Ironed Maidens
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The Ruins
Silence. Silence was all he heard.
The Breton man wasn’t very powerful, but not very stupid either. He was a mage, in-training, of course. The expedition had gone haywire, two other interns and his teacher were dead in the next room.
What had he done? Nothing, he was sure of it. Besides trying in vain to summon a measly Scamp to take a part of the bombarding rampage and shield the three men and one poor woman for a while, at least long enough for them to run to the adjacent room.
Which is exactly what he had done, and he wished the other three had followed his example after it was evident.
“Stendarr, help me.” He sighed. Blood was smeared across his arms and it speckled his blue robe. He knew what had happened when the distant click went off in these metal halls. He began to weep.
Why, such a fool to weep, perhaps he thought of it as his fault.
Or perhaps he would miss the three he had come to grow attached to. Maybe…maybe it was a release of his own self-indignity. His Breton descendants are frowning, no doubt. What kind of self-respecting; even if so in-training; mage can’t summon a Scamp?
No deal it was to the three in the next room now though.
What had happened, well he wasn’t quite sure. He slid down, his back to the rocky and metallic wall. His ass hit with a thud, soft, yet demanding. He felt empty, not having enough knowledge to summon it. He had been training for almost a year now.
The fool could conjure a ball of frost to emphasize and exhort the energy and pain of a real life-sized blizzard, all smaller than a fist.
But he couldn’t make a little minion of stature that even the lowest of the Daedra mocked and prodded with hot metals.
All he knew for sure, though alone as man in this obsolete maze of death and Dwemer constitutional rage and mass confusion, something was there with him, un-living, un-feeling. A mechanical man of the pits of Par’Donipal that spewed steam and bolts, his clad flail fist spiked with the runes of torture and the mark to show off to all how advanced his creators were. Why, even the various spectators from the heavens wondered how he would make it out. If indeed he would. Scrap metal never seemed so powerful.
So much more then just an alchemic ingredient used in poisons and sold off to assassins for cheap, and reluctant, prices, all to further indulge his guild in profit from all other factions. Thieves Guild, Morag Tong, even Comona Tong guild mates came to the Mage’s Guild for support on certain tasks.
But no, this monstrosity was fearful, more fearful than the potion its remnants were made from, more fearful than a Daedroth in a dark alley. It was, in fact, a Supreme Steam Centurion. Its name even shook the Breton’s stomach.
They were sent there from the guildhall in Sadrith Mora to the western front of the water, down by Seyda Neen, only a bit more west. Escorted first by Guide Guild steward, then by personal entourage of Milthas Idero, his teacher.
The escort was a simple one, not much other than two Imperials who looked like they wee hastily given iron armor and a silver longsword to swig at wild animals blindly with, and perhaps a loaf of tad stale bread. Still, if got them there in once piece. The two then headed right off, not even a simple goodbye.
Had the two stayed, circumstances would have certainly, for the outmost best, been better for them then they were in the current state. By them, it mostly means the Breton, as his three comrades have no idea what is obviously going on.
They got in with no problems, the systematic humming of the mysterious wall lights; neon orange with a strange yellow glass cover.
The ruins were buried deep into the muck and gunk of the swamps, the mud alone smelling of Alit droppings rolled in Scamp vomit. The brown stone of the outer structure was becoming overgrown with moss and rats’ nests were barrowed high up on the lathing ledges that pointed towards the sky, the little rodents scurrying back and forth with crumbs of hard food and thicket in their mouths.
The Breton was sure he saw one with a scroll in its mouth though, the rolled up parchment glowing faintly green. But it was high up, the sun was peaking down into his eyes, and the Flin was playing tricks on him.
They were there for the soul intent and purposes to only gain understanding of the encrypted and in-decipherable nature that was the backbone of all Dwemer books and artifacts. Armor, weapons, coins, and housewares meant little to all mages of at least some type of love for interests of foreign beings.
What good would a bracer of Dwemer steel do for one? Nothing, they already knew that steel protected beings, and the alien design and mold for the armor was no great secret either.
It was made to resemble their damned centurions, so scare and confuse predator and prey alike.
But to find a book, a schematic, a sketch, or even better, a written account, was marvelous and wondrous, and even some type of exciting, for a possibly previously-locked shut door might be flung open anew with the writings you’ve found.
Now over the years, a lot of Dwemer ruins had been found, stumbled upon, reopened, and even renovated or made into temporary forts for House officials wandering the isle in search of a smuggling ring or necromancer tower to raid.
But this one had just been spotted. Not more than a week ago, too. Supposedly the Arch Magister in Vivec thought it to be a good idea to send an old, soon-retiring mage and his three apprentices, if you wanted to use a better word for lackeys, off to check it out.
No, not a good idea, bad call on the ignorant fools running the heads of the guilds while the sensible, less famous, and less contracted smart men ran around, looking like fools for the big guys up front.
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1/23/2007, 5:55 am
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Ironed Maidens
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Re: The Ruins
Equipped with only mediocre supplies and no real knowledge of what to look for; along with the fact that only one of four of the expedition applicants knew how to do more than make that old ball of frost fly out of their hand; they ventured into the bowls of death.
Half way down, they saw it. I book on one of the metal drawers. It looked withered, as the area was hot as a Guar’s boot. Inside were sketches of unimaginable and un-fathoming and almost complete necessary renown.
It was a sketch encompassed by Dwemer scribing and portrayed a fire stream flowing from the center of a heart fashioned to a metal beam by metal hooks, a Dwemer crank protruding from its side. Three faces, that of Vivec, that of Almalexia, and that of Sotha Sil.
Beneath each face was a symbol. Under Vivec’s was a rib bone broken in half. Under Almalexia’s was a leather restraint that had ripped and bled from its wound. Under Sotha’s was a Dwemer crank that had various lengths of wires coming from its end.
What it meant, they were all unsure, but knew it was impartial to not being taken back. Right as they picked it up to head back outside, however, the beast receded from its maniacal tomb from far within the ages-abandoned fortress. The three unwillingly weak tried to hurt it, but the magic was just absorbed into it, feeding its rage.
“Nothing can save us!” The Breton cried as the last of his Magicka was depleted after failed to summon the damned Scamp. He ran, and hid in the corner of the room, the book with the sketch incased in his arms.
He looked around, nothing…but then he saw a door. Small and rusted, but still a door. He ran for it, full speed, narrowly dodged a perilous strike to his unarmored head from the centurion’s metal fist that would have surly ended him right there on the spot, flung the door open, and closed it tightly behind him.
In the room, there was nothing. Four metal walls and dust. There were screams of his friends being squandered by the metal fiend. After one last blood curdling cry from the old mage, the noise stopped, even the clanging of the centurion’s cogs and the faint humming of the lights.
It all stopped. He had a book of fate and unbalancing destiny in his hands, and he knew he wouldn’t get out alive.
Silence. Silence was all he heard
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1/23/2007, 5:55 am
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Lord Wimpy
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 Re: The Ruins
Sweet.
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HE is the all powerful
HE watches over us
HE knows what we say
HE knows what we do
HE watches out for us all
HE is THOR, wielder of the HAMMER
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1/23/2007, 8:55 pm
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