Printable Version of Topic

Posted by: Destri Melarg Mar 22 2010, 09:32 PM

This story takes place over the course of one year, 854 of the Second Era. It details the end of interregnum and the founding of the Septim line of Emperors. Inspiration for this story is drawn from two sources. The first is a one line entry in the timeline for the Second Era:

2E 854 - The Emperor was assassinated by a High Rock nightblade who also burned the Imperial Palace to the ground and attempted to kill General Talos.

I have come to believe that history is merely the propaganda of the winning side. This entry tells you what happened, but it doesn’t tell you how or why it happened. I have attempted to address those questions in this story.

For the second source of inspiration I express no embarrassment in saying that the form is blatantly lifted from my favorite of the in-game books, Carlovac Townway’s remarkable http://www.uesp.net/wiki/Lore:2920,_The_Last_Year_of_the_First_Era

Some of the characters you will encounter in this story have been lifted from the in-game books. Others are the product of the author’s imagination. I do not claim to have mastered the lore so if I stray too far from it, please don’t hesitate to call me on it. That said, there are a few ‘liberties’ that I have taken in this story which I feel I must draw to your attention:

- Tamriel is a much larger place than the game world. A day’s journey in game takes a week (weather and terrain permitting) in the story.
- Cities are larger and far more populated than they are in the game.

My deepest gratitude goes out to RemkoNL, mALX, Acadian, hauteecole rider, Winter Wolf, SubRosa, and treydog for their steadfast support of this story. Without you I doubt that it would exist.

As always any comments, criticisms, or suggestions are most welcome.

Table of Contents

http://chorrol.com/forums/index.php?showtopic=4435&st=3
http://chorrol.com/forums/index.php?showtopic=4435&st=64
http://chorrol.com/forums/index.php?showtopic=4435&st=174

Posted by: SubRosa Mar 22 2010, 09:35 PM

Yay!

How do you burn a stone building?

Are you going to be doing any reworking of Interregnum? Or just straight reposting it? I suppose we shall see, won't we? Do you plan to continue working on Song of the Sword at the same time?

Posted by: mALX Mar 22 2010, 09:37 PM

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOT !!!!!! PA-CHIIIIIIING !!!!!

Posted by: Destri Melarg Mar 22 2010, 09:42 PM

854 of the Second Era

Book One: Morning Star


1ST Morning Star, 2E 854
Direnni Tower, Isle of Balfiera
Dusk


Lattia Direnni knelt before the four square table and continued to intone the rites from the Book of Law. Around her, the white stone that formed the walls and ceiling shimmered in the fumes of the ether and void salts that she had used to purify the chamber. Her golden knees rested on black tiled floors upon which four censers burned a combination of gorvix and harrada. The sigil stone resting in a silver dish on the table glowed with an ebon light as she spoke.

Aran watched from the doorway behind her and marveled, as he always did, at his sister’s focus. She has become a true Direnni Elf, he thought, she has already surpassed Emero and, in time, may come to rival Raven Direnni herself. He already felt that he was smarter than Ryaim and stronger than Aidan, and neither of them had a spy like Varla. Clan Direnni will be reborn, stronger than ever. His generation would make the Alessians pay.

Patience Aran, he told himself, nothing can happen without the help of the Daedra. The sun was setting far above them. Lattia’s invocation was nearly complete. If the Daedric Prince was out there, he would answer her. Aran waited for a sign from Oblivion, and was not disappointed.

The air around Lattia formed into a mist and began to swirl around her naked body. A dark . . . absence formed above the table, anchored to this world by the censers. All of the air in the room seemed to be sucked into it. Aran found it hard to breathe. Lattia never faltered, she remained a willing supplicant. Aran had never loved her more than at that moment.

The void imploded in a blinding flash of light. Flames filled the emptiness above the table and were swiftly carried throughout the room on the ether. A faint sound emanated from behind the flames. Aran could hear it getting louder, closer. An Oblivion Gate, he thought, she’s done it. Lattia stood amidst the flames and pulled on her robe to hide her nakedness. She held a silk purse to her breast, the gold heavy within. The flames around her dissipated and were drawn into the gate. She looked back once to Aran. Then, with a nervous intake of breath, she stepped into the flames. From behind the gate the sound grew loud enough for Aran to identify it as the anguished bark of a hound.





???
Nameless Realm, Oblivion
???


Lattia emerged into a land of eternal summer. Lush green rolling hills spread out toward the horizon, blinding in the glare of the sparkling blue sky. Well-tended fields of Columbine, Belladonna, and Morning Glory caught the sunlight from overhead and shimmered like a mirage before her. Lattia’s eyes felt heavy, she wanted nothing more than to lie down in the grass and rest.

The incessant barking pulled her back into the moment. The weight of the purse in her arms reminded her of the mission she still had to complete. She closed her eyes to block out her tranquil surroundings. I am in Oblivion, she thought to herself, and I am not safe.

There were no signs or markers that she could use to find her destination. No castle or structure of any kind that she could move towards. Which way should I go? She thought.

The sound of the barking grew closer, its source appeared on a low slope near the horizon to Lattia’s left. A great black Hound galloped toward her, shrinking the distance between them with each bound.

Lattia stood her ground. She prepared a demoralize spell that she hoped would give her the time to escape should the great beast prove hungry. As it grew closer the size of it made Lattia doubtful that anything short of a dragon could demoralize it.

The great Hound stopped some ten paces from where Lattia stood. He was a male, easily measuring 18 hands from where his paws met the grass to the tips of his hunched shoulder blades. He was at least half that wide, with a sloped wedge of a head that housed two glowing red eyes that regarded Lattia with both curiosity and contempt.

“You have entered the realm of Lord Clavicus Vile,” said the Hound, “I am Barbas, the Hound of Clavicus Vile. What business have you here?”

“I am Lattia Direnni, I seek an audience with your master.”

Barbas came closer, Lattia remained perfectly still. He sniffed the air around her and then smelled her from head to toe.

“You smell of dead things,” said Barbas, eyeing her purse, “and the lightning clings to you. A mage is it? Your gold will secure an audience, but I warn you to return from whence you came.”

“I will not.”

“So be it,” Barbas sighed, “But don’t say you weren’t warned.” He lay down in the grass at her feet. “Come.”

She understood, but the thought didn’t thrill her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and swung onto that great back of his. He stood and with a great bound that nearly threw her back to the grass they were off.

It was nothing at all like riding her Chestnut, Mallari. Barbas was thick and rough with hard, coiled muscles where Mallari was smooth and supple. She could ride Mallari using just her legs, the two of them joined into one. For Barbas she needed both arms and both legs just to hold on.

The fields formed a green blur that rushed past her and brought tears to her eyes. Each step that Barbas made over the uneven terrain caused another part of her body to ache. She buried her face into his neck to avoid the snapping of her jaw that attended every leap over a rock or felled tree. The world lost focus, the only thought that she could identify was don’t let go.

It took her a moment to realize that Barbas had stopped. It took a moment more for her eyes to regain focus. They were in a clearing, surrounded by trees thick with red and yellow Cinnabar growing on the trunks. She could hear the sound of rushing water nearby.

“What have you brought me, Barbas?” A sharp voice asked.

Lattia lifted her head painfully from the groove her chin had formed in Barbas’ neck. Barbas lay down to make her dismount easier, if not more graceful. She landed on her backside in the tall, cool grass. Both of her legs were numb and useless. I must look ridiculous, she thought.

Clavicus Vile loomed over her. He was seated on a white marble throne in the center of the clearing. Barbas had taken his place at his master’s feet. Lattia managed to rise to her knees, but no further.

“Well, does it speak?” Clavicus Vile asked.

He was so . . . short, Lattia thought. His dirty bare feet dangled from the edge of his throne. A pair of curved horns protruded from the temples of a misshapen head too large for the rest of his body. His small pink hands were steeped under a bulbous nose in front of a large mouth well appointed with sharp teeth. He wore a dirty brown vest and soiled green trousers.

“Greetings, Lord Clavicus,” said Lattia collecting herself and ignoring a wave of revulsion, “I am . . .”

“Ah, it does speak. Pity that. I know who you are Lattia Direnni of Clan Direnni. I also know why you think you came here. Do you imagine you’re the only mortal with a spell book and a spare purse of gold who has sought my favor?”

“I . . .”

“Save your words, Lattia Direnni. I allowed you through the veil because you present something of a conundrum to me. Mortals usually summon me to your realm to gain wealth or power for their own use. You enter my realm seeking power for another. It makes me wonder what one such as you would offer were I to grant such a boon?”

Lattia pushed the purse forward.

“The gold got you this audience,” said Clavicus Vile, “it will not get you what you seek.”

Lattia painfully regained her feet. “Then what do you suggest?”

The Daedric Prince smiled, it was not a pretty sight.

“Souls are my usual currency,” he said, “and while your soul holds great value, I fear that it would be given too freely. No, for one such as you I must exact a special price.”

Lattia waited, the Daedric Prince smiled. I am in Oblivion, she thought, and I am not safe.

Posted by: haute ecole rider Mar 22 2010, 09:55 PM

@SubRosa: to answer your question how can you burn buildings made of stone? Limestone and marble will burn if the fire is hot enough - that is how the ancients obtained lime.

Back to Destri's story - it's good to review the beginning of Interregnum. It reminds me why this is one of my favorites on the Unnamed Forum. I'm glad to see it here!

One question:

It reads like it was supposed to be a single sentence (in which case and is capitalized); but if it is supposed to be two, the period after her has run off. Maybe Barbas scared it?

Posted by: mALX Mar 22 2010, 10:19 PM

I can't wait to re-read this story!!!!! AAAARRRRGGGGHHHH !!!!!!!!! WOOOOOOOOOOT !!!!!

Posted by: treydog Mar 22 2010, 10:26 PM

Yes! Yes! Now I can read from the start (even though I am about 53 pages in already).

Burning castles- the stone "can" burn in some cases- more often, the furnishings and (wood) interior and framing burns and the stonework collapses. Towers (or keeps) especially, were very like chimneys.

Posted by: Zalphon Mar 22 2010, 11:04 PM

Clavicus Vile? Really? He is the second most unused Daedric Prince (that I've seen)! Very nice!

Posted by: Winter Wolf Mar 23 2010, 05:58 AM

Oh baby, let me pull up my chair closer for this one.

Ahhh, Interregnum, an epic tale like no other!! Awesome!!!!

There is something about this story that just sits 'right' with me. From the first line I am hooked right in. The best part is that I have an idea where you are heading, but I have no idea how we are going to get there.

Treydog gave me that same feeling when his character discovered the letter from Athynae on the ground and he didn't want to read it, the motes swirling around the room. I remember that he let the story linger over that moment.
Your writing has that same very epic feel.

I can't work out what happened to Barbas since Maxical met him??
Oh yes, he is no longer fat. Perhaps the stress of that situation has thinned him out!!!!!!

Posted by: haute ecole rider Mar 23 2010, 06:11 PM

Since pets tend to gain weight and not lose it (speaking from clinical experience here), I would say that Lattia met Barbas first, then Barbas found himself gorging on sweetmeats in Janus's private quarters, and taking baths in his very own gold tub. Yes, I think that makes sense!

Of course, if you're talking about wormholes and quantum leaps, then I'm going to shut up and bow out of this discussion!

Posted by: Olen Mar 23 2010, 11:38 PM

Nice, there seems to be a bit of excitment over the return of this by those who have read it and I can see why. The first part makes me wander about many things which would bring me back if the quality didn't have me staying.

I haven't seen anything written in this 'bit' of the TES universe before which makes me doubly excited. I'm looking forward to this.

The final line is excellent.

As far as burning castles go - stone won't burn but it cracks when it gets hot and stone buildings have a habit of falling down when they burn.

Posted by: Winter Wolf Mar 24 2010, 06:31 AM

Oh no! That means that poor Barbas is destined to be fat forever. Shame on you mALX.

Posted by: Destri Melarg Mar 24 2010, 08:41 AM

The best part about moving this story over to Chorrol is the fact that I get to go back and rework some of the chapters that I was not completely happy with the first time. The first chapter is a perfect example. In the original version Lattia opened an Oblivion Gate through sheer magicka and ‘will’ alone. That never really sat right with me. So this time I borrowed the ritual outlined in the book http://www.imperial-library.info/obbooks/liminal_bridges.shtml, which details the opening of an Oblivion Gate using a sigil stone. You can expect expanded chapters, new chapters, and reworked chapters in this new incarnation.

As for Song of the Sword, I will continue to update it, but at a much slower pace than Interregnum. The problem with using memory stones, newspaper accounts, and journal entries to tell the story is that it can quickly degenerate into a gimic. I have to figure out how best to tell the story in such a way that the telling of it remains fresh into the later chapters.


And, as always haute, this story is glad to see you. And thank you, another pesky nit smited thanks to your eagle eye.


53 pages! Sorry for making you go all the way back to the beginning, trey. I'll try to make enough changes to keep it interesting for you.


That seems a shame to me. In my opinion Clavicus Vile and Hermaeus Mora are the two most interesting Daedric Princes.


I had the exact same question when I first read the entry in the timeline. I think I have come up with a very interesting solution to the problem that incorporates a lot of what haute, treydog, and Olen(thanks for dropping in BTW) have said. Stay tuned.

On the subject of Barbas' girth:
Nope, not going to touch that one.





2nd Morning Star, 2E 854
Unmarked Cavern, Somewhere along the Western Reach
Evening


“Quiet!” Nolquinn whispered, his breath visible in the cold still air.

“Huh?” Lorian tried to lift his head but the effort was too much for him. He went back to counting the empty bottles in the snow in front of him.

“I heard something.” Nolquinn grabbed a torch and lit it with a flare spell. He left the mouth of the cavern and wandered toward the underbrush.

“It’s probably a wolf . . . or a bear.” said Lorian chuckling. “Maybe it’s a spriggan, what I wouldn’t give for one of those to warm my bedroll tonight.” He grabbed his stomach as fits of laughter caused him to roll in the snow surrounded by the empty bottles.

Imbecile! Nolquinn thought to himself. He hated third watch with Lorian. The man had none of Nolquinn’s Altmer dignity. Less than two hours of their watch gone and the Breton was already into his cups. Why does the Master keep him around? He was not useful in any way that Nolquinn could tell, and he was so loud that whatever was in the underbrush had probably fled, ruining their chance at a hot meal. At least he’s stopped laughing, Nolquinn thought.

He walked back to the mouth of the cave. Lorian lay on his side. A pool of liquid began to spread, darkening the snow around him. He’s wet himself again, Nolquinn thought, I should let him lie in his own filth. He walked closer.

He stopped. In the torchlight Lorian’s eyes were wide with a mixture of shock and surprise. A smile still lingered on his unmoving lips. A thin line of blood trailed from his mouth and dripped into a small red pool in the snow. His lifeblood ran from a gaping slash across his throat, and the red skull on the front of his black robe glistened.

Nolquinn drew his dagger and summoned a headless zombie from the nether realms. He backed into a position between it and the cavern door. Whatever killed Lorian did not leave footprints. Breathe, he told himself, breathe. He felt a hand grab his forehead from behind. His head was drawn back and tilted up, but no one was behind him. He felt a sudden pressure, like a finger being drawn across his neck. There was a rush of warmth on the front of his chest that ran down his robe and legs. He grew light-headed, his vision began to blur at the edges. The torch dropped from his limp hands and sizzled in the snow. He was on his knees, though he didn’t remember kneeling. The hand on his forehead was gone. His zombie dissipated like a puff of smoke. I’m going to die in the snow, he thought. The last thing he saw was the smile on Lorian’s face.





The Nightblade Arnand Desele materialized and crouched over the dead man and elf whose blood stained the evening snow. He wore a thick brown cloak over his leather armor. His elven dagger still dripped. Ten years since I wielded a blade, he thought to himself, the old skills had atrophied, but they were still there. He examined the bodies, Necromancers, he thought, the Witchmen were right about this place. He felt a moment’s regret for the two lives he had stolen. For Elissa’s sake, I’d kill a thousand more just like them. He cleaned his blade in the folds of the Altmer’s robe and turned toward the entrance to the cavern.

Well guarded, the Witchmen had said. Inside there is a sorcerer of great power. One who has mastered the power of life and death. Arnand felt a chill that was more than just the cold and pulled his cloak tighter. For Elissa’s sake, he thought. He cast a combination spell of nighteye and life detection before he stepped through the door of the cavern.

The rock wall formed a tunnel that went down at a steep angle. He started downward, crouching to limit the noise his boots made against the slick rock. On the tunnel floor torchlight provided dim illumination. Two more tunnels branched off from the walls to his left and right. He clung to the shadows. The pink blots that he could see through the floor told him that the cavern went deeper . . . and that he was not alone. He counted more than a dozen blots before the spell ended and they faded from view. He remained in the shadows while his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

I’m so close, he thought. These enemies are all that stand between me and this sorcerer. He can help me save Elissa, he must help me. He studied the lie of the shadows along both tunnels before casting his combination spell again.

Two enemies were coming toward him from the tunnel on his left. He drifted left, into the shadows near the opening and waited. The two necromancers passed through the opening talking to each other. Arnand cast a paralyze spell at the taller of the two necromancers farthest from him. He sprung from his hiding place and took the nearest necromancer from behind. His dagger found the man’s throat and drank deep. He moved past the necromancer holding his throat and grabbed the hair of the taller one still in the act of falling from his paralyze spell. He hesitated for a split second. She was an Altmer. She looks so much like Elissa, he thought. He heard the other necromancer hit the ground behind him. He slit the woman’s throat and let go of her hair. She fell and bled out on the slick stone floor. Neither had made a sound.

He pulled the bodies back into the shadows. He recast his combination spell and went down the left tunnel. Using the cover provided by the shadows, he was able to sneak past three skeletons and two zombies. The tunnel curved downwards through several turns before ending in a small chamber. There was an empty coffin placed into a niche hacked out of the rock wall. Arnand was sweating and his hands were shaking. Seeing the coffin was too much of a reminder. My wife is a vampire, he thought to himself staring at the coffin, this could be her coffin if I can’t save her.

He wiped his brow and calmed his shaking hands. By the time he carefully retraced his steps out of the tunnel he was calm, his resolve strengthened. He would reach this sorcerer if he had to go through all the minions in Oblivion to do it. He recast his combination spell and walked down the other winding tunnel.

Two more skeletons guarded the other tunnel. They wielded iron war axes and stood too close together in the confines of the tunnel to sneak around. Arnand remained in the shadows. Behind him the tunnel was clear. He could not afford to waste his magicka on another combination spell. I’ll have to trust that the tunnel ahead is the same, he thought. He waited until both skeletons had their backs to him before moving. He cast a bolt of command creature at the nearest skeleton. While the purple globe of energy was still airborne he rendered himself invisible and sprinted after it. The spell found its mark, engulfing the skeleton in a pale purple aura that provided brief illumination in the tunnel. The skeleton set upon its counterpart with a vicious overhead slash. By the time the other skeleton turned to defend itself, Arnand had slipped past them like a puff of smoke. His luck held, the tunnel beyond the skeletons was empty. By the time his invisibility spell wore off, the sounds of battle had faded far behind him.

Three necromancers were grouped together in the large chamber at the end of the tunnel. They stood in front of a heavy oak door set into the rock. Two men and one woman. The two men were facing the woman with their backs to Arnand. Mercifully the woman looked nothing like Elissa. Child’s play, Arnand thought.

He cast two spells in succession. The paralyze spell hit the first necromancer in the back and caused him to fall over. The command humanoid spell hit the woman. As the third necromancer turned and lifted his hand to form a summon, the woman blasted him with a fireball that sent him careening across the cavern. He hit the ground hard. His summoned ghost appeared next to the woman, drawing her fire. The third necromancer tried to regain his feet, but Arnand was behind him. His blade extinguished both his life and his ghost. Arnand disappeared behind an invisibility spell.

The paralyze spell on the first necromancer wore off. He tried to rise and the woman turned her attention to him, hitting him with a hefty drain life spell that staggered him. Before he could recover the woman drew her dagger and plunged it into his heart. The frenzy spell wore off, she still held the bloody dagger. “What?” was all she managed before Arnand materialized behind her, ending her life with a single cut.

He walked over to the oak door and opened it with a spell. He stepped across a threshold into a darkness that made him feel as if he had slipped off the face of the world. The void closed in around him, yet he did not fall. It held him up and carried him on cautious footsteps until it moved aside for him, like the parting of a veil.

He found himself inside a large room with oak paneling on the walls and red carpeted floors. A fire burned in the hearth bracketed by high-backed leather chairs. Lamps in sconces along the walls illuminated thousands of books that dominated the room, and candles burned on the well-stocked dinner table.

Arnand thought to go for his dagger, but he couldn’t move. A paralysis spell stronger than any he had ever known had him in its grip. A figure rose from one of the leather chairs and turned to face Arnand.

Mara! It might have once been man or mer, but it had long since shed easy classification. A cloak of a deeper scarlet than all the blood that Arnand had spilled to reach it covered the figure and pooled on the ground around him. The heavy hood that cast its face into darkness deeper than the void could not contain the blue points of light that hinted at unspeakable power and command of the dead. It spoke with the voice of an Altmer, in calm and cultured tones that belied, or perhaps underscored, the power of its presence.

“Seven of my people, taken out in minutes,” he said, “most impressive.”

A trap, thought Arnand, I’ve been deceived. He was waiting for me.

“Do not struggle. The effect will last as long as I will it, so let us be civil.” He walked over to the dinner table and filled two glasses with wine. He toasted Arnand with one.

“Though the title is a bit macabre,” he said, “I am known as the King of Worms, and you come highly recommended.”

Posted by: mALX Mar 24 2010, 02:46 PM

ROFL!!! Lattia def met Barbas first, since Maxical is in the 3rd Era - (Hauty - you had me rolling with this!)



It doesn't matter how many times I read this chapter, the scene with Mannimarco always makes my heart race - oh, and reliving the deaths of Nolquinn and Lorian - knowing what happens later - SWEET!

Posted by: SubRosa Mar 25 2010, 12:03 AM

Ahh, it is our old friends Lorian and Nolquinn. Or new friends that is. I suspect we will not be seeing the last of them?

There were some things about this chapter that never made sense to me. How was it that Arnand did not leave footprints? It was something you made a point of, but I did not catch the explanation of.

The other thing was it seemed very strange to me that Arnand was the only one to use a Detect Life. It would seem the most obvious thing for Nolquinn to cast when he realized there was an attacker whom he could not see. Not to mention it also seemed very strange that Nolquinn never tried to raise an alarm, even though he had ample opportunity to shout out for help, when as a guard that is his first duty.

I think that entire scene would be more believable if Arnand had used the same m.o. he did with several other necromancers within: Paralyze Nolquinn, then kill Lorian, and finally come back to finish Nolquinn before the paralysis wore off. It would also still allow you to paint the scene from Nolquinn's point of view, as he would see it all, yet be unable to act.

Posted by: Destri Melarg Mar 25 2010, 06:02 AM

First, thank you for the wonderfully detailed critique!

I can see how that might have been confusing. Allow me to share my own thoughts in the writing of it. My own view of the situation was that Arnand took Lorian from above, while the Breton rolled about in the snow. I imagined Arnand on the lip of the cave while Nolquinn went and searched the underbrush. I probably should have put something in to make that fact clear to the reader, but since the scene played out from Nolquinn’s point of view I thought that his confusion lent an almost supernatural overtone to his growing sense of panic. By the time Arnand materializes and we learn that he is a man I thought that the methods he used to take down the two guards were irrelevant and didn’t warrant explaining. Perhaps I should revisit that section and add in some form of explanation to keep it from being an issue.


Thankfully for Arnand, it was he and not you guarding that cave. My sense of Nolquinn and Lorian is that they are a kind of tip of the cap to the necromancers found in the game. In my experience, the first action of a necromancer when he/she detects an intruder is to form a summon. Given the timeframe (Nolquinn sees Lorian dead, forms a summon, positions himself between it and the cave entrance, and is taken from behind), I don’t think there was ample time for him to cast a detect life spell. Especially considering that, at the time, he was having to will himself to simply breathe.


Here I think you might be mistaking a guard for a lookout. The first duty of a lookout when confronted by a threat or intruder is to sound an alarm. The first duty of a guard when confronted by an intruder is to neutralize the intruder, sounding an alarm only if the intruder proves to be more than the guard can handle.


The reason that I didn’t want to use the paralysis spell on Nolquinn or Lorian is that I knew that I would be using it at least twice inside the cave, and I didn’t want the effect to suffer from the repetition. I have to admit that the idea of paralyzing the point of view character then describing the scene as he sees it is an excellent one and that it is something that I am going to have to give serious thought to.

Ultimately if these scenes didn’t make sense to you then that is my failing as the writer. I only wished to give you an idea of the thought process I went through in coming to the decisions that I did about this sequence of the story.

Posted by: Winter Wolf Mar 25 2010, 06:38 AM

Great explanations of your thought process Destri.

The chapter plays out great to me because we have yet to be introduced to the character and it leaves me with Wow, who is this?
The part about the footsteps is not entirely clear, but as you said it is from the dead one's POV, so it doesn't really matter. You could add a comment or thought from Arnard when he couches over the dead bodies, but it really isn't needed.

SubRosa's idea about paralyzing the man and killing the other one is my sort of thinking. Go girl!
Teresa might turn into a bloodthirsty killer after all. Move over Eyja.

Posted by: mALX Mar 25 2010, 02:04 PM

Lol !!!

Posted by: Fiach Mar 25 2010, 05:57 PM

Wow this story is amazing

Lettia seems like a great character to start with, if a little ambitious

You also gave a great representation of Clavicus Vile, although I'm sure he'll get the better end of this deal

Arnand sounds like a classic rogue, I can't wait to read what happens next

Posted by: SubRosa Mar 25 2010, 06:32 PM

I would suggest not basing the behaviour of your characters on what you see from the NPCs in the game. To put it simply, the AI is stupid. NPC mages never cast a detect life to find you even when you turn invisible right in front of them. They never think to cast a calm or dispel on someone who is obviously frenzied, etc... When I fought Mannimarco at the end of the MG questline I was expecting a real epic battle. Instead he was a pushover, because he attacked me with a dagger.

This is entirely dependent on how real you want your story to appear of course. Many writers want you to know that the story and its characters are in a game. Take Acadian and Buffy for example, he has people turning green when you poison them, which would not happen in a real world. Or Rales digging through crates in front of a guard to get money and other loot. I do not criticize that, in fact, I think it makes for a very interesting story.

But I was not under the impression that was what you were going for. I know you said you wrote the two guard necromancers as sort of an homage to the game necros, but your writing usually seems to go more for realness rather than gameness (of course I may be totally off there, doh! on me if I have not picked up on it).

If you really do want to weigh more heavily on the realness side, then I would put yourself in the shoes of all the characters, and ask yourself "what would I do?" Then ask yourself "Ok, is this person really that smart/professional/experienced?" The more you think critically, the stronger your characters will come across. Some people really are stupid, and will not do the obvious thing (I work with many of them!). Some are just inexperienced (look at Teresa in many aspects). Some can be just plain arrogant, which makes them sloppy (there are plenty examples of that in military history).

Posted by: Destri Melarg Mar 27 2010, 10:04 AM

Thank you for the advice, I really appreciate the feedback . I do see Nolquinn as being an arrogant character who somehow thinks that he is above the tasks being given. I was hoping that his attitude toward Lorian showed that. Given what happens to the two of them, I didn't want to be too heavy in how realistically I portrayed them. The explanation of Arnand's footsteps in the snow is something that I plan to address as soon as I figure out how best to do it.


Interesting suggestion, Wolf. I can definitely see a thought, but would his comment be addressed to one of the dead bodies lying in the snow?

Hey, what happened to Aradroth btw?


Thank you, Fiach! And welcome to Interregnum. I hope you continue to enjoy reading it.

mALX - Isn't the King of Worms one of the coolest characters in the entire Elder Scrolls universe? I took his real name out of this last version of the chapter because in researching the events in Daggerfall I discovered that his name wasn't widely known. Because this story takes place some 400+ years before Daggerfall it stands to reason that most know him simply as the KOW.





3rd Morning Star, 2E 854
Amber Forest, East of Mournhold
Dawn


The Chevalier Renald poked the fire with a stick that he held in his gold-scaled hand. Sparks rose as the flames seemed to jump up to meet him. He felt the warmth flooding through his arms into his chest and down through his tail. Around him his syffim, four strong now with the death of Akal, coiled under their thick blankets to ward off the cold. The night’s chill was fading; the tops of the trees were visible in the half-light. The leaves falling into the clearing took on the hue for which the forest was named.

I won’t wake them, he thought, not yet. They have journeyed far and deserve their rest. He was enjoying the quiet, the time with his own thoughts. We should reach Necrom by midday; the people there are more accustomed to seeing Tsaesci. We should not be denied a ship as we were in Tear. If all goes well, we could sail on the eventide. Renald’s golden tail uncoiled and stretched him to his full height. He finished the stretch with his arms. From there he looked down on his syffim. I have kept them too long protecting a land not their own. Their loyalty all these years honors me. I will get them home.

Home to Akavir. For centuries the name had been naught but a faded memory for him. Now to be so close, to have the end of his mission decided only by want of a ship . . .

A scent in the air caught his attention. His forked tongue poked through his mouth to capture it. Wild boar, he thought and smiled. They had not fed in weeks. There were no Goblins in Black Marsh and his syffim quickly grew tired of Argonians. Boar was a poor substitute, but its flesh was close to that of man. It would provide them with the strength for the journey to Necrom.

“My Lord?” Eesham’s head poked out from under his blanket. His syffim began to stir.

“Prepare to leave,” said Renald as he pulled on his dagger and katana, “I will return shortly.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Renald slithered into the trees. The scent was faint, but it did not take Renald long to recapture it. He swung into the lower branches. Using his tail and his arms he undulated through the upper terraces silently, with a speed that even birds would envy. A part of him relished this. He loved his syffim; they were his brothers, and his sons. But there was no denying the thrill of a solitary hunt. The pride that attended the silent stalking of his prey. The blood-rush that came at the moment of the kill.

Save that this prey was proving elusive. Twice Renald felt that he had brought the boar to bay, and twice he had lost the scent, only to regain it further into the forest. Stupid pig, thought Renald, you’re proving to be more trouble than you’re worth.

Finally the boar entered a clearing. Half an acre of dried grass, brown with the season, separated it from the tree line. Renald watched from his perch high above. The squat legs propelled the boar forward with purpose, as if driven by the whip of some unseen master. I have to end this, thought Renald as the boar neared the halfway mark, if he reaches the trees I may lose him.

Renald coiled his tail against the trunk of the tree. With a sound that was half grunt and half hiss he pushed off, his tail propelling him through space. For a brief moment he was weightless, the only sound the wind as it rushed past him. His tail slowly waved back and forth, acting as a rudder to steer his descent.

On impact he curled into himself and rolled. His tail coiled and bit into the hard brown grass. He pushed off and was airborne again, less than twenty paces from the startled boar. The smell of fear on his tongue was sweet and he smiled. He drew his katana in mid-air and brought it down in a slash that carried the momentum of his body behind it. The boar screamed in agony as it was nearly vivisected along its flank.

Yet the boar was not dead, nor did it try to defend itself. Renald lifted his katana for the killing blow, and stopped. He watched as the boar labored on its two forelegs, dragging its hindquarters, leaving a trail of blood and entrails that flattened and stained the brown grass. One halting step at a time it pulled itself toward the tree line.

What drives this beast? Renald sheathed his katana. The scent of blood was strong in the air. He couldn’t lose the boar now if he tried. He decided to follow it, keeping a careful distance. He was curious to see what was worth its last measure of strength to reach.

Step by agonizing step the boar continued for the better part of an hour. Renald was filled with admiration. I’ve known knights with less courage than this creature, he thought. They reached the edge of a shallow ravine. As the boar took its first weary step down the slope its legs gave way and it tumbled, rolling to a stop in the shallow water.

Renald eased down the slope. The boar lay on its side. Each labored exhalation caused ripples in the water that was already filling with its blood. With a profound sense of pity Renald unsheathed his katana and prepared to put the great beast out of its misery.

For the second time he stopped. The smell of death was in the air, but it didn’t come from the boar. Renald automatically assumed a guard stance.

“Peace, great warrior.” A female voice heavy with the weight of age and memory said.

Renald spun. How could I have been so reckless? The source of the voice was behind him. An old woman, tall, frail, and cloaked stood on the edge of the ravine. Even under her hood Renald could see that she had no eyes. He could sense the aura of magic that surrounded her.

“You drove this boar,” said Renald.

The old woman chuckled, “I helped.”

“Reach magic!” Renald spat the words. He remained on his guard.

“You are not one to judge, slayer of dragons.”

Renald bristled at the rebuke, “Who are you?”

“My name is unimportant, but if it will ease your mind you may call me Erinwe. I am a humble messenger, great Vershu, come to offer council.”

Vershu? Renald’s tail propelled him out of the ravine. He landed near the Crone. He laid his katana on the side of her neck. “How do you know that name?”

“I know many things, snake-captain. Vershu was the name you wore when you made your vow to Reman I, was it not? It is the name you discarded when the Potentate’s heir was slain.”

Renald removed his sword. “That name is dead.”

“Perhaps,” said Erinwe, “or perhaps it is time to regain your name . . . and your vow.”

“My vow died when the black dart found the neck of Reman III. It was dust when the Dark Brotherhood slew Savirien-Chorak.”

“Then why did you stay? If your oath was void there was nothing to keep you and your syffim here, yet here you remain. Four hundred years driven by duty . . .”

“What do you know of duty, woman?” Renald placed his katana back against her neck. “Here safe in your forest? When we arrived from Akavir my syffim was twelve strong! Now, we are four. My duty is to them!”

“I too know of duty, snake-captain,” said Erinwe. “My duty is to the truth, and the truth is that the wheels of prophecy have begun to turn, but in this you are blinder than I.”

Renald sheathed his sword, “I have no time for prophecy woman, and I must see my syffim home.”

Erinwe placed a hand on his shoulder. “And the Chim-el Adabal?”

The Amulet of Kings, thought Renald. He could still see it on Reman’s neck. “Lost. What of it?”

Erinwe smiled. “News reaches you slowly, my friend. It has been recovered. At Sancre Tor, a dragon blood waits near the throne.”

Renald lowered his head. Could this be true? “I have heard that a man called Cuhlecain styles himself Emperor. He has the Amulet?”

“Yes,” said Erinwe, “and no. The Greybeards of High Hrothgar have set the wheels in motion. Do not trust my word, snake-captain. Let the truth be judged by your own eyes. Go to the White Gold Tower. Seek out the one called Stormcrown; only in him can your oath be fulfilled. I will say no more.”

Renald watched her walk away. Her figure shimmered, and then seemed to dissolve into the trees. He was alone at the edge of the ravine. He looked down at the boar lying dead in the shallow water, its body beginning to swell in the midday sun. I should head back, he thought.

Instead he drew his dagger and went into the ravine. He cut the heart from the boar. Tonight, when they made camp he would burn the heart and set the brave creatures soul free. He would tell his syffim that Akavir would have to wait.

He would not tell them that their fate was chosen by the will of a pig.

Posted by: haute ecole rider Mar 27 2010, 03:30 PM

Even though this is the second time I'm reading this, I find myself fascinated by the POV of a Tsaesci. The hunt through the forest, the determination of the boar to keep going, even after his mortal wound, the conversation with the crone - all of it is wonderful. The thoughts going through Renald/Vershu's mind are revealing, not only of his mood, but also of the state of the world he inhabits.

This chapter is very complete in its own way. It was good to read it again.

Posted by: mALX Mar 27 2010, 03:44 PM

I have to come back to read this, no time now - but KOW may be tied with Jagar Tharn IMO - then you can't leave Dagoth-Ur out of the conversation, he has to at least be an honorable mention for making himself a God then coming back to life after the fight with Vivec - plus his laugh, which is addictive to listen to. There is a Youtube music vid that has been remixed with Dagoth-Ur laughing, and it was viral in its day, lol.

I'll read and comment when I get back!

Posted by: SubRosa Mar 28 2010, 07:04 AM

What is reach magic? I do not see it in a search of the wiki or Imperial Library. Is that the result of the forum's swear filter?

I always liked this scene, because of the Witch. Nice portrayal of her. She certainly makes a dramatic entrance and exit! I especially liked how she left, dissolving into the trees. Very reminiscent of High Plains Drifter.

Posted by: Winter Wolf Mar 28 2010, 08:42 AM

Man I love this chapter.

Each of your chapters are stories in their own right and they all read so smoothly.
With your story a snap shot on the past history of TES, it makes sense to introduce many different characters into that magnificent story that you weave. Bravo.

I especially love the way that you use the boar to tie all the players together here.
Wow, that is talent!!

Posted by: Fiach Mar 28 2010, 12:51 PM

Renald is quite an intresting character, not onloy by his race. He seems to want to seem dutybound but I couldn't help but see some doubts crop up in the Akaviri's mind. it makes me want to try to expand Haeil more as a character

Awesome write, and I can't wait for more.

Posted by: mALX Mar 28 2010, 02:56 PM

I see so many places there is foreshadowing in this that I want to read it 100 times to make sure I have seen all the clues - then sneak over the the BGSF and follow them through!!! AWESOME WRITE !!!!!!!

Posted by: Destri Melarg Mar 28 2010, 07:14 PM

My source on everything Tamrielic is the http://www.imperial-library.info/pge/highrock.shtml, which was published a mere ten years after the events of this story. In speaking of the inhabitants of the Western Reach:


I must confess that the effect of reach-magic described (a far more powerful and potent command creature spell) is my own invention, but it seems to fit.



Thank you all for your comments. Renald is my favorite character in this whole story to write. All of you seem to be wondering about his motivations and the boar. To answer that, let me re-print chapter two of http://www.imperial-library.info/obbooks/remanada.shtml:



haute and Winter Wolf – Writing Renald is so much fun because Remanada gives you insight into his motivation and the depth of his loyalty, but the rest can be filled in as I see fit. Because SubRosa is right and I do tend toward the realistic in my writing, I knew that I didn’t want a talking pig in the scene. My solution turned out to be the wild boar that leads Renald to a mysterious oracle that puts him on the road towards his destiny.

Fiach – Imagine Tamriel from Renald’s point of view; he and his syffim have spent centuries protecting Reman’s former kingdom, keeping their vows and maintaining their honor. Yet interregnum continues with no end in sight. By the time we meet him in this story he has lost two thirds of those he left Akavir with and his resolve has begun to fade. He sees getting the survivors home as his only remaining duty.

And I like the way that you have developed Haeil to this point. It is always nice to read someone who shares my fascination with the Tsaesci.

How’s that for foreshadowing, mALX?

Posted by: SubRosa Mar 28 2010, 10:42 PM

I read that part of the Remanada last night, when I was looking for Reach Magic. It seemed odd that a Tsaesci would have a Breton name and title, so I looked him up too.

I never thought of the Western Reach! *doh* I love that description of "the Witchmen of High Rock". It conjures up a very dramatic image.

Posted by: Destri Melarg Mar 31 2010, 01:38 AM

I had the same reaction when I first read about Renald, but everything about him leads to the conclusion that he is, indeed, Tsaesci (or at least can be interpreted as one). That was good news to me, because I really wanted to write a portion of this story from the point of view of a Tsaesci.





3rd Morning Star
Direnni Tower, Isle of Balfiera
Dusk


Word of her arrival came with the morning tide and caused an explosion of activity throughout the Tower. Maids dusted and then re-dusted the furniture. Cooks raided the larder; anything not of the finest quality was bundled for the servants to eat . . . or the dogs. Stewards found the best wines from the cellar. Grooms brushed and re-brushed the horses. The usually hushed voices were alive with joy and anticipation. The Lady Varla was coming home.

The High King dispatched a galleon to ferry her sister across the Iliac Bay. Lattia was not surprised. She retrieved Mallari from the stables and rode down to the dock with the porters. One of the grooms rode Varla’s White, Rielle. A day’s trip from Sentinel aboard a warship and surrounded by sailors. . . Varla’s dream come true, Lattia thought.

She reached the dock with the sun setting in front of her. The ship was still out in the Bay. The evening chill had begun. It was a comfort to Lattia and reminded her that she was no longer in Oblivion. You ask too much Aran, she thought. She cursed Clavicus Vile for the price he had extracted from her, and she cursed herself for agreeing to it.

The ship docked and taciturn Emero, Varla’s bodyguard, emerged and walked down the gangplank holding a green silk cloak. He wore a flowing blue velvet robe. His stiff mane was whiter than Lattia remembered, and his pointed ears sagged under the weight of heavy gold earrings. Seeing him brought back the memories of countless lessons under that stern gaze of his before he chose to leave with Varla. The old sorcerer still looks formidable. Lattia dismounted, Mallari walked over to where Rielle stood near the docks. The two horses nipped playfully at each other.

Varla Direnni wore a green silk brocaded dress that clung to her in the twilight. She is still so beautiful, Lattia thought. She felt a fleeting moment of jealousy toward her sister. The Captain of the ship escorted Varla to the gangplank. His head barely came up to her breast. As he kissed her hand she said something that made him laugh. She sashayed down to the dock, maintaining her elegant posture despite the swaying of the ship. Emero draped the cloak over her golden shoulders. She whispered something to him, he nodded and bowed. She turned her attention to Lattia.

“Little sister. . .” she walked over and took Lattia’s hands in hers. She smelled of Lavender. She held Lattia’s arms out to the side so as better to inspect her, “still pining for the Daedra?”

“Older sister. . .” said Lattia, “still conducting business from your bedroom?”

Neither of them could hold the stare for long. Varla was the first to laugh. Lattia pulled her sister close and held her, laughing.

“It hurts that you think I would lie so far beneath me,” said Varla, “besides, on a ship they call it a stateroom.”

“I’m sure you lie in accordance with your station.” They parted, this time it was Lattia’s turn to hold her sister’s arms out to the side. “You look wonderful.”

“You’re too kind. All night aboard that rat-infested tub I’m surprised I don’t look like one of the sailors.” She frowned and touched Lattia’s face. “You look pale, what has he had you doing?”

Lattia ignored the question. “What were you telling Emero just now?”

“I told him to keep his eye on the crew. Some of the things they say would make Sanguine blush. The fool’s are likely to go through my undergarments while I’m gone.”

Lattia looked at the porters still milling around the dock, conspicuous in their inactivity. “You’re not staying?”

“I’m afraid not. I’m bound for Wayrest, then on to the Imperial City. I just stopped in to see you . . . and Aran. Where is he by the way?”

“Waiting in the Tower, I brought your horse.” Lattia pointed to the two horses waiting near the dock.

Varla grinned and for a moment Lattia saw the little girl who stood up for her when Aran’s teasing became too rough. “Rielle! Oh, sister, you think of everything.”

Emero appeared at Varla’s side, his face as inscrutable as ever. Lattia had not seen him move from the docks. He bowed before he spoke.

“Begging pardons, Mistress,” he said, “the Captain wishes to know how long we plan to stay.”

“Where are your manners, Emero? Say hello to my sister.”

Emero bowed even lower. “My apologies,” he turned to Lattia, “greetings, Milady. You are as beautiful as I remember.”

“Greetings Emero,” said Lattia, “it is good to see you again.”

“I have heard that you are quite the mage. I congratulate you.”

“Your teaching had much to do with it.”

Varla was bored. “Tell the Captain we plan to stay until my business here is complete.” She winked at Lattia. “Tell him that the ship was placed at my disposal and that it will come and go at my choosing. If he has a problem with that tell him to take it up with his Majesty.”

“Very good, Mistress.” Emero’s smile was so brief that it could hardly have been counted as one, but Lattia knew that he relished passing on the message. He turned on his heel and made his way back to the ship. Varla locked onto Lattia’s arm and steered her toward the waiting horses.

“You deflected my question earlier,” Varla said, “I asked why you were so pale.”

They mounted the horses. Lattia reached forward and stroked Mallari’s neck. “I guess I’m just tired.”

“We both know better than that, but I’m too happy to push it. Keep your secret for now, but you will tell me before I leave. Now, let me tell you about the Court of Hammerfell.”

Lattia didn’t care much for gossip, but she was glad for the change of subject. The two rode toward the stables, their silhouettes fading into the shadow of the black stone tower.





The three of them sat at the large table in the middle of the tower and dined on lettuce and leek salad topped with a pungent red wine vinaigrette. A savory venison stew with carrots and onions followed. For the main course there was braised lamb, roasted potatoes brushed with garlic, and topped with diced tomatoes that had dried in the afternoon sun. Desert was a large covered pot made of ice that when opened produced a bounty of fresh strawberries, grapes and sliced apples coated with a thin brush of orange juice and moon sugar. Conversation was light, and laughter was abundant. Lattia couldn’t remember a dinner more enjoyable.

When they had eaten their fill they repaired to the solar in the tower’s upper level. Aran poured the wine. “So, what news?” he asked.

Varla lounged in her chair, twirling her cup of wine between thumb and forefinger. “High King Thassad sends his regards.”

Aran snorted, “He can keep his regards. It’s his troops that I’m interested in, will they stand with us?”

“Thassad has problems of his own, dear brother. Even if he wanted to support us I doubt that he could raise half of his country for battle. This business of Crowns and Forebears will lead to civil war. It just shows what happens when you build your seat of power in the stronghold of your enemies. I know Emero must be glad we’ve put the place behind us. He was getting tired of tasting my food.”

“I care nothing for Hammerfell’s petty squabbles or your servant's weak stomach, we need his troops,” said Aran, “did you tell him that I can deliver High Rock?”

“Can you?”

Lattia took a long drink from her cup. Aran stood, scowling.

“You doubt me?”

Varla remained silent. She returned Aran’s stare with one of her own. She truly fears nothing, thought Lattia with admiration. Aran’s temper was a thing to behold but, as usual with Varla, he was the first to blink.

“Cuhlecain played into our hands at Sancre Tor,” he said, returning to his seat. “When the snow-men turned cloak, they united the whole of High Rock against him. I hear even now that the Witchmen are plotting their revenge. With Hammerfell and High Rock we could meet them on the field and squash the Alessian resurgence forever.”

“You would need a host of twice that to contend with Cuhlecain’s forces.” Said Varla. She turned to Lattia and started to laugh. “Meridia’s summoning day is soon; perhaps Lattia can pull an army of Aurorans from the basement to help you.”

Lattia blushed and remained silent. Aran rose so swiftly that half of his wine spilled on the floor.

“Do not mock me, Varla!”

Varla put on the smile that Lattia had seen her wear for the ship’s Captain.

“I’m sorry, Aran,” she said, “It was not my intention.” She rose from her chair and gracefully crossed the room. She laid her arm across her brother’s shoulder and gently guided him back into his chair. Her gaze found Lattia’s, and she winked.

“Cuhlecain is nothing but an up-jumped hedge knight from Falkreath,” she said in soothing tones. “Consider this: If the rumors are correct and they recovered the Amulet of Kings from Sancre Tor, why does he not wear it?”

She rose and returned to her seat. “Because he can not,” she said. “The Nords believe that the hero of Sancre Tor, this General Talos, is of dragon blood . . . he is the threat.”

“Dragon blood? Ridiculous.” Said Aran.

“Whether he is or not is irrelevant. What matters is that the Nords believe that he is. I tell you, brother, right now you can do more with a simple push in the proper place than with all the armies of Tamriel.”

Aran reflected on his sisters words. Varla took a sip of her wine and laid her head back in her chair. Through half-closed eyes she watched her brother intently. Lattia was grateful for the silence, and she was grateful for not having been asked to contribute to the discussion.

Aran broke the silence. “Where would you push?”

Varla opened her eyes. “There are many places one could. For me, I would concentrate on this General Talos. He is aided by a battlemage, a very good one if the rumors are correct.” She smiled, “I think I can move him.”

“Then you should leave on the morning tide.” Aran said.

“That was my intention.” Varla replied.

“It was good to see you again, Varla.”

“And you, Aran.”

He got up and walked to the door. He stopped. “This battlemage, what is his name?” He asked.

“Zurin Arctus.” Varla said.

Posted by: haute ecole rider Mar 31 2010, 02:17 AM

I have really enjoyed re-reading this story, and this chapter just adds to the pleasure.

Lady Varla is a fascinating character, but I remain partial to Lattia. I'm not sure why.

And it is very interesting to listen to their discussion of Cuhlecain and Stormcrown, especially given Stormcrown's dominance in Cyrodiil history.

Is it just me, or do others think of the Irish hero Cuchulainn every time we read Cuhlecain?

Posted by: SubRosa Mar 31 2010, 02:31 AM

Ahh, Lattia again. She is probably my favorite character of this play. Her sister Varla is something else as well. Named after her stones no doubt...




nits:
He turned on his heal
I am thinking you wanted heel instead.

Posted by: mALX Mar 31 2010, 05:05 AM

I have to go with Hauty on this. This chapter has always been a testament to your ability to develop characters in a short setting and weave strong visual images.

Posted by: Winter Wolf Mar 31 2010, 06:38 AM

The powerful images you create in this chapter feel like a movie to me. Epic.
I keep looking over my shoulder in case I get hit by the boom guy.

This is beautifully written and says so much in just the span of a few words. Bravo.

Posted by: Olen Mar 31 2010, 12:20 PM

More or less as has been said above. That was strong chapter and introduced a lot in a very short space of words, and introduced it well. I'm greatly enjoying this.

One thing I saw:

"When they had eaten their fill they repaired to the solar.." - did you mean repaired?

Good piece, I look forward to the next part.

Posted by: Destri Melarg Mar 31 2010, 04:34 PM

I have written Cuchulainn when I meant Cuhlecain at least five times, but the Hero of Ulster bears very little resemblance to the would-be Emperor of Tamriel.

On a side note: Cuchulainn is what I named my dog in Dragon Age: Origins.


Thanks to the book, http://www.imperial-library.info/bsbooks/harvest_end.shtml, we know that the Direnni’s gained their fortune by trafficking with daedra, just as the Ayleids did. Because of that, all of the Direnni elves in this story carry Ayleidic names:

Aran – King
Varla – Star
Lattia – Light

Thank you for exposing another nit, it has been addressed.


High praise, coming from the creator of both Maxical and Shivani!


Thank you, Wolf. And don’t worry, the AD will yell at you to move long before the Boom guy gets too close.


Thank you Olen!

In this case I am using repaired in its verb form:

Repair - To betake oneself; go, as to a place: He repaired in haste to Washington.

And stay tuned, things get a bit. . .interesting from here.

Posted by: Olen Mar 31 2010, 05:01 PM

Nice... I didn't know that meaning and it wasn't in my smaller dictionary (I did check before suggesting it was out of place). The bigger one had it though. I like words and that's a whole new way to use one I had thought dull.

Awsome.

Posted by: Remko Mar 31 2010, 05:13 PM

Well, you know how I feel about this story!
Are you going to change things as well or is it the same as I read before?
Okay, I know, I know, I should just read it.

Posted by: Destri Melarg Apr 2 2010, 10:08 PM

Most of the chapters are being re-written, but the rewrites are subtle. Just things that I noticed that perhaps no one else ever will. But there will be at least two, maybe more, chapters that never made it into the original. Be on the lookout for the first of Sun's Dawn, that's all I am going to say.





12th Morning Star, 2E 854
Fort Black Boot, Near Cyrodiil’s Border with Elsweyr
Mid-day


For the sixth consecutive day the garrison dug trenches. The sound of picks and shovels reverberated through the valley, broken only by hastily yelled warnings as another felled tree hit Nirn. Several of the reinforcements, on horseback, hauled the dying wood to clear the land for more trenches, and to give the armorers more material for stakes.

Zurin Arctus stood on top of the watchtower and gazed to the south. From his vantage point he could see where the tree tops ended and the arid plains of Elsweyr began. Beyond the border he saw the lines of Khajiit tents before the walls of Riverhold. But that was not what drew his attention. He was more concerned with the storm clouds on the horizon, and the wind that had just shifted to the east.

Beside him Captain Itinius cradled his battered helmet and studied the Khajiit position. “That’s quite a host, Sir,” he said, “ten, maybe fifteen thousand strong, I think. It’s hard to tell at this distance, and organized. Even with the reinforcements we’ll be heavily outnumbered. Has there been any word from our Skyrim reserve?”

“Assume we’re on our own, Captain,” said Arctus, turning his attention to the Khajiit tents. “Make sure your men are ready, the attack will come tonight.”

Itinius hesitated. “Sir?”

“Speak freely, Captain.”

“Not meaning to tell the Battlemage his business, sir, but they look pretty much bivouacked to me. I’m sure their spies have told them of our situation. A night attack seems like an unnecessary risk. If what they’re doing is a feint, well, it’s a lot of trouble to go through considering how badly they outnumber us.”

“Khajiit see in the dark, Captain.”

Itinius nodded and smiled at his own stupidity. “Yes sir,” he said, “that they do.”

Movement to the west caught Arctus’ attention. A lone trooper reined his horse at the fortifications. He spoke briefly with the guard who pointed to the watchtower. The trooper nodded his thanks, dismounted, and disappeared into the fort.

Arctus heard the rapid footsteps on the tower stairs and turned away from the coming storm. The trooper emerged through the door. He saluted Captain Itinius with a clenched fist over his heart, and struggled to regain his breath.

“General Talos sends his compliments, sir,” he said to Arctus, haltingly. He looked sideways at Itinius as he tried to remain at attention, but his ride and the steps were causing him trouble.

He was a boy, no more than six and ten. Each year they get younger, Arctus thought, and we get older.

“Do you have a message, lad, or is the Battlemage expected to guess?” Itinius barked.

The boy flushed and held himself erect. “Yes sir! Sorry, sir.” Then to Arctus, “the General requests your company, sir.”

“Very well,” said Arctus, “I shall attend him. Get something to eat and water your horse, then report back to the General’s camp.”

“Yes sir.” The young trooper saluted, then turned and entered the tower.

“Have my horse prepared,” Arctus said.

“Will you require a bodyguard, Master Arctus?”

“No thank you, Captain. Keep the men occupied with their work. The less they know about tonight the better.”

“Yes sir.” Itinius nodded and performed a salute that thumped on his well-worn cuirass. He turned with practiced efficiency.

“Are you a man of faith, Captain?” Arctus asked, staring into the eye of the storm.

Itinius stopped. “Yes sir. I don’t spend much time in the Temple, but I believe in the Eight.”

“In that case you might say a prayer to Kynareth for a favorable wind.”

Itinius nodded and repeated his salute. He lingered momentarily, trying to see what the Battlemage saw, but to him the wind felt fine.





Arctus rode through the gate and turned to the west. Past the trenches and the garrison he mounted a gentle slope and stopped at the edge of a deep grove. The wind picked up and shifted to the north. He closed his eyes as the first gusts hit the right side of his cheek, then he turned in his saddle to view the storm clouds. They’re getting closer, he thought; perhaps the Captain is a man of faith after all. He spurred his horse into the grove. The trees formed a canopy of gold and brown above him. They began to climb, the grade steep enough that he had to lean forward to maintain his balance. The curtain of trees parted, and the catapults came into view. Forty of them at the top of the hill, all aimed toward Fort Black Boot. As he came upon them, his horse neighed in protest as the smell hit her nostrils. Seconds later he shared her discomfort.

The carcasses were lined up near the catapults, in numbers too great to count. Most were once wolves of every size and variety, but there were dogs mixed in as well. The smell alone should give the Khajiit pause, Arctus thought.

Past the catapults Arctus looked down into the General’s camp. There were no fires burning. More than two hundred tents were huddled together in the valley, as if proximity could ward off the cold. Five centuries of a hundred men each milled through the tent lines. Some drilled in formation; others sat in small groups shivering under their blankets. Whatever activity they were engaged in they maintained a strict silence so as not to betray their position.

Arctus rode down into the camp. He rode through a sea of faces, sullen, ruddy with the cold, and eager to meet the enemy. Some stood and gave a hasty salute to mark his passing. The General’s tent was erected in the center, the hub that held the other tents together. As he dismounted a trooper appeared beside him and took the bridle of his horse. Arctus lowered his head and entered the General’s tent.

Inside candles provided the only illumination. Incense burned in a brazier set to the right of the entrance. The smoke hung oppressively in the air. To the left there was a bed with golden silk sheets. Red and gold carpets lined the floor.

An officer in gleaming silver armor was delivering his report:

“. . . from Lord Richton. He says the fleet has arrived at the mouth of the Xylo. He also says that the Bosmer have been curious, but no one objects to their presence. He wishes to know if he has leave to sack Torval.”

General Talos sat in the center of the tent in a high-backed chair of gold that looked suspiciously like a throne. “Send Lord Richton my compliments. Tell him to remain where he is, do not sail into Torval.” He spotted Arctus. “Arctus. Good of you to join us.” He turned back to the officer. “Thank you Captain Alorius, you are dismissed.”

“Sir.” Alorius saluted and left the tent.

“Forgive the incense,” said Talos, “It’s the only way to keep the smell at bay. Of course, after a while it starts to smell worse in here than outside.”

Arctus performed a salute. “General. The wind shifted as I rode in. With any luck the storm should hit us by nightfall.”

Talos laughed and pointed behind him. “Luck has nothing to do with it.”

Arctus had not seen the great Nord at the back of the tent. Ysmir sat with his legs crossed on cushions that were piled high around him. In his right hand he held a large hooka from which he suckled like a newborn. A thick plume of smoke escaped through the folds of his great shaggy beard and wafted in the air around him.

“This entire campaign is folly,” he said, “better we should invade Vvardenfell than waste our time swatting kittens.”

“Your hatred of the Tribunal has been noted,” said Talos, “you’ll have your revenge soon enough. Our priority now is to secure our southern border. I’ll not lose Cyrodiil on some fool’s errand to Morrowind.”

“Fool’s errand?” Ysmir stood and spat on the floor. The candles caused his shadow to fill the tent. “You try my patience, Stormcrown.” He pushed past Arctus and left the tent.

Talos exhaled. “At some point I’m going to have to show that man his place.”

“We still need him, General,” said Arctus, “his thu’um alone . . .”

Talos raised his hand, “I know, I know. He has his uses.”

The tent flap opened and Captain Alorius reentered the tent. The candle-light ran streaks through his silver armor.

“Begging pardons General, the harriers have returned.” He said.

Arctus took up position to the General’s right.

“Show them in, Captain.” Said Talos

Alorius saluted and left the tent, returning seconds later leading a group of four: A Bosmer wearing a fur cuirass and boots with a battered steel bow over his shoulder, a long-haired Colovian in leather armor with an iron mace hanging at his hip, and two Khajiit. The first was a slight male who wore braids that hung down to his shoulders and pulled at the skin of his scalp, giving his eyes a sleepy, half-focused quality. The second was a small child, wide-eyed and barefoot, clinging to the pant leg of his elder.

Alorius cleared his throat. “General may I present Ondereos, Flavius Livia, and Dar’Zhan.”

“Gentlemen,” said Talos, “I trust you’ve accomplished your missions.”

The Bosmer, Ondereos, stepped forward and lowered his head.

“General,” he said, “my men and I have scoured every sewer in the Imperial City. If there was a rat crawling we caught it.”

“Good.” Talos turned toward the Colovian.

“The tunnels were there just as Dar’Zhan said, sir,” said Flavius Livia. “We released the rats into the Khajiit camp without them ever seeing us.”

Dar’Zhan stepped forward. “Riverhold has closed their gates against the vermin. My clan-mates slew all of the livestock in the camp. The attack must be tonight, for they will not be able to resupply.”

“Excellent,” said Talos, “Captain, make sure you pay these men what was promised.”

“Yes Sir.” Alorius started to steer the group out of the tent.

“Who is the child?” asked Arctus.

“This is my son,” said Dar’Zhan, “he spread the rumors of the vermin in Riverhold.” He looked down at his son. “Come K’Sharra, it is time for us to go.”

Posted by: mALX Apr 2 2010, 10:23 PM

ARGH!!! A TEASER !!!!!!! ARGH!

I loved this chapter before and still do - the beginnings of the K'Sharra Prophecy !!! You ROCK !!!

Posted by: SubRosa Apr 2 2010, 10:51 PM

Ahh, Destri is back, and with a bit of cliffhanger of his own! This was a good lead up to the battle, as it leaves us wondering what will happen next? You especially whet our curiosity with such oddness as the rotting corpses, the rats, the trenches, etc... This Talos Stormcrown is a tricksy hobbit, that is for certain!


broken only by hastily yelled warnings as another felled tree hit Nirn.
A good touch here, avoiding the use of the word earth. That is something I always have trouble working around with terms like earthworks, earthenware, etc... which really should be nirnworks, nirnware...



nits:
Incense burned in a brassiere set to the right of the entrance.
I believe you meant brazier, a brassiere is a bra.


This is really more a matter of personal vision, but IRL a Roman Century was of 80 fighting men (each century was subdivided into 10 contubernium - or tent groups - of 8 men each). There were also 20 slaves who helped with the grunt work. Each tent group had 2 slaves and one mule. You do not hear much about the slaves, because in the Roman world they were invisible, and not worth mentioning by historians. That was in the Post-Marius Roman world. Pre-Marius there were many more slaves, depending on the era perhaps a 1-1 or even greater ratio. The same was true in the Greek world.

Of course the Cyrodiilic Empire does not have slaves, so I can see making the Century of 100 fighters. On the other hand, it could still be only 80 fighters, and 20 paid laborers. It all depends on how deep into the nitty gritty of camp life you really want to get.

Posted by: haute ecole rider Apr 2 2010, 11:58 PM

This is one of the outstanding chapters in an outstanding piece. When I think of the story as a whole, I think of this chapter - it captures an epic feel that is rare in single-player games and brings a whole chapter of TES lore alive. There is an almost cinematic feel to the writing that makes me think of the best of the epic movies. The entire set up for the upcoming battle brings an added depth to something that could be so one-dimensional, and hints at the strategy that is involved in commanding armies.

It was good, no great, to read this again.

Posted by: Winter Wolf Apr 3 2010, 12:40 AM

Wow, amazing chapter. You have taken a single player world and made it epic in size and scope. Very few people can pull this off with your perfect commandment of language.

I loved the way Arctus rode his horse over the hill, past the garrisons and catapults. The pace and description there was awesome. I can visualize the bodies of dogs and wolves so easily. All we need is creaking of the ropes as the launch position is adjusted. Better than a Scud missile really.

Posted by: canis216 Apr 3 2010, 02:07 AM

Truly fantastic work. A clever bit of plotting by Talos (as one would expect from such a renowned strategist), fabulous incorporation of Ysmir (though I thought he might have called Talos "Hjalti" or "Early-Beard"), some nice foreshadowing, and some excellent setting of the scene. Well done.

Posted by: Olen Apr 4 2010, 03:07 PM

I'll second the fantsatic work remark, that last scene really came alive. The portrayal of the camp was excellent, as was the inclusion of the more cloak and dagger side of the battle (which I'm rather looking forward to).

“Khajiit see in the dark, Captain.” - this line was excellent, it fitted very well and brought home the strangness of the setting.

More?

Posted by: Destri Melarg Apr 6 2010, 09:14 PM

SubRosa - I knew that the ratio of the Roman Century was usually 80 men to 20 slaves, but I did not know about the contubernium. I chose to make the Cyrodiilic Century 100 men because there are no slaves in Cyrodiil, strictly speaking; also because, as a simply selfish indulgence, I liked the idea of using the term ‘century’ instead of ‘company’.

Thank you for making the distinction between Brazier and Brassiere, I’m just glad that it is not something that I have to address too often.

haute ecole – I am so glad that you are enjoying this second read through. I know that we share the same concern, that those who have read this before will get bored slogging through it a second time. In the case of Julian, know that I am enjoying reading her adventures through main quest Oblivion even more now than before. It is nice to know that you are enjoying Interregnum.

Winter Wolf – Thank you, Wolf. Isn’t it interesting, for more than two thousand years catapults were the pinnacle of heavy weapons technology. Then, in the space of less than a century, we are able to advance to Scud missiles. What changed? Well, it’s obvious really . . . Aliens!

Canis216 – Welcome to Interregnum! Thank you for the comments. You’re absolutely right, Ysmir would know Talos as ‘Hjalti Early-Beard’ if you subscribe to the Arcturian Heresy (which this story does, in a round about kind of way). Ysmir uses the title ‘Stormcrown’ in an almost mocking, sarcastic way. He knows the truth behind Talos’ thu’um (and so will all of you by the end of this chapter), and he goes out of his way to make sure that Talos doesn’t forget it.

Olen – Thank you for the kind words, here is the ‘more’ that you requested.

12th Morning Star, 2E 854
Fort Black Boot, Near Cyrodiil’s Border with Elsweyr
Dusk


They were winding up a path northeast of the General’s camp when Flavius Livia reined his horse. “What are we stopping for?” He asked.

“I want to see the battle,” Ondereos answered. He dismounted and led his horse through the trees to the edge of a steep hill overlooking the valley.

Livia snorted. “Battle? More like massacre I’d say.”

“I still want to see it.” Ondereos wound the horse’s reins around the trunk of a tree. Then he removed his bow and sat down. He reached into his pack and pulled out a hardened piece of venison that made a ripping sound when he bit into it.

“Mara’s teets, I got men to pay!” Livia said.

I should kill you both and take your gold, Dar’Zhan thought to himself. “As do I,” he said. He rode with his son holding his waist.

“As do we all, but they’ll wait. Don’t tell me you’re not curious.” Ondereos ripped another piece from his venison.

“Wonder how curious you’d be if it were a bunch of fetchers in that fort,” said Livia as he shifted his mace. All the same, his horse began to move toward the edge of the hill.

Ondereos smiled. “In that case, I’d still be riding to Bravil.”

“Alone, with night falling? Thank you, no.” He dismounted and tied down his horse. He moved next to Ondereos. “I don’t want to see my countrymen torn apart by a bunch of dirty cats!” He closed his eyes. “No offense, Dar’Zhan.”

Coward! You’re lucky I don’t slit your belly open for that insult. “None taken,” he said. He smiled at the human. He would not act upon his impulses. Not here, not in front of K’Sharra. The Khajiit must be the best deceivers, for they must always hide their nature from the children of Ahnurr. Clan Mother’s words, he knew them by heart. He had taught them to his son, as he had been taught by his own father many years ago.

He swung his leg over the horse’s neck and dismounted. He heard the jingle of his purse when he hit the ground. First the soldiers pay me, he thought, and now I watch them die. He lifted his son off the saddle and set him on the ground. When the battle is over, K’Sharra and I will go down to the fort and collect whatever treasure we can. He tied his horse to a ragged stump near the path. That will make me twice paid for one job. He held K’Sharra’s hand and led him to the edge of the hill.

“After the battle Khajiit won’t be popular in Bravil,” he said, “you two should go on without us.” Baan Dar smiles upon my cleverness.

“That’s so,” said Livia, “I don’t want to be seen with no Khajiit after the garrison is taken.”

“He probably wants us out of the way so he can raid the fort,” said Ondereos.

Stupid clever fetcher! “They would not welcome me down there.”

“I still don’t know why you go against your own people,” said Livia

“Because I got paid,” said Dar’Zhan, and the only ones who know will soon be dead . . . except for you two.

“Quiet,” said Ondereos, “I think it’s starting.”

From their vantage point they could see for miles in the fading light. To the south, beyond the line of trees in the distance, the Khajiit forces began to move. Like an uncoiling snake, the great mass of troops marched north toward the border.

To the east a horn blew from the fort. The garrison filled the courtyard and the gates were shut and barricaded. Archers appeared along the battlements.

To the west a lone rider emerged from the General’s camp and rode hard to the east. The horse flew past the catapults and disappeared into the grove of trees. In the space of four heartbeats horse and rider reappeared at the other side of the grove and galloped downhill toward the fort.

“That’s the Battlemage,” said Ondereos, pointing at the rider, “I wonder what he’s going to do.”

Stupid fetcher! “You should go down and ask him.” Said Dar’Zhan.





Zurin Arctus waited while the gate was opened. Inside he passed through the garrison. Some of the men had boyish faces, eager eyes wide with anticipation and fear. Others, more hardened, had eyes clear and understanding, resigned to their fate yet determined to see it through. Still others, eyes darting and searching, gathered around the solemn priests who gave hurried prayers to Mara and Stendarr. He ignored them all as he crossed through the courtyard and walked up the steps to the watchtower.

Outside, the first drops of rain began to fall from storm clouds streaked with red. The air was thick with the harsh smell of burning pitch. To the south vengeful shadows began to form at the tree line. The plaintive wail from the metal bars of the native Khajiit instrument carried on the wind.

“They’ll have to cover an acre of open ground to reach the walls, sir,” said Captain Itinius who greeted Arctus with a salute, “as per orders we tarred the stakes with pitch before we put them into the trenches.”

“Very good, Captain,” said Arctus. The board is set, now it’s up to the General, he thought.

“Even with all that I’m afraid it’s only a matter of time before they overwhelm us, Sir.”

“Have you ever fought Khajiit, Captain?”

“I’ve fought the occasional cat here and there, sir, but never anything like this.”

Arctus walked to the edge so that he could see the anxious faces of the garrison.

“Legionnaires,” he began. His voice carried throughout the fort. The garrison, to a man, stopped what they were doing and lent their eyes and ears to the watchtower. “Tonight is meant to be the night of all our deaths. That may be our fate, only the Gods can say. But if it be our fate, let us leave behind a reason for future generations to consecrate this place as holy ground. Let us make them remember that on a night when savage beasts dared to invade the border of our realm the brave garrison of Fort Black Boot held the line!”

Itinius drew his sword and raised it high. “Ordo Legionis!” he cried.

As one the garrison raised sword, spear, and bow. “Ordo Legionis!” rang throughout the valley.





The first Khajiit wave consisted of the Alfiq. Several hundred creatures, housecats to the archers manning the wall, broke through the trees and ran toward the fort.

“Archers!” Itinius raised his hand, but the Battlemage placed a hand on his shoulder. The Captain turned.

“Don’t waste the arrows,” Arctus said.

Itinius lowered his hand and turned back to the field. He saw what the Battlemage meant. The Alfiq moved far too swiftly for the archers. They leaped over the rows of trenches and closed the distance to the walls.

“We could fire the trenches,” Itinius said.

“Not yet. Bring the pitch to the walls.”

Itinius barked the order and seconds later the steaming pots were being passed along the battlements. The first wave of Alfiq reached the walls and, claws unsheathed, began to leap and climb, hissing and spitting at the archers above.

“Let’s give these cats a bath,” Arctus said.

The order was repeated, and the pots were upended; boiling pitch ran down the length of the walls. The screaming of the Alfiq cut through the falling rain as the sticky resin burned through fur and skin.

“Torches,” Arctus ordered.

Itinius repeated the order. Lit torches were passed to the archers, who flung them on the boiling cats below. A curtain of flame spread along the length of the wall, consuming the first wave of Alfiq while forming a barrier that the second wave could not penetrate.

A great cheer went up from the archers, who raised their bows high for the second time that night. The cheer carried to the men in the courtyard, who beat spears and swords against their shields. Itinius smiled through his helmet, his pride showed in the way he lifted his chest and pulled his shoulders back. Even the Battlemage allowed himself a moment to savor the frustrated wails of the Alfiq below. He considered giving the order to fire the first trench, which would trap the Alfiq between two flame walls. Not yet, he told himself, not yet.





The second Khajiit wave consisted of the Ohmes. Bipedal creatures resembling Bosmer left the shadows of the trees. They closed the distance in great bounds that made them look as if they were floating. Behind them their larger cousins, the Ohmes-raht, followed. These, alone among the Khajiit, walked on the heels instead of the balls of their feet. Some, hands glowing, threw spell bolts toward the archers. The cheering stopped as the archers crouched beneath the parapet for protection.

“Spellcasters!” Itinius ducked under the path of a purple ball of magic that disappeared into the clouds behind them.

The Ohmes drew closer. In the glare of the dying flames it was possible to see the tattoos of cat aspect that adorned their faces.

Arctus stepped forward. He raised his hands toward the heavens. The cowering archers along the wall saw the air around the Battlemage glow and spark, growing brighter as he drew more power from Aetherius.

He lowered his arms toward the field and a web of lightning spread halfway to the trees. Any of the Khajiit host caught in the radius of the spell began to twitch and spasm. Some were thrown into the trenches where they were impaled on the tarred stakes. Others fell to the ground, their bodies smoldering.

The rain began to fall harder, as if called down by the lightning. It doused the curtain of flame before the wall. In the dim light of a few stubborn torches the Khajiit bodies littered the field. A second cheer erupted from the archers as they rose to re-man their posts. The men in the courtyard could not see the battle, but they fed off their comrade’s elation. All eyes were drawn to the Battlemage, and for a brief instant every stout heart was buoyed by the same impossible thought. We may yet survive this night.

“Archers!” The Battlemage yelled. His voice brought them back to themselves.

The bulk of the Khajiit host broke the tree line and began to spread across the field. In the darkness the men on the wall could only see the outlines and the occasional glint of their blades. Thousands of the leather clad Suthay-raht wielded spears, bows, or sharpened claws. Hundreds of the fierce Cathay-raht, swords in hand, sat aboard their Senche Tigers, each larger than a grizzly. There were many other Khajiit that no man had ever seen.

“Merciful Stendarr,” Itinius whispered.

Arctus turned his head to the west.





A hundred men had been assigned to man the catapults. Another four hundred men waited, armored, mounted, and ready. Five hundred pairs of eyes followed the armored form of General Talos as his white horse cantered up the hill.

Captain Alorius held a torch and waited near the catapults. “They’re being set upon pretty good down there, but so far they’ve held their own.”

The armored head nodded and took the torch from him. He spurred his horse forward to survey the field.

The Khajiit host flooded the entirety of the field in front of the fort. The archers on the wall were firing at will. Yet for each foe that fell another, larger and closer, took its place.

Alorius turned his horse and rode back through the lines of mounted men all facing Fort Black Boot. He spurred his horse down the hill and weaved around the abandoned tents to the center of the camp. He dismounted in front of General Talos’ tent. He turned back toward the top of the hill and, satisfied that he was not observed, unbuttoned the tent flap and stepped inside.

A single candle cast a tremulous light inside the tent. General Talos sat in his golden chair studying a map of the valley spread on the floor in front of him. In his right hand he held a silver goblet that he absently twirled between thumb and forefinger. He looked up as Alorius entered.

Alorius held himself at attention and saluted. “Sir, we are in position. The garrison repelled the first two Khajiit waves, but now the bulk of their host has taken the field.”

“Very well, Captain,” said Talos, “tell Ysmir that he may begin.”

“Yes sir.” Alorius turned, and hesitated.

“What is it, Captain?”

“Apologies, sir,” said Alorius, turning back to face his general.

“Ask your question.”

“Yes sir. It’s Ysmir, sir. I have seen him stand beside you any number of times since Sancre Tor and I still don’t understand how he manages to fit into your armor.”

Talos allowed himself an indulgent smile. “Let’s just say that Ysmir is more than he appears. Now go, I cannot afford to lose Arctus to an army of housecats.”

“Sir,” Alorius repeated his salute and left the tent. He refastened the buttons of the tent flap and mounted his waiting horse. He rode back up the hill, past anxious horses and men who were watching the battle unfold in the valley below them. Ysmir turned in his saddle at Alorius’ approach.

By the Eight, Alorius thought, with the helmet on even his face looks like the General’s. Ysmir’s eyes flashed in the light of the torch that he held. Alorius’ nod was almost imperceptible. Ysmir turned to the battlefield, a smile spreading across his face.

His shoulders rose, his chest expanded. From behind it looked as if he began to grow. His back strained against the sides of his cuirass. He held up an armored hand. The teams manning the catapults loaded the wolf carcasses into the slings and lit their torches.

When it seemed as if he would bust through the seams of Talos' armor he opened his mouth and allowed his thu’um to pierce the air.





Nothing in their experience had prepared the men of Fort Black Boot for the sheer power that sound could have. It covered the battlefield and the fort and caused the ears to bleed. A few of the archers along the wall were lifted bodily by it, and thrown screaming to the courtyard below.

“By the Gods!” Itinius covered his ears with both hands.

For the Khajiit the sound was worse. Many of the Ohmes and Alfiq could not stand before the hurricane force of the sound wave that washed over them. They were thrown into the dark trenches or swept away entirely. Even the Cathay-raht dropped their swords and covered their ears. Certain victory melted into confusion. The great thu’um finally grew silent. The fort was forgotten as the horde of Khajiit looked to find the source of the sound.

And then it began to rain burning wolves.

Confusion gave way to panic. The burning wolves killed whatever they landed on. Those that did not land on Khajiit landed in the trenches, igniting them into great canals of flame that engulfed any nearby. The screams of the dead and dying filled the air. The Khajiit host was broken. By the thousands they fled back toward the border screaming as wave after wave of the burning wolves fell around them.

A great battle cry was heard from the west. General Talos led four hundred legionnaires that burst through the grove and galloped toward the remaining Khajiit. Many of those that remained on the field threw themselves into the trenches to escape the demon riders. Others were simply ridden down.

It was over quickly after that. Silence descended on the battlefield. The only sound was the hiss of the rain as it slowly doused the trenches. General Talos rode his white horse to the front of the fort, where every man in the garrison could see him. He lifted his bloody sword in triumph.

“Ordo Legionis!” cried the garrison, “Ordo Legionis!”





It took a while for K’Sharra to realize that his father was talking to him.

“K’Sharra, come back to me. We must be going.”

Slowly his eyes focused. He was back on the hillside. Down in the valley the storm had moved to the east. Smoke rose from the battlefield, many small fires still burned.

His cheeks were wet. His father took his hand and led him toward the horses. His father now wore a bow and a mace. He tripped over the splayed leg of the Bosmer and he tumbled. His father helped him back to his feet. He looked at his hands. They were stained with blood, but he was not cut. He was lifted up and put onto the Bosmer’s horse. His father had three purses of gold.

They were still there. He could feel the sound in his head. He could see the burning wolves when he closed his eyes. They rode back to the winding path. He turned and looked past the dead man and the dead elf to the valley. He knew those wolves would follow him for the rest of his life.

Posted by: mALX Apr 6 2010, 10:05 PM

ARGH! Always a bridesmaid, never a bride!



This chapter rocks me to the core every time I read or re-read it. The first time I read it, I kept going back over and over it again, the same thing happened this time.

Posted by: SubRosa Apr 6 2010, 10:38 PM

Excellent battle! Quite the bit of trickery on the part of Talos, down to Ysmir impersonating him. Now we see the reason for him putting up with Ysmir. I wonder how long that will last? Until he has Tamriel conquered I suppose. Or most of it.

Using Dar’Zhan to show us the beginning and end was an excellent touch. I especially liked the fact that he was expecting the Imperials to lose, and now has to live with how he helped make the conquest of his country possible.

Posted by: haute ecole rider Apr 7 2010, 01:29 AM

The rain of burning wolves puts me in mind of the K'Sharra prophecy (Sheogorath's Shrine quest), and the fact that a young kit named K'Sharra witnessed this battle makes me wonder - hmmm?

This is the second part of a standout chapter, as far as I am concerned. The two chapters are so powerful together they cannot be taken separately. The description of the battle has the same epic feel of the battle at Helm's Deep in Lord of the Rings, the same power of the small garrison versus the horde, the sense of desperation and determination that is so palpable among the Legionaries.

I am enjoying the second reading tremendously!

Posted by: Winter Wolf Apr 7 2010, 07:25 PM

We know that a hundred different civilizations are buried beneath the sands of Elsweyr. Very cool that you took the time to describe some of the countless Khajiit cousins that inhabit those shifting sands.
Awesome.

The battle scene was amazing, epic in its scale. I liked the very calm way Arctus said "Don't waste the arrows." His clarity of thinking carried the moment and kept the focus on the task at hand. Panic is the worst enemy of a soldier.

Posted by: Olen Apr 8 2010, 12:18 PM

Epic. This really had the feel of something huge and cinematic which is difficult but you nailed it. The short parts helped I think and also gave a view on the smaller scale. I agree with Huate that this put me in mind of helms deep in terms of atmosphere, though the burning wolves and traps were a excellent addition. As was the inclusion of the other forms of Khajit which never really make an appearance elsewhere. Along with the Thu'um you certainly did you're homework on this one.

And I like seeing the seeds of the K'Sharra prophecy, a nice touch whether it develops further or not.

Great opening, I'm utterly hooked now.

Posted by: Acadian Apr 11 2010, 04:25 PM

Yes, as you always do, this is epic. Wow!

Posted by: minque Apr 11 2010, 10:50 PM

Ohhh this is BIG! I'm stunned. Like Olen said it really has some huge cinematic aura....

I'm so impressed!

Posted by: Destri Melarg Apr 13 2010, 09:46 AM

mALX – Thank you. Rocking you to the core is something that I always strive to do!

Not really sure what you meant here. Are you referring to Ysmir?


SubRosa – Ysmir and Talos have an almost symbiotic relationship. Each is greatly lessened without the other. Talos has no hope of gaining the Cyrodiilic throne without the loyalty of Skyrim, who see him as Stormcrown thanks to Ysmir’s thu’um. Ysmir needs an army so that he can invade Morrowind and destroy the Tribunal, but he doesn’t have the name to gain the loyalty of any troops, and none of the Kings or Warlords of his time would be willing to devote troops to such a nebulous cause.

Dar’Zhan does find himself in a precarious situation. One that I have plans to play with in the future.


haute – As I once told mALX, I like to think that Sheogorath drew inspiration from watching this battle. Think about it, ten thousand Khajiit defeated by a rain of burning wolves, if that isn’t pure madness what is?

And Helm’s Deep? Wow, what a compliment! Thank you.


Winter Wolf – I am glad that you picked up on Arctus’ demeanor throughout the battle. I wanted to capture the self-assured, deliberate attitude of the man who would go on to write The Art of War Magic.


Olen – Epic and cinematic are exactly what I am going for with this story. I am happy that it came across well. Hopefully the quiet moments of reflection before the next storm come across just as well. Thanks.


Acadian – HUZZAH!!! A hearty welcome back to everyone’s favorite paladin! I am so glad that you happened by for this chapter. The re-writes were prompted by your comments on the other board. I hope that this incarnation of the battle reads less confusing than the other, and I hope that I have made who and what Ysmir is somewhat clearer.


minqué – Thank you so much, I am honored that you took the time to read it. Given the number of excellent stories on this board I do not envy you the task of trying to keep up with them all. And, given the frequency in which some of us post updates, it is too easy to find oneself coming back to a favorite thread only to find that you are three chapters behind.





13th Morning Star, 2E 854
Fort Black Boot, Near Cyrodiil’s Border with Elsweyr
Morning


At dawn the garrison was deployed policing the Khajiit bodies in front of the fort. They worked with a renewed energy and purpose, converting the ash filled trenches into mass graves. The sounds of stripped bodies stacked upon one another and the scrape of shovels against loose soil marked the early morning hours. By the time the sun shone through the eastern storm clouds only the blood soaking the ground still told of the battle.

In a tent erected over the mass graves of his countrymen the Khajiit Shaman Ri’Dargo and his retinue met with General Talos and his staff under a banner of truce.

“We are here to discuss an end to hostilities,” said Ri’Dargo. He and his retinue sat on cushions against the far wall of the tent. A table laden with sweetcakes, wine and cheese had been set on a table before them. “I have also been instructed by the Mane to inquire as to the intentions of the fleet you have outside of Torval.”

Lord Richton disobeyed orders. Zurin Arctus thought to himself. He sat next to General Talos at the opposite end of the table. Captain Alorius stood guard near the entrance to the tent.

General Talos smiled. “An end to hostilities, not a Khajiit surrender?”

Ri’Dargo returned the General’s smile. “Our attack was repelled last night, but we were not defeated. If we were to re-engage tonight I think you would find the outcome . . .”

“Re-engage with what, Lord Ri’Dargo?” asked General Talos. “My scouts tell me that the bulk of your host has fled halfway to Senchal. The rest lie under your feet.”

The Shaman’s retinue shifted in their chairs. Ri’Dargo stared at the stains seeping through the floor of the tent.

“Our terms are simple,” continued Talos, “your army must remain in Elsweyr, and there can be no further hostilities anywhere along Cyrodiil’s border. Tell your Mane that the fleet will be withdrawn once the border is clear.

“And what of your army?” Ri’Dargo took a sweetcake from the plate between them. He turned it over in his clawed fingers as if trying to glean from it some great secret.

Talos raised his eyebrows, “my army?”

Ri’Dargo placed the sweetcake back on the plate. “Indeed. Once we remove our forces, what is to stop your army from invading Elsweyr?”

“Need I remind Lord Ri’Dargo that any hostilities have been instigated by the Khajiit. We have no desire to invade Elsweyr.”

“So you say now, but your people speak of Empire. At what point will the Khajiit be forced to acknowledge your sovereignty?” His eyes met those of General Talos. “Your name is known to us, General Talos, as is your ambition. You do your Emperor’s bidding for now, but that won’t always be the case.”

That was unnecessary, thought Arctus.

“My ambition,” said Talos, “is not a subject that is open for discussion. Considering the circumstances, Lord Ri'Dargo, I would advise you to mind your tongue. You want assurances that I can not give you. Yes we speak of Empire, and yes there may come a day when we seek to annex Elsweyr. But when that day comes we will seek to do so by treaty, not force.”

“I apologize, General, I meant no offence. Our ways are not yours. We of the Khajiit value ambition, in much the same way that we value courage and daring. We find it hard to distinguish between the three. I meant only to impress upon you that Imperial Promises have not always been kind to Elsweyr.”

Talos lifted the sweetcake off of the plate and placed it in front of Ri’Dargo. “Then consider it a personal promise. And, as a show of good faith, I give the Khajiit leave to build a settlement somewhere along the border.”

Ri’Dargo regarded the sweetcake. “A settlement?” His retinue began to whisper amongst themselves.

“Yes,” said Talos, “a kind of ‘border watch’ that can act as Elsweyr’s first line of defense in the event of any Imperial aggression.” Talos leaned back in his chair. “Of course, I can always give Lord Richton the order to attack.” He turned to Zurin Arctus. “With an army here and a fleet at Torval we can begin the annexation of Elsweyr immediately.”

The Khajiit retinue fell silent. Ri’Dargo lifted the sweetcake and took a bite.

“There will be an end to hostilities,” he said, “I must take this message to the Mane.”





Captain Itinius was left in charge of the garrison at Fort Black Boot. General Talos and five hundred men began their long journey back to the Imperial City. The General, aboard his white stallion, rode at the head of the column flanked by Ysmir and Zurin Arctus.

Captain Alorius reined his horse even with Zurin Arctus’. “Sir, might I ask a question?”

“What is it, Captain?” asked Arctus.

“This battle we fought, it wasn’t against the Khajiit was it?”

Arctus reined his horse to allow their conversation to continue in private. “Explain yourself, Captain.”

“Well, sir,” Alorius stopped himself. He watched General Talos.

“Speak freely, Captain.” Said the Battlemage.

“Yes sir. All of the General’s dispatches go through me. He never sent for the reserve force from Skyrim.”

Arctus turned to regard the young Captain. “Why wouldn’t he, Captain?”

“Sir, the Skyrim forces are already loyal to the General, sir. When word of this battle spreads he’ll win the loyalty of a large chunk of the Colovian forces.”

“You believe that the General works against his Emperor, Captain?”

“Sir, my loyalty is to my General.” He lowered his voice. “I am not suggesting anything treasonous, sir. I’m just trying to make sense of what happened back there.”

“I see,” said Arctus, “and you’ve come to the conclusion that General Talos used this border dispute to win the loyalty of the legion away from the Emperor?”

Alorius straightened in his saddle. “Yes sir.”

“An interesting theory, Captain, and a dangerous one were it to be repeated.”

“As I said, sir, my loyalty lies with my General.” He pounded his chest in salute and eased his horse down the ranks.

Arctus spurred his horse back into formation.

“Alorius is uncommonly bright,” said General Talos, “he will have a very bright future in the years to come.”

“If he can remain loyal, General,” said Arctus.

“It’s in his best interest to remain loyal. I’m more concerned with Lord Richton’s disregard for orders.”

“Yes General,” said Arctus. “Do you believe the Khajiit will keep the peace?”

“It doesn’t really matter,” said Talos, “they’ll be hard pressed to raise another force like that one. For now we’ve cleared our southern border and bought ourselves time.”

“And maneuvered the Emperor into a corner.”

“Yes. He cannot refuse this Khajiit settlement without antagonizing the Mane, and he cannot move against me after such a glorious victory. As you say, he finds himself in a corner.”

“Yes General,” said Arctus, “but don’t forget. Animals are most dangerous when cornered.”


The year continues in Sun’s Dawn

Posted by: haute ecole rider Apr 13 2010, 03:08 PM

The Sweetroll Negotiations! Yes, I remember Acadian's comment about the role the common, humble sweetroll played in this parley from the other forum.

Did you rewrite this chapter a little? Or am I more attentive to details now that I know what is coming next? Either way, it has the feel of a plot-weaver - what I call a chapter that lays the groundwork for the next moment of tension. Not too much information, but just enough to provide a sense of foreshadowing. I love the way you have written Talos Stormcrown and the characters around him. They really come alive in a epic, heroic kind of way, the stuff of legends become flesh and blood.

I liked the way the parley tent was pitched over the Khajiit mass grave, and how Talos pointed out to Ri'Dargo that they were sitting on top of their own fallen. What a way to call a bluff! It is bone-chilling, cruel, and highly effective. I'm not sure if this sits well with my morals, but I understand the reasoning behind the placement. It was very carefully considered, and you have shown the thought and care that goes into setting up for negotiations of this nature. Brrgh!

Again, well done!

Posted by: SubRosa Apr 15 2010, 06:57 PM

Ok, finally had time to read.

I have to say that I enjoyed this more than the battle chapters. The reason being that this installment goes a long way to establishing Talos and his ambitions. It also shows that they are not exactly a secret either. Both the Khajiit shaman and Captain Alorius noted that he was planning on making himself Emperor. Given the conversation between Talos and Arctus at the end, it appears that the Emperor himself knows as well. A very interesting situation, one that reminds me of Caesar in his last years in Gaul, when it was becoming apparent to everyone that his ambition to become First Man in Rome was finally matched by his actual ability to make it so.

I also really liked how you wove the creation of the town of Border Watch into history with this chapter. And as Haute already noted, the K'Sharra prophecy as well. They may be small things, but it is attention to little things like these which add up to make a story great rather than merely good.

Are you a Farscape fan by chance? The name Ri’Dargo immediately makes me think of Ka D'Argo.


nits:
Considering the circumstances, Lord RiDargo, I would advise you to mind your tongue.
You missed the apostrophe in Dargo's name.

Posted by: mALX Apr 16 2010, 07:21 PM

I will answer this and then go read the chapter:

ARGH! Always a bridesmaid, never a bride!

No, I was complaining that you answered everyone's comment but mine at the head of the previous chapter, ROFL !!!!! - just kidding, obviously.


Now to go read!


I need to go back to the BGSF and read the chapter you had there, this looks different! I just spent the last almost week fiddling with my crashed PC, so my eyes are burning and my mind is tired, lol. I am sorry I was so late in reading this! <333

Posted by: Remko Apr 16 2010, 07:36 PM

Or a third time.....
Seriously, I know you stated you changed little things, things other people wouldnt notice but I feel it's the little things that made the story EVEN better. Like the first chapter. I remember being impressed the first time but by the Nine.... it's epic now!

Posted by: Acadian Apr 22 2010, 02:50 AM

Ah yes, once again, the sweetcake has stolen my heart. I am so pleased you kept the little fellow in this new version. Wonderful stuff as always Destri!

Posted by: Winter Wolf Apr 24 2010, 02:02 AM

Only you could have a sweetcake take center stage. Amazing write!!

Especially when their fur is singed from falling dogs, lol.

More, Destri, more. Now !!!!!

Posted by: treydog May 3 2010, 05:34 PM

“Though the title is a bit macabre,” he said, “I am known as the King of Worms, and you come highly recommended.”

That is a brilliant way to end an installment.

The whole scene between Renald and "Erinwe" (why do I have a feeling we might know her under a different name?) is incredible.

Then we have the return of the Direnni and their council (conspiracy?) session. And Talos' preparations.... Everything is drawn so well that I can "see" it all.

"They were still there. He could feel the sound in his head. He could see the burning wolves when he closed his eyes. They rode back to the winding path. He turned and looked past the dead man and the dead elf to the valley. He knew those wolves would follow him for the rest of his life."

If I ever grow up (doubtful), I want to write like that!

And finally, the negotiations (sweetroll and all!), along with the young Captain's insights.

This is story-telling on a grand scale, yet you manage to make the characters 3-dimensional and fully-realized.

Posted by: mALX May 3 2010, 05:51 PM

I am depressed, out right bummed
from no updates on Interrignum
Sitting, waiting, sad and blue
for any updates that come from you

Posted by: Destri Melarg May 6 2010, 01:54 AM

haute - You have officially given name to this section of the story. 'The Sweetroll Negotiations', I love it!

I have rewritten this chapter a little, most notably the comments made by Ri’Dargo about the Khajiit cultural affinity for ambition, which to my way of thinking they would equate with courage and daring.

I kept in mind the metaphor of the carrot and the stick during the writing of this chapter. Talos chose the location for the parlay with the express purpose of keeping his adversary off balance and ever mindful of the terrible price the Khajiit had paid the night before trying to seize a single fort on the Cyrodiil border. The fact that you describe Talos’ attitude during the negotiations as ‘bone-chilling’ is exactly what I was going for. Thank you.


SubRosa - Once again you have skewered my intention. I have always seen Talos as Tamriel’s version of Caesar, and I have tried to imbue Cuhlecain with aspects of Pompey. Think about it, Cuhlecain is the one who ‘discovered’ the tactical genius of Hjalti Early-Beard and lifted him up so that he could become Talos Stormcrown. I think it makes for a far more interesting story if the would be Emperor of Tamriel sows the seeds of his own destruction during those early battles at Old Hrol’dan.

I am of course familiar with Farscape, but I have never seen an episode. Ri’Dargo came from the etymology of Khajiit names in which the prefix ‘Ri’ is a sign of status, like a tribal elder, and the name Dargo is a contraction of the name of the first Khajiit I ever encountered in an Elder Scrolls game. He was a slave named Baadargo in the smuggler’s cave outside of Seyda Neen in Morrowind.

And thank you for locating my wayward apostrophe. It has been addressed.


Remko - I think it’s safe to say that you have earned the ‘Long Suffering Merit Badge’ for slogging through this beast THREE times! By now you probably know this story better than I do. I am so glad that the rewrites are making the story better for you. One of the best things about bringing this story to a new board is that I get to address issues that I wasn’t too happy with in the original version . . . like that first chapter.


Acadian - Are you kidding? I would have dropped Ri’Dargo from the story before I got rid of the sweetroll! During the rough draft that poor little thing must have changed hands at least a dozen times. It was beginning to border on the ridiculous! I had to cut it down considerably to get it to the point that it is now.

By the way, WOW!!! The new Buffy is SMOKIN’ HOT!!!!


Winter Wolf - I hereby proclaim myself the pot calling the kettle. Here I am, extolling you to write faster, and then I leave you for two weeks without an update! I will try to address that over the weekend. For now I need to get caught up with Aradroth and, rest assured, your ‘more’ is coming.


treydog - It is always so nice when you drop by Interregnum. There is always a chair near the fire left open for you (or would you prefer a rug?). I am humbled by your comments; from a writer of your proven ability they mean a lot!

When I grow up I want to write like treydog.


mALX - First things first, it was inexcusable for me to ignore your comment from before. Allow me to address it now:

You can blame Remko and SubRosa for the teaser. They were the ones who asked me if there was going to be anything new added to Interregnum.

As for the K’Sharra Prophecy, I first envisioned this chapter through the final line that Dar’Zhan says to his son, so the germ of the idea began with K’sharra. From there everything else was put into the chapter to serve that final line. Thankfully it all seems to work.

Now for your latest comment:

I feel as if I have achieved some rite of passage! Who knew that absence was the surest way to illicit a poem from you. Reading it brought a much needed ray of sunlight into what has been a gray, dreary November in my soul for the past few weeks, thank you for that. You're the one that ROCKS, mALX!

I am sorry that I have made you wait so long. As I told Winter Wolf, I hope to address that issue this weekend.



Everyone – Thank you all for your comments. I am sorry that it has taken me so long to respond. I find myself tied to the tracks of circumstance with a deadline bearing down on me like a freight train. The last few weeks have been without social interaction (or very much sleep) of any kind. The good news is that I anticipate a window of time this weekend in which I can try to get caught up with the exploits of Maxical & Shivani, Julian, Teresa, Rales & Zerina, Aradroth, Athlain & Athynae, Firen, and anyone else that I am unforgivably forgetting right now. But as that great unrecognized sage, the Reverend Al Swearengen once said:

“Announcing your plans is a good way to hear God laugh.”

More Interregnum coming soon . . . I promise.

Posted by: mALX May 6 2010, 05:52 AM

The email made its normal ping
to let me know I had something
I looked to see what it could be
and leaped up whooping when I saw "Destri"

Yeah !!!!!!!!

Posted by: Destri Melarg May 11 2010, 12:52 AM

Book Two: Sun’s Dawn


1st Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
The Nameless Tavern, Sentinel, Hammerfell
Evening


He may have been the largest Nord to ever venture out of Skyrim. He sat with his legs splayed under the table and drained a full tankard of mead with two long tilts of the elbow. The sound that his steel gauntlet made when he slammed his fist against the table drew hooded stares from the darker patrons. But one look at his size or at the battered head of the silver mace that hung from his hip cowed them back into their drinks.

“More mead,” his voice reverberated through the noise of the tavern and bent the barman to his purpose.

The Nord’s companion was fair of complexion and of average height by the standards of High Rock, which is to say that he was short. He wore a weather-stained green tunic over battered mail. At his side the hilt of a silver longsword caught and reflected the light from the candles which dimly lit the inside of the tavern. He held a full goblet to his chest, away from the table which had already started to wobble being subject to the Nord’s fits of temper.

The tavern itself gave stage to the carousing of loud, overbearing sailors while also lending itself as the location that sullen mercenaries sought for drinking and brooding. Here and there a few flinty-eyed specimens of the merchant class moved amongst the rough trade, for it was a well known fact that if you had goods to move or goods to protect, you could find the means to do it in the Nameless Tavern.

“He should be here soon,” said the Breton, he had to raise his voice to be heard across the table.

“You said that an hour ago,” boomed the Nord. “We could have been in Anticlere by now. Maybe even Vermeir, staring up at the Wrothgarians if not for this unnecessary detour.”

“You may be right,” said the Breton, “but say that we were at the base of the Wrothgarians, where would we go from there? Our quarry might be in Cyrodiil by now for all we know. I for one would rather set our feet to purpose than wander blindly through Sun’s Dawn in the mountains.”

Any comment the Nord was about to make was interrupted by a serving wench who appeared with another tankard of mead. With shaking hand she set it on the table. Sweat beaded her brown, Redguard forehead and her eyes were akin to the doe that has just caught the scent of a predator.

After she withdrew the Nord lifted the tankard and drank deep. His brow still held to the scowl, but the fire in his eyes had been replaced with resignation. “What makes you think this friend of yours knows more than we do?”

The Breton rose from his chair; his eyes were focused on the entrance to the tavern, “you can ask him that yourself.”

The Nord turned in his seat. A broad-shouldered, lean silhouette of a man stood shadowed in the doorway. Most of the other patrons barely noted his entrance. However, as he shut the door behind him and the candles lent light to his dark features conversations at all the tables stopped, movement through the tavern was aborted, and there was a new smell that mingled with the sweat and smoke that had seemed almost oppressive in the moments before his arrival. The Nord had no problem identifying it.

Fear.

The newcomer paused, his eyes adjusting to the dim light of the tavern. The Nord studied him from across the room. He was a Redguard, young for the amount of turmoil his presence caused in the room. Yet he carried himself like a man accustomed to defending his honor. He wore a scarlet vest over an unbuttoned white shirt; his black trousers were tucked into high black leather boots that were made for riding. A steel cutlass dangled easily on his right hip, and a matching dagger was tucked into the belt on his left. If it bothered him that his presence alone caused most of the other patrons to move hands towards the hilts of weapons he gave no indication of it. The Nord could appreciate such courage, but that didn’t make him feel less uneasy about this meeting.

The Redguard spotted the Nord’s companion and gave a nod of greeting. He crossed the tavern toward their table. The other patrons returned to their own pursuits at his passing, but every eye remained trained upon his movements. The Nord brought his wayward legs into formation, to lift him from the chair should the need arise. The Breton noticed, but that only caused the smile that was already spreading across his face to grow.

The Redguard reached their table, his eyes sought out the Breton’s.

“Alain,” he said with a smile that matched the Breton’s. He extended his right arm. “Praise be to Arkay that you survived Sancre Tor. When the news reached us I feared the worst.”

Alain clasped the Redguard’s forearm. “Casnar my friend, it is good to see you again. I understand congratulations are in order. A Knight of the Moon at your age, that is quite impressive.” He released Casnar’s arm and motioned toward the third chair at the table.

Casnar gave a slight bow to acknowledge Alain’s hospitality and sat down. “I would advise you to keep your voice down, old friend. This is a Forebear tavern, the last thing that any of these men want to see is one of the Crown’s chosen, hence my appearance before you out of uniform.”

“A disguise that clearly seems to be working,” said the Nord as he drained the dregs from another tankard.

“Forgive me, Casnar,” said Alain, “allow me to introduce my friend, Sir Valdemar of Skyrim.” He turned to the Nord. “Valdemar, this is Sir Casnar, a friend of my youth.”

“Redguard,” said Valdemar.

“Nord,” said Casnar.

“Have things really grown so bad?” asked Alain, trying to allay the tension at the table.

“They have,” said Casnar. “We are fighting battles on many fronts. The Forebears will have civil war before they submit to the Na’Totambu. Attacks of the Selenu have grown more frequent, and have begun to occur within the city walls. And, as if that weren’t enough, now we have to deal with the misguided actions of Zenithar’s flock.”

Alain shook his head. His eyes were attentive, but blank.

“Some priests of Zenithar have decided to stake out territory here in Arkay’s region,” Casnar explained. “They call themselves the Knights of Iron. Many Forebears see them as a natural rival to the Knights of the Moon, Zenithar being held in such high esteem by most Forebears.”

“Who are the Selenu?” asked Alain.

“The local vampire clan,” said Casnar, “it used to be that you could expect an attack or two a month inland. And the disappearance of a few beggars now and again was something that the Crown was willing to turn a blind eye to. But of late the attacks have increased. I have heard rumors that a new matron holds the ear of the patriarch but we know nothing for sure.”

“I am sure this is all very interesting,” said Valdemar, “but I hope that the discussion of politics, effete gods, and vampires is not the reason that we have ventured hundreds of leagues out of our way.” He held his tankard aloft, the barman rushed to fill another. “State yourself plain, Redguard, I grow tired of quaffing the watered down swill that passes for mead in this country.” His eyes ventured throughout the tavern. “Besides, it appears that the time grows short before your countrymen turn murderous thought into action.”

Casnar’s eyes narrowed, “in the event of such an exchange, I doubt that the two of you would find any friends in the room.”

“Forgive my friend’s manner,” said Alain, “he means no offense. Though I confess that I too wonder why you have asked us here.”

“I bear a message,” said Casnar, “one which I’m sure that even your giant friend will appreciate; the whereabouts of he whom you seek.”

Alain and Valdemar exchanged glances across the table. The serving wench returned with three tankards weighing down her tray. She set one in front of each man before backing away from the table.

“How is it that you know that we seek anyone?” asked Valdemar.

Casnar laughed. “The two of you have not been subtle. We heard tell of a Nord and a Breton allied in desperate search over a year ago. Since then your exploits have been the source of whispered rumor from here to the Reach I would imagine.”

“You have known of our search for a year and only now seek me out?” asked Alain.

“You misunderstand, the information that I have only recently came into my possession, along with instructions to pass it on to the two of you.”

“Who gave you these instructions?” asked Alain.

“That I am not at liberty to say.”

“We could force the information from you,” said Valdemar.

Casnar laughed again, “I don’t doubt it, but to what end? If the information proves good, then the end of your search will soon be at hand. If the information proves false, then you are out nothing save a week of your, ahem, valuable time and the expense of drinking some watered down mead.”

Valdemar lifted his tankard from the table. Alain was still holding his goblet. He stared down at the tankard in front of him.

“But I don’t even like mead,” he said.

Casnar’s eyes widened. His arm shot out, the hand covering the mouth of Valdemar’s tankard before the Nord could bend it back.

“Hold,” he said.

Valdemar lowered the tankard; his face bore a puzzled look. The tavern was strangely silent. Casnar looked to the bar, but the barman and the serving wench were gone, as were all the members of the merchant class. Around them the patrons of the tavern began to rise. The silence was broken by the sounds of swords, dirks and axes being drawn.

“I think thought just turned into action,” said Alain.

Valdemar rose, his hand sought the hilt of his mace.

“Good,” he said.

Posted by: haute ecole rider May 11 2010, 01:36 AM

Yay! Alain and Valdemar! And now you've added Casnar, too? Will Rielus make an appearance, as well? That would totally make my day - those are my four favorite undead! You have done a wonderful job bringing these three to life. Necromancer!

You have captured the atmosphere of the inn in Sentinel, especially since it occurs around the time of Cyrus. I loved your summary of the political situation in Hammerfell - the civil war between the Crowns and the Forebears.

I loved these bookends:

Good job!

Posted by: mALX May 11 2010, 01:38 AM

ARGH! You are re-writing this? Cutting it? AAAARRRRGGGHHHH !!!!! I love this, but....but...WAAAAAAH!!!!!!!!


Unless of course this is an additional scene added in, in which case... YEAH !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Posted by: SubRosa May 11 2010, 03:49 AM

Woo Hoo! the interregnum of Interregnum is over, and we are now back in action!

My you have certainly switched gears here to what I can only describe as Fantasy Noir. The rough and seedy tavern, ruffians loaded with more testosterone than Pamplona during the running of the bulls, flinty-eyed merchants and sweaty wenches. I almost expect to see Humphrey Bogart (or would he be the Breton of average height, which is to say, short... )

You display quite a bit of writing chops by changing up your style with this entry, and pulling it off with such polish. That is not easy to do. In doing so you create a very different mood from the other pieces of the story, making Alain, Valdemar, and Casnar (will we see Rielus soon?) stand out from the other characters. I look forward to not only seeing Valdemar and Alain finding their quarry, but also seeing how they and Casnar eventually become Blades.

I will not quote the same passages that h.e.r. did, which were quite good. Suffice to say "what she said" for me too!

Posted by: Winter Wolf May 11 2010, 07:15 AM

Welcome back Destri. You have risen from the grave just like the characters in your story.

The way you weave a tale is second to none, and tons of atmosphere to boot. Awesome !!
I loved the way the tavern came to life in your hands, and that wench in the background seems to miss nothing. (!!)

So cool to see that you are re-writing a few of the chapters. I know the feeling, it is unsettling to have the chapter not quite sit the way it should. It is great fun to try and spot the changes.

A lovely finish to the sentence. Bravo.

Posted by: Remko May 11 2010, 11:37 AM

Ooohh nice, a new piece

Posted by: Olen May 11 2010, 03:36 PM

I love it

The atmosphere built steadily and well until the brooding finally snapped in a cliffhanger. The dark feeling and tension in the place were excellently done. Your characterisation is effective too, escpecially the final line just paints a perfect picture of the nord.

I know nothing about this section of Tamriel's history and will have to go and read about it when I have time to have a better idea of what's happening.

Posted by: Destri Melarg May 12 2010, 05:13 PM

haute – Rielus will indeed be making an appearance, but not for a while yet. You are in part responsible for this chapter. I remembered how much you enjoyed Alain and Valdemar in the last version of this story so I decided to introduce them earlier in this version. As you know I have never advanced through the main quest to the point where these characters are encountered in Sancre Tor. I only know how they end up through reading, which I think is kind of a blessing because it allows me to depict these men as the characters I think they should be, rather than the characters that the game gives us.

mALX – Have no fear, consider this chapter ‘in addition to’ as opposed to ‘instead of’. Interregnum remains more or less as you remember it, but there will be some new chapters that never made it into the original. I can think of at least one more for the month of Sun’s Dawn. Stay tuned.

SubRosa – ‘The interregnum of Interregnum’ made me laugh. Bogey is my all time favorite actor (he and I share a birthday, you know), and somehow every time I write a scene set in a tavern I always wind up back at Ricks. Not the clean, lively Ricks where Renault cheats at roulette and Victor Laszlo leads the band. But the shadowy, quiet Ricks where diamonds are a glut on the market and there are vultures, vultures everywhere.

Winter Wolf – So haute has me as a necromancer, and you have me rising from the grave. What is going on here! To (badly) paraphrase Mark Twain: reports of my death are exaggerated.

I am glad that you enjoy spotting the changes. Part of the motivation for rewriting existing chapters and adding in new ones is the paralyzing fear that my loyal, long suffering readers might get bored re-walking the same road.

Remko – I couldn’t imagine asking you to make your THIRD voyage with us without re-arranging the deck chairs changing some of the sheets.

Olen – I think the reason Valdemar seems to stand out has to do with the fact that he is just so much fun to write. Some characters have to be coaxed into existence. Valdemar broke down the door, walked into the room, and put his feet up on the table.

If you’re interested in the historic and socio-political situation in Hammerfell at the end of the Second Era (and who isn’t?), http://www.imperial-library.info/pge/hammerfell.shtml is a good place to start.

Posted by: haute ecole rider May 12 2010, 06:07 PM

To be honest, he's that way during the Sancre Tor quest as well. I think he is the most defined character of the four in the entire dump.

I have enjoyed Destri's fleshing out (pun intended) of four ghostly Blades. Valdemar has needed the least help, IMHO. And yes, he would be one of those characters that commandeer your keyboard and run with it, and you (as the writer) are helpless against him.

The results are delectable for this reader.

Posted by: mALX May 12 2010, 07:30 PM

Whew! I thought you were cutting out a whole 4 pages from the original story and was freaking out!! Lol.

Posted by: Acadian May 13 2010, 01:08 AM

As rich and descriptively evocative as ever, my friend. What a talent you are! That tavern came alive.

Posted by: Destri Melarg May 15 2010, 08:56 AM

Acadian - A kind word from you is always welcome, my friend. I am glad that you enjoyed it.

1st Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
The Nameless Tavern, Sentinel, Hammerfell
Evening


For a brief moment the tavern was quiet. Every eye was trained on the airborne sailor who flew in a shallow arc that scraped against the ceiling. His body twitched in mid-air before it was reclaimed by Nirn’s gravity and brought crashing into a table near the door. The table collapsed under the unwelcome weight, throwing half empty tankards of ale and mead like shrapnel at those who stood near. The impact was such that it doused all the candles on that side of the room. In the dim light that remained the sailor’s body lay spread eagle on the table top, which tilted up toward the wall at an angle. His head flopped over the edge near the wall, as if held to the body by the skin of his neck alone. He gave one last spasmodic twitch, and then he moved no more.

As one the remaining heads in the tavern turned toward the direction from which the sailor had come. A giant Nord brandishing a battered silver mace stood before them. Though his features were cast into shadow, his eyes caught the light from the few remaining candles and shined with menace, and amusement.

“Who’s next?” asked Sir Valdemar.

Alain and Casnar rose from the table behind him. They stepped forward, unsheathing their swords.

Bedlam followed, the three knights were silent witness to an explosion of activity. Curses were thrown from the shadows with the same frequency as fists and elbows as more than a dozen sailors scraped, clawed, and fought with each other to be the first to bid a hasty retreat. By the time the dust settled and the sound of churning boots had faded into the night, the number of their assailants had been whittled down to five confused mercenaries whose hands still held to their weapons.

“Five stout-hearted souls,” said Valdemar, “I guess that’s better than nothing.”

“Actually there are six,” said Alain, “if you count the one on the table.”

Casnar addressed himself to the mercenaries. “You men are about to commit an assault against the Crown. I suggest you sheath your weapons and go about your business.”

“Tsun’s shield, Redguard!” Valdemar spat on the floor, “must your kind take the fun out of everything?”

“My apologies, Nord,” said Casnar, sheathing his sword. He turned around and went back to the table to study one of the still full tankards of mead. He waved a dismissive hand toward the mercenaries. “Have at them then.”

Two of the mercenaries backed toward the door, then turned and ran headlong from the tavern.

“We seem to be running out of enemies,” said Alain. His sword was already returned to the scabbard. He looked at the three remaining mercenaries. “I beseech you gentlemen, stay. My friend grows belligerent with lack of exercise.”

The three mercenaries regarded the giant Nord that stood before them. Then, as one, they sheathed their weapons.

“We yield,” said one, through cracked lips in a mouth absent more than a few teeth.

“Damn!” said Valdemar.

“Our quarrel was with the Knight of the Moon,” said another, who peeked with furtive eyes around a tower shield that was larger than he was.

“Yet you chose to attack all three of us,” said Alain.

“Clearly an error in judgment,” said the third who stood closest to the door. He was taller than the rest, but so emaciated that the very sight of him moved one to pity.

“Is there not a worthy opponent in the whole of Hammerfell?” asked Valdemar. “Between the heat, the landscape, and the lack of anything substantial to drink . . . Alduin knows Yokuda must have been the hind end of Tamriel if you Redguards fled from that place and chose this place as the one to settle.”

“Forgive our impertinence,” said the thin mercenary, “we shall take our leave of you now.”

“Not so fast,” said Casnar, rising from the table. “You said your quarrel was with a Knight of the Moon. Threatening a representative of the Crown is still an offence punishable by death.”

“I see no reason to single these men out for punishment,” said Alain. “They are but three when the initial crime was committed by the whole of the tavern.” He winked at Valdemar, “perhaps a fine and a warning would suffice.”

Valdemar turned toward the mercenaries. “You men, leave all the gold you are carrying on the table.” He leveled his gaze upon the smallest mercenary before lowering his mace. “And leave that tower shield as well. Consider it ample payment for your lives.”

The three mercenaries stepped to the table. For the next few moments the only sound in the tavern was the ring of gold coins on gnarled oak. Thus unburdened, the three men disappeared into the night.

Casnar sat back down. As he looked at the small pile of gold on the table a smile spread across his lips. “Noble knights, indeed.”

“They’re alive, aren’t they?” Valdemar lifted the tower shield. He ran his hand across the surface, his head nodded at the appraisal.

“Precisely,” said Alain, “they fared better with us than they would have if left in your care. An empty purse is far more forgiving than the headsman’s axe.”

Valdemar lifted a tankard from the table. Alain sat down and bent to the purpose of stacking the coins into three even piles.

“A most charitable attitude,” said Casnar, “especially considering that they had a hand in poisoning your mead.”

The tankard stopped halfway to Valdemar’s lips. He looked down at Casnar. The Redguard gave a simple nod of his head.

“Shor’s tongue!” Valdemar flung the offending tankard across the room. It bounced off the wall and deposited its contents on the inert form of the sailor still spread-eagled on the broken table near the door. “Where is the barman? And that wench?” His hand was white-knuckled around the mace. His face had grown so hot that beads of sweat stood out like a pox upon his forehead.

Casnar bent his thumb to a door behind the bar. “My guess is that they’ve locked themselves in the storeroom. Don’t bother breaking it down. They aren’t blameless, but their actions are understandable.”

Valdemar snorted. “What happened to Sir ‘threatening a representative of the Crown’?”

“That’s just it; I am employed by the Crown, in a Forebear tavern, with a Forebear clientele, in a Forebear city.”

“Things have grown so bad,” said Alain.

Casnar nodded. “The time comes when I will either have to claim my fortune elsewhere, or prepare myself for war.”

Alain slid a pile of coins across the table. “Perhaps this will carry you closer to finding that fortune.”

“Keep it. Consider it payment for coming so far out of your way.”

“Speaking of which,” said Valdemar, “you have information for us?”

“Forgive me, Nord, I had nearly forgotten. Even as we speak the one you seek travels east. If you can gain the Reach before the end of the thaws you will have success around the city of Jehanna.”

“Jehanna,” Valdemar laughed, “along the Reach? The fetcher has courage, I’ll give him that.”

The scowl on Alain’s face stood in contrast to his friend’s amusement. “He continues to hide among those he betrayed.” He looked to Casnar. “We should compensate you for the information.”

“I am only the messenger,” said Casnar, “the one who hired me will see to my compensation.”

“May that compensation include removal from this forsaken place,” said Valdemar.

Alain scooped the coins into his purse and stood. “We should go. Ours is a long journey and time is not with us.” He extended his arm, “may our next meeting occur in happier times, and in a happier place.”

Casnar took the proffered arm. “Good luck, my friend . . . to the both of you.”

Valdemar stepped forward. “About the mead, perhaps all Redguards aren’t cowards. And I have seen many of your women that aren’t uncomely.” He leaned his new tower shield against the table and extended his arm.

Casnar laughed and stood, he clasped the giant Nord’s forearm. “Perhaps all Nords aren’t savage and artless, and I have seen parts of Skyrim where the sun does indeed shine.”

And then Casnar was alone in the tavern. He sat back down and listened to the muted sounds coming from the street. His hand reflexively wrapped around the handle of one of the tankards still on the table. He lifted it toward his lips . . . and stopped himself. He flung the tankard across the room. The sound it made hitting the floor accentuated the emptiness that he felt. He looked around at the broken tables, the upset chairs, and the goblets and tankards that littered the floor.

A smile spread across his face. What fate awaits the one they seek? He thought to himself. He raised his voice in the emptiness, for anyone with ears to hear.

“Is it the policy of this establishment to leave a man thirsty?”

Posted by: Olen May 15 2010, 10:59 AM

Great conclusion to the bar scene. The opening paragraph was great, it reall grabbed my attention and then the rest didn't let go. Valdemar continues to be a great character, a shade aggressive and very entertaining.

I laughed, a good bit of humour really brought this piece to life. You've laid quite a few hooks there as well, I want to know more about who they seek and why. And I suspect there's more to Casnar than meets the eye...

Thanks for the link on the lore, I won't have time to read it for a week or so (exams...) but you've piques my interest enough that I will get round to it.

Posted by: mALX May 15 2010, 04:26 PM

Woo Hoo! You just don't know how great it is to have you back!!!!! You have brought the Sancre Tor ghosts totally to life, it will be hard to kill them now!!! Awesome Write !!!!!!!

Posted by: Remko May 15 2010, 04:43 PM

Unfortunately there is no twirl emoticon here so that one will have to purvey the message...

Posted by: haute ecole rider May 15 2010, 06:13 PM

I loved the continuation of the tavern scene.

This sums up the three protagonists so well:

The interplay between the three of them is absolutely priceless.

I'm left echoing the others otherwise.

I'm like Remko, I'm really missing the twirl emoticon from the other place. Maybe someone with the power here will add one? Please?

Posted by: SubRosa May 15 2010, 08:43 PM

You have not left us hanging over the cliff for too long I see. The sailor sailing (now there is an alliteration for you!) across the room reminds me of so many similar punts I have made with my opponents while playing Oblivion.

This gave me a grin:
“Actually there are six,” said Alain, “if you count the one on the table.”

and this was the perfect way to end it!
“Is it the policy of this establishment to leave a man thirsty?”

Now it is off to Jehanna in the Western Reach. I always liked that name. Perhaps we will meet some of the Witchmen it is famous for?

Posted by: minque May 15 2010, 10:10 PM

What can I say? This is BIG....impressive writing....I read with great pleasure!

Posted by: Destri Melarg May 18 2010, 01:48 AM

Olen – Good call on Casnar, I see him as a character who comes to the realization that he has backed the wrong horse. Skill prompted his invitation to join the Knights of the Moon, but he is more of a hired gun than a devotee to the cause. Still, being Redguard, he is not without honor, so he soldiers on.

Good luck with exams, I don’t envy you!

mALX – Thanks again! Believe me, it feels good to be back.

I have never done it, but I was under the impression that you ‘release’ the ghosts in Sancre Tor from a curse imposed upon them. It might just be semantics, but that seems a whole lot cooler to me than having to ‘kill’ them.

I am glad that you’ve grown attached to the characters and now can’t look at them in the game the same way. After all the times you have done it to me (with Vicente, Lucien, Janus, Eyja, and now Agronak), it is nice that the shoe is on the other foot.

Remko – I suppose you could always just write :twirl:! In any case, thank you for the vote of confidence.

haute – The sequence you singled out is my favorite of the entire tavern scene. What is it about certain characters? In my initial plan for this story the four Blades were set to appear in maybe three scenes. In the writing, however, they seemed to demand a larger and larger role. Now I can’t imagine telling this story without them.

SubRosa – Fun with ragdoll physics! Jehanna will have to wait for a while. As for meeting some of the famed Witchmen . . . you never know.

minque – Thank you so much. How you manage to keep up with all the stories you do is just beyond me. Wise Woman, indeed.

2nd Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
The Draggin Tale Inn, Stros M’Kai
Morning


“Though the title is a bit macabre,” he said, “I am known as the King of Worms, and you come highly recommended.”

Arnand could only see his scarlet silhouette out of the corner of his eye. He still could not move, but he could imagine the void that existed where a face should have been, and the blue points of light within that regarded him in ways that eyes never could. The King of Worms drew closer.

“You find yourself in need of my knowledge,” he said, “I find myself in need of your abilities. Perhaps we can aid each other. . .”





His eyes opened and the dream was gone, but the feeling of helplessness remained. He lay in bed, his eyes focused on a dimly lit ceiling that seemed to close in upon him as his mind shifted from dream to reality. It’s so hot already, he thought. The linen sheet was soaked in his sweat. He sat up and placed his feet on the floor. Small tears of sweat fell from his damp hair onto his bare shoulders. A thick column of sunlight shone through the only window and illuminated the small, well-appointed room. Night’s candle had burned out, leaving a trail of hardened wax that hung from the small table near the bed, and dried into a coin-shaped puddle on the floor.

Arnand rose and crossed to the basin near the door. The water was cool on his hands. He washed his face and neck. I will find a ship today, he told himself. You’ve been saying that for weeks, was his answer.

He dressed in a white shirt and tan linens and secured his dagger to his hip. The sounds of revelry and the acrid smells of sweat, sex and skooma were already thick along the stairs when he left the room. The bar was full, though it was not yet mid-day. Perhaps a ship had come in the night, Arnand thought.

Dreekius was doing a brisk business behind the bar. His green scales glistened, though whether that was due to effort or to a trick of the light Arnand could not say. Bottles of ale and mead flew from his hands into the waiting hands of the sailors who drank, sang and fought with each other, or anyone else unlucky enough to draw their attention. The Draggin Tale was transformed into the busiest market place in Stros M’kai. Working girls, each younger than the next, paraded their wares in front of the loud, brash clientele. Arnand waded through the crowd and sidled up to the bar.

“Ahh, Breton, you are awake. Good,” Dreekius said. Like all Argonians he smiled through his eyes, though his were red and filmy. “I have need of your room for a few hours.

“I’m paid through the week,” said Arnand.

Dreekius placed a bottle of mead on the bar and slid it toward Arnand. “I realize that, and I apologize for the inconvenience. You will not need the room for the rest of the day anyway.”

Arnand quaffed his mead. Warm. The Argonian’s words sunk in. “A ship . . .”

“One that suits your needs, perhaps.”

Arnand scanned the debauchery around the bar.

Dreekius laughed. “No, these men just docked. They aren’t going anywhere for as long as I can keep them happy, which will be longer with the use of your room. Don’t worry; I will have it cleaned by the time you get back.”

“Get back from where?”

Dreekius leaned in close, his breath smelled of ale and old cheese. “One of the sailors mentioned a smuggler’s ship docked at Saintsport. Apparently they have been there for several days.”

Arnand drained the bottle, “I’ll get my things.”





He left the Draggin Tale and made his way toward the docks. Outside the heat was even more pronounced than inside. He walked through the cobblestone streets crowded with the hectic rush of sailors, guards, hustlers and children. All had eyes that seemed to hint at some desire unfulfilled. He traveled through the humid shade made by two story buildings built of sandstone, wood, or clay. He passed over the arched sandstone bridges. As the cobblestones began to give way to sand the smell of the bay caressed his nostrils, tantalizing him with his own unfulfilled desire:





“I am all too familiar with the power of the dark gift,” the King of Worms had said, “I have been told that one you love is so afflicted, that you seek a cure?” With a gesture the spell was removed. The King of Worms returned to the dinner table. Arnand had felt a spreading of sensation through his body as mobility was returned.

Told by whom? “I do,” Arnand had said.

The Necromancer sat. “I have heard that such a thing exists. For a price I would be willing to point you in the proper direction.” He motioned toward an empty chair and the second glass of wine.

Arnand joined him at the table. For Elissa, he told himself. “Name your price.”

“An artifact that was once my property has been recovered. I would have you return it to me.”

“Where is this artifact?”

His answer had caused the cowled head to tilt slightly. The voice that emanated from the void was bemused. “You do not ask what the artifact is.”

“All that matters to me is that you fulfill your end of the agreement.”

“I shall. Now, listen closely. You must travel to the Isle of Artaeum. In the halls of the Psijic Order you will find the Necromancer’s Amulet. I want you to steal it and return it to me.”

Arnand drained the glass. “Such a thing will not be easy . . . your Majesty.”

With a flourish of his cloak the Necromancer produced a red velvet purse. The gold inside jingled when he set it on the table. “For someone of lesser ability it would be impossible. For you, I suspect it will be a challenge. This gold will secure your passage, the rest I leave up to you.”

Arnand’s memory sprung forward. He left the King of Worms and nearly killed his horse riding north to Jehanna. There he sold the beleaguered animal and found a half-drunk Reachman with a small boat willing to skirt the edge of the Sea of Ghosts to carry him to Northpoint. In Northpoint he booked passage on a merchant ship that brought him to Stros M’Kai. For weeks he searched fruitlessly for a ship that would conduct him to the Summerset Isles.





Arnand passed beneath the heavy town gate and turned to the west. He began to walk around the bay, his feet sinking into the hot sand along the shore. To his right the palm trees cast retreating shadows in the grass that grew a few short feet from the beach. To his left the great statue of Hunding, sword raised high, invited visitors to Stros M’Kai. He veered to the south and the ornate Dwemer Observatory came into view. He left the beach and continued on the dirt and sand walkway, past the lighthouse, and into Saintsport.

He saw the ship immediately. It was a galleon, slightly worn along the stem, with rolled threadbare sails tucked near the mast. Several men were engaged in the hauling of casks onto the ship from wagons drawn by swaybacked horses whose sullen disposition was only matched by the crew.

“You there!” came a voice to Arnand’s right. “What do you want around here?”

Arnand turned. The voice was worn by a short, fat, shirtless Redguard with half-healed lash marks across his sunken chest. He sat in a squat wooden chair whose legs bent outwards with his weight.

“Where’s your Captain?” asked Arnand.

The Redguard used a whetstone to sharpen the edge of a rusty dagger. “What are you wanting him for?”

“My business, not yours.”

The Redguard’s smile showed half-a-dozen rotten teeth in gums stained black with age and neglect. He stood slowly, his weight redistributing itself on short, thick legs that were as bowed as those of the chair. The whetstone disappeared into his filthy green linen pants and the rusty dagger jumped from hand to hand.

“Suppose I look to make it my business,” he said.

“That’s enough, Delron,” A female voice said from the ship.

Arnand turned. The voice belonged to a Dunmer woman who stood above them on the gangplank. She wore a pair of wide black pants that ended well above her ankles. Her sheer silk shirt was unbuttoned, the ends tied into a knot well up on her mid-section. Her long sable hair was pulled into a bun at the back of her head, and secured with slaughterfish bones. A silver cutlass hung from her belt and flashed in the light of the mid-day sun.

Delron backed away, “aye, Cap’n.” He sat back in the chair and reproduced his whetstone, but his eyes never left Arnand.

“I’m Captain Shin-Ilu,” said the woman, “who are you and what is it that you want?”

Arnand bowed a greeting. “My name is Arnand Desele, Captain. I have business I wish to discuss.”

“Is that so? What sort of business?”

“The lucrative sort.”

“I guess you had better come aboard then.”

Inside the Captain’s cabin an elderly crewman poured them each a glass of wine. She removed her cutlass and leaned it against the arm of the red velvet couch upon which she sat. She motioned Arnand into the empty chair across from her.

She took a sip of her wine. “This business of yours?”

“I would hire your ship to take me to the Isle of Artaeum.”

“Artaeum? That’s a very expensive trip.”

Arnand removed the purse that the King of Worms had given him. He tossed it into her lap. “I am in something of a hurry.”

“So I see.” she lifted the purse and weighed it in her hand. “What’s to stop me from taking this, killing you, and throwing your body overboard?”

“I am difficult to kill.”

She squeezed the purse . . . then she tossed it back to Arnand. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“May I ask why?”

“Three reasons. First, one does not just sail to the Isle of Artaeum. That’s the home of the Psijic Order. Strangers aren’t welcome. Second, this ship is already overdue in Senchal. There is a certain cargo that I need to procure if I’m going to keep this crew paid. Third, and most importantly, this ship isn’t going anywhere without a navigator.”

“What happened to your navigator?”

“The stupid lizard is sitting in the jail at Stros M’Kai. He tried to kill a guard, if you can believe it.”

“I imagine that a crew such as yours has made the trip before. One could navigate the entire way by staying in sight of the coast.”

“One could,” she said, “if one were a merchant vessel which, I am sure by now you know, we are not. Speed and guile might be sufficient under ordinary circumstances, but word is there is a Colovian fleet anchored off Torval that we would rather not have to deal with.”

“This is a fair amount of gold,” said Arnand, “enough to pay for the inconvenience that my detour would create and enough to pay off your crew, I’m sure. I’m also sure that you can find another use for the profit from your cargo in Senchal.” He tossed the purse back into her lap. “If I can free your navigator, would you reconsider?”

“I told you, ships don’t just sail into Artaeum. You need an invitation or something.”

“Then what about taking me to Dusk? It’s near enough and ships go in and out of there all the time.”

She lifted the purse again and gently squeezed it between her fingers. She smiled. “The lizard’s name is Earns-His-Keep, if you can believe it.”

Posted by: haute ecole rider May 18 2010, 03:56 AM

Maybe you changed it, maybe you didn't.

I think you did. For the better. The description of the slums in the first third of this post struck me as outstanding stuff, and I don't remember it from earlier. This sentence in particular:

followed a few beats later by:


That's mighty powerful stuff, and I don't recall seeing this before.

Regarding your comment to mALX, you're right, you don't "kill" the four Blades in Sancre Tor. They were sentenced to eternal servitude by the Underking, and are freed by the player character in completion of the quest for Tiber Septim's armor. Much like the completion of the Knights of the Nine quest frees the nine original knights of the Order and releases their souls into Aetherius. Your story only makes their eventual fate all the more poignant.

Once more, excellent work!

Posted by: Remko May 18 2010, 11:24 AM

Your story makes me want to play DaggerFall

Posted by: Olen May 18 2010, 05:58 PM

Brilliant. You nailed that part, strong stuff, good development of Arnand who seems to be an interesting sort and exciting to read about. I loved the description of the bar.

This is a real eyeball kick. Set the scene excellently.

I agree with Haute that the third section was very good, and also liked the unfilfilled desires and his desire thing. I did spot one slight nit there though:

The repetition of sandstone (and cobblestone) was a little jarring to me.

One other (somewhat obsessive) nit:
and dried into a coin-shaped - wax doesn't strictly 'dry' though seeing as your meaning's clear and I doubt any normal person would notice/care this nit is a bit niche.

As I said excellent development and I want more

Posted by: ureniashtram May 19 2010, 12:24 AM

All these intense writing makes me want to play Redguard, actually.

Your solid description is just fantastic! And writing the story with different perspective? Wow. I always wanted to visit, so to speak, Summerset Isles. Maybe now I would!

Great update, please give us more!!

Posted by: mALX May 19 2010, 04:43 AM

Your descriptive language always leaves me in awe. Your KOW is so well done - my problem in reading this is the feeling of foreboding I have in this reading that I didn't have the first time...and got shocked. ARGH! (I'll say it in advance). You ROCK !!!!

Posted by: SubRosa May 19 2010, 05:17 PM

My, what a disgusting bar! Thank goodness people do not smoke in ES, otherwise it would be even more revolting. The pirates were no less rank. My, I am glad I am not one of your characters!

Which is to say you did a good job of portraying the dark underbelly of Tamriel. I find it mildly ironic that Arnand passed through Jehenna on his way to Stros M'kai. It makes me wonder if the timing is such that he will bump by our questing knights on the streets while he is there? (I know you put dates on the posts, but I cannot keep any of the ES months or days straight, even with a link to the ES Calender).


Hey, I have one of those Daedric claws under my name now. Does that mean I finally got accepted by the Mythic Dawn?

Posted by: Acadian May 19 2010, 07:02 PM

I just read the last two chapters and what a treat they were. From the three knights kicking some butt, to a steaming bar then a suspicious pirate ship. Wow!

Posted by: Destri Melarg May 21 2010, 07:21 PM

haute – You’re right, I did change it a little. The two passages you cite are in the original, but I went a bit farther on the descriptions leading up to them, which perhaps made them stand out more.

I couldn’t agree with you more regarding the bitter fate awaiting the knights. I think that knowing what happens to them is one of the things driving me to tell their story. I am intrigued by the depth of devotion that they must feel for Talos to swear themselves into his service, just as I am intrigued by the sequence of events that leads to the rise of the Underking (though I will not be dealing with those specific events in this story . . . maybe in a sequel?).

Remko – I tried to play Daggerfall once, after I had already fallen in love with Morrowind. I just could not get into it. Given the setting I hope that if you do fire it up you will choose to write about it to give us all a feel for the game.

Olen – The repetition of 'sandstone' was deliberate. I wanted to convey both the heat of the place and the desolation. To me the word sand-stone evokes images of arid deserts and hard, unforgiving rock. I can see where the addition of ‘cobblestones’ would be jarring, thanks for pointing it out. I’ll go back over it to see where I can improve the description.

ureniashtram – Welcome to Interregnum, and thank you for your comments. Like you, I just love multiple perspective, and I used footage from Redguard to inspire the description of Stros M’Kai. As for the Summerset Isles . . . you’ll just have to stay tuned.

mALX – Thank you for the compliment to my KOW, but it is not one that I am comfortable accepting. I feel like I cheated where his character is concerned. I keep him firmly in the background, purposefully enigmatic. I tell you as little about him as possible. Why? Because I have had the good fortune (or the bad fortune, depending on your point of view) to read the definitive version of the KOW as he appears in Rumpleteasza’s remarkable The King and I. I know that any version of the character that I might present would suffer in comparison.

SubRosa – Ah, but they do smoke in Tamriel! You forget that in addition to drinking skooma you can also smoke it (ask Olen’s Firen). One of the first things that struck me in Morrowind is that, upon arriving at Caius Cosades house in Balmora, I noticed the hooka that had been haphazardly kicked under the bed. I also doubt that they grow tobacco for its pretty green color.

And I actually considered the logistics of having Arnand encounter the questing knights in Jehanna, but I couldn’t get the dates to fit. Too bad, I think it would have made for a very interesting scene.

Acadian – Thank you, Acadian. That new screenshot of Buffy is amazing! Where is her waist? You know what they say about little Wood Elves who 'go black'?

2nd Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
The Draggin Tale, Stros M’Kai
Evening


The spent bodies of several sailors littered the tiled floors, sleeping off the day’s debauch. Half-dressed girls exited the second floor rooms and negotiated the stairs on unsteady legs. They stopped and each produced a tiny fistful of gold coins that gleamed in the half-light when they set them on the bar. Dreekius collected the coins and dropped them into a purse that he kept tucked near his privates. The girls laughed and whispered, passing Arnand standing in the doorway as they left.

“You have returned,” Dreekius said, “did you find what you seek?”

Arnand stepped over the prostrate body of a drunken sailor and joined Dreekius at the bar.

“I don’t believe I’ll need the room any longer, Dreekius,” said Arnand.

“You are leaving us?” Dreekius opened a bottle of mead and passed it along the bar towards Arnand.

“At long last, it seems.” Arnand drank from the bottle.

Dreekius ran a finger over his purse, his soft pink tongue poked out the side of his mouth. “You don’t sound convinced.”

Arnand laughed. “I’m not asking you to refund my money, Dreekius.”

Dreekius smiled through his eyes. “That’s quite human of you. Why, then, are you so apprehensive?”

“I’m not sure I trust this Captain to keep her word.”

“This Captain is a woman? What is her name?”

“Shin-Ilu.”

The smile faded from Dreekius’ lips. “Ansu Shin-Ilu?” He opened a bottle of ale and drained nearly half of it in one pull.

“You know her?”

“Know of her, yes. Your instincts serve you well, Breton. She may well be the most ruthless pirate on the Abecean Sea.”

“If that’s the case, then I’ll have to be careful,” Arnand said, getting up. He paused on his way to the door. “Do you know anything about an Argonian named Earns-His-Keep?”

“I know that he is sitting in the jail.” The ridges above Dreekius’ eyes furrowed. “Is he your price of passage? Well, breaking him out of the jail should not prove difficult.”

“Why is that?”

“We are on an island, Breton, surrounded by waters that teem with life, most of it not friendly. If one escapes and does not have a boat, then there is not far that one can go. If one escapes and does have a boat, then that one is usually allowed to become the mainland’s problem.”

Arnand nodded. “Goodbye, Dreekius. Thank you for all the help.”

Dreekius grinned. “Thank you for all the gold.”

He left the Inn. Outside warm breezes stirred the humid air. Diaphanous clouds obscured Masser and Secunda, but could not dim their light. The moons reflected off the cobblestones which shone like mirrors in the night.

The borrowed wagon was where he’d left it. The old nag pulling it gave a contemptuous snort when she saw him approach. Arnand’s hand flashed a spell which calmed the beast and allowed him to guide her across the street to the jail.

The jail at Stros M’Kai was a two story sandstone structure with stone columns supporting a canvas awning in the front. Iron bars covered the windows and the thick wooden door was supported by iron hinges and locks.

The streets were nearly deserted. With the lateness of the hour, most citizens had settled into their beds, or their cups. Arnand’s detect life spell showed two pink blots inside the jail. He shifted the blanket in the wagon; then he found a spot against the wall opposite the awning and waited.

The night wore on. The clouds obscured the twin moons, taking their shine off the cobblestones. Darkness drifted on Stros M’Kai and Arnand crossed the street and stopped under the awning. The locked door was briefly lit in a purple glow that originated from his hand. The glow faded, and with it the lock. Arnand stepped inside while the shadows still lingered.

The jailor was asleep at his desk. He snored from the nostrils, drowning out the sound of Arnand’s movements. The bars of a heavy iron door led to the cells behind him.

Arnand cast a combination spell of calm and drain fatigue. An emerald mist enveloped the guard, forcing his snores deeper, into the diaphragm. By the time the mist faded Arnand could have beaten a drum next to the guard’s ear without effect.

Arnand searched through the guard’s clothing. Up close he smelled of crab meat and ale. He found the small iron key dangling from a string on the guard’s belt. Arnand cut the string with his dagger and liberated the key.

The key fit the heavy door easily and released the lock with a click that was loud enough to cause Arnand to clench his jaw in spite of himself. The guard’s rhythmic snoring marked the seconds that Arnand stood in the doorway, one hand on the hilt of his dagger, the other poised to cast an invisibility spell in the event that more guards were alerted to the sound.

When he was confident that his actions had not disturbed the peace, Arnand turned his attention to the cells. There were four, two on each side of the cramped hall. A detect life spell told him that all save the last on his right were unoccupied. In this last cell the pink blot of a life form remained horizontal, suspended above the stone floor.

The cell door opened with a turn of the key and a softer click than the main door. The pink blot faded with the spell and was replaced by the form of an Argonian who lay curled on a cot against the far wall. He was a male, thin as Argonians went. He had mottled skin the color of molded bread, and two needle-like horns that protruded from an equidistant point above his bottle-shaped nose.

Maybe it was the sound of the cell door opening, or perhaps it was Arnand’s proximity that caused the Argonian to stir and open his eyes.

“Who?” The Argonian whispered.

Arnand placed his index finger vertically over his lips. The Argonian nodded. Arnand moved into the cell and crouched near the Argonian’s cot.

“Earns-His-Keep?” Arnand whispered.

The Argonian nodded.

“Come with me . . . quietly.” Arnand whispered.

Earns-His-Keep was only too willing to comply. He positioned himself so close that with every exhale his breath fluttered the hair along Arnand’s collar. The two retraced Arnand’s steps through the hall, past the snoring guard, and out into the gentle breezes of Stros M’Kai.

“Who are you?” Earns-His-Keep asked when they were outside the jail.

“A friend,” said Arnand, “sent by your Captain.” Arnand helped lift Earns-His-Keep into the back of the wagon. The Argonian’s skin was cold to the touch.

“No,” said Earns-His-Keep as he lay down in the wagon, “blackmailed perhaps, forced most likely, but not sent.”

Arnand covered the Argonian with the blanket. The horse nickered half-heartedly when Arnand climbed on the buckboard and took the reins. But it conducted them both to the city gate without incident.





They traveled the well worn path, in full view of the patrolling guards. Arnand kept his hood over his head and nodded sullen greetings to those he passed. Earns-His-Keep stayed under the blanket, and tried his best not to breathe.

The heat returned in the last dregs of twilight, as the sun’s distant aurora brought light back into the world. As they passed the lighthouse Earns-His-Keep threw off the blanket and rose sweating and sputtering into the new day.

“I am in your debt,” he said.

“Forget it,” said Arnand, “I’m being compensated.”

“I hope you received your compensation ahead of time. Still, I am in your debt. I shall not forget this.”

Arnand regarded the skinny Argonian. “Did you really try to kill a guard?”

Earns-His-Keep shrugged. “I was not successful.”

“Tell me about your Captain,” said Arnand.

Earns-His-Keep stared at Arnand. “Since I am in your debt,” he began, “I will tell you this. Captain Shin-Ilu has spent her life taking advantage of men’s tendency to underestimate her. You should not make that mistake.”

“Is she good to her word?”

“That depends on what her word costs her.”

The ship came into view. Captain Shin-Ilu stood alone at the foot of the gangplank. The rest of the crew went about the business of preparing to sail. A half smile creased her lips as the wagon came to a stop.

“I was beginning to think you had failed,” she said to Arnand. She turned her attention to Earns-His-Keep. “You’ve cost us a week, you stupid lizard. What were you thinking, mixing it up with a guard?”

Earns-His-Keep jumped from the wagon. “Apologies, Captain.”

“Just get on board and look to your charts. We have to sail to Dusk now because of you.”

Earns-His-Keep scurried up the gangplank and disappeared onto the ship. Arnand removed his cloak and climbed from the wagon.

“You’re pretty resourceful,” said Captain Shin-Ilu, “I’m tempted to offer you a position on my crew.”

“I doubt you could afford me, Captain.”

She laughed. “You might be right. Why don’t we discuss it over another bottle of wine? Come, we are ready to sail.” She turned and walked up the gangplank. Arnand followed.

A light scrape behind him caused his muscles to tense. No! He reached for his dagger. He felt the blade enter his kidney from behind. His back twitched from the pain. He felt his blood begin to boil. Poison, he thought. He tried to cast, but he was silenced. The blade twisted, causing his back to twitch again. He dropped his dagger and his legs gave way. Delron’s fetid breath was hot on his cheek.

“This is my business,” the Redguard hissed.

Ansu Shin-Ilu turned and approached him, unsheathing her cutlass. Delron twisted his blade again and stepped back, leaving the rusty dagger in Arnand’s back. She grasped his shirt with a strength that surprised him and kept him from falling. She leaned in close.

“You were right about one thing,” she said, “we can’t afford you.”

She stepped back, raised her blade, and lunged. Her thrust pierced Arnand’s chest. He felt the blade slide past his ribs, through his heart, and out between his shoulder blades.

He fell to the dock. Elissa, I have failed you, he thought. Captain Shin-Ilu stood over him, wiping his blood from her blade with a linen cloth.

“But you were wrong about something else,” she said, “you weren’t difficult to kill at all.”

Posted by: haute ecole rider May 21 2010, 08:34 PM

I knew this was coming, but still held my breath nonetheless.

Just a question:

At first I thought you meant it was late (i.e. just after sunset), since twilight is the last light of the day between sunset and full dark. However, later, it seems that you were actually talking about sunrise. Twilight and dusk are associated with sunset, and dawn with sunlight. So this sentence is a little confusing in its sense of time. Maybe clarify it a little bit more here?

Otherwise, I love the descriptions here. Wonderful stuff, yet again.

Oh, and sandstone is actually quite soft. You can literally rub the stuff away with your thumb. However, sandstone is perfect for the desert, since that is where the sand comes from (wind erosion on sandstone). And sandstone can feel hard, when you're looking at it, especially with the desert sun shining down. Whew!

Still loving this!

Posted by: mALX May 21 2010, 09:18 PM

I felt the strain of this coming reading last chapter, had flashbacks to the first time I read this chapter. It still hits like a ton of bricks when

Posted by: minque May 21 2010, 09:26 PM

ohhhh!!! been away for a couple of days and by Nirn....have a LOOOOT of catching up to do..(destri...I do have severe problems getting enough time to comment as much as I want to!, But darn it..I read!!!!)

As quite a few already commented...this is BIG! Brilliant writing...Nope I haven't played Daggerfall or Redguard, but I can understand if ppl say they get inspired to play, I've read quite a bit about the storyline in those games.

Anyway it has been a most enjoyable read....continue please!

Posted by: SubRosa May 21 2010, 10:36 PM

The sleep spell of Arnand was a good touch, something missing from Oblivion. I am kind of surprised he died though, since as of yet he has not done anything to effect the overall plot. That makes the earlier chapters with him pointless to have written. Unless we are going to see an undead Arnand soon? Considering who he is working for, that would not be a surprise. Perhaps he will be keeping Nolquinn company on guard duty back at the cave? Or perhaps this is just a setup to bring his vampire wife into the mix, seeking vengeance?

One nit I do have is that while the scene of his death was good, it was also painless. Granted I have never been stabbed in the kidney myself, but I suspect it rather hurts. Perhaps saying something like:
Pain seared white-hot through his flesh as the blade entered his kidney from behind.

Posted by: Olen May 23 2010, 05:39 PM

That was great to read, the death really caught me by surprise, I hadn't expected hit to die, yet at least. Makes me wonder how he fits in...

As for the sandstone fair enough. The connotation you were going for was a bit lost on me seeing as most of the buildings I've lived in have been sandstone and this bit of the world is anything but a desert... As for hardness, it depends on the stone, the stuff here is plenty hard but some is really crumbly.

Anyway awesome stuff and a great read, you structure the parts well.

Posted by: Destri Melarg May 25 2010, 06:39 AM

haute – actually the classic definition of ‘twilight’ refers to both the time between sunset and dusk and the time between dawn and sunrise, but I can understand the point you are making. I used the word because something about it denoted a very specific image in my head. I will change it to something else if it causes too much confusion.

As for the use of sandstone: I wasn’t as interested in the literal representation of arenite as a sedimentary rock as I was in the evocative connotations of the two words together, sand-stone. To me it gave a tactile feel to Stros M’Kai that I couldn’t achieve by any other means that occurred to me at the time.

I am glad that you are still enjoying this, and thank you for your always constructive comments.

mALX – Hey!! A spoiler warning in my thread!

*Destri maniacally rubs his hands together*

I am glad that the chapter still holds the impact that I intended. As you already know, Arnand’s fate is necessary to set up the next faze of the story.

minque – Any comments you make are like the cherry on top of the sundae. The fact that you read this thread is the sundae! Thank you so much, I really do appreciate it.

By the way, I have just finished reading Serene of Cyrodiil, chapter 1. I will comment on your thread when I have fully caught up, but what I’ve read so far has been great!

SubRosa – I did once make a 'sleep spell' at the spellmaking altar. If memory serves it was a combination of Drain Fatigue for the maximum points available with a duration of five seconds and a maximum level Calm spell with a duration of either one or two seconds (I can’t remember which). When cast upon a target it worked much like a five second Paralysis spell (complete with a fall down effect), but it cost less magicka to cast.

Rest assured, it has been a very long time since I wrote anything without a purpose. The point of those earlier chapters with Arnand will become apparent as the year continues (somehow I think you know that though ).

That doesn’t seem painless to me. As someone who has been stabbed (albeit with a pair of scissors and in the leg, not the kidney), in those first few horrible moments shock and fear push pain to somewhere far back in your consciousness. Pain didn’t come until later, after realization as the adrenaline starts to fade. Even then it started off like a sound on the edge of hearing that grows louder and louder until it becomes not just a part of you, but it becomes who you are. At least that was my experience.

Olen – Point taken on the sandstone. I can see how the connotation would have been lost on you.

I know it seems cheap and almost amateurish to whack Arnand before his promise in the story is fulfilled. Don’t worry; all of your questions about how he fits in will be answered in the chapters to come.





8th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Glenumbria Moors, High Rock
Dawn


They stood on the edge of the moors surrounded by the cold mists drifting in from the Eltheric Ocean. Behind them the sunrise lifted the gray cast from the land and bathed the soggy ground in shades of brown and green. The house guard that accompanied them kept a respectful distance, but Lattia could tell that they were miserable. Standing knee deep in a cold bog when they could be in a warm tavern celebrating the Day of Release was not something that they should have been called upon to do. Lattia decided to make another appeal to the grim figure before her that wore her brother’s face.

“Aran, please do not ask me to do this,” she said, kneeling. “All of Glenumbria embraces our clan today. Let us join their feasts and celebrations instead of hunting for ghosts.”

Aran turned and faced his sister. “I know what day it is,” he said, “do you think we came all this way to prance and drink with the noisome rabble? Three thousand years ago the Alessians were stopped right here. I must know exactly how it was done.” He reached out and his strong fingers dug into her arms and shoulders. He pulled her to her feet. “I am not asking.”

Lattia stood her ground. “Magic is not a tool placed at your disposal, brother. What skill I have takes a heavy toll, not that you seem to care.”

“Spare me the self pity, sister. If you are not strong enough to perform the task then perhaps you are not strong enough to stand by my side. There are other mystics in the world, you know. Now, are they here or not?”

A rush of heat banished the cold from Lattia. Her face and neck flushed, her clothes felt heavy. Even the silk outer cloak seemed to chafe at her throat. She glared at her brother, fear and rage battled against love and devotion in an inner struggle that boiled the blood in her veins and flashed through her emerald eyes.

Aran smiled and touched his sister’s face. There was pride in his voice when he spoke. “Now I see a Direnni Elf before me.” He said. “Are they here?”

“Yes.” Lattia’s eyes closed, a tear tumbled over the mound of her cheek.

“Show me.”

Lattia’s sigh echoed throughout the moors. She arched her neck and shoulders, her eyes remained shut. A sudden gust seemed to pass through her. As close as he was to her, Aran felt the warmth leave her body. It was replaced by something that was both cold and ancient. The moors grew darker, as if the sun were a simple candle that had been extinguished. Noises that were equal parts wail and laughter carried in from the darkness. The house guards began to finger the pommels of their swords. Aran saw the faintest ghost of a smile spread across Lattia’s lips and he shuddered despite himself.

She lowered her head and looked at him. The green that had once made her eyes seem like twin pearls of jade had been replaced by a black that even ebony couldn’t match. All the pigment had been drained from her skin. She raised an arm that could have belonged to a cadaver.

“Take my hand.” She said in a whispered voice that sounded like the crunch of brittle leaves.

Aran’s hand rose slowly, tentatively. I must know, he thought to himself. He grasped her hand and all the warmth he felt dissipated like old memory. All around him the world began to blur and fade. He could not turn away from her. The endless void of her eyes became the sum of his existence. Time became irrelevant. At one point, before unconsciousness claimed him, he heard himself screaming.





7th Sun’s Dawn, 1E 482
Glenumbria Palace, High Rock
Evening


Light flooded his eyes as he came back to himself. The moors were gone, replaced by the great hall of a long dead palace. A large fire crackled in the hearth, and for the first time since he had taken his sister’s hand Aran felt warmth.

He still held her hand. He looked down to her face. A semblance of her former color had returned, but her eyes remained black and trackless.

“We have arrived.” She said.

Aran’s eyes focused on those around him. The great hall was filled with activity and hushed, anxious voices. Men from Colovia, High Rock and Skyrim mingled amongst each other in uneasy alliance. They all wore leather armor, offset by chainmail, cloth, silk and fur. Each man’s chest was colored with the symbols and insignia of his house, province, or tribe. The many Altmer in the hall stood out in their ancient Elven armor, but the insignia that covered their hearts was familiar enough.

“They wear the standard of Clan Direnni.” Said Aran.

“Yes,” she said, “this is Glenumbria Palace on the night of 7 Sun’s Dawn in the year 482 of the First Era. Tomorrow these men will join their respective armies in the battle of Glenumbria Moors. Tonight they share accommodations in this castle.”

Aran stepped toward a Direnni retainer, but he was held fast by her icy grip.

“Do not break contact.” She said.

Something in the quality of her voice caused Aran to study her face. “You are not my sister.”

That smile played across her lips again. “No. But for this journey I am your guide, and it would behoove you to heed my word,” she regarded him as one might regard a tenaciously clinging insect, “unless, of course, it is your wish to remain here.”

Aran turned his attention back to the great hall. “They cannot see us?”

“We were not here. What you see tonight is what you wished to see, but these events have already occurred. The voices you hear are only echoes of voices that have long been silent. Come.”

She led him past the gathered soldiers toward a closed and guarded door leading from the hall. The guards were Direnni retainers armed with halberds made of silver and gold. They stared through Aran into the great hall and made no move to bar him from the door.

“Beyond this door lie the answers you seek,” she said.

Aran nodded and reached for the door, but in the reaching the door and wall dissolved in front of him and reformed behind him, leaving him and his guide in a large chamber.

The walls of the chamber were filled with tapestries that depicted ancient battles and the heroic postures of the heroes who fought in them. A raging fire burned in the cavernous fireplace against the far wall. The scarred oak floors were covered in rugs of red, green, and gold that featured detailed maps of all of the provinces of High Rock. A large golden table fit to seat a score of men dominated the room. Around this table those who would lead the battle congregated, their raised voices echoed off the walls of the chamber.

An Altmer sat at the head of the table wearing Elven armor plated with gold. His long platinum hair caught the light and made him look to Aran like a statue given life.

“That’s Aiden Direnni,” Aran whispered as if he were afraid that the sound of his voice would break the spell.

“It is,” she said, “His brother Ryan sits on his right hand.” She pointed to the figure with his back to them. “I do not see Raven, but I assume she is here. Her magic is vital to the coming battle, but I suppose you already know that.”

“Why are there so many men here?”

“Your knowledge of this event does not allow for the presence of so many men does it? Know you that Clan Direnni came late to a rebellion whose origin sprang in the world of men.”

She pointed toward a Colovian standing near the table’s center staring intently at a map unfolded before him. He looked to Aran to be a man in his mid-thirties, in the prime of his life. He wore leather armor with the ancient standard of Skingrad emblazoned on his chest. A hawk larger than a cat rested on his left shoulder and the handle of a heavy axe poked over his right.

“There,” she said, “is the man that your history will remember as Rislav the Righteous, King of Skingrad. It is he who defeated the Alessian Emperor Goerius, an act that inspired Clan Direnni to join the rebellion.”

She pointed toward the opposite end of the table where an elf larger than any that Aran had ever seen sat resplendent in solid gold armor. He held himself erect, as if the foundations of the castle were dependant upon his carriage.

“There is a lonely soul. The King of Nenalata, last of the Ayleids. He was born into an empire long bereft of glory. Even now he rules over a ruin. Yet he carries the pride of his kind, and will not appear as anything less than what he still believes himself to be. He has more reason to hate the Alessian Reform than any other in this room.” Her voice had grown quiet, almost reverent. Aran could sense a great sadness that emanated from her. “Sunnabe tarnabye av sou math, baune aran.” she whispered.

“What did you say?” asked Aran.

“Nothing,” she answered, “a simple benediction for the last of his line.”

“I heard my name in that.”

“Curious is it not? Have you never wondered why you and your sisters were not given the names of the Aldmeri?”

“Our loyalty to the Isles is tenuous at best,” said Aran. “What language was that?”

She looked at the table, into the face of the long dead King of Nenalata, “one that he would understand, if he could hear us.”

Aran looked about the room. He studied the harried faces of men and mer, of soldiers and kings. “I never realized there were so many.”

“No,” she said, “you never did. But you will.”

Posted by: mALX May 25 2010, 02:12 PM

Poor Lattia, she has the powers but never uses them for her own sake. Instead she becomes a tool for others who coerce her sweet nature into submission. She is like a silent heroine. This chapter inspired me to dig into the Lore the first time I read it and some of what I found ended up in my original story - Awesome Write Destri !!!!!

PS - I remember where she is now, too !!!!!!! HELP !!!!!

Posted by: Olen May 25 2010, 03:06 PM

I'm liking this story, I don't know any of the background but it doesn't seem to matter, it just makes everything that bit more mysterious and exciting. The writing is very good as ever and really draws me in quickly and effortlessly then sweeps along at a good pace.

One question: is the alyeidic accurite? If so where's it from?

Posted by: SubRosa May 25 2010, 05:04 PM

Once again, very cool. You are becoming the unofficial historical fiction guru of the ES world. Not only do you have a story set in the past, but the characters in it are reliving events in their past!

Poor Lattia. She really does not have the ruthless ambition for this. Then again, if she did she would probably kill her brother, so just as well for him.


nits:
The walls of the chamber were filled with tapestries that depicted ancient battles and the heroic postures of ancient heroes.
The use of ancient is repetitive here. Maybe just say depicted ancient heroes and battles?

Posted by: haute ecole rider May 25 2010, 05:25 PM

I loved this "time-traveling" chapter, especially what comes next here.
The change that comes over Lattia's physical form emphasizes the strangeness of what is occurring.

The Elven lords are well described as heroic figures, and Rislav the Righteous is very solid here.

I love historical epics, and this ranks right up there with the best!

Posted by: Acadian May 26 2010, 08:05 PM

You once again show that you are the master of this craft. Your descriptions and choices of wording are amazingly effective. This is more fun to read the second time as it makes things easier for me to understand and appreciate.

Posted by: Destri Melarg May 28 2010, 09:28 AM

mALX – You have absolutely nailed Lattia’s character. She is a slave to her devotion who will do anything for those that she loves. But underneath that almost mousy exterior there is something else that will become apparent as the year continues (I hope). As for where she is now . . . you’re right, she has been there for quite a while hasn’t she?

I am flattered that reading my story prompted you to find something in the lore to suit your own work.

Olen – To answer your question the Ayleidic is accurate. 'Sunnabe tarnabye av sou math, baune aran' roughly translates as ‘blessed be the passage of your house, mighty king.’

http://www.uesp.net/wiki/Lore:Ayleid_Language is the page that I used for the translation. Likewise you can look http://www.uesp.net/wiki/Lore:Appendices for translations of Ehlnofex languages, charts of the Daedric and Dwemer alphabet, etymology, and more.

SubRosa – Can you guess what my favorite genre of fiction is? You’re right; Lattia doesn’t have the ambition to lead Clan Direnni, as for killing her brother, well . . .

Good call on the repetition of the word ‘ancient’. I have changed it so that it reads smoother.

haute – Isn’t Rislav cool? I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s the trained hawk on his shoulder or the fact that he decapitated his own brother for the throne. Maybe it’s the fact that his battle plan allowed the city of Skingrad to stand virtually alone against the might of the Imperial army, and win! I wish I could do more with him.

Needless to say, like you, I love historical epics.

Acadian – Thank you so much, my friend. I still think that you sell yourself short on your ability to understand (and write) plot-driven stories. I try to make each segment somewhat self-contained. Applicable to the whole, yet solidly understandable (or at least compelling) if read as a stand alone piece.

7th Sun’s Dawn, 1E 482
Glenumbria Palace, High Rock
Evening


The door behind Aran was thrown open and a bearded Nord marched into the room. His ruddy face was stained crimson with rage. He passed through Aran as one would pass through a column of smoke. A giant claymore swung to and fro across his back as he walked, and his heavy footfalls caused the wine to spill from the silver goblets on the table. He was trailed by a tall, slender, graceful figure hidden behind the folds of a dark hood and cloak.

The Nord reached the table and slammed his gnarled fist knuckle-first against its surface. All at the table flinched, their voices trailed to silence. The Nord’s eyes bore into those of Aiden Direnni and spittle flew from his beard when he spoke.

“While you conduct this little council the campfires of the enemy light the moors, and the finest warriors in all of Tamriel bleed from the eyeballs!”

Aran looked to his guide, his eyebrows lifted.

“Hoag Merkiller,” said his guide in an impatient whisper, “new crowned Chieftan of Skyrim.”

The cloaked figure reached the table. Graceful golden hands removed the hood. Aran needed no one to tell him that he looked upon the face of Raven Direnni.

“Plague has hit the Skyrim camp,” she said, “less than ten men are afflicted, my art cannot help them. They have been isolated, but I fear we may have been too late to halt the spread.”

Hoag snatched a goblet from the table and quaffed the wine in a single tilt. “Stay your tongue, woman. I need no translator.”

“Watch yourself, Nord,” said Ryan Direnni, rising from his chair, “you speak to the Lady of Clan Direnni.”

“And you speak to the Lord of Skyrim, elf.” Hoag’s hand sought the hilt of his claymore.

“Peace,” said Aiden, his voice so quiet that an effort was necessary to hear it. “Ryan, please sit down. I am truly sorry for those afflicted, Hoag.”

“That’s ‘Your Majesty’, elf, and spare me your sympathy. I would wish a pox on your whole damned clan, but disease doesn’t touch your kind as it does mine.”

“It has touched me,” said Rislav the Righteous. He was seated across the table from Hoag. “My own father was taken by the plague, so no one here understands your grief more than I. I know that your father was slain by the army that awaits us on the moors, so I understand the need to avenge yourself upon them. But inciting a quarrel with your allies does nothing to solve either matter. Clan Direnni’s presence here is the reason we have a chance to rid ourselves of the Alessian Reform, you would do well to remember that.”

Hoag spat wine on the table. “You may be friendly with these treacherous elves, Colovian, but do not presume to lecture me.”

“Enough!” Aiden Direnni’s voice cowed all in the room, his green eyes sought out Hoag’s. “Merkiller, they call you? Make one more remark against my clan and I will force you to earn that name. If you would be a part of this council then sit down, and keep a civil tongue in your mouth.”

A wave of pride surged through Aran, warming him more than the hearth-fire could. He squeezed the hand of his guide as a smile spread across his lips.

“Sino na gravia buro,” muttered the King of Nenalata.

Every head at the table turned in his direction. Colovian, High Rock, and Skyrim faces looked to each other in confusion. Rislav suppressed a smile. Ryan Direnni smacked the table with an open hand and laughed out loud.

“Sepredia, pelinal,” said Aiden, “sou bala racuvar. Balagua sila, ni shanta hilyat.”

“If I may,” said Raven Direnni. She placed a soothing hand on Hoag’s forearm. The Nord seemed to deflate. He slumped into a chair and reached for another goblet.

Aran looked to his guide. “What did they say?” he whispered.

“Nenalata’s King insulted Hoag Merkiller,” she whispered back. “Aiden Direnni reminded the King that it is not his place to issue insults.”

“Why is it that Clan Direnni knows the Ayleid tongue?” asked Aran.

“Better you should ask why is it that you do not,” she said.

“I suggest we move the forces of Clan Direnni into camp next to the Skyrim forces,” Raven continued, looking at Hoag. “As you say, Your Majesty, disease doesn’t touch our kind as it does yours. Perhaps our presence between the armies will keep the plague from spreading to the forces of Colovia and High Rock. At the very least, it should buy us the time necessary to finalize plans for the battle.”

Hoag slowly nodded and slammed the goblet on the table. Some around the table began to shrink from the sound. Hoag opened his off-hand in apology. Raven sat down next to him.

“What news do we have of this Alessian force?” asked Ryan Direnni.

“They arrived a fortnight past,” said Rislav, “in numbers that match our own. Their ships were loaded with heavy siege engines, but they’ve had trouble bringing them over the moors. The only high ground is a rise too far for the archers to be effective. If we venture out we will meet them on equally treacherous footing.”

“Equal footing is all that I ask for,” Hoag said.

“If we give them the time we could be looking at a siege that lasts for months,” said Ryan, “with disease spreading amongst our own, my vote is to meet them on the moors.”

“Seconded, with reservations,” said Rislav, looking at his friend, Ryan. “It doesn’t appear that we have much choice.”

“I would know the mind of the King of Nenalata,” said Aiden.

The Ayleid stiffened before regaining his regal bearing. “Abagaianye nagaseli.”

Aran’s guide leaned in closer, “he votes for the moors.”

“The moors,” Hoag Merkiller said, rising.

“The moors,” said Ryan Direnni as he placed a firm hand on his brother’s arm.

“Aye, the moors,” Rislav the Righteous nodded.

“The moors,” said Raven Direnni, “And I believe that the honor of leading the van should go to the Skyrim host.”

Aiden Direnni looked into each pair of eyes seated at the golden table. Near the door, Aran found himself holding his breath even though he knew the outcome.

“So be it,” Aiden Direnni said, “we shall meet them on the moors.”





8th Sun’s Dawn, 1E 482
Glenumbria Moors, High Rock
Dusk


“So much death,” said the spirit who wore his sister’s form.

Aran knelt at her feet. Tears ran down his cheeks. From the rise the moors spread below them. A blanket of gray smoke still hung in the air and separated the red sky of eventide from the deeper red of the war scarred battlefield. Tens of thousands of bodies littered the putrid glade. Men and mer lay with their limbs intertwined. Now they were known only by the bloody, torn, and soiled insignia’s that they wore. Their life’s blood stained the bog red and carried out into the darkening surf of the Eltheric Ocean.

Aran felt the beating of hooves churn the ground behind him. Three horses gained the top of the rise and passed through them before stopping at the overlook. The riders dismounted, Aiden and Ryan Direnni removed their helmets. Raven Direnni pulled the hood off of her head.

“A glorious victory,” said Ryan, “this battle will be remembered throughout all the ages of Tamriel.” He slapped his brother’s shoulder. “We are immortal now, brother. You should be proud.”

Aiden’s face was a mirror of Aran’s, separated by a few feet and thirty centuries of distance. “Proud? Do you feel pride when you look upon that field? Do you see only glory? This battle was won by Raven’s magic, not our swords. All we managed to do was hack each other to death. Do you know what I see when I look upon that field, brother? I see the flower of Clan Direnni withered and spent. Yes, in the battle of Glenumbria Moors we have been victorious, but it has cost us the future. I fear Clan Direnni will never rise again.”

“Nothing is written,” said Raven. “It will take time, I grant you. But if the future of Clan Direnni can learn from our mistakes, perhaps we can rise again.”

“That is no consolation,” said Aiden. “What of our allies, what casualties did they suffer?”

“The Skyrim host was decimated,” said Ryan, “Hoag Merkiller among them. He will not be missed.”

“Do not judge him, brother,” said Aiden, “he fought with honor. Hoag left no heir, the Nords will convene a King’s Moot. Their choice may not look favorably on Clan Direnni. What of Colovia and High Rock?”

“The Colovian losses were not as bad as our own. Rislav is already marching his troops back to Skingrad. No one knows what happened to the Ayleid and his slaves. Slain, taken, or retreated, I believe they quit the field. I did not receive a report from the forces of High Rock.”

“That does not surprise me. I imagine our hold over High Rock is at an end.” He turned away from the battlefield. “Nothing but death awaits us back at the palace. We sail tonight for Balfiera. I am sorry, Raven, I fear that Daggerfall is lost to you.”

A single tear filled Raven Direnni’s eye. She fought to keep it from falling. "I know."

Aran moved forward to comfort her, but he was checked by his guide’s icy grip.

“You have seen all you need,” it was not a question.

Aran nodded. He would learn from the mistakes of his ancestors. “I have.”





9th Sun’s Dawn 2E 854
Glenumbria, High Rock
Dawn


The first sensation she felt was warmth. It burned her skin as it filled her body and made every muscle ache. Her mouth felt like brittle parchment. She felt the pressure of the light on her eyelids, holding them shut despite her best efforts to open them. She tried to cry out, but only a soft moan escaped her cracked lips.

“Lattia?” She heard Aran’s voice as if he were speaking to her from above the surface of water. She drifted, and then her world was darkness again.

The second time she felt the light on her eyelids she was stronger. With an effort she was able to lift her eyelids open, but keeping them open was like trying to hold sand with a fork. She felt the darkness pulling her back and, though she fought hard, it was not long in reclaiming her.

The third time she heard birds whistling, and that kept her mind from drifting. Her eyes stayed open but it took time for them to focus. She lay in a bed with white silk sheets. Aran held a small rolled parchment and sat in a chair near the window which let in the golden sunlight. Through the window she could see past the rooftops to the Eltheric Ocean, and storm clouds that loomed on the horizon. Aran saw her open eyes and rushed to her side.

“Can you hear me?” He asked.

Her voice didn’t work. She nodded once, and the effort sent pain in sharp lances through her neck, shoulders, and back. She winced.

“You warned me,” Aran said, “and you were right. I did not take into account the toll it would take on you. I apologize for that. But I did find the answers I sought.”

She did not trust herself to nod again. He placed the rolled parchment upon her breast.

“I have held this for you for months,” he said. “It is from the Isle of Artaeum. You have been invited to join the Psijic Order. I have decided to send you to them. You will take the ship and sail as soon as you are able.” He leaned in close, his breath smelled of mint.

“Varla had the right of it,” he whispered, “armies are not important. Magic won the battle of Glenumbria Moors, and magic will win our battles now. You must get up soon. The men are restless after what they witnessed on the moors. The sooner you sail the better. The Captain says that a storm is coming. If you sail today you should reach Stros M’Kai before it hits.”

Posted by: Olen May 28 2010, 10:14 AM

You showed both the fore planing and the aftermath of the battle well, and it appears Aran has learnt something for the coming battle which already promises to be exciting. I liked it that in both battles you have mentioned the win has been via a trick rather than one side having better luck and better butchering ability, it fits fairly well with history.

And then the cost of the vision to Lattia which was warned of is shown which brings home the cost of magic which is important (and under mentioned in game).

I love the setting you've developed and love the complexity of the plot. Great stuff.

Another question: how much of this do you already have written (not that I won't just wait for it here but I was wondering)?

Posted by: haute ecole rider May 28 2010, 03:58 PM

I have loved seeing Hoag Merkiller yet again, in all his oversized glory!

And I have said it before, I'll say it again: Don't dis the Elf!

The emotions during the Council feel very real; the aftermath of the battle in the middle just as devastating. It reminds me of one of the Scottish battles (I can't remember which, maybe the Battle of Glenumbria Moor?), where an entire clan was decimated, and the course of history for Scotland and England changed forever.

And Lattia returning to herself under a huge burden of exhaustion and pain is likewise devastating, albeit on a more personal level.

This chapter is even more enjoyable the second time through!

Posted by: SubRosa May 28 2010, 04:44 PM

A solid conclusion to what you set up last post. The council was very well portrayed, showing the very common suspicion and open antagonism that exists between allies of necessity rather than preference. Many times IRL history such alliances fell apart due to the in-fighting between its members.

I also noticed that you conspicuously avoided showing us the battle itself. Obviously this is to keep Aran's secret magic weapon, well... a secret. That is not a complaint, rather I think it is a good idea to reserve the specific knowledge of that for when it is actually put into use.

It does make me wonder what sort of magic it might be that would win a battle though. When you look at the magic presented in the games none of it seems truly powerful enough to have a battle-winning power. You have area effect destruction spells, but those tend to do little actual damage and cost a lot of magicka. Of course the other side would have the same weapons in its arsenal as well too. One would need a huge amount of highly skilled spellcasters for that to really pay off. Sort of like having an entire army of Navy Seals today.

I would imagine that something more like training every soldier in an army to use a few novice level spells, like a healing spell and a shield spell, would actually be worth more in the long run. Especially if you combine it with the practice of rotating soldiers to and from the front of the battle line. So they fight for maybe five or ten minutes, then go to the back of the file and recast their heal minor wounds over and over until it is their turn to step up to the front of the line again. Then they cast their 5% shield and go at it. That however would require a very professional, permanent army, that only a society with a lot of money could afford to maintain.

Another thought is to have your magicians stand at the back of your army, and cast convalescence spells on the soldiers who come back wounded. Then they can go back into the battle. That would give an army an incredible amount of staying power (staying power was the secret of the Roman's success in battle, they rarely used brilliant tactics). Again, it would require a very professional army to pull it off.

So my thoughts are that whatever magic won the battle of Glenumbria Moors was something not regularly available to our characters in the games. Like the Thu'um power. Maybe something created in a lengthy ritual performed by expert magicians (like the Psijics...), or from some lost ancient Daedric/Aedra artifact (remembers Lattia making a pact with Clavicus Vile...). I cannot wait to see what you pull out of your helmet!

Posted by: Olen May 28 2010, 05:02 PM

I'm confused by this... The vision was of Glenumbria Moor which was in High Rock not Scotland (though it might not always appear so we are not totally fictional). But I agree it put me in mind of reconstructions I've seen of battles, most firmly (possibly the one you meant) being Flodden Field which had a similar end.

Posted by: mALX May 29 2010, 04:55 AM

I love how detailed you made her return from the spell that carried them back in time - that was so much more realistic than if she had not experienced jet-lag type symptoms - AWESOME WRITE!!!

Posted by: Destri Melarg May 31 2010, 10:22 AM

Olen – Like you I believe that if history teaches us anything it is that the larger/better equipped/more disciplined army doesn’t always win the battle.

To answer your question; right now I am just finishing the month of First Seed, which places me about a month and a half ahead of where you are in the story.

haute – Revisiting Hoag is still kind of bittersweet for me because I know that he has to die at the Battle of Glenumbria Moors, which I hate. I would love to do something with him and Rislav. According to Rislav the Righteous both were in attendance at the coronation of the Emperor Goerius on the 23rd of Sun’s Dawn, 1E 461. Rislav was 13, the fifth and forgotten child of the King of Skingrad, Mhorus. Hoag was about the same age following his father Kjoric the White, King of Skyrim. Also in attendance that day were Indoril Nerevar (presumably with his wife, Almalexia) and Dumac Dwarfking representing Resdayn. And a young mer in the service of the royal court of High Rock named Ryan Direnni. To me the idea of all those different personalities mingling with each other against the backdrop of White Gold Tower is just ripe with possibility!!

SubRosa – I think that anytime you take a group of people who are all used to calling the shots within their own sphere of influence and put them into a room together they are going to butt heads. It almost makes you wonder how anything ever gets done in politics (until, of course, you realize that nothing ever gets done).

I confess that my reason for keeping the action of the battle offstage had nothing whatsoever to do with some secret weapon of Aran’s. It had more to do with the fact that I had just shown a full scale engagement in the month of Morning Star and I didn’t want to repeat myself. Showing the actual battle of Glenumbria Moors contributes nothing to move the story forward. It is the aftermath of the battle that is important because it puts both Aran and Lattia on paths that they would not have otherwise taken.

If I am not mistaken, you description of rotating soldiers exactly mirrors the historic workings of the Spartan phalanx (without the healing spells, of course). I have no idea what kind of magic would be employed to win a battle. I imagine it would be something along the lines of what the Psijic Order did during the War of the Isle:

As for what I’m going to pull out of my helmet, well . . . that would be telling! I will only say that this story is not going to go the way that you think.

mALX – I am glad that you, haute, and Olen all commented on the price of magic. It is something that I don’t think is adequately explored either in the games or in the lore. A spell along the lines of the one cast by Lattia would require an immense amount of magicka to perform. I see it as a far more powerful variation of the Mark/Recall spells from Morrowind. The difference here though is that, since the caster is seeking to travel through time, he/she must give themselves over to beings not bound by space and time. Beings like the followers of Magnus who are trapped in Aetherius, or the denizens of Oblivion who are allowed free rein on this plane because there are no Dragonfires to keep them at bay.

At least that’s how I see it.





9th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Abandoned Cave, Somewhere in the Valus Mountains
Morning


For a month they were trapped in the cave. They huddled together at first to preserve what heat their cold blood could provide. Their only contact with the outside world came in the form of gusts of icy wind that blasted through the cave entrance as the mountain was buffeted by a series of blizzards. After the first week the drifts covered the entrance. Darkness claimed their hold on each other, for though they had enough air they did not want to waste it to fuel a torch. They grew weak from the endless days without feeding. Tongues froze inside their mouths, which stopped conversation. The only sound was their shivering and the muffled shrill howl of the wind.

While his syffim drifted into hibernation, the Chevalier Renald kept the watch even in darkness. He remained those long weeks alone with his thoughts, listening until he could identify each of them by the sound of their breathing. Eesham-Sha’s breath was quick, shallow, clamoring for more than his share of the air that remained in the cave. For every one breath of the others, Eesham claimed two. For Chirasch-Xun breathing was a duty that he performed as dispassionately as any other. Each exhale sent a low rumble through the cave that fought with the sound of the outside wind for dominance. Xarsien-Ves did not breathe at regular intervals. When he did the sound often escaped Renald. When he could be heard the breath was cautious, deliberate. Have I doomed them to a fool’s errand? Renald thought in the darkness, I will not let them die here. They will not suffer like Akal. When we leave this mountain my syffim will still be four.

On the thirty-second day a tenuous shaft of light entered the cave. Renald nearly wept at the sight. The sun melted a small hole in the drift that plugged the entrance. Weak as they were it took a full day to cut the hole large enough to breathe the cold, thin air. There was no need to persuade them to leave the cave. Each had seen his fill of snow. They followed Renald down the mountain.





11th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Shadowgate Pass, West of Kragenmoor
Dusk


“Goblins,” Eesham whispered, his forked tongue tasting the air.

Renald’s tongue caught the scent, it came from over the tree-lined ridge in the distance. With the setting sun in their eyes conditions were not ideal for a hunt. The relative warmth of the lowlands had returned a semblance of their former strength, and feeding was a distant memory for all of them. Goblins were mana from Nirn.

“We shall take them,” said Renald, unsheathing his katana.

Eesham grinned and twin katanas leaped from the crossed scabbards on his back. Chirasch reached for his dai-katana. Xarsien stood armed with katana and shield. Without a word being spoken they spread into battle formation and slithered on their bellies up the ridge.

The goblins were three in number, barely visible in the shade of the trees behind them. They led four tethered sheep slowly north through the pass. Xarsien’s head bent to the side, his questioning eyes found Renald.

They must have raided a farm, thought Renald, but since when do goblins favor lamb? He shook his head to Xarsien. Using hand signals, he ordered his syffim to follow them. Chirasch and Xarsien slid down the ridge silently and crossed the path behind the goblins. On the opposite side they took to the trees. Renald led Eesham up into the trees on their side of the path. They hemmed in the goblins and followed them from the boughs above.

The path began to climb back into the mountain. The fading light made the goblins harder to see. Daylight would soon be spent, thought Renald, if they were going to feed, it would be better while there was still light to see.

The lead goblin stopped and tested the air with his nose. Renald tensed, but the wind was still right. There was no way that his syffim was compromised. The lead goblin turned and walked up a dirt rise toward a low overhang of rock directly beneath Renald’s perch. His companions stayed with the sheep on the path below. Now is the time, Renald thought. He used his hands to give his orders, and his syffim moved as one.

Eesham used his tail to push off into space. From across the path Chirasch and Xarsien followed. For a brief instant all three Tsaesci hung suspended in the air over the hapless goblins. Each found his target simultaneously, knocking all three goblins to the ground. Their screams pierced the still air. The startled sheep felt the hold on the tether give way, and bolted back down the path. Each of his syffim used their arms and tails to engulf and pin a goblin. Their necks bent as one, and sharp fangs broke the skin on the goblins’ throats. The green bodies twitched in the folds of the Tseasci tails as their lifeblood was drained from them. The shrill screams faded with the last dregs of sunlight as the pass was plunged into darkness.

Renald left his perch and slithered down the trunk of the tree. He could hear the almost gentle sucking as his syffim fed. Xarsien lifted his head from the still twitching goblin. His eyes showed red in the light of the new moon. Blood stained his fangs and dripped from the side of his mouth.

“My lord,” he said, “you must feed.”

“I shall, but not yet. Gather your strength.” Renald pulled a branch from the tree. He pulled a piece of cloth from the goblin under Eesham and fashioned a makeshift torch. Eesham produced a flint from a pouch worn around his neck and returned to his feed. Renald lit the torch and amber light fell on what lay below the overhang.

A rusted mine car lay on its side, next to a weathered wooden door which led into the side of the mountain. The trees and the overhang made the door nearly impossible to see from the trail. Goblin tracks marked the soil leading both to and from the door.

Xarsien appeared at his side, and then Chirasch. Eesham finished draining the goblin and uncoiled his tail from the limp corpse.

“This makes a fine lair,” said Xarsien.

“Look to those tracks,” said Chirasch, “more goblins dwell inside, and you have not yet fed, my lord.”

“I could stand another goblin myself,” said Eesham.

“As could we all,” said Xarsien, “there should be campfires inside. To be warm, fed, and away from the elements . . .”

The decision wasn’t difficult, “Fashion torches,” said Renald.





They coiled around a fire built near the entrance to the mine. More than a dozen goblin corpses lay strewn haphazardly around them. Renald savored the warmth flooding through him, as his blood was quickened by the feeding. For the first time in months, since before they left for Black Marsh, he felt his former strength returned. Around him his syffim laughed quietly and joked with each other. Renald’s thoughts strayed to Akal, and his irrepressible optimism. These last months would have been easier had he survived, he thought.

“My lord?” Xarsien stoked the fire with a rusted iron shortsword.

“Speak,” said Renald.

Xarsien hesitated. “This woman you saw at the ravine. . .”

Renald nodded. “I know it is a difficult thing to understand, but I trust her word.”

“As I trust yours, my lord,” said Xarsien. “What I mean to say is, what happens when we reach the Imperial City?”

The other members of his syffim looked to him for an answer.

“We seek out the new Emperor. We honor our oaths.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Xarsien, “but which Emperor do we seek. The one who holds the throne, or the one with the blood of the dragon?”

There was a faint hint of a new scent in the air. Renald’s tongue captured it, and his insides turned to liquid. A wave of fear gripped him like nothing he had felt since his youth in Akavir. Instantly his tail propelled him erect, his katana held in trembling hand. His syffim reacted to him, rising with their weapons drawn. The scent hit their tongues, fear and confusion shaped the contours of their faces.

“It cannot be,” Xarsien whispered.

“It is,” said Renald, “the scent comes from deep within the mine.”

“How is that possible?” Xarsien held his shield close to his chest, as if to ward off the scent.

Eesham’s voice was a panicked hiss, “I do not recognize the scent, yet it causes me fear. Why is that?”

“You were little more than a hatchling when we left home,” said Chirasch, “you are too young to remember.”

Xarsien shook his head. “We should leave this place and never return.”

“No,” said Renald, “it is an omen, one which we must face. I will not order this of you. Each of you must search within yourself for the will to continue.”

“You are Captain, my lord,” said Chirasch, “my life is yours.”

Eesham studied the dark tunnel leading into the pit of the mine. “I follow you, my lord, to the death and beyond, if needs be.”

Xarsien lowered his head. “I followed you to this land because it was my duty. I follow you now because it is my desire. Lead on, my lord.”

Renald felt a rush of pride in his chest that armed him against his fear. He lit a torch from the fire, his syffim followed suit. Single file, Renald led them deeper into the mine.

The tunnel led into the bowels of the mountain. The air grew warm and close. The torches began to dim, barely lighting the stone walls of the shaft. Renald felt the weight of his decision with every undulation of his tail. Its presence here must be more than coincidence, he thought. Have I made the right choice, or am I leading us only to our deaths?

One by one they lost the torches. Burned out clubs would be of no use so they dropped them on the warm stone. Renald used his off-hand to feel his way through the darkness. The others used their off-hands to hold the tail of the one in front of them. They made their way down the empty mine shaft in the dark.

A distant light filled Renald with equal parts fear and dread. By the time they reached its source the oppressive heat in the tunnel had sapped most of their new won strength. A dimly lit cavern opened in front of them. The ceiling and walls were lost in the darkness. The only clue to the size of the chamber was the echoed scrapes of their tails.

Piles of bones littered the ground, high enough to be lost in the darkness of the chambers upper region, and spread out in every direction that they could see. Xarsien lifted one and examined it, “sheep,” he said. He lifted another, “bear,” and a third, “goblin.”

The scent was overpowering. Renald’s hand signal spread them into battle formation. “We know you are here,” he said, “show yourself!”

In answer a plume of fire forty feet high lit the cavern in the distance. It was followed by the sound of mighty wings. A gust of hot wind knocked them all slightly off balance. His syffim recovered quickly, their grip on their weapons tightened. Deep hot breaths came from something large just outside the range of their vision.

A voice from the darkness spread more hot air over them. “What is it that you seek here, Tsaesci?”

Renald moved forward. “I would speak with you, wise one.”

“You have slain my goblins,” said the voice, “now you wish to speak with me. Say your peace, then I will destroy you.”

“You are familiar with our race,” said Renald, “you know that we do not fear your kind.”

The cavern shook with each step forward the creature made, the heavy claws on its feet scraped against the ground. Its head poked into view, larger than Renald, red-scaled, spiked, and glistening. The mouth opened revealing a row of sharp teeth longer than a man’s arm. It sniffed Renald from the top of his head to the tip of his tail. His syffim stood poised, their weapons ready should their Captain give the order. It had been centuries since any of them had seen one, but even in the dim light of the cavern there was no mistaking a dragon.

“Your words betray you, snake,” said the Dragon, “I can smell your fear. I know all too well of your race, what words could you have for me that I would trust?”

The heat from the Dragon’s breath hinted at the inferno to come should Renald’s answer prove false. Renald laid his katana at the Dragon’s feet.

“I made a vow to protect the blood of dragons,” said Renald, “not to spill it.”

His syffim followed his lead and placed their weapons on the ground. The Dragon’s head cocked to the side, its bifurcated tail played around the edge of Renald’s katana.

“You four swore oaths to the Dragon Emperor?”

“We did many years ago,” said Renald, “him and his heirs.”

“That line is dead,” said the Dragon, “your oaths are useless now.”

“It was dead, it has been reborn. We travel to the Imperial City to honor our oaths. It occurs to me that one such as you would be better served as a loyal subject of the new Empire than scratching out an existence enslaving goblins.”

Flames played about the Dragon’s nose. “I will not live as an object of curiosity.”

“Nor should you,” said Renald, “I cannot speak for the new Emperor. If I bring back those who can, will you speak with them?”

There was a moment when Renald thought that his words had fallen on deaf ears. We are too close, he thought, in the first blast of the Dragon’s breath we will all be returned to the Dreamsleeve. I have doomed us all.

“I shall,” the Dragon said, regarding Renald with a look that might have been respect, “It appears we have an accord.”

“Good.” The sigh that escaped Renald then was as filled with relief as it was lacking in dignity. “I am the Chevalier Renald, and this is my syffim. How are you called?”

The Dragon raised itself to its full height. Its voice echoed through the cavern. “I have had many names, but you may call me Nafaalilargus.”

Posted by: Remko May 31 2010, 11:33 AM

I marvel at your skill in making a story and of getting into your char's head. Renald's awesome. Possible my favourite character in Interregnum.

Posted by: haute ecole rider May 31 2010, 02:39 PM

The fact that you introduce us to such a powerful, larger-than-life character like Hoag Mer-Killer on the eve of his death makes the following battle all the more tragic. That is real storytelling!

I have enjoyed reading the Chevalier Renald and his syffim yet again.

You have the ability to take some very strange and alien characters and making them into something I can empathize with. These snake-beings, the Tsaesci, are not cardboard demons to be hated, they are living, breathing creatures who feel pain and suffering, and have a sense of honor that rivals that of the best samurai, soldiers, cops, etc.

I am still enjoying this second read through.

One nit:

I believe boughs would be the better word, as it refers to tree branches, not the weapons or the gestures of courtesy and respect usually seen at court.

Posted by: mALX May 31 2010, 04:13 PM

I too love the Chevalier Renald, I see him - can you believe the first time I read this I had to look up Tsaesci? It's true! He is one of the huge characters you have developed that brings Interregnum to life in the mind of the reader.

Making your own torches was a touch that adds realism - and their suffering the elements

- and immediately upon reading this the first time I dug in Lore to find out everything I could about Nafaalilargus!

The pieces are all starting to fall into place now, but when you will see this:

I Love this story!!!!!!!

Posted by: SubRosa May 31 2010, 05:20 PM

To quote Voltaire: "God is on the side not of the heavy battalions, but of the best shots."

As h.e.r. said, you do an excellent job of portraying the Tsaesci as being people, in spite of how alien they are to we, your readers.

I loved your description of the Tsaesci in the cave, and how differences in their breath emphasized the differences in their character.

“Yes, my lord,” said Xarsien, “but which Emperor do we seek. The one who holds the throne, or the one with the blood of the dragon?”
Now there is the question a lot of people will be asking.

An actual dragon! W00T! You are right I was not expecting that! Very cool to see one still around.

Posted by: Olen Jun 2 2010, 04:22 PM

Well that was unexpected... A dragon

I can only agree with SubRosa, very cool. Any story which involves dragons is automatically excellent, and this one already was so its just got even better.

Good characterisation of the Tsaesci, even after so short a part I have a good feeling for their characters and want to read more about them. You have a way of doing that...

One nit:
We shall take them,” said Renald, unsheathing his katana.

Eesham grinned and twin katanas leaped from the crossed scabbards on his back. Chirasch reached for his dai-katana. Xarsien stood armed with katana and shield. -- fairly heavy use of the word 'katana' there but its just a minor detail, the overall part was excellent.

Posted by: Acadian Jun 2 2010, 04:23 PM

There are two super magic indelible moments in your story overall for me that will stay with me. Moments I will forever remember with fondness or awe.

1. The little sweet roll in the negotiation tent that developed its own personna from quite a few chapters back.

2. And this:

This part still makes the elf on my shoulder almost wet her greaves. It was so wonderful to read it again!

Posted by: Destri Melarg Jun 4 2010, 02:06 AM

Remko – That makes two of us, Renald is my favorite character as well.

haute – It sounds as if someone may have watched When the Last Sword is Drawn one too many times. I went out of my way to portray the Tsaesci with a code and a value system that mirrors the samurai (or at least my idealized version of the samurai).

Thank you for the correction of boughs, it has been addressed.

And you asked for it, so here is your chapter.

mALX – Two spoiler warnings this time?! I could get accustomed to this! Nafaalilargus has a key role to play in the months to come. So don’t worry, you will be seeing more of him.

SubRosa – I was a little worried about that paragraph in the cave. I didn’t want to lay it on too thick, but I did want to give you a sense of who each member of the syffim is without using dialogue to do it. I’m glad that it worked for you.

The good thing about working in the second era is that there is still at least one dragon alive in Tamriel. I thought it would be almost sacrilegious to do this story without including him.

Olen – I see where you’re coming from with the nit involving ‘katana’. At the moment I can’t think of anything better. ‘Sword’ just doesn’t seem right, somehow. I will continue to think it over.

Acadian – I consider it quite telling that the two most memorable moments for you involve the smallest piece of business in the story, and the largest (so far).

This time Buffy ‘almost’ wet her greaves. She is definitely improving!!

I originally wrote this chapter for Interregnum as posted late last year on the other forum. I removed it from that story because it was to serve as the introduction of yet another viewpoint character. My feeling at the time was that I already had too many viewpoint characters for one story. In this incarnation of Interregnum the viewpoint character in question has already been introduced, so I thought it only fair to reintegrate this chapter (heavily re-written) into the story. I hope you enjoy it.





14th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Royal Theatre, Sentinel, Hammerfell
Evening


Crown Prince A’Tor rose from his seat in the royal box and scanned the crowd below him with a discerning eye. Father will be pleased, he thought to himself, even after nearly a dozen performances the crowds still come in droves. All were dressed in their finest silk, Crown solids mingled easily with Forebear stripes. They shared anecdotes and compliments, jokes and complaints without subterfuge and without animosity. A’Tor smiled, who would have thought that something as simple as a play could unite the people so.

His eye was drawn by a hint of the distinctive blue tunic of the Knights of the Moon. The wearer stood to the side of the crowd. A’Tor could not see his face through the forest of people that stood between them, but he knew that the knight stood vigilant, his eyes watchful and wary. With this new peace they can turn those eyes toward protecting us from foreign threats, instead of guarding us from our own.

The crowd parted and the knight’s face came into view. A’Tor’s smile faded. Damn him! He turned to the small contingent of Crown nobles that shared the royal box with him and made his excuse. As he left the box and made his way down the stairs two more Knights of the Moon, wearing the same blue tunics, fell into a flanking step alongside him.





The tunic chafes, Casnar thought to himself, but it has always chafed. He pulled at the neck until it was less likely to strangle him and watched the crowd milling about the theater floor. He paid special attention to the eyes and the hands. Most of the patrons got a cursory glance. Anyone who seemed wrong got an intense stare that lingered until he or she was ruled out as a threat. Not that he was overly worried; the High King had yet to arrive. No assassin worth his poison would tip his hand before the target had even shown himself. A’Tor is in attendance, he reminded himself, I had best remain on guard for his sake.

“Why are you here?” said a familiar voice to his left.

Casnar turned. So intent had he been on watching the crowd that he had not even noticed the Crown Prince’s approach. Now A’Tor stood before him, flanked by a pair of his brother knights, and the look on their faces left no room for levity.

“I am doing my duty for the Crown, my prince,” said Casnar, his eyes seeking the floor.

“Your duty . . . ,” A’Tor stopped himself. His hands clenched and he exhaled slowly through the nose.

Casnar noticed the press of the crowd around them. He saw Crown solids and Forebear stripes, the smell of women’s perfume and men’s oiled leather hung in the air. All of them were too close. All of them wanted a glimpse or a chance to touch the Crown Prince.

“Follow me,” said A’Tor.

He moved past Casnar towards the foot of the stage. The two Knights of the Moon led the way, pushing through the crush of sycophants and well-wishers. Casnar followed behind the Crown Prince. He kept his hand near the hilt of his dagger in case he needed a weapon for use in close quarters.

They gained the stage and moved behind the curtain, away from prying eyes. Casnar followed them down a short hall to a small, dim anteroom in back of the theater. The Crown Prince waved away his bodyguard. The two knights removed themselves to a discreet distance in the hall, and even as they turned their backs Casnar knew that they remained poised and ready.

“Your duty to the Crown is to follow orders,” said A’Tor, “I told you to stay away.”

“I could not bear the thought of something happening to you or your father in my absence,” Casnar replied, “I tried to remain inconspicuous.”

“It didn’t work. Look around you, Casnar. For the first time in my memory Crowns and Forebears are allied. But this alliance is as fragile as gossamer wings. Your presence threatens to upset everything.”

Casnar shook his head, “but I am innocent.”

A’Tor placed a hand on Casnar’s shoulder. “I believe you, old friend. But mine is one small voice in a very large room. Father’s suspicions are easily inflamed. The fact that you were seen in a Forebear tavern conspiring with representatives of High Rock and Skyrim is enough to condemn you in the eyes of many on the council.”

“Alain and Valdemar represent naught but themselves.”

“So you have said. It does not matter, they are not here to give testimony on your behalf. There are those on the council who seek to draw closer to the throne by pointing out the treachery that surrounds it. They have poisoned your name to my father’s ears.”

“So I am accused without proof, condemned without trial? Is justice a casualty of our conflict with the Forebears?”

“Spare me your righteous indignation Casnar!” said the Crown Prince, removing his hand from Casnar’s shoulder. “There was a time not long ago when even a royal summons was not sufficient to produce you. You came and went of your own accord without so much as a ‘by your leave’. Our friendship conferred upon you a favor that none of your knight brothers enjoyed.”

“I regret my former actions, my prince. I had hoped to make amends by my attentiveness of late.”

“You chose to make amends by remaining conspicuously underfoot?” A’Tor began to laugh. “You have many gifts, my friend, but timing is not one of them. Can’t you see that your actions of late only serve to provide those false prophets on the council with ammunition?”

Casnar remained silent.

“I can persuade my father to stay his hand against you, but only for as long as your actions don’t give the council further reason to condemn you.”

There was a surge in the noise of the crowd on the other side of the curtain. A’Tor turned at the sound; his bodyguard roused themselves to stiff attention. A horn’s blare and the beat of a drum heralded the arrival of the High King of Hammerfell.

“You wish to make amends?” asked the Crown Prince.

“I do,” said Casnar.

“Then do this for me. Leave here, stay out of my father’s sight. After the performance the playwright is hosting a celebration at his home. It would be unseemly for the High King to appear at this celebration personally. Besides, there are few creatures in the Mundas that my father hates more than writers. Go to this playwright’s home. Express the admiration of the Crown. Use that charm you possess in the service of something other than yourself for once.”

Casnar bowed in acquiescence. “Yes, my prince.”

A’Tor adjusted the fit of his robe and swept from the room, accompanied by his bodyguard. A second surge in the crowd announced his arrival on the floor. Casnar stood alone in the dim light of the anteroom with the cream of Hammerfell society just beyond the closed curtain.





14th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Theatre District, Sentinel, Hammerfell
Evening


The playwright’s home stood on an outcrop overlooking ragged cliffs which dropped into the foaming surf of the Iliac Bay. Inside the furnishings ran to the modest and the austere. Casnar noticed that he was once again surrounded by members of both parties. They were held together in mutual celebration, and all basked in the glow emanating from their celebrated host.

The man himself scurried to greet Casnar the moment he set foot through the door. He was a tall man and still in fighting trim despite his advanced age. His short woolen hair was shot through with gray, as were his eyebrows and the thin beard that lent wisdom to his features. He wore a broad smile and his ceremonial bow to Casnar was as heartfelt as it was theatrical.

“Welcome, Sir Knight,” he said, “it is a pleasure to have a representative of the Crown in my home.”

Casnar returned the bow. “Many thanks. I come at the High King’s request. He regrets that he can’t be here to express his admiration in person.”

“His regrets are unnecessary. Government takes precedence over entertainment, especially in times such as these. Allow me to introduce you to the rest of my family.” He began to look about the room until his eyes rested on a tall man of an age with Casnar. “Ah, my newest son,” he said. He raised his voice to be heard across the room, “Hakan.”

The man turned, Casnar saw something familiar in his face. He also saw a flash of what looked like irritation cloud his features before he mastered himself and walked over.

“This is my daughter’s husband,” said the playwright, “Hakan, this is Sir . . . forgive me, Sir Knight.”

“Casnar.”

“This is Sir Casnar of the Knights of the Moon.”

“Sir Knight,” said Hakan.

“Hakan,” said Casnar, “how long since the wedding?”

“Not quite a year now,” the playwright answered for him. “Hakan, I want your wife and my son to meet Sir Casnar, would you keep him entertained while I find them?”

Casnar saw something sharper than irritation in Hakan’s eyes.

“Of course . . . father,” said Hakan.

The playwright nodded, turned, and blended into his guests. Casnar studied the face of the man before him.

“I know you,” he said.

Hakan shook his head, “I can’t imagine from where.”

Casnar’s eyes grew cold. “Yes you can. I am tasked with keeping track of the Forebear militias. I take a special interest in the more vocal members. I imagine you were not in favor of the truce; else you would be up in the hills with Baron Volag like your fellows. Or is it the playwright’s daughter that keeps you here?”

Hakan's face remained impassive. His eyes were filled with both fear, and hate.

“No,” said Casnar, “you did not bat an eye both times her father mentioned her. That is unusual for a couple married less than a year. There is strife in the marriage. She knows where your allegiance lies, and she keeps this knowledge from her father.”

Hakan’s silence was more eloquent than words.

“As someone opposed to the truce,” Casnar continued, “it should gall you now to benefit from it. Honor keeps me from betraying your secret, and it prevents my running you through right here and now. But I will remain watchful, woe betide you should any harm befall this family.”

The guests parted and the playwright re-emerged with two young people in tow. The girl was beautiful, and of an age with Casnar and Hakan.

“Sir Casnar," said the playwright, "may I present my daughter, Iszara.”

She stepped forward and lowered herself into a courtly bow that would have been the envy of half the nobles in Hammerfell.

“We are honored by your presence here, Sir Knight,” she said.

“It is I who am honored, milady.”

“My family is of little account, Sir Knight,” said Iszara, “I am afraid that honorific doesn’t suit me.”

“You father has done more for Hammerfell with his quill than a score of nobles with their money and petty squabbles,” said Casnar. “To me, that lifts your family into the ranks of nobility. And I have met few women in the entire kingdom more deserving of the honorific than you.”

The playwright laughed. “Be careful, Hakan, you may find yourself absent a wife. Sir Casnar, this is my son. He is a great admirer of anything involving swords and the men who use them.”

Casnar reluctantly looked past Iszara to the boy fidgeting behind her. He was a tall, well-built lad with his father’s face and his sister’s bearing. Casnar was immediately reminded of himself as a youth. The boy stepped forward, extending his arm in greeting. His eyes danced with eagerness.

“My name is Cyrus,” the boy said.

Posted by: haute ecole rider Jun 4 2010, 02:43 AM

Yay Cyrus!

At the risk of sounding like a prissy Bosmer, oh, thank you! thank you!

I recognize this as the prelude to Redguard the game - I've read the storyline and watched a playthrough on YouTube. It would have been one of my favorite games of the time!

Again, I thank you for introducing us to Julian's childhood hero, and his sister.

Your presentation of Hammerfell politics on the eve of the uprising against Tiber Septim feels so real, so immediate, I was immersed in it. Casnar was well written, and the conversation between him and Crown Prince A'tor makes me wonder why one of my favorite ghosts was in such big trouble back home, and was that the reason he joined Talos Stormcrown's Blades?

Posted by: Olen Jun 4 2010, 10:12 AM

I really love this piece, it spans my favourite genres almost completly, there's swords, battles, a bit of magic and polictical intregue. What more could I want? The politics is well portrayed, you show a country on the verge of explosion from internal pressures and imminently going to burst in some direction... and with your skills that bursting should be quite spectacular.

Casnar is a strong character and it's good to see more of him but even with the few lines you had you've roughed out the shape of Hakan well, I already have somewhat of a feel of how he ticks.

And then Cyrus! I might just explod- *bang*

Posted by: mALX Jun 4 2010, 05:31 PM

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT !!! CYRUS and his SISTER? AAAAAARRRRGGGGHHH !!!!! How could you leave this chapter out of the original? The increased depth it gives Casnar - ARGH !!!!! I feel...cheated that I didn't get to read this for a second time just now, having held it in my memory from reading the original - ARGH !!!!!!!!!

I FORBID you to edit out ANY MORE chapters !!!!!!!!!!!!!! ARGH !!!!!


I LOVE this chapter !!!!!! Awesome Write, that goes without saying. Awesome chapter - and ARGH for removing it before !!!

Posted by: SubRosa Jun 4 2010, 06:58 PM

I am glad you put this in, because it really does tell us quite a bit about Casnar. I can already imagine where this is leading, and how it will end with him leaving Hammerfell to become a Blade. That was before meeting Hakan. Now that we have seen him and know who he is, it only adds more gunpowder to the explosive mix.

I love this line:
Use that charm you possess in the service of something other than yourself for once.
I hate to admit that it makes me think of Casnar's inevitable response:
"But can't I at least use it to get laid!"

The only nit I can think to add is the playwright's name. I do not believe we ever learned it, which seems odd.

Oh, and about the use of the word katana. You might try saying 'curved sword' or 'Akaviri blade' instead.

Posted by: Destri Melarg Jun 8 2010, 08:56 AM

Sorry everyone, no new chapter this time, but I did want to respond to the wonderful comments left after the last chapter.

haute – You can sound like a prissy Bosmer anytime you want to! I think I saw the same youtube walkthrough that you did (there is only one, right?); it’s where I got the description of Stros M’Kai and Nafaalilargus, in addition to a few other things that are yet to surface. As for your speculation of Casnar’s motives for leaving Sentinel, well, that would be jumping the gun, wouldn’t it?

Olen – This is the first time that I have written anything set in a fantasy setting, so your comments really help validate my efforts. Swords rarely make an appearance in most things I write. I have written a few battle sequences, but nothing on the scale that I am attempting here. Political intrigue is a continuously bountiful well of conflict and drama that I find myself dipping into often. Magic thus far has been hinted at in Interregnum; I assure you that it will take center stage soon.

mALX – “Murder your Darlings” was a phrase coined by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch (or was it Fitzgerald, or Nabokov?). The central theory is that, no matter how good a piece of writing is, and no matter how proud you are of a piece of writing, if it doesn’t serve the story it must be edited out.

In the last version of this story I intended this chapter to introduce Casnar, but without a feel for the character you as the reader would have felt no connection with him (and thus no connection to his world or circumstance). Remember, Alain and Valdemar weren’t introduced until First Seed in the last version of Interregnum, so Casnar would have jumped at you seemingly from nowhere. Since I decided in this version to introduce Alain and Valdemar earlier, and since I decided to make that introduction in a tavern in Sentinel so that you could get a feel for Casnar and the political situation that exists there, I felt confident that I could reinsert this chapter back into the story. I promise that I won’t edit out any future chapters without informing you via PM.

*Those are definitely not Destri's fingers crossed behind his back!*

SubRosa – “But can’t I at least use it to get laid!” sounds exactly like something Casnar would have said!

Once again you see the strings on the puppets that I am trying to manipulate into life. I hope that your speculation about Casnar’s future finds adequate answer in the next chapter. And your well-observed nit is, as always, correct. We never hear the playwright’s name because the lore doesn’t provide us with one. I didn’t want to assign an arbitrary name to him so I decided that his actual name would be something that just never comes up. I hope that it isn’t a distraction.

On the subject of the repetition of ‘katana’: ‘Akaviri blade' sounds okay, but ‘curved sword’ sounds to me like a writer trying not to use the word ‘katana.’

Posted by: mALX Jun 8 2010, 09:35 AM

Er...is this a hint? ROFL !!!!!

Posted by: Winter Wolf Jun 9 2010, 08:13 AM

*wolf jumps up and down in frustration*
Damn it, I missed my favourite part in the story, Arnand hiring his passage on the ship and getting stabbed for his troubles. My mind is spinning in relation to the KOW and what impact he will have in your epic story.

I have been reading for the last 2 hours and I am still not caught up. Everytime I read your writing I keep shaking my head in amazement and go back to re-read it again. Not to mention the fact I want to throw all my writing in the bin after comparing it to what you do.

More, more, oh king of prose.

Posted by: Acadian Jun 9 2010, 06:30 PM

Wonderfully rich, courtly writing, as is the hallmark of your style. You do much to develop the character of Casnar - this must be done through actions and dialogue with such men and you did a great job.

Oh my! I'm afraid I ascribe to a different philosophy: 'The story exists only to serve the characters.' I care not about the plot as long as I love the characters. Although you are a 'plot man', you do a great job of endearing your characters to us as well, my friend.

As always, your skill is amazing.

Sorry for a nit here:
I'm sure you mean 'Your' to be the first word of this sentence.

Posted by: Winter Wolf Jun 10 2010, 07:16 AM

Back again !!

Finally caught up at last. This is an absolutely insane story, the best of the best. I love the way you slowly brought Lattia back from her trance, taking us, the reader, through her 3 steps of awakening. That was some the best writing I've read yet. Wow. To hang her consciousness upon the bird's noise as the final stepping point was oh so good.

This is such a simple line, almost a throwaway, yet underpins everything that you wanted the chapter to be. And what impact it was. A Dragon !!!!!!!!!!!!


This one really made me smile. The only criticism I have ever felt with your writing is that I never seem to be able to hang my hat on one protagonist. Every chapter puts us into the shoes of another awesome character and it does make it hard to read. My feelings now is that I wouldn't want it any other way. Your writing is at its best when your are spinning a tornado around us and we never know what is about to come down. More, more I say !!!

Posted by: Destri Melarg Jul 14 2010, 12:46 AM

I think you misunderstand me. ‘Serving the story’ encompasses everything, plot and character. To me the two are inseparable. What fun is it to have a great plot with characters you care nothing about? Conversely, what fun is it to have a great character who sits around looking at his/her naval lint all day?


Thanks for catching back up. And your criticism is well-aimed. I have spent a lot of time agonizing over whether I am properly serving the needs of this story by presenting it through so many varied eyes. I have chosen to do so because Interregnum affected more than just those vying for the throne. That said, if I ever begin to lose you don’t hesitate to let me know.

Everyone - after a great deal of deliberation and an inordinate amount of fruitless re-writing I have decided to split the end of this chapter into two parts. Sorry for the length of the wait.





14th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Theater District, Sentinel, Hammerfell
Evening


Hakan was unrepentantly and irredeemably drunk. He had found a small cushion in an out of the way corner of the room, and from there he watched the party linger on while he fell further and further into his cups. All around him the revelers continued to sing the praises of his father by marriage. Men who but a month before had been staunch enemies of the Crown now applauded the High King like sculptors seeking patronage. It was as if the stripes on their clothing no longer mattered. In the center of it all his wife played the dutiful daughter and hostess. Hakan felt the bile forming in the back of his throat. What does it say of us that our steel can be tempered by wooden swords and stage make-up? What does it say of me that I share my bed with the daughter of the man who has doomed the righteous cause of the Forebears?

The thought was too painful to absorb on his backside, so he stood. There was a slight wobble, but in his mind his rising was altogether respectable considering how much wine he had put away. Most men would have passed out in a pool of their own drool and vomit by now, but Hakan had always prided himself on his head for drink.

He lurched toward a knot of people gathered around the man of the hour. Anger coiled snake-like around his heart and began to squeeze. Someone must stand for the cause, he thought, someone must confront the devil that tore justice from this country and call him by name.





Casnar had come to revise his opinion of the boy Cyrus. For the last hour the young man had regaled him with tales of working on the docks and his aspirations for future knighthood. Whereas upon first meeting him Casnar was reminded of himself as a youth, the time spent in his guileless company had caused Casnar to see before him a vision of the young Crown Prince A’Tor. He had the same strength of character, the same boundless, un-jaded, optimistic energy. His smile and laugh were infectious, and Casnar found that he was enjoying himself far more than was warranted for what was essentially a chore for the Crown.

“I have heard that it takes great skill to become a Knight of the Moon,” said Cyrus, his eyes locked on the sword on Casnar’s hip.

“You admire the sword?”

The boy actually blushed! Casnar could not help laughing. He saw the look of pain that flashed through Cyrus’ eyes.

“I was not mocking you, Cyrus,” he said, “I was laughing because you remind me so much of Prince A’Tor.”

“You know the Crown Prince?” The pain in the young man’s eyes was gone, replaced by wonder and a swell of pride that caused his chin to lift from his chest and returned the smile that lit the room more than any of the lamps.

“Yes I do. And yes, it does take skill to become a Knight. It also takes intelligence, courage, and a willingness to devote your life to the service of the Crown.”

“Could you teach me?” asked Cyrus.

Before Casnar could answer the sound of a raised voice drew his attention to the other side of the room. Hakan lurched toward Cyrus’ father, his movements made clumsy by an overabundance of wine. Casnar could almost feel the struggle that pulled at Cyrus before he brought it under control.

“G’ye!” Hakan yelled the insult so that everyone in the room could hear.

Casnar recognized the word. It meant fabricator in the old Yokudan dialect. He edged closer to the commotion, his hand found the hilt of his sword of its own accord.

“No lo igra!” deceiver. Hakan’s tone and carriage were dangerously close to treason.

A small knot of Forebears began to form behind Hakan, while an angry group of Crowns came to the side of the accused. This will not end well, Casnar thought. I am bound by the truce not to spill Forebear blood, but some insults cannot be stomached.

“Liar!”

Iszara was there, yet Casnar had not seen her among the crowd only an instant before. She stood at her husband’s side.

“Hakan, not this,” she said.

Hakan turned upon her. The sound of his slap carried throughout the room. Even the Forebears gasped. Iszara hit the floor hard. Casnar’s sword half cleared the scabbard before he caught himself. The truce, he reminded himself, must not be broken. It is all that is holding Hammerfell together. He slammed the sword back to his side and allowed himself to breathe. The red haze before his eyes subsided, returning clarity to the room. As he refocused on the commotion the breath caught in his throat for a second time. Inexplicably he looked to his side, as if he expected the boy to still be standing there. Apparently Cyrus did not share Casnar’s respect for the truce. He stood across the room between Hakan and his prone sister, fear and fury caused the naked blade in his hand to tremble.

No! Casnar thought, he is only a boy. The look on Iszara’s face mirrored his own. They both turned to the father to step in, but there was a hard stoicism in the older man’s eyes that Casnar knew would not move him to action. He locked eyes with Iszara, her plea went unspoken, but to Casnar it was louder than any voice in the room. Desire demanded that he come to her aid, but honor kept him rooted to the spot. She turned away from him then, and Casnar knew that whatever small moment of fellowship they had shared was irreparably broken.

The sound of Hakan’s blade being drawn was an explosion in Casnar’s mind. Hakan adopted the stance of one who faces an opponent whose measure has already been taken. He kept his blade pointed toward the floor, as if Cyrus was not worth the raising of it. He is well-trained, Casnar thought, but drink has made him arrogant and robbed him of balance. Against an experienced opponent he would be hard pressed for victory, but against this boy . . .

Looking at Cyrus caused Casnar to lose his train of thought. The tremors that marked his earlier stance with the blade were gone. Casnar now saw a calm self-assuredness that seemed to season the boy right before his eyes.

They began to circle one another, the sneering older Forebear whose grievance was as ancient as the Ra’Gada itself. And the resolute young Crown, innocent of any direct offence yet standing proxy for the trespasses of a line of High Kings that went back to the sailing from doomed Yokuda. The rest of the room seemed to fall away. Every eye bore witness and every heart willed strength to the arm of its impromptu champion. Casnar’s gaze fell to Iszara across the room. Alone amongst them all her face was a mask of grief, yet whether that grief was for the impending loss of a brother or a husband it was not within Casnar’s power to say.

Hakan broke the silence with a bellowed challenge and a vicious thrust of his sword. Cyrus sidestepped the charge and used his own blade to parry. The two swords met like waves crashing against rock, and battle was joined.

Casnar’s worst fear was confirmed. Hakan was indeed well-versed in the sword. Under different circumstances they might have become brothers under the Moon, but that life was only a shadow in the back of Casnar’s mind. In this life Hakan’s skill was blunted by being the worse for wine, and in his relentless assault it quickly became apparent to every eye in the room that the boy Cyrus was a prodigy.

The duel could be told on Hakan’s face. Confident swagger gave way to surprise, then shock, followed by concern which led to trepidation, and finally culminating in naked fear. Cyrus pressed him from every angle; his blade a shimmering blur that whistled through Hakan’s ever slowing guard. Casnar could see the toll that the exchange was taking on the Forebear, and the confidence that was growing in the movements of the young Crown.

Hakan redoubled his efforts. He sought to use his superior size and strength to overwhelm the boy, but Cyrus was ready for him. Instead of parrying an overhead chop Cyrus sidestepped and let Hakan’s blade fall into a shower of sparks against the stone floor. The savagery of the move and the shock of the impact threw the Forebear off balance. Cyrus’ blade darted like dragon’s tongue and drew first blood against Hakan’s exposed flank. The older man screamed with pain and frustration and directed a back-hand slash toward the young man’s neck. Cyrus ducked under the blade and rose up inside of Hakan’s guard. His blade flashed, and Hakan screamed once more.

They separated, blood poured from wounds in the Forebear’s right side and the left side of his chest. His labored breath began to rattle. For the first time Casnar saw the impact of the duel on the face of the young Crown. Uncertainty marred Cyrus’ features and caused the tip of his blade to fall toward the floor. The boy is going to offer quarter, Casnar thought, this night may yet end well for all. Across the room he saw relief flush Iszara’s tear stained cheek.

But Hakan was not undone. With the last of his remaining strength he charged the boy. He brought his sword back for a blow that was meant to separate Cyrus’ head from his neck. Iszara screamed.

Instinct took over. Cyrus’ blade lifted and sought out the Forebear’s sword hand. Hakan’s scream echoed his wife’s as his hand was nearly severed at the wrist. His blade flew back in a lazy arc and crashed into a table loaded with wine and cheese several paces behind him. Before the clatter could subside Cyrus thrust home with his blade. There was a sound not unlike a stone dropped into a deep well, and an almost gentle moan from Hakan. Then the room fell silent yet again. Hakan looked down at the blade protruding from his chest. Casnar thought he saw a smile on his face. Then Cyrus yanked the blade free and Hakan pitched forward and fell face down on the stone floor. His legs twitched in spasm as a pool of blood stained the floor beneath him.

Around him pandemonium reigned. Casnar felt the arms and shoulders that jostled him from those making haste toward the exit. He could not bring himself to move. In the center of the milling storm of people he saw a vision of Prince A’Tor, head down, trembling with bloody sword in hand. When the vision looked up Casnar saw that it was the boy Cyrus, whose guileless innocence had so charmed him earlier that very night. There were tears in the boy’s eyes, and in the eyes of his sister who approached him warily. They briefly held each others gaze, but it was Cyrus who looked away. He turned and sprinted from the room. Iszara dropped sobbing to her knees. Her tears fell and mingled with the blood on the floor.

The playwright had found his way to Casnar’s side. “I know that the Crown sent you here to appease me,” he said, his voice hoarse with feeling, “if you would do your King’s bidding then I beseech you, Sir Knight, watch after my son.” He moved past Casnar and knelt to comfort his shattered daughter.

Posted by: haute ecole rider Jul 14 2010, 12:55 AM

Ah, this was so much better than the original (Beth) version! Far more detailed, and oh, the tension leading up to the sword fight. The sword play itself is sublimely written! Short in itself yet full of adrenaline and long on description. This takes me back to the days when I used to watch swashbucklers as a child (Errol Flynn, Burt Lancaster, Tyrone Power, et al)!

Poor Casnar, forced to stand and witness something when every nerve in his body must be screaming to jump in and help out the boy!

Oh, and thanks for fleshing out Julian's favorite hero!

Posted by: SubRosa Jul 14 2010, 01:15 AM

A very heart-pounding, fast-paced description of the sword fight. Combine that with the dilemma presented to Iszara, lose a husband, or lose a brother. Then add in the grim specter of renewed civil war, and you have given us quite a heady potion.

My only criticism is that where the two parts break (at the dotted lines?) is jarring. At first I thought it was a shift in pov. I think you could do away with the breaking point and meld the paragraphs above and below in a rather seamless fashion without losing anything. For example:

This is just a rough, first draft, but I think if you polish it up a bit it will accomplish what you are looking for.

Posted by: Acadian Jul 14 2010, 02:32 AM

The palpable tension and build up to this fight was magnificently exquisite. Bravo, Destri!

The fight itself and aftermath were equally powerful. Wow!

Posted by: Olen Jul 14 2010, 11:54 AM

That was good... very good. You caught the tension and build-up perfectly and the first part with Hakan being drunk was spot on, the thought patterns were exactly those which lead to drunken fights. The fight was excellently written and quite believeable given Hakan's drunkenness, but if anything I'd say the build-up made it. This is one of the best passages I've read in a while.

And now the aftermath, that is an exciting prospect. Especially Cyrus who you've developed rather cunningly (I didn't spot any pure character development there but he certainly developed), definitly effiecency with words. And I want to know what happens with Cyrus now.

Posted by: Winter Wolf Jul 15 2010, 10:29 AM

I do not know what is worse. Having no Destri or no mALX? Both are a torment to the reading eyes of this old wolf. Welcome back to the forum, I see that your talent is still in full swing.

That was an epic chapter. In reality a combat scene passes in the blink of an eye, yet to a reader it can take 2000 words, a challenge for any writer. How delightful it was to read how a talented person can do it. Wow!

The pacing of the chapter and the thoughts of the characters flowed as quickly as the swordplay. Simply beautiful.

This line was magnificent, coming at the end of the sentence and really hitting the spot. Bravo!

Posted by: Remko Jul 15 2010, 11:17 AM

I am not too clued up on 2nd era heroes but I do know the name Cyrus and I truly admire your interpretation on him. The "duel" between him and Hakan was epic.

You already know how I feel about your story but let me emphasize it once more: AWESOME!!

Posted by: Destri Melarg Jul 27 2010, 02:05 AM

haute – What swashbuckler were you watching that starred Burt Lancaster? That sounds like a movie I need to see! I am so glad that you (and Julian) are enjoying my interpretation of Cyrus’ exile. You remain my touchstone for this section of the story. I know how much you (and Julian) admire Cyrus. If I am making the two of you happy then I feel like I am accomplishing my goal.

SubRosa – That’s quite a rough draft! I loved your reinterpretation of it, but the problem is that you focus on Cyrus’ fear and inexperience at the start of the battle. I had hoped to convey that it was Cyrus’ distinct lack of fear that caused Casnar to lose his train of thought and see the boy through new eyes. In my view this is the first time that Cyrus’ potential is put on display. That potential will be realized later in his life when he becomes Hoon Ding (in another story, of course).

I continue to be amazed at your powers of perception. I think that Iszara’s dilemma forms the real ‘meat’ of this chapter, yet due to my own inadequacies as a writer I barely touched upon it. It makes me so glad that you could see it as well because now I know that I wasn’t wrong.

Acadian – I truly appreciate the compliment. I am far more comfortable setting the stage than in the actual act of battle. At some point I would like to try and master the ease which you display in conveying tactical planning. Thanks to Buffy, I am learning a lot.

Olen – Thank you. After reading Firen’s story I consider your endorsement of Hakan’s behavior key! And now I present to you the answer to your questions about Cyrus.

Winter Wolf – In answer to your question, mALX’s absence is a MUCH greater torment. I was worried about this chapter because the fight itself was so brief. I hoped that it would prove worthy of the build-up. I am glad to see that, for you and a few others at least, it was.

Remko – I am glad you enjoyed the duel. I really was worried that it was too brief to justify the build-up.

Everything I know about Cyrus comes from reading http://www.imperial-library.info/content/origin-cyrus and watching http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6mMNZ7G0cBI&feature=PlayList&p=DA4018E2F9676D4B&playnext=1&index=1.

15th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Sentinel, Hammerfell
Pre-Dawn


Run Cyrus! The thought carried him over cobblestones made slick by the rain. Above him the banners were buffeted both by the rain and the wind coming off of Iliac Bay. On occasion the entire city was lit in a brilliant flash of lightning. It was if Kynareth herself was searching for him, and the rumble of thunder that attended these flashes voiced her frustration. Run! That same thought moved him through the alleys that the storm had turned into canals and whose narrow shadows had still not given way to the first hints of morning. His Crown solids clung to his body and were made heavy by the rain. They weighed upon him like a millstone. Run! It was what sustained him past the point that his lungs began to burn and his tears blocked any sight of a possible destination. Run!

What have I done? Iszara, I’m so sorry. Hakan . . . He closed his eyes as if denial could erase memory. His tears mingled with the rain and the filth of the city that stained his cheek. He continued his headlong rush. To where? He thought. Anywhere but here, I am dead to Hammerfell, as it is dead to me. He cursed the strength in his sword arm, gained when needed least. Were he the better man would Hakan have killed me? Or would he have spared my life and remained husband . . . and brother?

The subtle blooming of the eastern sky into a lighter shade of gray was lost on him. Shadows stirred and began their retreat against the light. Small knots of people materialized on the street. They regarded him through rain soaked faces and hooded eyes, their whispered conversation caught in fragments as Cyrus kept running,

“Forebear,”

“Killed,”

“The truce,”

“Broken,”

My doing, Cyrus thought, all my doing. Hakan had been drunk. I could have tried to reason with him. Instead I ran him through and in so doing killed a brother, and took a husband from my sister.

“There he is!”

Cyrus turned toward the voice. An old man dressed in sodden rags was pointing toward him and looking to an area to Cyrus’ left. He followed the old man’s gaze and his already labored breath caught in his throat. His overtaxed heart skipped a beat. Two Knights of the Moon were coming toward him, the rain beaded on the steel of their armor and dripped from the heads of lowered lances. At first Cyrus thought that one of them was Sir Casnar and he was flooded with a moment’s relief. But the eyes beneath those helmets held no warmth for him, and the voice that called for his surrender was colder than the night just passed. His hand sought the hilt of his sword, but there was only death to be gained there. All he had left was a single thought.

Run!





15th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
The Royal Palace, Sentinel, Hammerfell
Dawn


“I told you to represent the Crown,” said Crown Prince A’Tor, “not stand idly and bear witness to the breaking of the truce!”

Casnar opened his mouth to speak, but for the first time in his life discretion defeated impulse.

The gathered members of the Council, those that could be moved to attend at so early an hour, muttered amongst themselves and gave Casnar all of the angry inattention due the unruly mutt that has just soiled the royal carpet. These were men unaccustomed to rousing themselves for business before mid-day, and Casnar could feel the resentment that dripped from them like the raindrops from their overpriced silk robes.

The floor upon which Casnar stood in the center of the council chamber was bordered by a raised platform which formed an arch around him and upon which the council members sat. Long ago the builders of the chamber had learned the elementary truth that it was not an easy thing to look up at a man with contempt, so the platform was raised. The Crown Prince sat in his customary position in the center of the arch.

“Is it your wish to exasperate the Crown, Casnar?”

“No, Your Highness,” said Casnar lowering his head, “it was only my intention to do the Crown’s bidding.”

“When did the Crown bid you to allow the truce to be broken?” said a baritone voice to Casnar’s right.

Casnar turned. The speaker was a mountain of a man clad in voluminous silk. His jowls hung like saddle bags to either side of several chins, and the sausages that served as his fingers clutched to a quill that he absently stabbed repeatedly into the tablecloth.

To save his life Casnar could not remember the man’s name. “I allowed nothing, councilman. . .”

“Inaction is acquiescence,” said another voice, a high tenor that came from behind Casnar.

The speaker was as spare as the other was ample. His bald head bore the curious shape of a warhammer, and the faded silk that draped his emaciated form looked as if it had been recently slept in, and not for the first time.

At least Casnar knew this one by name. “Councilman Borlas, the two men fought a fair and honorable duel. Tradition dictated that I not interfere.”

“What was so honorable about some young hooligan running through a drunk?” said the portly baritone. “From what I understand he was not even the offended party.”

“I believe the table has had enough, Nelvin,” said Prince A’Tor.

Nelvin, thought Casnar, that was the man’s name. He looked over at the fat councilman whose loose cheeks were flushed. His repeated forays had torn through the tablecloth and irreparably bent his quill. He threw down the ruined implement and looked at his thick fingers as if they had acted in contravention of his orders.

“I would advise you to temper your rebuke,” Prince A’Tor continued, “the ‘drunk’ you refer to was a prominent Forebear who sought an end to this council up to his last treasonous breath. And the ‘hooligan’ was the only son of an equally prominent, and loyal, Crown.”

“Be that as it may, Your Highness,” said Councilman Borlas, “this council was not convened to cast blame, but to enforce justice. We seek only to reinstate the conditions of the King’s truce.”

Discretion failed Casnar, “if that were the case, then there would be a Forebear in the room.”

Prince A’Tor placed a hand to his lowered brow and tried to massage away the ache in his temples. Around him the various councilmen buzzed with righteous indignation.

“It is as we have said, my Prince,” Councilman Nelvin’s baritone raised above the general tumult. “Treason falls far too easily from this one’s lips. Perhaps it is not the boy who should be executed.”

Executed? Casnar looked toward the Crown Prince. His eyes searched, but they were left wanting. “Your Highness?”

A’Tor would not look out from under his hand. “The High King has ordered the boy’s execution as the initial step to restoring the truce.”

“The boy is blameless, my Prince,” said Casnar. He turned so that his comments could be heard throughout the room. “He acted to protect his sister and to defend the honor of his father, a man who is responsible for the truce you now enjoy. What does it say to him that we would deprive him of his only son to appease Forebear wounded pride? What does it say of us that we would take the life of a boy who acted in such splendid accord with the very principles of being a Crown? For is it not the duty of a Crown to uphold the honor of his elders and, should the need arise, come to their defense?”

“Surprising words, coming from you,” said Councilman Nelvin.

“Enough,” said the Crown Prince, rising from his chair. He looked down at Casnar. “Your eloquence does you credit, Casnar. But the High King’s word is law and cannot be questioned. The boy shall be brought back to the Royal Palace where his sentence will be carried out. You are ordered to confine yourself to quarters until such time as the Crown can determine whether your actions last night warrant further punishment. This council is adjourned.”

The Crown Prince turned and left through a door in the back of the room. Casnar kept his gaze trained on the floor. He could feel the triumphant eyes of the councilmen upon him as they rose from their seats. He could hear their oiled voices lifted in congratulation as they contemplated a retreat to soft beds and decadent breaks of fast. He could feel the weight of the tunic that he wore. It now seemed like an anchor dragging him down, beneath the gaze of that arch. The collar seemed to tighten around his neck. Once again he was reminded how much the simple garment chafed.

He made his decision right there, as he gazed at the dry stone tiles that made up the floor. He knew that, despite his best efforts and his staunchest desire to be the knight that his Prince deserved, his last act as a Knight of the Moon would be one of defiance.





15th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
The Waterfront, Sentinel, Hammerfell
Dusk


The storm clouds remained, but they had ceased to deposit their charge upon the helpless city of Sentinel. A soft, gentle scraping was now the dominant sound on the waterfront as scattered vendors used brooms made of straw to shift the offending rain toward their neighbor’s stoop. The foot traffic that they relied upon had been absent in the wake of the deluge. Those preparing to sail on the eventide were kept occupied with their ships, so the vendors swept . . . and watched.

Only those well-armed traveled through the streets, the capture of the boy Cyrus was the preoccupation of the city. In addition to the city guard and the Knights of the Moon, Zenithar’s Knights of Iron had joined in the search on behalf of the offended honor of the Forebears. Many small skirmishes between the three groups had occurred throughout the day. Steel-clad bodies bearing tunics stained Moon blue, Iron gray, or Guard red were left to rust in the gutters.





It was two who toiled under the banner of the Moon who finally found him hiding in an alcove on the waterfront. The boy was soaked to the bone and gave no resistance. As he was brought forth it was clear that the trials of the day had aged him. Gone was the innocent light of youth from his eyes, replaced by the shadow of the penitent man’s knowledge that the past travels with you, like baggage that cannot be discarded. He was positioned between the two knights, his head held low in complete resignation. He tried to maintain their pace, but more often than not they had to drag him. His feet made a shallow furrow in the rain and the mud.

“Unhand the boy,” said a shadow that loomed before them. The fading light of the day made it difficult for Cyrus to see. All he could make out was the moon insignia that was identical to the one worn by his captives. He once again lowered his head.

The knight on his left spoke, “we have no time for your jests, Brother Casnar. Our orders are to conduct this boy to the palace.”

Casnar, thought Cyrus. He raised his head for a second time. The shadow continued to block their path. Why did that name sound familiar?

“I am aware of your orders,” said the shadow, in a voice that was laced with steel, “and I am telling you to unhand the boy.”

“Stand down, Casnar. Have you taken leave of your senses?” The one to Cryus’ right had spoken. He had the vague sensation of studded hands tightening around his arms.

Cyrus heard the soft scrape of steel as it leaves the scabbard. He felt the knight on his left tense, and he heard a sharp intake of breath from the knight on his right.

“You would draw your sword against a brother?”

“I would,” said the shadow. His voice held a calm that was far more disconcerting to Cyrus than the thunder that had assailed his ears all day. “This is the last time that I will say it, unhand the boy.”

“Traitor!”

Cyrus felt the knight’s hands leave him. For a brief instant he felt as if he were floating. He heard the sharp clash of steel. The air around him seemed more charged than when the lightning foiled his attempts to hide. The ground was coming toward him. It was the last thing that he saw.





“Cyrus.”

The boy’s eyes fluttered. Casnar felt relief flood through him. He lifted his arm painfully to bend more water toward the boy’s lips. What Cyrus didn’t drink ran across his cheeks, breaking the pattern of vertical streaks caused by the rain, his tears, and the filth of the city. When the skin was finally empty Casnar set it upon the ground and cradled Cyrus in his left arm. He brought his right hand toward the boy’s cheek and stopped short as he noticed for the first time the blood that stained it, and the shaking that attended it. He lowered the hand and turned his attention back to Cyrus.

What trials has he seen this day? Casnar thought. How much of the boy that I remember remains?

“Sir Casnar?” Cyrus’ eyes were open and clear.

“Welcome back, young Cyrus.” Casnar helped the boy into a seated position.

Cyrus took in his surroundings. “How did you find me?”

Casnar smiled, “you spent more than an hour telling me of these docks last night. It is what you know.”

“Have you come to arrest me?”

“No. I have come to help you.”

“I must leave Hammerfell.” It was both statement and question.

“Yes. That is something we have in common.”

Cyrus nodded. His brow furrowed. He looked at Casnar and opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He nodded again.

“Do you have a place to go?” Casnar asked.

“I know a man who captains a ship here. He sails on the morning tide. I had hoped that, in exchange for my sword hand, he would hide me aboard his ship and take me from Hammerfell.”

Casnar’s eyes narrowed, “you would live as a mercenary?”

“I have nothing left.”

“That is not true. I saw the way your sister looked at you when the battle ended. That was not hatred in her eyes, it was relief. Your father implored me to watch over you.”

“I cannot face them,” Cyrus said. He buried his face in his hands. For several moments the only sound was his gentle sobbing. When he raised his head his cheeks were clear of the city’s mud. “Even if I could, the Crown will not grant me peace.”

The boy shows wisdom beyond his years. “No they will not.” Casnar shook his head. “You expressed a desire to be a knight. I am far from the best example, but if you were to come with me I would teach you all that I know.”

For a brief moment the light that Casnar had grown to love came back into the boy’s eyes. “Where would we go?”

“To Cyrodiil,” Casnar said. “I recently performed a service for a very powerful man who dwells there. Such a man could find use for a pair of knights.”

“Hakan once told me that the Cyrodiil’s will attack Hammerfell one day. If that happened it would mean raising my sword against Father . . . against Iszara. I cannot do that. Could you really raise your sword against your own, Sir Casnar?”

Casnar looked toward the Bay. “I already have.”

“I’m sorry,” said Cyrus.

“No,” said Casnar, “I am the one who is sorry, Cyrus. I should have stepped in . . . I could have spared you all of this.”

“Only by taking it upon yourself,” Cyrus slowly shook his head. Long moments of silence passed before the young man spoke again. When he did, his voice was almost reverent. “You could come with me.”

“I am a knight,” said Casnar, “an imperfect one to be sure, but a knight just the same.” He stood and held his left arm out to Cyrus. “Our destinies lie upon different paths, my young friend. I will see you safely to this ship and make sure that the man to whom you give your trust is worthy of it. What is his name?”

“Tobias,” Cyrus took Casnar’s arm and rose from the waterfront. For the first time he noticed the knight’s right arm. “You’re wounded!”

“It is not bad. Healing magic will make it right again.”

Cyrus had taken hold of the wound. “You are losing too much blood. I need to bandage this”

The boy began to look around, searching for something that could bind a wound. Casnar used his left hand to loosen the stay on his collar.

“Use this,” he said, pulling the tunic over his head.

Cyrus helped him remove the tunic and then he set to the task of tearing it into strips. As the boy bent to bind his wound Casnar smiled at the sensation he felt in his neck.

Nothing chafed.

Posted by: Zalphon Jul 27 2010, 02:16 AM

Listen you amazing historian... Your events are way too historically accurate! Historically Accurate+Enjoyable=Does Not Compute.

Just kidding, it's really good

Posted by: Acadian Jul 27 2010, 02:41 AM

I am in awe of your talent, Destri. Oh my, where to begin. Three magnificent Acts:

Pacing. Here your words paint a frantic race through the city. Run!


Scene painting. Simply amazing painting of the scene at the council chambers. Your characterizations of the councilmen were vividly brilliant:
I chuckled when I read this, but the elf on my shoulder squirmed, convictedly:


This was quite simply spinechilling.

As with the entire episode, simply a magnificently clever end:

Posted by: haute ecole rider Jul 27 2010, 05:14 AM

Ahh, another chapter of our favorite Redguard hero!

First the nit:

I see the dread loose/lose has reared its head again. The correct form in this context would be losing. Also the period before the closing quote has fled, probably because of the loosing dread!

Okay, the Burt Lancaster swashbuckler I recall is The Crimson Pirate (1952). Saw this as a teenager and went wow! at his shirtless chest!

Now on topic: I echo Acadian on this chapter - the boy's desperate flight through the thunderstorm, Casnar's rebuke by the Crown Prince and the Council, his rescue of Cyrus, and of course, the ending.

Nothing chafed. That is so symbolic of Casnar's decision to cast off his duty to the Crowns and to leave Hammerfell. After being forced to live under restrictions that went against his (better?) nature, he decided to take a path other than that dictated by his upbringing. That takes a lot of courage to do, especially since the future is now so uncertain.

You and I have read and seen the same material. I am really enjoying your interpretation of the prequel!

Posted by: Olen Jul 27 2010, 03:13 PM

This was excellently written, very fast moving but with time for some good strong characters (the creation of whom you excell at) and very smooth flow between the breaks whioch might have upset it.

Very good way of showing the snatches of conversation he heard while conveying the full meaning.

The scene with the council was an excellent way to show Casnar's reasons for leaving to the reader and to give him the push into doing so. I like his character and hope he lasts longer than some others have. His attitude at leaving and almost positive anticipation of going into the unknown are captured perfectly in 'nothing chafed' at the end. It fits his character so well.

Now I want more (and how many drafts this goes through to end up so smooth).

Posted by: SubRosa Jul 27 2010, 03:21 PM

I can tell you really enjoy writing Casnar and Cyrus (would William Ray be his first and middle names?). You spent three straight segments on them, and I do not think you have done that much in row with the other characters. The inclusion of Cyrus makes me wonder how much of history you plan to encompass with Interregnum? I know that your original goal was just to portray the year the old Emperor was assassinated. But now I wonder if you are intending to take this all the way through Tiber Septim's conquest of all Tamriel, in order to incorporate the events of Redguard at the end? Or perhaps we will see Redguard as a separate tale?


They weighed upon him like a millstone.
This was a particularly good analogy.

Since you introduced him, I have been wondering how Casnar could go from being a knight of Hammerfell to a Blade. You did a marvelous job of demonstrating exactly how in this rousing segment. Casnar's final decision to defy the Crown was as inevitable as the sunset. Nicely done!


nits:
Casnar, thought Cyrus. He raised his head for a second time. The shadow continued to block their path. Why did that name sound familiar?
This sounded odd, because earlier when Cyrus saw the two moon knights, he wondered if one was Sir Casnar. So why would he wonder if he had heard the name here?


You are loosing too much blood.
I think you wanted losing there.

Posted by: Remko Jul 27 2010, 03:35 PM

I might not as eloquent as some other that have commented on your story but I am no less impressed. More please Destri

Posted by: Winter Wolf Jul 29 2010, 07:18 AM

Awesome write!! I love the way the world of politics swirls over and around your characters, and my oh my, you do love your council chambers.
Any chance I might see you running for office, one day?

Hammerfell is no different to our world. Capture, betrayal, freedom hard fought and won. The world of politics never seems to change, does it?

Posted by: Ornamental Nonsense Jul 29 2010, 04:03 PM

I've only gotten to read the first chapter so far, but I can already tell that I'm going to love this story. Your writing has a distinct style that's very smooth, and you include just the right amount of description. I could easily picture the scene taking place, and as for the characters, I can see that they're going to grow more and more interesting with each chapter. It's going to take me a while to catch up now that the story's progressed quite a bit, but I'll get there eventually.

Posted by: Destri Melarg Jul 29 2010, 11:21 PM

Zalphon – If you are looking for historically accurate fiction that is also immensely enjoyable I highly recommend checking out The Killer Angels by Michael Shaara. I read it for the first time almost twenty years ago, and I still try to re-read it at least once a year as a reminder of what good historic fiction can do.

Acadian – Nothing gets past you my friend! The devil is in the details and adding bits of business like the quill in Nelvin’s fat fingers not only gives the reader insight into his character, but also underscores the subtext of the scene. I am a BIG fan of subtext. It comes from being a theatre major way back in the day.

haute – Loose/lose is really starting to tick me off! Thanks to you and ‘Rosa for catching it(again), and thanks for finding my wayward period (now that just sounds wrong!). I can’t believe that I missed The Crimson Pirate! I thought I had seen every swashbuckler made during Hollywood’s golden age. Just goes to show, every time you think you know something . . .

Olen – This next segment of two posts is aimed at you. I hope that they answer some of the questions you have about Arnand. Don’t worry about Casnar, we already know how he winds up so his survival of the events in this story is pretty much a given.

There is no set number to the amount of drafts that I will go through before I post. The needs of the segment dictate the amount of re-writing that needs doing. The fewest number of drafts that I have gone through for a segment is three (Both the first scene with Renald and the boar, and the scene in Direnni Tower between Aran and Varla, discussing ways to drive a wedge between Cuhlecain and Talos). The highest number of drafts, I’m embarrassed to say, has been sixteen (Everything surrounding the Battle of Glenumbria Moors). I am glad that in reading it you think it flows smoothly. Believe me, the writing of it is anything but.

‘Rosa – Interregnum remains a story that will encompass exactly one year, culminating in the assassination of the Emperor and the founding of the Septim line. Sadly, Tiber Septim’s conquest of Tamriel and the events of Redguard will not be told during this story. But the good news is that, given my time lock, I am able to delve into a few of the characters that play a roll in those events. So far you have already seen (or heard about) Lord Amiel Richton, Dreekius, Cyrus, Iszara, and Nafaalilargus. There are a few more that I plan to incorporate into this story. As for Cyrus, his part in this tale is over (I think). In a way that’s a shame because, you’re right, I did enjoy writing about him.

Remko – There is nothing wrong with your eloquence, and your enthusiasm is always appreciated. Thank you.

Winter Wolf – I guess I do love my council chambers, but only in terms of writing fiction. As for the idea of tossing my own hat into the political arena, how can I put this delicately?

Ornamental Nonsense – Welcome to Interregnum! I hope you find things to your liking here. I look forward to any comments or questions you may have.





16th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
The Pelladil, Docked at Stros M’kai
Dawn


The storm passed during the night. The sun would light clear skies when it rose under the twinkling stars of the Lover hanging in the east. This was Captain Valion’s favorite time, before the new day banished the shadows of night, when the whole world was sated and still. Even the violent Abecean was calm. From where he stood on the deck of his beloved Pelladil he could see the growing glow that emanated over the horizon, fading the Lover’s shine to pleasant memory. Presently he could feel the gentle warmth that caressed his face and the light that surrounded and purified the rain-swept deck like apologies from Kyne to those who had suffered through the storm. Any other time the clear blue skies and the shimmering sunlight would be a welcome sight to Valion’s eyes. But today they served only as an insistent reminder of the obligation of his commission, and of the duty too long postponed.

With a sigh of resignation Captain Valion left the starboard rail and lifted the hatch amidships. He descended the stairs and ducked his head through the narrow hallway to knock on the door that led to his own quarters.

“Come,” said a female voice.

Valion opened the door. Lady Direnni sat at his desk, surrounded by all of his charts and maps. She wore a red velvet dress that complimented her golden skin. A large mirror was placed in front of her, an open book lay nestled face down on her lap. Her handmaiden stood behind, brushing her platinum hair with long, graceful strokes.

“Good morning, Captain,” said Lattia.

Valion bowed in the doorway. “Good morning, Milady, it is good to see you looking well.”

“Thank you, Captain, I do feel stronger. Maybe it was seeing the sun this morning after so many days of rain. Will we sail today?”

It was the question that Valion dreaded most. “I’m afraid not, Milady.”

“Oh?” Lattia tried to hide the disappointment in her voice, but failed.

Valion bowed again. “My deepest apologies, but today is Heart’s Day. Most of the crew are off-ship, partaking of the island's hospitality.”

“I see,” said Lattia. She held up two golden fingers. “That is enough, Irinde, please leave us.”

“Yes, Milady,” Irinde stopped brushing and bowed. She turned and left the room, leaving the scent of wildflowers in her wake.

Lattia waited until the door closed behind her. “I assume you know how important it is that I reach Artaeum.”

“Yes, Milady,” said Valion, “I do.”

“Yet you don’t seem to be in any hurry to get there. Your crew has spent more than enough time on the island. This is the first good weather we’ve had since we left Glenumbria. Why shouldn’t we sail today?”

“I . . .” Valion’s voice faded to silence, the only sound in the room was the surf caressing the hull of the ship.

“We are alone now, Valion,” said Lattia, “no need to stand on ceremony.”

He bit down hard on his lower lip and walked across the room. He opened the portal and stared at the whitecaps on the Aebecean Sea.

“How can I explain myself,” he began, “I am a simple sailor, Lady Direnni, it is all that I have ever strived to be. Early in my life I discovered that I am one of the few Altmer without the head for magic, so I have confined my efforts to being the best sailor that I can. I leave the pursuit of magic to those with a talent for it, like you. I look to my maps and charts, and I don’t trust what I can’t see and touch.”

“I don’t understand.”

The words tumbled out of him, “Artaeum moves, Milady. It never resides in the same place for long. For many years it disappeared entirely. That sea is treacherous, five times I have tried to reach its shore and five times I have failed.” He turned from the portal, “I would sail through the Sea of Ghosts without falter. I would traverse the Topal Sea in full view of every pirate in Senchal, but Artaeum . . .”

His voice trailed into silence. The scowl that marked his features told of his fear, and his frustration. Lattia watched him wrestle with the implication of his statements. A knowing smile spread across her lips and she held up the book in her lap. “Is this your copy of Father of the Niben?”

“It is,” said Valion, “why do you ask?”

“It is heavily annotated,” said Lattia, gently leafing through the pages, “your hand?”

Valion started to count the planks of wood in the floor. The scowl gave way to a sheepish smile. “A vestige of youth, Milady, Topal the Pilot is a personal hero.”

“Forgive me for reading it. The time that I spent indisposed would have been unbearable for want of something to occupy my mind. Your notations are very perceptive; I have learned much from reading them.”

“Thank you, Milady.”

Lattia closed the book and placed it gently on the desk. “You are anything but simple, Captain. Do you think that the Pilot felt as you do, upon that first sail from Northpoint?”

For a moment the scowl returned to mark his confusion. Then the smile on Captain Valion’s face broadened. “I imagine that he did.”

“Yet it did not dissuade him.”

“Your point is well taken, Milady. Whenever you are ready, we will sail.”

“Let your crew have the holiday, Captain. I would not think of inciting mutiny by pulling them from their cups. Perhaps I will take a turn through the town myself, and partake of the island's hospitality.”

“Then please allow me, Milady.”

Valion opened the door and called to the deck. Lattia heard the sound of scurrying feet. Seconds later two eager young Altmer ducked their heads through the doorway.

“This is Lorundil,” said Valion, “and Sinyail. Two of my best, they will serve as your escort.”

The two mer bowed and said “Milady” in unison.





16th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
The Draggin Tale Inn, Stros M’Kai
Mid-Day


“We should not be here, Milady,” said Irinde, standing near the door, “this place is not appropriate.”

Lorundil nudged past the handmaiden and held the door open for Lattia. “We can protect you should the need arise, Milady.”

Sinyail stood behind her. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, impatiently. “It would be a shame to visit Stros M’Kai and not partake of the local tavern.”

Lattia suppressed a smile. Upon leaving the Pelladil they had traveled north, through the well appointed town garden to the waterfall. From there they headed east, stopping to shop in the silversmith near the bell tower. Then it was north again over sandstone bridges to the palace, where the name of Clan Direnni secured them an interminable tour. Leaving the palace they swung to the east, walking over cobblestones baked by the sun until the town wall loomed. Turning south, they stopped to browse the maps set outside by the local cartographer. Lattia wandered into the bookstore, where she bought Captain Valion a new copy of Father of the Niben. Through it all, Lorundil and Sinyail answered any questions put to them, when they weren’t preserving a respectful silence. Now they were at the door to the inn, and the eagerness of the two Altmer was the most enjoyable thing that Lattia had seen all day.

“It would be a shame, indeed”, said Lattia, “I think our escorts have earned a drink.”

She led them through the door. Inside the dim light could not hide the members of the Pelladil’s crew. Their loud voices and slobbering songs assaulted the ears while their busy hands fumbled at the pretty young girls. The girls, for their part, pretended to laugh at jokes that they had doubtlessly heard before while keeping one eye on the sailors’ purses.

Lorundil found a relatively quiet table away from the drunken toasts and yelled threats that were easily forgotten in the wake of another drunken toast, or song.

An Argonian held court behind the bar. His green scales glistened and his small sharp teeth flashed often. Goblets and tankards flew from his hands with dizzying speed. As their party sat down the Argonian produced a soiled linen cloth and wiped the spilled dregs of mead, ale, and worse from his arms and chest. He slid from behind the bar and made his way to Lattia’s table. He raised his voice to be heard.

“Lady Direnni, an unexpected pleasure, you and your companions are most welcome. My name is Dreekius, good Heart’s Day to you all. If you require accommodations I would be honored to provide them free of charge.”

“Well met, Dreekius,” said Lattia, “how do you know who I am?”

“Your crew has been kind enough to favor my establishment. They have spoken of you with great affection. That is why I have come over here.”

Lorundil stood, his hand moved toward the hilt of his cutlass. Sinyail followed, his cutlass half-clearing the scabbard.

Lattia placed her hands palms down across the table. “Peace, both of you. What is it that you want of me, Dreekius?”

Dreekius sidestepped past Lorundil and knelt at Lattia’s side. He spoke quietly, for Lattia’s ears alone. She could smell the ale on his breath.

“It is a matter of some urgency, Milady, one best discussed in private.”

Lattia hesitated.

“I know how that must sound,” said Dreekius, “rest assured that I mean you no harm. In fact, I am hoping you can help me. Bring your bodyguard with you.”

Lattia nodded, Lorundil and Sinyail stood when she did, their eyes never leaving Dreekius. Irinde gained her feet, a nervous flush coloring her cheeks. Dreekius rose and led them through the crowd to a spot on the opposite side of the bar. With all of the commotion none of the besotted crew noticed as he shifted a small rug on the floor to reveal a trapdoor. When he opened it, dim candlelight revealed a set of steep wooden stairs leading to a small room below.

“Down here,” Dreekius said as he led the way down the steps.

Lorundil placed his hand on Lattia’s arm. “Let me go first, Milady.” He drew his cutlass and followed Dreekius down the stairs.

Lattia followed with Sinyail close behind. Irinde gingerly tested each step before deigning to lean her weight on it.

A pair of worn candles lit the room. Several casks and crates were stacked against the far wall. A woven pallet lay to the side. A thin, wide-eyed Argonian with skin the color of molded bread stood in the middle of the room.

“Your crew told me that you intend to sail to Artaeum,” said Dreekius, “for that you will need someone who has been there.” He motioned to the Argonian. “This is Earns-His-Keep. He is the finest navigator I know, and he has made the trip before.”

“You have been to Artaeum?” asked Lattia.

“Yes,” said Earns-His-Keep, “long ago. I took three hatchlings there. I am willing to chart a course to the island again, if you remove me from my circumstances.”

Lattia turned to Dreekius, “What circumstances?”

“Earns-His-Keep is a fugitive,” said Dreekius. “Before he came to be here he was a guest of the Stros M’Kai jail.”

Irinde gasped and covered her mouth with both hands. “He is a criminal, Milady!”

“I am an Argonian,” said Earns-His-Keep.

“That is certain,” said Lorundil, “have you been bathing in a sewer?”

Sinyail snickered under his breath. Earns-His-Keep began to wring the bottom of his own shirt with both hands.

“Please, Milady,” said Dreekius, “take him with you. He is no criminal, strictly speaking, and he can be useful.”

“Why were you in jail?” asked Lattia.

“I tried to kill a guard,” said Earns-His-Keep, “I was not successful.”

“Not surprising,” said Lorundil, “I’ve seen spears with more weight than you.”

Sinyail suppressed the obligatory snicker. Earns-His-Keep kept twisting his shirt.

“Why did you try to kill a guard?” asked Lattia.

“He made sport of me,” said Earns-His-Keep.

Lorundil shifted his weight to his heels. Sinyail looked down and found fault with his own boots.

“I don’t think the Captain will appreciate a short-tempered Argonian on board, Milady,” said Lorundil.

Lattia ignored him, “so you escaped from the jail and sought refuge with Dreekius?”

Earns-His-Keep shifted his gaze from Lorundil’s throat. “After I was rescued from the jail I was taken to the Kynreeve.”

“What is the Kynreeve?”

“It is a pirate ship, Milady,” Dreekius offered, “they were his last employer.”

“He is a pirate!” Irinde’s hands flew back to her mouth.

“I am a navigator,” said Earns-His-Keep.

“If you were taken to the Kynreeve, how did you come to be here?” asked Lattia.

“I pay my debts,” said Earns-His-Keep.

Lattia turned to Dreekius. “What does that mean?”

“That ties into the other matter I need your help with, Milady,” said Dreekius.

Posted by: SubRosa Jul 29 2010, 11:56 PM

I smell the corpse of a High Rock Nightblade! I have been wondering how you were going to get Arnand out of his deathly predicament. It seems none other than Lattia may be his savior.

A very fun segment. Lattia is probably my favorite Interregnum character, so I am always happy to see her. I am too tired to add any critical analysis, but I had a lot of fun reading.

Posted by: haute ecole rider Jul 30 2010, 05:06 AM

Ah, one of my favorite conversations once again! How enjoyable!

I love the irony here! Earns-His-Keep is so pragmatic!

Posted by: Olen Jul 30 2010, 11:15 AM

Ooooh, that's quite an honour in a piece of thios quality.

Wow, I might just have to go over that chapter carefully and see how you managed to produce so many strong characters in such a short section without breaking the flow. Earns-his-keep was great, it's good to see him again and his development, I second Haute's comment on his pragmatism, "I am an argonian" made me laugh aloud.

Now I sense that this could get rather exciting, certainly the previous death of a certain nightblade is coming to fruition, one who wanted to get to Artaeum as I recall...

Irinde was spot on too

Posted by: Remko Jul 30 2010, 11:41 AM

I love Earns-His-Keeps. I can really relate to his pragmatism
I also love how you gave Lattia bodyguards. Like Rales so justly stated, a knife in the throat is just as effective against mages as a silence spell

Posted by: Acadian Jul 30 2010, 01:56 PM

What a joy to read! Everyone comes to life. Wonderful to see Lattia again. I find myself reading twice. Once to enjoy, then again to study your magic with prose. I could quote most of your story, but let me limit it to one passage that I recalled struck me with equal vividness the first time I read it during your original telling. Dare I say, almost as memorable as being sniffed by a dragon or following a wandering sweet roll?

Nit, or perhaps just a question. I would have used 'island's hospitality' in both cases below. Would I be wrong?

Posted by: Destri Melarg Aug 2 2010, 09:48 AM

SubRosa –

Isn’t it funny how things work out? I always knew that Lattia would be a major character in this story, but in the telling she has emerged as something of a catalyst. She is perhaps the most proactive character in the story, which is ironic considering her personality. Perhaps that is what makes her resonate; I have a blast every time I write one of her chapters.

haute – Earns-His-Keep continues to surprise me. Once he opened his mouth it became very hard not to give him more to say. Most of my work of late has been concerned with giving him a larger roll in the story. You will be seeing more of his pragmatism, I assure you.

Olen – Your memory serves you well. We have not heard the last of Arnand’s mission to Artaeum. Irinde is a homage, I wanted her to come across as a younger (though who can tell with the Altmer) version of the nurse/handmaiden/lady-in-waiting character that the wonderful Una O’Connor did so well in films like The Adventures of Robin Hood.

Remko – I would submit that a knife in the throat is more effective. A silence spell eventually wears off. See my comments to Acadian below because they are addressed to you as well.

Acadian – You can thank Remko for the effectiveness of the passage that you quoted. I had to change it because in the first version I had Dreekius glistening with sweat. Remko astutely pointed out that, being Argonian and therefore cold-blooded, Dreekius probably wouldn’t sweat. The resulting debate was a great deal of fun to read. At the time I gave some half-baked justification for why, alone among reptiles, Argonians would have sweat glands. haute backed me on it with an argument far superior to my own. But in the back of my mind I knew he was right, I was just too lazy to change it. Bringing the story over to Chorrol gave me the chance to remedy that.

As for your nit:
You are correct, as usual. That (along with loose/lose) is a mistake that I always make. In fact, I think I made it the last time I posted this chapter. You called me on it then too. I seem to have a hard time reconciling the possessive form to an inanimate object. I don’t know why, but to me the apostrophe doesn’t fit, even though it is grammatically correct. Thanks for spotting it . . . again, it has been changed.





The Not-So-Distant Past
High in the Kurallian Mountains
Morning


“Today we shall discuss the properties of poison,” said Sage Vardengroet.

He was a boy again walking beside his master, his head even with the gold belt around the old man’s indigo robe. They were on a path, high in the Kurallian Mountains. The morning sun had yet to burn off the mist, so the trees all around them had an ethereal quality. Behind him the tall stone walls of the fortress cast lengthening shadows that preceded them. The air smelled of frost and pine.

The sudden sting of the old man’s staff across his shoulders brought his attention back into the moment.

“Arnand,” said the Sage, “stop daydreaming, lad! Pay attention!”

“Yes Master.” Arnand lowered his head to hide the tears welling in his eyes. He heard the crunch of their sandals on the path.

Sage Vardengroet cleared his throat. Arnand looked up, past the flowing white beard and under the tall pointed hat to the smile that played in his master’s eyes.

“You remind me of my youth,” said the Sage, “under Grundingler’s care. I also was a daydreamer, and had no patience for talks of poison.”

“Are they not . . . cowardly, Master?” asked Arnand.

The old man stopped walking and looked off into the distance. Arnand waited, scuffing his sandals in the dirt and kicking free the small pebbles that became trapped under his feet.

“Perspective, lad,” said the Sage. “Imagine there are ogres near your land, and all you have available is a bow with some arrows, a mortar and pestle, and your knowledge of poison, would you be a coward to use it?”

Arnand’s face compressed in concentration, “Ogres have a weakness to poison.”

“Precisely,” said the Sage, smiling, “in the example I gave, that knowledge could save your life or the lives of others. You would not then be hailed a coward, would you?”

“No Master.”

“No weapon or technique is heroic or cowardly, Arnand, only the heart of the one who wields it. Do you understand?”

“Yes Master.”

“Good.” The old man began to walk again. Arnand ran to keep up. “Now, if you are ever poisoned the first thing you must remember is not to panic. No matter how powerful, the effects are temporary and can be reversed. The Dreamsleeve is filled with mages who forgot that simple truth.”

Arnand listened, but his master’s voice grew harder to hear. The mists began to close in on him, the mountains and the fortress faded from view. He was alone, walking as if through a cloud. His footing gave way and he felt himself falling through space.





He lay on the warm sand, his head nestled in Elissa’s lap. Slowly her delicate fingers combed through his hair. He felt the cool surf kiss the bottom of his feet before retreating back into the bay. A trace of heather made the air smell fresh, like a new dawn after a cold, rainy night. He didn’t want to open his eyes.

“Breton?”

The voice was coarse linen drawn across his ears, the interruption of a perfect moment in time. As far as he was concerned his world was held in Elissa’s soft hand. He sighed in peace and consigned everything else to Oblivion.

“He cannot hear me.”

But he could hear. He just chose to ignore. Elissa’s hand wandered down his face. This was where he belonged; with her on their farm, riding together to Alcaire for a meal or a drink in the tavern.

“Perhaps I should try.”

Another voice, one that could have been Elissa’s, but no, she was here with him. He felt her hands on the side of his neck, warm, caressing, massaging.

Memory played familiar scenes before his closed eyes. He saw her on the day when he claimed her for his own. She wore a borrowed silver dress with a waist that rode high and barely served to cover her knees. The wreath of morning glory in her hair could not hide her elven ears. Her green eyes seemed to shine with a light made for him alone, and the smile that lit her face still caused his heart to jump at the recollection.

“I will need a mortar and pestle.”

The voice that could have been Elissa again, faint on a breeze turned cold. Why had it become so hard to breathe? Her hands were still there, cold, squeezing, choking.

He could not open his eyes. The scenes in his mind darkened. He watched himself as a man in a fugue, searching for days and nights until the villagers closed their doors against the madness that burned in his eyes. He searched until he saw his Elissa through the cold driving rain. She lay broken in the tall grass like something discarded. He held her, his tears washed clean by the rain. The twin marks that defiled her neck told of her abduction. He placed his fingers over the wounds, cursing himself for his inattention when the old Sage tried to teach him spells to cure disease. He flooded her body with every restoration spell he knew as if he could erase the damage through magicka alone.

He opened his eyes. He lay on burning black sand that cut into his skin like broken glass. The sky above was on fire. Elissa pinned him to the ground, her long bony fingers clawed at the skin around his neck. Her skin was as pale and thin as parchment, lust and hunger lit her blood red eyes. He was too weak to hold her off. The last thing he felt was her fangs scrape the skin of his throat.





16th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
The Draggin Tale Inn, Stros M’Kai
Evening


Pain was the first sensation that Arnand felt. It centered in his chest and lower back and played down the nerves in his legs. His eyelids fluttered, and opened. They slowly focused on a familiar room.

“He is awake,” a voice called out, “get Dreekius.”

Hurried footsteps faded from the room. Dreekius, thought Arnand, I’m back in the Draggin Tale? He heard the sound of a cart being dragged over the cobblestones on the street below. The room smelled of sweat and crushed aloe vera. A dark ample bosom appeared before his eyes, and a cool damp cloth was gently placed on his forehead.

“Can you hear me?” came from the soft voice of a young girl.

Arnand recognized the pretty young Redguard. She had been entertaining the sailors before he first left for Saintsport. “How . . .” his voice was a whispered croak. He felt the girl’s weight leave the bed. For a moment Arnand worried that he had scared her away, but she returned with a stone cup cradled in her hand.

“Let me help you,” she said. She placed her off-hand behind his neck and lifted.

The pain in his back made Arnand wince. She held the cup to his lips and poured the cool water into him. He drank until the cup was empty. She smiled and turned to refill it. Arnand heard footsteps coming up the stairs.

A second girl entered the room trailed by Dreekius and another Argonian who looked vaguely familiar.

“You are awake,” said Dreekius, “we thought that you had been lost to us.”

The girl returned with more water, she lifted his head and he drank. She lowered his head to the pillow. The croak was gone when he spoke, but his voice was still a whisper. “The ship?”

“Gone,” said Dreekius, “you were betrayed. Were it not for Earns-His-Keep you would have died on the dock.” Dreekius stepped to the side, the second Argonian stepped forward.

Earns-His-Keep, thought Arnand, and then it all came back to him, the jail, the wagon, the dock, Ansu Shin-Ilu and her silver cutlass.

“You were gone,” said Arnand, looking toward his savior, “how did you?”

“He boarded the ship,” said Dreekius, “and, when no one was looking, dove off the other side. He waited underwater until the ship was out of sight and then he came back to the dock.”

“You were slumped over a dead horse,” said Earns-His-Keep.

Arnand remembered being stabbed in the back. He remembered being silenced, the feel of the poison bubbling in his veins. He remembered Delron’s fetid breath and the look of unabashed joy on Shin-Ilu’s face when she ran him through with her sword. He remembered watching their footsteps rise up on the gangplank, and crawling hand over hand toward the wagon where a swaybacked horse looked down on him with such contempt. He remembered that his veins stopped burning, and that he formed an absorb health spell in his hand.

“But why?” asked Arnand.

“I was in your debt,” said Earns-His-Keep, “I told you I would not forget it.” He placed a hand on Arnand’s shoulder, “I pay my debts.”

Arnand smiled as best he could. He placed his hand over the Argonian’s. “And you earn your keep.”

“Rest now,” said Earns-His-Keep, “we sail on the morning tide.”

Arnand’s brow furrowed, he looked to Dreekius.

“The horse sustained you,” said Dreekius, “but it did not heal you, nor did we. Were it not for Lady Direnni and her potions you would not have survived. She has a ship bound for the Isle of Artaeum. She has agreed to take the two of you along. I assume that is where you still wish to go.”





17th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
The Pelladil, At Sea
Mid-Day


There was a knock at the door to the Captain’s quarters.

“Come,” called Lattia.

The door opened and the Breton passenger walked gingerly into the room.

“Lady Direnni,” Arnand said bowing, “it is an honor to make your acquaintance. I understand that I have you to thank for the speed of my recovery.”

Lattia looked up from the open copy of Father of the Niben in her lap. “I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced.”

“Forgive me,” said Arnand, “I am Arnand Desele.”

Lattia thought she saw the light of recognition in his eyes. As if the sound of her voice had triggered some memory within him.

“A pleasure to meet you,” she said, “I am Lattia Direnni. No thanks are necessary, it was the least I could do for a fellow member of the Order.”

“I . . .” Arnand stopped. Words failed him.

Lattia smiled, “Dreekius told me that you were bound for Artaeum. I assume, like me, you go to join the Order.”

“I see,” said Arnand, “in any event, I thank you for your hospitality.” He turned to go.

“I have grown weary of winter,” said Lattia. She looked through the portal to a point far away.

“Excuse me?”

Lattia eyes refocused on him. “You should thank Captain Valion and Dreekius. They reminded me that yesterday was Heart’s Day. If such kindness had been given the Lovers, it would always be springtime in the world.”

Posted by: Acadian Aug 2 2010, 04:24 PM

I enjoyed Arnand's flashback to his poison training. I do recall his quest relating to his wife-turned-vampire. That was nicely reviewed here. I find Lattia endearing, so it is always a pleasure to read scenes with her in them.

It's fun to read and just let your images toy with my mind as beautiful mysterious pieces of a puzzle. As always, your evocative descriptions are brilliant and far too numerous to quote more than just this one:

Posted by: SubRosa Aug 2 2010, 05:27 PM

I do not believe that it says anywhere that Argonians are cold-blooded or not. I am not even sure it says they are reptiles or not. Although even if they are reptiles, that does not mean they have to be cold-blooded either. There is a strong belief that dinosaurs were warm-blooded, and pterosaurs were definitely so. So really, Argonians - who the lore says were descended from trees - could go either way.

Now, onto the actual segment.

No weapon or technique is heroic or cowardly, Arnand, only the heart of the one who wields it.
Well said. I like how you described Voldemort Vardengroet as a Sage, rather that a Master as well. For a race that was enslaved by elves for thousands of years, I suspect that Bretons would not be thrilled with the latter term.


A trace of heather made the air smell fresh, like a new dawn after a cold, rainy night.
This was a lovely description. The entire flashback with Arnand and Elissa (who is an elf!) was wonderful.


Excellent way of worming out of Arnand's death! It reminds me of the old cliffhanger serials in the old days. Did you have it planned out when you wrote Arnand's betrayal? Or is is something you came up with afterward?

Finally, excellent way of working in a bit of lore with Lattia's reference to Heart's Day. One of the problems I have the TF is trying to work in Tamriel holidays.


nits:
A dark, ample bosom
An enticing prospect. But I think you want a comma in there where I inserted it.

Posted by: haute ecole rider Aug 2 2010, 05:45 PM

OMG, Una O'Connor! I had forgotten about her! Now that you mention her, it all comes flooding back, and Irinde is now even more alive thanks to my fond memories of the flighty but loyal servant. Thanks!

I have my own favorite passage to quote:

I love this interplay between Argonian and Breton. It is good to see Arnand alive again, though his memories are so bittersweet, especially of his wife. The growing friendship between the two men is clear to see in this simple exchange.

I still enjoy reading this, both the 'old' stuff and the new scenes you have added here and there. It is a story that holds up well to re-reading, which I consider a sign of quality writing. My hat's off to you, yet again!

By any chance, did you grow up watching WGN's Saturday matinee? It seems you and I have watched the same old films as kids!

Posted by: Ornamental Nonsense Aug 2 2010, 06:44 PM

I've only gotten to the part where Talos is introduced as a character, and I simply had to stop and express my appreciation for this story yet again. I'm anxiously waiting to see how you tie all of these different characters together, and I found myself pondering this time and again when each chapter switched between various personalities. I personally find Lattia the most interesting character thus far, but all of them are compelling in their own right, especially your killer with his vampire wife. It's nice to see such a wide array of personalities that are fleshed out.

I admit that I'm a bit rusty on certain parts of Elderscrolls' lore, and so I had to check references on certain things that you mentioned. As a result, I've learned quite a bit. I wonder how much time you put forth in ensuring that lore details are nicely incorporated into your story. I imagine quite a bit, and the results show through in the quality of this story.

I also found your comment on expanding the world and travel time quite interesting. I've read many stories where it only takes a day or so to get somewhere, which is fine if the story focuses on remaining close to the game's size, but making the world larger is definitely a better fit for your story. I found that I had to do the same thing in 'Slipping into Shadow', because the cities do seem rather small, don't they? I mean, the Imperial City is supposed to be the center of a massive empire. Well, anyway, I've got to get back to reading now so that I can catch up.

Posted by: Olen Aug 2 2010, 10:00 PM

Well Arnand survived... that i hadn't seen so an unexpected twist there. The dream (if that's the word) sequence had the right sort of feel and was a cunning way of working in backstory without forcing it. I especially enjoyed how it suddenly darkened as he came towards wakefulness, an observation I'd say was accurite to RL.

This has me stumped. Which game was Arnand from?

As ever you have a full cast of strong characters who interact well. In fact they're so effective as to be giving me a bit of a pause for thought... I like strong characters and tend to go for first person but maybe I should give third a try...

I caught a distinct alchemical motif there, I wonder if we'll be seeing more of that.

Posted by: Acadian Aug 2 2010, 11:05 PM

Olen, I think my words may have been confusing. I meant that I recalled from earlier in Destri's story that Arnand has set himself to a task related to the fact that his wife had been turned to vampirism. I did not mean to imply that a quest from MW or OB was involved. Forgive my poor choice of words.

Posted by: Remko Aug 3 2010, 01:41 PM

I just can't help but wondering.... You haven't made any hints at Arnand being a vampire but still...

Posted by: Ornamental Nonsense Aug 6 2010, 04:42 PM

Regarding: 12th Morning Star, 2E 854
Fort Black Boot, Near Cyrodiil’s Border with Elsweyr
Dusk. a.k.a the epic battle

The throwing of wolves reminded me of ancient battles where diseased bodies were thrown into enemy cities in order to spread pestilence and whatnot. Of course, the corpses here weren't being thrown at cities, and they weren't diseased, but still, I liked your use of them. The entire scene was very well written, and the tactics extremely realistic given the Elderscrolls world. By that I mean realistic in terms of magic being included alongside melee combat. The scene with Talos emerging from his cover to charge reminded me of the early battles described in Livy's first book of Roman history. In fact, your Talos reminds me of Tullus Hostilius in this scene due to his manner and plans. Of course, your writing isn't nearly as dry as Livy's. Funny that Tullus also came to power following an interregnum...

If you haven't read them, I highly recommend Steven Saylor's novels based in ancient Rome. In particular 'Catilina's Riddle'. From what I've seen of your own writing and your interests in historically inclined topics, I think that you'll love the book. That's just a random thought on my part though.

Oh, and for some reason, I imagine that the perfect theme song for your Talos would be 'Under the Dark Span' by Jeremy Soule. Yeah, random, but the idea just came to me when I was thinking about how much I love your portrayal of the man.

Posted by: Destri Melarg Aug 7 2010, 06:29 PM

Acadian – The thing that constantly worries me about this story is that I will lose people while trying to juggle so many characters. I never intended to tell a story this big. I just wanted to present the rise of Tiber Septim, but in the telling all of these other characters came forward and demanded that their part in the events be explored. Maybe that’s why I like to write Lattia’s chapters so much. She just sits quietly in the corner and waits patiently for me to get to her. Valdemar, on the other hand, is ticked at me because he and Alain are still slogging through the snow toward the Western Reach, and Renald has stopped speaking to me entirely because I left him and his syffim in a cave with a dragon while I explored events in Hammerfell.

SubRosa – As much as I would love to take the credit, Sage Vardengroet is lifted from http://www.uesp.net/wiki/Lore:The_Sage. I never thought about how his title might be offensive to the people of High Rock, but now that you’ve raised the point I feel like I should try to incorporate that into the story somehow.

I made a few allusions to Elissa’s race in Arnand’s previous chapters, but this was the first time that she was identified as an elf. As for Arnand’s ‘death’, that was planned out ahead of time. I wanted him to accompany Lattia to Artaeum aboard the Pelladil so I had to make sure that he didn’t set sale aboard the Kynreeve.

Finally, in respect to the lore about Heart’s Day: I was hoping to find a telling of the story of the lovers, Polydor and Eloisa, but there isn’t one in any of the sources I checked. (SLIGHT SPOILER ALERT) Because of what I have planned for Lattia and Arnand, their meeting on this day is particularly auspicious.

haute – I grew up in Ohio so I saw more than my fair share of WGN (mostly to watch the Cubs lose . . . sorry). I didn’t watch a lot of the Saturday matinee because there was a movie house (not a theatre, we were very specific about that) down the street and the man who owned it screened nothing but old movies every Saturday and Sunday. I started working there on the weekends sweeping popcorn when I was ten years old (actually I did more eating popcorn than sweeping it). My weekends were filled with Errol Flynn, Cary Grant, Humphrey Bogart, Gary Cooper, Flash Gordon (the originals with Buster Crabbe which I still love, dated as they are) and Rin Tin Tin.

Olen – I think you should give third person a try, especially if you are going to explore multiple characters. As much as I love first person narrative it can be a bit too restraining for my taste. If you are going to use multiple characters I would caution you to be careful to be consistent with your viewpoint within a chapter. Third person can make the narrator omnipotent, and there is a tendency to head-hop because of it. Don’t worry though, if you do it in your own story SubRosa will be the first one to tell you.

Remko – Arnand as a vampire presents some tantalizing possibilities. The whole dream sequence was meant to be symbolic on the one hand while also being the means by which I could explore Arnand and Elissa’s past. Her fangs on his neck represents Arnand’s greatest fear.

Nonsense – Thank you for your comments, I will definitely check out the books you recommended. I just finished listening to your song choice to represent Talos. I loved it! It certainly has an Elder Scrolls feel to it (not surprising). For anyone who has not heard it you can find it http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L5d-wLZ3lDs&NR=1. The clip is only about ninety seconds or so. Thank you again for that, Nonsense (we really do need to give you a nickname).

My obsession with the lore prompted the writing of this story. To me the people over at Bethesda are wasting their time giving us the Oblivion Crisis when they have the makings of so many more interesting stories (and games) in the timeline that they have created.

Everyone – The next few segments are slightly longer than my usual. At long last we reach the Imperial City!

22nd Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Arena District, Imperial City
Dawn


“Do you believe the legend, Emero?”

“Pardon, Milady?” Emero pulled his eyes away from the gate leading to Green Emperor Road. Already there were too many people coming through to count. Soon the lines to get into the Arena would make movement through the district difficult. Security concerns were foremost in his mind, but he dismissed his trepidation and focused on his mistress.

Varla stood framed in the morning mist, amidst the grass and rocks of the garden. She was gazing at the giant statue of St. Alessia. More specifically, she was staring at the stone shackles encircling the statue’s ankles. “The Amulet of Kings,” she said, “do you believe the legend?”

“I believe it is an artifact of great power.”

“Yes, but one gifted by the Gods? That seems unlikely.” She left the statue and joined Emero against the low wall. Behind and below them a pair of wayward urchins swam with the sacred lotus blossoms. “The Amulet supposedly protects us from the hordes of Oblivion, yet for centuries it was lost and we were not overrun with daedra.”

Emero brushed a stray leaf from Varla’s shoulder. “It must be a condition of mortality that we believe our plane so desirable that daedra sit in wait for that moment when the barriers fade. The span of all the ages of mer means the same to them as the lifespan of the leaf I just brushed from your shoulder. Remember, your sister was permitted to enter a realm of Oblivion. That would not have happened if the Dragonfires still burned.”

Mention of Lattia pulled Varla’s eyes away from the statue’s bare feet. “I fear for her, Emero. Aran won’t hesitate to sacrifice her to get what he wants. His ambition knows neither bounds nor propriety. Lattia has never had the strength to defy him.”

“Have faith, Milady. There is more strength in your sister than she shows.” Emero looked into the marble eyes of St. Alessia, “As for the Amulet of Kings, we acknowledge that the daedra exist. Why should we shrink from the thought that the Eight Divines do as well?”

His words barely reached Varla’s ears. He could see that she was lost in the same rush of anger that she had spent the entire voyage from Balfiera suppressing. “If the Dragonfires were relit,” she said to the statue, “then the daedra would not be able to act on this plane.”

“True,” said Emero, eyeing his mistress. The folded letter in his robe seemed to gain weight. And it may have been his imagination, but it seemed as if the clouds picked that moment to obscure the rising sun. “But for that to happen, Alessia’s heir must sit the Ruby Throne. You would defy your brother to save your sister?”

Varla looked to her left, past the gate to where the giant statue of Morihaus stood armed with a sword in one hand and stone shackles in the other. “I would,” she whispered.

Emero thought upon how this could impact their plans. His eyes wandered back toward the gate. He stiffened. “Then prepare yourself, our contact has arrived.”

Varla turned toward the gate. An Altmer, resplendent in a red silk robe and heavy with gold jewelry, emerged from the gate leading to Green Emperor Road. He flinched and twisted his way through the rabble until he found a quiet corner of the steps. From there he looked around the garden as if he expected a servant to attend him. When none was forthcoming, he dragged himself across the cobblestones to where Varla and Emero waited.

“Emero,” he said, extending a limp-wrist, “it has been too long.”

Emero straightened and grasped the offered hand. He bowed before the newcomer. “Lord Farenenre, allow me to present the Lady Varla Direnni. Lord Farenenre is the Emperor’s Chief Advisor, Milady.”

Lord Farenenre reclaimed his hand and regarded Varla as one would regard an especially rare flower. “Lady Direnni,” he bowed, “I am a great admirer of your family.”

“You are too kind, My Lord.” This advises an Emperor? Varla extended her hand. Farenenre took it and held it captive in his crossed arms. He led her away from the wall. Varla noted that they wore the same scent.

“Emero tells me that you wish an audience with His Majesty.”

Varla emphasized the innocence in her voice. “We have been here for weeks without an introduction, My Lord.”

“Yes,” said Farenenre stroking her hand with his own, “the Castellan’s sister should have been presented at court. I must apologize for that, my dear. The Emperor has been indisposed these last weeks.”

Indisposed as in hiding? “Oh,” Varla covered her mouth with the fingers of her free hand, “I hope he is well?”

“Of course,” said Farenenre, “do not be troubled, Milady. His Majesty has been dealing with important matters of the Empire. You have my word, as soon as we are able, you will be presented to the court.”

Simpering fop! Varla looked around the garden. Satisfied that they were away from any prying ears she dropped all pretense of innocence. “I’m afraid ‘as soon as we are able’ is not good enough, My Lord.”

Varla raised her free hand and Emero appeared at her side. He pulled the folded letter from his robe and held it before the startled Lord. Varla took note as the look on Farenenre’s face shifted from indignation, to irritation, and finally to calculation as the light of recognition came into his eyes.

“Good,” said Varla, “you recognize the letter. I don’t think your Emperor would be happy to learn that his Chief Advisor makes routine reports to the Aldmeri Council. Cuhlecain does not seem the type who would take such news in his stride.”

Farenenre blanched and seemed to shrink by half. His voice was a whispered croak. “Where did you get that?”

Varla’s smile did not touch her eyes. “Nothing is impossible to one with wealth and patience. I have had ample opportunity to exercise both while you’ve left us waiting. I think the question that should concern you is ‘what do I plan to do with it?’”

“But you are a fellow Altmer.”

Varla laughed out loud at that. “My clan left Summerset centuries ago. We have never been welcomed back. Truthfully, I hold more allegiance to Daggerfall than I do to Alinor.”

“Please, you must not . . .”

Varla’s eyes narrowed. “Do not presume to tell me what I must and must not do, Farenenre.”

She nodded to Emero. He returned the letter to the folds of his robe and returned to his place along the wall. She turned her attention back to Farenenre.

“The Emperor is mad with suspicion,” said Farenenre, “he sees enemies all around him. That is why he remains hidden in the tower. If this letter were to reach his eyes my life would be forfeit. I beseech you, Milady.”

“We shall keep your secret,” said Varla, “and in return you shall favor us. I wish an audience with the Emperor. Today.”





22nd Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Reman Plaza, Imperial City
Morning


The Dragon statue of Akatosh bore mute witness to the crowds that formed as dawn brightened into morning. Servants appeared outside the more expensive manors and walked with purpose to execute their master’s bidding. The beggars were out in force, regaling any who would listen with tragic stories of starving children, or serving in far away wars long forgotten.

A palace guard in gleaming silver armor entered through the gate to Green Emperor Road. A rolled parchment peeked from his closed left gauntlet. He fought his way through the traffic before stopping at the heavy door to the manor on the southwest corner of the plaza. At his knock the door opened, and the smell of burning skooma assailed his nostrils and caused his eyes to water. The figure who answered the door was bedecked in identical armor, complete with the addition of rank. His eyes were blinking furiously at the sunlight, and the look on his face was not one to question.

“Captain Alorius, sir,” said the Guard, holding up the parchment, “I bear a message from the Emperor.”

Alorius loomed in the doorway. Smoke wafted around him as if he stood in the fog. Behind him the room was dark and silent. He snatched the parchment and identified the Emperor’s seal.

“Dismissed,” said Alorius. The Guard sent another glance into the dark room beyond the door. He opened his mouth to speak, but the look from Alorius made him think better of it. He turned on his heel and faded into traffic. Alorius glared into the plaza for any other curious eyes, then he re-entered the manor and shut the door.

Alorius stood near the door and allowed his eyes to readjust to the darkness. Already he felt giddy from the fumes in the air. He turned his attention to the far corner of the room, and the hulking shadow that had claimed it. He mustered all the authority he could into his voice before he spoke.

“Must you continue that?”

In response he saw the tiny embers in the pipe flare anew. A low, rumbling chuckle escaped from the mass in the corner.

Filthy Nord! Alorius thought, why does the General tolerate him? He crossed the room and found the stairs by tripping over them in the dark. He righted himself with all the dignity a career soldier could muster and climbed to the second floor.

The skooma stench could not break the incense that hung in the air. Alorius’s giddiness faded as he walked, his boots silent on the thick carpet. He reached the tall oak door at the end of the hall and knocked.

“Enter,” called a voice from within.

Alorius opened the door and entered an opulent bedchamber. The smell of incense was weaker, but still noticeable. General Talos stood at the far end of the room with his back to the door, adjusting the fall of his sleeve through the arms of a black silk brocaded coat.

“Sir,” Alorius announced himself with a salute, “a message from the Emperor.”

General Talos continued to adjust his sleeves. The sound of the crackling fire in the hearth was the only thing that kept the room from silence. Alorius waited, knowing that the General had heard him, but also knowing that the General was not a man to leave any task half done.

Satisfied with his sleeve, General Talos held out his hand. Alorius crossed the room and delivered the parchment. The General unrolled the message and read.

“At last,” said General Talos, “have my uniform prepared, Captain. I’ve been summoned.”





22nd Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Arcane University, Imperial City
Morning


“When planning a campaign,” said Zurin Arctus, “whether it’s against a single opponent or an army, always maintain a balance between the arcane and the mundane. Remember, a weight lifted by one hand is heavier than two weights lifted by both hands. Are there any questions?”

None of the apprentices raised a hand. The garden lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Arctus saw past the confused, eager young faces to the Palace Guard lingering near the stairs, and the rolled parchment in the Guard’s hand.

“Master Arctus,” said a small voice from the benches, “regarding the Battle of Fort Black Boot, how was there a balance maintained?”

From where he stood Arctus could not identify which apprentice had spoken, only that the voice was decidedly female. He saw the palace guard looking over the apprentices for the source of the voice. Damn the child for her timing, he thought to himself. He addressed his answer to all of them.

“Fort Black Boot has not yet been approved for study. When it is I will tell you how the balance was maintained and how it contributed to an Imperial victory. That is enough for today. I advise you all to reflect on what you have learned. Your recollection may prove vital in our next session.” Better to keep them afraid than questioning.

He stepped from the podium into the soft grass of the garden. The apprentices rose around him and moved on to other pursuits. The palace guard stepped forward.

“Master Arctus,” he said, “a message from the Emperor.” He placed the rolled parchment in Arctus’ hand, then turned on his heel and left the garden. Arctus turned the parchment in his hand and ran his finger over the Emperor’s seal. I suppose his silence couldn’t last forever. He broke the seal and read the message.

“Master?”

This time Arctus recognized the voice of the apprentice who had spoken out of turn. He turned and regarded her with a critical eye. She was small, wide-eyed, swimming in her robes, and irredeemably Breton.

“What do you wish to know, apprentice?”

“Fort Black Boot, Master,” she said, “I do not understand how you were able to balance the arcane and the mundane when the numbers were so vastly against you.”

“You forget the first disposition of war,” said Arctus. A flare spell ignited the parchment in his hand. He allowed the wind to sweep away the embers. “The moment to prepare your offense is the moment the enemy becomes vulnerable to attack.”





22nd Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Palace District, Imperial City
Mid-Day


The high perched sun had burned off the morning mist and cut the shadow from White Gold Tower. Those citizens visiting the graves along Green Emperor Road were able to remove a layer of clothing in the welcome heat that hinted at winter’s end. Among the honored headstones a team of artisans bent hammer to chisel. Their labors tamed the cold marble slabs and produced from them the likenesses of past faces who had sat the Ruby Throne.

At the entrance to the Tower a harried pair of guards stood proxy for the Emperor, absorbing the threats and spittle of the sullen, pushing, murmuring crowd that gathered at the stairs.

Varla watched the crowd from a bench near the entrance. “Cuhlecain plays at a dangerous game,” she said, “each day he remains in hiding they grow angrier, and larger.”

“Even when we are summoned it will not be easy to pass through those doors in full view of the crowd,” said Emero. “We may be forced to make other arrangements.”

Varla nodded her agreement. Her eyes wandered to the artisans reproducing the face of Reman II. “He goes to great lengths to associate himself with the line of Dragon Emperors, when he could remove all doubt by simply donning the Amulet of Kings.”

“I do not believe that there is anything simple about donning that particular piece of jewelry.”

“Perhaps not,” said Varla, “but even an inept ruler would know enough to create a fake that he could wear in public to sate the superstitious masses. It would quell any rumors about Talos and his claim of dragon blood.”

“Would this be the same Talos that you now plan on aiding?”

Varla’s look would have given a Minotaur pause. “You forget yourself, old man. I am no longer your student.”

“No, Milady,” said Emero, “you long ago surpassed my teachings.”

He returned his attention to the crowd. Frustration with and proximity to the seat of power within the new Empire was causing the volume of their shouts to rise with the day’s heat.

Varla’s patience gave way; her voice was punctuated by the ring of an artisan’s hammer. “Speak your mind, Emero. Do not punish me with silence.”

“Very well, Milady,” said Emero, “I was wondering how this new course of action affects our impending audience with the Emperor.”

“It doesn’t,” said Varla, “I came here for the purpose of removing Cuhlecain from the Ruby Throne. That has not changed. It is simply a matter of deciding who should replace him.”

“Does that mean that I should turn my investigations from the Battlemage to the General?”

Varla’s brow furrowed, she absently bit down on her lower lip. “No,” she said, “continue looking into the Battlemage’s affairs. Whichever direction this goes, I will need his loyalty.”

“The Battlemage is crafty, and his network of spies is impressive. Cuhlecain is not the only one who plays at a dangerous game, Milady.”

Before Varla could answer, a surge in the crowd announced the emergence of a retinue of palace guards from the Tower. Their drawn weapons caused the throng to retreat from the stairs and reform into two smaller groups on opposite sides of the entrance. The captain of the guard marched down the stairs and past the angry mob, now held in check by the threat of his naked blade. He stopped at the bench before Varla and Emero. He sheathed his weapon and held himself erect before he spoke.

“The Emperor will see you now,” he said.

Posted by: Captain Hammer Aug 7 2010, 06:59 PM

An excellent installment. I take note of two particular parts of the story that I find most enjoyable.

First, Varla's decision to aid Talos against her brother's plots, so as to save her sister.

Secondly, and more impressively, the dynamic that is embodied by none other than Talos himself, his ambition, Zurin Arctus, and the role that Ysmir Wulfarth plays in the rise of Tiber Septim. You take the premise of the Arcturian Heresy, and flesh it out into a great piece of writing.

Posted by: SubRosa Aug 7 2010, 07:52 PM

What is the story of Polydor and Eloisa? All I have ever been able to find is a tiny blurb in the Daggerfall holidays.


yet for centuries it was lost and we were not overrun with daedra.
I have always wondered about that. I suppose it is because Bethesda only pulled it out of their english ship when they did Oblivion, and not surprisingly ignored all the history they had put down before.


past the gate to where the giant statue of Morihaus stood armed with a sword in one hand and stone shackles in the other.
That is Morihaus? I thought he was a cosmic bull?


An excellent installment. I have always liked political thrillers, and this is most certainly that. Especially exciting is Varla's intention of betraying her brother Aran for the sake of her sister. The visceral side of me says "you go girl!", while the writer in me finally sees elements of plot coming into shape. Varla offing Ryan (or otherwise neutralizing him) and backing Talos. That explains why the timeline mentions High Rock offering no serious resistance to Talos' conquests (only Hammerfell), which Ryan clearly intends to make.

Most delicious is at the end we see Talos, Zurin Arctus, and Varla all converging upon the Imperial Palace (and to a chance meeting?) all due to none other than Cuchelian himself. How ironic!

btw. I have my eyes peeled for an unopened bottle of flin...

Posted by: Acadian Aug 7 2010, 08:19 PM

What a rich morning in the Imperial City! Lots of intrigue here. As always, your description and dialogue are simply amazing.


POV question for you. You seem to be writing with a consistent POV within each scene of this episode, yet it seems to perhaps change within your first scene. Your writing is so darn good, that I like to study it. I suspect my confusion stems from my inablility to understand something. On one hand, it seems the scene is from Emero's POV, as evidenced by these examples:

But, I'm not quite sure because of these passages seem to reflect Varla's perspective. . . or does Emero just know her so well that he can pick up on her likely thoughts by her actions?

Posted by: haute ecole rider Aug 7 2010, 09:11 PM

I loved this chapter the first time I read it, and I love it even more now. The threads you've created in past chapters are starting to come together here, and I can feel the plot developments to come are going to be so worth the wait.

I love intrigue! It's a challenge keeping things straight at times, but that's exactly what appeals to me about such stories/plots. It's sort of like chaos theory, how a butterfly flaps its wings in Japan and a hurricane strikes the East Coast of the United States. All these little unrelated characters and events we have been witnessing so far are starting to come together and play on each other in ways that are both predictable and unexpected.

I am looking forward to more. If I recall correctly from the previous read, what follows next is some of the best high drama in this story so far.

Posted by: Olen Aug 7 2010, 11:18 PM

I second Hauty on the feeling of coming together and many threads making a whole that you have produced. This was a most interesting part plot-wise, you certainly manage to have plots within plots and all sorts of complexity and over a vast scale, I can't imagine what you're planning looks like.

The next part certianly promises drama and along with such mysteries as Renald who as yet I can't see the position of lay pleanty of hooks to keep me in.

Only one nit on the otherwise very clean writing:
a pair of wayward urchins ..... not overrun with daedra.”

Emero brushed a wayward leaf
and
shut the door.

Alorius stood near the door and allowed
The second is less noticable than the first but I found both repetitions somewhat jarring, especially as wayward is a relatively unusual word.

Posted by: mALX Aug 8 2010, 01:58 AM

I am trying to catch up, Buffy, Destri, Hauti, and Remko - you all have posted so many chapters since I was last on here that it will take a while to catch up - just letting you know "I'm on it!" Lol.

Posted by: Destri Melarg Aug 10 2010, 11:32 PM

Captain Hammer – Thank you for your comments, and welcome to Interregnum. I am fascinated by what the Arcturian Heresy puts forward as the story of Talos’ rise to power, and how it differs from what the official scribes of the Empire accept as the truth. It reminds me of what the Dissident Priests believe vs. Temple doctrine. I think that the truth might lie somewhere in the middle. This story is my attempt to deal with that question.

SubRosa – I will try to answer all the points you made in your comments:

The only other reference I can find on Polydor and Eloisa comes from Sun’s Dawn, Book Two of 2920:

The story itself is never told.

There is a reason why the daedra did not overrun Tamriel while the Amulet was lost. It is lore specific (after a fashion), but I won’t spell it out for quite a few chapters yet.

I think Morihaus was a cosmic bull. I personally imagine that he was the progenitor of all the minotaurs running around Tamriel.

Ah, I should have known that you would notice that the timeline mentions that High Rock offered no serious resistance to Talos’ conquest. I caught that too, and I will try to incorporate the reasons for that in this story.

As for your unopened bottle of flin . . . I know exactly where it is, and when it will make an appearance. But that doesn’t happen for quite a while.

Acadian – You got me! My intention was to remain in Emero’s POV during that portion of the story, but the example you gave about Varla’s eyes being pulled from the statue does read like I have switched points of view. In the second example you cited my thinking was that Emero had seen that anger in Varla throughout the trip from Balfiera. He was just seeing it again. Reading it back now I can see how it might have looked otherwise. I have gone back and changed it to better reflect Emero’s POV. Thanks again for the editorial eye.

haute – Chaos theory is exactly how I would describe the writing of this story! Sometimes even I have trouble keeping all of the strands of this web together. I am extremely excited about what’s to come. I don’t want to give too much away, let’s just say that it is going to be a hot summer in Tamriel.

Olen – I think you would be surprised at the simplicity of this story’s outline. It is just a calendar with the relevant dates highlighted. The research behind the writing was extensive, but a lot of what happens in the writing is an organic by-product of what has come before.

I have re-read the repetitions that you pointed out. I agree that ‘wayward’ does seem a little jarring. I have gone back and changed it. Thank you for catching it.

mALX – YOU’RE BACK!!!! You have no idea how much you have been missed. I haven’t had a single gobble and I feel like I’m going through withdrawal! I don’t envy you the task of catching up on everyone’s stories. Take your time getting to mine. There are a few new chapters, but most of it you have read before.

Everyone – I broke this segment into two parts when I posted it before. I decided to make it all one large chapter for this incarnation of the story. I just feel that it reads better this way. I’m sorry for the length.





22nd Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Imperial Palace, Imperial City
Mid-Day


The Emperor granted audience inside a vast circular chamber on the bottom floor of White Gold Tower. The floors were heavy cut stone festooned with paintings of the Imperial standard at regular intervals. The ceiling was opened to the floors above. What illumination there was came from gold lamps set in sconces along the walls, and from ornate iron framed windows stained green. In the middle of the sunken floor a round stone table held dignitaries from the seven cities of a united Cyrodiil, and those unlucky enough to have business before the throne. The throne itself was forged in gold and decorated with more than four thousand rubies to mark the passage of years from St. Alessia’s founding of the Empire. It was raised above the table to allow the Emperor to look down upon his subjects. Fifteen marble columns lined the perimeter of the chamber and served to hold up the floor above. And on this high floor a gallery of furtive palace workers and those with favor or fortune enough to gain entry looked down on the proceedings with great interest.

Zurin Arctus sat in his chair at the round table and noted the faces of those around him. Some of them were familiar. To his right the emissary from Kvatch, a tonsured Breton named Prior Sanne, wore the robes of a Temple priest. He sat in quiet conference with the Duke of Skingrad’s silk swaddled representative, an Imperial firebrand named Synnius Carbo. Chorrol’s Regent was a large man who looked as if he possessed Nordic blood. His name was Miles Galenus and he had made the trip personally, only to find himself seated on the right hand of the Emperor’s Chief Advisor, that oily elf Farenenre. General Talos sat by himself several chairs to the left of Arctus, as far from the throne as possible while maintaining attendance at the table.

Others were not so familiar. The Count of the new city of Leyawiin had sent his court mage, who was not only female, but Khajiit. She tried to remain inconspicuous while fending off the overt advances of the new representative of the Baron of Sutch, who already seemed too far into his cups to suit Arctus. No one paid any attention to the envoy from Bravil because he was not a man of great wealth or importance and he was, after all, from Bravil.

Conversation around the table stopped as the door to the chamber opened and an honor guard entered. They marched across the room and stood on each side of the Ruby Throne. They were followed by a herald whose abbreviated stature caused smiles and stifled coughs from the table, and overt laughter from the gallery above. His stunted legs came to a stop at the edge of the recess and, in a surprising tenor that carried to the bell at the very top of White Gold Tower, he announced for all to hear:

“All Hail His Majesty, Akatosh’s Chosen Vessel and Emperor of all Tamriel . . . Cuhlecain, the First of His Name!”

All at the table stood and turned their attention to the door. The Emperor of all Tamriel barely stood a head taller than his herald. He swept into the chamber flanked by more guards and dressed in silk robes that matched the Imperial Standard while they dragged on the floor behind him. What little hair he had was shot with grey and served to help prop the Red Diamond Crown that sat upon his pointed head. Despite his stature he carried himself with the bearing of a knight, and the look in his grey eyes indicated that he was not a man to be trifled with. Still, he had to lift himself onto the Ruby Throne and when he settled into the seat his boots dangled.

Once the Emperor was settled, everyone returned to their seats except Farenenre.

“Your Majesty,” he said, bowing to the Ruby Throne. “Honored Lords and Lady. We are here to sit in judgment of the actions taken by General Talos on the night of twelfth Morning Star last, known to you all as the Battle of Fort Black Boot.”

“I do not understand,” said the Regent of Chorrol, Miles Galenus. “We judge a man for achieving victory? Honor him with a statue and let us move on to more pertinent business.”

“I believe this is pertinent,” said Synnius Carbo, the Skingrad representative. He stared across the table at General Talos. “You Nords revel in battle, but this battle should have been won for the glory of the Empire, not for the vanity of a single man.”

“Vanity is a sin against the Eight,” said the priest from Kvatch, Prior Sanne. “The victory was gifted to you because the Gods looked down and they judged our cause worthy. All hail Cuhlecain, rightful Emperor of Tamriel.”

Several “hails” were shouted around the table as those who curried favor stood to applaud the Emperor whose feet did not reach the ground. They were joined in their adoration by the many in the gallery who knew that the Emperor’s spies were always watching.

“Master Arctus,” said Farenenre as the tumult faded. “On the night in question you were aware of the General’s refusal to use the Skyrim reserve as ordered.”

Arctus met Farenenre’s stare and held it until the Altmer looked away. “Was that a question, Lord Farenenre?”

Chorrol’s Regent suppressed a smile. The Khajiit from Leyawiin could not.

Farenenre turned a deeper shade of gold. “Were you aware, Master Battlemage?”

“I was aware of no such order,” said Arctus.

“He is the General’s lackey!” said Synnius Carbo. “Tell me, Arctus, what did the General promise you for lying to this Council?”

A wave of hushed voices flowed from the table to the upstairs gallery. Farenenre held his hand in the air to quiet the whispers. He turned to the guard near the door.

“Show in the first witness,” he said.

The guard saluted and left the room. There was the sound of activity from the hallway, and the guard re-entered leading an armored Nord with a jagged vertical scar that dominated the right side of his face, claimed his right eye, and disappeared into the folds of a heavy grey beard. An ebony warhammer was strapped to his back, and the winged helmet he held was made of silver. He stood at the base of the table near General Talos and directed his gaze past the Ruby Throne.

Prior Sanne rose from his seat. “Do you swear by the Eight Divines that you shall give true testimony to this Council?”

The Nord’s laughter filled the chamber. “You can take your Eight Divines and shove them up your robe, woman! I swear to Shor and the Gods of men!”

The look on the Prior’s face would have been the same had the Nord told him that Mehrunes Dagon was relieving himself in the fountain of the wayshrine of Akatosh.

“Then swear to Shor,” said Farenenre, “and let us proceed.”

“I do so swear,” said the Nord.

“What is your name and occupation?”

“I am Hjolfr, Commander of a Skyrim militia sworn to serve the Emperor of Cyrodiil.”

“You mean the Emperor of Tamriel,” corrected Carbo, rising to his feet.

Hjolfr gave him a look that caused Carbo to search the table for an ally. When none was forthcoming, Carbo sheepishly regained his seat. Hjolfr returned his gaze to Farenenre and did not amend his statement. Arctus thought he saw amusement in General Talos’ eyes.

“What were your orders in the weeks preceding twelfth Morning Star last?” asked Farenenre.

“I had no orders,” said Hjolfr, “the militia was camped in the Jerall Mountains. We were requested to hold the privates of the Cyrodiil Legion in some skirmish near the border with Elsweyr.”

“Did you receive orders to move down to the border?”

“No. We froze our arses off in the mountains.”

“Thank you, Commander,” said Farenenre, “you are dismissed.”

“Just a moment,” said Arctus. He directed himself to the Ruby Throne. “May I question the witness, Your Majesty?”

Silence pervaded the chamber. For several seconds even the air was still. Cuhlecain’s eyes narrowed but he answered with a nod. Arctus bowed, rose, and turned to Hjolfr.

“Commander,” he said, “it is your testimony that you were ‘requested to hold the privates of the Cyrodiil Legion’, is that correct?”

“Yes it is.”

“Requested by whom?” asked Arctus.

“There was a letter sent from White Gold Tower,” said Hjolfr, “it was forwarded to us by a messenger from Falkreath.”

“Are you in possession of this letter?” asked Arctus.

“I carry a warhammer, Master Battlemage. I am not in the habit of carrying letters.”

“Does this line of questioning bear any relevance?” asked Farenenre.

“You claim that General Talos disregarded an order,” said Arctus, “yet I submit to you that neither I nor the General were ever given an order to use the Skyrim reserve. The fact that this ‘request’ for the Skyrim militia came as a missive from White Gold Tower instead of from Fort Black Boot proves that neither I nor General Talos had a hand in its conception.” Arctus turned his attention back to Hjolfr. “Thank you, Commander. I have no further questions.”

Hjolfr bowed awkwardly, it was not an act he was used to performing. “General Talos, Master Battlemage.” He turned and exited the chamber.

“I told you they all aid each other,” said Carbo. “Never trust a Nord.”

Galenus slammed his fist on the table. “Be careful, Lord Carbo. My mother was a Nord.”

“Show in the next witness,” called Farenenre.

The guard at the door repeated his salute, left the chamber, and returned leading the gleaming armored form of Captain Alorius into the room. Alorius made his way to the foot of the table and bowed to the Ruby Throne.

“Your Majesty,” said Alorius, “my Lords.”

It took an effort for Arctus to keep his face impassive. Could Alorius have been a spy all along? He thought to himself. He remembered their conversation on the road from Fort Black Boot. He looked to General Talos, but if he were thinking the same thoughts as Arctus his face gave no indication of it.

Prior Sanne rose, “do you swear by the Eight Divines that you will give true testimony to this Council?”

“I do so swear,” said Alorius.

“What is your name and occupation?” asked Farenenre, rising.

“Titus Alorius, my lord, captain of the Imperial Legion and adjutant to General Talos.”

“In the days leading up to twelfth Morning Star last,” said Farenenre, “were you made aware of any orders involving the disposition of the Skyrim reserve?”

“I was aware that there was a reserve force from Skyrim waiting to assist us should the need arise.”

Farenenre smiled. “And was it your opinion that the situation warranted . . .”

Arctus was indignant, he rose from his chair. “Please do not tell me that we are seeking to solicit opinion and calling it testimony.”

Farenenre bowed, “I withdraw the question.” Arctus returned to his seat. Farnenre turned back to Alorius, “Captain, as the General’s adjutant, any orders he gives come through you, do they not?”

“No my lord,” said Alorius. “My duties are to assist the General in the dispensing of orders, but the General is free to give orders however he sees fit. Many times he does so without my knowledge or aid.”

“Captain Alorius,” said Farenenre, “I am not interested in the semantics of your position in the chain of command. Did General Talos send an order through you to deploy the Skyrim reserve?”

“No my lord,” said Alorius, “he did not.”

“Thank you, Captain. I have no further questions.” Farenenre sat, every eye at the table turned to Arctus.

“This entire line of questioning regards the disposition of troops on the night of twelfth Morning Star last is that correct, Lord Farenenre?” asked Arctus.

“It is,” Farenenre offered, regarding Arctus through narrowed eyes.

Arctus turned back to Alorius, “Captain, in your recollection, what was the result of the events of twelfth Morning Star last?”

Alorius smiled, “an Imperial victory, Master Arctus.”

“No further questions,” said Arctus.

The silence in the chamber was broken by the booming voice of Miles Galenus.

“You see,” he said, “There you have it, an Imperial victory. Now, can we suspend this mummer’s farce and get about the task of getting some real work done?”

There were nods of approval by the Khajiit mage sent from Leyawiin and her would be consort from Sutch.

“This hearing is not yet completed,” said Farenenre, “Captain Alorius, you are dismissed.”

Alorius saluted in the direction of General Talos, turned on his heel, and left the chamber.

“Show in the next witness,” said Farenenre.

The guard performed his obligatory salute and re-entered the hall, returning moments later leading a shined and polished Captain Itinius. Itinius strode to the foot of the stone table and his salute carried to everyone seated. He held himself at attention.

Prior Sanne rose to his feet, “do you swear by the Eight Divines that you will give true testimony to this council?”

“I do so swear,” said Itinius.

Farenenre leaned back in his chair. He absently stroked the side of his face with the feather from his quill. “What is your name and occupation?”

“Captain Quintus Itinius, officer of the Imperial Legion and commanding officer of the garrison at Fort Black Boot.”

“Do you recall a conversation you had with Master Arctus regarding the Skyrim reserve on twelfth Morning Star last?” asked Farenenre.

Arctus saw fault with the question, but he elected to hold his tongue.

Itinius kept his eyes on the wall behind the Ruby Throne. “Yes, my lord. Before the battle I asked the Battlemage if he had received any message from the Skyrim reinforcements.”

“Was this because it was your understanding that the garrison would be reinforced?” asked Farenenre.

“My lord,” said Arctus, addressing himself to Farenenre, “if you are going to both ask and answer the questions then the presence of the witness is superfluous.”

“Agreed,” said the Khajiit mage from Leyawiin, “this hearing is irregular enough without straying from the letter of the law.”

There was silence around the table, as if the soft voice of the Khajiit had breached some form of protocol.

“I agree with the Lady from Leyawiin,” said the quiet, high-pitched voice of the representative from Bravil, ”if not for General Talos, the fort would have been taken. It is less than two days march from the fort to the gates of Bravil. Who knows what would have happened to the city had it fallen to those monsters. . . with no offence meant, Milady.”

“None taken,” said the Khajiit.

The representative from Bravil looked at General Talos, “I was of the opinion that we were gathered to honor this man, not haggle over the methods he used to achieve his objective.”

“Lady S’Kaassi, Lord Mido, I shall rephrase the question,” Farenenre bowed in their general direction, and then he looked to Itinius, “Captain, Why did you ask Master Arctus about the Skyrim reinforcements?”

Itinius’ eyes remained on the wall, “The Khajiit host was larger than our reports indicated, my lord. I believed that the garrison was lost unless we were reinforced.”

“And what was Master Arctus’ response to your query?”

“He told me to assume that we were on our own.”

Farenenre smiled, “meaning that there would be no reinforcement?”

“That is how I took his meaning, my lord.”

“Thank you, Captain, I have nothing further,” Farenenre turned to Arctus, the smile still stretched the width of his cheeks. “Do you wish to question the witness, Master Arctus?”

“Yes thank you, Lord Farenenre,” said Arctus. He rose and faced Captain Itinius. “Good day, Captain.”

“Good day, sir,” said Itinius

“Your power of recollection does you credit. I wonder if you recall the rest of that conversation with such clarity. Do you remember the order I gave you after telling you to assume we were on our own?”

“Yes sir,” said Itinius, “you ordered me to prepare the men for an impending attack.”

“And what was your response?”

Itinius looked away from the wall. He could not meet the eyes of the Battlemage or anyone else around the table, so he let his gaze fall to his boots.

“I tried to dissuade you, sir,” he said, “I believed that the Khajiit force was bedded down for the night. You convinced me otherwise.”

“Do you remember what day General Talos and I arrived with our force, Captain?” asked Arctus.

Itinius straightened and returned his gaze to the wall, “I believe it was the sixth of Morning Star last, sir.”

“Correct,” said Arctus. “According to your testimony concern for the garrison prompted you to ask me about the Skyrim reinforcement, is that correct Captain?”

“Yes sir.”

“You are quite fond of the men under your command, are you not?”

“They are my responsibility, sir.”

Arctus smiled, “of course they are, Captain. How many are in your garrison?”

“Five hundred legionnaires, sir,” said Itinius.

“Did you accompany the garrison to the post or were you assigned to a post that was already manned?”

Farenenre stood, “I fail to see the relevance of this line of questioning.”

“I agree,” said Synnius Carbo, “perhaps Master Arctus should stop wasting this Council’s time.”

“I did not realize that it was I who wasted the time of this Council,” said Arctus. “I have not had the advantage of interviewing the witness as Lord Farenenre has. I hope that you will indulge certain latitudes in my line of questioning.”

Miles Galenus turned to Farenenre, “let him ask his questions.”

“I wish to hear where this leads,” said S’Kaassi. She was joined by murmurs of approval from both Lord Mido from Bravil and the inebriated representative from Sutch. Farenenre relented and returned to his seat.

Arctus turned back to Itinius, “shall I repeat the question, Captain?”

“No sir,” said Itinius, “I led the garrison from the Imperial City to the post.”

“How long did that take?” asked Arctus.

“Nine days, sir.”

“Thank you Captain,” said Arctus. He directed his remarks to the Council, “I beg your indulgence a moment longer. Captain, it is your testimony that General Talos and I arrived with a force of five hundred men on sixth Morning Star last. It is also your testimony that it took you nine days to escort a garrison of five hundred men from the Imperial City to Fort Black Boot. Given those two facts, if General Talos had sent a message to the Skyrim reserve encamped in the Jerall Mountains on the day that we arrived at Fort Black Boot, would they have been able to arrive in time to reinforce the garrison?”

“No sir,” said Itinius, shaking his head, “they would not have.”

“Thank you Captain,” said Arctus, “I have no further questions.”





The gallery waited in silent anticipation. Their numbers swelled with the arrival of several off duty guards still wearing their Legion armor. Prior Sanne slowly rose to his feet and cleared his throat, “do you swear by the Eight Divines that you will give true testimony to this Council?”

“I do so swear,” said General Talos. He stood in front of his chair opposite the Ruby Throne.

Farenenre was standing next to the Throne. He gently placed his quill on the table.

“Despite the testimony elicited by Master Arctus,” he said to General Talos, “there remains the fact of your refusal to send for the Skyrim reserve in direct opposition to an Imperial order. Do you have anything to say before this Council renders judgment?”

“I do,” said Talos, “I have a question for the Throne.”

“His Majesty is not a sworn witness,” said Farenenre.

Arctus stood, but a gesture from General Talos rendered him silent. Talos leveled his gaze at Farenenre, and for a moment it appeared that the Altmer’s time on Nirn had come to an end. When Talos finally spoke, Arctus heard the same authority in his voice that he had heard at Sancre Tor.

“I have spent the better part of the afternoon listening to you and your allies question my judgment, second guess my decisions, and impugn my honor,” said General Talos, leveling his gaze at Synnius Carbo and Prior Sanne, “That is not something that I am likely to forget. I have a question for the Throne, and unless one of you honorable gentlemen wishes to unsheathe a sword to stop me, I intend to ask it.”

Silence engulfed the table, no one dared to move. It was as if Sheogorath himself had fallen upon them with his staff.

“Your Majesty,” said Talos, “did you not commission me as commander of your armies?”

Every eye in the chamber sought out the Ruby Throne. Cuhlecain leaned forward, “I did.”

“And did you not order me to secure Cyrodiil’s southern border with Elsweyr?” asked Talos.

“I did,” was the answer from the Throne.

“And have I executed that order?”

“You have.”

“Then by your leave, your Majesty,” Talos turned and strode toward the door to the chamber. The two guards stationed at the door held it open and bowed at his passing. When they closed the door behind him the sound carried up into the gallery. Miles Galenus leaned back in his chair and allowed his smile to be seen by all.

“I think we should put this matter to a vote,” he said.





22nd Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Imperial Palace, Imperial City
Dusk


The chamber was deserted, the delegates had tendered their votes and retired, allowing the heavy doors to close behind them. The gallery had been emptied by the palace guard. Farenenre remained in his seat at the stone table. The Emperor paced through the chamber like a man expecting to be hit by a stray arrow.

“This was a disaster,” said Cuhlecain, “instead of casting Talos as the villain who would usurp the throne, we have made him an even bigger hero. Now he controls both the Legion and the Council.”

Farenenre kept his eyes on the table, “he should not have won at Fort Black Boot, your Majesty. We gave the Khajiit every advantage. The Skyrim reserve could not have arrived in time. . .”

“But he did win!” said Cuhlecain, “at Fort Black Boot and here today. In truth I should make Zurin Arctus my Chief Advisor. He certainly seems more qualified for the position than you!”

Farenenre’s head found a way to dip even lower, “I am sorry, your Majesty.”

“You’re sorry?” spat the Emperor, “sorry doesn’t give us a solution to this problem. You had better contribute a lot more than ‘you’re sorry’ or I might decide that the myrmidons in the Arena need someone else to practice on!”

“I do have an idea, your Majesty, if you would indulge me.”

Cuhlecain gave an impatient wave of his arm. Farenenre rose and made his way over to the door to the chamber. Using both hands he was able to open the door just enough to whisper into the hall. He backed away as the door swung open, admitting a pair of Altmer, a man and a woman, dressed in a silk robe and a silk dress, respectively.

Cuhlecain took his seat on the Ruby Throne as the three elves walked across the room.

“More elves,” he said, “I have just about had my fill.”

Farenenre bowed before the Throne, “your Majesty, may I present the Lady Varla Direnni of Clan Direnni.”

Varla bent her knee to the Ruby Throne. She suppressed a smile at the sight of the Emperor’s dangling boots.

“Your family is no friend to Cyrodiil, Lady Direnni,” said Cuhlecain, “why should I listen to anything you have to say?”

Varla’s knee remained bent, “because I believe that I can deliver something that you want, Your Majesty.”

“What could you possibly have that I could want?”

Varla straightened to her full height and allowed the smile to light up her face, “High Rock,” she said.





22nd Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Reman Plaza, Imperial City
Dusk


A grinning Captain Alorius opened the door and saluted, “good evening, Master Arctus.”

Arctus nodded a greeting, “You performed your testimony well today. You told the truth but did not give away more than you had to.”

“Thank you, Master Arctus. You know where my loyalty lies.”

“I do,” Arctus allowed himself a smile, and then he crossed the room through the fog of skooma smoke while being careful not to look at Ysmir in the corner. He climbed the stairs to the second floor and crossed the hall through the haze of incense to knock on the door to General Talos’ quarters.

“Come.”

Arctus entered. General Talos sat in a chair close to the fire. He had replaced his armor with a blue silk robe and he held a silver glass of Cyrodiilic brandy.

“Four to two in your favor,” said Arctus, “Farenenre and Carbo voted against you. Galenus, S’Kaassi, Mido and the one from Sutch whose name I don’t recall voted in your favor. Prior Sanne abstained, he did not look well when he left the chamber as I recall. The Emperor chose to uphold the vote.”

“Of course he did,” said Talos. He poured a second glass and motioned Arctus into the chair beside him. “Farenenre keeps telling him that he needs the Council’s approval before he can act against me. The purpose of this hearing was to see if he could gather support against me with the Council.”

“I would say that it backfired,” said Arctus, leaning back in his chair. The brandy was excellent.

“Indeed,” said Talos, “I now have a majority of the Council in my favor. Farenenre played his part well. See to it that he is compensated.”

“Yes General,” said Arctus, “what are your plans now?”

“My plan is to enjoy a good meal,” said Talos. He rose from his seat. “I think you should join me. After all, we will need our strength if we are going to kill an Emperor.”


The Year Continues in First Seed

Posted by: Captain Hammer Aug 11 2010, 12:21 AM

Oh, bloody excellent!

I particularly liked all the pompous fanfare that accompanied Cuhlecain. Despite all that, he's still not wearing the Amulet of Kings, and it looks like he knows it.

Of course, you leave it on a cliff hanger, but what can we do about that. Excellent work.

That said, my nitpick: The Red Diamond is the Chim-el Adabal, the central large gem in the Amulet of Kings.

Hence, the War of the Red Diamond was the war between Septims for the Amulet of Kings, and the obvious associations with Red Diamond Jewelry indicates that in-game, it's probably a marketing ploy by the proprietor.

Thus, it strikes me as odd, that Cuhlecain, who does not have the Amulet of Kings, would possess something like the Red Diamond Crown. It just calls attention to the fact that the genuine article is possessed by his general.

Granted, the apocryphal tales state that Reman Cyrodiil I wore the Red Diamond upon his brow, but that was as an infant when newly given to the world as the founder of the Second Empire.

But what appears to be the common thread throughout the lore-books, as well as the game experience in Oblivion, that it is in fact the Amulet of Kings which is considered to be the equivalent of Tamriel's Crown Jewel, and that the amulet is the sign of the Emperor and the Imperial line.

Granted, it is a minor issue, and honestly it's the only thing that stood out as contradicting other material.

Posted by: SubRosa Aug 11 2010, 12:22 AM

Cuhlecain was an interesting one. I was not sure what to expect of him (given the name, I was half-wondering if he would be a tattooed Celt riding a chariot!) I suspect his choice of herald's was not simply based upon the merit's of the man's voice, but also of his stature.

This was an interesting scene. Once more, it reminds me very heavily of the final days of the Roman Republic, when the Senate and Pompey ordered Caesar to report to Rome to stand trial for war crimes against the Celts. While the Council Chamber was not quite the Rubicon, Talos crossed a very dramatic line before the eyes of the leaders of the Empire, from which there is no turning back. He may as well have thrown down his glove before Cuhlecain and called him out! (but I think he plans to have Arctus slip some dog meat into Cuhlecain's dinner first... )

“You can take your Eight Divines and shove them up your robe, woman! I swear to Shor and the Gods of men!”
This gave me quite a grin!

Then Varla returns. And shows that she still has quite the stones:
Varla straightened to her full height and allowed the smile to light up her face, “High Rock,” she said.


nits:
No one paid any attention to the envoy from Bravil because he was not a man of great wealth or importance and he was, after all, from Bravil.
This seems to run on a bit repetitively. Perhaps breaking it into two sentences?
No one paid any attention to the envoy from Bravil, as he was not a man of great wealth or importance. He was, after all, from Bravil.


“the militia was camped in the Jerall Mountains. We were requested to hold the privates of the Cyrodiil Legion in some skirmish near the border with Elsweyr.”
This left me confused. It sounds like the Nords were imprisoning the footsoldiers of the Cyrodiil Legion. Or fighting a battle against them. But the Nords were camped in the Jerall Mtns, which are at the north side of Cyrodiil, and the legionaries they were holding at the other end of the province. So how could the Nords hold them?

Posted by: haute ecole rider Aug 11 2010, 02:10 AM

Now we have one of my favorite courtroom dramas ever! I enjoyed the verbal sparring here.

One thing:

While I agree with Sage Rosa about the geographic confusion here, I also had a smile thinking of "holding the privates . . ." Were the Cyrodiil Legion so inept that the soldiers of Skyrim had to hold their privates during a battle? I'm sure Foxy sees it the same way I do!

Posted by: Captain Hammer Aug 11 2010, 02:12 AM

Get your mind Out of the Gutter!

Posted by: Acadian Aug 11 2010, 03:01 AM

You are undoubtedly the master of courtroom drama.

The following passage is just one of countless examples where you so perfectly immerse us:

Interregnum contains several scenes that are indelibly etched in my memory. The errant sweet roll making its rounds in the tent. The Argonian bartender slinging ales. And who could ever forget being sniffed by a DRAGON? Well, here is another that I remember well from your first telling. Neither time nor retelling have lessoned its impact:

As always, simply, wow!

Posted by: Destri Melarg Aug 11 2010, 09:55 AM

Captain – But Cuhlecain does have the Amulet of Kings (or Chim-el Adabal if you prefer). It was recovered by his forces under the command of Talos at Sancre Tor two years before the events in this story. You can blame me for artistic license, but I just don’t see Cuhlecain keeping Talos around if he refused to give up the Amulet. You have to remember that at this time Talos was just one of Cuhlecain’s generals, any thoughts of his place as rightful heir to the Empire were the province of vague prophecy laid forth by the Greybeards of High Hrothgar, and in whispered rumor amongst the Nords who had witnessed his thu’um at Sancre Tor. Either way it was not a widely held opinion of the average citizen of Cyrodiil.

The problem that Cuhlecain has is that, because he is not of dragon blood, he cannot wear the Amulet. To compensate for this he wears the Red Diamond Crown of the Cyrodiils that the Pocket Guide to the Empire says that he possessed. In my opinion this symbol of monarchy would have been more concrete to the citizenry of the time because the Amulet had been lost for centuries, and no one (human) alive at that time had ever even seen it outside of a representation within the pages of an old book.




'Rosa & haute - That is exactly how Hjolfr meant it! I see him as somewhat disdainful of the military arm of this supposed Cyrodiilic Empire. Hence he refers to the Battle of Fort Black Boot as 'some skirmish near the border with Elsweyr'. His loyalty is to the tenuous alliance that his countrymen have entered into with General Talos. If given his druthers, I imagine that he would just as soon invade Tamriel and put all of those Elf-God worshiping fishwives to the sword.

Posted by: Olen Aug 11 2010, 11:47 AM

Echoing the above: "wow!". A fine courtroom drama well woven into the fantasy setting, most enjoyable verbal sparring and convincing too. I agree that it put me in mind of the end of the Roman republic (or perhaps a couple of decades prior) in therrms of political manouvering. It also reminded me (somewhat) of some of Colleen McCullough's writings (her books dramatise the last few decades of the republic in great detail).

Now there was a twist, I knew he wasn't really with the emperor but is there a side he's not playing? And he played it very well after the courtroom thing. I suspect we'll be seeing more of hm hedging his bets.


Brilliant.

Nit:
You misspelt Chorrol as Chorral near the beginning (at least I assume it was accidental).

I was also slightly confised at the Skyrim milita holding the privates of Cyrodiil (while I did think of it as you meant I assumed it was meant to be something else, possibly holding a bunch of raw privates (as in the rank) out the way or something.

Posted by: SubRosa Aug 11 2010, 05:50 PM

So then Hjolfr was not imprisoning Cyrodiilic soldiers in the Jerall mountains, but was making a statement about holding their testicles because he saw them as cowards? You might want to reword that. The way you use modern rank names like captain, it makes one think that private means a individual, grunt soldier, rather than genitalia.

Posted by: hazmick Aug 13 2010, 07:55 PM

let's put the genitalia aside for a moment as I say, Hello!. I've spent all day reading through this story and I am not disappointed. There are many characters which at first glance appear to be completely separate from one another but as the story has progressed, the characters stories are becoming interwoven. Bravo!. I also wish to congratulate you on the ability to make a courtroom feel as exciting as a battle field. more please.

Posted by: Destri Melarg Aug 13 2010, 11:22 PM

Acadian – I’m happy to hear that you enjoyed Talos’ scene during the hearing. The passage that you quoted was the one that gave me the most trouble in the writing. I wanted Talos’ appearance ‘on the stand’ to be brief, yet unequivocal. In the initial draft his testimony, which included questioning by both Farenenre and Zurin Arctus, covered three full pages. In the end I decided that a man like Talos wouldn’t tolerate being second guessed by those he viewed as subordinate.

Olen – I have always looked upon Talos as Tamriel’s version of Caesar. His part in this story is heavily influenced by the relationship and eventual conflict between Caesar and Pompey. I am glad that you can see the parallel.

Faranenre is interested in only one thing, his own prosperity. It is the only thing worthy of the application of his superior intellect. He will enter into an alliance with anyone that he feels can be used to further his own ends. You will most definitely be seeing more of him.

Thank you for spotting the nit with Chorrol (Chorral?). It has been fixed.

SubRosa – I agree that I should reword Hjolfr’s statement about the Imperial Legion. I am actually glad that you brought it up because I never liked the word ‘privates’ coming from Hjolfr. It struck me as too respectful from a man who has no respect whatsoever for the Empire. The problem is that I want to do it in a way that fits the speaker. Hjolfr is not a man to mince words, but I don’t want to get smacked by the forum’s swear filter. No honored users or Belgian boats for me, thanks! I toyed with the idea of saying ‘private parts’, but that just doesn’t sound right to me. And ‘hold their hands’ doesn’t give you a sense of Hjolfr’s vulgarity in the setting of an Imperial council chamber. I notice that testicles passed the swear filter, but that doesn’t sound like something that Hjolfr would say. I will continue to think about it, any ideas that you may have would be appreciated.

hazmick -

Welcome to Interregnum! Thank you very much for the kind words. I am particularly glad that the courtroom felt like a battle field to you, that is exactly what I was going for. I hope that I haven’t overwhelmed you with all the different characters. Trust me; they all have a part to play in the events ahead.

Posted by: Destri Melarg Aug 13 2010, 11:34 PM

Book Three: First Seed


2nd First Seed, 2E 854
The Reachman’s Tavern, Jehanna, High Rock
Evening


The young man’s lineage could not be told easily at first glance. On his face was writ the history of the Western Reach. He had a Nord’s height to be sure, but his lean silhouette and pointed ears told of his Aldmeri heritage. His pale skin and small, close-set blue eyes were framed by an unruly shock of blond hair that further marked him for a Breton. He sat with his legs akimbo, well into his cups, and listened with drunken fascination at the venom spilling from the stranger who shared a table and a tankard with him.

“I was at Sancre Tor,” said the stranger. He was a short, choleric Breton gone to fat who waved his tankard to emphasize his point, spilling half his mead on the tavern’s stone floor. “It wasn’t the ‘genius’ of your General Talos that won the battle.”

The young man’s head had drooped during the diatribe, but at the invocation of the name ‘Talos’ he roused himself and focused on the stranger through squinted eyes. “What are you saying?”

“What am I saying?” the Breton lowered his voice. His darting eyes searched through the tavern. Most of the patrons were Reachmen who were too far, or too drunk to hear their conversation. A small group of armed mer, Altmer from the look of them, drank at a nearby table. They were as out of place as he was along the Reach but the Breton relaxed. He had nothing to fear from the Elves.

He turned his attention back to the young man, who sat with his legs splayed and his eyes indignant. The Breton savored the moment; there was a perverse thrill to be had in destroying the delusions of youth.

“Refill my cup and I shall tell you,” he said.

The young man raised two fingers and swayed from an excess of mead. An attentive wench brought two bottles that she placed on the table. The young man pressed some gold coins into her hand and the two exchanged a private smile. Then he turned his attention back to the Breton.

“Now,” he said, “what were you saying?”

“I’m saying that your precious Early-Beard. . .” whatever was to follow became caught in the Breton’s throat. The door to the tavern was flung open and a sudden lightning flash lit the armor of the two figures framed in the doorway. Conversation stopped as they entered the tavern, dripping rain onto the stone floor. Their eyes began to move through the tavern and, as they scanned the faces within, the Breton just knew.

The young man paid no mind to his drinking companion. His eyes were agog and trained on the two armored men whose presence filled the tavern. The first was as tall as any Nord the young man had ever seen. Though soiled and battered, his steel armor still glistened in the lamp light. He bore a heavy tower shield that was slung to his back and a weathered silver mace hung from his hip. The second man was smaller though in no way slight. He was encased in light mail, and his worn green tunic clung to his chest and dripped into a puddle between his boots. He carried a light iron shield comfortably in his left hand, and when he shifted his stance the young man saw the pommel of a silver longsword on his left hip.

The smaller man’s scan of the tavern stopped at the table where the young man drank with the stranger. He threw an elbow into his companion and the Nord’s gaze followed. The young man shifted uder their scrutiny.

Thunder broke the silence in the tavern and shook the empty tankards gathered on the bar. The tall Nord shut the door behind him, muffling the sound of the falling rain, and joined his companion near the young man’s table. They stood to both sides, blocking the exit and the stairs behind the bar. They ignored the young man and glared down at the Breton, who kept his eyes on the table in front of him.

“Sancre Tor,” said the tall Nord, through a voice made hoarse with rage. “I am Valdemar of Skyrim.”

“And I am Alain of Wayrest,” said the smaller man, through a set jaw in a face flushed crimson.

Valdemar kept his eyes on the Breton, but made his comments to the tavern. “Being the craven braggart that this man is, doubtless by now he has made it known that two years ago he stood in stout fellowship with the Nord/Breton host at Sancre Tor. He probably filled his cup at your expense telling you how he fought valiantly in the face of certain death and that, when the fortress was taken, fate or divine providence alone allowed him to escape the kiss of the axe that claimed the heads of so many of his poor lamented brethren.”

“Lamented brethren,” said Alain.

“We were at Sancre Tor,” continued Valdemar, “and what he didn’t tell you through all those tankards of mead is that by his own hand he condemned to death all those whose only crime was calling him ally. What he didn’t tell you is that he alone removed the wards that allowed the invaders to take the high command unawares, and that his reward for this treachery was the right to walk free of that valley when so many others did not. Not to mention enough gold in his purse to buy his own damn mead, and the tavern that it was served in.”

Alain shifted impatiently. Valdemar’s eyes shone with unshed tears, a sight more frightening than the scowl that he wore.

“Two years we have spent on the chase,” said Valdemar, “the wheel stops spinning here.”

“Stand and draw your sword,” said Alain, “or die a coward’s death, whimpering into your cup!”

The young man rose so suddenly that his chair flew back against the hearth. He backed away from the table with his eyes as white and wide as mother pearls. The Breton kept his eyes on the table, but his hands eased down to his lap.

“You’ll be keeping your hands where we can see them,” said Valdemar.

“This is a mistake,” the Breton said, eyes still firmly on the table.

“The mistake was yours,” said Alain.

“So I am to face two knights?” the Breton looked into Alain’s face, he held his hands out to the side. “I am alone, and unarmed. What odds are those?”

“The odds are as fair as those you gave when you opened Sancre Tor to the invaders,” said Valdemar.

Alain drew his sword, the blade whined as it cleared the sheath. He placed the point near the Breton’s throat and held it with a steady hand.

“Have no fear,” he said, “it was the Breton host that you condemned to slavery and death, and it will be a Breton alone who exacts retribution. Now get on your feet.”

The Breton slowly rose from his chair. The point of Alain’s sword rose with him. Without taking his eyes off of his adversary, Alain raised his voice to be heard by all in the tavern.

“Someone give this man a sword,” he said, “I’ll not have it known that I slew an unarmed man.”

The tavern was silent; the only sound was the muffled rain tapping on the roof. From behind Valdemar one of the Altmer men-at-arms pushed past his fellows. Valdemar spun at the sound, his hand seeking the hilt of his mace. The Altmer froze; he raised both hands and shook his head once. The big Nord relaxed and motioned the Altmer forward. The Altmer drew his elven longsword and offered it hilt first to the Breton.

“Take up the sword,” said Alain.

The Breton hesitated. Alain placed the tip of his sword against the Breton’s throat and pushed forward enough to draw blood.

“Take it up,” he repeated.

The Breton took the sword in hand. Alain lowered his sword to the floor and handed his shield to Valdemar. He faced the Breton, both men on their guard.

“If I am victorious?” asked the Breton.

“Then I shall mourn my friend,” said Valdemar, “and after I have finished mourning I shall have one more death for which to hunt you down.”

The Breton roared and lunged forward. Alain shifted his weight to meet the attack, but it was a feint. The Breton changed his position and aimed his slash towards Alain’s exposed flank, but the knight was younger and quicker. The two blades met with the clang of silver on steel, and then the duel began in earnest.

The young man stood near the hearth transfixed. For several moments the flight of the two swords shimmered and trailed in the lamplight. Silver rang on steel, with the occasional flash of lightning framing the combatants. Great rumbles of thunder shook the tavern and momentarily drowned out their curses.

And they were both cursing. The knight was the best swordsman that the young man had ever seen. But the older man was canny beyond reason, well versed in sword-craft, and possessed of that diabolical luck that graces evil men. Thrice he had been left open, his weakness so apparent that even the young man could see it, and thrice he had been rescued from the killing blow by some unseen agent that moved him to the one spot whereby he could re-gather himself and duel on.

The curses grew louder. To the young man it seemed that the knight’s sword was slowing, while the sword of the other man grew swifter, bolder. He had taken the knight’s measure and found him wanting. He began to drive the knight back. With each grudging scrape of the knight’s boots the sneer across the Breton’s face grew.

With a bellowed curse the knight went down, his boots sliding on the rain wet stone. The young man’s breath caught in his throat. The Breton’s sneer grew into a smile with no hint of warmth. With the elven sword raised high above his head he rushed in for the killing blow. The young man turned his head from the duel as a flash of lightning exploded against his closed eyelids.





Alain lay dazed on the floor where he had fallen. My sword! He thought. And there it was, still firmly gripped in his hand. He saw his opponent coming forward, sword upraised, framed in the flash of a lightning strike. Instinctively he raised the nicked silver blade but, even as he did so, the thought slammed down on him like a hammer, No time!

The older man’s momentum carried him forward. His blade whistled downward in a blow meant to sever flesh and bone. Alain rolled to his right. For the space of a heartbeat the world in front of his eyes exploded with the sparks from the sword’s impact with the stone. There was a stab of pain across his cheek, and for a brief instant he imagined that the blow had landed. Then through his hazy vision he saw the exposed left knee of his enemy. Alain lifted his boot and kicked out with everything he had left in him.

There was a distinct crack, like the breaking of dry timber that caused everyone in the tavern to gasp, but to Alain the sound was sweeter than all the music in Tamriel. His boot had broken the other man’s knee at the joint and pushed the stressed bones to an impossible angle. The Breton went down with a groan as Alain struggled back to his feet.

In the same way that his code would not allow him to attack an unarmed man, he could not attack a man who was down. So Alain circled his opponent, waiting. The Breton began to push himself backward with his sword held in front of him. His left leg remained straight, but his left foot dragged along the floor on its side. He reached the hearth and slowly struggled to his feet. All of his weight rested on his right leg. His sword was held weakly in his left hand. Alain lowered his sword.

“Yield,” said Alain, “and submit to the King’s justice.”

“What King would that be?” asked the Breton, the sneer returning to his face, “the one in want of a head, or the one bowing to the Ruby Throne? I should have made sure that you were both put to the axe before I left.”

Alain charged with all thoughts of mercy forgotten. The Breton made no move to escape, nor did he raise his sword to defend himself. He stood there in defiant resignation waiting for the killing blow to fall. Alain began his thrust, the momentum of his charge and his bodyweight behind it.

The Breton moved. His right arm shot out to the side, locking onto the wrist of the young man who had shared his table. He yanked hard to his left; the young man lost his footing and stumbled into the path of Alain’s oncoming sword. Alain could not check his thrust.

There was a sound like a faint hiccup, the young man’s breath smelled like honey and mead. This close, Alain could see past the wide eyed shock to the first sense of recognition on the young man’s face, and the draining of the light from his eyes. Alain drew back as if he had touched a blacksmith’s forge. His sword was buried to the hilt in the young man’s chest. A tavern wench screamed, and the young man fell to the stone floor.

Alain stood rooted to the spot. All of his anger and all of his pride had been spent in the young man lying at his feet. The Breton faded to a dim memory beyond the edge of hearing. He stared down at the body of the young man and at the hilt of his sword which comically protruded from the chest.

The Breton raised his sword and set his one good leg for a final swing. Alain did not even react. With a turn of the hip and a roll of the shoulders the elven sword cut through the air. . .and was repelled by the tower shield that seemed to materialize in front of Alain’s neck.

The impact caused the Breton to loose his balance. He went down in front of the hearth. He looked up in time to see the head of a weathered mace coming toward him, held by a giant Nord with murder in his eyes.

Posted by: haute ecole rider Aug 13 2010, 11:55 PM

I remember how this chapter kept me on the edge of my seat, and I'm pleased to find that on the second read-through it still does!

Ah, Alain and Valdemar! Two of my Sancre Tor heroes! These two, along with Caspar in Hammerfell, have really come to life here, as opposed to their appearance in Oblivion. I really appreciate how you have really made their ultimate sacrifice (as witnessed by the NPC during the MQ) so much more tragic by giving these men voices of their own. Rielus will make an appearance later, as well, if I recall correctly.

The tragedy of the young man's death really brings home the risks of dueling in close quarters with an audience. It amplifies the craven nature of the fat Breton, and adds to the sense of tragedy haunting Alain. First his Breton comrades-in-arms, then an innocent bystander. Valdemar's reaction, as exemplified by this line:

only serves to highlight the kind of ruthless, unforgiving honor that drives many a seasoned warrior.

This chapter can stand alone as a short story in itself - so much is said in so few words, and it is so complete in and of itself. The fact that it slots so seamlessly into the rest of Interregnum is a testament to your skill in the writer's craft.

Posted by: Acadian Aug 14 2010, 12:43 AM

I recall this one vividly.

Descriptions, dialogue, pacing, the storm, the twists. . .

Simply magnificent Destri. I don't know how better to put it.

Posted by: SubRosa Aug 14 2010, 01:18 AM

About Hjolfr's holding, why not just go with balls?

Ahh, this blood-pounding battle is what I remember best of Interregnum 1.0! Action, suspense, and treachery! I loved the Breton as much as I did the first time. That guy really is a good villain.

At the same time this segment also gives us some background on Alain and Voldemort Valdemar. I might be wrong, but I think this was the first mention of them being at Sancre Tor. I wonder how it is that they escaped? Either death in the battle, or a life of slavery after being captured. Most of all I keep wondering how these two might end up serving the same man who slaughtered so many of their comrades and sold the rest into slavery. I cannot wait to see it all!


nits:
You have some heads being hopped:
The Breton savored the moment; there was a perverse thrill to be had in destroying the delusions of youth.
This makes it seem like we are in the pov of the fat Breton.

The young man felt the saliva vacate his mouth and skitter down the back of his throat.
Now we are clearly in the young man's pov.



The tall Nord shut the door behind him, muffling the sound of the falling rain, and joined his companion near the young man’s table.
This long sentence needs either a pair of commas where I inserted them, or hyphens (I find I am using the latter more and more in these situations).


The Breton made no move to escape, nor did he raise his sword to defend himself.
This also needs a comma.


I think you ought to give a name to "the young man". It gets repetitive after while, and seeing that some parts are told from his pov, he ought to have one and be a full character rather than just be a stand-in. Also giving him a name makes him seem more real, like a person. This will add more weight to the tragedy of his death. Just have someone say it early in the story. Perhaps the Breton could ask it? Likewise, all the same can be said for "the Breton".

Posted by: hazmick Aug 14 2010, 02:28 PM

Another great chapter, I particularly enjoyed the character of the Breton. Your description of the tavern really set the atmosphere for the mysterious Breton and the fight scene was fast paced and energetic A good chapter all round.

Posted by: Olen Aug 14 2010, 08:31 PM

That was an interesting part which would almost stand alone. Opening with the young man (I agree a name might have been wise, though equally not giving him one prevents the reader trying to file away another) as the pov character was a good idea and worked well to make it matter that the breton then had him killed. I wonder if it will bother Alain in the long run...

Well written action throughout, very exciting and sustained.

The rather astute things like this really add a lot to this story. They really sit well with the people involved (and with reality).

Nits:

the chest of the young man lying at his feet. The Breton faded to a dim memory beyond the edge of hearing. He stared down at the body of the young man and at the hilt of his sword which comically protruded from the chest. -- 'the chest' jarred the second time, possibly something like 'the potruding sword' would flow better.

“it was the Breton host that you condemned to slavery and death, and it will be a Breton alone who exacts retribution. Now get on your feet.”
The Breton slowly rose from his chair. The point of Alain’s sword rose with him. Without taking his eyes off the Breton, -- the first three were fine because they were different Bretons but the final one somehow jarred them all. Giving the breton a name would sort this. And yes I do seem obsessed with repetitions.

of his poor lamented brethren.”
“Lamented brethren,” said Alain. -- I don't quite see why he said that, it seemed like he was correcting but he said the same.

Posted by: Winter Wolf Aug 15 2010, 07:48 AM

Your characters are a great blast to read. Lattia, Earns-his-keep, Dreekius, Arnand, they all just sing off the screen. Epic writing brother!!

That is what I love about Lattia. She is always straight to the point. Lookout guys!


I really enjoyed your take on Stros M’Kai. Each time I read the way you describe the city it always reminds me of Lut Gholein, from Diablo II. Awesome!! The sandstone, the sun looming across the walls, ahhh, the good old days of gaming.


The way you write a dream sequence is a delight to read. You have wonderfully mastered the ‘steps of consciousness’ that a person goes through as they try to collate their thoughts. As always you underpin it by the rational thoughts that are going on outside the dream. Epic!!

Your courtroom drama is building to a crescendo. Though how you keep all the storylines straight is a mystery to me.

Posted by: Remko Aug 16 2010, 06:57 PM

However you did it, you found a way to improve upon the part in the bar with Valdemar and Alain and the fat Breton and the poor young man getting the sharp end of the stick (literally)
Loved it Destri!

SubRosa, has a point, changing privates for balls gets the message through and it seems to me, Hjolfir would way balls. That; or nuts.

Posted by: mALX Aug 17 2010, 12:30 AM

Still catching up, ARGH !!!!! But LOVING it !!!!

Posted by: Destri Melarg Aug 17 2010, 09:07 AM

SubRosa and Remko – With apologies to our younger readers (who probably avoid this thread anyway), here is the problem with using the word balls:

I don’t have to explain this to Remko, but for 'Rosa’s benefit a (straight) man only lays hands on another man’s, well, balls when he is looking to intimidate, degrade, or otherwise coerce compliance from said individual. It ties into an old joke:

In the situation that I have presented Hjolfr is complaining about having to nursemaid the Cyrodiil Legion, something that a (straight) man does by holding the Johnson of another man. Again tying into an old joke:

In the situation presented balls simply doesn’t work for what Hjolfr is trying to say. But I must say that this discussion is even more fun than the speculation of whether or not Argonians sweat!

Posted by: mALX Aug 17 2010, 12:27 PM

Then there is the discussion of Rod vs batton...

Posted by: SubRosa Aug 17 2010, 02:41 PM

Oh, so you want to say hold on to the penii (the forum turns the exact work I am trying to use into something else) rather than the testicles. Why not go with pricks?

Although it seems to be that if a man is holding another man's penii, that is hardly a declaration of his being straight! Sounds a lot more like Alexander and Hephaestion to me! Mutual masturbation is the most common form of sex between gay men in fact.

Something else that comes to mind is that in Dark Age Scandinavia (i.e. the Viking Era, which the game seems to portray the Nords as being in). Male homosexuality was only frowned upon on the part of a man receiving anal intercourse from another man, as that was seen as being 'womanly'. There was no stigma associated with the man who was 'driving'. In fact, male on male rape was a quite common way of humiliating defeated enemies.

Posted by: Destri Melarg Aug 17 2010, 08:33 PM

haute – You nailed it. I think that all four of their stories are tragic, but with Alain I wanted there to be something more behind his actions. It took me a long time to figure out how to portray each of these four men. In the end I remembered the Nord/Breton alliance at Sancre Tor, and I thought it would be interesting if Alain and Valdemar were a part of that force.

Acadian – Right up until the moment I posted this part of the story I debated whether I should include the storm. I didn’t want to lay things on too thick, but I liked the atmosphere that the storm creates inside the tavern. In the end I decided to go with it. I am so glad that it worked for you.

SubRosa – If I had known that the Breton was going to come across as strongly as he did I would have found a way to use him more. The genesis of the character comes from reading about the http://www.uesp.net/wiki/Lore:Battle_of_Sancre_Tor

Kind of reminds you of Ephialtes, who led Xerxes forces down a small path behind the Greek lines at Thermopylae, doesn’t it?

As far as the head-hopping and commas are concerned you are absolutely right on both counts. The beginning of the scene is told from the Breton’s POV, but I liked the saliva line so much that I thought I could risk leaving it in. Just goes to show what happens when you don’t edit something that you know you should! The lack of commas stems from my tendency to write the way I speak. I generally talk fast, and I don’t take the time to take breaths as much as I should (believe me when I say that I have heard this complaint before). Both issues have been addressed.

hazmick – Thank you again. Please read my comments above for insight into my thinking of the Breton, and for the atmosphere that I tried to represent within the tavern. I don’t do fight scenes as well as some (Acadian, haute, Olen, I am looking at you), I am glad that this one worked for you.

Olen – This next chapter will answer some of your questions over whether the boy’s death stays with Alain. And I am grateful for your obsession with repetitions, though I admit that re-reading them after you have pointed them out is a slightly painful experience . I have addressed both of the examples you cited.

On the subject of ‘lamented brethren’: Alain repeated that statement of Valdemar’s to 1) underscore the fact that the men who died at Sancre Tor really are lamented (by him and, to a somewhat lesser extent, by Valdemar), and 2) to comment on the irony that the Breton would be falsely mourning the deaths of those he condemned. I had hoped to convey a bitter tone in his comment that I thought would be apparent, given the context.

Winter Wolf – Welcome back! And I see that you have updated Aradroth’s story. I have never played Diablo II, but now I feel like I should. Just the name, Lut Gholein, sounds interesting! Your comments are, as always, a treasured source of confidence that I draw upon in the continuation of this story. Thank you once again!

Remko – Another welcome back! How are Rales and Zerina doing in Mournhold? I have always wondered, do you use a companion mod for Zerina, or is she strictly made from imagination? I hope you saw my comment above answering yours and SubRosa’s suggestion.

mALX – Take your time, this story isn’t going anywhere. Oh yeah, what’s a batton? Is it a baton that is so large that it needs two t’s to hold it (like Kurdan’s axe in hautee’s story)?

SubRosa and Olen – The young man is given a name in the chapter that follows. The Breton will remain as history remembers him, nameless.





3rd First Seed, 2E 854
The Fortress of At-Stuhn, North of Jehanna
Dawn


At-Stuhn, called ‘Old Stuhn’ in Jehanna, clung to a peak of ice and stone that commanded views for miles throughout the Western Reach. It was built in the First Era by the Nords under King Vrage, and named for their deity who fought the Aldmeri pantheon. An appropriate name considering that the fortress was used as a staging point for the liberation of High Rock from the Elves.

Later, during the War of Succession, the fortress changed hands so many times legend holds that the stone walls still bleed. In Jehanna they say that Old Stuhn is haunted by vengeful ghosts in Nordic mail, and that the howling wind from the mountain is testament to their continued suffering. It is a legend that is upheld by the stronghold’s current tenants, the mysterious Witchmen of High Rock.

At the base of the pass leading to the fortress gates Hecerilar waited with his band of mer. This high up their breath froze on the thin air before falling to the snow at their feet. Conversation was scarce, the mer still half-drunk. The horses threw their heads and dug into the snowy trail, their eyes wide in the unnatural stillness.

Hecerilar ran a whetstone over his blade, or what was left of it. For the seventh time since leaving the tavern he questioned his decision to lend it to that foul Breton. Dishonor now clung to the sword like a stain; as soon as they reached home he would exchange it in the armory.

While he entertained thoughts of home with the scrape of the whetstone in his ears, the gate to the fortress opened. The pitched whine unhinged the skittish horses and it was all they could do to calm them. A hooded figure emerged through the gate, his cloak flapping like a banner in the wind. Hecerilar returned the whetstone to his pouch, where it scraped against the heavy bronze amulet he now carried. Those still mounted climbed from their horses and joined with their fellows on bended knee as the cloaked figure drew closer. Hecerilar sheathed his ruined blade and knelt in the snow.

“Get off your knees and fetch my mount,” said the voice inside the hood.

“Yes, my lord,” said Hecerilar.

He rose and signaled the others to follow suit. One of the mer led a white stallion forward and the cloaked figure mounted. As he adjusted his weight in the saddle the hood fell from his head revealing the features of Aran Direnni.

Hecerilar climbed into the saddle. “Back to Jehanna, my lord?”

“South,” growled Aran, “and quickly.”

“Yes, my lord.” Hecerilar held his tongue. Since leaving Glenumbria he had noticed a change in the Castellan. Whereas before the Direnni patriarch had barely acknowledged his presence, in their journey across the Wrothgarians he had been downright chatty. Whatever the Witchmen had said to him inside that fortress had produced a cloud that it was not Hecerilar’s place to try and remove. He would be there to provide his sword or his counsel if the Castellan required. Otherwise he would perform his duties in silence.

They retraced their path down the mountain. The falling snow had erased the evidence of their ascent, so it seemed as if they marked the trail for the first time. Hecerilar’s hand sought out his pouch, and the heavy bronze amulet within. Running his fingers along the raised surface was a habit recently acquired and still too new to question. As an Altmer, he could feel the pulse of magic within the bronze, and he recognized that the raised symbols on the surface held some significance. But neither his skill nor learning was such that he could define its purpose. If he felt any regret for lifting it from the Breton’s mangled corpse he had not found reason to address it.

“You were sharpening your blade when I approached,” said the Castellan, “did you have trouble in the tavern?”

“No, my lord,” said Hecerilar. He closed his hand around the amulet. For a brief instant he calculated his options; he could retain his treasure, or he could seek the Castellan’s favor. The decision was not an easy one.

“Two Bretons fought a duel in the tavern,” he said, “I lent my sword to the vanquished. When I went to retrieve it,” he pulled the amulet from his pouch and held it up by the chain, it rocked like a pendulum with each step of his horse, “I found this on the body.”

Aran held out his hand. Hecerilar hesitated before presenting the bronze to his master. He prayed that the Castellan didn’t notice. Aran held the amulet up to the light, rubbing his fingers along the raised symbols. His eyebrows lifted and a smile spread across his face.

“Where did you find this?” he asked.

“On the body of a dead Breton in the tavern, my lord, I could feel the magicka pulsing through it, and I presume those symbols are lettering of some kind.”

“The man who wore this is dead, you say?”

“Yes, my lord, killed by the mace of a very large Nord.”

“A Nord?” said Aran, “I thought you said it was two Bretons dueling.”

“It was, my lord, the Nord was seconded to the other Breton.”

Aran regarded Hecerilar with a bemused expression. For a moment the only sound was the crunch of hooves into new snow. Aran turned his eyes back to the amulet.

“This first Breton,” he said, “the one who wore this amulet, did he have a second?”

“No, my lord, when we arrived at the tavern he was drinking with a young Reachman. But, alas, that lad is dead now.”

“This sounds like some duel,” said Aran.

“That it was, my lord.”

“Take me to this tavern.”

“Yes, my lord.”

They rode in silence for a time, winding down the trail from the mountain. Aran continued to study the amulet. The sun shone bright in the eastern sky and reflected off the snow all around them. Last night’s storm had drifted north to fall on the Sea of Ghosts, and as the dazzling white trail gradually faded into mud curiosity got the best of Hecerilar.

“Can you determine what the charm does, my lord?” he asked.

He knew that he had overstepped, and the look that the Castellan gave him confirmed it. He was about to apologize when the Castellan spoke.

“It has a fortify luck enchantment,” he said, “very powerful if I’m not mistaken, curious that this Breton was slain while wearing it.”

Hecerilar could have left it at that, but he couldn’t help himself. “And those symbols, my lord, are they letters?”

“Daedric letters,” said Aran.

Hecerilar relaxed, downright chatty, he thought to himself. He nodded to the Castellan but he needn’t have bothered. Though his eyes were on Hecerilar, his gaze was someplace else.

“They spell out the name of Clavicus Vile,” he said.





3rd First Seed, 2E 854
Castle Dungeon, Jehanna, High Rock
Morning


Behind cold, damp iron bars Valdemar chafed in sack cloth clothing.

“Ho guard,” he called out to the sullen Reachman who passed in front of his cell.

The guard turned. He had sagging jowls, a lazy bottom lip, and both of his filmy eyes drooped. His hand caressed the handle of a truncheon that he carried in a loop on his belt.

“What do you want?” asked the guard.

“My friend and I,” said Valdemar, “what are we charged with?”

“Take me for a magistrate, do you? How the ‘blivion should I know? I just watch the prisoners.”

“Then we’d like to speak to the magistrate.”

“Oh sure,” said the guard, “I’ll just go fetch him for you, wait here.”

The guard chuckled at what he perceived was a good joke and disappeared down the corridor. Valdemar waited until he heard the heavy door close and lock.

“Alain,” he called loud enough to be heard in Northpoint, “are you awake?”

There was no answer from the cell across from him. Valdemar pressed and pulled against the iron until bits of rust stained his palms, yet still the bars remained firm. The candles in the hall cast scant illumination to the cells. Beyond the iron bars of the cell across from him was a space as dark as a cloudless night. And in that space he knew that his friend rested with heavy heart.

“Alain!”

“I hear you,” a hoarse voice answered from the darkness.

“Well, thank Tsun for that. I was starting to think that you hanged yourself with these prison issues, of course, that would alleviate the smell.”

No answer came from the shrouded depths of Alain’s cell. Keep him talking, Valdemar thought to himself.

“When do you think they’ll let us out of here?”

There was no answer from the darkness. Somewhere inside the walls, a restless rat skittered.

“Alain!”

“I don’t know,” said Alain, irritation straining his voice, “maybe never.”

“What do you mean never?”

“They don’t usually let murderers go.”

“Who’s a murderer?” asked Valdemar. “Not I, or you either. That Breton dog got what he was owed.”

“I murdered that boy,” said Alain.

“No!” said Valdemar, “no. He murdered that boy, not you. He put that boy in front of the sword, not you. If you allow this to be your end, then he will have murdered two people in that tavern, not one.”

“I know that,” said Alain, “I’ve been telling myself that very thing all night. But it was my sword, Valdemar, my hand. It was my eyes that watched the light leave his, and it is my soul that has to carry this weight.”

“Then carry it with honor. That boy was a Reachman, not some wine-swilling poet! If it is meant to be, his soul will find its own way to Sovngarde. All that you can do is live on, fight well, and keep to your honor. Otherwise, what did he die for?”

There was a soft scrape in the darkness, and Alain appeared at the bars of his cell. “You are a good friend, Valdemar.”

“I know this,” said Valdemar, “I also know that I saved your life last night, so now it belongs to me. I will not have it wallowing.”

Alain almost smiled, but then the door down the hall opened and voices filled the corridor. The guard appeared and stopped in front of Alain’s cell. He fumbled for the proper key. Behind him stood the Altmer that both knights recognized from the tavern the night before.

“Your lucky day, your release has been secured,” said the guard. “The Castellan of Balfiera wishes a word with you.”

The lock clicked, and the door opened with a whine along its hinges. The guard turned and tried to simultaneously watch Valdemar while making a futile attempt to fit the right key into the lock of his cell. Alain stepped into the corridor and bowed before the Altmer.

“Lord Castellan,” he said, “you have our gratitude.”

The Altmer’s laugh nearly drowned out the sound of Valdemar’s cell door opening. The big Nord stepped into the corridor. The guard backed away wide-eyed, and his hand moved toward the handle of his truncheon.

“That mail they issue you is not very thick in the rear,” Valdemar said. His eyes bored into the guard, “if you pull that stick I will make you regret it.”

The Altmer laughed again, then turned and faced Alain.

“Save your gratitude,” he said, “I am Hecerilar, Captain of the Castellan’s bodyguard. He awaits us in the tavern. Let us retrieve your things and be off.”

He turned toward the exit, the two knights followed. The guard remained where he was, watching the three of them fade down the corridor while a steaming puddle spread around his boots.





3rd First Seed, 2E 854
The Reachman’s Tavern, Jehanna, High Rock
Morning


Scrubbing blood stains from the floor was definitely not what Sosile had signed on for. As she leaned into her brush she cursed her lot in life yet again and wondered how she had come to this place. It wasn’t her fault that men found her pretty, or that they tended to be more generous with their coin when she was around. She had not asked for an agile mind or a good memory, and she had not honed those two attributes learning her letters so that she could wipe blood from the floor of a tavern along the Reach.

She felt the eyes of the Altmer lord upon her and she shuddered. He had the eyes of a wolf eyeing the sheepfold. It was Sosile’s experience that eyes like that were always dangerous, because no matter how much they took in, they always yearned for more. She kept her eyes on the floor.

I will make Gaston pay for this, she thought; his little thing will shrivel and fall off before I share his bed again! She had been at it for hours, using steaming water heated in the hearth, and copious amounts of sload soap. Yet even now, with her arms raw with fatigue, the foam on the floor was still pink. Thetrick’s blood, she thought, all that is left of him is being scrubbed away with sload soap. The tears reformed in her eyes at the thought. She looked at the second stain near the hearth. The sneering Breton’s stain had not been touched, nor would it be as long as Sosile held the brush. If not for him Thetrick would still be alive. I hope he rots in Oblivion! I hope the skin is flayed from his bones, and I hope the daedra use his little seeds for dice!

The Altmer lord was still watching her. Sosile could feel his eyes from across the room. She risked a glance in his direction; his cup held the finest vintage in the house, yet it remained untouched. He was handsome by any measure, but the hunger in his eyes made Sosile’s skin crawl. His bodyguard was scattered throughout the tavern, bored mer feigning alertness. They would react quickly enough to any threat to their lord’s person, yet they would not presume to share his table. Sosile leaned into her scrubbing.

To keep from thinking about what she was doing, she allowed her mind to wander upstairs to her room above the hearth. Her birds would be active now, longing to spread their wings. They were not so different from the goats she once tended, the goats she wished she were tending still. The birds were no substitute, but they helped fend off the loneliness. She would see to them when her work was finished.

The door to the tavern opened and the captain of the Altmer bodyguard entered. Sosile recognized in him what she knew all guard captains possessed; hard eyes, rough hands, and a face that was cold and humorless. Sosile saw the glint of light off the soiled steel armor behind him and her heart jumped into her throat. The guard captain preceded the two knights whose handiwork, even now, Sosile addressed.

The smaller of the two, the Breton, still had the haunted look to his face that Sosile had seen the night before, when his blade had impaled Thetrick. Her heart went out to him for that. In her mind she knew that Thetrick’s death wasn’t his fault, and she could see how much he suffered for it. But that did not make her fear him less, and it did not assuage her grief.

Of the giant Nord Sosile could not say. He was standing right next to the Breton. Sosile knew that his head rested high up on those broad shoulders, but like everyone else in the tavern she could not tear her eyes from the mace that he wore at his hip. She had seen first hand what he could do with that cold, battered piece of silver. The stain near the hearth was a grisly reminder.

The two knights were brought before the Altmer lord. Sosile pulled her eyes back to her brush and the faded remnant of the stain on the floor, but she craned her ears to hear every word.

“My lord,” said the Captain of the bodyguard, “these are the two men you wished to see.”

She recognized the Breton’s voice from the night before, “Lord Castellan, thank you for your generosity. I am Sir Alain of Wayrest, and this is my comrade-at-arms Sir Valdemar of Skyrim.”

“You are every bit as Hecerilar described you, gentlemen,” came the cultured voice of the Altmer lord, “I am Aran Direnni, please join me.”

Castellan, Direnni, Sosile’s mind reeled, What is Balfiera’s interest with the Reach?

“Wench!” the voice of the guard captain cracked like a whip, “bring drinks for the table.”

Sosile stood and hurried to the bar. She used the basin to wash the pink foam from her hands while Gaston prepared a tray that he filled with wine, ale, and mead. When he gave it to her his hands shook, his face was gray, and the whites of his eyes shone like searchlamps.

Sosile took the tray and carried it to the table. As she came within earshot she heard the voice of Lord Direnni:

“. . . friend does not seem to share your gratitude, Sir Alain.”

“Sir Valdemar speaks with his weapons, my lord,” said Sir Alain, “in that respect I am sure he would be happy to express his gratitude.”

Sosile emptied the tray on the table. She kept her eyes on her work, and tried to be as invisible as she could short of a spell. When the tray was empty she backed away from the table, laid down the tray, and returned to the bloodstain on the floor.

“In that case,” said Lord Direnni, “I find myself in a position to allow him to express his gratitude, unless you are both bound by some other obligation.”

“Any obligation we had died last night on the end of Valdemar’s mace, my lord,” said Sir Alain.

“Good, then I shall do you the courtesy of being direct. Hecerilar tells me that you tracked your quarry for two years throughout the mountains of High Rock. I have recently been directed to a cave that lies to the south. A ride of two or three days I have been told. You may both show your gratitude by guiding us to this cave, and helping us deal with any difficulties that may present themselves on the road.”

A cave to the south! Sosile’s hands began to shake worse than Gaston’s.

Sir Valdemar’s rumbling baritone sounded for the first time. “You were told wrong, Lord Castellan. Alain and I chased that traitorous cur, sure enough. But we did not track him down, we were told where to find him.”

“Told by whom?”

“That we do not know,” said Sir Alain. “We were contacted through a third party, an old friend of mine from Hammerfell.”

“Is it not curious that your mysterious benefactor chooses to remain anonymous?”

“I suppose it is, my lord,” said Sir Alain, “but since his information proved good we saw no reason to press the issue.”

“I see,” said Lord Direnni, “and since you have no idea who this person is I trust you feel no burden of obligation?”

“It does not come before our obligation to you, my lord,” said Sir Alain.

“Good, then finish your drinks and meet us outside the main gate,” said Lord Direnni.

Sosile heard the sound of coins bouncing off the oak table and the scrape of boots trailing out the door. Then the tavern was quiet except for the sound of her gentle brushing.

“They are gone now,” said Sir Alain, his voice so close that Sosile jumped from the sound. “You can stop pretending not to listen.”

Sosile turned, he was standing over her. She saw the hilt of his sword, the same sword that had spit poor Thetrick. She dared not move.

He knelt beside her. “Peace, girl,” he said, “we aren’t going to hurt you. And your curiosity is a secret we shall gladly keep if you will but answer a few questions.”

Sosile saw kindness in his eyes. “What do you wish to know, my lord?”

“I recognize you from last night,” he said. “The boy who I . . . the boy who was killed, did you know him?”

She nodded.

“Who was he?”

“His name was Thetrick, my lord,” she said. “He was no one important, just a simple boy from Jehanna who should not have died last night.”

“On that we agree. Tell me more about him.”

“He was kind, and he was sweet. He wanted to be a knight.” She felt the tears in her eyes and did nothing to stop them. “He came in last night to say goodbye. Today he was supposed to venture south to join the army of his hero, General Talos.”

Sir Alain turned and looked at Sir Valdemar.

“Bloody Oblivion!” said the giant Nord.

“You said we should honor his memory,” said Sir Alain.

“No,” said Sir Valdemar, “I said you should keep to your honor. How would the dead at Sancre Tor feel were you to continue down this path?”

“The dead feel nothing,” said Alain, “but I do. Our friends died in battle, and we honored their memory last night. But this Thetrick was innocent, and his memory begs to be honored as well.”

The two men stared at each other, further discussion went unspoken. Sosile’s knees began to ache from such long contact with the stone floor. Sir Alain broke the silence.

“General Talos is half Nord.”

A smile formed on Sir Valdemar’s lips, “and half Breton. Damn.”

“South then?” asked Sir Alain.

“Aye,” said Sir Valdemar, he held out a hand and helped Sir Alain back to his feet. “After we finish holding little lord Castellan’s hand.”

Sir Alain turned back to Sosile. He reached into his purse and produced a small stack of gold coins. He pressed them into her palm.

“For your trouble,” he said, “and your toil.”

Sosile knelt on the floor for a long time after the two knights left the tavern. Her skirt was wet with pink foam, and the gold coins rested light in her hand. She closed her fist around the coins and got to her feet. She walked past the bar and Gaston and climbed the stairs to her room.

Inside she was greeted by the insistent squawk of doves and ravens in a light iron cage. She ignored the birds and went to her desk under the frosted window. She tore a thin strip of parchment from a roll and scratched a hasty message with her quill. Then she reached into the cage and scooped her swiftest raven, who perched on her shoulder with a triumphant squawk towards his fellows. She laid the strip flat on the desk and checked her message:

Clan Direnni seeks the King of Worms. They have secured the services of the two knights toward this end. Please advise.

Satisfied, she rolled the message and attached it to the leg of her raven. Then she opened the frosted window and tossed the raven into a cold wind heading south.

Posted by: SubRosa Aug 17 2010, 09:50 PM

You can still give "the Breton" a name in the story. Just because history did not record it, does not mean he never had one,or that your readers cannot learn it. For example, I do not believe Aran, Varla, and Lattia are anywhere in the history books, but you still gave them names. Same for Arnand, he only appears in the history books as "a High Rock nightblade". You seem to have an aversion to giving characters a name. I know I hate coming up with them myself, as I am so anal about it being just right, but the truth is that it makes the character become much more realistic.

Very neat history behind At-Stuhn. Knowing the story behind an area always adds more depth to the setting. However, it all comes across as telling, rather than showing. I suggest trying to make it more plain that Hecerilar was ruminating about this history. That would make it flow more naturally from the story.

OTOH, I loved how you used Hecerilar to link the previous segment with the new one. That was a very elegant way to maintain a steady flow through the scenes.

So the mysterious Breton had a fortify luck enchantment going for him. I was wondering about that during the fight, with the way you described him always being able to slither his way out of danger. That it is an artifact of Clavicus Vile is intriguing, considering how Interregnum started.

How the ‘blivion should I know.
This is a nice lore-friendly phrase. But perhaps it should end with a question mark?

Sosile was wonderful. Her feelings of frustration at being reduced to scrubbing floors in a tavern ring so true. Likewise her impression of Aran's ruthless ambition. Finally her birds which at first seem to be just pets. All add up to make her a rich, breathing character. I was not surprised to learn that she is a spy, given all the things you had shown us about her. Nicely done.

Also, excellent use of Thetrick's death to lead Alain and Valdemar to Talos's army. As I just said the last time, I have been wondered how they of all people would end up as Blades. Now I see! Brilliant!

Posted by: haute ecole rider Aug 17 2010, 10:06 PM

I truly love what you have done with Alain and Valdemar (and Casnar, and eventually, I hope, Rielus).

This rings very real considering what I know of various warrior-cultures, including Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Native American, Bedouin, Norse, etc. Having an Altmer express distaste at the dishonorable man who held his sword and caused the death of an innocent bystander is even more powerful.

The exchange between Alain and Valdemar in the prison is outstanding. I really enjoyed getting to know these two characters. So far they have remained true to their personalities in the Sancre Tor quest of the MQ line in Oblivion.

One nit: I believe you meant whose.

You have introduced yet another intriguing character in Sosile. Her part makes me want to know more about her. And the exchange between Alain and Valdemar when they learn that Thetrick intended to join Talos' army, the general who slaughtered hundreds (thousands?) of their own comrades at Sancre Tor, and when they realize that Talos himself is half Nord and half Breton is the stuff of which legends are made.

Posted by: hazmick Aug 17 2010, 11:00 PM

"a steaming puddle spread around his boots." It's always good to see a guard pee himself.

Oooh, the king of worms? An amulet from Clavicus Vile? Sounds exciting.

I like the character of Solise, there is a lot to be discovered. will she be playing a major part in this story?

Posted by: Olen Aug 17 2010, 11:40 PM

I take back my comment about giving the young man a name previously, you used it's revelation in this part to great effect in demonstrating the affect it had on Alain. As for the Breton, if it expressly says he had no name I can see why you didn't give him one.

The way you show Alain was good, he has the guilt but also the knowledge that it wasn't really his fault, though he has trouble believing it. Certainly his joining Talos now makes rather more sense and is a logical progression.

And as ever the twist at the end... perhaps she won't be the throw away character I expected, and another subplot is tied in. The amulet sort of joins another too, I'm amazed you can keep track of it all with the story's 'simple outline'.

Posted by: Remko Aug 18 2010, 12:29 PM

Very nice Destri. Loved Alain's feeling of guilt and Valdemar's assessment. "I saved your butt, so it's mine. Now, stop whining."

About Zerina; she only exists in my imagination. I kinda misplaced my MW game

Posted by: Acadian Aug 18 2010, 05:06 PM

Wonderful again.

So, with the discovery that the amulet possesses a strong luck enchantment, I see now why that pesky Breton was such a challenge for Alain.

This is beautiful.

What a magnificently crafted entrance!

I recall the brilliance of you incorporating carrier birds into this the first time. No less brilliant this time.

Wow!

Posted by: mALX Aug 20 2010, 05:02 PM

Sosile is still scrubbing floors, she is such an interesting character for having such a bit part in the story - does her sending that raven with the message mean you are going to expand her role? If so...YEAH !!!!! Awesome write !!!! (as usual, lol)

Posted by: Destri Melarg Aug 20 2010, 11:11 PM

haute – I think the consideration of how honor not only affects the user of a weapon, but the weapon itself is in keeping with the Altmer sense of superiority. I am so glad that Alain and Valdemar’s personalities ring true to you. I think you will like the chapter that follows this next one.

Thank you for exposing yet another nit. It’s all fixed now.

hazmick –

Well, we can’t let Buffy have all the fun!

The King of Worms is about to become a prominent fixture in this story, and Claivicus Vile’s amulet has an important part to play.

Olen – I am so glad that you pointed that out! My intention was to use the boy’s name to make him more real to Alain, which in turn drives him to an action that he would never have considered otherwise.

Remko – Like this response, you encompass Valdemar’s feelings in ten words!

Acadian – As ever your words are a great source of encouragement. Thank you for the PM, and for the impeccable timing with which it was sent.

mALX – Actually Sosile stopped scrubbing floors to send off her bird. I don’t imagine that she will be going back to it anytime soon. I have missed your ‘Awesome writes’ so much you have no idea! Welcome back (again)!

Everyone – It seems Sosile stole the show in this last chapter. Fear not, her role in these events, though small, is just beginning.

I also wish to say a very special thank you to SubRosa. Her gentle prodding (now I know how cattle feel ) and her well-worded arguments have resulted in my re-visiting the decision to name the Breton in the last chapter. Unfortunately, ‘Rosa, I am as anal as you are when it comes to finding the perfect name (or word). Mark Twain once said that the difference between the ‘right word’ and ‘almost the right word’ is the difference between Lightning . . . and the lightning bug! It may take me a while to get there, but it will eventually be done. Thank you again.





4th First Seed, 2E 854
The Pelladil, within sight of Artaeum
Dawn


Arnand stood at the rail and looked out on a sea that was as calm as glass. Beneath the smooth surface he could see the rolling undulations of sea life that moved like muscles under skin. The eastern sun was a hazy golden orb half cut by the horizon, and the air around him was damp with the mists of dawn. To the south he saw a tiny boat push away from the coast; its oars dimpled the still water and propelled it ever closer. Now is the time, he thought to himself, I have taken advantage of their hospitality long enough. Here is where we part ways.

“That Argonian of yours is a wonder,” said Captain Valion. He was standing so close that Arnand was irritated with himself for not hearing his approach. “Fifteen days from Stros M’Kai to Artaeum and here I stand, looking at that elusive shore. I doubt if the trip could have gone any better.”

“’Keep knows what he is doing,” said Arnand. “Although I don’t think he would take kindly to being called ‘my Argonian’.”

“I meant no offense,” said Valion, “I was only saying that the two of you have provided good fortune to this voyage, I will be sorry to see you go.”

“’Keep’s life is his own. You have seen the value he brings as a navigator. If you offer him a position with your crew I’m sure you will find him agreeable. As for me, I am not going, not to Artaeum anyway.”

“You’re not going?” asked the clear, musical voice of Lattia Direnni.

Arnand turned, cursing himself again for his inattention. Lady Direnni was emerging from below deck with Irinde in tow. Her golden skin shone like sunlight in the new dawn, and the butterflies that resided in Arnand’s stomach were quickly transformed into cliff racers. It must be now, he thought, before the boat arrives.

“May I have a word in private, Lady Direnni?” he asked.

She nodded. Irinde took her mistress’ lead and wrapped her arm around Captain Valion’s. She steered him towards the stern, leaving the rail to Arnand.

Arnand struggled. This is harder looking into her face. Where do I begin? How much do I tell her? Honor binds her to the Order; if I steal from them then I am stealing from her. By the Eight, why is this so hard?

“Is this when you tell me your true purpose in coming to Artaeum?” She asked.

Arnand’s reverie exploded like a soap bubble. “You knew?”

“I suspected,” said Lattia, “you don’t act like a mage, and you certainly don’t carry yourself like one.”

“How do mages carry themselves?”

“Deliberately,” said Lattia, “as befits those who have spent a lifetime in study. You are too much a man of action, Arnand Desele. If I had to venture a guess I’d say that you were closer to a nightblade or an assassin than a true mage.”

“You were not concerned by the thought of bringing an assassin into the midst of your Order?”

“Are you an assassin?”

“No,” said Arnand, “I’m not.”

“Then I needn’t be concerned.” Lattia leaned against the railing. The small boat in the distance left a trail of its brief journey, like a finger drawn across a still pond. She turned to Arnand.

“You are not an evil man,” she said, “I have known evil men. Still it begs the question, why go to Artaeum? As much as you risked getting here there must be something on the island that you want.”

“There is,” said Arnand.

“Why?”

Why? Not what. Arnand smiled. “You don’t want to know what?”

“I suspect the why is more important,” said Lattia.

How much do I reveal? She is a Direnni Elf and a Psijic initiate, how much can I trust her? “It is for my wife,” he heard himself say. Strange, that is the first I have thought of Elissa since leaving Stros M’Kai.

“You have a wife?”

He must have imagined the dark cloud that shadowed her face when she said it, because when he looked to the sky it was as still and hazy as he remembered. When he turned back to her the shadow was gone, but her eyes still held the question.

“I did,” he said, “I do. She was corrupted by a vampire, and is now cursed to walk undead through the night. In order to find a cure, I met with a sorcerer willing to lend his aid. But to do so he requires a service of me.”

“A service that brings you to Artaeum,” she said.

“Yes, and I will speak no more of it. I have burdened you with too much as it is. That is why I’ll be leaving the ship. I will find my own way to the island.”

She tried to speak, but he stopped her with an upraised hand.

“Please,” he said, “I am loathe to ask, Lady Direnni, considering how much kindness you have already shown me. But I do ask you not to reveal my presence or my intent.”

She reached out and covered his hand with her own. His hand closed around hers before he could stop himself. Her hand was soft and warm, yet it clung to his with a curious strength that quieted the cliff racers in his stomach. An energy that was both soothing and terrifying flooded through him. Their eyes met, and she smiled.

“Call me Lattia,” she said, “and I shall call you Arnand. I do not know your intent, so I have nothing to reveal. As for your presence,” she paused and turned toward the approaching boat, “I too know what it is to enter into an unholy alliance for the sake of another. Your secret is safe with me.”

Arnand’s gratitude was interrupted by the arrival of the small boat which heaved to and bumped gently against the hull of the Pelladil. Lattia bid her farewells to Irinde and the crew. Lorundil and Sinyail appeared to help lower her over the side. As she settled into the boat, she cast her eyes back to the ship. All those she had come to know through her voyage stood at the rail to watch the boat depart.

All save one.





4th First Seed, 2E 854
The Isle of Artaeum, Summerset
Mid-Day


The boatman was dressed in the grey cloak and hood of the Psijic order. He kept his back to Lattia and bent to the task of rowing. For the entire time they traversed the placid water he never uttered a word. The only sound was the gentle play of his oars. As the boat drew closer to shore, Lattia could see more greycloaks waiting on the beach. This is really happening, she thought. She felt an intoxicating mix of exhilaration and fear, as if she had climbed to the top of a mountain, and from her vantage point on the summit she could see a higher peak in the distance.

There were three greycloaks on the beach. They waited in eerie silence among the half-hearted smoke and embers of long-spent torches stuck in the sand. The tide was so gentle that it barely disturbed the azure water with its rise and fall. The boatman jumped into the surf, and with his cloak wet from the waist down he dragged the boat to the shore.

The boatman offered a hand covered in green scales to help Lattia from the boat. Recognition flooded through her as she was taken back to that secret cellar under The Draggin’s Tale. Her eyes searched past the hood for a glimpse of the boatman’s face, and she wondered if this was one of the hatchlings that Earns-His-Keep had brought with him on his last visit to the island.

One of the greycloaks came forward to greet her. Slight of build and small in stature, the figure’s head was barely even with Lattia’s stomach. Slim golden hands pulled the grey hood back from the kind face and welcoming smile of an elderly female Bosmer.

“Good day, initiate,” she said, “Welcome to Artaeum. I am the Chief Proctor for the Order. You may call me Gelwaen.”

Lattia bowed a greeting, “thank you, Chief Proctor. I am Lattia Direnni.”

“Gelwaen,” said the Bosmer, “we all know who you are, initiate. Your reputation precedes you. Follow me, the Loremaster wishes to speak with you.”

Why would the Loremaster wish to see me? Lattia thought.

Gelwaen turned from the shore; Lattia fell into step behind her. They crested a rise and the ocean mists and white sands surrendered to a rolling green meadow under a sparkling cloudless sky. A path that seemed to be part of the meadow led into the distance. Lattia followed Gelwaen onto the path. Everywhere she looked there seemed to be some new gift for her eyes. To her left a shaded wood of oassom trees with their long trunks and high branches dropped ripe fruit to the shimmering grass. To her right a carpet of proscato flowers, pale purple in the mid-day sun, stretched and fell towards the deeper blue of the sea. As they walked the trees and flowers fell behind them and were replaced by moss-covered brown rock, and the crystal waters of a still and silent lagoon where a group of greycloaks held quiet council. By the time they had gained the base of Ceporah Tower the only word Lattia had left to describe it was ‘eloquent.’ She stopped and bent at the waist to catch her breath.

“I never dreamed,” she managed. Her breath had been taken by so many sights that she no longer trusted her mouth to speak. Tears rolled down her cheeks, but she could not recall ever being happier. “The island is so. . .”

“Yes,” said Gelwaen smiling, “and it is such a rare privilege for us to see it through new eyes. Thank you, initiate. Now come, the Loremaster waits.”

By the time they reached Iachesis’ Palace Lattia was spent, her mind afire with inspiration. The Palace melded into the landscape in such a way as to suggest it was formed when the island was shaped by Akatosh hurling himself into Mundas. Gelwaen led her through warm halls that seemed to be the arteries of some majestic creature that lent its wisdom and temperance to all within. She was used to the opulence and mystery of Direnni Tower, her life spent immersed in the history of those halls. But, as she followed the quick silent steps of the greycloaked Bosmer, Lattia felt with all her being that she had finally found her way home.

She was led into the Loremaster’s quarters, a well appointed egg-shaped room that was dominated by the towering rows of bookshelves that climbed up all around her. Tomes of varying shades and weights covered every bit of wall space from the floor into the rafters and attested to the knowledge of the room’s single occupant.

He was an Altmer whose hair was whiter than the snow on the Jerall Mountains. Each furrow and line in his face spoke to Lattia of experience earned, and wisdom won. He was seated at his desk and he regarded her through soothing brown eyes that she instinctively knew had seen the end of the First Era.

“Loremaster Celarus,” said Gelwaen. Lattia had forgotten she was in the room. “May I present our newest initiate, Lattia Direnni.”

“Thank you, Chief Proctor,” said Celarus, “would you please prepare temporary quarters for this initiate?”

“Yes master,” said Gelwaen. She bowed to the Loremaster, nodded once to Lattia, and quietly left the room.

“Would you like to sit down, Lady Direnni?” asked Celarus, “I know the walk from the beach can be taxing to those unprepared.”

Temporary quarters? Lattia took the offered seat. “Thank you, Loremaster. And thank you for your kind invitation.”

“I should thank your brother for accepting on your behalf. We are very happy to have you here.”

So that’s it, Lattia thought bitterly, it always comes back to my family. “I imagine that it is unusual for an initiate to be greeted by the Chief Proctor, or to have a private meeting with the Loremaster.”

“Unusual yes,” said Celarus, “unprecedented no. Yours is a special circumstance.”

“I suppose Clan Direnni’s reach still extends to the Isles. My brother will be happy to know that.”

“Whether it does or not is for others to say. Our interest in you has absolutely nothing to do with Clan Direnni.”

“It doesn’t?”

The warmth in the Loremaster’s eyes faded, replaced by something that caused the room to shade and grow noticeably colder.

“You opened a gate to Oblivion, and conversed with a Daedric Prince,” he said. “In so doing you unwittingly violated a pact that has been in place for nearly a thousand years. How could the Order not be interested in you?”

“I. . .I did not know.”

“No you did not, nor did you consider. You were only interested in what you could acquire from the attempt. We brought you here to give discipline to this wild natural talent of yours. And in so doing perhaps we can mend some of the damage you have already caused.” Celarus leaned back in his chair. The weight of untold years could be seen in the droop of his shoulders and the burden could be told through the pain in his eyes. “You have no idea how fragile our existence on this plane is. This fragility forms the reason that the more destructive of the daedra covet this world. Whether or not you subscribe to the Eight Divines, the Chim-el Adabal is a powerful artifact whose sole purpose is to shield us from the hordes of Oblivion. With it lost our security lay in a pact brokered many years ago on this very island. Your actions have broken this pact, and I fear that all may suffer as a consequence.”

Lattia could not find the words. In her mind she had made a tentative peace with the price that her communion with Clavicus Vile had cost her. While it did concern her, she was content with the fact that the price was hers alone to pay. It never occurred to her that it might have to be shared with this entire plane of existence. She suddenly knew exactly how small she really was.

“It is customary for an initiate to be tested before being accepted fully into the Order,” continued Celarus. “In addition to testing your abilities you will also apply them to the task of gleaning knowledge that can aid us in finding some new way to shield ourselves from the daedra. I trust you know the significance of tomorrow’s date?”

“I do, Master,” said Lattia, “the Fifth of First Seed is the summoning day for Hermaeus Mora.”

“Indeed,” said Celarus, “you will be shown to temporary quarters where I suggest you get some rest. Tomorrow you shall be tested at a place that we call the Dreaming Cavern.”

Posted by: mALX Aug 20 2010, 11:30 PM

No! Don't do it Lattia!!!! ARGH !!!!!

Posted by: hazmick Aug 20 2010, 11:40 PM

Wow. The opening paragraph was beautiful, as were all of your other descriptions. The dialogue of the characters was amazing, the characters seem so real and I can see that you put a lot of effort into your story. I'm glad to the the king of worms will be back, he's such an intriguing character. I am also glad the everybody's favourite daedric prince will be making an appearance, Hermaeus Mora is great. I can't wait to see what Lattia has to do next.

Posted by: haute ecole rider Aug 21 2010, 12:42 AM

Again I'm swept up in the wonderful place that is Summerset Isle, at least in your fiction. Beautiful!

This seems a little awkward. As you have helped me in the past with similar sentences, forgive me for trying to return the favor. Maybe rewording like this (CAUTION: rough draft quality!): The Palace melded into the landscape in such a way as to suggest it was formed when the island was shaped by Akatosh's plunge into Mundus.

This word kind of jars me - don't you mean merged or perhaps immersed?.

Overall a wonderful chapter. I remember being spellbound when I first read it, from the beginning and Arnand's POV, his interaction with Lattia (is that infatuation I detect?), to her POV and her arrival on the island. I loved it the first time and I still do!

Posted by: Acadian Aug 21 2010, 03:35 AM

Each of your stories strikes me differently in unpredictable manners, as you well know. I am not familiar with the port of departure, sea they sail or the destination. I am, of course familiar with Arnand and Lattia.

What struck me here was simply the jaw dropping quality of your writing and the way you paint with words. This ripples throughout your writing of course, but what really stood out for me in this was, well, everything about the portion at sea. The sea, the ship, the interaction between the characters. Quite magical to read in fact.

Posted by: bobg Aug 21 2010, 02:15 PM

Despite playing Daggerfall and Morrowind for years, I lack the patience and discipline needed to work through most lore and had difficulty in getting into your original thread on that other forum (my shortcoming not yours.) At last the sun shone through the murk of my tiny brain. Vague memories, and the knowledgeable responses from your fans brought back snatches of scenes in dungeons and the words of tomes thought long forgotten. Having been away from fan-fic for a while, today I read the first post in this thread. I registered just to let you know you have another fan.

Posted by: SubRosa Aug 23 2010, 12:57 AM

Finally getting around to reading again.

That was a nice, sweet scene between Arnand and Lattia. Especially good was the very last line.

the butterflies that resided in Arnand’s stomach were quickly transformed into cliff racers.
This was a skillful turn of phrase.

In so doing you unwittingly violated a pact that has been in place for nearly a thousand years.
I was so hoping Lattia might reply with "Well maybe you should have clued the rest of the world in about that boatmaster."

So this is the what you alluding to before when you mentioned why the Daedra never invaded Nirn while the Amulet of Kings was lost. I was half-expecting you to go with the theory that the towers (White Gold Tower, Adamantine Tower, etc...) were what kept them out. http://www.imperial-library.info/content/facts-and-opinions-nu-hatta-intercept. The deal that Sotha Sil brokered always reminds me the Munich Treaty, and seems even less likely to be as effective as that was, since the Daedra have less reason to honor it than Hitler did Munich. But that is just an entirely personal opinion.


nits:
“Your have a wife?”
I think the King of Worms slipped in an extra "r" there.


her life spent emerged in the history of those halls.
This sounds a bit odd, did you mean merged by chance?

Posted by: Olen Aug 23 2010, 10:47 PM

Another excellent part. This piece is very slick and well put together. You have plenty of hooks laid too, how has Arnand gotten ashore and how will he avoid notice. What are the details of the treaty which is broken and how did she unwittingly manage it. And what's about to happen with old Herma (who is by far my favourite of the daedra).

Another of those great little observations which sit so well with real life they they lend the story and characters a greater reality.


Great metaphor.

Nit:
For the entire time they traversed the placid water he never made a sound. - never said a word might be better, not making a sound suggests he wasn't rowing or had muffled oars (not that they're that quiet) or something.

Posted by: Destri Melarg Sep 8 2010, 09:33 PM

mALX – Unfortunately for Lattia, she simply cannot say no. Prepare to cue the WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT!!!!!!!!!!! The first part of this next chapter is for you.

hazmick – After reading of Haa-Rei’s brief sojourn through Apocrypha, I think it will be fun to compare notes to see how much of it we see the same, and how much of it we see differently.

haute – That is infatuation that you detect in Lattia and Arnand. Unfortunately you will have to wait to see if it grows into something else. The good news is that I think you will like this chapter. It answers one of your burning questions.

I was thinking of both immersed and submerged when I wrote that sentence, hence ‘emerged’ . . . ARGH!! Thank you for pointing it out.

And please sing out anytime you see something of mine that needs to be re-written. Your rewording of that passage is better than what I wrote. I have changed it to your version but I have tweaked it to maintain the fact that Akatosh threw himself into Mundas. ‘Plunged’ sounds to me like something that was done to him, not something he did himself. Thanks again.

Acadian – You have no idea how gratifying it is that you pointed out that portion of the story. I wanted that sequence when they are in sight of the island of magic to have an almost dreamlike quality. I took great pains to evoke the peaceful nature of their surroundings and the growing fondness that Lattia and Arnand feel for each other. It is all a prelude to the storms yet to come.

bobg – Welcome to Chorrol. Wow! Just, wow. I don’t know what to say. I’m speechless (something for which you have just earned the undying admiration of all my family and friends!). ‘Thank you’ seems inadequate to express my gratitude. The fact that you registered just to say how much you are enjoying this story is like giving me a miniature sun that will warm me through those cold nights of self-doubt. I can’t think of a better endorsement (lacking two commas and several zeroes) that any writer could receive. Again, thank you.

Oh, PLEASEPLEASEPLEASE say that this means that we will see Angel over here soon!

SubRosa – You have done it again!! As the story continues you will see aspects of Michael Kirkbride’s interpretations postulated within the text. For now let me just say that all is not as it appears. I agree that Sotha Sil’s ‘pact’ bears less weight than the parchment needed to print it. Comparing it to Munich is appropriate. I would say that, given that the daedra measure time differently than mortals, it is not unreasonable to assume that such a pact could be sustained for a thousand years or more. Yes, I know that reasoning appears weak. Would Mehrunes Dagon or Molag Bal really feel bound to respect the terms of a truce brokered by a Chimer sorcerer in a cave on Artaeum? But there is also the fact that, when Sotha Sil brokered this ‘truce’ there was still an Emperor on the throne wearing the Amulet of Kings.

This brings me to my only problem with the theories put forth by the Nu-Mantia intercept: It makes Akatosh look like either an idiot or an a-hole to give Alessia the Amulet of Kings knowing that the towers are already protecting Nirn. Of course, writing that brings to mind that our only knowledge of those events comes from books written by mortals after the fact, which makes them subject for debate and interpretation.

Okay, now I have a headache!

Thank you for pointing out the nits. I am glad to see that you remain vigilant; we don’t want the King of Worms ‘slipping’ anything anywhere!

Olen – As always, your nit is well observed. I think it was the noiseless variety of oar made only from the oassom tree that he was using. I have gone back and fixed his silence.

As for the rest: Patience, my friend. All of your questions will be answered in the course of time. For now we must shift our gaze a thousand and more leagues north by northeast . . .

4th First Seed, 2E 854
Main Gate, Imperial City
Dusk


The spearman stood his post on the side of the Main Gate and longed for the shift change. He had been there since dawn, when the new light made the long shadows dance away from him, and the sun hitting the Main Gate behind him provided ample shade. By mid-day the high sun cast short shadows that made shade a memory to be longed for. He had nearly cooked in his armor then, but as the sun fell towards the west and the day dragged on the shadows lengthened both in front and behind him, cooling him like a spit boar over burned out embers.

During his watch, the affairs of the city played out around him. Artisans, workers, and those who had chosen toil over the harsh conditions of the dungeons set to the task of rebuilding the portions of the city that an older generation had destroyed. The sounds of hammers, picks, strained rope, and straining horses assaulted the spearman’s ears. Below him every manner of craft, from simple rafts and fishing boats to gondolas and ornate pleasure barges filled the canals and the clear blue water of Lake Rumare. They weaved amongst the bridges that connected the Imperial City to Cyrodiil’s coast.

By the time the sun disappeared over the tree tops of the Great Forest the traffic at the Main Gate was limited to those returning to the city after a long day of fishing, hunting, or farming. Some carried bundles of slaughterfish and mudcrab, their muscles straining under the weight. Others carried naught but bait and tackle, with envious looks on their faces. For every wagon and bow-legged horse loaded down with pelts and bloody meat, or fresh vegetables, flowers and fruits there were wagons empty, and horses unburdened. Very few looked satisfied with the day’s catch. But with the first cold winds of nightfall coming in from the north and the plaintive howls of wolves to the east, they all found reason to make their way behind the safety of the Main Gate.

The spearman stole a glance to his left. It was met by the blue eyes of another dressed in identical armor. The other guard nodded once, and the spearman suppressed a smile. He didn’t know the name of the other guard, but the two of them had stood their watch well. With the shadows lengthening in the twilight, that made them as close as brothers.

A small group of figures left the bridge and began to climb the easy rise toward the Main Gate. They looked as if they had formed from the deepening shadows. They were four in number, wearing flowing black robes that dragged along the ground in their wake. Their faces were invisible behind the shadows of their hoods, and they glided with soundless grace over the cobblestones. The spearman heard the scrape of a heavy boot against stone to his left, and knew that the other guard had seen them. He brought his own spear to rest in both hands.

“We are here to relieve you.”

The booming voice came from behind and nearly caused the spearman to jump from his skin. He turned and saw the fresh shift waiting.

“It’s about time,” said the guard to his left, but he kept his eyes on the cloaked figures approaching.

“Trouble?” asked one of the new guards.

“We’ll soon know,” said the spearman. He stepped forward and lowered his weapon. The lead shadow stopped a few scant feet from the point, and the three behind him fanned into what looked to the spearman like a battle formation.

“State your business,” said the spearman.

The lead figure bowed his head. “We seek an audience with the Emperor.”

The clipped, measured tone of the voice bespoke of someone highly educated and comfortable with the weight of authority. But something about the way he rolled the ‘S’ sound caused the hairs on the back of the spearman’s neck to stand up.

“Who seeks an audience?” asked the spearman.

The figure lowered his hood. Behind him the spearman heard the other guards rush forward. He felt his own sudden intake of breath. A thousand thoughts cancelled each other out in his mind. He felt as one charmed, hypnotized, rooted to the spot, and in that moment he knew why the mouse doesn’t run from the snake. The figure before him spoke, and the spearman heard clipped, measured tones coming from behind golden scales.

“I am the Chevalier Renald,” the figure said.





4th First Seed 2E 854
Reman Plaza, Imperial City
Evening


Captain Alorius opened the door and showed Zurin Arctus inside. He led the battlemage across the room. General Talos lounged on a couch near the stairs leading to the second floor. A spearman stood at attention opposite the couch. The room was well-lit, and as Arctus reached the couch he noted the distinct lack of smoke. General Talos motioned him into a chair.

“Ysmir?” asked Acrtus.

“Sent to Vvardenfell,” said General Talos, “he is scouting potential routes for our invasion.”

Arctus took the offered seat; he looked at the General and raised an eyebrow.

“Of course not,” said Talos, “but his absence improves the room’s décor, and I grow weary of burning incense.” He nodded to Captain Alorius, who turned to the spearman.

“Spearman,” said Alorius, “tell the General what you told me.”

“Yes sir,” said the spearman, “I spent the day on duty at the Main Gate, sir. At dusk, with the shift change, a group of Tsaesci stopped at the Gate and requested an audience with the Emperor.”

“Tsaesci,” said Arctus, “you are sure?”

“Yes sir,” said the spearman, “it is hard to mistake one, sir.”

“Go on,” said Talos.

“Yes sir. As the shift being relieved, it was left in our charge to escort the Tsaesci to the Palace. When we arrived the Palace Guard refused to escort the Tsaesci through the doors. A runner was sent to inform the Emperor.”

Inform the Emperor? Arctus thought to himself. Not Farenenre?

“We were told by the Palace Guard to usher the Tsaesci into the throne room,” the spearman went on, “the Emperor met with them there.”

“Just the Emperor?” asked Arctus.

“No sir. Lord Farenenre was present, as was Lady Direnni and her bodyguard.”

Direnni, thought Arctus, curious. This cannot be a coincidence.

“Were you dismissed at that point?” asked Talos.

“No sir. We were kept to protect the Emperor, I presume. Though I’m not sure why sir, given the attitude of the Palace Guard. We had disarmed the Tsaesci at the Gate. Had their intent been hostile, they would have been set upon by the whole of the Palace long before they gained the Ruby Throne.”

“So you heard their conversation?” asked Arctus.

“Yes sir. The Tsaesci Captain introduced himself and his . . . well, men isn’t the right word. He called them his ‘syffim’.”

“Of course he did,” said Arctus, “do you remember their names?”

“I do sir. The Captain called himself Renald, but he said his name was once Vershu. Those of his syffim were called Xarsien-Ves, Eesham-Sha, and Chirasch something. I’m sorry, sir, I can’t remember his second name.”

Arctus was no longer listening. Vershu, he thought, Vershu?

“What else did they discuss?” asked Talos.

“This Renald complimented the Emperor on his strength,” said the young spearman, “I heard him mention an ancient vow, something like Pale Pass, and Reman I. He spoke of a debt owed to the line of Dragon Emperors that he and his syffim had come to pay.”

Arctus’ eyes met those of General Talos. Wheels within wheels, he thought.

“You have a good memory, spearman,” said Talos. “Captain Alorius, this man looks hungry. Take him to my table and give him his fill.”

“Yes sir,” said Alorius. He motioned for the spearman to follow and led the way across the room. Arctus waited until they were out of earshot before turning back to the General.

“Vershu? Pale Pass?” asked Talos

“Unlikely,” said Arctus, “but it is possible. Tsaesci are immortal.”

“Tell that to the ones who died at Pale Pass. Why did Lady Direnni’s name affect you so?”

The man missed nothing! “A message I received yesterday from one of our operatives along the Reach. A representative of Clan Direnni left Jehanna to seek out the King of Worms. He hired the two knights as guides.”

“What two knights?” asked Talos.

“The two I suggested,” said Arctus, “to tie up that loose end from Sancre Tor.”

Talos nodded. “I suppose it was too much to ask that Clan Direnni sit out this contest. At least now we know that they are on the move, though I fail to see what they hope to gain from the necromancer.”

“I think our immediate concern should be with the Direnni getting close to the Emperor,” said Arctus, “curious that we received no warning from Farenenre.”

“Curious indeed,” said Talos. “I think you should have a talk with Lord Farennre, remind him where his loyalty lies.”

“Yes General. What of the Tsaesci, should we be worried by their arrival?”

Talos took a sip from an ornate silver goblet. “I would be very surprised if Cuhlecain didn’t put them to use immediately.”

“To assassinate you,” said Arctus. It was not a question.

Talos nodded, “it is the smart play. If they succeed he can hail them as heroes come to protect the line of Dragon Emperors from my ambitious machinations. If they fail he can condemn them as heirs of the Potentate who seek to usurp the Ruby Throne by isolating the Emperor. Either way, he loses nothing.”

“Then you should leave the city,” said Arctus, “we need to play for time to put our own plans into effect.”

“If I leave then Cuhlecain knows he has an informant in his midst. We would lose Farenenre, who is too valuable to us right now.” He took another sip from his goblet. “The Tsaesci didn’t just materialize on Nirn. Doubtless they have heard the talk of who is and is not of dragon blood. Soon they will realize that the Amulet is too big for Cuhlecain’s neck.”

“Are you willing to bet your life on that, General? Even if we double your bodyguard they may not be enough to stop these Tsaesci. I have in mind one whose sword we could add to your personal guard but still, I almost wish you hadn’t sent Ysmir away.”

“Who is this one you have in mind?” asked Talos.

“A Redguard acquaintance of mine, I used him to set the two knights to purpose.”

“You trust him?”

“I trust his word, General. He is, was, a Knight of the Moon. He left his Order rather than compromise his honor. However, he is currently in Sutch receiving treatment for an arm injured when he left Sentinel. I fear he may not arrive before these Tsaesci make their attempt.”

“You are a good friend, Arctus,” said Talos, leaning back on the couch, “and your concern is noted. But my course is set; I will not leave the city.”

“Very well,” said Arctus. He looked past General Talos at the young spearman eating at the table across the room. “What of this spearman, what motive does he have in telling us all of this?”

“The same motive that all young people have, Master Arctus, ambition. Alorius tells me that this young man is wasted on guard duty. After hearing of our activities at Fort Black Boot he has spent the last month pestering Alorius for a transfer to my staff.”

“Does he have a name, General?”

Talos turned on the couch. His voice carried across the room, “spearman!”

The spearman rose from the table as if poked by a branding iron. He stood at attention. “Yes sir.”

“What is your name, son?” asked General Talos.

The spearman kept his back straight, and his eyes forward. But he could not help the smile that formed at the corners of his mouth.

“Spearman Rielus, sir,” he said.

Posted by: treydog Sep 8 2010, 10:19 PM

The first paragraph is a simply brilliant bit of description seen through the eyes of one of the ubiquitous Guard family. I wonder if his first name is “Imperial?” ETA- Ah, I see it is something else.

You weave such a wonderful, bustling picture of the day dwindling to somnolence and then- the reveal!

Things are getting even more interesting than they were, which is saying something. Woo-Hoo.

Nits:

Loses, I think.



Lose, again.

Posted by: Acadian Sep 8 2010, 10:22 PM

What an entrance!!!!!!!!!

WooHoo! They are not dragons, but nevertheless, Buffy and I stared at each other as chills ran up my back and down hers. A masterpiece of an effective passage!

Political intrigue. It seems Talos is a target for Tsaesci assassins - I can pick that up. Obviously lots more mystery of swirling pieces here that I shall have to wait for you to show me. No worries. I don't normally solve mysteries until I ask Mrs Acadian during the closing credits.

Nit? I guess it would be bridges that connect to, while waters separate from. Since the boats weaved among the bridges, I would stay with bridges, simply changing two words as follows: 'They weaved amongst the bridges that connected the Imperial City to Cyrodiil's coast.'

Posted by: hazmick Sep 8 2010, 10:36 PM

hooray! I've been waiting in the shadows for this chapter and I'm not disappointed. I love your descriptions of the Tsaesci, they are my favourite characters You're story continues to be rich and full of...awesomeness! More, please?

Posted by: SubRosa Sep 8 2010, 10:54 PM

Your description of the Imperial City is very powerful. The line about rebuilding the dungeons of course made me snap to my memories of Oblivion's tutorial, and the ancient-looking ruins beneath the prison. Likewise with the finale of the Thieves Guild questline, where you actually get to play in the old Ayleid city beneath the human one.

However, it sounds a little different from the place we see in Oblivion as well. Canal's? Pleasure boats. This hearkens me to the Aztec capital of Tenochtitlan. I take it you are drawing on ideas from the earlier ES games, when Cyrodiil was a jungle rather than merry old England? Not a problem, it makes it feel more interesting of a city, like Venice, or the aforementioned Tenochtitlan.

And Spearman Rielus I see! About time our forth Blade reared his not yet ghostly head. Using him to describe the city was a good touch. Likewise showing the reintroduction of the Tsaesci through his eyes. Your description of Rielus being rooted to the spot by the Chevaliar's gaze brought back memories of watching Riki-Tiki-Tavi as a child, and the hypnotic glare of the evil cobra.

The machinations of Talos and Arctus were once again most intriguing. I have the distinct impression that Farennre will not be with us much longer, and that when push comes to shove, the Tsaesci will not be allying themselves with Cuhlecain. I am sure it will not take Reynald long to notice that he is not wearing the Amulet of Kings...


Nits
Either way, he looses nothing.
Ysmir might be in Morrowind, but he left an extra "o" in loses before he left.

Posted by: haute ecole rider Sep 8 2010, 11:57 PM

Wheels within wheels, indeed!

Everything read fine, except for the looses/loses that trey and Sage already pointed out.

I loved the description of guard duty, especially this line:

This is something that completely captures the feeling of being out in the sun in full plate for far too long!

And welcome back to Chevalier Renald and his syffim!

And a cheery to my fourth Sancre Tor Blade, Rielus!

Posted by: mALX Sep 9 2010, 03:11 AM

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT!!!!!!!!!!


ARGH !!!!!! GAAAAH !!!!!!! Chevalier Renald - That scene is one of my favorite in the whole story !!!! It is like an unveiling of a masterpiece when he says his name!!!!!!!!!! I love that !!!





Sancre Tor here we come !!!!! WOO HOO !!!!!!

Posted by: Destri Melarg Sep 13 2010, 10:30 AM

trey – Thank you for your wonderful comments. Your place near the hearth is always kept open, and it is a pleasure when you choose to drop by. Mea culpa on loose/lose. It is a mistake that I always seem to make, no matter how much I try to guard against it.

Acadian – What would I do without the Acadi-editor? Your observation about bridges connecting and waters separating was well-observed (as always). I have gone back and changed that passage as per your recommendation. The mysteries herein deepen in this chapter. In anticipation of the confusion that this may cause, I have included a brief note below. After all, Mrs. Acadian has to rest sometime.

hazmick – You and I share a fondness for the Tsaesci. I see them as incredibly complex figures. On the one hand, they are capable of the atrocity of hunting the dragons of Akavir to near extinction. On the other hand, they are willing to lay down their lives to fulfill a vow made to a foreign Emperor.

And your wish for more is my command.

SubRosa – I wasn’t aware that the earlier ES games portrayed Cyrodiil as a jungle. I was simply of the mind that the IC of the second era would bear some striking differences to the IC of the third era. I incorporated canals because I think any major city built on the water would inevitably contain them (though I am sure you can find many examples of cities that do not). They provide an easy way to move goods through the city without the use (or expense) of horses, oxen, and wagons.

Your mention of Riki-Tiki-Tavi brought back a lot of memories. I think I was maybe five or six years old when I first saw the animated version of the story. That mongoose became my personal hero for at least three years. I spent many hours and many tears trying to persuade my parents to buy me one, even after my mother astutely pointed out that cobras were not indigenous to Cleveland!

And I took that wayward ‘o’ and shipped it back to Ysmir.

haute – Now that all of your ghosts from Sancre Tor are assembled, what pray tell shall we do with them? I confess that the idea of an all out battle between the four knights and the four Tsaesci still plays about the corner of my imagination. Maybe I could persuade Lattia to project them nearly five hundred years into the future to properly welcome Julian into their ranks while discretely slapping Jauffre around.

mALX – I love that scene with Renald as well. I got little goosebumps when I wrote it. The initial idea was to show Rielus escorting the Tsaesci to the Palace, and all that occurred within. But after Renald’s line the rest of the scene seemed anticlimactic, better shown through narration than action. Hence the scene with Talos and Arctus, which also served to get Rielus into Talos’ employ. Thank you so much, mALX.

This chapter has given me more trouble than any other. It has gone through so many versions and re-writes that I have lost count. The one you read now is an expansion of what I posted on the other forum, and I believe it is far superior. In it we encounter things that go beyond the lore usually discussed within Oblivion. If you’re curious, http://www.uesp.net/wiki/Lore:The_Monomyth formed the main inspiration.





???
Apocrypha, Oblivion
???


Her world was a gray fog. It was all around her and inside her. She felt herself falling within it, yet not through it. The many whispered voices that surrounded her pressed in closer. Their words were unknown to her, a language never heard on the plane that mortals occupy. Yet in her mind she understood their meaning. They regarded her as one of their own. With every whisper she felt her self being stripped away, becoming one with the Gray Maybe. She held her eyes tightly shut, and in her mind she shouted to herself so that she could be heard above the whispers.

I am Lattia Direnni. I am Lattia Direnni.

The voices grew insistent; one above the rest exploded in Lattia’s head and shattered her feeble attempt at self-control. It was a male’s voice, expressive in a way that she had never heard before. It was like an urge filled with both longing and promise that raised itself over the others to be heard.

“A new plane,” the voice was saying, “a Mundas in which we create souls that might interact with one another.”

“Why?” asked a female voice, and in that one simple word Lattia felt herself overwhelmed by the sense of compassion which sprang from its source.

Lattia heard a chorus of voices echo this sentiment, but the first speaker was not dissuaded.

“Because thanks to the Dragon time now exists, all of us have settled into our current forms. Eternity looms over us as a weight that even we cannot move. How will we pass through eternity? Will we spend it adrift in the Aurbis? Or shall we spend it in the creation of a plane that is ever-changing, ever-entertaining?”

“Change,” said a voice deep with authority and heavy with the weight of time, “is a Padomaic concern. Why bring this plan before us? Why not ask those more in tune with the will of change?”

“Because they are interested only in chaos and destruction, what I propose is a plane of order and creation. I admit that this plane would possess some of the nature of Padomay, but its light is that of Anu. Besides, isn’t the nature of time itself Padomaic?”

“Be careful, Lorkhan,” said the deep voice. “Do not question outside of your province.”

“Apologies Auri-El,” said Lorkhan, “I meant no insult.”

“How exactly will this proposed plane be constructed?” asked the compassionate voice that Lattia realized could only belong to Mara.

“I believe Magnus can answer that question better than I,” said Lorkhan.

A new voice was heard, one that echoed throughout the In Between. “First I shall form a pocket in Aetherius. Then we shall need Kyne to provide the space for this new world in the void; the rest of you will then need to lend a portion of your aspect to form the substance of this new plane.”

Another voice spoke in the Aurbis. This one was female, and seemed to be formed of wind and rain and treacherous seas. “If this new plane be a place where my winds might roam free, then I would see its construction done.”

One by one Lattia heard the voices in the mists agree to this, each motivated by its aspect and each like a lightning strike until only Auri-El’s voice had not been heard. There was a silence that reminded Lattia of long, cold days in Direnni Tower when she and Varla sat huddled near a beaded window, waiting for the peal of thunder that always followed the lightning.

“Then let it be done,” said Auri-El.





She was back amongst the shelves which rose like mountains all around her. Pages floated past her vision on a wind which could not be felt. She sat cross-legged on a floor without substance, yet a floor all the same. A large, black, leather bound tome sat heavy in her lap. Around her she felt the presence of souls, ancient, desperate, yearning souls that had lost themselves within the pages of identical tomes which filled the shelves and spread without number throughout the realm.

She closed the book with a consuming sadness. For a brief time she had stood among the ancestors who had been tricked into the creation of the world. For a time she had been made whole, given back the aspect that should have been hers save for Lorkhan’s foul treachery. Tears streamed down her face as she realized how easy it would be to lose herself in this place.

I am Lattia Direnni, she told herself, I am Lattia Direnni.

She was still telling herself that as she reached for another book.





5th First Seed 2E 854
Red Mountain, Morrowind
Evening


From ash he had come, to ash he now returned. The wanderlust was upon him again, unbidden, ungovernable. Now, as always, it kept his eyes trained ever east, to this mountain, and the Heart that lay beating within. He began to climb.

Time held no meaning for him. For those of his kind the ages of mortal existence are viewed as a simple glance to the left or to the right. Memory plagues the gods as death plagues the mortal, omnipresent, inescapable, and inevitable. In this time he called himself Ysmir, but there were other times when he wore other faces, and other names. His true name he kept hidden, for that was the aspect of him that had been lost. He gazed inward, for the heavens were always silent to his plea. Though he knew that Kynareth still wept, she would not defy the others. How long must I wade amongst the sheep? Have I not suffered enough? Mundas has taken from me far more than from any of you, was my crime so great?

They would not answer; silence greeted him as it always did. He continued to climb, dispatching the creatures that appeared through the ash with an ease that marked his true station. Above him Masser and Secunda shone down as eloquent testimony to the continued rage of those he had betrayed. The tiny points of light that kept him from climbing in darkness were a mute reminder of the followers of Magnus who had escaped into Aetherius.

The Heart would restore him. Even corrupted by the Chimer lords the Heart still beat within the mountain, so he climbed. He could not claim it now, weak as he was. The Tribunal would destroy him without much effort. To reclaim what was his he would need an army. So even if it meant fulfilling the ambitions of a half-breed Atmoran. Even if it meant taking the man’s form to give his troops the illusion that he possessed the thu’um, it was a price that he would gladly pay to visit his vengeance on those who had corrupted the Heart. For now he could only gaze upon it, but that was enough.

So he climbed.





???
Apocrypha, Oblivion
???


A light brighter than any in her experience cut through the gray mists and flooded her vision. Aetherius, she thought to herself. Familiar scenes could be seen both through her eyes and in her mind. They shifted and swirled against and into each other. Blue skies over white-capped seas, green fields leading to majestic snow-filled mountains in the distance, a torrent of ice that swirled amidst stunning sunlight caused her to shield her eyes out of reflex, even though the act did not mute the glare.

The sound was deafening. It started as a low whine at the edge of hearing, and grew with the churning violent formation of Nirn. Around her the sound grew in pitch and crescendo, a part of this new formed world yet separate from it as well. She was filled with the fear that realization brought her, the sound suddenly identifiable in its intensity.

Screams.

I am Lattia Direnni, she thought, I am Lattia Direnni.

Movement drew her attention to the left. Her eyes were met by a field of heather and lavender stirred to gentle movement by a caressing breeze. In the center of the field Lattia saw what appeared to be an old woman; tall, frail, and cloaked. The woman spoke into the breeze. Her voice told of wind and rain and treacherous seas. At her command the gentle breeze grew into a gale which swirled around her and caused the folds of her cloak to flap like banners caught in the storm.

The screams grew louder. Lattia covered her ears and endured through strained jaw and closed eyes. Nothing she did could mute the pain and terror carried by those sounds. When at last she opened her eyes the field and the woman were gone, but the screams remained. She floated in a world that was plunged into darkness. It was so absolute that only the countless number of dim lights below reassured her that she had not been consigned to the void. Those lights began to rise all around her, covering her in a warm embrace that alleviated the cold that, until then, she was not even aware that she had felt. She was visited by a profound sense of peace that quieted the screams around her. For a time she bathed in the lights, reveling in the warm penumbra that washed over her. But, all too soon, they lifted above her and rose until they reached the canopy of stygian darkness overhead. There each of the dim lights tore a hole through the shroud and disappeared into the brilliant light of Aetherius, still visible just past the darkness. The tiny holes that marked their passing remained, allowing small, shimmering points of Aetherius into the darkness of the world.

I am . . . Direnni . . . Lattia . . . Direnni.

She fell. Time was lost as she rolled and twirled through the blackened sky. An anguished scream revisited her senses only to be lost to the sound of rushing wind that pulled at her hair and made her close her eyes against the blinding tears. It took several anxious moments to realize that the scream had come from within, born of a pain that went beyond any in her experience. It felt as if the talons of some fierce and hungry beast had torn through her chest and removed a large piece of her soul.

I . . . am . . . Lat . . . tia . . .

Her eyes opened to blood-red skies. She lay naked on a barren field amongst the broken bodies of men and mer, so many that they blocked her view of the horizon. The air smelled of ash and blood and filth. In the distance she could just make out the silhouette of a Great Dragon with a long neck and mighty wings. What was left of her mind marveled at the beast's apparent size that she could see it from so far away. For some reason the fact that it was moving toward the far horizon filled her with terror. Laughter filled the space that was left by her screams and a voice resounded within her ears.

“This Heart is the heart of the world,” it said, “for one was made to satisfy the other.”

She rose to her knees sobbing, her eyes riveted to the receding Dragon until it faded from view.

I . . . am . . . I . . . was . . .

She could no longer remember.





5th First Seed, 2E 854
Akulakhan’s Chamber, Red Mountain, Morrowind
Evening


He felt her in the rain that began to fall as he gained the summit of the mountain. He raised his head and allowed himself to drink the cool, swollen droplets. She watches me still, he thought. He fought through the corrupt creatures that guarded the Citadel with the taste of the rain sweet on his tongue. Her presence permeated the maze of winding corridors within. By the time he reached the central chamber it was as if she stood there with him. Despite all he had suffered a smile graced his features, for it was not often that a god felt surprise.

“I did not expect to find you here,” said Ysmir.

The Heart still lay encased in the chest of a Dwemer construct, which rose defiantly from a sea of molten rock in the center of the chamber. Movement behind it betrayed her position. She emerged into the light cast by the lava below. Ysmir looked upon her, tall, frail, and cloaked. Even without eyes she had no trouble negotiating the thin span of bridge that separated them.

“Where else should I be?” she asked as she reached him. Her voice spoke of wind and rain and treacherous seas.

“At his side,” said Ysmir.

“Then you remain a fool,” she said.

He dropped to his knees. His arms encircled her slender waist and pulled her close. He buried his head in the folds of her cloak. For a time only his muted sobs could be heard in the chamber.

At last he looked up toward her. “Kyne . . .”

She placed an almost skeletal finger over his lips. “No. As you now call yourself Ysmir, I would have it that you call me Erinwe.”

“I do not care what you call yourself. I care that you are here. Why?”

“Why? Did you truly think that I only wept? We are one, beloved. I would see you restored to all that you were.”

He stood and wrapped her small hand in a powerful squeeze. “How? By remaining silent to my desperate pleas? By remaining by his side, doing his bidding?”

“Yes!” She placed her other hand against his cheek. “You cannot outlast one who has dominion over time itself. He will not waver, nor shall he bend. I seek to restore his covenant with those you have left for him to rule. I have even sent powerful agents to guard the dragon blood you have allied yourself with. But I exacted a price for my service.”

“What price?” asked Ysmir. He felt himself ease the grip he had on her hand. Through her hood he could see the tears that trailed down from sightless eyes. He pulled her in close, and held to her with a strength that surprised him once again. “What price?”

“Your freedom,” she whispered.

Posted by: Acadian Sep 13 2010, 01:38 PM

By Mara! Lattia walking among gods! I am . . . Lat . . . tia.

This is quite the rich experience to read! I say experience, because that is how I think of reading your writing. I simply relish the feeling and mystery of it.

You would be proud of me to realize that I have poked around in lore enough to recognize almost every player you featured. In fact just last week, we chose Aetherius as the name for Carandial's bay horse in BF.

Posted by: hazmick Sep 13 2010, 04:42 PM

APOCRYPHA!!!!! I think that your Apocrypha kicked my version's a..s..s. However, Haa-Rei's Apocrypha was only a dream-version and not the real thing. (Excuses excuses ) Good job with this chapter, you've made Gods feel like Men (and Mer) to me as a reader. More please? (Or should I say...Mora? )

Posted by: SubRosa Sep 13 2010, 04:49 PM

Well this certainly ratchets the story up another notch! Before we were only looking at the plots and counter-plots of mortals and the occasional Daedra Lord. Now we have the plots of the gods themselves thrown into the stew. It makes me wonder what is going to bubble up from this cauldron you are are brewing!

Memory plagues the gods as death plagues the mortal, omnipresent, inescapable, and inevitable.
This really sums up the weight of immortality. Once again, I really enjoyed your depiction of Lorkhan. I have always suspected that he was Pelinal Whitestrake, given the latter's godlike abilities and psychotic hatred for elves.

And Lattia, my poor Lattia, lost in Apocrypha. It is funny, because on the surface it seems the most benign of all Daedric Realms, but in reality, it is probably the most dangerous to its visitors. Your description of the creation of Nirn was lovely (if one can call making an abattoir of gods lovely). I have always thought of someday playing a character who sees Nirn in the same way that Magnus and the others must have seen it - not as peaceful green fields and rolling oceans, but as a nightmare of mutilated divinity. It would seem perfect for an Altmer assassin.

Posted by: treydog Sep 13 2010, 04:50 PM

Your effort shows- or rather, it doesn't- which is the true mark of a well-crafted story.

Everything about the first section has a “monumental” feel; it is easy to understand and empathize with Lattia’s need to remind herself of her “self” in the midst of all that power.

Wow, just- wow.



Eep!

Brilliant and beautiful images from start to finish.

One nit:



Misplaced apostrophe- there is only one “beast,” so “beast’s.”

Posted by: haute ecole rider Sep 13 2010, 05:39 PM

The expanded version certainly works, and is much more powerful than what I read initially over on the other forum.

It really resonates with me in the manner of the most timeless of myths - the story of Creation. Lattia's struggle to hold on to her self in the midst of the gods is humbling.

A nit:

I think the lightning scared the 'a' into squishing into a second 'e' in peal. Thunder doesn't peel like oranges, but rather peal like bells.

Back to what I liked/loved about this chapter. Again I am reminded of the images of Dagoth Ur as presented by others writing MW fiction, but I realize now that this is the Lost God, Lorkhan. The interchange between him and Kyne is both heartfelt and terrifying. Yikes!

You have done very well with this chapter - I really found myself caught up in it along with Lattia.

Posted by: mALX Sep 14 2010, 02:25 AM

I get goosebumps every time I read that last chapter too, and on each re-read.

I haven't had time to read the referenced Morrowind book yet, but will get to it ASAP. Once I do I will re-read this chapter too.

Your version of Apocrypha is stunning, and I am so glad I didn't tackle it in my original !!! After reading yours mine would pale terribly !!!

I remember Lattia's day in Apocrypha from your original story, this version is so much more powerful - I love them both, but would choose this one instantly as my fave of the two - AWESOME WRITE !!!!!!

Posted by: Remko Sep 14 2010, 04:57 PM

Lorkhan is Ysmir?? hmmm.....
wow Destri... I swear that if this hadn't been a fanfic, you should have had it published. It truly is among the best fantasy I have ever read.

Posted by: Destri Melarg Sep 16 2010, 12:47 AM

Acadian – Aetherius! You will have to forgive me if I steal that name for my Arch-Mage’s white stallion. It’s perfect! I promise I won’t use it if I ever get around to writing about her. I am so glad you have taken to poking around in the lore. But be warned, it can become more addictive than skooma! I will be interested to see how this might inform Buffy’s story in the future.

hazmick – Don't sell your version of Apocrypha short. I like the mystery of not knowing too much about it.

As for gods, the thing I love the most about the Greek pantheon is that they are motivated by the most human of emotions. Love, pride, rage, jealousy; all have their place, especially amongst immortals. I am glad that I have been able to infuse some of that into this story.

SubRosa – I admit that it all seems a bit complicated. I see this as THE watershed event in Tamrielic history that shapes everything that follows it. Given what happens to Talos later, it seems illogical to think that the gods and the daedra wouldn’t play a part.

Like you I believe that Pelinal was a manifestation of Shor/Shezzar/Lorkhan. I think that his relationship with Morihaus bears this out. Early on in the planning of this story I fell in love with the idea that the gods use manifestations to walk amongst the mortals of Nirn. Through the lore we know that Lorkhan is doomed to walk through eternity wearing many guises. We also know that you can encounter Mara, Zenithar, and even Talos himself in Morrowind. I thought it might be fun to characterize Kynareth’s manifestation, and give her a minor roll to play.

And you have just described the world view of my de-frocked former Psijic assassin and necromancer, Amairgen.

trey –

Wow! I can think of no better compliment than this! Thank you so much!

I also thank you for helping me wrangle that wayward apostrophe. It has been fixed.

hautee – The more I think about it, the more I question my handling of Lattia’s situation. Like most Altmer, she believes that godhood is her true aspect, stolen from her when Lorkhan tricked the gods into the formation of Nirn. Given that, would she really be so quick to hold onto her ‘self’ when given the opportunity to regain that which was lost? I had hoped to convey that inner struggle through the device of her constant mantra within the chapter, but I’m not sure it worked the way that I wanted it to.

*Shut up, Destri! Stop second (and third) guessing yourself!*

Thank you for delivering the ‘a’ back to ‘peal’.

mALX – Are you kidding?! I can just see Janus and Melissande waltzing through Apocrypha. He standing eight feet tall, holding Alix the mouse, and scaring anything that moves into submission. Her muttering incantations while clutching Maxical’s soulgem to her breast. There would be thousands of lost, wayward souls scrambling over each other to give them wide berth. And, over in the corner, Hermaeus Mora curled in the fetal position repeating over and over again:

“Please, just make them leave. Please, just make them leave.”

Remko – Thank you so much. Ysmir is a manifestation of Lorkhan, I know it is a semantic difference but it is still a difference. Lorkhan’s ‘body’ was sundered and cast into the night sky to form the twin moons, Masser and Secunda (at least, that is my understanding of events). A manifestation is like an avatar. It is a representation of the original, without being the original. I imagine it would be a lot like having to experience eternity in Cyrodiil as your Oblivion avatar. It might be fun for awhile, but it would be torture after, say ten years (or a couple of thousand if you’re stuck in Morrowind with Zerina ).

Everyone – At last! This marks the final post of the ‘old’ material that many of you have read before. After this every new post will be just that, NEW!!! Thank you all for staying with me through this sometimes tedious process. I appreciate all of your support and comments more than I am able to adequately express. Thank you again.





6th First Seed, 2E 854
Unmarked Cave, Somewhere Along the Western Reach
Morning


Nolquinn could still feel the warmth of the morning sun on his face. He could feel the occasional breeze that stirred the bandages that covered him from head to toe. He could feel the pull of the stitches along his throat that kept his head from flopping backward like a lowered hood. And, as he lumbered in front of the cave, he could feel the sodden ground that the melting snow had left under his desiccated feet.

The coming back was worse than the dying, he thought to himself. Thinking was all he could do now. Someone had cut his vocal cords before the ritual, unless they had been severed by the cut that killed him. Either way it no longer mattered. All he knew for certain was that the salt they used to preserve his body still lingered on his tongue. He would have spat it out if he could, but he couldn’t. Although his soul remained his own, his will was bound to another. There are worse things, he thought. He had been a tool of the master in life, why not remain one in death? No, the only thing that Nolquinn considered bad about the whole situation was sharing the watch with that idiot Lorian again.

Looking over at the Breton would have made Nolquinn laugh if he were still able. At least they took their time with my preparation, he thought, perhaps because I am a fellow Altmer. They could have given the Breton some clothing at least. The condition of Lorian’s animated corpse was positively shocking. His once pale skin was now the color of tanned leather, and bits of it fell from his body whenever he moved. The carrion eaters were quick to discover that fact, and now paid him the attention due a moveable feast. Somewhere along the way he had lost an arm. They had not bothered to close his neck wound, which was now a haven for scavenging insects. The crown of his head flopped against the back of his shoulders, which caused him to perpetually stare glassy eyed towards the firmament.

I wonder if he can still think and feel? Nolquinn thought. No, he couldn’t think and feel before, why would it be different now? At least now Nolquinn didn’t have to tolerate his stupid jokes or listen to his drunken wheezes as he slept through the watch. There was a lesson to be learned in that, and it warmed Nolquinn more than the morning sun and filled this new day with promise. It was obvious that Lorian’s incompetence had sentenced him to an eternity as a Worm Thrall. Yet they preserved my body, perhaps they seek to make me an Eremite.

Nolquinn banished the thought from his mind. They would do nothing of the sort if his inattention allowed another intruder into the cave. With legs made stiff by the bandages he turned his back on Lorian and continued his patrol around the perimeter.

The clump of boots on soft ground caught his attention and caused him to make a slow turn toward the sound. Lorian was lumbering toward a man bedecked in light mail. With the only arm he had the former Breton swung toward the head of the intruder, and missed.

Stupid Breton! Nolquinn willed his legs to move but the bandages that preserved his skin caused his legs to be slow to respond. The intruder drew a silver longsword that whined from its sheath, and before Nolquinn could cover half the distance between them he swung it in a shimmering arc that culminated at Lorian’s neck. There was a sound like the tearing of old parchment, and Lorian was absent a head. It hit the ground with a muffled thump and rolled glassy eyed away from the mouth of the cave. Lorian’s body sank to both knees, and then pitched forward onto the sodden ground. Most of the scavengers were thrown clear upon impact save those that still clung to the body like rats to driftwood.

There was a sound behind Nolquinn. He tried to turn but he was just too slow. The right side of his head exploded. Thankfully there was no pain, that was a thing of the past. But cold blood and the jagged remains of teeth replaced the taste of salt in his mouth. The impact was such that it knocked him several paces off his course and left him disoriented. He could not see out of the right side of his face, so it wasn’t until he brought his head completely around that he saw the battered head of the silver mace coming towards him, held in the steel gauntlet of the largest Nord he had ever seen. Not again! He thought.

It was the last thought he had before the world went black.





“Zombies,” said Alain. He pulled a cloth from inside his tunic and began wiping the sticky, congealed blood from his sword. “This must be the right place.”

Valdemar grunted and set to the distasteful task of pulling bits of what had once been Altmer from his mace. “It better be. This is the fourth cave we’ve marked since leaving Jehanna. I do not intend to spend the entire season slogging through the Reach. Volunteering us as escorts to spoiled nobility was not one of your better ideas.”

“Quiet,” said Alain, “lest they hear you.”

“Let them hear me,” said Valdemar, pulling an embedded tooth from the head of his mace, “I’d sooner face live Altmer than dead ones.”

“You may get your wish if you’re not careful, Nord.” The brush near the severed head of the other zombie parted and Hecerilar emerged with his sword in hand. He led a contingent of mer that surrounded the armored and cloaked Castellan of Balfiera, Aran Direnni.

“Do not mind Valdemar, my lord,” said Alain, bowing to the Castellan, “he has always been unsettled by necromancy.”

Hecerilar sheathed his sword and made way for the rear guard leading the horses. “We have all seen how Sir Valdemar wields his mace. I do not know whether to be encouraged by the thought that there are still shadows in this world that unsettle him, or terrified at the thought of meeting those shadows.”

Aran Direnni waved a dismissive hand and looked toward the mouth of the cave. “The Nord’s attitudes do not concern me as much as the knowledge that this is the right cave.”

“We believe it is, my lord,” said Alain.

“So you have said thrice before,” said Aran, his off-hand caressed the amulet of Clavicus Vile that adorned his neck. “I am beginning to doubt your competence as guides. Perhaps I should have left you both in Jehanna’s dungeon. Well, I suppose there is nothing for it now. You will have to search the cave of course.”

“That will not be necessary,” said a voice behind them.

Even the horses jumped. Fists closed around the handles of weapons. Both men and mer stood poised, ready. Every eye turned toward the cave, and the distinctly female voice that had spoken.

She stood near the opening, though none of them could remember her presence there even an instant before. She was framed in the halo of light cast by the torch that she carried. Her slender frame was obscured in the folds of a black cloak that fell into a puddle at her feet. The skin of her hands was the color of the melting snow, and her cold blue eyes dismissed each of them in turn before lingering with a startling insolence on Aran Direnni. When she spoke the voice that exited her blood-red lips carried the unmistakable accent of High Rock.

“Lord Direnni, my master bids you welcome.”

“How do you know who I am?” asked Aran. Hecerilar kept his hand on the pommel of his sword and slowly circled toward the woman’s flank.

Her eyes followed Hecerilar. “You will find that there is precious little that my master does not know.” She returned her gaze back to Aran. “However, he expected you to arrive yesterday.”

“I was subject to the knowledge of my guides, which was sadly lacking,” said Aran. The amulet gently smacked against his cuirass as he spread his arms in front of him. “But at long last I am arrived. If your master knew of my coming, then doubtless he knows that I am not here to do battle. I seek an audience with him.”

“He has sent me to collect you,” said the woman. “He offers you safe passage through the cave.”

Aran raised his right hand to a point even with his jaw. Hecerilar took his hand away from his sword and backed away from the cave. When he reached the Castellan’s side the other mer allowed their hands to fall away from their weapons. Hecerilar led Aran toward the entrance. Sir Alain released his sword and fell into step behind them. Sir Valdemar followed with his hand white-knuckled around the handle of his mace.

“No,” said the woman, raising a delicate alabaster hand, “my master’s offer extends to you alone, Lord Direnni. Your retainer must wait here.”

“My lord,” said Hecerilar, “this is folly. What is to stop them from holding you to ransom except us?”

“I agree, Lord Direnni,” said Alain, “we cannot just watch you walk into what could be a trap.”

The woman’s laugh was like the crack of a whip. “I assure you that if ransom were our aim, the meager force you have assembled wouldn’t stop us. Now come, Lord Direnni, my master awaits.”

Aran placed a hand on Hecerilar’s shoulder. “Make camp here, I shan’t be gone long.”

“But my lord. . .”

“Do as I say, Hecerilar.” He turned toward Sir Alain, “I release you and your companion from my service. We have no debts between us. You may keep your mounts as payment for services rendered, such as they were. I suggest that you move on, forget the location of this cave, and strive to put as many leagues between it and yourselves as possible before nightfall.”

“Fine with me,” said Valdemar. He released his mace, turned on his heel, and strode toward the horses.

Alain lingered, his eyes locked onto the Castellan. He opened his mouth to speak, and then thought better of it. He set his jaw, made an awkward bow, and then turned and followed Valdemar toward the horses.

Aran watched as the two knights mounted and spurred their horses back into the brush. When the sound of the hooves faded into the morning air he gave a last look to his bodyguard, and then followed the woman’s flowing black robes and the flickering torchlight that disappeared into the shadow of the cave.





The light of the torch cast bent reaching shadows along the walls of the tunnels as she led him deeper within the bowels of Nirn. Ghosts whose tangibility allowed them to move like wisps mingled with animated skeletons who sauntered through the tunnels, their bony claws clutching the hilts of swords or the handles of axes. Zombies moved amongst them, the stench of their rotting flesh was overpowered by the sweet, cloying smell of the incense burning in braziers placed at regular intervals. The combined smell was pungent enough to bring tears to Aran's eyes.

He stayed as close to the torch as he could without seeming a coward, his hand clutched around the amulet of Clavicus Vile. For luck, he thought. The undead denizens of the cave recoiled and cowered before the light. For the first time in his life Aran understood the human preoccupation with Arkay and he found himself giving silent thanks to a deity that he did not believe in before entering the cave. If not for the light of this torch, he thought. He knew why the woman had found humor in the bravado of his retainer, even without the score of black cloaked figures that they passed in the tunnels there were enough undead to kill them all many times over. Have I made a mistake coming here?

No! The King of Worms himself has extended safe passage. The thought gave him some comfort, and allowed him to move through the cave with his head high and his chest forward in some semblance of his Direnni bearing that remained with him as long as he stayed within the cone of the light.

In the lowest chamber of the cave the woman came to a stop before a large door made of stained oak. She moved to the side of the door and held the torch up as she bowed.

“My master waits,” she said.

Aran stepped forward. His jaw ached from the interminable moments of tension felt on his tour through the shadows of the cave. And his hand cramped painfully from how tightly he had held to the amulet. The door opened inward at his approach. He passed through a threshold of darkness, as if all of Nirn had suddenly faded away. While enveloped in that darkness he was aware that the door behind him had closed. He tried to continue forward, but his feet could find no purchase within the void. Fear took hold of him even as his hand renewed its hold on the amulet. He could not tell if he were swimming, falling, or flying. Before him the darkness shifted and parted like the drawing of a curtain, and it was only then that Aran allowed himself to breathe.

What magic is this? He felt himself transported. The room he was in could not exist in a cave. It was paneled in oak and as well-appointed as the Castellan’s study at Balfiera. He stood on red carpeting so soft and thick that he swore he could have stood upon a cloud. The shelves lined two entire walls and housed books of every shape and color. Yet one would have had an easier time finding an Altmer in Falinesti than a speck of dust amidst the covers.

Two figures were engaged in a conversation across the room. The first was male with an Altmer’s height and dressed in an ornate flowing red robe. The matching hood hid even the barest hint of any features, and cast the face within to the same darkness as the void that Aran had just passed through. Twin points of intense blue light escaped from the darkness under the hood, and told of unspeakable power and threatened madness to any who would stare into that abyss for too long. The power of his presence was astonishing. There was no mistaking his identity. The King of Worms, Aran thought with a reverence he had not known himself capable of. Fear of his own weakness in the presence of the Worm King forced him to pull his eyes toward the other figure.

It was like something from a child’s nightmare. It was bent to a little more than half the height of the robed figure, but it easily matched that height in girth. Its head was the size of an orc's chest with two small, rheumy golden eyes placed too far to either side. In the center of that massive head a pulsating maw loudly sucked in air and swallowed it like water. Its gray skin matched the pallor of a corpse, but it glistened with a substance too thick to be perspiration. It wore a soiled brown robe and a gnarled cane protruded from something that was more stump than hand. Aran was struck with a memory from childhood, when Emero had tutored the young generation of Direnni elves on the subject of the Thrassian plague. Could this be a Sload?

“You will find no shortage of souls on Stros M’Kai,” the King of Worms was saying, “but make haste, despite their immortality the Daedra are notoriously impatient.”

He sounds Altmer! Aran did not trust his legs to carry him across the room, so he remained where he stood.

“This one shall not fail you, master,” said the other.

“See that you don’t,” said the King of Worms, “else the All Flags Navy will seem as nothing compared to my wrath.”

“Yes master.”

“Then away with you,” those blue eyes locked on Aran’s from across the room. “Welcome, Lord Castellan. Please enter and make yourself comfortable. The food is plentiful, the vintage is excellent, and we have much to discuss.”

Through a profound act of will, Aran’s legs carried him unsteadily across the room. He barely registered passing the repulsive creature who was in the act of exiting, so intent was he on the robed figure before him.

The King of Worms spoke, and his voice lifted Aran from his trance. “One last thing, N’Gasta.”

“Yes master?” asked the creature as he paused at the door.

“Try not to draw attention to yourself.”