User:Puddle/Foxtrot

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Exiled

Temporarily Cancelled

(an idea for the story of Chercher Eccles, the exiled Breton. Note:Chercher Eccles is the character of Somercy, and is not affiliated with me in any way.)

Note:Some of the words in this story will be of the European languages. This is intentional. Do not change them, or say "you spelled this wrong" I did it on purpose.

Exiled

by Puddle

Prologue

Darkness approaches. Good. The shadow will hide me on my way to Cyrodiil. How I will get to the border I do not know, but I have to get away. Luckily I found an exit through a hole in the walls, or the guards would have caught me. Unfortunately I left my dagger in the slaver's gut, but at least those poor children are free. The Guards are searching the trees now. I still have some time left to move. I must go. Until later, Chercher Eccles.

"I've found something Commandant."

"What?"

"It's a page from the murderer's diary."

"Chercher Eccles, eh? Good, we know her name."

"Damn"!

"What was that Sir?"

"I didn't say anything."

There's no more time. I have to go. Chercher swiftly sneaked out of the brush, unfortunately, making a small deal of racket in the process.

"There! Chase her!"

Chercher sprinted, until her legs were buckling from exhaustion, and the guards' voices were no longer carried by the night's gentle whispering breeze. She began to close her eyes, almost drifting into sleep, but by the time she realized there were already a pair of arms around her own, it was too late to stop them.

Safely in Danger

The only thing that could have possibly woken Chercher up would be a tree falling parallel to her ear. She was fast asleep, drowsy after the day's events. Somehow, she did arise rather early, only to see a group of men towering over her. Paralyzed for a moment, she soon realized they were not in guard uniform, but were a ragtag group of common adventurers. Surveying them, she considered them mediocre filth, nothing more than social rejects too weak for public service.

A well dressed Imperial of them held out his hand, trying his best to pronounce with a gentleman's tone;

"May I help you up young lady?"

"Sure, thank you sir, may I ask your name?"

"I am Sir Calus Redleaf, of the Order of Prosperity, and yourself?

Chercher was now more relaxed, and saw the engraved emblem on the man's breastplate. She looked around the group, and saw they were more sophisticated than she perceived. It appeared they were not "playing" her, by acting like gentlemen. With a now kind and grateful voice, she replied;

"I am Chercher Eccles, of the Bosmer land of Valenwood, currently on a contract to meet with local political figures."

"Then why did we notice you lying along the main road at night, you were in rather great danger there."

"It's a very... complicated story."

"Then we shall leave you to it. Do you need a ride back to the city?"

"No. I can't go back. Not anymore. Never again."

The man looked at her, perplexed, contemplating whether to ask her why or leave the topic alone. He chose the latter.

"Well, it doesn't matter here. At our humble camp, there are no laws, we stand for the good of all involved. Allow me to introduce you."

First he led Chercher to a tall Nord, who introduced himself as Bjen the Benevolent. He was much taller than the imperial, not to mention the rest of the camp. Bjen had long, unkempt blonde hair that fell down to his shoulders, which were remarkably tan for a Nord. He had large, veiny arms, and was obviously brutish in strength. He had a wide jaw, with a dull nose and cheekbones that led down to his cleaved chin in a way that gave him an evil appearance. He held out his hand for a gentle hand shake, before returning to forging a large steel helmet.

Next Chercher was introduced to a Bosmer, Erigor the Squirrel-Kicker, who quickly informed her he was given that name when he was only ten. He had a pointed nose, ears, and chin, typical of most Bosmer. He was of a common figure, with a small jaw, round cheeks, and a small forehead. He had cropped hair, with a headband around his head. He was notable for his forester clothes, and had most of the garb of an Imperial Forester. After a bow, he began arranging his enchanted arrows.

In bright white robes and gold-trimmed shoes, Val was the most extravagant, and the busiest, of the group. Chercher noticed that she was too bothered to even look up from her book, and that was the reason Chercher hadn't seen her earlier. All Chercher could see was her hair, kept in a neat bun, and her tall figure, along with her pointed ears, signifying she was a High Elf. There were books strewn across her tent, along with mystical scrolls, an alchemy set, alchemical ingredients, and a few staffs. It was then that Chercher discovered she was free to use that tent for the duration of her stay.

Last, and seemingly, least, was the dark-haired Imperial, Camio. He seemed rather young, about in his twenties, to the rest, who were middle age, give or take. He had puffed cheeks, a small chin, average jaw, and small forehead. He was in a vest, black as midnight, that had a crimson trim, with a matching hood and pants. He had an assortment of throwing knives, poisons, and daggers hanging from his belt, showing he was a deadly assassin, who wasn't to be dealt with. He was very quiet, and Chercher was reluctant to put her back to him.

Night quickly fell, but Chercher was happy to know the adventurers would be able to hold their own, after all but Camio brawled after their dinner of roasted boar and wine. She was much too worried to venture alone into the wilderness, so accepted Calus's kind offer of lodging. She fell asleep delighted to the tune of a cricket symphony, despite knowing the only things she had were the clothes on her back, the bedroll the camp donated to her, her diary, and a worn out quill.

One Shadow. Two Knives. Three Targets.

She woke to the sound of clogs, again to conversation, and once more to cold. Chercher was awake well after sunrise, and it seems Val had just left the small tent as Chercher awoke. After what seemed like ages, she exited the cabin to a cold breeze, obviously ignorant to the fact it was a very cold harvest. The camp greeted her with nothing but a clearing of their throats. It was obvious they were getting their things, ready to move further north.

Calus was the only one to say anything to her that morning, informing her guards were coming their way, and silently implying it was her fault. In hidden guilt, she helped them pack up their things, only seeming to get in the way, causing more trouble. Before long, they were travelling through the forest path leading up to Silvenar.

The trip was a quiet one. The noise and spirits of the markets were a great comfort. Tired and worn, the group retired in a local tavern for the night. The men were obviously at home, save Camio, while Val and Chercher stayed in their own corner, warding off wave after wave of drunken guard, adventurer, or other would-be Lothario.