User blog:Emperor Maximus/Souls of Tamriel - Wolves on the Wind

Ricarl ran, panting, into the winds. The howls from behind his back continued. There were at least three distinct sounds, and many that could be different. One wolf could tear into his flesh and rip him to pieces. His chances of beating three were very slim indeed. And if there were more...

The man kept on running.

It had only been two days since he had escaped from a conclave of the Priests of Ruin, who were going to sacrifice him in some bizarre ritual to summon one of their dragon god's disciples. Or that was what they said would happen. More likely, they would just destroy themselves in a surge of magical power. But to the Priests of Ruin it was all the same.

This land did not care for those that travelled alone, however. The scent of blood was carried on the winds far and wide, attracting all sorts of monstrous things. If not wolves, then something worse would surely come for Ricarl.

Not only was he being pursued by the beasts, but it was deep into the night, and if by some miracle there was somebody else out there, they would not see him running across the burnt grasslands.

Another howl came, this time from his left. And it was very close. Ricarl felt a rush of air and instinctively leapt forwards, rolling on the earth, rising up and continuing to run. A disgruntled noise of annoyance confirmed his suspicion that one of the wolves had tried to get him.

His legs felt like dead weights. It was becoming increasingly difficult to move them. The ground underneath him began to incline, which he found rather odd, and felt a lot more rocky and uneven. Surely this wasn't the earth he had been running on? And there were no mountains near here. How very strange.

It was at this point that his foot was meant to land on the rocks, but instead fell through nothingness. He made a small noise of surprise as his body plummeted through a hole in the ground, before landing a few feet below on hard stone. A creaking noise followed by a whump suggested that the hole in the rocky surface above him had been closed up by some kind of trap door.

The howling noises did not stop. The wolves were still there, prowling around the area, trying to find their prey. But for the moment he was safe.

Ricarl waited a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. A few cracks in the rocks above him let pitiful slivers of starlight fall into the chamber. After moving around the edges he found that it was roughly spherical, perhaps 10 feet or so in diameter, and there were carvings all over the stone. He could not see them, but after feeling the depressions made, could ascertain that they were runes of some kind.

Given the circumstances, Ricarl did not feel particularly safe, but this was the only shelter around for miles. He curled up in as comfortable a position as he could find, and tried to get some rest. The wolves howled all through the night, and sleep was not easy.

Dawn's light crept through the crevices and woke Ricarl. Now he could properly see his surroundings. The runes were arranged in concentric cirlces, but were unlike any he had seen before. Except for one. It was made of two curved sides, a slightly curved top which extended past the two sides, and a dot in the middle. Ricarl had certainly seen it before, but he couldn't quite remember where.

More importantly, there was a wooden throne in the centre of the chamber. A skeleton sat atop it. He was adorned with golden plate armour, most of which had fallen off, and there was a magnificent golden sword clutched in one of his bony hands. The hilt was circular, which Ricarl found very strange. He carefully pulled it out from the skeleton's hand and held it firmly. A small shimmering light appeared within the circular hilt. Ricarl cried out in surprise and dropped the blade, and the light went out. When he tentatively picked it up the light reappeared. The armour looked far too large for him. But, just to make sure, he picked up one of the vambraces. He could have sworn it was too large before, but now it was a perfect fit. The rest of the armour was the same - it seemed to mold itself to his shape.

He stood there, in the centre of the chamber, golden and resplendent and beautiful. And he was filled with the strength and courage of a thousand warriors. Ricarl strode to where he had first dropped down, pushed open the trap door, and rose out of the chamber. Before him were five wolves, haunches raised, teeth bared, growling in anger. But they did not scare him.

With the speed and strength of the greatest knight, Ricarl charged down the side of the rocks, and sliced through a wolf as it jumped at him. Another grabbed onto his leg and tried to savage it, but he kicked in on its side and stomped down, crushing it underfoot. The third stood in front of him, pawing the ground, and before it could attack Ricarl had thrust forwards and impaled the beast. The last two leapt at him from two different directions. Ricarl crouched down and spun in a circle, sword raised high, and he cleaved through both of them in a wicked arc of death.

The wolves were dead. He looked down, and saw the sword glow more brightly, before it shimmered and faded out of existence along with the armour. And Ricarl was left standing there with nothing more than the ragged clothing he was wearing before having donned the armour. When he turned around the cairn was no longer there either.

Blood crept across the burnt grass, slowly soaking into the earth, staining it darker and darker. Ricarl turned from the scene of slaughter and walked away, far off, towards the rising sun. He wasn't quite sure why he was moving to the sun, it was not the direction he had originally been travelling in. But after that fight he felt a strong urge to follow the dawn. Did it matter which way he travelled, anyway? After all, being near so many dead bodies was a bad idea. The scent of blood was carried on the winds far and wide, attracting all sorts of monstrous things. If not wolves, then something worse would surely come for Ricarl.