Oblivion short 4
Jan. 13th, 2007 11:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cmdr_zoomIt was after midnight when Thag came to Anvil. The streets of the port city were empty but for a lone watchman, holding his torch high as he made his rounds. Thag exchanged quiet greetings with the man as he trudged toward the Fighter's Guild.
Thag was tired. It was three days since he'd last slept and he'd spent most of that on the road, in the saddle, or fighting through caves and ancient ruins (not to mention the occasional attempted highway robbery). Even his renowned orcish stamina was reaching its limit. He was over-burdened with loot that he could not sell until the shops opened in the morning, sustaining himself only with potions and spells that lightened his load somewhat.
A yawning porter met him in the front room of the Guild hall. When Thag had been here before, this practice room was filled with the sounds of battle - warriors sparring with each other or beating on the wooden dummy in the center - but now it was dark and silent.
"Evening, sir. I was just about to close up for the night. Everyone else has gone to bed."
"Everyone?" Thag's thick brows drew together. "Are there any empty beds?"
"No, sir." The porter hesitated. "Well... mine, sir."
Even by candlelight, Thag could see the porter's anxiety. He was within his rights to take the man's bed... or he could probably bully one of the other guild members out of theirs, but either option went against his vaguely-formed sense of honor. So Thag merely grunted and wrestled his sack of loot off his shoulder, letting it drop to the floor with a muffled metallic crash from the loose weapons and pieces of armor within. "Watch that. I'll be back."
Out on the street again, Thag thought. He could go to the inn, or...
Thag plunged his hand into a pouch at his belt and came up with a fistful of keys, which he sorted through by the light of the torches flanking the guild hall's front door. The last time he'd been in Anvil, seeing the sights and spending some of his hard-won coin on revelry, he'd let a young gentleman talk him into buying the family manor here in town for what seemed to be an absurdly low price. It had still cost most of his gold, and the only things he had the next morning to show he hadn't simply been robbed while drunk were a deed and a key.
It was this key which Thag now raised in triumph. If he owned a house, he should go sleep in it, yes?
Ten minutes later, Thag knew why he'd gotten the manor so cheaply. The house was a wreck - not falling-down decrepit, but it had definitely seen better days. There were loose shingles on the roof and ivy crawling up the walls, most of the windows were broken or boarded up, and the inside looked like a thunderstorm (or a bunch of orcs) had been through it, with furniture knocked over and paintings hanging askew. But the bed upstairs seemed to be in good shape, once he'd beaten the dust off the blankets, and it was with a sigh of relief that he unbuckled his armor, shucked off his sweaty undertunic, and climbed into it.
It seemed that he'd only just closed his eyes when he was awakened by screaming and terrible cold. Hovering over the bed were three translucent spectral figures, howling and clawing at him. Thag cursed and rolled out of bed, reaching for his sword belt. The Burning Blade came free of its scabbard with a familiar and comforting ringing sound, red-orange light glinting along its edges. Naked to the waist, Thag stood and bellowed a war cry as he laid into the shrieking ghosts with his enchanted longsword.
It was a short fight, but as Thag descended the stairs with sword in hand, he found that the problem was bigger than he thought. He could hear more ghosts in the dining room and down in the cellar, moaning and rattling; the whole house seemed to creak and whisper. The temperature had dropped enough that he could see his own vaporous breath.
It was certainly not that he was afraid - an orc warrior is never afraid - but Thag decided that in this case, a retreat was in order. He would come back later (during daylight, say) and sort this out. He hustled back up to the bedroom and retrieved his armor and other gear, draping it around him as he made his escape from the haunted mansion.
By the time he was fully dressed and armed once more, the rush of combat had passed and Thag found himself no better off than before. It was still several hours to dawn and he still had no place to sleep. He wearily set out for the Count's Arms.
The inn was dark, the door locked. Thag groaned and beat on it with his fist. BAM BAM BAM! He had to do this a couple of times before the innkeeper, an elderly Redguard, came to the door. The man was dressed in a long sleeping robe and slippers, and Thag envied him intensely.
"Yes? Bar's closed for the night, young fella."
"All I want is a room," Thag pleaded.
"Well, come on in, then," the innkeeper said, opening the door fully. "You're in luck - I've got one left, very nice. Just twenty-five gold for the night." Thag would have paid a hundred; he handed over the coins without complaint, and shuffled up the stairs the man indicated.
The room actually was quite nice, but Thag hardly noticed. He pulled off his armor again, fell into bed, and slept until noon.
[The Burning Blade is Thag's signature weapon, somewhat unusual for an orc (who tend to prefer axes, maces and warhammers) - a fine steel longsword of which he'd already become very fond before he used a Sigil Stone to enchant it with fire damage.]
Thag was tired. It was three days since he'd last slept and he'd spent most of that on the road, in the saddle, or fighting through caves and ancient ruins (not to mention the occasional attempted highway robbery). Even his renowned orcish stamina was reaching its limit. He was over-burdened with loot that he could not sell until the shops opened in the morning, sustaining himself only with potions and spells that lightened his load somewhat.
A yawning porter met him in the front room of the Guild hall. When Thag had been here before, this practice room was filled with the sounds of battle - warriors sparring with each other or beating on the wooden dummy in the center - but now it was dark and silent.
"Evening, sir. I was just about to close up for the night. Everyone else has gone to bed."
"Everyone?" Thag's thick brows drew together. "Are there any empty beds?"
"No, sir." The porter hesitated. "Well... mine, sir."
Even by candlelight, Thag could see the porter's anxiety. He was within his rights to take the man's bed... or he could probably bully one of the other guild members out of theirs, but either option went against his vaguely-formed sense of honor. So Thag merely grunted and wrestled his sack of loot off his shoulder, letting it drop to the floor with a muffled metallic crash from the loose weapons and pieces of armor within. "Watch that. I'll be back."
Out on the street again, Thag thought. He could go to the inn, or...
Thag plunged his hand into a pouch at his belt and came up with a fistful of keys, which he sorted through by the light of the torches flanking the guild hall's front door. The last time he'd been in Anvil, seeing the sights and spending some of his hard-won coin on revelry, he'd let a young gentleman talk him into buying the family manor here in town for what seemed to be an absurdly low price. It had still cost most of his gold, and the only things he had the next morning to show he hadn't simply been robbed while drunk were a deed and a key.
It was this key which Thag now raised in triumph. If he owned a house, he should go sleep in it, yes?
Ten minutes later, Thag knew why he'd gotten the manor so cheaply. The house was a wreck - not falling-down decrepit, but it had definitely seen better days. There were loose shingles on the roof and ivy crawling up the walls, most of the windows were broken or boarded up, and the inside looked like a thunderstorm (or a bunch of orcs) had been through it, with furniture knocked over and paintings hanging askew. But the bed upstairs seemed to be in good shape, once he'd beaten the dust off the blankets, and it was with a sigh of relief that he unbuckled his armor, shucked off his sweaty undertunic, and climbed into it.
It seemed that he'd only just closed his eyes when he was awakened by screaming and terrible cold. Hovering over the bed were three translucent spectral figures, howling and clawing at him. Thag cursed and rolled out of bed, reaching for his sword belt. The Burning Blade came free of its scabbard with a familiar and comforting ringing sound, red-orange light glinting along its edges. Naked to the waist, Thag stood and bellowed a war cry as he laid into the shrieking ghosts with his enchanted longsword.
It was a short fight, but as Thag descended the stairs with sword in hand, he found that the problem was bigger than he thought. He could hear more ghosts in the dining room and down in the cellar, moaning and rattling; the whole house seemed to creak and whisper. The temperature had dropped enough that he could see his own vaporous breath.
It was certainly not that he was afraid - an orc warrior is never afraid - but Thag decided that in this case, a retreat was in order. He would come back later (during daylight, say) and sort this out. He hustled back up to the bedroom and retrieved his armor and other gear, draping it around him as he made his escape from the haunted mansion.
By the time he was fully dressed and armed once more, the rush of combat had passed and Thag found himself no better off than before. It was still several hours to dawn and he still had no place to sleep. He wearily set out for the Count's Arms.
The inn was dark, the door locked. Thag groaned and beat on it with his fist. BAM BAM BAM! He had to do this a couple of times before the innkeeper, an elderly Redguard, came to the door. The man was dressed in a long sleeping robe and slippers, and Thag envied him intensely.
"Yes? Bar's closed for the night, young fella."
"All I want is a room," Thag pleaded.
"Well, come on in, then," the innkeeper said, opening the door fully. "You're in luck - I've got one left, very nice. Just twenty-five gold for the night." Thag would have paid a hundred; he handed over the coins without complaint, and shuffled up the stairs the man indicated.
The room actually was quite nice, but Thag hardly noticed. He pulled off his armor again, fell into bed, and slept until noon.
[The Burning Blade is Thag's signature weapon, somewhat unusual for an orc (who tend to prefer axes, maces and warhammers) - a fine steel longsword of which he'd already become very fond before he used a Sigil Stone to enchant it with fire damage.]