Star Wars Battlefront: Dancing Music

Timeline: During Episode 48

            SOM-292 tried to line up his shot on a clone trooper laying waste to multiple battledroids that tried to take the clone position with a chaingun. He lined up the shot… and fired.

            And missed.

            “Curse my processors!” he hissed. His nearby guardian, a droideka, slightly shifted its head in response. “Sir?”

            Of course, the “conversation” was held entirely over their communicators, and in droidspeak. This was meant to be a security feature.

            SOM-292 hated it all the same.

            “I can’t line up a shot!” he hissed again, taking aim at the SAME clone from before. “It’s this… nonsense being broadcast over the wideband.”

            The droideka hummed for a moment. “I suppose it doesn’t bother me.”

            SOM-292 scoffed. “Of course it doesn’t, does your programming even allow you be bothered?”

            “No,” the droideka responded tonelessly, “it does not.”

            The droideka’s shields turned on, and SOM-292 took that as the sign he should duck behind it. Sure enough, a few red-marked clone troopers came barreling around the corner, and the droideka opened up. The clones screamed as the heavy blaster bolts ripped into them, their own blasts helplessly impacting on the shields. When the blasts finally stopped, all the clones were dead, and SOM-292 looked around the droideka as its shields clicked off.

            “Great. Now they know we’re here.”

            “They most likely learned of it due to your missed shots.”

SOM-292 glared at the droideka. The dispassionate tone almost made the barb sting more. “Whatever. I’m not even DESIGNED for sniping. By the maker’s sake, my models are known for having POOR accuracy.” He set back up at the ledge, looking for clones to snipe. “And this stupid music isn’t helping!”

He took a shot, and this time met with success. A clone fell to the ground, a hole seared into his helmet. SOM-292 would have grinned, if he had a mouth. “Now THAT’S more like it.”

“Reports across the field are similar to yours,” the droideka mused suddenly. “I wonder if the clones purposefully began to broadcast this music to distract us, and if so… intruders.”

The droideka’s shields went up again, and SOM-292 went to step back behind it. But this time, all that came around the hallway was a tiny blue orb… with a rapidly flickering light.

“… Damn it,” SOM-292 said before the electromagnetic burst went off, causing him to crumple lifelessly to the ground. The droideka was hardly phased, though it took a moment for his sensors to re-adjust after the magnetic burst.

When they did readjust, he saw a clone standing nearby, holding up a massive chaingun. The droideka couldn’t tell, but the clone smiled behind the helmet.

“Here that chrome dome?” it said, tapping his helmet. “They’re playing our song.”

The droideka began to open fire, and as the clone rolled out of the way, the chaingun warming up. “Let’s dance!” he yelled in maniacal glee as the lasers ripped between the two.

Oblivion: Journal of Fang - Driving a Man to Crime

From the Journal of Fang (Translated from Ta’agra)

Heartfire 19th, 433

Yesterday… or this morning?... I forget, but that’s not the point… I did something many would find regrettable. I stole a book from my employer… indeed, a book I had just gotten for him… then gave it so someone of… debatable morality. This is obviously a crime, and one I feel no shame in committing. But I’d like to note that it’s not a crime where I have inherently harmed anyone (unlike the crime I have been accused of, falsely, in the Fighter’s Guild), and I’d like to say how I got to this point.

When I first came to Cyrodiil, my hope was that I’d grow beyond my former life of crime. I did many things I wasn’t proud of, back then, all for such foolish reasons. Small change, drugs, booze… nothing I needed, certainly.

As I said in my last entry, at the time, I was at a bit of a crossroads. I needed more money, and was tempted to fall back onto my old ways for it… but still had the opportunity by investigating Thoronir, which I began to do. (Episode 18) I questioned his sources some, but he was evasive. I figured I’d try to keep an eye on him, see where he went and who he talked to. As I waited though, resting in a nearby inn for the market to begin to shut down, I did a lot of thinking, though.

Reflecting on what I was doing now, what I had been doing, and my near-death experience in the arena… it was strange. It was as if everything in my life, up to then, had been merely… existing, not truly accomplishing anything, and I realized that was no longer what I wanted. It was as if I was waking up from a long sleep, and felt… not only obligated to investigate this matter about Thoronir for money, but for a greater good, if that makes any sense.

            To say the least, a lot of this… sense of fulfillment slowly left me as I watched Thoronir do bugger-all in the Garden district for a few hours. The only moment of interest was when he talked to a paranoid man who I’d later find out was named Amantius Allectus. I talked to him as well, to see if he had any connection to Thoronir, and while I’d learn he didn’t… I gave him a wide berth. Someone that paranoid, as I had learned from Glarthir, sometimes had reason to be paranoid. Either way, eventually Thoronir left, heading back to the Market District. There, he’d end up speaking with a Nord, an Agarmir… in what I thought was a VERY insecure location. Honestly, I barely even had to hide to overhear them. Agarmir was clearly the supplier, though, and spoke of “last-minute” shipments. He was also very insistent Thoronir take his goods. I decied to follow Agarmir, to figure out his haunts. I nearly lost him in the Talos Plaza District (I wasn’t being as stealthy as I could’ve been, admittedly,) but saw him just as he ducked into a house. I waited a short while, for him to fall asleep, before trying to break in… only to find he had the door barred from the inside.

            More paranoia. And undoubtedly, for a reason. I decided to let it be for the night, and then speak with Jensine in the morning. (Episode 19) She checked with her people, and found out nothing about Agarmir. I asked the beggars around town if they had any information, and they told me Agarmir tended to business around town usually around mid-afternoon. I placed myself in the bushes outside his house, and waited. I basically fell asleep, until I was roused by the sound of the bar being lifted, and him leaving his house. It was then I encountered my next problem: he had one hell of a lock on his door, and while I’m not the worst lockpick in the world, I couldn’t get through it. I decided to track him down to see if there was opportunity to pick his pocket, to get his house key, but he kept to open areas with lots of people around. I finally got frustrated, and decided to go a different route: magic. I knew some basic alteration magic, but between the stars of my birth and my lack of formal training, I decided to purchase a scroll from Edgar Vautrine, one that could get me through all but the heaviest of locks. And lucky me: it did.

            WhatI found inside was… disturbing. Dirt, bones, bonemeal, dirty clothes, dirty shovels, candles, and a sort of dark little shrine. Agarmir, it seemed, had a bit of a thing for the macabre, and I quickly figured out why: he left a book down there giving, in detail, where he got much, if not all, of Thoronir’s inventory from: grave-robbing. With all this in hand, I went back to Thoronir to confront him about it. I gave him the benefit of the doubt for not knowing about it, if only because I’d like to think he would’ve been more cautious, had he been. After all, being discovered taking part in grave-robbing is bad for business. He gave me information that Agarmir was actually busy that very evening with an “important matter.” It didn’t take a lot of detective work to figure out what.

            Looking around the graveyard, I saw a mausoleum that looked broken into, and prepared myself, readying a scroll I had saved for just this sort of situation. Upon entering, not only was Agarmir present (along with a wicked looking blade), but he had an armored friend as well. He said that he was expecting me, which… was a bit of a surprise, to be honest. Apparently I did have the look of someone good at figuring these things out. He and his friend attacked me, while I released the magic in the scroll…

            And in the air appeared a daedra. A clannfear.

            Have you ever seen a clannfear? They are terrifying. Lizard-like creatures, covered in thick scaly armor, and taller than a man. They have a sharp hooked beak, vicious claws, and they move very quickly. The magic of the scroll commanded the clannfear attack my foes first, and while I handled Agarmir, it tore into the other man present… before turning on me. I am incredibly thankful the summoning spell only lasts so long, or I surely WOULD have died in that mausoleum. But once finished there, I took some of the more expensive looking items Agarmir had (as well as one from the mausoleum, I’m not ashamed to say: it would’ve been stolen by Agarmir anyways, I’m certain), and made my way back to town.

            The next morning, I set to inform everyone the issue had been, hopefully, resolved. (Episode 20) After all, aside from Thoronir demanding proof of Agarmir’s crimes (what more proof did the stupid little elf need?!), I had wrapped it up quite nicely, I thought, and expected decent payment from the merchants that Jensine represented. My reward, for all my assistance?

            One hundred gold coins. One hundred.

            To say the least, I was not pleased with that. I made tenfold more gold selling what I had looted from Agarmir and the tomb, which resonated highly with my old beliefs: crime does pay. More than legitimate work, at any rate. It was around this time I began to ask the beggars around the Imperial City more about the supposed “Thieves Guild” and “Gray Fox,” and they gave me some information on how to reach him, at the city’s Waterfront district.

            The waterfront… also where my supposed hovel was. Feeling frustrated and annoyed, I felt like waiting in somewhat isolation, to rest some more. After all, my last few days had been occupied with following people around. I decided to spend a little gold to rent a room at the “Bloated Float” inn, which was… an interesting little concept. “An inn inside a boat!” I remember thinking. “This should be relaxing.”

            Ha. Ha. Ha.

            APPARENTLY, in broad daylight, some… thieves or pirates or something… actually managed to take over the inn, and sailed off with it. While I was aboard. Again, in broad daylight. Can you even FATHOM how ridiculous that is? To say the least, once more it seemed I was forced to act, as I found out we were incredibly far out to sea; when I made my way to the top deck, there was no land in sight. Oh, also, to save myself and what few others were on board? I had to kill four people. Admittedly, one of them, a dark elf, was… incredibly robust, questioning me and interrogating me after I had shot her, in the head, with an arrow… but I suspect she may have, well, not been thinking clearly. I would come to find out that this was all because of some rumor the innkeeper had started to drum up more business for his rotten inn!

            Four people’s blood, on my hands, all because of his greed. Six people dead in the last forty-eight hours all because of people wanting more money: Jensine’s blasted society, Thoronir, the innkeeper, Ormil… here’s the best part. I got a reward, for the death of the thieves’ leader.

            Seventy-five gold.

            The elven bastard even had the gall to tell me not to spend it all in one place, unless it was his inn. I’d be hard-pressed to NOT spend seventy-five gold in one place!

            It was here that it all began to click down on me. How my life was in the distant past, how it was in the recent past, and how it would be.

            I enjoyed doing… good, I suppose. I wasn’t opposed to stopping grave-robbers and bandits, or thinking further back, those swindlers in Anvil, or the insanity of Glarthir. But the rewards I was given by the authorities were all so… pitiful. Handfuls of gold here and there, meanwhile, stealing from those I had slain was proving far more lucrative.

            I was no longer a puppet of my vices, but I wouldn’t be a puppet of society either, being a ‘good person’ for a few gold here and there. No. I’d be a good person because it was the right thing to do.

            But when it came to money? To power? … Well. Given what I’ve had to deal with, can you blame me for deciding being a little more cutthroat to get what I deserved was… unwarranted?

Oblivion: Journal of Fang - Arriving at the Imperial City

From the Journal of Fang (Translated from Ta’agra)

Evening of Heartfire 18th, 433

The amount of hoops I jump through in Cyrodill… and some of it for matters not even my fault! Blasted Fighter’s Guild… but no matter. After doing some work for the Mage’s Guild today, I ended up fighting several large beasts, which has left me exhausted, physically, but mind is still working. So I thought I’d take the time to write here some more, about what happened when I first arrived at the Imperial City. (Episode 16)

My original intent, upon arriving, was to simply sell what wares I could, then see what there was for work. Of course, I had barely arrived before I spoke with a woman, Jensine, who wanted to hire me to investigate one of her competitors, Thoronir. Do I exude a scent that makes me people think I’m good at looking into the affairs of others? Look how the business with Glarthir turned out, after all. Regardless, I didn’t want to look into it right away, not really… if anything, Thoronir did offer me better prices for my wares. Still, I hadn’t reached my goal… oh, right. My goal.

I had heard around that there was hovel available for purchase in the Imperial Waterfront, for two thousand septims. Not much, but it was relatively cheap, and would’ve been my first major step in my new life.

Looking back… it’s kind of funny… but I’ll let the events speak for themselves.

To make the last few hundred septims, I took my chances at the Imperial arena. Unlike the one at Kvatch, this one involved men fighting other men, not beasts. I gambled on it, of course, but the bulk of my gold I made through fighting in it. I thought I’d be relatively prepared for the arena… I’d certainly gotten some experience fighting in the previous weeks leading up to this… and I did actually fare quite well. Well enough that I believed I’d made enough money for my house.

When I finally got the Chamber of Imperial Commerce, after convincing the old shrew I was a legitimate customer… she informed me the price for the hovel was FOUR THOUSAND Septims, not two. I was livid and angry… all of my savings, to this point, had barely netted by two thousand! How was I to get four thousand?

I decided to gamble at and fight in the Arena some more, hoping to make enough money to afford the hovel. The benefits outweighed the risk...

Up until those damned Bosmer sisters.

I hate to sound this way, but I am seriously beginning to think Bosmer were put on this world to be absolutely terrible, horrifying nuisances. Glarthir, that Thoronir, and these two… they fought incredibly hard, and only armed with a dagger myself, it was incredibly taxing. I very nearly died, and decided that was enough for the Arena, especially as what good would the money be if I was dead?

I figured my best bet was to look into this matter for the shops of the Market District, with Thoronir... but I digress, and I tire. I will write of that next time, perhaps.

Oblivion: Duel at the Gates

Timeline: Near the End of Episode 15

            Fang took a few ragged breaths, glancing around worriedly. The sun bore down on him, and he was afraid of what it would look like, with he and the ground around him streaked with the blood of the two dead Redguards. He sighed, wiping the blood off of his fine elven dagger with his glove.

            He rolled his shoulder and reached up to rub his neck. The outlaws hadn’t caught him off-guard, but they had outnumbered him, and the big one’s hammer had came down hard on his shoulder. He reached into his satchel and uncorked a potion, taking a swig as he knelt down near the Redguard woman. The potion was frothy and foul-tasting, but it was the best he could manage. “Bleagh.” He spat nearby, hoping to get some of the taste from his mouth, when he thought he saw… something flicker through the air. “What the…”

            Wham! He flew to the side, mind spinning, his dagger spiraling from his grasp. The blur struck at him again, a blade cutting across his shoulder. He yelled in pain, stumbling across the ground and readying his shield to catch the next blow. What in the world was even happening?!

            He pushed forward against the blade, world still spinning around him as he dove towards the shape, knocking it against a nearby tree. That seemed to knock the enchantment off it, and he saw an angry orcish woman, dressed in furs and leather, and wielding a scimitar. “You’ll join them in death, furlicker!” she yelled, kicking back against his shield, knocking him back once more.

            Fang tumbled backwards, but caught himself, his world finally beginning to come back into focus. “Friends of yours, then?” he slurred as he scrambled across the ground, grabbing his dagger. She charged forward, bringing the scimitar down on him. He parried with the dagger. The scimitar may have had weight backed by orcish muscle, but the dagger was of fine elven steel, and Fang had learned a lot about blocking and parrying from training in Skingrad. He tilted the blade, and her force was used against her. He swung around, slamming his shield against her sword arm. That Fadus Calidius had known his stuff; it worked like a charm, and she yelped in pain, dropping the weapon.

            His days back in Elseweyr rushed back to him here, and he couldn’t keep the sneer off his face. “Not so tough without your blade, are you greenskin?”

            She whipped back around, and fire flickered across her forearms. “Don’t think me helpless without a sword!” She swung her arm around, and Fang instinctively jumped back to avoid the lash of flame. She used the time to get back on her feet, and then sent a ball of fire into him. The impact forced him stumbling, and singed his armor, but arcane energies whipped around him, absorbing it.

            She didn’t seem to notice. “I am a shaman, and will use my crafts to suck the life from your flesh!” She charged forward and grabbed his neck while he was still dazed. Her grip was strong, as one would expect from an orc. If she had used solely that, maybe she would fared better. But she wanted Fang to suffer, and coils of dark magic arced down her arm to his neck, hoping to suck out his life force.

            It was only then she noticed Fang’s grin, and the arcane sparks that rebuffed her spell. Dropping his shield, he reached up with his now free hand, dug his claws into her arm, and returned the favor: he knew the spell to drain one’s life to replenish his own as well. She groaned at the sudden drain, but then remembered her own strength.

            There was a long, tense moment. Fang’s magic, rapidly weakening without her supplying anymore, barely able to keep him afloat by draining her energy, and her strong hand choking him, keeping the air from his lungs. He lashed forward wildly with his dagger as his vision clouded, and she released him with a feral yell. He felt the warm splash of blood against him, vaguely, as he fell backwards, gasping in a deep breath.

            “Aagh, curse the stars of your birth!” she yelled, holding her side. As she struggled to retain her composure, Fang shook his head. His vision cleared, and he gripped the dagger tightly. “Curse them all you want,” he spat. “But mine were clearly better than yours.”

            I really have to stop insulting orcs, Fang thought as her eyes blazed with fury. Smoke seemed to coalesce around her hand, and then a daedric dagger was in its place, and she stood to her full height. Even a female orc made Fang feel small… and then she charged at him, wound be damned, aiming to cut him to ribbons with the conjured weapon.

            Fang stepped to the left, getting low, and readied himself. The orc's mistake was conjuring a dagger. Daggers weren’t weapons of mad, brutish strength. They were best used with a certain subtlety, with finesse. As she got close he thrust his free arm straight out, and while she managed to rip the curved dagger across it, forcing a pained roar from his lips, his palm struck home, slamming into her gut, probably close to the wound he’d given her only a few seconds earlier. She bent forward, both as a product of pain and momentum.

            He didn’t hesitate to seize the opportunity. He pulled his free arm back, brought it around to her back, and then jabbed his blade into her stomach. She howled in pain, and tried to move back and away, but with a struggle he kept her on the blade. Finally she threw him off, and he took a few steps back, readying for another charge… but it didn’t come. She instead staggered a couple of feet before falling to the ground, moaning, clutching her stomach.

            Fang glared at her, knowing he had two options here. Part of him wanted to slit her throat, or worse, leave her here to die of a painful stomach wound. That’s how he would’ve acted in Elseweyr. That’s the way things worked there.

            … But it wasn’t the way they needed to work here.

            He knelt down, holding the dagger at ready, and took a potion from his belt. He uncorked it, slathered it onto his hand, and rubbed it over the wound. She screamed. He took off another potion, one of the especially foul ones, and placed it near her. She looked up at him, eyes of a mix of confusion and rage.

            “I won’t shed a tear if you die,” he hissed. “But if you do, that’s your fault. Not mine.”

            He stood, and winced as he turned away. Blood was dripping down his arm from a couple gashes, but he didn’t feel he could risk sitting here for too long. He searched the coinpurse of her dead comrades, then spotted the scimitar she’d dropped early on. He grabbed that… it was a decent enough blade. A bit heavy for his tastes, maybe, but it would at least sell well.

            He glanced back over his shoulder, and held up the sword with his good arm. “This?” he said, making sure she saw. “This is payment for the potions.”

            “Fuck your potions!” she yelled at him, livid.

            “Do what you like with them, but I’m still taking this sword,” he said, and began to walk away. She roared curses upon him from a distance, but they were just words… and he was close enough to the Imperial City now that, even if she did get up and running, she would have guards to contend with.

            Had he done a good thing there? A bad thing? Who could know? But Fang sighed, finally getting far enough away to uncork another potion. As he soaked a rag with it to use on his arm, he thought… well, he thought he probably broke even. Today, at least.