Aureus

1: Stealing the curse

The creature snarls, a wordless cry of frustration and rage. The sound could chill most men to the marrow, if they were not already fleeing for their life at the sight of the beast: Larger than a man, and more strongly built, it walks on its hind legs like a human but is covered in brown, matted fur. Sharp canine teeth gleam in its half human face as it opens its mouth in another roar. A glimmer of sly intelligence in its yellow eyes is drowning in frustration and rage as its intended victim dodges the fericious blow, allowing only a light scratch to penetrate his chainmail.

There is no trace of fear in the young man's face, only an almost maniacal gleam of eagerness. His lips twist into a taunting grin, as he once again dodges the long, deadly claws. The tips of those inhuman talons, harder than most metals, marks his skin with red streaks. His momentary grimace of pain almost immediately gives way to the excited, triumphant grin again.

"Fine, fine, my furry friend!" He feints with his sleek golden Katana, a weapon made by the dwarves centuries ago before they left these parts of the world. "You have no idea how much I have longed to meet you." He dodges again, reaching out an arm to just barely meet the claws. "Or at least one of your kind. Allow me to introduce myself: I am known as Aureus, the Golden One, since there seems to be precious few High Elves in this part of Tamriel. And because of this beautiful Katana, which you will be better aquainted with when I have reached my goal."

Enraged, the lycanthrope lunges again, but the young man slides away like an acrobat, and the brunt of the attack is met by the heavy tower shield. "Yes, as you see I am a warrior of sorts. But more than that, I am also a mage, an evoker of the Mages Guild. As such I have access to all of the Guild's libraries, and there I got the idea which have led us two to meet." Prodding the ferocious beast with the tip of his blade, Aureus slides under a new wild attack. "You see, time is simply too short to develop both the mind and the body in full. So I looked for a shortcut, and I found you. It seems that the curse that has robbed you of your sanity, has also bestowed superhuman strength and agility - gifts that I only can emulate temporarily with my magick."

The young mage's hands seem to glow for a moment, and an aura envelops him briefly. "Oh yes, better. I found that I can heal the wounds, but the mystical infection of your curse will remain. Come on, claw me again, darling! I need your power, and you will give it to me in exchange for eternal peace from your tortured existence." Once again the beast lashes out, and once again the chain-clad young man takes only a minor wound. "So I have studied the art of dodging at the Mercy of Stendarr, while at the same time seeking out a quite different power - the Glenmoril witches, followers of the Daedra prince Hircine. I am sure they could have helped you too - but you dared not seek out their help in time. Now it is too late. Too late for you."

The katana flashes, and a spurt of red blood wells from a gaping wound. "I shall wash my hands in your blood, my mindless friend. Your curse, controlled by the legendary Hircine Ring, will make me more than human. I will have the strength and agility of a werewolf, and the mind of a mage." The katana flashes again, and the werebeast falls to the ground in a pool of blood. "The best of both worlds - all it takes is planning and commitment." The warrior mage picks a strange item from his pocket, a ring shaped like a tiny buckler. "Too bad you can't see this" he says to the steaming corpse. "The dream of every Lycanthrope: The Hircine Ring. And now ... it is done." As he is smearing the warm blood all over his wounds, the young man's eyes glow with something akin to madness. "Yes. Now it is done, indeed."

The silence of night return to the dark forest outside the cemetery.

2: Ashfield Tower

"That's him in the corner. The golden one." The barkeep whispers, just nodding in the direction he wants the other to look. But the middle-aged man in the blue coat boldly strides in the direction of the dimly lit corner. Already he notices that the man seated there is following him with his eyes. Eyes that seems to catch and reflect the sparse torchlight, until they gleam like brass or gold. When he comes closer, he can see the unusual golden skin tone, and the face. The face ... it is younger than he had expected. The golden one seems to be no more than twenty years old.

"Are you Aureus?" "Who wants to know?" "I am Andynak Copperton. I come from the Mercy of Stendarr. I have been told that you are a believer." "I guess I am, of sorts. I did study the evasive arts at the Mercy in Charley town." "So Peroryan Yeomhart told me. And you were his best student too, I heard." "So you know old Peroryan. Is he well?" "Yes, he is. But something else has happened, that made the Mercy need one with your unique talents." "My unique talents, now." "One of our young clerics, a girl named Evelyna Copperton, has disappeared while on an archeological dig." "Copperton? Is she ...?" "My daughter." "Ah. And you think I am better able to find her than you are? I am not an archeologist. In fact, I prefer the clear skies. I barely find my way around an inn such as this." "There is more. We though the Ashfield Tower was empty - but the neighboring farmers now tell us that it has become the home of a clan of wereboars."

Suddenly the young man springs to his feet. Mercy, how tall he is! He must be a head taller than most men around here. No wonder he is always noticed! "I have brought fresh horses ..." "Your horses would just slow me down, as would you. Are you also a cleric?" "Yes, I am ..." "Then pray." "I shall pray for your success, Aureus." "No." The golden one looks down on him, his eyes blazing in the torchlight. "Pray not for me, but for your daughter until I can arrive. And then pray for the soul of whoever bars my way." And with three long strides, he is at the door and is gone.

The archer and the wereboar eye one another warily. They may be allies for now, but the contempt in their eyes show clearly that their alliance is an uneasy one. These two are set to guard the entrance to Ashfield Tower, but they have spent the time so far guarding one another. This ends, however, as the door is crashed open. A tall young man in chain mail stands suddenly in the opening. Ignoring the wereboar, he turns to the archer, his face a mask of anger and menace. "Where is the cleric?" "You'll never know!" taunts the other, sword in hand. The wereboar growls, and springs.

It all happens at once. The young man suddenly holds a sleek, golden katana in his hand, and it darts forward like a snake, then back, followed by a spurt of blood from the throat of the wereboar. Then, as quickly as it receded, it strikes again, with terrifying strenght. The wereboar goes down without a sound. Wide-eyed, the archer backs away. "Where is she?" growls the stranger. The answer is a desperate attack, but it is casually thrown aside with the large shield. Then the dwarven sword sings again, and the wall is painted in blood.

A cyclone is ravaging the maze-like corridors of Ashfield tower. The stone floor rings with running metal-shod feet, sometimes taking great leaps where there is room for that. Here a wereboar or a rogue tries to stop the runner, but at best they can delay him for one or two strikes. No quarter is asked or given. The tall man's golden skin is smeared with blood, his own and others. His sword point races ahead of him, and he barely slows his pace to choose one of two branches in the maze. Sometimes he stops to sniff the dank air, like a wild animal searching for some particular scent. Then he starts running again.

"You can't do this to me!" The young woman glares at the two rogues. There is not much she can do beyond glaring, though, as she is bound hand and feet with strips of her long blue cape. Without it, she is rather scantily clad, and this seems to have made some impression on the two ruffians. They have been discussing rather openly some of what they see and some of what they'd want to see more of. At the moment, the three groups who cohabit the large dungeon are at odds: The archers want to hold her for ransom, the wereboars want her for food, and the rogues have their own ideas, which may not be much better than the wereboars - at least in the eyes of an innocent young woman such as Evelyna Copperton.

"We can't?" ask one of the rogues, leering. "What would happen, do you think? Would Stendarr come down and smite us?" "Now that would be interesting" replies the other, chuckling. "Maybe we could have a challenge after all." "Yeah. Come on, we'll help her pray for Stendarr to come. Come, Stendarr! Come and save your faithful!"

"What was that?" "Sounds like the wereboars next door have gone wild. Would you believe that growling?" Indeed, the room next to them seems to be alive with roaring, growling, snarling and running. There used to be four weres there, usually, but right now they make such a din that you'd believe half the pack was in there. And then, above the grunting, sounds the horrifying howl of a very large werewolf. Then, the sickening thud of a large body being squashed against the wall. The roaring subsides quickly, too quickly, the last one drowning in a scream of pure horror such as none of them have ever heard from these wild beasts.

Evelyna looks up, wide-eyed, as the door suddenly bursts wide open. A man - or something like that - fills the opening. He is as tall as the door itself, and his chainmail is covered in blood almost all over. Blood from a scratch in his forehead has run down beside one eye like a giant dark red tear, decorating a golden mask of boundless fury. A snarl that is not quite human presses through his bared teeth. One hand holds a large shield, as casually as if it were a child's toy. In the other hand is a long, gold-colored blade. The two rogues have drawn their own blades, and even from the side she can sense the fear in their stance. A wild notion goes through her - but surely Stendarr cannot look like this, the god of Mercy turned into a living statue of vengeance?

There are no questions asked. The yellow blade sings in the air, a blur of motion. There is a clang of metal as a counter-attack is met by the shield. Then the deadly blade finds its goal, again and again. They are surely dead twice over before they hit the stone floor, two rent and bloody rag dolls in a shared pool of red. Then the stranger turns toward her, as if seeing her for the first time. And his expression changes. The wild, inhuman rage leaves his eyes like a fleeing ghost, and his features soften. He sheathes his very long blade on his back, and as he moves towards her she could almost believe that it was the god of mercy looking at her through all that blood.

"I apologize for the coming indignity, mylady" says the golden-skinned stranger as he kneels down beside her. "But we both want to get out of here as fast as humanly possible ... and then some." With that explanation, he scoops her up and wraps her over his shoulder. Indeed it is a bit of an indignity, as she finds herself hanging, still bound, with her head and upper body down behind him and her posterior up in the air, and none too well covered at that. A strong gloved hand is holding her right under that body part, and holding hard. But she soon gets distracted from this, as he starts to run.

Never has she seen anyone run like this. Even with the added burden, he does not slow down when running up stairs. She can hear him breathing hard, but he does not stop or slow down. The corridors seem to blend into a blur of motion, broken by the occasional horribly mangled corpse of man or beast. Some are just cut down with clean sword strokes, leaving limbs or even head lying separately. But others seem to be literally torn apart, or broken several times over, throats torn out as if by some wild beast. Perhaps the wereboars and the criminals have after all turned upon each other. But she knows in her heart that her blood-stained abductor is none of them. Despite the relative discomfort of her position, she is elated, excited, half wanting to laugh with glee, like a child on some wild carousel ride. The iron grip of his hand around her thighs holds her securely in place as he leaps across some gaping hole or skips over a pool of drying blood.

Suddenly he slows down, however, and she hears a familiar and scary sound: The grunting of a wereboar. One of the beasts must have moved into the path he cleared, while he was away. Now it bars their way. Looking behind her, she sees its bared tusks and long claws. And the way she lies, he cannot get at his sword!

Only for a moment does the golden warrior pause. Then he leaps into the air - still carrying his precious burden - and his feet leap out in front of him, one first and then another. The metal boots hit with terrible force, sending the wereboar flying backwards. Before it can recover, he is on top of it, and the cracking sound tells all that is needed to know. A broken, bleeding ball of fur is left behind as the blood-smeared man starts running again.

She was not imagining things when she thought the air was getting fresher. Suddenly the walls around them are gone, and chilly night air streams gently across her body, well except those small parts of it that are still covered in clothes. "Here we are!" announces her rescuer jubilantly. "Even my faithful mule is waiting with the wagon!" He chuckles softly. "The Psijicks alone may know how these creatures manage. I've had it follow me across a freaking wall!"

He turns his head. "Oh. Er. I guess you're pretty much fed up with hanging like that." She had actually stopped thinking about it, but now she is suddenly very aware of her position again. "I hope you don't get any blue and yellow patches on your thighs - I'm afraid I had to hold on pretty tight there." He gently lowers her to the ground, then cuts the cloth strips that tied her. "Ouch. Blood all over your front. I'm so sorry, but at least it isn't yours." "Yeah. It sure beats what those guys were planning for me." "I can ... believe you."

Evelyna clambers to her feet, but she is still unsteady, and he lends her an arm for support. She is surprised by how steady it is, like a metal statue. "I'm sorry, but I had to spend some of my magicka to get to you. I cannot teleport back to civilization before I have rested for a few hours. Let's get a ways removed from this dungeon first, though. I don't think the survivors there will let us sleep in peace."

As he stops the wagon just inside the edge of the forest, he notices how she's shivering. "Oopsie. I did not remember that you would of course be cold. I certainly am not." "I should have mentioned it. I was too lost in thought." "Here, take this sweater." He pulls a bright yellow and red sweater from the back of his cart. Even in the moonlight she can discern the colors. "And this cape. It's mostly decorative, but I think it should help." "Thank you." "If you do not object, we could share the sleeping rugs for these few hours. To keep the warmth, nothing more." "Of course." The sweater is indeed quite warm and comfortable. "I know this may be scary for you after what you've been through..." "Not nearly as scary as being left in there." "Good." He starts to put the blood-stained armor aside. She can still smell it, though.

As the coarse rugs close around them, Evelyna can feel his hard muscular body against hers through the clothes he lent her, but she can also feel that he is trying to not get too near any private places. It must be a bit uncomfortable for him to twist his body like that. Yet she cannot possibly protest. "Who ... who are you?" She cannot hold back the whisper in the night. "Who ... or what?" He sighs. "I am called Aureus, an old word meaning Golden One. I am a High Elf, stranded far from my home and those who once were my family. As for what I am, I think we should let that rest." And he says no more, until sleep overtakes her.

The dawn is just a dark red rim on the horizon when the Golden One lightly shakes her awake. He has evidently bathed and changed his clothes, as well as washed all of his armor. "There is a nearby stream" he points. "It is chilly, but you'll get awake quickly." And true enough, just thirty steps away the stream is forming a pool large enough to bathe, just barely. She glances at her rescuer, and sees that he has turned his back on her already. She quickly undresses and bathes, washing all the blood and all the grime from her body. At no time does he turn his head, though she watches him all the time. As well she may, as he is easily the most astounding man she has seen, if man he is. He is taller than anyone she has ever seen, and surprisingly slim. After his exertions in the dungeon, she had expected him to be much broader and more heavily muscled than he looks in daylight. He is indeed athletic, but not in a heavy or beefy way. His muscles, those that she can see, are like cables or ropes twining under his golden skin. It is hard to believe that he could kill a wereboar without any weapon other than his boots. Yet she knows what she saw... Or did she?

After drying herself off and donning his clothes, she walks up beside him. The dawn is a mighty pyre of red, orange and yellow beyond the silhouettes of the trees. It is awe-inspiring. "Stendarr is indeed merciful" she whispers. He nods. "It would seem he is - to some of us." "Not to the evil." "Perhaps not. I asked your father to pray for their souls. He has quite a job to do." "You met my father?" "It was he who asked me to look for you." "Oh! He must be sick with worry!" "That is my guess too. I think we better get moving. I am going to teleport us to the Mages Guild in Newcester." "You can do that?" "That was why I had to recharge my magicka. I told you last night." "You ... you don't look like a mage!" He chuckles. "I am a very special mage, I guess. Come now, stand here with me, and we shall go home."