Board Thread:Roleplaying/@comment-5583506-20170721035105/@comment-5583506-20170721035215

4E 407...

The sun had already begun to settle beyond the Sea of Ghosts, sinking the entire northern coast of Skyrim into a bleak and eerie gloom. Not even the pitch black surface of the water seemed to reflect what little light there was left of the day, as if it deliberately didn't want to.

Preacher gazed out over the lifeless horizon, void of all things good and green. ''Certainly a fitting spot to store away the world's most unwanted... ''he reflected. It was his duty to pay the old establishment from time to time, even though he didn't want to.

The row-boat cruised through the unruly waves with only a little lantern at the prow to guide their path through the misty darkness. From out of the fog it appeared. A vast and hideous island with spiked cliffs, shooting up from the ocean like a set of fangs in the jaws of some sort of gigantic leviathan, ready to swallow them whole. And upon the island it stood. The only location on Nirn that made his abdomen feel like it was carrying a thick and uncomfortable knot inside his guts.

"Volkihar Prison awaits", grinned the toothless ferryman and looked up at Preacher from where he was rowing. He chuckled. "I will come and get you come morning. No sane man rows up to the prison after nightfall."

"Right", Preacher grunted and gazed up on the foreboding bastion. He saw lanterns swiftly being lit along the parapets and dark silhouettes appearing behind the walls as they inspected the newly arrived visitors from afar.

It didn't take long for the row-boat to hit solid ground, nor did it take long for Preacher to sense the presence of crossbows already aimed at him from every direction of the coastal cliffs, following his every move.

''They truly are... disciplined...''

From out of the darkness a man in a guard uniform stepped forward and lit a lantern, holding it up to reveal his furrowed and scarred face. "Preacher", he said with a nod, implying a sense of bitter welcoming. "Welcome to Volkihar Prison."

Preacher gave the captain a nod of respect in return. And though he knew that all those unseen crossbows hiding in the shadows were there for the safety of Tamriel, he didn't dare to move a muscle in the wrong direction, lest he would trigger some sort of reaction that would result in his bolt-ridden corpse. Though he possessed the heroic trait, he wasn't invincible.

The captain motioned with his head for Preacher to follow and the hero did as such, casting a glance behind his shoulder as he saw the toothless ferryman set out to the dark waters once more with a scoff, almost as if he mocked him.

The gates of Volkihar Prison were as tall, black and imposing as the spiked outer walls of the ancient castle. A long time ago the entire island had been under the ownership of the Volkihar clan of vampires, but then the Dawnguard had arisen and wiped them all out and put the castle to the torch. Ever since then the old buildings had been rebuilt to hold every last villain in Tamriel possessing the hero trait safely behind bars. It was said that deep within the dungeons of the castle one could still hear the screams of the vampires being burned to death and their victims alike, echoing in the night.

Entering the prison itself felt like entering a tomb; it was cold and desolate and had the unpleasant stench of something having buried for a long time only to have been dug up  later. The guards were all constantly on alert, their eyes tracing his every footstep. If he so much as breathed in a way they perceived as a threat, they would interfere with violence. These men and women... they had death written all over their faces. Either from having witnessed it themselves, or carried it out by hand. Spending so much time inside this dark isolated place, surrounded by monsters of the worst kind certainly had had its impact on their mind and physical exterior. They were as much prisoners here as the people they kept behind bars, unable to return to live back at the mainland under normal circumstances.

Preacher stepped up to the reception, if one could call it a reception. It was more or less an iron wall, with a tiny little hatch one could open to stare into the eyes of the dungeon keeper.

"Whom are you here to see?" the keeper asked sternly, always expecting foul play.

Preacher wouldn't blame the man for being suspicious. Volkihar Prison had been deceived in the past by outside forces which had resulted in tragedy on the mainland and in the prison alike.

"The Mold", Preacher replied sharply.

The name itself seemed to make the dungeon keeper even more wary, but he relented. "Cell 0801", he said. "You will need the key for the restricted section. One moment."

There was the scrambling noise of metal from behind the iron wall, and further along the wall a door opened, though it would have been impossible to spot it in the shade. The dungeon keeper signaled for preacher to follow.

"This way", he instructed.

Preacher did as he was told, following under silence. Eyes peering out from every corner and nook as he wandered through the halls, his footsteps echoing for each pillar he passed. Even though there were lanterns lit in the hallways, there was something unnatural about the darkness here. It seemed as if it fed upon the light, never allowing it to glow to its full extent.

A heavily bolted gate with numerous mechanical locks slowly swung open after the rattling of chains signaled from the other side that they had now entered the first cell block. Preacher couldn't help but imagine if there were any familiar faces he would see here? Former friends? Or just selfmade madmen? Every cell in Volkihar Castle was unique. Every last one of them specifically made to contain a certain individual, based upon what powers they possessed. And the prison always seemed to have room to expand for more. If Preacher himself was to take the wrong turn in life somewhere, he expected that he could very well find himself locked up in here. Labeled as a danger to society. He knew however that that would never happen. He knew himself. He knew where his loyalties were. These pathetic criminals and madmen would not sway him to do something which went against everything he stood for and believed in.

Passing a huge cell to his right, he could hear a fierce growling from inside as if coming from some gigantic chained up animal. Two pale green, slit eyes glared furiously at him in the darkness of the cell.

Several guards readied themselves for any potential breakout once a familiar face made itself visible to Preacher through the bars. "Preacher..." a voice hissed.

The Imperial hero gazed up on the warning sign, even though he already knew the convict:

Subject: Shadowcat

Containment: Needs to be confided in as tight a cell as humanly possible to prevent subject from gaining momentum.

"Raaslan", Preacher said acknowledging the voice as that of a former hero... or would-be hero.

"Heh", the voice wheezed. "They gonna get you locked up here too? Was only a matter of time after all. We could smell it from miles away. They are all bored of you now. Bored and frightened. Best to lock you away and throw away the key before you do anything drastic." The gigantic Khajiit grinned cruelly. "And that would mean that you would be stuck in here... with us."

Preacher didn't smile one bit at the monster in the cage. "I am nothing like you, Raaslan. Don't ever compare me to you again."

The huge Khajiit suddenly took a firm grip around the bars of his cell as if to scare Preacher, though the Imperial didn't move one inch. The guards however certainly did, all aiming their crossbows at the monstrum behind the bars. Shadowcat was close enough to stretch out his grotesque tongue and lick Preacher had he wanted to.

"Oh, but you are, Preacher", the Khajiit scoffed. "Your denial only proves how close you are to fall from grace and end up in here. A relic of the past. A sacrifice for a better world... without our kind."

"That day has yet to come", Preacher said sternly. "Nor will it. Not as long as I keep the bad apples like you stowed away in here to rot." He then continued his path to the restricted section, followed by Shadowcat's satanical laughter.

"We will be waiting, Preacher! We will wait!"

Ignoring the outburst from the monster, Preacher finally entered the restricted section of the prison, surrounded by cells on all sides where the most wanted villains in the world were housed. The Musician, Half-Troll, Wormking. They were all housed here. However the only cell of interest to him was the one weraing the number 0801 on its sign, and it read:

Subject: The Mold

''Containment: Subject must remain shackled at all times and out of reach for any physical contact with visitors and guards alike. Treated with extreme caution as subject may imitate the appearance of anything it comes in contact with.''

The cell was uplit by a single lantern in the ceiling. And in the center of the cell there was the form of a grey old man. Whom it was, Preacher couldn't tell. Presumably the last person alive to fall for the Mold's deceitful ways. It had been seven years since the Mold's incarceration, yet he couldn't remember the name of the villain's last victim before he had finally been brought to justice. It sent Preacher chills up his spine. He felt as if he was looking at a ghost. In front of the Mold there was a chessboard which the convict was playing with all by himself. However, without looking up from the game he immediately set up the pieces as if expecting a game from whomever had come to visit him.

"It's been a long time, hero", the Mold said with a voice cold and full of resentful bitterness. "Seven years. And not even a letter. I am utterly appalled."

Preacher nodded to the dungeon keeper. The man signaled for a couple of guards to keep their eyes trained on the conversation while he would remain waiting outside. The hero pulled up a chair and sat down in front of the cell, observing the chessboard.

"I have come to talk", Preacher said.

It seemed to amuse the Mold. "Well... talk. Care for a game of chess?"

Preacher shook his head dismissively.

"Your loss", the Mold grunted and began to move the white chess pieces. "What did you come here for then? Surely not to check in on your favourite nemesis?"

"I came here to talk straight with you", Preacher said, ignoring the sarcasm. "It's been seven years now since I put you in here. Yet..." He drew for breath. "Why do I get the feeling that... I don't know. I get the feeling that that wasn't the end of it."

"And?" The Mold didn't even look up from the chessboard as he began to move the black pieces.

Preacher observed the villain cautiously. "I want you to be honest with me. Just this once."

"About what?" the Mold said as he moved the pieces rapidly, as if he was thinking five steps ahead of his own actions.

"Did you allow yourself to be deliberately caught during the Great Conflict?"

The Mold ceased to move his pieces around, listening instensively. "Yes", he said.

Though Preacher wouldn't normally trust a single word that came pouring out of this criminal's mouth, he couldn't help but feel that the Mold was being honest for once. "Why?" he asked.

The Mold smirked. A wet smile appearing on the old man's lips. "Now that, Preacher, that would be spoiling the surprise." He started to move the white bishop.

I knew it...

"Surprise?" Preacher said askingly. "What surprise are you hiding from me? What surprise could you possibly compose from within these walls? A surprise that has been waiting for me for seven years?"

The Mold held a black rook for a moment, before taking a white knight. "The best gifts are often those that take a long time to unwrap, Preacher", the Mold said.

Though Preacher was certain that the Mold had no accomplices in Tamriel capable of breaking the villain out of Volkihar Prison, he couldn't help but feel a bit at unease once he had said those exact words. "What do you mean, Mold?" Preacher asked inquisitively. "Do I have something I should fear from you waiting for me outside? Now? After seven years of waiting?"

"No", the Mold said calmly, using a white pawn to take a black knight. "Not now." A black queen took a white bishop. "But in ten years from now."

Preacher shifted uncomfortably, his gaze sharpening as he examined the Mold carefully. "Ten years?" He leaned in closer, yet remained calm. He couldn't allow this wretch to see any signs of weakness. "What's going to happen in ten years, Mold?"

"Heh", the Mold shrugged. "See here, Preacher", he said, gesturing to the chessboard with his hands. "As of now, this board is in an uproar. It's chaos. Yet there is also an order to it. You just need the right mindset to see it. That's how one embraces victory."

Preacher furrowed his brow.

"Patience being the keyword, no matter how foul the situation may seem. Right now white has an open field. Are they going for the kill? Yes, I do believe they are. Always so eager to eradicate what they deem as 'evil'." He started to move the pieces rapidly again. "They fight aggressively, pushing forward into the heart of darkness. Yet black remains still, allowing them to push onward, no matter how long it takes. They can persevere." The black pieces were getting picked off one by one. "See how close the white are to victory? They might've been, but alas..."

He tapped with his fingers at the black queen. "In their effort to eradicate evil, they left an opening and thus the fox is loose in the hen coop. Their king has now nowhere to go. He is blocked on one side by a badly placed rook, and even if they were to move it to make way for the king, he would still get taken by the black knight in the next."

Preacher didn't know what to make of it, but he certainly didn't like all this talk about killing kings, even metaphorically. If the Mold was being the slightest truthful in his strange display, he was trying to tell him that he was laying low, biding his time... and getting ready to strike at their heart.

Preacher shrugged. "So why ten years? Why the patience? I am out in the field now, am I not? I am not protecting any hen coop. Why not strike now?"

The Mold just observed Preacher under silence, which seemed to make Preacher even more agitated.

"What is it that you are not telling me, Mold? Answer."

The Mold smiled his wet smile again. "I don't take you for someone who scare easily, Preacher, but I can tell..." With one final draw he moved his black queen and put the white king in check. "... that you are getting confused... maybe worried."

"Not for myself", Preacher replied truthfully. "But for countless of civilians. Tell me now, Mold. Redeem yourself for once. That's what I came here for. I want you to be honest with me. I want you to tell me if I have any reason to be concerned about you somehow causing yet another Great Conflict in Tamriel. I need to know so that we can both sleep easier at night. Because you know as well as I do that this has to end somehow. Either with you... standing there with your damned smug smile over my corpse... or..."

Preacher gazed down upon his own hands, he could tell they were shaking slightly. "... me... with your blood on my hands. Something I'd wish to avoid. So, please. Let us not make it end like that. Let me believe that there is some good in you. Let me believe that even you are capable of redemption."

The Mold smiled, though this time it seemed to be more out of respect than mockery. "I can tell why Preacher was a fitting name for your hero status, old friend." His smile than faded. "But I fear... that it's already past that point. There never was a chance for peace. Not even at the beginning."

Preacher sighed, obviously not pleased with what he had heard, and began to rise up from the chair when the Mold interrupted his process of thought.

"However..." the villain said. "I will give you a little hint to my big surprise, Preacher. As a parting gift, for old times sake." He gestured to the chessboard once more. "Chaos", he said, knocking the white king over. "I want this world, Preacher. More than you can ever know. And the only way to achieve such goals... is through chaos. Chaos from your perspective, yet order in mine. And as I've already said..." He scoffed. "... patience is the keyword. In ten years from now I will be one step closer to achieving victory than I have ever been before. One step closer to accomplishing what I didn't do during the Great Conflict. Ten years, my friend. But I fear that it will be too late by then.  All my pieces are all set and ready to move and be slaughtered, are yours? I have waited seven years, what's another ten? "

Preacher glared at the Mold with a deadly stare. Though the Heroes' Guild frowned upon killing, he would've been more than glad to strangle the life out of the mad genius on the spot if that would ensure the safety of thousands of others.

He signaled for the dungeon keeper to open the door and escort him to his chambers where he would stay the night until the ferryman could pick him up in the morning. He didn't know right now whether this visit had been fruitless, he just hoped that the Mold was pulling his leg and would most likely laugh his ass off at how upset he had gotten him for falling to his lies. But if what the Mold was saying was true... and that there actually was a reason to fear him even when he was locked up in Volkihar Prison, then the Guildmaster needed to be made aware, and school the new candidates for the next ten years to be prepared for whatever threat the Mold had promised him. Last thing Tamriel needed was another Great Conflict. It hadn't ended pretty the last time...

(From here you will post your chars and have them arrive to the Heroes' Guild on their own conditions. By carriage, by boat, or by any other means that you deem as fitting for your character. Good luck and have fun!)