This is the autobiographical journal of Arvil Bren, a somewhat reluctant hero who has been placed on an unknown quest by powers that he barely knows exist. Follow his journey as it is updated daily, Monday through Friday, and enjoy! These are the most recent entries in Arvil Bren's third journal; Politics of the Redoran. His first journal can be found in its entirety here. His second journal, Trail of the Archmage can be found here.

Tuesday, December 14, 2004

Day Seven: A tomb almost my own

This could be called a successful day of exploration, or a severe setback to mark my first week in Morrowind. Either way, I am glad to be in my rough little shack to write about it. This afternoon it seemed doubtful that I would survive. I found not one but two ancestral tombs along the coast to the west, but learned that finding them might turn out to be the easy part.

I was having a good day; gigged a few crabs and a number of slaughterfish, swam to a shoal close ashore and found a pearl in a kollop, felt pretty confident in my growing ability with the halberd. Then I found the first tomb, a rounded arch of greenish stone sheltering a wooden door. I entered cautiously and quietly and began creeping down a long narrow stair. There appeared to be a chamber of some sort at the bottom, and in the chamber I could see a skeleton of a man. It seemed to be some sort of display, intended to frighten interlopers who entered the tomb, and in its bony hand was affixed a longbow. As I neared the bottom step a hazy figure came hurtling out of the darkness with an eerie wail and magical energies crackled around me in some sort of curse. I took a swipe at the specter with my halberd, but to my dismay the blade passed right through without any effect! My good day was falling rapidly into a black abyss.

Backing rapidly up the stair as I slung my halberd, I readied a fireball spell. The spirit was right on top of me, and the chill of it's spectral claws seared my flesh, even though I felt no contact. But wait, I did feel contact! A shocking impact on my iron breastplate that sent me stumbling backwards on the stairs. In my distraction I had not noticed the skeleton springing into animation, but could see him now trying to aim a second shot around the howling guardian that descended clawing at my chest. Without rising I completed the necessary gestures and a ball of magical flame engulfed the ghost, driving it up and off of me. On heels and elbows I scrambled backwards, slipping onto the landing at the top of the stair as a fusillade of arrows clattered off the stone walls above me. There on the landing, still on my back, I battled the enraged ghost; scorching it repeatedly with magical fire as it clawed me with its icy talons. It eventually collapsed into a bubbling pool of green sludge, and staying low to avoid the alert skeleton's gaze I bolted out the door.

To my horror, hanging in the air outside the door was a winged native flyer known as a cliff racer. In my battered and beleaguered state it was all I could do to fend off the buffeting wings, spiked tail, and razor sharp beak. More than I could do actually, and my raw seared flesh was parted in several places by the time I had brought the beast low with several jabs from the halberd. I hoped that the skeleton would not leave its post in the tomb as I collapsed in a heap in the archway. It took several hours of resting and using all the restorative energies that my ring could muster before I felt sufficiently able to defend myself to undertake the walk home. I never expected to be so glad to see this run down shack.


Post a Comment

<< Home