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.

Thursday, April 28, 2005

Day 104: Ruin of the Daedric cult

I can see the attraction of being a follower of the bad Daedra. The leaders of the cult are apparently well rewarded with rare and hugely valuable Daedric weapons. They have security and comforts provided by elemental and Daedric servants. I don't know if it would be worth it though, having to live in the dark, damp tunnels under the ruins like they did. Not a great place to live; definitely not a good place to die.

Talking to the Ahemmusa last night and this morning it was clear that nothing good came from the nearby ruins. The cult there was a source of evil and misery, nothing more. They were willing to give me a hearty breakfast and a pat on the back, but wanted no part in any attack on the cult. Since they expected failure they didn't want to upset their bad neighbors. The assumption was that I would be dead so it didn't matter who was upset with me.

Once again I crept through the jumble of fallen stone. This time I did not avoid the atronachs; elemental energies summoned into humanoid forms. I crept close, struck quickly, and melted back into the shadows before help could arrive, usually grabbing a handful of the residual salts such creatures leave behind when they are dispatched back to the plane from whence they came. Daedric guardians met a similar fate; clannfears; green lizardlike demons who hop about and strike with their razor sharp beaks; and another dremora. I reclaimed the Daedric longsword from its hiding place, and added this dremora's shortsword to make a pile right inside the door to the inner shrine.

A long tunnel coiled down into the darkness. I dared not show a light, so I cast a nighteye spell and pressed onward. The tunnel wound down until it met the groundwater. I levitated through the ruined chambers, pausing on fallen blocks that broke the surface of the stagnant water. The water did not appear to be deep, but I did not want a splash to announce my presence.

The leaders of the cult were gathered in the main shrine, swearing their fealty to a bad Daedra represented by a great idol that towered above the knee deep water. I let my levitation spell expire, opting for a water walking spell which would last longer. Moving freely on the surface gave me an advantage over the heavily armored swordsmen, who were hampered by the water. Swordplay is more about footwork than most people realize, and the slashing style of the wakizashi was perfect for the situation. They were skilled foes, and I would not have wanted to stand toe to toe in a match of chops, thrusts, and parries. The water was deep enough to cover them once they were fallen. As I said, not a good place to die.

I gathered all the heavy Daedric weapons and valuable armor into a bundle, with great expenditure of sweat, and feather spells to lighten the loads. The corpses of the leaders I left on the altar at the great statues feet. Partly that was a warning to any others who might opt to follow the ways of the bad Daedra, but also as an honor. They were skilled opponents who deserved better than to be left in the murky water.

Far too heavily burdened to walk anywhere I cast my recall spell and returned home to Ahnassi. She is becoming accustomed to me popping into existence in the hallway. There was a blanket spread on the floor at the spot of my magical mark. It was perfect for my arrival; wet, wounded, and laden with treasures.


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