Join the Ashes of Creation MMORPG
(Register or log in to remove advertisements - why ads?)

The Execution


Started by Beowulf
Post #15555
Banned

144
Faction & Race:
Ebonheart Pact (Nord)
Silvanus awoke to the sounds of slow, quiet talking. He could smell horses; he could hear them trotting away. His head ached. His legs ached. His entire body ached. He let out a feeble moan, and slid down the cart bench a few inches, onto the floor. He let his head rest on the bench, in too much pain to care if he looked ridiculous.

"So, you're finally awake," a gruff but friendly voice met his ears. Lazily, the youth half opened both heavily-lidded eyes, and gave the rough Nord in front of him a lazy smile. "I thought you'd never wake up. Thought they'd have to put you on the block in your sleep."

"They'd do that?"another voice came to Silvanus' ears. Sensing that he would not be allowed any more peace, he sighed, and sat up on the crudely made bench. Across from him, the Nord who had first spoken, was looking at another, more subdued looking man, with scruffy brown hair and a short beard. He looked to be only a few years older than Silvanus, so he gave him a friendly nod. The man did not return it, because he was still looking at the rough Nord. And the rough Nord was looking at him.

"Seriously, would they put you on the block as you slept? So, you'd wake up in Sovngarde?" The rough looking Nord glared at the man, and turned back to Silvanus with a knowing grin. Silvanus did not return it; he too was thinking exactly the same thing. He put his head in his hands, his floppy, too long white blond hair clenched in his fists.

When he looked up again, the rough Nord was looking at the other, with an obvious look of distaste on his face. "Show some courage in death, horse-thief. And you," he turned to you. "Why are you here, eh? You look too young to be a Stormcloak. I'm Ralof. What do they call you?"

"Silvanus. Silvanus Coppercroft. I'm a Breton. I'm here because I killed my father." The other two laughed, eyeing him. Ralof grinned at something. Silvanus looked around, and with a start, noticed that there was a tall man beside him, gagged. Wondering why this was, Silvanus frowned at Ralof.

"Why is he…?"

"Mind yourself, Breton," Ralof sounded angry now. "Mind your tongue around Ulfric Stormcloak, true High King of Skyrim."

"That's Ulfric Stormcloak?" the horse-thief spoke again, and he sounded terrified. Silvanus, who knew exactly what the Stormcloaks were, and didn't particularly want to talk to them, turned away to look ahead of them. A small, walled fortress was just down the road. He scanned it carefully, his electric blue eyes looking for possible escape routes. At this distance, he could see none. Scanning the horizon, he looked for a drop, steep as possible, a chance to leap out of the cart to safety. As calm as he was acting about it, Silvanus did not plan to die that day. Nor, it seemed, did the horse-thief. He put his bound hands on Silvanus' arm, and pulled him back to face them. He was surprisingly close. "We shouldn't be here, you and I. They're looking for Stormcloaks, not common criminals like us. I'm Lokir."

Silvanus wouldn't have shaken his hand anyway, but even if he had, it would have been impossible with bound hands. He looked away from Lokir, searching the land for sudden drops… He stuck his head over the edge of the caravan.

"Hey!" a cultured Imperial yell from behind them, made Silvanus practically leap upright. A snooty Imperial was looking at him from a horse behind their cart. He waved his finger at them. Silvanus very nearly waved his middle finger back at him, but he could tell that would be even worse than digging his own grave. Silvanus certainly wasn't noble.

"Bloody public school-boy Imperial…" muttered Ralof. Lokir snorted in agreement, and Silvanus grinned. Then he turned to face Ralof, who was clearly in the mood for chatting before he was killed. He looked at the two, speaking men in front of him. He first spoke to the both of them.

"How old are the both of you?"

"Twenty three." Lokir spoke first, in his desperate, high voice. They both looked at Silvanus. The blond youth sighed, knowing he would never be left along, and focused on them.

"Sixteen." They both gasped. But then, Ralof nodded.

"You look it, my boy. A little too young to join up with the Stormcloaks yet. Where are you from?"

"Dragons Bridge," he replied. "My father used to live there.

"Why does it matter?" Lokir cried. "We are going to die, Stormcloak, have you noticed?"

"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home." Lokir looked anguished.

"He's not a Nord, that Silvanus," Lokir stated angrily, nodding violently in the youths' direction. "He's a Breton. Think of High Rock, Breton, you don't belong in Skyrim."

Startled by the horse-thief's angry outburst, Silvanus glared at him, then continued scanning their surroundings. He was, indeed, only sixteen years old. He had no beard even growing on his chin, and some could even mistake him for a girl. That was his disguise. He looked meek and weak. But Silvanus Coppercroft was neither of those things. Oh no. He'd not slaughtered his poor father for a reason. He'd felt like it, was all. Crept from his tiny room in the dirty farmhouse at night, to his fathers' room, and slowly and sadistically had slit his throat. His fathers' cries had filled the night, and alerted the guards. They'd entered the farmhouse to find Silvanus crooning softly to his fathers' severed head. No, Silvanus was not mad. He had reasons of his own. It was his father's fault, for an example, that his mother had died. Dorian Coppercroft had sent his wife out alone to fetch some water from the well, in the dead of night, because he was ill. She'd been mauled to death by cavebears. Silvanus had only been six years old.

When he killed his father, he'd had no brothers or sisters. He'd once had a sister, Juliana, but she'd died when he was twelve years old. His father had claimed it was an accident. Silvanus knew better.

She'd been serving their father his mead, and had happened to spill a drop on his father's lap. Dorian, who had a temper like a wildcat, had accidently beaten her to death. She was 14 years old.

And that was why Silvanus was there. Because he killed his father, for making his life a misery, and ending the lives of all that he cared about. That was why, in court, he'd laughed when he was sentenced, had admitted freely to his captors that he'd done it, and told them in great detail WHY he'd done it. Silvanus was not mad. He just hated someone. And hate can drive a man to do anything. Even if that man was only a boy like Silvanus. He'd been sentenced to death almost straight away. But under no terms was he planning to be killed like a dog. He had other plans entirely.

However, he did feel rather uncertain that his plans for escape would work, as the cart went into the gates of Helgen. He could hear Lokir mumbling prayers. As their cart was stopped for inspection, he held his head high, and said nothing when he was asked who he was, contemptuous till the last. He only spat out his name when a soldier punched him hard in the jaw, leaving his face bloody.

When the cart stopped in the middle of Helgen square, Silvanus too started saying his prayers. Because at that moment, he was certain he would die. He, Ralof, Lokir and the mysteriously Ulfric Stormcloak were being pushed and kicked out of the cart. He tripped the last step, and fell flat on his face into the dust. The jeers of the Imperial soldiers filled his ears, and he went bright red and stood up, wiping dust off his face. He was pushed forwards and nearly fell over again. In front of him, he could see the "imperial public school-boy" smirking, as he held a large clipboard.

"Empire loves their damn lists." Muttered Ralof from beside him. The Imperial began to read out names from his clipboard:

"Thoring of Riften?" a stocky, golden haired man walked forwards, and promptly spat in the Imperial's face. Then, he walked up to the block. The Imperial wiped his face, and kept reading, apparently unperturbed.

"Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak?" Ulfric walked forwards to join Thoring, glaring at the Imperials all the while. Many other men followed him, until it came down to Ralof, Lokir, and Silvanus.

"Ralof of Riverwood?" Ralof nodded, and went to join the other Stormcloaks.

Only Lokir and Silvanus were left now.

"Lokir of Rorikstead?"

"No! I'm not a rebel! You have to believe me! You can't kill me!" and Lokir was off. Running was difficult for him, because of his bound hands, but he still ran at a remarkable speed towards the mountains.

"Archers!" a nasty looking Imperial woman, who Silvanus guessed was the commander, signalled, and several soldiers came out of the shadows, withdrawing their bows. Lokir was peppered with arrows almost instantly, and died running. The woman turned to Silvanus seething with fury.

"Who else wants to run?" she yelled. When Silvanus did not reply, she looked at him steadily, with recognition. "Wait… I know you. Silvanus Coppercroft. Breton. Sent to the block for murdering your father. Only sixteen years old. You've done a good job of messing up your life, Coppercroft."

"I suppose."

The woman squared up to him. Silvanus was quite tall, and the commander was shorter than he, but she still managed to look down at him.

"I'll enjoy having you killed." She said, smiling at him maliciously. She nodded at the soldier taking down names, and he looked at Silvanus straight in the eyes. Silvanus could feel his heart pounding in terror.

"Silvanus Coppercroft of Dragons Bridge?"

Silvanus nodded, and the soldier smiled at him, ruefully. He didn't look too happy to be sending a mere boy to the block, but it seemed he had little choice. Silvanus walked calmly to the block, although he could feel himself shivering. He hoped nobody had noticed.

A priest was standing near the block, nervously reciting their last rites. Silvanus was barely listening. He could see a gap between the legs of a large, slow looking soldier whom nobody was near, through which he could quite easily escape. He supposed he'd been looking too interested, because a strong looking soldier saw his line of sight, and moved to stand next to the large soldier, his hand on the hilt of his blade. He shook his head at Silvanus.

"Oh for Talos' sake, shut up, and let's get this over with!" Thoring of Riften had spoken, looking angry. He marched to the block, cutting the priest off, and slammed his head down on it, challengingly. The commander snorted, and signalled to the headsman, who quickly brought his axe down on the man's head. Some of the Stormcloaks looked away in horror, but Silvanus kept his eyes completely focused on the gushing blood. He'd seen plenty of the bitter red liquid before. The commander, noticing his obvious interest, leered at him, as a soldier dragged Thoring's headless body away.

"Next, the pretty little boy."

There were yells and boos from the Stormcloaks and surrounding people. The people of Helgen seemed to not want him dead… Felt sorry for the weak looking boy who was about to be executed. Silvanus walked forwards, and looked the commander in the eyes for a second, before putting his head on the block. There were cheers and yells.

"Don't kill the brave boy!"

"He isn't a Stormcloak, let 'im live!"

"He's far too young to have done anything, let him free, don't kill him!"

"If he dies, he'll go to Sovngarde. Let him live!"

Silvanus, for a mere second, felt hopeful. Maybe the hard-hearted bitch would have second thoughts and let him live? But no, she had her steel Imperial boot on his back, and was pushing him down, hard.

"Don't think I'm going to let you live for ONE MOMENT, Coppercroft. You're a killer, nothing more, nothing less. Just because you're a pretty little boy, it doesn't mean I'm going to take any pity at all on you, boy. Now, lie down, and let the nice headsman chop your head off. See you in hell, you bastard."

Silvanus grimaced, as her boot was withdrawn from his back, and he could hear the boos that meant she'd signalled to the headsman. He heard the long, drawn out swish as the headsman pulled back the axe… He could see a blot in the sky.

"What's that?" a cultured Imperial voice yelled. The headsman turned around, stopping the execution, and putting down his axe. The blot was getting nearer and nearer. It seemed to be heading straight for Helgen…

Barely ten seconds later it was there. A dragon, huge, deep blue and scaly, was sitting on top of the Imperial tower, and staring down at them…

To be continued..
Like Reply
The following 1 user likes Beowulf's post:
Abisu
Post #15706
Member

259
Faction & Race:
Ebonheart Pact
Imperial
A nice twist on the intro. By the way: "Bloody public-school boy Imperial"... Brilliant
Like Reply
The following 1 user likes Iogairn's post:
Beowulf
Post #16096
Contributor

69
Faction & Race:
Not Set
^^ I enjoyed reading this, Coppercroft really rolls of the tongue :) Nice choice of a last name

'Silvanus very nearly waved his middle finger back at him' I have seen this around, I'm not sure how lore appropriate the middle finger actually is.

In England we generally use our middle and index finger rather than just the middle, and I'm told this originated from when England was at war with France. The English were good bowmen, so when the french captured an Englishman they would cut off his middle and index finger (the fingers you use to knock back an arrow). When goading the french, the English would hold up their index and middle finger to rub it in their face that they were superior archers and they still had the fingers they needed to shoot an arrow.

XD The point I am trying to make is everything originates from /somewhere/ I don't know where the middle finger originates from or what it originally meant, and it didn't ruin the story for me or anything, but it is important you consider if they would of developed that hand signal, or if they might have had something different but generally means the same thing. :) I think its really important all writers keep their setting in mind.

*rambling*


Like Reply
Post #16166
Banned

144
Faction & Race:
Ebonheart Pact (Nord)
(December 5th 2012 01:15 PM)Iogairn Wrote:  Ill only be able to do it on Saturday. In the evening. Sorry.

(December 7th 2012 12:25 PM)Ink Wrote:  ^^ I enjoyed reading this, Coppercroft really rolls of the tongue :) Nice choice of a last name

'Silvanus very nearly waved his middle finger back at him' I have seen this around, I'm not sure how lore appropriate the middle finger actually is.

In England we generally use our middle and index finger rather than just the middle, and I'm told this originated from when England was at war with France. The English were good bowmen, so when the french captured an Englishman they would cut off his middle and index finger (the fingers you use to knock back an arrow). When goading the french, the English would hold up their index and middle finger to rub it in their face that they were superior archers and they still had the fingers they needed to shoot an arrow.

XD The point I am trying to make is everything originates from /somewhere/ I don't know where the middle finger originates from or what it originally meant, and it didn't ruin the story for me or anything, but it is important you consider if they would of developed that hand signal, or if they might have had something different but generally means the same thing. :) I think its really important all writers keep their setting in mind.

*rambling*

Thank you, Ink for your view on it. ^_^
Like Reply
The following 1 user likes Beowulf's post:
Abisu




User(s) browsing this thread: 1 Guest(s)
(Register or log in to remove advertisements - why ads?)


This fan site is not affiliated with ZeniMax Media Inc. or any of its subsidiaries. Including, but not limited to, Bethesda Game Studios and ZeniMax Online Studios.
The Elder Scrolls® images © ZeniMax Media Inc. / Forum content © TESOF.com