Ruthless Academics

• Posted by Accursed January 5, 2016 - 1,094 views

  Foreword:
  An exciting tale of intrigue, mystery, elderly scholars, and a long-lost city filled with ancient knowledge! Can our hero survive the many dangers of the Ayleid's last (and hidden) stronghold? Find out in:

  Ruthless Academics!

  4E 275

  Almenar opened his eyes. He had slept near an hour, and if he did not leave soon, he'd have to wait until the next night. Rising out of his chair brought attention to the stiffness in his neck, though he could not afford the time to pay mind to it. He wrapped up his bedroll, double-knotted his coin purse to his belt, and slid his polished steel longsword in the middle of the bedroll. He secured the strap of his bedroll as if it were a sash, creating a very minimalistic travel pack. He would remain in his regular garb until he reached his destination, and he had had the forethought to pack his armor to his steed, Barohir, earlier in the day.

  As he prepared to leave, he looked around his room, his since childhood, and reminisced on all of the events that had occurred there through the years. His father’s stories, his brother and he playing…

  The constant lessons in etiquette from his father, as well. Dressing, folding, going to bed, waking up; everything one could do in a bedroom, his father had taught him some convoluted way to do it that “befit his future station, wealth, and title”. Obviously, this treatment was extended to the other rooms of the College as well. It was the reason he was leaving; Almenar did not want to spend his life as, in his own words to his brother, “an old miser with a stick up his ass”. His brother, of course did not know of his eminent departure, nor did any of the serving staff. Only he, who had trained all his life in pleasantries and magic, etiquette and combat; he who wanted nothing to do with the wealth and status of his family, even going so far as to denounce his very surname of Caemdal as well as the wealth and power that came with it; he who spat on his very past, knew of this present journey.

  He blew out a lone flickering candle and set it down on his desk, stewing over his father and his lineage. He began quietly down the corridor that would take him to the stairwell down to the stable yard where Barohir awaited, whom he would ride out of Skyrim, past Bruma, and to the Imperial City, where he hoped to find a job as a bodyguard, a mercenary, even perhaps a simple adventurer, finding rare artifacts for clients.

  As he walked past his father’s carved oak door, he heard the familiar snores, accompanying a fitful sleep. He paused at the door and ran his hand over the familiar dragons and birds worked into the wood.

  Despite what he thought of his father and name, he did love his family. It was something natural to him; merely seeing the aging mer’s face and warm smile could bring a tender happiness to his heart that not even ale could manage to do to one’s stomach. As he thought of these things, he closed his eyes and opened the door.

  As expected, his father was asleep in his bed, though his rest did not appear to be all that restful. Every now and again his face would contort into a fearful and pained version. In the intervals between these contortions, though, his face was calm and peaceful as it could never be in his consciousness. Seeing this was enough to force Almenar to consider going back to his room, stashing away his bedroll, climbing under his silken bed sheets and staying, later becoming the mer his father wanted and had groomed him to be.

  He quickly pushed aside the thought.

  “You cannot blame this solely on me…”

  He trailed off, knowing his father could not hear, and he suddenly realized that leaving a note would be a common courtesy. He scrawled out a simple goodbye at his father’s desk and left it propped up, easily seen from the bed. Almenar studied his father’s features one last time before he closed the door, an action he did so with a heavier than expected heart.

  He exited the hallway and jogged down the stairs out to the stable yard, ran over to Barohir’s paddock, and mounted the young steed.

  Freedom.

  He urged the horse into a trot and left the stables through the gate, following the gravel path to the main road that connected to Skyrim’s simple road system. He'd ride southerly to Falkreath, pass through the checkpoint, and continue to the City.

  His plan went accordingly, and he was halfway to the checkpoint by the time Magnus rose upon Tamriel. His father would be up soon, reading the letter…his beloved brother running to him when he cried out, most likely more angry than saddened.

  The lone Elf suddenly realized how foolish he was. Not that he had run away, but that he had been riding Barohir without rest for nearing three hours. The poor animal must be exhausted. He steered him to the side of the road and dismounted, being sure to pat him on the shoulder.

  “I can always count on you, my friend.”

  He rested awhile, then continued on. By the same time the next morning, he was crossing the bridge into the Imperial City, seat of power for the Empire of which Skyrim was no longer a member, a crumbling symbol of peacetimes long since passed.

  He put his engraved and obsessively polished steel armor over his clothing and let a stableboy take his horse into the stables. As he marveled at the elderly stonework of the entrance, one of the guards chuckled.

  “You must be new.”

  Almenar was, in fact, new to the city. He had ridden past it plenty of times in his past, but his father always refused to let him go in as he would become lost in the throngs of people, and he had always denied to go in with him for a cause that remained undefined.

  He was let through the gates and was greeted with the bustling White-Gold Plaza, named so when the Thalmor concluded that “Talos” Plaza was blasphemous. People were shoving, talking, laughing, crying; smells wafted out from houses and inns and not a single person stood still, save to fix an article of clothing or advertise the Black Horse Courier. A massive stone statue of a dragon stood in the middle of all this, a symbol of Talos. At least, it should have. Instead a large statue of one of his kind, dressed in the dark robes of a Justiciar, stood in its place. It held a scroll, which went unstated but known by all to be the White-Gold Concordant. Most people paid it no mind, though occasionally a citizen would use the general area of the statue as a waste bin, throwing half-eaten food and other bits of trash at it.

  He knew that amidst all of this madness none would have work for him. In the Market, however, there would be not only an even bigger crowd, but shopkeepers, possibly willing to take an assistant. He wandered through the city, roaming from district to district, until he came upon the Market. As was expected, the district was absolutely packed with people of all ages, races, sexes, and statuses. Stalls were set up on the edge of the walkways vendors cried out their product and prices. The smell of baking pies wafted out from a bakery’s window, oil from an armor shop, all varieties of wonderful floral odors from an alchemist. Even at such an early hour, people went about their day, not excluding the district’s alehouse. In essence, the Market’s alehouse was the most important of all of the taverns and inns in the City, as it was where the Palace’s staff met to drink and gossip, and the barkeep was certain to keep out those who wishes to ask the staff for favors of a royal sort.

  Almenar first tried the stalls, of course, though none of them were offering work; not the kind he wanted, at least. He then tried the actual shops, and again met the same answers. Disheartened, he entered the near-empty tavern for a drink and the barkeep’s advice.

  The Imperial at the counter was older, with gray in his hair and the shine beginning to fade from his eye. He was tall for his sort, and it was quite clear that he had owned the place for the majority of his adulthood. Almenar sat on a stool in front of him, tossed a few coins on the table, and watched as the man poured him some ale.

  “Well, something must be troubling you to be drinking at this hour.”

  Almenar grunted in what seemed to be agreement.

  “May I ask why?”

  The stubborn Elf took a large swig of his ale. It was of surprisingly high quality, and cold, refreshingly cold.

  “I need a job, preferably something more… combat oriented. Like a bodyguard or a sellsword. You don't have any ideas, do you?”

  The man squinted and scratched his head, trying to think if he had heard anything about such work being available recently.

  “I vaguely remember something about Umbacano looking for a new guard, or perhaps it was an adventurer… anyway, he's incredibly old, very rich, and collects Ayleid stuff. Lives in the house with the tower, in the Plaza.”

  “Can I just walk in there and apply?”

  “Of course! He's only mortal; pisses and farts like the rest of us. His servants will fill you in and take you to him.”

  Almenar patted the barkeep’s shoulder as a token of thanks, finished what little ale he had left, and ran out the door. As he navigated toward the Plaza from inside the massive crowd, he soon realized why his father would never let him go; it was a sure bet that any child would soon become lost in the maze of people and storefronts and houses.

  He eventually got back to his destination, scanning the roofs of houses for the tower.

  “There.”

  The building was quite large, with beautifully hand-carved stonework and a number of flowered vines growing upon the walls. He walked up to the mansion and, with nervousness building in his stomach, knocked on the door. Near immediately, a servant, presumably the personal butler from his clothes, opened the door.

  “Do you have business with my master, Umbacano?”

  “Yes, I heard rumor he was in the market for a guard or adventurer. Would those be true, by chance?”

  The middle-aged servant looked over Almenar with judgmental eyes, sighed, then nodded.

  “Indeed they are. I must ask you to relinquish your weapon before I take you see the master, of course.”

  Almenar happily obliged and the man stepped aside, allowing him into the gigantic main room. Exquisite furniture was all around, carpets made of materials so foreign and so fine even Almenar could not distinguish their material, tapestries of various designs, everything one could imagine. Armored guards stood against the walls and kept their eyes trained on the newcomer as he was led upstairs.

  “Jorygg, why do you disturb me?”

  Umbacano was sitting in a room furnished much like downstairs, save for the fact that this one was teaming with ancient Aylied artifacts. Welkynd stones, Varla stones, all manner of small trinkets.

  “Pardon me, master Umbacano. Somebody is here to apply for the job.”

  “What!? Some poor fool is actually willing to do it? Good! Excellent! Send him in.”

  “He's right here, milord. I shall leave you to business.”

  Jorygg left the study back to the main room, leaving the young elf to speak with the old one. Umbacano donned a pair of spectacles and walked up to Almenar.

  “If I may ask, sir, what exactly is this job?”

  “Oh, it is a matter of great importance to me. You see, my collection is nearing completion, after my attaining the Ten Ancestors some two centuries ago. All that I still require is the Tome of Recording.”

  “Tome of Recording, sir?”

  “Yes… when the Ayleids realized their empire was crumbling, they wrote a book encompassing the entirety of their achievements in magic, science, everything. It translated their language into early Cyrodiilic, a predecessor of our modern language, which is much simpler to translate. It is invaluable to my collection, and to all society, really. Gods know what advancements might be made by studying that Tome!”

  Almenar smiled. It seemed to him that all Altmer scholars were the same, as his father and brother took on the same tone when they spoke of topics they were passionate about.

  “And what is the problem to retrieving it? If it is such an important artifact, there must be some reason it is still lost.”

  “You said it yourself. It was stored in Bisbala, a city that was since buried and lost to us forever. Until a few weeks ago, of course. It took some digging, but I've finally found the entrance. Only real problem now is that it's filled with the last remaining descendants of the Ayleids, the purest samples of Heartland High Elves in existence.”

  At this Almenar was confused. Where did he come into play?

  “And why do you not speak with them? If this tome is so important, surely a living Ayleid society is even better.”

  “Oh, you dolt! They don't want us there! They want to stay hidden, trapped forever. No, somebody needs to get in there and take it from them. And only an Altmer can pass as an Ayleid.”

  Almenar was still confused, although he now mostly understood. One thing still did not make sense to him, though.

  “Why cannot you do this?”

  Umbacano laughed, which brought about a fit of coughing. He drank some water and excused himself before continuing.

  “Age, my boy… age gets all of us in the end.”

  “I see. And how much is the theft of this Tome worth to you?”

  “Oh… Shall we say thirty thousand Septims?”

  Almenar stared wide-eyed at the rich old elf before him. How could such a number be tossed about for a simple book? Surely he would take the offer.

  “Point me to Bisbala, then.”

  Umbacano smiled.

  Three Days After

  Umbacano had presented him with perfect replicas of Ayleid guard armor, which at the least would mean he would not warrant a second glance. However, if one were to speak with him…

  Failure was not an option, with thirty thousand Septims on the line; and his life.

  Bisbala was situated within a hill in the center of the Imperial Reserve, midway between Chorrol and Skingrad. The surrounding forests were beautiful, but Almenar had not the time to appreciate them as he rode Barohir to his destination. He was able to arrive by evening, and secured his steed to a tree not far from the newly excavated door. He walked quietly up to it, and peered down the stairwell the the entrance to the last functioning example of Ayleid culture in Tamriel.

  The elf walked down the stairs to the marble door, and pried it open with the utmost care to make as little noise as possible. The interior was dark, kept illuminated only by Welkynd stones in chandeliers. No voices could be heard nor any movement detected, so Almenar went through the doorway and closed it behind him, effectively shutting him away from safety, and in with the unknown.

  The first entrance chambers were empty, until he came to the third, where a guard stood watch over a doorway. The Ayleid was remarkably Altmer-like, except for his skin which was a milky white and his dark brown hair. He merely nodded as Almenar walked passed.

  Almenar found that the Ayleids all had such white skin, but their hair had as much variety as the Nords. Blondes, browns, reds. He decided that something such as the Tome of Recording would likely be in the bottom-most chamber, and so he went down whenever possible. After much walking and many friendly nods, he came to the most wondrous scene he had even laid his eyes upon.

  At the bottom of the city was an underground lake, surrounded by statues of haughty Ayleids and each with a matching stone coffin. Most importantly, though, was the center of the lake. A tiny island broke the water’s surface, on which was a pedestal with a massively large book on it.

  The Tome of Recording.

  He had to find a way out to it without drawing attention. If he swam, he risked being heard and being seen dripping wet later. There were no boats, and no bridges leading out to the pedestal’s outcropping. The only way out, it seemed, was to swim. Unless…

  He eyed the nearest stone coffin, then tested the depth of the water. Assuming it was about uniform, that would mean that each coffin could potentially act as a bridge. Much to his dismay, however, was that the caskets themselves were built into the rock, and the lids were of no use to him.

  At the far end of the cavern was some form of mechanism, just to the left of a large statue of one of the deceased royals, but this one was built into a large stone rectangle. Almenar ran around the lake to the mechanism and have it one quick turn. The carved block shifted, but it also caused horns to sound a deep, thunderous tone. Panicked, Almenar began looking for a hiding place, and had to settle for a coffin. He opened a tomb marked Ehlnadaya-El just enough to squeeze in, and managed to close it over him before the footsteps he heard approaching reached the cavern.

  “Sorry about this.” He whispered to the skeletal remains of the ancient king, who very well could be his ancestor. His father was now certain it was Ayleid they were mixed with, and nothing else but Ayleid and Altmer.

  He heard shouting, then one voice said to another something about Ehlno; mortal, or mortality. Surely he was referring to the tombs. Another voice replied in a worried tone, apparently not wanting to disturb the past rulers’ rest, and they walked away after a few minutes of searching, fearful of disturbing the dead.

  Almenar opened the tomb and crawled out once more, pretending to be merely one of the guards looking for the would be thief if anyone came in. When nobody else did, he stripped himself of the armor and swam out to the pedestal, grabbed the Tome of Recoding, and tossed it back to the shore. He swam back and put the armor back on. All that was left was to get out without being caught.

  A loud rumble behind him snatched his attention from his plan making. He turned to see a pressure plate on the pedestal rise, and a portion of the wall open, releasing a tidal wave of water.

  “By Magnus…”

  Almenar began sprinting back the way he came, garnering odd looks from Ayleid citizens as he went. As they watched the oddly-acting guard sprint up the stairs, they were suddenly frightened by the sensation of water rising around their knees, and rising rapidly.

  Merchant stalls were swept away, people drowning and being hit by swirling debris, the coffins of their past leaders torn open and the bodies mixed up with each other.

  As Almenar ran, he was intercepted by an Ayleid dressed in the finest clothes one could expect to find in such a place.

  With a despairing look in his eye, he looked first into Almenar’s face, then the torrent of water behind him.

  “An Haelia Frensca…”

  The Ayleid king looked hard into Almenar’s face, a numb emotion plastered on his Elven face. He took off his ornate crown, revealing dark black hair.

  He looked just as Almenar’s father did when he was younger; the black hair, green eyes, that familiar pointed nose; all his features were akin to Caranthir Caemdal of Alinor. They stood there, regarding each other, for what seemed like ages as the water filled the tunnels behind them. The king opened his mouth, paused, then said in a saddened tone;

  “Heca, Ehlno av Dagon.”

  He motioned for Almenar to continue to the exit, which he did gratefully, then the Ayleid threw himself into the water to join his people and his forefathers from the cavern. He thought of the Prophecy that lead him and his ancestors to that moment as the bone-chilling water surrounded him, violently whisking him this way and that. Everything became very calm…

  Nothingness.

  Almenar made it out, shocked at what he had done. In a matter of moments, he wiped out the last of the Ayleids, the Heartland High-Elves.

  He walked up to his horse Barohir, and hugged the beast.

  “Was that truly worth it, Barohir?”

  Two Days After

  Almenar and Barohir had rode hard and fast to reach the Imperial City as quickly as possible. The beauty of both the woods and the city meant nothing to him anymore. He marched straight into Umbacano’s house and up the stairs, ignoring the yells of Jorygg, and threw the Tome of Recording down onto Umbacano’s table.

  “This damn well better be worth the destruction of Bisbala.”

  “The Terrible Wave? I suppose I should’ve mentioned that.” He muttered absentmindedly as he began to flip through the book.

  “This is more than I could've even hoped for! I… oh yes, let me pay you. Jorygg! Pay this mer at once!”

  Jorygg begrudgingly handed him a large leather sack, which made a loud *clank* as he set it down next to him. He watched his elderly contemporary pour over the ancient pages before picking up his coin sack and leaving. He paid for a room in an inn in the Elven Gardens and waited for night, that beautiful period of darkness he was so accustomed to, before slinking back to White-Gold Plaza.

  Umbacano's door was surely locked tighter than a Nordic Puzzle Door, so he found a quiet corner where he could climb a ladder-like structure built to guide a vine's growth. Once upon the roofs it was easy to crawl across to Umbacano's tower and hop through one of the large windows and enter his house. A hatchdoor and a few steps later, he was at the elderly mer's desk, the Tome on top. Almenar took the precious book and left the way he came.

  The Next Morning

  As Almenar passed the bridge on his way to the other cities of Cyrodiil, he tossed the bound archaic pages into Lake Rumare, and smiled as he pictured that damned old scholar getting up to continue his research, only to find it gone, never to be seen again; the Aylied's final vengeance.

  Translations:
  Bisbala- roughly means "New Power"
  An Haelia Fensca- The Terrible Wave
  Heca, Ehlno av Dagon- Begone (or stand aside) Mortal of Destruction