#she wasn’t ready for necromancers and vampires and feeling like death was at every corner | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

worstfruit · 5 years ago

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Okay so i reworked this using bastardized doric, which i intend to lessen over time but i think its still a bit much

The tower wasn’t anything like what Gwen had anticipated. It was far too kempt for starters, and though it was deep within the woods outside of town, it was still just sitting out in a clearing. A bit too obvious for her liking.

And yet, on the opposite end of the spectrum it was far too subtle. There were no twisting vines or dead trees. No heads on pikes, no ribcages or femurs strung up on display. In her experience, that meant a trap. Dazzle camouflage—hiding in plain sight with how garishly cute the garden was. She’d never met a wizard who grew chamomile. But even after waiting and watching and sneaking around every angle, Gwen hadn’t triggered any sort of trip wire nor spotted even an open archere in the stone. There was a locked cellar just around the back, next to the small plot of tilled soil. The lock looked rusted to hell, likely from disuse. The garden, though brimming with wildflowers, was a bit out of order as well, and Gwen had to wonder if anyone even lived inside the tower. Still, it did meet the description the locals gave her (an unassuming but old stone pillar erected in the forests southeast of Backwater), and was exactly where the bandits said it would be (a clearing found left of a fresh deer carcass a short distance off the path’s second fork, the side with the big boulder).

She’d been a paladin long enough to learn that if it walked like a duck, and sounded like a duck, then it was probably a duck. Besides, beggars couldn’t be choosers, and at the moment, Gwen was in quite the pickle. Not three weeks prior had she been ousted from her Temple and indefinitely suspended of knighthood by her order. Taking down a necromancer, one that had alluded authorities for over 6 months, would be just the kind of deed she needed to get back in good graces.

Gwen readied her sword and stepped towards the stone structure, still anticipating some sort of magical barrage. An explosion, maybe even just a ‘hey you!’ But as she made her way up to the dry rotted entrance door, there was nothing.

Based off reports, she was half expecting hell itself. A fortnight prior to her expulsion, the temple formally briefed a number of paladins on the mission, recounted ongoing complaints of dug up graves, missing corpses, and robberies from the town of Backwater. It was a small and poor little stop along the way to Capitol; one of the few human villages between the Mission and High Elf territory, mostly used as a last minute night’s stay or provision pick up.

Tangent reports of missing cattle, children, and even the infirm were lumped together due to how small the townships outside of Backwater were. The bandits, who had tried to ambush her during her initial trek through the woods, informed Gwen of an elderly spell caster who conjured demons and brimstone from his own hands. The Backwater locals’ descriptions varied from vampiric in nature, down to common thugs, but all stories had a few principle things in common: he was old, he was in the woods, he worked with fire, he lived in a tower, and was evil. Taking in the scenery before her, Gwen sized it up. She certainly was at a tower in the woods.

For a moment, her manners almost got the better of her and she raised a gloved hand to knock. Thinking better, she gently pushed against the arched door to find it unlocked. It was ill fitted for the doorway, shrunken with age and it glided without touching the threshold.

Generally, necromancers were known to have a penchant for decay, dilapidation, just a general unkemptness that this tower absolutely did not have. The interior was lackluster to say the least; a bit old but otherwise rather mild in all regards. The floors were rugged with some dust in the corners, the stairs narrow but clearly well used, and there was even a small boiler with a little shitty kettle atop. Keeping her hands on the hilt of her blade, Gwen continued onwards, taking gentle steps so that her sabatons did not clack too loudly against the cobbled floors. She used to rugs to muffle her steps, stretching her short gait to match their haphazard patterns. She noticed a number of odds and ends befitting of her grandmother more so than a necromancer; things like doilies and little dried out gourds with sad little faces painted on them, a cracked tea cup here and there, some with tea leaves wet at the bottom. Still—Gwen had been spurned too many times to assume, perhaps the wizard was an elderly woman, or perhaps it was all a ruse. Cute or not, she had a job to do and a reputation to save.

Doing her best to ignore all the warning signs (or, lack thereof), Gwen pressed onwards, towards the spiraling stairwell. There were a few tomes laying about. She stooped to flip through one, noting that while the contents weren’t strictly of a necromantic nature, they were still damning nonetheless. Poison herbs and writing on anatomy, charts of stars and moon phases, a grimoire here and there and even one on exotic animals.

The stairs were lined with melted wax, an odd wick here and there sticking out like stray hairs on a bald man’s head. The tower, save the open door and natural sunlight pouring in from the top, was poorly lit and only so large; though there was no apparent latch door-- there may have been a basement along with the cellar; there was really nowhere else to go quietly but up. Even the archeres were boarded up with odd bits of rays poking through and spilling onto the bumpy walls and cracked wood; it made her ascent a bit difficult but Gwen was nothing in not cautious. She waited long enough for her eyes to adjust to the shadows before pressing onwards.

The next level was even more cramped than the first, and more of a resting area than an actual floor. Gwen froze just as her line of sight passed over a step and into the room—just around the curved corner of the tower’s central support pillar (a massive, cylindrical oak beam), there was a chair. Tartan fabric, frayed, with feather filling coming out about the seams and around the corners, but atop the chair sat…something. It was small, maybe the size of a medium hound, greenish skin and a shock of red hair and cloth curled around itself. She couldn’t quite understand the anatomy if it from the glimpse she got before concealing herself behind the beam, just that it was alive and likely asleep.

Gwen peaked back around just to confirm her suspicions. The beast was tiny and most definitely asleep. Oddly enough, it was also clothed in what appeared to be a little cloak, fit for a child. She could identify its head, its long and pointed nose, two bat like ears and two giant, but closed eyes. It breathed in a gentle rhythm, clawed paws and feet tucked by its side much the way the temple’s pet cat curled up on Gwen’s bed some nights. It resembled a sand imp, ghastly little creatures all wrinkles and teeth. She didn’t want to wake it up to find out if it had the very same fangs.

Next to the chair was a small rickety stool with a book atop, and on top of the book was a half-eaten apple, already yellowing. She looked as far as she could upwards. There was enough of a ceiling for her to guess the third floor was a bit more substantial. As quietly as she could, Gwen moved her foot upwards. She hesitated placing it down unto the next step; if the creature was anything like a sand imp, she did not wish to wake it. Even before she finished her step, she saw its ears twitch. Perhaps this was the warlock’s familiar, and perhaps she was lucky to have caught it sleeping on guard duty.

Rather than continuing upwards, Gwen considered her options. The thing was small. It would be a but a stain on her long sword. But, if it really was some sort of fucked up, green sand imp (perhaps it was rabid or jaundiced), then it was probably fast. Their claws were nasty and they were just intelligent enough to know exactly were to slide them between the seams of plate armor. It’s almost as if they were completely willing to die, just so long as they could make you bleed, even just a little. They had zero regard for their own safety, no sense of reasoning, and no hesitation. It would be like a setting off an alarm bell for sure; loud creatures they were. She hated them more than feral, rabid rats, and while she would surely be able to take one (yet alone a puny, runty, sleeping one), she would rather not.

Which brought her to the next option. The creature all but confirmed the identity of the tower’s primary inhabitant. What sort of old woman would live with a pet sand imp? And, by law, familiars and death magick were strictly prohibited and punishable by, well, death. Love or hate the elves, they had a moral code she could agree with.

Gwen didn’t like to play executioner often, but for her own sake, she was strongly considering the alternative to continuing forward to confront the villain-- which was to go back to town, rile up the locals, gather a shit ton of wood and hay and oil and slow burning lards, and light the sucker up.

Nodding resolutely to herself, Gwen slowly, ever so carefully turned to head back down the stairs. She was feeling pretty pleased with her decision making, a bit clever too (she had found the tower after all, and could report the deed back to her temple even if she wasn’t the one to personally kill the necromancer. The townspeople would think her a hero and she would be allowed back into the Order, surely), until the very same little, shitty kettle she had spotted earlier flew right past her head. Gwen didn’t even have a chance to duck. It clattered against the stone wall loudly, spewing scalding hot water and steam all about. Thankfully, her armor caught the brunt of it, though a few flecks nipped at the nape of her exposed neck and she felt a painful flush of wet air blossom against her cheek and eye. Without hesitating she lunged forward and tackled the offender. She didn’t have of a chance to get much of a glimpse besides a hunched cloak and some white hair.

Her shoulder made contact and the two hit the floor, Gwen’s plate and mail pealing against the stone like a muffled bell. She flipped herself over to throw him to the side so she could land face up. Whoever had attacked her fell by her side with a dull thud. She used the pause to grab at her sword and roll over so that it was against them in a warning. Gwen miscalculated this move, however, and instead of holding the sword to their throat, her adrenaline and weight forced her forward much more quickly than she had intended. The blade plunged into the figure’s middle like a paring knife into a mushy peach. She heard a weak ‘oof’, before she felt the give of steel against flesh. It took a moment for it to register that both of them had stopped moving.

She clambered away and regained her footing using the boiler to stand fully. The ‘necromancer’ was on the floor, staring at the ceiling with glassy, bloodshot eyes. It was an impossibly old man, clean shaven and white like porridge. He wore a fuzzy purple cloak and a blue, linen nightgown beneath. His middle was a burgeoning blossom of bright red, two sinewy legs poking out from beneath his sheer gown and thick robe, twitching in a way that reminded Gwen, once again, of the little black cat that slept at the foot of her bed back at the temple.

Remembering the sand imp, Gwen gasped and turned towards the stairs waiting for another attack. Instead, she saw the green thing poking its head around the corner, clutching the empty tea kettle to its chest and staring at Gwen with big, yellow eyes. Just like the temple cat, Pitch.

Neither she nor the creature moved. Instead it moved it’s eyes from Gwen to the dead old man and back a few times, before finally opening its mouth (to which Gwen could see that it indeed had sand imp teeth) and saying “Is ye the witch?”

The last thing Gwen expected to hear was a voice. Words, intelligible common! It even cocked its head, clearly surprised, clearly afraid, clearly upset but otherwise completely unmoving.

She didn’t answer. She was stooped, breathing heavy, and unsure how to even answer the question. So instead she stood up straight and opened her mouth, then closed it, then looked to the freshly dead man on the floor for an answer. Receiving none, she looked back to the imp and cocked her own head back it. “What?” was all she could muster, though the incredulity in her voice certainly carried other questions. The imp, a he based off the voice, which was scratchy and a bit high (yet so clearly NOT a child, she would have to hear it again to confirm how oddly inhuman yet…human it sounded) adjusted its stance in a way that suggested he was reminding himself of where he was.

“Ah. Er, Ah mean ye. He.” The imp pointed to the man with a shaky claw and let out a short, desperate kind of laugh, and then spoke so quickly that Gwen almost didn’t catch it, “Vern aye says the witch he mairriet fair go cum ben back fur his heid een day, sae, is ye her? The witch?” He retracted his hand and used it to clutch the kettle even tighter to his chest. “Ye're gonnae kill me neist? Gonnae get me head too!?”

Gwen didn’t get the chance to answer or even ask for clarification; the imp seemed to realize his own words and swallowed them faster than he had said them, and without any warning, he chucked the kettle, as hard as his little twiggy arms could, directly at Gwen.

This time she didn’t have the chance to duck.

Gwen saw stars. The kettle was cast iron, and the imp was stronger than she gave it credit for. It connected with her forehead and sent her sprawling back against the tower’s wall with another clang. Gwen threw her hands to her face, cursing loudly and sliding senselessly against the wall and floor as she tried and failed to gain purchase. The wet rugs bunched at her sabatons and the tea kettle kept getting caught underfoot and rolling her backwards. She heard, rather than saw, all four of his clawed feet scuttling up the stairs like a frightened dog beneath the sounds of her own struggle. With a scream, Gwen kicked the rugs free of her feet and the kettle clean across the room, shoving herself upright. The paladin screwed her eyes shut and threw her sword down.

“Come back down here!” she screamed, stepping over ‘Vern’s’ body so she could reach the stairs. She wasn’t expecting an answer. “I won’t hurt you!” Gwen added in a much quieter voice. That was partially true, she wanted to ask the thing questions, and generally liked to refrain from violence if it could be helped. Unfortunately for Gwendoline, it could rarely be helped, and her entire face was smarting. She waited a beat for a response and then began trudging up the stairs, ignoring the dull throb emanating from the impact zone throughout her entire head.

The chair she had seen earlier was empty, and she continued upwards to the third level, all the while speaking in as calm but loud a voice she could manage through grit teeth; “I need to know more about Vern, he may have been a very bad man! Let me ask you some questions, please, and I won’t take anyone’s head!”

The third floor was a bit less boring than the first two. The walls were covered by a bookcase, the wooden panels following the curve of the stone walls behind them. Each shelf was full of knick knacks and dust. Jagged chunks of crystal and spindly plant stems with fuzzy leaves, bird and fish and rat bones, metal instruments and trinkets and tubes set up in between all of the books. The shelves broke in the center of the room, an arched little cove cut into them where an oil lamp hung unlit. Beneath was a small table with various, incriminating things on it, like mortars and pestles and scales, all kinds of little glass vials and broken bottles, quills in dried inkwells. Enough to convince any layman of Vern’s profession, surely.

There was a latch door on the ceiling, but the rope ladder attached to it hadn’t been completely unfurled; instead it hung limply so that the rope was in a loose coil, stuck against the nail lock. The thing was still in the room.

Next to the stair entrance on Gwen’s right was a sad little bedroll, not even a cot, with bits of hay sticking out bellow the fur blanket on top of it. The blanket had a lump beneath it, and the lump seemed to have a long, pointed nose attached.

Even assuming it was out of tea kettles, Gwen didn’t want to alarm it. Instead of addressing the lump, she simply spoke with a steady, but softer voice, to the room at large.

“I am sorry if he was your friend, imp. I. I did not intend to…end his life. Honestly. He caught me by surprise. I am a paladin from the Order of Fragan’s Templar, to the north of Backwater. I was tasked to…investigate reports of a necromancer terrorizing the woods surrounding Backwater and the road to Capitol. I truly mean you no harm, so long as you intend none in return.”

The lump stirred, poking a claw out so that the fur could be pulled back to reveal a narrowed, yellow eye. This time, his voice was more level, accusatory even, than afraid.

“Seems like a gayand quick in-inspectigation.”

“Investigation. I was attacked.” Gwen bit back.

“Ah didnae hear ye cum ben in. Didnae hear anyain let ye in.”

“You were asleep. The door was open; I didn’t hear anyone behind me!” Gwen pinched the bridge of her nose, “I entered just to talk, but since it was dark I was on alert. I was told this man was very dangerous. I saw you and. Well, I became frightened!” She paced forward and stood before the bedroll, using a foot to kick the fur clean away from the imp. He remained bent over, looking up at her. “So, you are Vern’s…familiar? He was a practitioner of some sort, I see.” Gwen gestured to the room around her.

The imp sat up onto its knees, still staring up all small and pathetic.

“A wis his slae.” He said, simply. He seemed to chew the rest of her words over but remained silent otherwise.

“Slae-slave? Was he practicing the dark path?” She asked after a moment. The imp shot her a questioning look. “Necromancy! A wicked pact with some malignant force?” Gwen pressed.

“Uh, he. Ye mean, the witch? Fit path? The wids?”

“Did he raise the dead? Was your master some sort of evil wizard, or otherwise unlawful caster? Did he rob graves, steal towns children and sacrifice animals, consort with the spirits and the like? And please, annunciate this time.”

The imp seemed to understand this and nodded slowly, placing a claw to his lower lip.

“Nay, Ah dinnae think sae.” He adjusted himself to stand and crossed his arms over his chest as if he were self-conscious in regards to what he was about to say, “He mostly wrote mince doon in, uh, in books fur fowk fa couldnae reid. They’d pey him tae scrieve a lot, or make tae make queer balms an sic, stuff thon smellit odd or brunt bricht in jars, an sometimes he e’en conjured portals!” He relaxed a bit as he explained, seemingly distracted with his own tale, moving his hands about, “Or skin a coney--”

“A coney?” She had to pause this time around, though she initially noticed he talked a bit oddly, she hadn’t heard him say enough to catch the accent. Even still, it wasn’t familiar. Mostly understandable, when he talked slow. Perhaps similar to the Northerly elves at most, but very off.

“Jumpy fur craiter, wit the lang lugs an sic.” Fizzle mimicked whatever a coney was by grabbing at his large ears and making an unidentifiable face.

Gwen just shrugged, signaling the imp to continue.

“Deer too, but then he fair hae me skin it an take aw the coin an fur an then!? Guess on whit he dae. He’d gae an send it off tae the witch! He aye talkit aboot her! The witch! The witch I thoucht ye wis. But yer’re no? Yer’re no gyan…tae kill me, richt?” He finished, seeming to remember he wasn’t alone and looked up at Gwen like he’d just spilt milk.

Gwen found herself leaning in, even squinting as she tried to decipher just what the little creature was saying. She caught the gist of it all, up until this point, but he spoke so fast, and all of his words had a way of melting into each other, stumbling and lilting at the oddest moments. She almost wasn’t sure if it was common tongue.

She put her hand to her mouth and rubbed her upper lip. So. The man hadn’t been a necromancer. She eyed the imp a bit as it spoke. It could be lying, or perhaps not know the difference between a portal mage and a necromancer. She let his question linger in the air for a moment before regarding the creature with a sigh. Gwen at least understood that he did not want to die.

“No imp. I will spare your life.” She said, with a bit more monotony than she had intended. Had she not been so distracted with the current predicament, she might’ve found the way he perked up endearing, in a pitiful way. Like a pig spared the slaughter. But, instead, Gwen sunk to floor next to the imp (even when seated, it barely met her eye line) and pressed both hands over her mouth once more, staring straight ahead. “Vern. Vern was his name, you said?” The imp nodded. “Vern…did he have family? Friends, the like?” she asked from beneath her gauntlets.

“No…I dunno aboot the witch, bit, aside frae me an a puckle fowk, nae a body comes bi affen.”

“Fowk? Do you mean folk? The people. Like, towns people, from Backwater? Do they come often asking for things like portals and potions?”

The imp thought for a moment, his red irises rolling up to the side to regard a stray cobweb floating down in a beam of sunlight.

“Na, no anymore. Ah actually cannae remember fin we haed ane. Mebbe aroon lest hairst.”

“Huh?”

“Hairst! Neeps n pumpkins, ye ken?”

“Pumpkins.” She was losing patience. Luckily, Gwen dealt with her fair share of Northerners while posted at the wall, though the conversations were often limited to work related issues. “H-harvest? You mean the autumn, when the leaves fall?” Fizzle nodded excitedly. And in turn, Gwen nodded solemnly, then stood to pace in front of the imp. His head trailed after her movements. “Okay. Yes. We are getting somewhere, despite the clear barrier of tongues. And you, what is your name?”

“Fizzle.”

“Fizzle. Good. Yes. Were you, fond? Of Vern?”

Fizzle simply shook his head, a definite ‘NO’.

“He enslaved you, you said? Made you do things against your will and skin rabbits for no pay?”

“He foond me innae tree stump ane day an pit me innae sack! Ah was hidin an he still foond me. Ah dunno how! Ilky time Ah triit tae scowp awa faet, he wad aye track me doon an 'en dunk me intae the river till Ah cooldn’t stain it na mair!” Fizzle crossed his arms and huffed, looking away for a moment to consider his words before looking back up to the woman. “Aye, he did bad magick. But nae daith magicks.”

Gwen leaned forward excitedly, latching onto one of Fizzle’s words. “Okay, okay, so…would you perhaps say that he was a bad man? A mean man?” she asked, eyeing one of the many decorative squashes peppering the tower. It stared back at her.

“He wis mean an he lovit tae zap fin ah let kettle fussle afore fly cup. Een time he gart me boo like a bench, ower on ma hands an knees an he dane putten his feet on ma back, aw kis ah accidentally brunt his favourite stool!”

Gwen nodded eagerly as she walked around the room, and continued shaking her head to herself well after Fizzle had finished speaking. There was ample evidence supporting Vern’s ‘treachery’. From his choice in literature to the indentured servitude of a sick sand imp! Gwen was smiling to herself as she considered this: he probably enchanted the poor beast to make it sentient (and green)! She was sure the Order would not be pleased about that in the least. Truly a vile, vile man!

“Okay! Great.” She clapped her gloved hands together with a metallic smack, startling Fizzle; “Well, there we have it, my little friend! I came to investigate Vern. I followed the tips of the towns people, and two unscrupulous bandits who tried to accost me on the road here! They told me of his ways, how he had devils shooting fire from their hands. I entered his tower in search of him, just to talk! To confront him, and yet the coward attacked me without warning.” She paused her theatrics to turn and look at Fizzle, eliciting a nod from him which made her assume he was following along and compliant. “So I defended myself! And rightfully so, as I come to find, he’s put some sort of evil enchantment on you, to make you walk upright and wear clothes and speak as if you’re a regular halfling! What other forest critters he must have tortured!” Fizzle raised a brow ridge at this, but Gwen continued on, “The townsfolk will be happy to be rid of that man, of this I am certain.”

“Fit div ye mean, enhancement? On me?” he looked himself over, but saw nothing awry.

Gwen bit her lip. Was it cruel to tell a donkey it’s true nature? Certainly not if it, as donkeys ordinarily cannot understand you. But a talking donkey? Who ever heard of such a thing. Informing poor Fizzle as to what he was seemed akin to kicking a puppy begging for scraps. Needless cruelty (and Gwen had her fill of that for the day). But the imp just looked up to her, and despite her best efforts, she found herself relenting. She figured he deserved to know, and besides, she liked animals quite a lot.

“Well, you are but an imp, are you not? Never in my days have I encountered a walking, talking imp. Let alone a green one! And so far north.”

Fizzle was shaking his head before Gwen was even finished, “Am fae wye wye up north, past the waa.” Fizzle considered this for a second as he noted Gwen’s confusion, “The big, lang rock. Miekle rocks n sic! Man made.”

“The wall?”

“Aye! The waa. Vern wis buying dwarven wares n fit not, fin he fand me up near the mountains. Aire’s a lot o’ ma kin up aire. The caves an moors are ours. Belong tae us.”

“The north? The Great North, with dwarves?! I’ve never heard of sand imps living anywhere but south! In the salt flats and around the shores with those wild folk.” Now Gwen was shaking her head. “That would explain the accent, however.”

“Nae wi Dwarves, no, jis near tham. We hate dwarves an they hate us, an ah div nae ken fit the fuck an imp is, bit am a goblin, lady. A’ve nivver been faarer sooth nor here.”

“Repeat that last bit, where you just cursed at me.” Gwen asked, impassively. She was staring past the little thing, gears turning in her head trying to work out what he was saying.

“Err, Dwarves, richt? Sae, they hate me, an I hate ‘em. Dunno if they name us ‘imp’, bit Aim tellin ye, Aim a goblin.”

Gwen shook her head dismissively—semantics didn’t matter, and she was certain that whatever a ‘goblin’ called itself didn’t change the fact that it was an imp. She knew there were multiple tribes of elves who looked different enough from one another, and humans and halflings and dwarves had the tendency to range from an alabaster white to deep, rich browns and near blacks depending where they lived. Maybe sand imps weren’t just confined to the sands! Maybe they could be green?

“No matter, Fizzle, let’s just keep this between you and I. Those I answer too are not particularly fond of Northerners, and will have a much easier time understanding sand imps.” She filed away his strange account for later consideration; more important was the matter of staging the scene. Fizzle shrugged and continued to look up to her expectantly. It dawned on her that she wasn’t quite sure what to do with him. If the town’s excuse for law enforcement came to access the scene, they would surely want to get rid of the little guy. Gwen sort of pitied him. He had been helpful despite the kettle incident, and she didn’t exactly want to send him from his recent slavery straight to death. “But we will worry about that when the time comes. For now, I need your help.”

Gwen was not proud of this talent, no, but she recognized it as a valuable one nonetheless.

Over years of training under Thalodin Lldewig, she had learned many ways to…suggest things. Through dress, body language, gesture, facial expression, choosing words, and perhaps most importantly, through setting up bodies of evidence (as well as literal, dead bodies) to insinuate. Certain things. Many things. In fact, according to Thalodin, you could say just about anything, without actually ever saying a word. Things that may benefit him, and keep any officials outside (or sometimes, even inside) the Order from asking too many unnecessary questions.

Gwen didn’t like to think of this as lying. She detested lying. Every time she muttered even a white lie, she could feel the eyes of her patron saint burning a hole through her, even from a young age before she ever committed herself to the Order. But again, her mentor had the unfortunate habit of stretching the truth to such a degree that he was ‘forced’ to stage the occasional ‘crime scene’ in a way that may have ‘flattered’ him more than it should have.

It was something that took Gwen quite a while to come to terms with, but eventually, it rubbed off on her. She didn’t like to steal, to cheat or lie or kill, yet situations like Vern’s had been requiring her to do just that as of late.

She thought about her recent expulsion. The shame made her stomach sink and cheeks burn bright. But then the anger set in. Gwendoline was far from perfect and she was so keenly aware of this. It didn’t bother her, if anything it was a reminder and motivation to continue striving for grace; to earn redemption and pass it along to others who needed it more. There was nothing she hated more than injustice and while she knew it was not her place to enact revenge, seeing such wild imbalances in power such as the Elven nobility or even among her own temple’s magistrate made her blood boil.

So she killed an elderly man? It was an accident, and it was done. If she was smart, it could benefit her, and even Fizzle (though admittedly, she was far less concerned about that if she were being honest.) It would quell the minds of the townspeople and perhaps scare off whatever else was lurking in the wood.

She considered these things as she dragged Vern out of the tower. Fizzle helped Gwen to locate a wax dipped tarp Vern kept in the cellar. Together, they slid the tarp beneath his body and Gwen had opted to do the heavy lifting while Fizzle focused on cleaning. Once the blood was sufficiently cleaned and the floors decent, he was to collect all of the tea cups and gourds and doilies in the tower and put them in a sack. By then, Gwen would have staged Vern’s body; dressing him up in more practical battle attire and scoring the earth around their supposed fight stage.

#LONG #r

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sleepymarmot · 8 years ago

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Skyrim liveblog: Riften, Dawnguard, more house decoration, etc.

"Good luck finding those jazbay grapes, they're very rare" Actually, I'm growing them in my garden...

This poor woman is spending all her time growing this nirnroot and I just come here and steal it.

Also nirnroot makes the same sound as the shards in DAI and it makes me nervous.

I don't want all these mods that let you have an entire army of followers. I just want to improve and charge their equipment without transferring it to my inventory and then back :(

Riften! It's so exciting to finally reach the city after a long journey that mostly consisted of losing my way and sidetracking, and get to see what's inside the walls! Even if it's 2am and there isn't much to see.

Okay, I can see why Mjoll is popular...

Let me guess: the only guy she trusts is secretly part of the guild.

"Last thing the Black-Briars need is some loudmouth meddling in their affairs" Last time I met a family this corrupt, its leader didn't live to tell the tale. Will I have to break the game again for justice?

Why is the argonian bodyguard naked?! Did one of my mods break something?

And the barmaid is naked too... I wonder what's wrong. An argonian bandit I killed a couple of hours before was wearing armor with no problem...

The argonian jeweller in the marketplace is clothed properly. The mystery continues...

"Marsh-friend", aw

Also I like that Argonians are famous for their jewellery. Then it makes sense I crafted so much of it!

An argonian, and an argonian-raised dark elf! I feel at home in this marketplace.

You'd go down to the sewers yourself, but can't? What about me? Is the Dragonborn not good enough for the job?

I like the jarl, she sounds reasonable.

...And believes Maven is a respectable citizen who is trying to destroy the Thieves Guild. Oops.

Ah, okay, that's why I'm supposed to break into Aventus's home? Okay, I'll try it. "Don't bother with the Dark Brotherhood, kiddo, I'll do the job for you myself!"

This writing is stupid. Everyone in the city talks about how shitty the Thieves Guild is, a bunch of pathetic thugs everyone hates, and it totally sounds like a setup for a quest where you clear the city from them... Instead the only option the game gives is to join them. Wut? Why the heck would I want to?

The naked guy in the inn is pretty nice! And handsome. And he asks for my help proposing to the naked lady! How cute. Oh, and his recipes don't just sound good -- apparently he's the only person in this country who can make drinks that don't have negative effects! That woman is damn lucky.

I wanted to propose to my (yet undetermined) future spouse with a ring, like a real Argonian, but if it requires three flawless amethysts... I'll have to make do with a normal amethyst ring I guess. Has anyone made a mod with a proper recipe? Maybe even making it a replacement for the amulet of Mara, if possible.

Shit, I'm an idiot. I gave Uthgerd a Soup Trap weapon but no gems, and was wondering why she's not catching anything!

Is there a mod to turn off friendly fire in this game? Allies can't stop jumping into my arrows. Fought a vampire, shot at her, when the fight was over I found Uthgerd dead. Reloaded, then Frost got in the way, quest failed. Third attempt: the quest giver jumps into my arrow but survives, after the vampire is dead he starts attacking the horse I stole for him, my follower and me.

Okay, I tried it five more times. I can't. That vampire is unbeatable. A dremora summoned by Sanguine Rose does 0 damage to her. If I let her get close she one-shots me with her sword.

I finally did it... Downing like five different potions at once did the trick, I think... I was headed for Fort Dawnguard, but maybe I shouldn't...

What, Convenient Horses considers Frost my horse now?! Where's MY horse?! Did it get lost somewhere? Was it killed by the Black-Briars? Fast travelling doesn't help...

Oh, okay, I fast travelled to Riften again and found it. I'm so relieved... This horse has been with me since the beginning of the game, I bought it just before entering Whiterun for the first time. So even if it's kinda useless and I prefer travelling on foot, I don't want to lose it!

Why is the map marker for Dawnguard so dumb and glitched...

The leader is very cool! I'm going to help rebuilding the fort, right?

Okay, so I think my crafting geek falls instantly in love with the crossbow, even though its damage is lower than her current bow. Can I upgrade it? Enchant it? Craft my own with better materials?

I can upgrade it! And now it has more damage than my legendary dwarven bows!

Okay, I guess the archery trainer that I made this journey for will appear after the fort is upgraded? Ah, that's okay. I have 51k gold saved up. Isran is training Heavy Armor, I need that too.

Aaaand that training leveled me up again so there was no point in saving that level, I still lost one lol.

Holy shit, those vampires are all the way across the map!

Ah, so now I have a quest to go into the Ratway and kill the thugs in there! Say hello to my newly crafted archery equipment, motherfuckers!

Hm, people in the bar don't seem to care that I broke in and murdered their bodyguards.

"Stay out of trouble, or there's gonna be trouble" says one of these guys as I exit their hideout having killed and looted everything inside.

That's a pretty little garden they have here.

I'm visiting the crafting corner in Riften's keep for probably the third time in this session... Last time I reached 90 alchemy; maybe I'll make it legendary, since it's so easy to level up. Smithing is 86, Enchanting is 81. I finally picked the "Well fitted" perk and made myself a full set of heavy armor with enchantments -- what I was wearing before had light and unenchanted items. It's all steel & dwarven, because I can't afford to spend more perks, but legendary several times over.

I need a new loadout organizer. Every time I upgrade an item, it disappears from the group (because it's renamed, I guess).

Okay, I think I'm ready. Time to travel back to Dawnguard and train Heavy Armor for like the third time in a row... Well at least coursing between Riften and Dawnguard is a welcome change from the cursed Whiterun-Riverwood-Lakeview circle: it's too easy to get stuck there and never leave.

Oh great, another fort full of bandits. I'm starting to just speed past them. I'm not the fucking police!

...Aaaand a blood dragon descends just as I ride past the fort's entrance. Okay, that's my business, can't argue.

(I really should return to the main quest btw...)

Wait, how the fuck did we kill the dragon so fast?! Did the armor help? Or my second-level Marked for Death?

Aaalright, now I have to go back to Riften again. Finish a quest, heal a bone broken by a bear, disenchant something I bought for that purpose and forgot...

Speaking of enchanting: the best thing about being rich is just buying every filled grand soul gem I see, instead of worrying about the need to hunt mammoths or becoming an evil necromancer.

I was already like "haha, let's fill some gems" when the miner complained about spiders, but this is ridiculous! There's like five of them! I don't even think they had a really big one!

Just as I was about to give up, I finally came across the road to the Northwind Summit! And the dragon I needed to kill is just a dragon, not even frost or blood. His breath barely registered on my healthbar, and I needed like five arrows. What the fuck? Am I just walking around underleveled enemies, or did I grow strong overnight thanks to the armor and training?

Oh my, Black-Briars send mercenaries to deal with me, "the thief"! That's hilarious.

Nah, I'm not that good, a couple of necromancers with puppet draugr killed me.

Seriously, I should make more things for my own use instead of just for sale. I was like 5% away from one-shotting a boss from stealth and cancelling the entire fight. My damage health poisons were too weak. Thankfully, I had one fortify archery poison. One! What if I didn't? Would all of that overpriced multi-effect crap help me?

Btw I'm not using my shiny new crossbows because bolts are in short supply :(

Oh god! I have finally reached 70 speech and can take the Investor perk! Now that's a great excuse to make a tour around Skyrim and invest in everyone!

Aw, why can't I invest in my marsh-friend :(

Windhelm

Ugh, I knew that Blood on the Ice should have re-triggered, and I even saw the victim, but I didn't notice the guard standing next to her, so I had to google what to do. Why couldn't he address you automatically as you approach?

"Patrol Stone Quarter at night" and just as I was leaving the palace at noon and was opening the map to see what the Stone Quarter is, that quest was suddenly marked complete and I was shown a quest mark on the murderer. Yay immersion!

Time to invest in Wuunferth's business as an apology :D

His motive is exactly the same as the necromancer in the dungeon I just did, and in DA2. Can we have some new ideas please?

I completely forgot Lydia lives in my house, she spooked me.

I wonder why some merchants have unique responses to "I want to invest". Windhelm blacksmith and Belethor are arrogant, Arcadia is heartwarming. I really like Investor and the final perk in the tree because I feel like I'm being a positive influence, making rich not only myself but people around me.

Ugh, I accidentally sold Arcadia the wrong thing, reloaded, and all of the free stuff from her shelves disappeared -- what?

Shit, I was satisfied with how I decorated my home and then my stupid follower got in the way, I accidentally selected her, dropped, and wasn't sure she was all right so I had to reload.

And once again, from the start! This time I selected an enchanter and accidentally sent it to its original location, wherever that is.

Binch stand in the corner!! If you refuse to stay outside while I'm redecorating, at least get out of my way!

>walk out of my house at night >get attacked by a frost dragon >he circles overhead, I admire the beautiful starry night sky and his purplish wings against it >dragon flies away >I see his health very rapidly diminish >dragon dies >suddely I get attacked by a bunch of Thalmor Leave me alone...

Shit, I picked up a black soul gem and captured a vampire thrall's soul. Oops.

I notice I'm alone. Maybe I accidentally killed Uthgerd again? I backtrack. Finally meet her. Lead her forward... and at some point she turns around and *sprints* back. WTF?

I'm back in modding hell :(

Tried to copy a rug from a modded Breezehome, accidentally removed it instead, returned to a previous save -- and it was still gone. I guess that removed the asset from the mod entirely? I had to reinstall.

Installed several retextures for Alchemy and enchanting tables -- and like none of them :( Rustic is the most thought out, but I prefer the tables to be made of wood, thank you. It just doesn't make sense that every other shitty inn in the province has this carved black stone monstrosity, and the enchanting mesh somehow applies to all other candles in the game. Why can't people just make higher resolution versions of vanilla design?!

I really like Rugnarok in my house, but finding this perfectly preserved carpet covered in blood under a rack in a Nordic tomb...

I have no idea how to make followers tankier. Uthgerd knows block and has decent enchanted equipment, but she's always on her knees five seconds into the fight.

I'm testing ELFX now, and higher contrast makes my eyes hurt sometimes, and it's very inconvenient in dungeons, but having the dark be darker is kind of fun. This is the first time I had to use my camping mod and just lie down next to a Nordic ruin and some skeletons I just killed because I could see absolutely nothing.

Oh great, I enter this seemingly ordinary house, inside there's a mage who attacks immediately, I have to kill him, but afterwards I can't take any of his stuff, it's all marked "steal". Uh, ordinarily it's fair game in these situations? He has a very nicely designed home btw.

Wizard in Morthal: I'm not evil! *sells black soul gems*

Okay, it's been 111 hours, it's time to retrieve that horn!

This dungeon made me uninstall ELFX. Even with two torches I can't see shit.

Fuck these three stones! I know I need to use Whirlwind Sprint, I just can't do it fast enough!

Ugh, I went all this way for nothing?

Dawnguard

This master vampire can wait, there are so many ingredients here!

"Is that an Elder Scroll?" Good question, I've been playing this game called The Elder Scrolls for 100+ hours and this is my first encounter with the term.

Uh, so is there any reason why I, the fresh Dawnguard recruit, would not kill Serana on sight? I mean obviously I, the player, won't, but...

Like, even if I'm a nice person who doesn't attack unprovoked, why should I help her instead of dragging her to Fort Dawnguard and letting my new boss deal with her?

Aaaand I caught the vampire disease. Great. And of course I'm in the middle of nowhere with no shrines in sight. Alright, I have a stack of potions to burn...

Tried to take her to the fort. "I don't like the feel of this place, I'll wait for you back by the entrance". Oh great.

Well, at least the boss had dialogue for this and gave me approval for this nonsense, so I didn't make a trip across the entire country for nothing.

Unfathomable depths

I didn't even know that Riften had a dock outside the walls until I read about the quest I needed to take there...

This dwarven ruin is a nice opportunity to practice destruction magic, since the automatons can't be soul trapped so there's no reason to waste arrows on them.

Whoa, a health regen amulet!

Good thing Serana is with us, because my magic is severely underpowered.

Should have done this quest sooner, because I've been wearing dwarven armor for so long that by now I want to get rid of it, not bonuses to it.

I just checked -- and my normal set of heavy armor is already at the armor cap. I wonder if the bonus pushed it over the edge or not...

Lol, nah, I was already good. Well I'm having an existential crisis now. What am I supposed to do with my life now? I'm only level 46?

Modding hell

I'm slowly adding more and more HD retextures -- when I fix one thing, the one next to it suddenly looks too ugly... Now that I have Peltapalooza, ordinary beds suddenly look more comfortable, and next to them the blurry and dirty texture on noble beds is just terrible. Why couldn't someone just make a clean HD version of that bed?! Enhanced Noble Furniture 4x _byMike makes the bed red for some reason. Another mod, don't remember which, raises the resolution but doesn't delete the dirt, which you can now see in all HD glory. In the end I settled on Snazzy HD Noble Beds -- green, the closest to canonical, for single and double beds, and blue with drapes for the bed that obviously is supposed to have drapes but doesn't in vanilla. Then HD Noble Furniture, and Furniture and Clutter - HD Retextures for non-noble. The patterned bed and the new carpets are a bit too much together, but what can I do...

Aaaand the bed texture clashes horribly with the rug I placed under it in Lakeview :(

#skyrim #blah blah blah

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