#caius attius

[thana-topsy]

First Lines!

Tagged by @mareenavee - thank you, my dear!

I tag @kookaburra1701 @dirty-bosmer and @greyborn2

Tag the first lines/first paragraph of three of your current works in progress!

I feel like I've shared most of my current wips to death over the past few weeks, so I'm going to pick three wips that probably won't see the light of day for a very long time, if ever.

"An Account of Artaeum"

(A journal-style fic detailing Nilandur's time as a Psijic)

Fifth of First Seed, 4E 169 – My Arrival  

The Isle of Artaeum was described to me many times in my youth, treated as something half myth, half history. A full account of the history of the Psijic Order was one of the Five Pillars of Altmeri education (before the events of the Void Nights), but it had been widely phased out by the time I entered university due to the Thalmor’s rigorous re-education guidelines. Despite this, the legends and lore of the Psijics lived on as part of our rich and varied history, even as the likelihood of their return to Nirn grew dimmer and dimmer with each passing decade. Never in my life could I have predicted their attentions might have been turned to me.

"Arvel the Hero"

(A thought experiment fic in which Arvel the Swift doesn't get hit by that swinging trap gate, but the LDB does. Uhhhh.... I'm gonna include more than just the first paragraph because it's my blog and I do what I want).

As soon as Arvel pulled free from the last of the frost spider’s webbing, he bolted. 

The man who’d cut him down let out a shout of surprise. “Hey! Get back here you slippy shit!”

Fool, Arvel thought with a grin. Why should I share the treasure with anyone? And by the look of his rescuer (and his sour-faced Dunmer companion), they didn’t seem like the type too keen on sharing either. Harknir, Bjorn, and Soling were as good as dead.  

His feet pounded against the stone floor as he ran as fast as his legs would carry him. He skidded around a corner and through another hall of burial chambers. The slope of the floor carried him faster, almost too fast. He skidded around a large pillar, hooking his fingers into the rock to swing himself around the bend, gaining more momentum. His pursuers were hot on his tail, the clank of their armor close. He sprinted ahead, moving too fast to notice the raised stone plate in the floor until he was on top of it. A trap! 

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as his foot landed on the very edge of the pressure plate, and for a split second Arvel thought he’d managed to step around it. Then it sank beneath his weight, immediately followed by a clunk and a groan as the trapped gate unlocked. His step faltered, his joints locking up with fear, and he teetered precariously between moving forward and falling down. The spiked gate was swinging towards him with a shriek like a wounded beast. It would kill him. He would die in this gods-forsaken crypt. 

Fueled solely by an animalistic will to survive, he leaned into his off-balance momentum and sprung sideways, diving headfirst into an open crypt. A skeleton clattered and crunched beneath his hip as the massive gate missed his outstretched foot by only a few inches. There was a scream, cut short by a wet thunk, and Arvel watched from the crypt as the spiked gate slowly swung back into place, its spikes stained red and glistening in the low torchlight. 

“Shit!” He let out a hysterical laugh that trailed off into a wheeze. “Oh shit…” The trap had taken his pursuer out. What luck!

"Send Your Child Unto Me"

(Working title, lol. My Dark Brotherhood fic that I'll probably be picking away at for years to come at this point lol).

Caius returned to consciousness slowly. 

His head felt like it had been split down the middle, pounding in time with his pulse and sending bursts of electricity deep into his eye sockets. He groaned, if only to prove to himself that he wasn’t dead–that he could still make noise. As he opened his eyes, the room materialized in a blur of nauseating angles. Dried drool plastered the side of his cheek and his right arm had gone numb beneath his own body weight. He made a gurgling, frustrated sound as he attempted to move, flattening his hand against the ground in an attempt to push himself upright.

Wooden floor. 

The air around him was stagnant and foul-smelling, like piss and sweat. There were noises, but everything sounded as if Caius’ head were under water. 

“Well, well, good morning.”

[classicalmonuments]

Pont Flavien (English: Flavian Bridge)

Saint-Chamas, France

~12 BCE

25 m. in length

The bridge probably replaced an earlier wooden structure on the same site. It measures 21.4 metres  long by 6.2 metres wide.The two arches at either end, each standing 7 metres high with a single wide bay, are constructed of the same local stone as the bridge and are broader than they are tall. At the corners of the arches are fluted Corinthian pilasters at the top of which are carved eagles. Acanthus scrolls extend partway along the pediments, in the middle of which is an inscription that reads:

L·DONNIVS·C·F·FLAVOS·FLAMEN·ROMAE

ET·AVGVSTI·TESTAMENTO·FIEREI·IVSSIT

ARBITRATV·C·DONNEI·VENAE·ET·C·ATTEI·RVFEI

In translation, this means:

Lucius Donnius, son of Caius, Flavos, flamen [priest] of Rome and Augustus, has ordained in his will that [this monument] be built under the direction of Cauis Donnius Vena and Caius Attius Rufius.