn’t say anything, only glanced at Scaldor. He wordlessly spooned more stew into his mouth. There wasn’t a shred of anything behind his eyes.

“Fucking ogre.” The Altmer muttered, serving himself.

Nyasia stared at the two of them, before huffing and storming off to be by herself. This trip was not going how she had pictured it.

“Don’t go too far, majesty!” Scaldor called after her, pouring some stew down his throat. He ate without utensils, and greedily. Beef, by far, tasted better than human.

Nyasia wandered down the road, hugging her arms to her chest. The Colovian Highlands rolled off to the east, as far as she could see. Taneth was far behind her now, and how she missed it. Not the pampering, or the bowing, not even the silk bedsheets or how the young men looked at her. What she missed was feeling like she belonged. Only a week out, and already she felt profound alienation. Scaldor and Baldr’s treatment of her had done nothing to lessen that feeling.

She just wished she had brought a woman her age. A handmaiden or a noble scion, it didn’t matter who, just someone. Someone who she could talk to, who understood her problems. She wished it, willed it...