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Posted by: haute ecole rider Mar 17 2010, 09:57 PM

This is the story I have been posting on the Unnamed Forum. I'm in the process of moving it over here for those who have not yet seen it. Enjoy!

Chapter 1.1a Escape

Waking up vomiting nothing but a small amount of bile, I gagged on the burning in the back of my throat. Coughing the last of it from my mouth, I curled on my right side on the foul cot, knees drawn to my chest. The rough wood of the cot’s frame pressed into my cheek. The smith’s hammer pounding on the inside of my skull sent stars shooting across the backs of my eyes. Grinding the heels of my hands into my closed lids in an attempt to drive the lights away only made the damn hammer pound even harder. Groaning, I turned until I lay on my back, opening my eyes.

Ignoring the taste of moldy stones on my tongue, I gulped down deep breaths of the damp air. The stars subsided as I stared at the stone blocks rising into the gloom above my head. The hammering slowed to once every shaky breath. Raising my thin wrists, I looked at the iron shackles encircling their ache. The prominent veins in the backs of my hands disappeared as the blood drained from them. Turning them so their palms faced me, I studied the ghosts of rough calluses, dark skin pale in the dim light of the window above my head.

Shouting. Clashing of steel on steel. A dark room spinning around me. Pitchers breaking, fluid flying everywhere. The helmed face of the Legion rider before me, his gauntleted hand holding my shoulder in an implacable grip, shouting something at me. My empty hands between us, palms facing the rider, my voice drowned by the chaos around us. Then the cold night air, my bare feet cringing from the rough cobblestones. Falling through the paving into darkness.

“Ach, what happened?” I muttered softly to myself. In spite of my whisper, the smith’s hammer pounded hard for a couple of heartbeats before slowing down again. Struggling to a seated position, I ignored the familiar stabbing pain in my left side, the hard throbbing in my right knee. Scooting my rump along the cot, I reached the pitcher sitting on the rickety table at the foot of the cot. Looking into the mug next to it, I grimaced at the dirty fluid inside. Picking up the pitcher, I raised it to my lips. Trying to avoid tasting it, I gulped the stale water hurriedly. Taking another mouthful and setting the pitcher down, I rinsed my furry teeth with it. Rising to my feet and leaning my right hand on the wall, I limped to the privy at the rear of the cell, spitting the foul water out.

“Awake now, are you, pretty Redguard?” the sarcastic, biting voice sounded behind me. Shooting a glare over my shoulder, I took in the barred door, the Dunmer in his cell across the way. “How do you like your cell?” he continued, his voice still mocking. Pretty, am I? Disheveled, filthy, thin and weak - no, pretty would be the last word I’d use to describe myself.

Turning around, I took a limping step through the trickle of faint moonlight falling from a window too small to show stars. Another limp took me past the table, its pathetic candle shedding little additional light. One more step brought me to the cell door.

“Roomy enough for you?” the mocking continued as I studied the Dunmer. He looked as unhealthy as I felt. Turning away from him, I limped around the small room, hunched against the sharp pain in my left side. Nausea roiled in my stomach, and my muscles quivered uncontrollably, their former strength forgotten. “I can’t even imagine what it’s like for you,” the other’s voice followed me on my limited perambulation. “No more sunshine, no more open seas. Just a box and a dirty sunbeam for the rest of your sorry life. Bet you’re glad it won’t last long, eh?”

“What?” I returned to the barred door, squinting at the Dunmer across the way. “I won’t be here long?” my voice cracked, weak in my still-burning throat. My dry lips split as I spoke.

“Oh, didn’t you know?” The Dunmer’s voice turned bitter along with his faded red eyes. “They put you here to forget about you. They don’t care if you die, Redguard.” His sharp-edged voice grated on my already raw nerves. The sound of a bolt being drawn back, a heavy door creaking open somewhere down the passage reached us. “Hear that Redguard?” the Dunmer’s tone became strident. “They’re coming for you!” He drew back into the shadows of his cell as I heard voices.

“Tell me what happened to my sons,” an old man’s voice reached me, heavy with grief.

“Sire, all we know is that they were attacked,” a woman’s voice, clipped with authority and respect, responded as booted steps drew nearer the cells. “We must hurry, Sire, we need to get you to safety.” I heard the slightest undertone of anxiety in her voice.

A tall figure, clad in steel armor with blue enamel and brass trim marking him as one of the Blades, lifted his torch at me. He stopped outside my cell, his Redguard features scowling at me in the guttering light. The woman, a little shorter than I and clad in the same armor, paused at the sight of me. Her blue eyes sparked angrily beneath the helm. “This cell was supposed to be empty!” she exclaimed softly under her breath.

“I don’t know, Captain,” the tall Redguard shrugged, keeping his cold black eyes on me. “Some mix-up with the City Watch.”

“It doesn’t matter,” the captain responded. Beyond her, another armored figure and an old Imperial man in royal purple robes appeared. The third Blade matched my height, and like me, turned out to be Redguard as well.

“Prisoner!” the captain’s voice crackled between the stone walls. My back straightened involuntarily, painfully, at the unmistakable command in the woman’s voice. “Stand back beneath the window!”

Although I had been out of the Legion for four years, old habits die hard. Complying with her order, I limped to the back of the cell, behind the moonbeam. The captain unlocked my cell door while I squinted through the grey light. Opening the door, she stepped back to let the other two Blades enter. The tall one advanced to stand between me and the others. Sensing his dislike of me, thick as molasses in a Skyrim winter, I accepted it, as I accepted the captain’s authority, since I could do nothing else.

“Watch the prisoner, Glenroy,” the captain ordered, moving to the side wall opposite my cot.

The slim sword whickered as Glenroy drew it. “Aye, Captain,” he growled, turning the blade so it shimmered in the moonlight between us. “You stay where you are,” he snarled at me. “Don’t even breathe.” Breathing slowly and shallowly, I stayed put. Looking past him, I regarded the other Redguard. Standing at ease near the door, his impassive expression scared me in its implacability. Years of combat in the Legion had taught me that the most deadly enemies are the ones you can’t read.

The captain started muttering under her breath, and I felt the unmistakable tingle of magicka shimmer over the plain rock face. Catching my breath, I realized the captain was a Breton, with high innate magicka. Probably trained as a battlemage.

The old man, his dark fur-lined robe a shadow in the shadows of the cell, stepped past the impassive soldier and peered at me, his sad eyes puzzled. “Come closer,” his voice smoothing from a grieved coarseness to a commanding tone.

Glancing at Glenroy, I hesitated, but he fell back to stand beside the old man, keeping his blade between me and the other. Acutely aware of the shimmering sword, I stepped forward into the light.

The old man’s eyes widened. “Ah, yes, I’ve seen you before.” His dark gaze held mine, once again becoming sad and resigned. “That means today is the day, and the hour is near.” Suddenly aware that the smith’s hammer had stopped pounding in my head, I stared at the old man.

Licking my dry lips, I remembered how the captain had addressed him. “Pardon me, Sire?” He can’t be - no, not the Emperor, not here, not in my cell! My eye fell on the large red amulet on his brocaded chest. The Amulet of Kings? The Emperor! Stiffly against the pain in my left side, I bowed. “How may I serve you, Sire?” Old habits die hard, very hard, indeed. Looking up, I saw a faint smile touch Uriel Septim’s eyes.

“I have served Tamriel all my life,” he answered. “You too, shall serve Tamriel in your own way. But you have your own path to follow.” His eyes grew even darker. “Be warned, though. There will be blood and death before the end.”

“Blood and death are not new to me, Sire,” I spoke softly, surprised by the weariness I heard in my cracking voice.

The wall of my cell crumbled beneath the captain’s hands, falling away in a cloud of dry, choking dust. A passageway appeared beyond. “Sire,” her voice cut between us. “We must go now, there is little time.” She disappeared into the darkness beyond the jagged stone edges.

Glenroy turned the top of the slender blade toward me as the Emperor started toward the opening. “What of the prisoner, Sire?”

“Leave her be,” the command voice was quietly unmistakable as Uriel Septim stepped through the opening, following the captain. “Her path may yet lie with ours.” Glenroy gave me one last glare, sheathing his sword and following the Emperor. The third Blade turned his back on me and brought up the rear.

Listening to the sound of their booted feet fading away, I glanced around the cell again. Something coiled in my belly, just below the breastbone. On my discharge from the Legion, I had once hoped to find peace and health after decades of blood and death. Peace and health had avoided me, and now a mere hint of blood and death had found me.

Posted by: haute ecole rider Mar 17 2010, 10:04 PM

Chapter 1.1b Escape

Looking down at myself, I saw the pathetic sacking I wore. The thin pants, the flimsy shirt, the sandals with the rotten strings. No, I can’t do this. I’m too old, broken down, sick. My knee hurts, my hip hurts. Unconsciously my hand dropped to my left flank, over the debilitating wound that had led to my discharge from the Legion. It had festered in the years since my discharge, pulling me down to my left when I was tired, or when the weather turned cold and damp, much like the air in my cell.

Again, something shifted in my belly, suddenly making me claustrophobic in the narrow confines of the cell. The hammer tapped softly in my skull. The headaches had begun when I sickened from the wounds in my left side and right knee, only worsening the longer I lived out of the Legion. Silencing that hammer had become the sole focus of my existence since then, but led to my downfall.

Involuntarily, I moved to the passage, coughing against the rock dust still swirling in the air. Peering into its shadows, I caught a glimmer of an open space beyond, below the level of the cell floor.

Limping between the falling stones, wincing when my right foot slipped on unstable footing, I made my way down the rough-hewn corridor. Soon I reached an ancient stairhall, dust thick on every horizontal surface, undisturbed except for the boot prints on the floor. Following those tracks, I soon spotted the flicker of torch light ahead. Moving quicker to catch up, I soon reached the Blade bringing up the rear.

He turned his head to his left shoulder, still walking forward. “Careful, prisoner,” he warned me. “Stay out of our way.” His matter-of-fact tone was as impassive as his face. It reminded me of my pilus prior many, many years ago when I was a raw recruit, a tiro, in the Ninth.

Ahead in the dusty, ancient passageway, I could see the captain, torch high in her right hand. It guttered when she started at an attacking shadow and dropped the torch to draw her sword. The red and black figure towered over her and swung something at her head. She went down before she could bring her shield to bear. Glenroy and the other Blade leaped forward, their swords clanging as they attacked the shadow.

As the assailant disappeared in a red and yellow haze, I moved to stand beside the Emperor. The old man had drawn a silver shortsword, ready to defend himself. Clenching my empty hands - oh, for a weapon! - I spotted movement on the other side of the room.

“To your right!” I shouted. The pain in my knee and side forgotten, I moved between the Emperor and this new threat. As one, Glenroy and the impassive Blade dashed to the other side, moving into the darkness that pooled there.

Only the flashing of blades, the sparks flying in faint sprays as metal clashed on metal, could be discerned. The fight was over nearly as quickly as it began, the two Blades the only figures left standing. I could see their helms moving around as they scanned the lower part of the chamber, the soft snicks of their swords returning to their sheaths.

“Captain Renault?” the Emperor spoke behind me as Glenroy moved to kneel beside the fallen Breton.

“She’s dead, Sire,” he spoke curtly, anger simmering in his voice. “Let’s go, we have no time. There may be more.” Rising to his feet, he moved to the brass gate at the far side of the dimly lit chamber. Uriel Septim walked past me, his shortsword already sheathed, and weaved his way past red-robed bodies. The other Blade shot me a warning glance that froze my feet to the floor as he fell in behind the Emperor.

Moving quickly to the red-robed bodies, I searched through the thick folds of fabric. Weapons. I need a weapon. Something! The gate snicked shut behind the Blades. Dimly aware of a collapsed section of wall to my right, I hobbled toward the gate and tried to open it. Damn. Locked! Now what? My mind started chattering as I looked back at the bodies. Find weapons. That combat sense that warned me of danger was tingling crazily now.

A scuffling sound from the collapsed section of the wall warned me. Raising my left arm reflexively, though I held no shield, I whirled in time to see a large rat leaping toward me. Its teeth clattered on the iron shackle still on my wrist. Shoving it away, I felt another one slam into my right thigh just above my knee. Sharp pain told me the damned creature had bit me.

Swinging my right fist down hard on top of the second rat, I heard it exhale in surprise as it let go. Sliding back, it shook its head, momentarily stunned. Turning in time to catch the first rat scrambling toward me again, I seized it around its chest and slammed it against the wall, feeling bones crunch within my grip. Its collapse told me I had killed the creature. Limping to the stunned rat, I stomped hard on its neck with my left foot, twisting my heel until I felt its spine snap.

A quick look around revealed no more live enemies, two-legged or four. All the energy of the fight suddenly dropped out of my limbs. I fell rather than sat onto my haunches next to one of the dead assassins, fighting for breath. Shaking, I looked at my thigh, where the sacking cloth had torn from the second rat’s attack. Blood seeped from the gash made by the creature’s sharp teeth. Closing my eyes, I wished for a healing potion.

Crying, I ran to my mother, holding my right elbow in my left hand. Blood seeped through my fingers. She turned in time to catch me, kneeling to bring her black eyes level with mine. “What happened?” she asked softly.

“Cieran pushed me!” I exclaimed, holding my scraped elbow up, blood running down my raised arm. “See what he did to me!”

My older brother ran up. “I didn’t mean to push so hard, Mother,” he panted, his tone defensive and scared. Our mother took my arm in her strong hands, wiping away the blood to see the wound better.

“It’s only a scrape, Julian,” her warm voice soothed me. “Here, let me teach you how to heal it.” She wiped the blood from her left hand, then cupped my face in her long fingers. “Close your eyes, honey. Feel the pain. Now wish it away.”

“How?” I asked, nevertheless obeying her soft command.

“Take it in your hand, hold it tight until you can’t hold it any more, then let it go,” she said.

As hard as my six-year-old fingers could grip, I clenched my left hand until the joints in my fingers hurt. Pressure built up in my palm, while my mother’s voice encouraged me, and my brother gave a startled gasp. I gasped too, when I realized the pain in my right elbow was gone! Opening my eyes and my left fist at the same time, I caught a pure white glimmer rising from my left palm to swirl gently around me before disappearing.

“See?” my mother smiled, sitting back on her heels. Looking down at my elbow, I saw new skin covering the area where an ugly scrape had bloomed just seconds ago. “That’s how you can heal yourself. Next time an accident like this happens, just take the pain in your hand and hold onto it. The tighter you hold the pain, the more of it you can cast away,” she raised her left hand above her head dramatically. Looking at Cieran, I saw his stunned gaze still on my right elbow.

Somehow my left hand rose in the air, somehow I managed to hold on to the pain, until my fingers ached with it. When white light glowed between my clenched fingers, the pain in my thigh disappeared. Opening my hand, I let the healing spell free. It left me weaker than before, but the gash had closed, leaving a fresh pink scar. Leaning back, I gulped deep breaths until my shaking stopped.

The debilitating wound in my left side and my bum knee felt better. Trying again with the childhood spell, I felt the pain fade further, warmth replacing it. This time, I felt even weaker than before, and did not try again.

Looking at the body next to me, I fingered the red woolen robe thoughtfully. The gash in the front of the garment was small, testament to the deadly skill of the impassive Blade. This one is bigger than me. He won’t miss this robe.

Stripping the body, I shrugged into the woolen robe, folding the front of it to cover the gash and the bloodstains that were nearly invisible in the red color. Wrapping it around me, I rolled the sleeves and pulled the robe up through the belt so its hem wouldn’t drag on the floor.

Feeling something in one of the pockets, I reached in to find a metal disk. Pulling it out, I considered the single drake thoughtfully. He won’t be needing drakes, or septims, anymore. Replacing the coin in the pocket, I fruitlessly searched the other assassin, craving a weapon of some kind.

Puzzled, I searched the bare floor. Then it hit me. Bound weapons, bound armor. Conjuration. I shook my head. Give me something more permanent. Struggling to my feet, I moved to the other side of the room. Kneeling stiffly beside the remaining assassin, I found little more of value, only a belt pouch with another drake in it. Taking the belt pouch and adding it to my waist, I studied the dead Blades captain nearby.

Renault, the Emperor called her. She died in the line of duty. Eyeing her armor almost enviously, I briefly considered taking it. No, it won’t fit me. Besides, that would be disrespectful of a fallen soldier. Finding a steel shortsword at her back, I took it, unsheathing it and hefting its weight in my right hand. Good quality, well balanced. Little used. She kept this as her backup weapon.

Re-sheathing the sword, I secured it my belt. Glancing around on last time, my eye fell on Renault’s longsword laying just a short distance from her out-flung right hand. Its blade rang softly when I picked it up.

The long slender blade glimmered in the dim light, its balance exquisite, almost musical, in my hand. The finely wrought blue enamel and brass that formed the guard fitted seamlessly into the steel blade. The long grip, wrapped in butter-soft yellow leather interlaced around the shaft, easily kissed the old calluses in my right hand. The pommel, a small brass ball set into the end of the handle, provided the perfect balance to the long one-sided blade. An Akaviri katana!

No, I can’t keep it, shaking myself out of my trance, I found the sheath for it and removed it from the captain’s belt. But if I can somehow return it to the Blades, they may know best how to honor her. With an apology the dead woman could not hear, I strapped the katana to my back. Rising to my feet, I noticed that my wounds hurt less than before, thanks to the healing spells.

Now what? Looking around, I considered the passageway that led back to the cell. No, not that way. But the gate is locked. I looked at the collapsed section of the wall. The rats came from there. There’s got to be more. Maybe it will lead me out of the prison. After that, who knows?

Posted by: haute ecole rider Mar 17 2010, 10:11 PM

Chapter 1.2 - The Tunnels

Akatosh must be sitting on my shoulder. Almost immediately upon entering that dark space beyond the collapsed wall, I discovered shabby leather armor - a cuirass, greaves, boots, and best of all, a leather shield that was light enough for my weakened condition. A serviceable iron bow and a few arrows were nearby.

What followed was a maze of dark tunnels, musty chambers, and mostly rats. Soon I was lost. Still I crept along, my hands shaking and my heart in my mouth. Being alone in strange surroundings made me very jittery, as accustomed as I was to being part of a group for twenty-five years. My back became sore from the constant anticipation of a rear strike.

I had been tiptoeing along for some time, my smith friend tap-tap-tapping softly in my head, when I heard a creaking, groaning noise that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Zombie! I hate the things. Recalling the characteristic stench that made that cot back in my cell smell like roses, I found an alcove to hide in. Zombies were disgusting to fight. Their rotting flesh never quite seemed to feel the bite of a sharp blade. Worse, they left behind moldy, slimy fluid that was nearly impossible to remove from weapons and armor.

The undead being lumbered past my hiding place, after two rats that were trying to escape it. Stepping carefully in my oversized boots, I limped out of my hiding place behind the zombie and stabbed it, just to the right of the spinal groove, into where the kidney would be in a man or elf. Turning the blade sideways, I yanked it out of the creature’s flank. A chunk of rotting flesh pulled out with a sickening moist sound. As part of the creature fell wetly at my feet, the zombie staggered around, its half-rotted arms raising to clobber me.

Swinging the sword sideways, I felt it thunk through soft meat into the spinal bones. Heavy blows landed on my shield, staggering me. Managing to recover my blade, I hobbled backwards as the undead being collapsed, falling in several pieces.

After that encounter, it took several minutes for my frayed nerves to knit back together. They almost unraveled again when I skirmished with goblins later in the maze. The first two were lightly armed peons, each alone, each easily taken down by sniping from the shadows. Still, the combat left me shaking badly. Here, I found a mortar and pestle, as I had wished for not so long ago as I picked cairn bolete and wisp stalks. This raised my spirits a little.

Approaching a stack of logs precariously balanced at the top of a slope, I peered around the corner to see two goblins, one a melee fighter, the other an archer. They stared back at me, starting when they obviously realized that I wasn’t one of them. Hobbling for the logs, I kicked at them. Unfortunately I used my left leg, causing my right knee to scream in protest. Nearly falling to my bad knee, I looked up to see the logs tumbling down the slope, sweeping away the two goblins.

A more heavily armed goblin ran out a side passage at the bottom of the slope. His bulkier form made my eyes widen. A berserker! Remaining crouched behind the one log that didn’t roll away, I drew two arrows, sticking one into the dirt by my boot. Restringing my bow, I nocked the other arrow and sighted on him. Akatosh, may my arrow fly true. The bow hadn’t been my primary weapon during my service in the Legion, so my skills were very rusty.

Remember sis, don’t draw it full,” Cieran’s voice whispered in my ear. Sighting down the arrow, I squinted at the silver-barked sapling ten meters down the hill. “Now take a breath, let half of it out,” Cieran continued instructing me. Feeling his presence at my back, sighting over my shoulder, I did as he said. “Feel good?” he asked me.

“Hmm-hmm,” I answered.

“Now pull the string the rest of the way and release, smoothly,” his whisper coached me.

The berserker saw my movement and started for me, raising his war axe. I released the arrow, which smacked him in the chest, embedding itself in the bone breastplate he wore. The impact only staggered him, and he recovered quickly. I forgot Cieran’s lesson and released the second arrow in a panic. Naturally, the arrow flew wide, and now the berserker was almost on top of me.

Backpedaling as fast as I could with the cursed bum knee, I dropped the bow and drew my sword. Managing to raise my shield in time to deflect the blow from that axe, I fell to the ground under the impact. Rolling to clear my sword arm, I looked up to see the berserker raise his axe overhead for the killing blow. Somehow I managed to drive my shortsword into his belly, slipping it beneath the edge of his bone cuirass and angling the tip up into his rib cage. Black blood cascaded down the blade as I twisted it to create more internal damage before withdrawing it.

Scrambling back on my rump, I managed to avoid having the large goblin land on me like a felled tree. Damn, that was too close. I much preferred the longsword - I liked keeping my enemies at a distance from me. But using the captain’s katana felt sacrilegious to me - I had not earned the honor of handling an Akaviri blade. Akatosh, I need a longsword, and fast!

Gasping for breath, I stared at the dead berserker. Fighting him had brought back far too many unwelcome memories.

Laying crumpled against the wall, stripped of my armor and weapons, I watched the goblins dancing around their gesticulating shaman. Every so often, one of them would approach me and hammer on my battered body with his fists. The shaman would lower her totem staff in my direction, and send debilitating bolts into my chest, my back, my belly. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to lie still. It hurt to move. My nose was broken for the third time. My right knee lay useless, ligaments severed by a wicked slash from an iron shortsword. Blood flowed slowly out of the gash in my left side. That wound would have killed me had it landed a finger’s width higher, above the arc of my hipbone. A couple of broken ribs jabbed my back whenever I inhaled.

Though the fire was only a couple of meters away from me, I felt cold, my fingers and toes growing numb. Blood loss, I knew. Just a matter of time. Akatosh, don’t let me die alone.

Voices, screeching, the sound of metal on metal. Goblins running towards the passage leading up to the surface. Only the shaman remained. She walked over to me, aiming that cursed totem staff at me. The sounds of combat drew nearer, then a shout I recognized. Florio! My optio! Though it hurt, I turned my gaze up at the shaman. “Today, you die,” I whispered at her. The totem staff flared, and I fell away in a wash of blinding pain.

After what seemed like an interminable period of time, my shaking eased enough that I could focus a couple of healing spells on myself. When the pain and terror eased, I struggled slowly to my feet, recovered my bow, and limped cautiously down the slope, staying close to the wall.

Entering a large cavern, I grounded my good left knee in the shadows to one side of the entrance. Scanning the place, I picked out more goblins. A peon next to a cooking fire to my right. Another peon poking idly at penned rats in the central pit. A shaman pacing beside some chests at the far end of the cavern, over twenty meters away. Power flared around the wizened head of the goblin staff she carried, pounding its butt into the ground with every step.

Which one first? That shaman is probably the most deadly, with that totem staff. She can kill me ten times over before I even get within blade-range. I tested the bowstring. Loose. I tightened it, eyeing the goblins. Those two peons are fairly close to me. I’m in the shadows right here. Good place for sniping.

Slipping the shield straps onto my forearm, I sheathed the shortsword and pulled four arrows from my quiver. Not liking the pit goblin’s idea of entertainment, I sent a single arrow into his unarmored chest. The impact flung him onto his back. Nocking another broadhead to my bowstring, I turned to the peon sitting by the cooking fire.

His back was to me as he sliced meat off the roasting rat spitted over the flames. Using Cieran’s technique, I sighted on his hunched figure and released the arrow. Picking up a third shaft, I looked back to see the goblin stagger into the fire, screeching from the arrow in his left shoulder. Time seemed to stretch out as I forced myself to follow my brother’s teachings, flowing through the half-drawing the bow, taking half a breath, then sighting, tautening the string and releasing with a soft exhalation. It took an eternity to cross the distance between me and the wounded goblin, but the arrow sank into his chest with satisfying results.

In the corner of my eye, I sensed the shaman pause in her pacing, looking over her shoulder at the cooking fire. I swept the last arrow into my hand and limped backwards, deeper yet into the shadows behind other boulders. Sighting on the shaman, I considered the distance. The range was great enough I worried that my arrows would drop before they reached the shaman. I had never shot an arrow so far before.

“If you ever have to shoot further, Julian, remember to raise your aim point higher,” Cieran’s voice reached me from the far side of the campfire. He lay stretched on his back, arms crossed behind his head. “The farther your target, the higher the arrow has to fly to drop into that sweet spot.”

Raising my aim, I paused when the arrow tip hovered above the shaman’s head, level with the top of her totem staff as she slammed it into the dirt, power flickering around that disembodied skull. As the goblin glared around the cavern, her voice crackling across the pit, I let the shaft fly. She bent forward abruptly as I pulled another arrow from my quiver, the one I had released protruding from her lower abdomen. Her free hand reached up to it as I repeated Cieran’s technique, adjusting the aim point to compensate for her shortened silhouette. The shaman’s head raised and her eyes met mine as the arrow sped across the pit, the totem staff beginning to drop its skull in my direction.

Shrugging the shield onto my wrist, I ran no, limped as quickly as I could around the pit, unsheathing my shortsword. My precaution was unnecessary, however, for the goblin fell, her totem staff clattering off to the side harmlessly. Her bleeding body did not move as I approached warily.

Now that the situation no longer called for it, panic swept over me. I sat shakily down beside the shaman, panting for air. Remembered pain rose up again, and the pounding in my head increased for a couple of breaths, then subsided. As quickly as the panic had overwhelmed me, it ebbed away, leaving me shaking and breathless.

Again, casting a couple of healing spells gave me strength and stilled the smith’s hammer. A quick search of the chests netted me the one thing I had prayed for just moments ago, an iron longsword. Straight-edged and keen, it was of decent quality and snugged itself into my right palm as if it belonged there.

Did you hear me, Akatosh? I wondered. I had served him for twenty-five years in the Legion, but had never given him much thought. But now, every time I thought I needed something - If you’re listening, Akatosh, thank you.

Posted by: haute ecole rider Mar 17 2010, 10:24 PM

Chapter 1.3a - The Assassination



Slipping through yet another door, I found myself surrounded by familiar architecture - the dressed stone and columns of the buried city. I moved forward, finding the smoother floor easier to navigate.



Voices reached me around a bend in the corridor, voices that I recognized. Glenroy’s tones rang strained, angry. The other Blade sounded as impassive as my memory of his visage. The Emperor’s voice was absent. Is he still with them? My heart beat faster for a moment. Is he dead? Did the Blades fail? But they wouldn’t still be alive, then, I reassured myself unconvincingly.



They moved away from me, compelling me to hurry down the hallway. Rounding the corner, I found myself on a ledge overlooking a large chamber, its interior crisscrossed by shadows and deeper shadows. My night vision remained good enough for me to see the footprints in the fine powder below. Three sets. Good, the Emperor is still alive! My heart sank, however, when the prints diverged to the deep shadows on the opposite sides of the room, where swirled traces in the thick dust indicated skirmishes. 



Carefully letting myself down from the ledge, I kept close to the near wall, the dark blade of my new-found longsword nearly invisible in the shadows. Nearly tripping over a red-robed corpse, I found the body still warm. Good, I’m not far behind them. I paused long enough to search the assassin’s purse, collecting the two drakes I found there, before progressing on. 



Before much longer, I heard again the clash of weapons on armor. Knowing my condition was still weak, even with repeated applications of that old healing spell, I resisted the impulse to run pell mell towards the sounds of combat. Instead, I settled for hobbling a little faster, while scanning the shadows for ambushes.


Reaching the far side of the chamber, their trail entered another narrow corridor. Judging by the sound of the skirmish ahead, they were just around the corner a couple of meters in front of me. Close quarters - no, really close quarters. That means one on one fighting.



Rounding the corner, I nearly bumped into the purple robes of Uriel Septim. He stood well back of the ruckus up ahead, his own shortsword drawn. 



“Excuse me, Sire,” I said quietly to avoid alarm. I didn’t like the way that sword flickered in the guttering torchlight. The last thing I needed was for my own Emperor to stab me just because he was as jumpy as I was. 



Uriel Septim did start a little, but only looked at me over his shoulder. Because of the way the shadows fell, I could not read his expression, but I could feel tension emanating off his form. Without a word, he stepped against the wall so I could move past him. Ahead, the broad shoulders of the impassive Blade blocked my view of the skirmish in front of him. Catching only fragments of the frenzied activity another meter away, I could make out the end of the corridor, the floating dust stirred up by Glenroy and the attacking assassin, and the heavy breathing of the two opponents. 



Glenroy’s better training gained the upper hand, however, and he moved out quickly into the chamber beyond, advancing right on a diagonal from the archway. The implacable Redguard stepped over the slumped assassin and glided to the left. I stopped at the end of the corridor and waited, the Emperor behind me. 



The two Blades scanned the room, then sheathed their katanas. Taking it as a signal that the room was clear, I stepped aside to let the Emperor by, and knelt to search the dead assassin’s purse. 



“Dammit!” Glenroy’s explosion brought my head up in time to see him stalking towards me, his katana drawn. My pathetic attempt to rise to my feet resulted in my tripping over the dead assassin and falling backwards against the wall. “That prisoner’s one of them!”



A swirl of purple robes and an upraised hand stopped Glenroy in his tracks, his black gaze glaring at me. “Stop,” the Emperor’s voice again held that unmistakable authority. “She is helping us.” Standing next to Glenroy, Uriel Septim turned to look at me, where I lay shaking against the wall. “She must continue helping us.”



“As you command, Sire,” Glenroy muttered, still glowering at me. The Emperor moved forward into the room, where the stern Blade waited near another doorway at the far side. Under Glenroy’s hostile stare, I struggled to my feet, my knee complaining, the pain in my left side pulling me off balance. Straightening my back to meet the Blade’s angry look took every ounce of courage I had. “Don’t try anything funny,” he warned me.



“Sir,” I spoke quietly, fighting to keep my voice even, “I’m too old and sick right now. The Emperor could kill me easily if he wanted to.”



Glenroy’s eyes narrowed at me under the ornate helm. Moving his katana to the side, he stepped up until we stood toe to toe, Glenroy stooping slightly so we were nose to nose. “You made it this far, prisoner,” he growled, his voice barely louder than a whisper. “And you’ve managed to arm yourself. If that doesn’t make you one of them -” he spat the word, “then I was born yesterday!”



“Glenroy!” the Emperor’s voice, still smooth as velvet, somehow had the effect of a cracking whip. “Let the prisoner come to me.”



Still glaring at me, the tall Blade stepped aside, gesturing with that fine blade for me to move, and move quickly. Uriel Septim showed more patience as I limped towards him, towards the pool of cold light he stood in. My shoulder blades tensed as Glenroy shadowed me, his katana throwing flickers of light from its blade around the room.



“Baurus,” Glenroy said when I stopped in front of the Emperor, “keep an eye on the prisoner. I’m going to check the room again.” Beyond the Emperor’s shoulder, I saw the impassive Blade nod in acknowledgement. He remained standing at ease, his katana still sheathed. Even so, I found his implacable gaze even more unsettling than Glenroy’s overt hostility.



“Please excuse my Blades,” Uriel Septim’s voice drew me back to him. He smiled, his eyes remaining sad. “It has been an - ah, eventful night for all of us, with many twists and surprises. If I hadn’t seen what I have seen, I would be suspicious of you as well. It can be so hard to tell friend from foe under these circumstances.”



“Sire,” I responded, “These Blades are sworn to you, and it is obvious to me that they take their duty more seriously than their own lives. I understand why they do not trust me.” Seeing the merest flicker in Baurus’s shadowed gaze, I knew I had struck a nerve. “Believe me, were I in their place, I wouldn’t trust me either.”



Glenroy’s booted footsteps returned to my back, and my shoulder blades tensed up again, until I heard the sound of his katana being sheathed. The Emperor was nodding at my words, now his gaze sharpened on me. 



“You’ve served Akatosh for some years, have you not?” This time the smile touched his eyes at what he saw on my face. “Think you that I didn’t notice the Red Dragon on your left arm, back there in the cell?”



Unconsciously, I rubbed the shield straps on my left forearm, covering the place where the old tattoo resided. It had faded almost into invisibility, more a mere bloodstain on my dark skin. How could he have noticed that, as dim as the light was in that cell? A shiver ran up my spine.



“Do you worship the Nine?” Uriel Septim asked. 


Do I? “I never really thought much about it, Sire,” I answered truthfully. 



“Like you, I’ve served the Nine for many, many years,” Uriel Septim observed quietly. “I’ve always listened to them, found my guidance, even during the darkest of times, in them. It seems to me that at least one is now trying to speak to you. Listen to your heart, your gut, and you will hear the Divine Voice.”



I shook my head. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re talking about.” I looked down at the dusty floor between us. “I’m sorry, Sire.”



“You’ve been caught up in the mortal world,” the Emperor responded. “The Voices of the Nine can be very quiet, and hard to hear. You have to learn to listen to the silence that is within you.” 


“How do I do that, Sire?” I asked. 



“You could always go to the priests in the Chapels,” Uriel Septim’s tone lightened slightly. Looking up, I was surprised to see a crooked smile on his face, giving me the impression of irony. “But I think, for you, just finding a quiet place to be will be sufficient.” Now the smile faded. “For me, I’ve listened to them all my life, I have been trained to it from birth. And now, they are telling me I go to my grave this night.”



I inhaled sharply, sensing the Blades’ unease at the Emperor’s statement. “But Sire,” I began, but he raised his hand.



“Ah, but the Blades can not change my fate,” he said sadly. “As much as they will try, as much as you will try, no mortal is able to change what is set in the stars.”



Feeling the blood drain from my face, I considered the old man in front of me. Why is he affecting me like this? Because he is the Emperor?



“Our father is a loser!” Cieran shouted at me. “He is nothing!” he spat at the ground. 



I clenched my fists. “No, our father is like the Emperor!” I matched his tone. “He is wise, kind, and just!”



“If he were like the Emperor,” Cieran snapped back, “he would never have left Mother and me before you were even born! Only freaks abandon their families without a word!”



I leaped into Cieran, knocking his skinny, seven-year-old body off his feet. Landing on him, I started kicking and pummeling him with my fists. “Our father is not a freak!” I was screaming. “He is a hero -!” My words soon became unintelligible.



“Stop it, children!” my mother’s voice cracked between us as she hauled me off my older brother. “What are you two fighting about?” Her black gaze, normally full of love, quelled us with its fierceness. 



“You be quiet, Julian!” Cieran hissed at me. “Don’t you dare say it!”



“Our father is not a freak!” I shouted at my brother, wanting to get the last word. My mother’s gasp brought my attention to her face, gone pale in spite of her dark complexion. Tears sprang in her eyes, then she was pulling me up to my feet with a painful grip on my shoulder. “Julian,” her voice was cold, “go to your bed, immediately. And do not speak of your father ever again.”


“But Mother -!” I protested, for the sun still stood high in the western sky. Her hand cracked across my cheek, hard. Gasping, I stared at my gentle mother, the woman who had never struck either of us in the entire six years of my life.



“While I can see my fate,” the Emperor’s voice brought me back to the present, “yours is not visible to me. But in your face, I behold the Sun’s Companion.” 



I stared at him. What did I just miss? Sun’s Companion?



“The dawn of Akatosh’s bright glory may yet banish the darkness to come,” Uriel Septim continued. “With such hope, and with the promise of your help, I must be content.” He smiled sadly again. “Our paths may run together for a while yet, but soon you must go your own way.” He held up one hand to me. “I must know your name, Sun’s Companion.”



“J- Julian,” I stammered, trying to make sense of his words. 



“Sire, we must go on,” Glenroy broke into the silence that followed the Emperor’s words. The tall Blade passed me and headed for the door at the opposite end of the chamber. Uriel Septim turned and followed him.

Posted by: haute ecole rider Mar 17 2010, 10:32 PM

Chapter 1.3b Assassination



Still stunned, I stared at Baurus. He looked me up and down, then shoved the torch in his hand to me. “Take this,” he said curtly. “Make yourself useful. My job is to make sure the Emperor gets out of here alive, and I intend to do it.” His tone clearly implied he doubted my ability to be of any considerable assistance, especially in combat. The old pilus I used to be agreed with his assessment.



We moved on through corridors and deserted chambers, stirring dust that had long lay undisturbed on every horizontal surface. Every now and then, a single assassin would waylay us, but none of them apparently had the kind of training necessary to withstand a single Blade.



Before long, we reached a huge chamber with a brass gate at the far end. Glenroy had us wait in the corridor while he went forward and surveyed the room for assassins. Finding the area empty, he waved us forward and moved to the gate. 



The rattling sound it made was ominous in the immensity of the silent chamber. Immediately the two Blades drew their katanas and started scanning the shadows around us.



“The gate’s barred from the other side,” Glenroy told us angrily. “I smell a trap!”



Looking around the room, I had to agree. Too many shadows, too many blind corners, too many places for ambushing enemies to hide. 



“What about that room back there?” Baurus asked, gesturing towards an archway opening into a small space, off to the side. 



“Let’s check it out,” Glenroy suited actions to words, moving towards the doorway. “It’s clear,” he said. The Emperor and I followed his signal to enter the room. 



Booted footfalls sounded outside the room once we entered. “They’re behind us!” Baurus shouted, whirling around and dashing back the way we had come, Glenroy hot on his heels.



Catching my breath at the suddenness of events, I blinked in the relatively bright light of the small side chamber. The Emperor caught my elbow as I reached for the hilt of my longsword.



“Listen!” his voice took on new urgency. “This is it, the end is here.” Shooting him a startled glance, I saw the determination in his gaze. “You must stand against the Prince of Destruction and his mortal servants!” He removed the Amulet of Kings from around his neck and pressed it into my right hand, squeezing my fingers around it until I winced from the pain. “Close shut the jaws of Oblivion. He must not have the Amulet of Kings!” Uriel Septim released my hands, stepping back. 



Outside the room, the sounds of combat distracted me momentarily. Without thinking, I shoved the jewel beneath my cuirass, under my breast. Need to free my sword hand. My mind was already on the skirmish unfolding in the great chamber, ignoring the coiling in my gut.



“Julian,” the Emperor’s voice, quiet and commanding, drew my gaze back to him. “Take the Amulet. Give it to Jauffre. He alone knows where my last son yet lives.”



He trusts me that far? I stared at him, momentarily speechless. My heart started when the stone niche behind the Emperor opened to reveal a towering assassin in Daedric armor, his horned mace raised high over his head. 



“No -!” I screamed, reaching for Uriel Septim with my shield hand, fumbling for the sword hilt with my right hand. Too slow, too far, my mind screamed at me, as I watched in horror while the mace began its shockingly slow, yet so fast, descent straight for the Emperor’s head.



The impact made a sickening crunch, and the Emperor’s face went slack, his eyes rolling up into his head. He crumpled to the ground at my feet. Still groping for the sword hilt, I crouched toward him, hoping against hope. The huge hole in the back of his head, blood and gore draining from it told me the Emperor was dead.



“You picked a bad day to take up the cause of the Septims!” the assassin screamed in a voice like thunder, lifting the terrible mace again. Warm fluid and matter splattered my face as I scrambled back, grasping the hilt and trying to gain enough room to draw it. 



My right knee chose that moment to buckle under me, throwing me down. Somehow my sword came unsheathed, and I reflexively raised it towards the assassin as he came at me. The tip of the sword caught in the cuirass, the force of the assailant’s charge wrenching the hilt out of my grip and twisting my right wrist. 



Fighting down the sudden wave of terror at being so abruptly disarmed, I raised my shield in time to deflect the mace, redirecting its momentum to fly past my left shoulder. As the assassin bent over me, momentarily off-balance, I swung my left boot as hard as I could, as high as I could, into the inside of his thigh. “Damn!” I yelled, rolling to my right. Grabbing for the sword, I cried out at the pain in my wrist as my hand took the blade’s weight. 



The assassin staggered, groaning from the pain I had just inflicted on him. Behind him, Baurus raced into the room, his bloodstained katana already moving to slice below the assassin’s cuirass. He did something with the blade, I wasn’t sure what, and the attacker tried to turn around. 



Clambering onto my knees, I swung the longsword at the back of his calves, unprotected by his greaves. Effectively hamstrung, the assassin was easy prey for Baurus’s flickering katana and finally went down. 



Baurus whipped the katana at me, but lowered it as soon as he saw my face. He cast his gaze around the room, stopping when he saw the Emperor’s crumpled body against the wall. All the fight went out of him then, as he stumbled to kneel beside Uriel Septim.



“Talos save us, no -” the raw emotion in his voice made me breathless. Panting, I lay back on my right side, squeezing my eyes against the tears that threatened to spill down my sweating face. The iron longsword clattered as it slipped out of my grip.



I failed. I failed the Emperor. I failed, again. I can’t fight any more. I’m too far gone. Akatosh, I’m sorry.

Booted footsteps interrupted my self-recrimination. Gauntleted hands grabbed my shoulders. “Julian!” Baurus was speaking. “Julian! Are you all right?”



Opening my eyes, I shook my head at him. He started passing his hands over my arms, searching for injuries. Reflexively, I pushed him off. “I failed the Emperor!” I snapped, struggling to sit up. Baurus grew very still, and I turned my gaze away from him. “I’m sorry, sir,” I muttered. 



“No, you’re right,” Baurus said bitterly. “We’ve failed. I’ve failed. Glenroy is dead. The Emperor is dead.” He sat back on his heels as I slumped forward, still trying to steady my breathing. “Julian, the Amulet is missing. Do you know where it is?”



Nodding, I touched my cuirass. “Here,” I answered. “The Emperor gave it to me. He told to me to take it to J- Jauffre.”



Baurus frowned at me. “Grandmaster Jauffre?” His black eyes squinted at me. “Why?”



“There is another son.” An illegitimate child, must be. Baurus’s thick brows disappeared under his helm.



“Another son?” he repeated. “Nothing I ever heard of.” He considered me for another moment. “But Jauffre would know. He and Uriel Septim go back a long ways.” He shook his head in wonderment. 



“Here, I’ll give it to you, sir,” I reached into my cuirass, but Baurus stopped me.



“No, I need to stay with the Emperor’s body until reinforcements arrive,” he answered. “You need to get that Amulet to Jauffre as quickly as you can travel.”



“By myself?” my voice was almost a squeak. “I don’t know where Jauffre is -”



“You were Legion, right?” Baurus locked eyes with me. “Not a deserter?”



“No!” I shot back reflexively. “I’ve never deserted my duty!”



Baurus nodded. “I thought so.” He reached into his cuirass, drew out a folded parchment and a graphite stylus. “Then you know how to read a map.” He marked a small ‘x’ on the parchment, then handed both items to me. “He’s at Weynon Priory, just southeast of Chorrol. Take the Black Road west from the Red Ring Road.” He handed me a key. “Take this, this will get you into the sewers and out of here.”



Rising to his feet, Baurus held his hand down to me. Grasping his wrist, I stood with his assistance. Rather, he pulled me effortlessly up off the floor. Bending down, he scooped the sword off the floor and handed it to me, hilt first.



“Don’t worry, Julian,” he said while I sheathed the blade. “You made it this far, I trust you can make it the rest of the way on your own.”



I remembered the captain’s katana, still at my back. Unbuckling it from my shoulder, I handed it to Baurus. His gaze moved over it in surprise. “You’ll honor the captain, won’t you, sir?” I asked. “She did die in the line of duty.”



“Thanks,” Baurus regarded me with new respect. “I’ll make sure it gets a place of honor in the Hall of the Blades.” He clapped his hand on my shoulder, the gauntlet pressing through the rough leather of my cuirass. “Travel fast, and stay safe, friend.”


********************

That's it for the first chapter. Enjoy.

Posted by: treydog Mar 17 2010, 10:42 PM

Every time I read this story I like it more. The facts that Julian is not some young stud (studette?), that she has emotional and physical scars, that she is still struggling to overcome the past.... All that makes for a wonderful character.

One suggestion- as anxious as all of your current readers are to see Julian get to the next step in the Main Quest, posting maybe an installment every 2 days or so will give new readers a chance to catch up. On the other hand, you have given us all of Chapter 1 to savor, so what do I know?

But, let me tell all those potential new readers- you DO NOT want to miss this one!

Posted by: SubRosa Mar 17 2010, 10:46 PM

Angela Bassett erm, Julian has come to Chorrol!

I agree with every woof of the dog. Julian is a protagonist not to miss, because she is so different from what you normally see, both in video games and in fiction.

And yes, maybe a little slower rate of posting is in order. It is a lot to take in all at once.

Posted by: Acadian Mar 17 2010, 11:02 PM

WooHoo! I am delighted to see Julian over here. I simply love her and her story, not to mention how wonderfully you tell it!

Posted by: mALX Mar 17 2010, 11:48 PM

Yeah! Hauty and Julian!

Posted by: haute ecole rider Mar 18 2010, 12:02 AM

Thanks, treydog, for your affirmation of my story. I probably will post a few sections at once (as I did with Chapter One), though likely not more than four or five posts' worth at a time. I think every couple of days will be fine, too. Once I'm caught up with what I have on the Unnamed Forum, then I will be happy to post a single post twice a week.

I know how daunting it can be to try and read an entire story en bloc, since I am currently working through the entire story of Athlain and Athynae here on Chorrol.com. I have done it for a few others, and found it well worth my time!

Thanks SubRosa, for confirming my choice of an older character for this story. And thanks, Acadian, and mALX1, for your continued enthusiasm for "Old Habits."

Posted by: Destri Melarg Mar 18 2010, 04:34 AM

Julian is here too? I am running out of reasons to return to that other forum! It is interesting to go back over these early scenes. I for one can see the growth in confidence that attends the writing of each new chapter, hell each new paragraph! You have certainly come a long way in a very short time . . . would that we all could improve so quickly!

Posted by: Winter Wolf Mar 18 2010, 05:47 AM

Julian is here at Chorrol. Yipppeeee!!!!!
Destri is right. There is no reason to go back now.

I do not know what it is about your writing Haute, but every time I read it I have a strong urge to throw my assassin in the bin, build a paladin and go down the MQ and KOTN.

Would you please stop having that crazy effect on me, it drives me up the wall.

Posted by: mALX Mar 18 2010, 08:38 AM

* sniff * what about...me?


******* Maxical

Posted by: Winter Wolf Mar 18 2010, 09:13 AM

mALX, you know my feelings about our loveable Maxical. ROFL !!!

I will never be happy until I can get daily updates here at Chorrol. Pretty please??
Fingers, toes crossed, maybe??

She deserves to be in the Chorrol hall of fame alongside Julian.

Perhaps a summary by you here and then straight into current stories? No ?? Not possible??

If you cannot then I do promise to travel across to that horrible website just for you and Maxical.
I realize that you put tremendous work into that and it does deserve better than what happened to you by those IT people.

Posted by: Olen Mar 18 2010, 10:48 PM

I just read through this and I like it. The character is an interesting one, it's rare to experience and age in place of strength in a main character (especially in TES main quest based stories), and also one who likes the Empire. I'm interested to see what you do once out of the prison.

As far as comments go I didn't really see much. The first part had some sentences which jarred a little (normally from close juxtaposition of the same word) but after that I didn't really notice if there were any becasue it drew me in so well.

Posted by: Zalphon Mar 19 2010, 02:59 AM

Don't show me that face. I miss it. You're going to make me cry. And when an Ancient Lich cries, you're usually reloading a save in Daggerfall. So stop trying to make me cry. I miss Maxical.

Being Serious: I really do miss Max.

Posted by: haute ecole rider Mar 19 2010, 09:00 PM

Thanks, Destri, Winter Wolf, and Olen for your comments.

And Olen, I hope Old Habits continue to keep your interest!

Here is Chapter 2, the first of four parts:

Chapter 2.1 A New Purpose

Damn, it’s freezing! My teeth started chattering almost immediately Still, the water was clean, the late afternoon sun warm, and the shore of Lake Rumare quiet. Relishing the feeling of weightlessness, I swam from one side of the dock, around its far end, to the other. Finally, I could stand myself no longer. Picking up handfuls of sand from the lake bottom, I started scrubbing the accumulated dirt, sweat and blood off my skin. My long hair went from grey to white as I rubbed at it until my scalp squeaked.

Unable to tolerate the cold water any longer, I clambered out to perch on the edge of the dock near the shore, using the edge of my palms to scrape the water from my skin. Reaching for the stack of gear and clothes I had piled on the dock, I reached within the folds of the red robe, now tattered, to check that the Amulet still lay hidden.

Leaning over the water, I twisted the last of the moisture out of my hair. As the surface below rippled slowly, I studied my wavering reflection. My white hair cascaded around my gaunt face from a widow’s peak above a high forehead. I haven’t cut it in four years! I realized. Well, I’ve had other things on my mind. Studying my careworn features in the water, I tried to see what the Emperor saw in my face to trust me with something so precious as the Amulet. Grey-green eyes, deep-set, complete with crows-feet. Thin lips with fine lines bracketing them. A slightly bumpy nose. A naturally dark complexion with the grey cast of illness. Not exactly confidence-inspiring.

The soft breeze felt chill on my damp skin as I picked up the Amulet, cupping it in my hands. Its warmth was surprising, as were the aubergine swirling depths within the large red gem. This is supposed to contain the heart’s blood of Akatosh Himself. Something about a Covenant. Straightening up against the pain in my side, I considered the jewel. How best to carry it to Jauffre? It had slipped around underneath my cuirass since I left Baurus, constantly feeding my worry of losing it.

Do I dare wear it? Taking a deep breath, I took the golden chain and put it around my neck. The Amulet slipped into my lap, the clasp failing to hold. What was it Baurus had said about it? “Only the heir of the true Septim blood can wear it.” The full meaning of his statement hit me. This is how we find the true heir? The one who can wear it? In that case, it isn’t me. For some reason, I felt relieved. The weight of the entire Empire was not a burden I wished to carry.

Slipping the robe on, I picked up the shortsword and used its blade to slice the skirts to just below my hips. Then I tore the severed skirt into smaller strips, and wrapped the Amulet in one. Knotting the fabric over it, I twisted the free ends into a cord, then tied it around my neck, beneath the robe. Doing the same with another narrow piece gave me a way to tie my long hair back into a ponytail.

The white arches of the Ayleid ruin across the water made me shiver. Those places were never my favorite - musty, ancient places with strange light-crystals, creaky traps that remained deadly after years of disuse, spots of decomposition and old bones on the floors and walls, and echoing architecture of odd proportions. Shivering from the sensation of being watched by that place - don’t be silly, Julian, stone arches don’t watch you, it’s the creatures inhabiting them that do - I dressed quickly in my leathers, gathering up my gear. The shortsword went to my back, next to the quiver of arrows and the bow stave.

Picking up the longsword, I tested its edge - still keen. My memory compared the dark blade to the captain’s katana, its almost musical balance and silent song. Sadly, I regretted returning it to Baurus. But that was the right thing to do, I told myself. It was not mine to keep. Returning my attention to the serviceable blade in my hand, I started moving through the rhythms of the Sunbird Dance. My body felt awkward, the movements clumsy. It’s been a long time. I’m not sure I’m even doing this correctly.

“Let the energy flow through you,” Jelin’s voice reached me. “Let one position flow into the next. Only when you let the flow free will you develop grace with the blade.”

As I persisted, the movements became a little easier, but the pain in my knee and left side held me back. Sighing, I sheathed the sword and picked up the pack I had found along the way. Leaving the dock, I turned my face west, with the walls of the City Prison, and beyond it, of Imperial City itself, on my left, and started marching.

It was more of a limp than a march, but I didn’t mind. It was good to be outside again, with the breeze drying my hair. I needed a place to stop, to rest, to eat, to think things over, but not here. Not with that ruin across the way and the Prison above me.

After walking for a couple of hours, I came upon another weathered dock ahead. Slowing down, I looked around, for docks were usually associated with something else. Spotting a few tents up the slope from the shore, partially obscured by clustered boulders, I decided to check it out. Looking at the sun, I found it already touching the top of the mountains to the west.

Walking up the slope as carefully and quietly as I could in the oversized boots, I kept my eyes open for life. A dog alerted on me, his tail stiff behind him, and started barking. From the other side of the now-visible campfire, a Redguard appeared, unshouldering his bow and stringing it in a smooth motion. “I’m going to kill you!” he shouted, nocking an arrow to the bowstring. Raising my shield towards him, I drew my sword.

“I want no trouble!” I shouted back as the dog charged me. Damn! I was in no condition to battle two enemies at once, especially with one of them out of blade-range. Keeping the shield towards the bowman, I swung the sword at the dog. The tip of the blade bit deep into its side, and I felt the weight of the animal momentarily snag the weapon before it was flung away. Ignoring the momentary twinge - I hate killing dogs, but this one is loyal to the wrong man - I turned back to the Redguard, moving towards him.

“Too bad, trouble’s found you!” the Redguard let his arrow fly, the barb sinking home in my shield and staggering me. Thank Akatosh, a broadhead tip. A bodkin could easily pierce the leather shield and keep going. Looking up in time to see him set another missile to his bowstring, I grabbed my balance in time to brace for the second arrow. It smacked into my shield, its tip just poking through and nicking the edge of my forearm.

Feeling the heat rise in my face, I stifled the string of curses bubbling up in my throat. Don’t give in to anger. That’s what got you into trouble the last time, I tried to remind myself, but my sword hand came up, fire flickering around my fingers. Unthinkingly, I switched the sword to my left hand, and flung the ball of fire - fire? - at the other’s face. Dropping his bow, the Redguard clapped his hands to his face in pain, his actions effectively putting out the flames.

As he screamed in agony and rage, I hobbled up the slope as rapidly as I could. Not pausing to think about it, I flung another fireball at him to keep him off balance. Taking the sword back in my right hand, I slammed it into his ribs. The wind knocked out of him, the Redguard dropped his hands and grabbed at my shield, wrenching hard at the round leather. Momentarily resisting his attack, I suddenly let him have the shield and raised my right arm.

As he staggered at the sudden abatement of resistance, I brought the edge of the blade down as hard as I could into his left shoulder, the weapon cutting through his fur cuirass. He shouted again from the pain, and reeled back, his burned eyes on me.

“You’re one of them,” he hissed, and reached for his dagger. My anger suddenly gone, I stabbed the sword into his throat, ending the fight.

“You’re one of those,” I countered softly, lowering the tip of my sword to the ground and leaning briefly on it. Panting hard, I looked around at the campsite. Yup. Bandits. At the moment, there was no sign of more, and judging by the clutter around the fire, it was just the Redguard and the dog at present.

Crying and whining drew my attention over my shoulder to the dog, still laying at the edge of the campsite where I had left him. Noting his paralyzed hind limbs, I limped over to him and shushed him with a soft voice. When he closed his eyes and became quiet, I drove the tip of my blade into his heart, ending his agony. “If only you hadn’t attacked me,” I whispered to his lifeless eyes.

Returning to the campfire, I found a cooking pot full of boiling water. Picking up a nearby clay tumbler, I dipped it into the boiling water, then set it aside to cool. Dropping my gear near one of the tents, I searched the sacks scattered around the campsite, gathering carrots, an onion, and a shank of smoked mutton.

Using the Redguard’s dagger, I chopped up the vegetables and some of the meat, and dropped them into another pot to cook. Now to think. The smith’s hammer was quiet, had been since the Emperor had shoved the Amulet into my hands. A constant companion for four years, its absence was a welcome relief.

Maybe that old healing spell did more than I realized, I thought to myself. But no, it started easing up when the Emperor first spoke to me. I felt the Amulet, warm against my skin, under my cuirass. I have to do this. I have to carry out the task the Emperor entrusted me with. I must take this to Jauffre. What then?

In the years since my discharge from the Legion, I had been wandering aimlessly. I had sought refuge from the pain, the lack of purpose in my life, the memories of long-dead comrades and battle scenes, in anything that would make me forget, if only for a little while. Cheap wine, mead, ale, beer had helped only for a short while, but the pounding in my head had become worse each time I regained some resemblance of coherence.

In Bravil two years ago, I had discovered the limbo of skooma. Addiction had been swift and complete, when I found it was the only way I could still that incessant smith’s hammer. It has only caused me more grief. I had found myself needing more and more skooma, reduced to begging to obtain the means of paying for it.

Yet it had been never enough, and the relief it had provided became fleeting. By the time I had reached the Imperial City, I was drinking wine and ale along with the skooma. My stay in the City had been blurred with impressions of being rolled, pushed, and kicked. Seeking shelter in taverns had only caused more trouble. Probably how I ended up in the prison. It bothered me that I couldn’t quite remember what had happened to put me there.

Oddly, with the headaches gone, I could bear the pain from my old wounds more easily. The limbo of skooma and drink no longer held any appeal for me. Wondering if the cravings would recur once the smith’s hammer returned, I sighed to myself. Only one way to find out.

But now I had a purpose, a mission, and I intended to complete it. Did the Emperor know how low I had gone, when he spoke to me back in that cell, spoke to me like I was a person again? Did he know I needed saving? Maybe there is purpose for someone like me outside the Legion.

Posted by: haute ecole rider Mar 19 2010, 09:05 PM

Chapter 2.2 The Black Road

The sun stood close to the zenith when I saw the huge ruins of Fort Nikel, at the intersection of the Red Ring and the Black Roads. My fragmented memories reminded me that a bandit camp lay within its shattered walls, guarded by creatures. Limping onto the Black Road, I moved to the far side of the cobblestones, keeping an eye on the fort to my left. The last time I had been this way -

The large wolf bounded out of the ruined Keep, saliva flying from his snarling mouth as he charged me. I managed to throw up my left arm, forgetting that I had no shield. He sank his teeth into my forearm, the momentum of his attack sending both of us tumbling in the dirt outside the Keep entrance. Screaming in pain, I fisted my right hand and pounded on the wolf’s broad skull, hurting only my own hand in result.

Hoofbeats pounded the road behind me, then a shout as clattering armor ran up. A silver blade flashed in the moonlight, slicing through the wolf’s body and flinging it off me. I rolled away from the Legion rider, hunched over my bleeding arm. I heard a yelp as another wolf charged the horseman, and was quickly dispatched by his lethal sword. He turned from scanning the area, sheathing his weapon. Walking to me, he picked up his torch where he had dropped it beside his waiting steed.

“Are you all right, traveler?” he asked, his voice level and professional. Suddenly ashamed to be caught groveling in the dirt, I struggled unsteadily to my feet, the torchlight causing the smith’s hammer to pound faster in my head. I couldn’t hear what I said in response, and missed some of his words: “— head down to Weye, it’s only half an hour’s walk from here. You can find shelter at the Inn there, and rest and heal from that bite.”

I mumbled something, and he leaned towards me, not understanding my words. Gods! I didn’t understand my own words, and knew I was slurring badly, between the wine I had drunk and the skooma withdrawal that was already starting. I could see the distaste in his eyes as he drew back from the stench on my breath, my tattered clothes. He remained professional, though. “Come on, traveler, I’ll escort you there. Can you walk?”

“Y- yessir,” I managed to stammer somewhat coherently. Following him to his patient bay, I waited while he mounted. Keeping my eyes on the ground at my feet, I avoided looking at that bright torch. He started his bay off at a slow amble, slow enough for me to keep up with him, limping as badly as I was. Stumbling on the rough cobblestones, I fell a couple of times, but managed to regain my feet before the rider could dismount to help me.

After what seemed like an eternity, we reached the lamplit door to Wawnet Inn. The rider stopped and regarded me thoughtfully, tilting his torch to see my face better. “Here you are, traveler,” he said quietly. “Be safe, and stay out of trouble.”

Shaking myself out of my reverie, I passed Fort Nikel without incident. Looking up the slope, where the Black Road rose higher into the western highlands, I wondered, Will I run into that rider? Will he recognize me? Our last encounter still made my face hot with shame.

Falling into the half-remembered rhythm of the long march as best as my limp would allow, I started up the slope, my gaze on the surrounding land. I had never made it past Fort Nikel, and knew little about the way ahead, only that it led to Chorrol.

Ahead, where the road started to switchback up the steep bluff, I caught the flash of sun on metal. Shouting and clanging reached me as I increased my pace. Rounding a boulder, I saw a Legion rider battling a burly Khajiit. Clad in fur armor, the bandit did not stand much chance against the heavily armored horseman, but was very agile and managed to keep just beyond the reach of the other’s silver blade. He would step in and land blows with his mace before the rider could recover from his thrusts. Ignoring the pain in my knee, I ran, shouting at the Khajitt to distract him. He saw me coming, roared in anger, and clouted the horseman with a hard blow to the shoulder. Turning, he charged me, lifting his mace to strike at my head.

Raising my shield, I managed to deflect the blow, but the force of the impact drove me to my bad knee. Ouch! I winced at the pain shooting up my thigh. Lifting my shield above my head, I swung the sword beneath it at the Khajiit’s exposed knee before losing my balance and falling to my right side.

The bandit staggered from the injury I had dealt him, just as the rider came up behind him and ran his blade into the cat-man’s back, ending the fight. As the bandit dropped onto my shield, trapping my left arm, I met the horseman’s eyes and recognized the steely gaze in dismay.

Managing to get my good leg underneath the corpse, I kicked the dead bandit off. He rolled a short ways down the slope, and came to rest against the nearby boulder. Slipping the shield up my forearm, I sat up, sheathing my sword with some difficulty. The rider’s gauntleted hand came down to me in an offer of assistance. He pulled me easily to my feet when I grasped his wrist in acceptance. Panting, we looked at each other silently for a few moments. Stepping back a pace, the horseman sheathed his sword and brushed his breastplate with his knuckles in a half-salute.

“You seem much better than the last time I saw you, traveler,” he said quietly, glancing me up and down in assessment. His gaze lingered on the battered shield and iron longsword. “Better equipped, at least,” he said, studying my face.

“I am much better, sir, though not as well as I would like,” Gasping as much from pain as from exertion, I forced myself to take a deep breath against the pounding of my heart.

“I had heard you got yourself arrested,” the rider continued, his gaze still hard on me.

“Yes, sir, I did,” I felt the blood rising in my cheeks from embarrassment. “I don’t quite remember why, sir, but I’m certain it was for something stupid that I did.” Shifting the weapons on my back, I settled them into a more comfortable position. “I don’t intend to do it again, sir, whatever it was.”

“From what Laterensis Maro told me, it was a brawl between you and a mercenary Dunmer.” The horseman’s grim mouth quirked suddenly into a lopsided smile. “The other resisted arrest, so Maro had to kill him. He spared you because you surrendered to him.” His blue eyes sharpened at me. “That was actually smart of you. Maro has no patience with drunks and addicts.” His smile faded into sternness. “No offense intended, ma’am.”

“None taken, sir,” I shrugged. “I guess I was in the prison long enough to sober up.” Looking down at the dead Khajiit, I knelt stiffly beside him. “Not my proudest moment, sir.”

“Looks to me like you know how to wield a sword, ma’am,” the rider commented as I searched the bandit for anything I could use. Finding five drakes and two lockpicks, I looked up at the horseman.

“Legion service, twenty-five years, sir,” looking away as I struggled to my feet, I could hear the bitterness I still felt in my voice. He refused the coins I offered him, waving for me to keep them. “Got kicked out for being too old, too broken down, and too sick to continue fighting.” That still smarts.

“And still battling those injuries, I see,” was the rider’s only comment. He returned to his bay, standing several paces away. Reaching up to the saddle, he looked back at me. “My name is Antonius Fulvius,” he offered, mounting the horse with a clanking of his plate armor.

“Julian, from Anvil,” I responded.

Fulvius touched his knuckles to his breastplate. “Thanks for your help, Julian.” He lifted his gaze to the tall spire of White Gold Tower, visible even at this distance from the Imperial City. “These are unsettling times,” his face turned grim again beneath the steel helm. “With the Emperor assassinated, and the Dragonfires cold.” He looked down at me as I limped towards him. “You will need to be careful traveling these roads.” His voice trailed off, and his gaze lost its assured confidence. “I don’t know what will happen. We’ve never been without an Emperor,” he added softly.

“I know,” I heard my voice echo his sadness, remembering how the Emperor had treated me so kindly.

Posted by: haute ecole rider Mar 19 2010, 09:11 PM

Chapter 2.3 Weynon Priory

The sun was low in my eyes when I reached a small lane leading north from the Black Road. It ended at a small cluster of stone buildings, including a small chapel. Its spire had been visible through the entwining branches of the immense oaks and beeches for about an hour.

Regarding it silently, I paused at the edge of the Black Road, thinking about this Jauffre. The Grandmaster of the Blades. What would he be like? How would he receive me? For several moments, I studied the place, finding it peaceful and quiet. A couple of horned rams grazed in a small sheepfold to the left. The lane passed their pen, and ended in a circle in front of the central stone structure. Another path led up the hill to the right towards the chapel, while a third walkway ran through the porte-cochere toward the rear of the central building.

As I watched, a lean, grey-haired Dunmer stepped out of the deepening shadows within the porte-cochere and paused. Shading his eyes with his hand, his face turned in my direction. Get this over with. Adjusting the weapons at my back, I limped toward him, noting his stained linen clothing, the well-worn leather apron.

“Good afternoon, stranger,” he greeted me, lowering his hand. “How can I help you this fine day?”

“Hello, ser,” I used the Dunmer honorific. “I’m looking for Weynon Priory.”

“You’ve found it, muthsera,” the older man returned the courtesy. “I’m Eronor, I do odd jobs for the Brothers, and take care of their sheep and horses. Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?”

“I’m looking for Grandmaster Jauffre, ser,” I almost missed the puzzled look on Eronor’s face.

“Grandmaster?” he repeated. Then his eyes lit up. “Oh, you mean Brother Jauffre!” Now it was my turn to be perplexed. “He’s in the Priory, with his books, most likely,” he pointed me to the front door of the central building.

Brother? I turned from the Dunmer in confusion. What happened to Grandmaster Jauffre? Are there two Jauffres? Reaching the front door, I glanced back at Eronor, who waved me to go on in with a smile.

Inside, the warm interior was welcoming after the cool air of the highlands. Waiting for my eyes to adjust, I looked around. Two tonsured men at a round table, one laying plates, the other setting out food, paused to look at me. The older man, in black robes, regarded me silently with a haughty air. The brown-robed younger monk set the dishes down and walked to me, his boyish face curious and welcoming.

“I am Brother Piner,” he introduced himself. “How may I help you, ma’am?”

“I - I’m not sure, Brother,” I stammered. “I was told to come to Weynon Priory to speak with Grandmaster Jauffre, but there’s a Brother Jauffre -”

“Ah, yes, Brother Jauffre is upstairs,” Piner assured me with a smile. He looked me up and down, and an uncertain expression came over his face, reflecting my own confusion.

“I’m sorry, Brother,” I looked away. How do I seem to him? Old, sick, barely able to wield the weapons I carry? “I’m looking for the Grandmaster of the Blades. I must have come to the wrong place.”

“By the Nine, no!” Piner shook his head emphatically. The older monk shot him a reproving glance, which he missed. “We are all brothers serving Talos,” he explained. “Some of us are monks living a quiet life of contemplation and service here, others serve in the Blades.” He waved me towards a weapon rack near the door. “There, put your bow and quiver aside, and your pack. You can keep your sword, if you like.”

It was then I noticed the slim katana that depended from the cord belting Piner’s homespun robe. Shrugging off my quiver and bow, I set them in the weapon rack. Setting the pack on the floor and leaning the battered leather shield on it, I glanced again at the katana, feeling a little envious. “I didn’t know monks carried swords, Brother,” I straightened my back against the wound in my side, relieved of my burden.

“This?” Piner looked down at the hilt of the fine sword with some pride. “This is from my days as a Blade,” he smiled at me. “Shall I take you to Brother Jauffre?”

“I - I suppose so,” I said, still uncertain who was whom. “Thank you, Brother.”

“Come with me, then, ma’am,” Piner turned and led me past the dining room to the staircase at the rear of the building. “May I ask your name?” he turned as we started up the stairs, looking back at me over his shoulder.

“I’m Julian, from Anvil,” Finding the stairs difficult for my knee after walking all day, I glanced up contritely at Piner. “I’m sorry to slow you down, Brother.”

“No,” Piner paused on the landing, where the stairs split into two, each flight leading to opposite sides of the building. “I should apologize for walking so fast.” He pointed at my bad leg. “Recently injured?”

Shaking my head, I reached the landing. Piner regarded my face. “I can get you a healing potion,” he volunteered.

“Thanks, but I’m practicing my healing spell,” I answered. It was true - as I had walked from the Imperial City, I had been casting the healing spell whenever my magicka replenished itself. As Piner watched, I created it yet again. The pain in my knee eased to a dull throbbing. Nodding at Piner, I motioned for him to continue. He led me to the right side, to a stairhall.

Piner walked to a door that led toward the front of the building. He knocked firmly, and opened the door at a voice from within. “Brother Jauffre, Julian from Anvil to see you, sir.” He smiled at me as I stepped through, then closed the panel softly behind me.

Bookshelves lined the large room, with copying desks along one wall. At the opposite end, large, leaded glass windows let in the last of the dying light, limning a large desk and the balding figure of a monk hunched over a book, forehead propped on one fist. His silhouette shifted as he looked up at me.

“Well, Julian from Anvil, don’t stand there in the shadows.” His voice was clipped, with a trace of a familiar accent. High Rock. Beautiful country, except for the Wrothgarians. “How is it you come seeking me?”

Limping towards him, I saw his face more clearly once I drew near. He had the weathered look of a man who spent much of his life outdoors, the straight bearing of a soldier, and the grey hair that comes with age, or stress. “I’m looking for Grandmaster Jauffre,” I began.

“Grandmaster?” he repeated softly. “I haven’t been called that in years. What brings you here?”

I felt a little relief. “Then you’re not Brother Jauffre, but Grandmaster?”

“Oh, I’m Brother Jauffre now,” he motioned impatiently with his hand. “But yes, I’m the Grandmaster. Something I’d like to keep quiet in these parts.”

“Forgive me, Grandmaster,” I reached into my cuirass and pulled out the Amulet, still wrapped in its woolen pouch. Lifting the cord over my head, I met his gaze. “I had to make sure I had found the right person for this,” I placed it on the desk. The monk regarded the lump silently. “The Emperor told me to give this to Grandmaster Jauffre.”

Jauffre’s head shot up at me. “The Emperor?” he repeated. “Before he died?”

Grief surged in my throat, forcing me to breathe slowly, fighting for composure suitable for the moment. “I was with him when he - died.” Telling Jauffre what Uriel Septim had told me about the threat to Tamriel took all of my self-control.

Jauffre listened silently, then reached for the wrapped object. He slowly untied the wool, gasped when he saw the jewel within. “The Amulet?” he exclaimed. “The Emperor gave you the Amulet of Kings before he died?” His gaze, intensely blue in the dim light, pinned me to the spot. “Explain this, Julian,” his tone became chill.

Taken aback by his abrupt tone, I shifted my weight uneasily, trying to ease my bad knee without being obvious. “The Emperor knew he was going to die,” I picked my words carefully. “He gave me the Amulet, told me not to let the - the Prince of Darkness get it. There is one last son still living, and he said you would know what to do with this.” Closing my eyes against the tears, I stopped speaking.

“You saw his assassination,” Jauffre’s voice softened a little. “That is not easy for you, I see.” He wrapped the Amulet very carefully in the wool, placing it in the center of the desk. “Sit,” it was an order. “You don’t look very well, Julian from Anvil.”

Looking around, I saw the chair Jauffre indicated, to my left. His gaze turned assessing as I limped to it, swung my sheathed sword free of the seat and sat down stiffly. “The Emperor,” he continued, “has been a very good judge of character, for the most part.” He looked down at the red bundle in front of him. “If he trusted you with this and with his secret, then so must I.”

Posted by: haute ecole rider Mar 19 2010, 09:15 PM

Chapter 2.4: Jauffre

Jauffre rose from his desk and went to a nearby shelf. He rummaged among the vials sitting clustered together, and brought one to me. “Drink this, Julian,” Starting to shake my head, I saw the hard look in the old man’s eyes and took the vial. He waited until I had choked down the bitter potion, then returned to his desk.

“Let me explain things a little more to you, Julian of Anvil,” he looked down at his hands, clasped loosely on the edge of the desk. “Many years ago, I was the Captain of Uriel Septim’s bodyguard. Late one night, he called me into his private quarters. There was the babe,” his eyes grew distant, seeing something from long ago. “The Emperor told me to take the child someplace safe, where he could grow up in peace.” Jauffre’s fingers started drumming an irregular rhythm on the wooden surface. “I placed the babe with a farming family, and watched him grow from afar.”

Looking down, Jauffre covered the woolen lump with one hand, as if to feel the heat I knew emanated from the stone. “We need to find Uriel’s last son.” Now that blue gaze looked directly at me. “Apparently the assassins don’t know about him yet, but they will, soon. And when they find out -”

“They’ll kill him, too, Grandmaster,” I whispered, finishing Jauffre’s sentence. He nodded, and I thought I saw a satisfied gleam in his eye. “Just like they killed the Emperor’s other sons, and the Emperor himself.”

“Aye, that they will do,” Jauffre looked me up and down. His assessing regard made me acutely aware of my mismatched ensemble of shabby armor. He rose to his feet. “Come, it’s dinner time. Join us, please, Julian from Anvil.” It was more an order than a request.

“Yes, Grandmaster, thank you.” I rose to my feet and followed him downstairs. Thanks to the potion he had given me, the stairs were easier to navigate this time. The pain in my side had disappeared with the potion, and my knee felt stronger, though it still hurt to put all of my weight on it.

Brother Piner was serving the older man when we arrived. Jauffre gestured me to an empty chair next to the black-robed monk, and sat down across from me. Piner set steaming bowls of aromatic stew in front of Jauffre and me, before seating himself in front of his own bowl. Sniffing appreciatively at the food, I picked up my fork. Taking that first bite, I looked up to see the three men sitting quietly, heads bowed over their own meal, eyes closed and hands below the table. Mortified, I put the fork down when I realized they were praying.

They did not take long, and began eating, not looking at me. If they knew I had not shared grace with them, they showed no sign of it. We ate silently, and we ate quickly. Piner stood to clear away the empty dishes, and the older man picked up a pewter flagon from the center of the table and poured into Jauffre’s cup. Smelling the wine, I shook my head hurriedly as the pitcher moved over my own small goblet.

“No, thank you, sir,” I murmured, afraid of what the wine would to do me, of what it had done. I did not want the smith’s hammer again.

“We have water from our well,” the man said, pouring himself a mug without hesitation. “You will have to wait until morning for some klah.”

“Water is fine, sir,” I watched as the black-robed man with the proud features rose and moved to the sideboard under the front window, where he picked up a clay pitcher and returned. He filled my goblet, then set the jug next to my elbow. “Help yourself, guest.” Sitting back down, he picked up his wine and sipped it, his face warming a little. “I’m Prior Maborel.”

“Julian,” taking a sip of the clear water, I caught Jauffre looking at me over the rim of his goblet.

“From Anvil,” he added, addressing the prior. “She has traveled far today.”

Looking around, I caught the prior’s gaze at me. “Thank you for the meal and the water, sir. It’s a nice place here,” I commented.

“It’s simple,” Maborel responded. “We are, after all, a monastic order dedicated to Talos and the Eight Divines.” He smiled slightly, kindness more evident in his dark eyes than on his lips. “I am responsible for the religious and secular affairs of the Priory.” He nodded over at Jauffre. “Brother Jauffre came to us late in life, after many years in the Blades. He continues to serve, in his own way, but spends much of his time studying.”

Jauffre glanced up from the apple he was slicing. “It is never too late to gain knowledge,” he commented before turning his attention back to his steel dagger.

I turned back to the prior. “What’s the Brotherhood of Talos?” I asked him.

“Our order works to spread the teachings and worship of the Divine Talos,” Maborel settled back in his chair. “Talos is Tiber Septim ascended. He teaches how to be strong for war and peace, to protect his people, and to be bold against the enemies of Tamriel.”

Recalling some of the chapel teachings from when I was small, I nodded to myself. My time in the Legion had been in the service of Akatosh and the Emperor. What Talos taught was not so different from what I had practiced all these years.

“And the Blades,” I tipped my head at Piner, who had rejoined us from the kitchen area, “are a part of the Order as well?”

“Yes,” Maborel nodded. “They are the elite knights of the Emperor, dedicated to Talos above and the Septims here on Nirn.” His eyes turned dark, as Jauffre’s hands slowed in their slicing. “The loss of the Emperor is a terrible blow to the Blades.”

“Yes,” looking into my tankard, I saw again Baurus kneeling beside the Emperor’s body. “I can’t remember the Dragonfires ever being out.”

“There will be change ahead of us,” Maborel remarked softly, his eyes on Jauffre. “The future will be hard to foresee.”

Shifting in my chair, I hid my unease behind the water, taking another sip. “I try not to think beyond tomorrow.”

“Spoken like a true soldier,” Jauffre commented, lips twitching in a barely suppressed smile.

Finishing the last of his wine, Maborel rose to his feet, his kind eyes on me. “If you ever want to learn more about Talos,” he inclined his head slightly, “I’ll be happy to answer any questions you may have.” He nodded at Jauffre and Piner. “Good night Brothers, Julian. Talos guard you all.”

“And you also,” both Brothers murmured in response. As Maborel left, Piner excused himself, removing the platter of apples and the pitchers from the table. Finishing off the last of my water, I became aware of Jauffre’s steady regard on me.

“Grandmaster,” I returned his gaze. “What will you do next?”

He shrugged. “I need to find someone to go to Kvatch,” he said, looking down at his small plate, spiking the last apple slice on his dagger. “Find Martin the priest, in the Chapel of Akatosh, and bring him back here.”

“Martin?” I repeated the unfamiliar name. Jauffre popped the fruit into his mouth and chewed it thoughtfully, wiping his blade on the napkin in front of him.

“Yes, Martin,” he said after swallowing the apple, still avoiding my gaze. Leaning back in his chair, he tipped his goblet towards him, swirling the wine still remaining in the bottom. “Problem is,” he continued, “all of my Blades are occupied at the moment. The Palace contingent has been severely decimated.” He shook his head. “I’ve got a couple of agents missing out Cheydinhal way, as well. We’re like the Legion, spread thin.”

I studied Jauffre silently. Why does he need to speak to a priest of Akatosh? He is a Brother of Talos, he doesn’t need to speak to the Dragon. But it’s the Dragon’s blood in the Amulet. Maybe Martin may be helpful in determining what to do with it - Inhaling sharply at a sudden thought, I became aware of Jauffre’s gaze on me. “Martin Septim, right?” I asked him. He nodded. I looked down at my hands, resting in my lap.

“What is it, Julian?” Jauffre asked.

“If the Prince of Darkness,” Mehrunes Dagon, has to be, “gets a hold of the Amulet, what will happen then?”

Jauffre scowled at me. “Then the barriers that protect Tamriel from Oblivion will fail,” he answered. “That’s why Martin needs to be found, so he can take the Amulet and re-light the Dragonfires.”

“Are you ordering me to go -” No. That’s ridiculous. I couldn’t save the Emperor from that assassin. I’m too old, too feeble. Something moved beneath my breastbone, like a snake shifting its coils.

“You’re not a Blade,” Jauffre responded. “So technically, I can’t order you to go. But it’s because you’re not a Blade that I’d like you to go. Sure, you don’t look like much at the moment,” again he raked me with that calculating glance, “but you’ve made an impression on the Emperor.” He emptied the wine glass. “The assassins will be watching for the Blades, but they likely won’t know you. You can pass right through them.” Setting the goblet on the table, he leaned his elbows on the table and pointed at me. “Looking at you, one would never suspect you of being on a mission to recover the Emperor’s last son and heir.”

What Jauffre said made sense. We regarded each other for several moments. Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes. I’ve accomplished the task the Emperor gave me. Or did I? “Close shut the jaws of Oblivion,” he said. How? It’s simple, really. Find the heir. Give him the Amulet, get him to the Temple of the One, so he can relight the Dragonfires. That’s all there is to it. The Emperor called me Sun’s Companion. Or did he mean Son’s Companion? Is that what he meant, for me to make sure this Martin makes it to the throne?

I opened my eyes and looked at Jauffre. “Very well, I’ll go.” After all, how hard can this be?

*******************
That's it for the second chapter. Enjoy!

Posted by: Fiach Mar 19 2010, 09:21 PM

wow 2 chapters already

this is pretty damn good mate, very descriptive, it kinda makes me want to dust off my old copy of Oblivion...again xD

a very intresting character, I've only just noticed that I've actually never had a redguard character in any of my earlietr half-assed fanfictions before... I might have to remedy this

great story, can't wait till chapter 3

Posted by: Olen Mar 19 2010, 11:24 PM

This one's coming fast anyway. And it's good stuff.

So it's off to Kvatch now... I wander what might happen on the way. And even more once she gets there.

I really like your character, she isn't at all the typical sort and that makes her development all the more compelling. In fact you've really nailed two unusual things, it's rare to see a female lead in fantasy almost as so for the lead to be old and broken down. Both, well that was a stroke of genius.

Posted by: SubRosa Mar 20 2010, 12:10 AM

I am not sure if I have said this before, but you have made excellent use of the decision to have a protagonist who is not the typical hero fare. Jauffre is quite right on all counts. The enemy would not have a dossier on Julian, and no one looking at her would imagine she was a secret agent. You have taken one of the weakest, thinnest parts of Oblivion's plot and somehow made it all logical and believable. Bravo!

Posted by: mALX Mar 20 2010, 06:59 AM

ARGH! I lay out sick and you have filled your pages! I can never say enough how incredible it is that you can take a known story and make it so totally unique that it feels new !!!!

Posted by: Destri Melarg Mar 20 2010, 08:42 AM

I hope you aren't rushing through the re-posting of this story because you think that those of us who read it before might get bored with the prospect of having to read it again. Speaking only for myself I can say that nothing could be further from the truth. I am having just as much fun reading Julian's adventures this time as I did last time. I think you might be doing a disservice to those who have not yet read the story by posting so much of it at a time (I know that you are posting a chapter at a time, but they are good sized chapters).

That said:

This play on words still stands out to me.

Posted by: SubRosa Mar 20 2010, 06:29 PM

Yes, please slow down. I would like to sit back and re-read Julian's story from the beginning. The same with Rales and many others transplanted from that other forum. Not to mention I would like to get into many of the pure-bred Chorrol characters. But you are making it very hard by putting so much up at once. Also keep in mind that others here have never seen our white-haired Redguard at all, and 7-8k words at once is very intimidating for a new reader. Have pity on an old war veteran!

You might also look at this as an opportunity to go back to these early chapters and do some fine-tuning. I am not sure how much you might like to add or change, but now is certainly the time to do it. For example, I know you said you would like to incorporate some of the ideas about how magic works from the last TF chapter on the other forum. This would be the time to go back and work that into these chapters.

Posted by: haute ecole rider Mar 23 2010, 08:42 PM

@ all: Thanks for the support and encouragement. I'll slow down, though that means it'll take forever to catch up to the story on the other forum!

So, without further ado:

Chapter 3.1 Advice and Assistance

Morning came too soon, yet not soon enough. Nightmares of blood and fire had danced through my dreams all night, leaving me shaking and scared. Waking to the sounds of the Brothers moving around quietly, I lay still as they dressed and headed downstairs to start the day. Waiting until I heard them leave the Priory, I threw back the covers of the cot they had loaned me, the first clean bed I had slept in for years. On the small table next to my cot, I found a water pitcher and washbowl, with a clean towel neatly folded.

Refreshing myself, I took the time to wipe away the small amount of discharge that had accumulated on the old wound on my left hip, still festering in spite of the healing spells. Still, I could see new scar tissue filling in the unhealed gash, and the pain was now a mere twinge. Casting a couple of healing spells, I realized that I did not feel so shaky after two. Could it be? Attempting a third spell resulted in the magic fizzling from my fingers without effect. At least I’m improving. The smell of brewing klah hit my nostrils and spurred me to get dressed. Some part of me rebelled at putting on the battered leathers, but I had little else, and the red robe was now too skimpy for me to wear by itself. Especially in a priory full of monks.

Downstairs, I found the table set for the morning meal, along with a slip of paper beside one of the plates. Julian, it read, don’t wait for us. Go ahead and help yourself to some breakfast. Klah’s in the fireplace. Feeling honored, I sat down in the same chair I had used last night. Taking a piece of bread, still warm from the oven built into the side of the fireplace, I topped it with butter and honey. Eating slowly, I savored the simple food.

The apples from last night were back on the table, waiting invitingly. Having been too full after dinner to have one, I now helped myself to one of the red and green globes, sinking my teeth into the crunchy flesh. My eyes rolled involuntarily at the wonderfully sweet and tart flavor. It has been a long time since anything tasted so good. I had been so obsessed with the next drink, the next dose of skooma, that I had forgotten the simple pleasures of wholesome food.

“Good, I see you found Brother Piner’s note,” Jauffre’s voice reached me from the door. As he passed by on his way to the fireplace, I saw his smile. My mouth stuffed full of wondrous grub, I struggled to swallow it so I could be polite. Without waiting for a response from me, Jauffre took the pot of klah off its hook and brought it over, pouring it into two clay mugs. He placed one beside my plate before returning the pot to the fire. He sat down beside me, his eyes on my face. “Our food is simple,” he took a sip of the klah, “but nourishing. And you need to get some meat on those bones of yours. The last few years have obviously been hard on you, Julian.” The crows-feet at the corners of his blue eyes crinkled at my startled glance.

“Umm,” I finally managed to clear my mouth. “Thanks for breakfast, Grandmaster.” Pushing my plate away, finished with my meal, I picked up the steaming mug of klah in my hands. The heat felt good against the old fracture in my left hand, which still ached on these cool mornings. The klah was as I remembered it, strong, bitter, with a wallop that drove the last of the early-morning fuzziness out of my brain.

Jauffre rose, his mug in hand, and motioned for me to follow him, and to take my klah with as well. He led me upstairs, back to the library. Walking to a massive cabinet set against the long side wall, he unlocked the panels and swung them back.

My head swam when I saw the weapons neatly racked on the left side, and the shelves of armor, both heavy and light, on the right. “You are not going to Kvatch without some help,” Jauffre turned to me. “Blades pass through sometimes, and they need supplies. Help yourself to what you need.” He pointed to a familiar pack and weapons on the floor to the side of the cabinet. “I had Brother Piner bring up your gear. If you want to replace any of it with what we have, or lighten your load, you can leave the extras here.”

I studied the weapons. Most were iron, similar to what I carried, but there were about thirty steel-tipped arrows in a new quiver. Removing one of them, I studied the fletching, the shaft. “That’s ironwood,” Jauffre commented. “Less likely to warp in wet weather.” He tugged on the shoulder of my cuirass. “Do you like the light armor, Julian?”

“I’m not as strong as I used to be,” I shrugged. “And I’m tired of being slow.”

Jauffre humphed silently, then pointed out a large object wrapped in linen. “That’s a fine leather cuirass, it may fit you better than this old thing. There’s greaves to match, too. Try them on.”

While Jauffre set the quiver of steel-tipped arrows beside my pack, slinging the iron ones into the bottom of the cabinet, I undressed. Jauffre caught his breath, and I glanced at him, suddenly self-conscious about stripping in front of a monk. He was staring at the old wound on my left hip.

“That never healed right,” Jauffre touched the raw scar with his fingertips. Flinching at his light touch, I held my ground. The Grandmaster walked around me, cataloguing the map of old injuries on my body. His eye lingered on the knurled tissue covering the outside of my right knee. “Neither did that,” he commented. Finally, he took my left hand in his and turned my wrist so he could see the Red Dragon on my forearm.

“You served Akatosh,” it was a statement, not a question. I nodded. “Honorable discharge?” I saw again the hard stare as Jauffre raised his eyes to mine.

“Medical,” I answered. He grunted noncommittally and moved to the cabinet, pulling out a padded linen tunic.

“Put this on,” he said, handing it to me. “You’re too thin for the cuirass and greaves, they will rub you in the wrong places. You need to protect that wound,” he pointed again to my left hip. “The leather is stiff and will chafe it raw.”

I put the tunic on, and Jauffre adjusted the laces to make it fit better. Then he handed me the greaves. As he had said, I found them stiff, and they did indeed rub at the hips. Putting on the cuirass, I realized that Jauffre was right - the padded tunic did help with the fit. Even so, he snugged the buckles all the way down to the last hole.

Jauffre handed me a pack, specially shaped to sit beside the quiver on my back. It held a strap for my bow stave, with a pocket on its outer surface for the strings. Inside, I found compartments. This will help with keeping all my gear separated.

Dressed in my new leathers, I transferred my gear to the new pack. Lockpicks. Cairn bolete, wisp stalks, fly amanita, and other miscellaneous ingredients I had picked up. The mortar and pestle. The miscellaneous gems and jewelry I intended to sell. I paused, picking up the steel shortsword. Looking at Jauffre, who had been watching, I held the sword to him, hilt first. “This was Captain Renault’s backup weapon,” I said quietly. “I took it to defend myself, until I found the longsword.”

Jauffre unsheathed the shortsword, eyeing the blade and swinging it experimentally. “It’s a good weapon,” he commented. “Sure you don’t want to keep a steel blade over an iron one?”

“I’m used to the longsword,” I replied. “I like the reach of it.” Watching Jauffre place it in the weapon rack, I shrugged. “Besides, I was taught that it isn’t what you have that matters, it’s how you use it.”

Jauffre regarded me thoughtfully. “What is a soldier’s best weapon?” he asked finally.

“The brain,” I responded automatically. It was something Carius had pounded into my head time and time again. “Think before you fight.”

“Hmm,” Jauffre only said. Stepping back from the cabinet, I gathered my weapons and looked at the old Breton.

“Thanks, Grandmaster,” I said finally. “I will bring Martin back, sir.”

“I know you will,” Jauffre responded, closing and locking the cabinet. “A couple more things, Julian.” He waved for me to leave the library. As we headed down the stairs, he stopped by the dining room and picked up a wrapped package. “Here’s some food for the road,” he said, stowing the package into my bag. “But try to stop at the inns whenever you can. Eat meat at least once a day.” He looked me up and down again. “Spells and potions are fine and all,” he waggled his fingers dismissively, “but nothing beats meat for long-term health, strength and proper healing.”

Staring at Jauffre, I was reminded of the pilus prior I had had as a raw recruit. Like the old man in front of me, that grizzled veteran of border conflicts and provincial uprisings had been gruffly solicitous of his green charges, imparting as much knowledge he had gained over the years in a sometimes-futile effort to keep as many of us alive as possible. I had thanked Carius many times in the following years.

“And,” Jauffre returned my scrutiny, his eyes twinkling, “when you find Martin, consider your words carefully.” His tone turned serious. “He never knew he is Uriel Septim’s son. Be ready for disbelief when you tell him.”

“I’ll be sure to choose my words, sir,” I responded. “I’d be skeptical, too, if some skinny beggar told me I am descended from Cyrus the Redguard,” naming the hero of my mother’s homeland, and my own secret childhood hero. Jauffre smiled at the comparison as I headed to the front door.

“Before you go, speak to Brother Piner and Prior Maborel, too.” Jauffre said finally.

“Yes, Grandmaster, I will,” I turned to say farewell to him, but Jauffre was already disappearing up the stairs towards the library. I watched him go silently. Not much for good-byes, are you?

Brother Piner entered as I turned back to the door. “Good morning, Julian,” he greeted me with quiet cheerfulness. “Talos smile on you, friend.”

“And also on you,” I returned.

“Brother Jauffre told us you are leaving on a mission for him,” Piner smiled at me. “I know what it’s like to set off, not knowing what lies on the road ahead.” He walked to a bookcase near the bottom of the stairs, running his finger over the spines until he found the volume he wanted. “Here,” he placed a small book with a red leather cover into my hands. “I had this when I was training with the Blades. I no longer have need of it.”

I studied the script: The Warp in the West. A book? Why a book? Trying to hide my confusion, I met Piner’s gaze, his expression both eager and wistful. “Thank you, Brother,” I tucked the book into the pack. “I’ll be sure to read it.” When I have time. Having walked it before, I knew all too well the hard road that lay between the Imperial City and Anvil. Full of bandits and creatures, it was not for the weak.

Posted by: mALX Mar 23 2010, 09:08 PM

Your stories always make the reader feel they are there in the room! I loved this the first time I read it too!

Posted by: Destri Melarg Mar 23 2010, 10:04 PM

Now that I have broken my fast on bread with butter and honey and those sweet, tart apples I am ready to tackle the rest of this chapter. You really bring Jauffre alive on the page. He comes across as a combination of priest, grandmaster, and grandmother ("you're too thin, Julian").

Don't be discouraged by how long it takes for you to catch this story up. To my recollection you only started posting this the first time a few months ago.

Posted by: SubRosa Mar 23 2010, 10:10 PM

Ahh, nothing like a hearty breakfast to get a story going. Was that a Granny Smith apple (or would that be a Granny Septim ?) Those were always the sweetest tasting ones I remembered when I worked produce, ages ago.

I know a certain ex-primus-pilus who would agree...

Hmm, first Julian strips naked in front of Jauffre, and then he starts telling her she needs to eat meat... I am trying not to read anything into that, but it is not easy.

Do not worry about how long it takes to post it all. Julian, like a fine wine, should be savored slowly. You have the rest of your life. Remember the turtle. He is all about getting there. How quickly does not matter.

Posted by: D.Foxy Mar 24 2010, 02:43 AM

Ahhh I forgot to comment in this yesterday.

Wunderbar! Das gefault mir ganz gut!!!

Posted by: mALX Mar 24 2010, 03:36 PM

I hope everyone is keeping up with the updates of this story on the other site, Hauty just shook my world with the latest update! Unbelievably powerful write on your latest update on the BGSF Hauty!!!

Posted by: haute ecole rider Mar 25 2010, 07:33 PM

@mALX: Thanks for the blurb. Check back later in the week.

@Destri: Yes, I have to remind myself to post slower. I read fast (I read most of your Interregnum in about five hours on my day off) - and I frequently forget that most people don't read as fast (or type as fast) as I do. Sorry to all!

@SubRosa: Actually Granny Smiths are all green, and very very tart. I think you're thinking of Jonathans. Some of the newer hybrids coming out are absolutely wonderful. I've always been partial to G.S.'s, but I love the Fiji, which is what these probably are. And Jauffre is such a dirty-minded old Breton, isn't he?

@D.Foxy: Wilkommen bie Chorrol! Gut zu sehen Sie hier! Vielen Dank für das Lob!

I am currently many, many chapters ahead of both Chorrol.com and the Unnamed Forum threads. I have many chapters that will need rewriting before posting. There are a few chapters already posted that I will probably polish up a little, but I'm one of those where I work so much on each chapter, then I'm done and move on. Before each is posted, they are rewritten about four or five times (the latest update on the other forum took six major rewrites), so I don't plan to do major rewrites on them as I bring them over here. Some can stand some polishing, and that will happen, but most will likely remain the same. This story is running away with me and I'm currently struggling to keep up with it.

Here is Chapter 3.2: for those who are new, let me just say that I'm drawing on my equestrian experience very heavily here. I finally learned to ride just eighteen years ago as an adult, and remember it very well. I hope you enjoy sharing my experiences with Julian.

******************
Chapter 3.2 Paint

I found Prior Maborel in the stable behind the Priory, brushing out the mane of a paint gelding. I paused outside the stable, eyeing the horses. In the stall next to the paint, a chestnut stallion tossed his head, and the bay mare in the adjoining enclosure pinned her ears and stamped her foot at him, clearly rejecting his amorous advances.

“Brother Jauffre tells me you have a long and lonely road ahead,” the prior spoke, leading the paint out of the stable. “Have you ever ridden before, Julian?”

I stared at Maborel, unable to believe where this conversation was going. In my time in the Legion, I had served only in the infantry, had never learned to ride horseback, though in my younger years I had yearned after the magnificent horses of the cavalry. I had given up on the dream of becoming an equestrian so long ago I had forgotten it.

After a moment, I could only shake my head wordlessly, my eyes full of the gleaming brown and white splashed coat of the paint gelding before me. The horse blinked a great brown eye at me, then turned his head to blow softly on my chest, his nostrils fluttering.

The paint stood quietly while the prior picked up a saddle from the nearby railing and settled it over the horse’s round back. He gestured for me to come closer, and showed me how to position the saddle to the horse’s comfort, and to tighten up the girth.

Then Maborel picked up a confusing tangle of leather straps, buckles and a jointed metal bar. He identified the different parts of the bridle, and demonstrated how to put it on. I noticed that the paint opened his mouth to take the bit, lowering his head to let the prior slip the headstall over his ears.

Leading the gelding to a nearby rock, Maborel motioned for me to climb to the top of the rock. He took my shield from me and waved me to the saddle.

“Always mount from the horse’s left side,” he advised. “With that bad knee, I’d mount from a rock or something similar to make it easier on yourself.” He reached for the left stirrup, twisting it so I could put my left foot into it. “Take the pommel,” he patted the high front of the saddle, “in your left hand, your left foot in the stirrup, that’s it,” his tone became encouraging as I followed his instructions. “Now step off your right foot. Put your weight into the left stirrup and swing your right leg over the cantle,” he indicated the high back of the seat.

The horse stood motionless as I swung my right leg over the cantle and landed with a thump in the saddle, without any of the smoothness and grace I had observed in the Legion riders. The paint lifted his head momentarily, then lowered it to Maborel’s hand. As his head dropped, the gelding’s back rose alarmingly beneath me, and I grabbed the pommel with both hands. The prior smiled up at me.

“He’s gelded, so you don’t have to worry about him being around mares,” he continued. “He’s slow, but his gaits are very smooth and easy. Temperament is very kind, too. He is very smart, and he has taught me much about riding. I know he will take good care of you, too.”

He put the reins into my right hand, showing me how to guide the horse by laying the rein on the side of his neck opposite the way I wanted him to turn. “For now, just neck-rein like this. When you want him to walk on, just give him a loud kiss,” he smooched. The paint took a step forward, catching me off guard. Again I grabbed for the pommel, but the horse stopped again when Maborel laid his hand over his long nose. “If you want him to canter, just kiss again, and he will pick it right up.”

The prior handed me my shield, waiting until I had settled it on my forearm. “If you want him to slow down, just sit back in the saddle. If you want him to stop, tell him ‘whoa.’ Be ready though, because he will stop very quickly, and if you’re not ready, you’ll catch the pommel in your belly and knock the wind out of yourself.” His tone suggested Maborel spoke from personal experience.

He stepped back with a final pat on the paint’s arched neck. “I’m certain Jauffre’s mission is most urgent, but take things slow at first. Walk Paint for a while, practice stopping him, making him walk on, and turning him. Remember, keep your back straight, and your legs long but relaxed. You want to move with his movement.” He cast a look over me, walking around Paint and checking the girth. “Once you’re comfortable with the walk, try the canter on flat, level ground. I would suggest you do that on the Red Ring Road, where it’s safest.”

My head reeling, I stared at Maborel while the full meaning of his assistance sank in. “You are lending me your horse, Prior?” I whispered incredulously. “You would trust me with him?”

The haughty expression dissolved into a wide and brilliant smile. “It’s more a case of trusting him with you,” he answered. “Remember, if you feel you need to panic, just say ‘whoa.’ Don’t forget to brace yourself!” He clapped my left knee. “Safe travels, friend.”

Tentatively, I stroked the horse’s neck, tangling my fingers in his coarse, two-toned mane. “Thank you, Prior,” I whispered, feeling overwhelmed. “I will bring him back to you.”

Maborel only nodded. Paint’s back rounded beneath me again as he turned his head toward the prior, nuzzling him affectionately. I kissed at the horse, as I had been instructed, and was pleased when the horse stepped off readily. I looked up, and realized how high off the ground I rode, how different the world seemed from this higher vantage point.

Paint’s walk was gentle and slow, giving me time to feel the swaying motion of his back. His footfalls sounded quietly on the cobblestones as we passed beneath the porte-cortere towards the courtyard. As we made our way onto the Black Road, I glanced back at the Priory to see two figures watching my departure - Prior Maborel and Brother Piner. I gave them a final wave with my shield before a roadside tree hid them from my sight.

**********

We passed Fort Ash without incident, and I could see the spire of White Gold Tower ahead as the road started to wind down from the highlands. Paint tossed his head up, and his amble faltered to a halt. I looked at him, and followed his intent gaze into the woods ahead and to the left of the Road. A rustling in the underbrush warned me of some creature. Dismounting with some awkwardness, I drew my sword, dropping my shield into my left hand. Paint remained still as stone as I slowly walked toward the trembling shrub.

A low growl emanated from the leaves, sending a chill down my spine. I spotted a hint of grey fur and braced myself, lifting my shield before me. A wolf ghosted out of the bush, snarling, his yellow eyes blazing on mine. He charged me swiftly, and leaped for my face. I fended him off with my shield then slashed at him with my blade as he fell back.

The handsome predator staggered as the blade cut through his pelt. Go away. Don’t make me kill you. He shook himself and circled me, head down and hackles bristling. My sword ready, I waited, keeping my eyes on him. I held my breath as he came between me and Paint, still facing me. In the edge of my vision, I could sense Paint tense up, his head up, ears forward. Don’t bolt, Paint. Stand your ground. And you, wolf, if you so much as look funny at Paint, I’m not going to hold back. Leave, now.

The wolf stopped, staring at me, teeth bared in a silent snarl. Forcing my shaking body to hold still, I locked eyes with the animal, keeping my gaze steady. Another tense moment, and the wolf blinked first. He turned and faded back into the forest without a backward look.

Shaking, I found myself panting hard from the confrontation. What the hell just happened? Did that wolf just hear my thoughts? Soft hoofbeats on the cobblestones broke into my musings. Sheathing my sword, I turned just as Paint reached me, nudging my shoulder with his muzzle. Looking closely at him, I noticed his relaxed stance. I can not let predators get near Paint. I recalled how Fulvius had dismounted and left his horse some distance away when he rescued me from the wolves at Fort Nikel.

Slipping the shield carry-straps back onto my forearm, I led Paint to a nearby boulder. He stood quietly as I struggled, first to climb onto the rock, then to step into the saddle as Maborel had instructed me. This time, I made a more gentle landing onto his strong back. Rubbing my hand along his crest, I ruffled Paint’s mane. He turned his head slightly toward my right knee, his ears flopping sideways briefly.

“Let’s go, Paint,” I said softly to him, ending with a soft kiss.

Posted by: mALX Mar 25 2010, 07:43 PM

I loved this one before and now. It was well worth a re-read even when you weren't posting it here!

Posted by: Olen Mar 25 2010, 10:53 PM

Brilliant. I like the character, she has weaknesses and strengths which make her more believable and she reacts in a consistant way. You really have her pinned down as a person with believable reactions. I want to see her succeed and want to see her develop which is what I look for in a good story which this is.

Your description of the horsey stuff seemed very convincing and definitely adds something the original game lacked in terms of realism, not that I know one end from the other when it comes to horses.

Posted by: SubRosa Mar 26 2010, 12:07 AM

Hi Paint! It is good to see one of my favorite characters in the JF. In fact, due to the depth you give your equines, I do believe that Paint is my second favorite character in Old Habits. You do such an excellent job of giving the horses depth and personalities, that they really are characters, rather than simply being cars that eat hay instead of gas.


What the hell just happened? Did that wolf just hear my thoughts?
Did he? This was something I wondered about the first time through as well...

Posted by: Destri Melarg Mar 26 2010, 01:11 AM

One can learn a great deal about horses and horsemanship by reading this chapter. In your hands Paint becomes a character instead of merely a mode of transportation. I never really paid attention to the stand-off with the wolf before. Do I detect a hint of foreshadowing?

One thing I forgot to ask you the first time I read this chapter. The advice that Prior Maborel gives Julian to always mount from the left side of a horse, is that true? Does it apply to all horses, or does it just apply to Paint because of Julian’s bum knee? If it does apply to all horses, why the significance of the left side? It is not something that I’ve encountered before and I would be curious to know the proper equestrian. . .etiquette, I guess.

Posted by: D.Foxy Mar 26 2010, 12:18 PM

Although I have ridden horses, donkeys, camels and (once) a buffalo, my experience is of the most limited sort for all of them. Still, I suspect that mounting instruction to Julian (snort-giggle) was knee-specific.

Posted by: Winter Wolf Mar 26 2010, 04:45 PM

PAINT!!!!!

My favourite character in the whole world. Yippppeeee!!!!!

Please do not hold back with the way you write and describe him. Bring him alive, give him a larger role in your story and make him the main character. Mr Ed style.

I still have dreams of Julian riding him straight up the steps and into the Kvatch chapel, blowing horsey kisses over everybody and rescuing the inhabitants single-handedly( or is that single-hoofedly ).
Please??!!?

Posted by: haute ecole rider Mar 27 2010, 05:15 PM

Thanks to all who are reading this the second time.

Olen, welcome to Julian's story! I'm glad you're enjoying this so far. I wrote the horsey stuff mainly for non-horse people. There are plenty of those in my RL, so I'm used to explaining stuff. TBH, Oblivion is the first fantasy game I've encountered where the horses actually seem pretty realistic, especially in their spontaneous movements (rubbing noses on forelegs, looking off into the distance, stretching necks and shaking heads, etc). Even their gaits are realistic. However, to imbue each horse with a distinct personality remains beyond the capabilities of anything less than a supercomputer.

I noticed a couple of people are commenting on the instructions to always mount (*choke* - thanks a lot, Foxy!) from the horse's left side. This is actually tradition, and goes back at least as far as the Middle Ages, if not all the way back to Xenophon. Most people are right handed, which means warriors carried their swords on their left hips and their shields (when applicable) on their left arm. Mounting from the right side of the horse would require swinging your left leg over the horse's back, getting tangled up in the sheathed sword, and banging the poor creature on the back with the shield. Sure way to get bucked off before you even get on! Mounting from the left side of the horse keeps all your heavy metal gear against the horse's left side, less likely to mess things up. The military being the military, that has continued down to this day. Dressage was actually developed by the military, has has eventing (jumping, cross-country, and dressage/parade gaits). The only thing in the Prior's instruction that is out of consideration for Julian's bum knee is the recommendation to always mount from a point higher than the ground (i.e. a boulder or stump).

As for the stand-off with the wolf, I don't believe the wolf was reading Julian's mind, so much as he was reading her body language. IRL, there is actually a lot of communication between predators and prey - that is how predators single out the sick and weak. The wolves and big cats are smaller than the big game they hunt, and they know all too well how easily the big game can hurt them. So they evaluate the prey animals, and look at their body language. The ones that make eye contact, or assume defensive postures (or even aggressive postures, in the case of mothers protecting their young), are avoided. However, the sick and weak often will not make eye contact, are easily confused, and are slower than their herd mates. Those are the ones the predators go for. In this given situation, Julian was not acting like a sick or weak prey, she was acting like the big, strong animal that can cause some serious hurt (and she did). This particular wolf was hungry, but not starving, he wasn't about to risk it all on something that was probably going to kill him.

Oh, and W.Wolf, sorry, Paint isn't trained for combat. Julian is an infantry soldier (i.e. groundpounder) and is appalled at the idea of riding Paint into a horde of scamps with her sword swinging. She's afraid she'll bury her blade into Paint's neck! For your dream to happen, first she needs to get a combat-trained horse, then she needs to learn how to ride him (be quiet, Foxy!). Stick around long enough, and she may work up the courage to do that!

Okay, enough with the equestrian and biology lessons! Let's get on with the story! This is one of my favorite side quests, simply because the old man is such a cool character (in my mind, at least).

*********************
Chapter 3.3 Gone Fishing

It was nearly noon before we reached the road that led east from the Red Ring Road to Weye and the Great Bridge. I slowed Paint, my left side beginning to stab me repeatedly, and turned him towards the inn. Pausing momentarily, I wondered if anyone there would recognize me as the drunken addict that had brawled with the Dunmer mercenary. The fragmented memories I had still didn’t clue me in regarding the cause of that brawl, and I cringed to think what it could have been.

But Jauffre’s advice was greater than my shame, and I decided that now would be a good time to get my daily meat ration. I stopped Paint beside the Wawnet Inn. An old Breton limped toward us, his eyes admiring Paint.

“Good day, ma’am!” he called to me. “Need your ‘orse tended?”

Glancing at the old man, seeing the tattered fishing waders and the worn sandals, I regarded him skeptically. A Watch soldier standing on the doorstep of the Inn, helm under his arm, saw my look.

“That’s Aelwin Merowald, ma’am,” he volunteered. “He’s disabled, can’t fish any more. Taking care of travelers’ horses is about all he can do, but he does it well.”

But for the grace of Akatosh go I, I mused as Merowald stopped beside Paint’s head, holding his hand out for the gelding to sniff. Paint blew softly at him, then nudged the old man’s cheek.

“Well, I was going to stop for lunch,” I mused, considering the Watch’s words. I dismounted and handed the reins to Merowald. “Yes, I would appreciate it, sir,” I told the delighted Breton.

“Ye won’t regret it, ma’am,” Merowald grinned at me. “I’ll be takin’ ‘im across to my ‘ouse - there’s good grass there ‘e can graze.” He patted Paint affectionately on his neck. “Come find me when ye are ready to leave.” As Paint docilely followed the old man across the road towards a humble cottage with a beautiful garden and a little paddock next to it, the watchman shook his head.

“I think you just made his day, ma’am,” he commented to me. “It’s all Merowald’s got to live for, the occasional traveler letting him take care of the horse. Most of them go on up to the Imperial City, and leave their horses at the Chestnut Handy Stables by the City Gate.”

“You said he was a fisherman, sir?” I asked, my eyes on the small Breton, dwarfed by the paint gelding.

“Aye,” the soldier said. “Made a good living at it, too. Apparently, he had an alchemist paying him well for slaughterfish scales. And not just any slaughterfish, mind you, but the Tamriel Barracuda. Nasty things, more teeth than anything else.” He shook his head again. “A full grown one will strip a man of his very flesh, right off his bones, in a few seconds flat.” He waved his arm toward the nearby Lake. “They’re found only here, in Lake Rumare.”

He looked at me. “It was a juvenile that got Merowald, ended his career.” He rubbed at his close-cropped blond hair. “Merowald’s always complaining that he only needed scales from just twelve more slaughterfish before he had enough saved for retirement. Now, as it is, he’s struggling to make ends meet.”

“I see.” Feeling a little sad for the old man, I knew how that felt. “Seems like you’re a little fond of him, sir,” I said to the soldier. He shrugged.

“It’s hard not to be fond of the old man,” he answered. “Merowald’s always cheerful, always glad to help or cheer one other than himself. Even when he was in pain from that bite -” his voice trailed off. The soldier squinted up at the sun, just east of the zenith. He placed his helm on his head and nodded at me. “Well, ma’am, I’d best get going, or I’ll be late for my post.”

Watching him march for the Great Bridge, I turned to look across the road at Merowald’s cottage. He had Paint loose in the small paddock, and was stripping him of his tack. Unable to shake the feeling of pity for the old man, - pity for myself? - I turned away. Walking around the inn to the lakeshore, I spotted an old dock and limped out onto it, looking at the water.

The sun shone warm on my back as I set the pack down on the wooden planks. It’s too bad the old man can’t get twelve more Barracuda for his retirement. It would be nice to live comfortably after a lifetime of hard work. There was a time when I felt that way, when my fellow pili had roasted me on the twenty-fifth anniversary of my enlistment in the Legion. After seven years of endless training cycles and whipping raw recruits into fighting soldiers, I had felt ready for inactivity. But the Goblins changed that. The pain changed that. I looked over my shoulder at the bulk of the Wawnet Inn on the bluff above. I lost everything I had. No one knew how to help me, and few wanted to help me.

Impulsively, I stripped down to my undergarments, piling my gear on the dock. Digging out a length of cord, I tied it around my waist, leaving a long end trailing free. Taking the steel dagger in my teeth, I dove off the dock into the clear water in a shallow arc. Ducking my face under the surface, I found the Lake to be surprisingly clear. Several yards away, I spotted the lean form of a large slaughterfish. Swimming toward it, I nearly swallowed water in surprise as the fish darted toward me. I caught a glimpse of a gaping mouth full of teeth before my blade swished through the water into its underbelly.

A few cuts and slices later, the fish floated on the surface, dead. Taking the cord, I attached the fish by its gills close to my body, leaving the long end free to trail behind me. Casting a healing spell, I looked around underwater again, and spotted another. In this manner, I found and killed eleven more Tamriel Barracuda, bringing them ashore after every two or three kills. They were heavy fish. The healing spell I cast kept me going in spite of the cuts and scrapes the barracuda gave me.

Returning to the shore, I gathered the tethered fish on the deck, then scraped the water off my skin before donning my leathers. Though I was tired, it felt good to be swimming again. Still, it’s not like the Abecean Sea. Gathering up all my gear, I looked at the sun again, realizing how hungry I felt. Just after noon. I trudged up the hill, the fish dangling from my pack, and entered the inn.

If anyone there recognized me as the brawling drunk that got a Dunmer mercenary killed, they showed no sign of it. The stew was hearty, and the water fresh, well worth the three drakes the Altmer innkeeper charged me for it. I ate quickly, for I wanted to get back on my way. Kvatch waited at the end of a very long and dangerous road, and I had Paint to worry about.

Stomach full, I stepped out into the brilliant afternoon light, the breeze cool on my warm cheeks. Crossing the road to Merowald’s cottage, I found him seated in his garden, puffing on a pipe and watching Paint graze. He jumped up when he saw me, setting his pipe carefully on the bench and meeting me at the garden gate.

“‘Ello, ma’am,” he greeted me courteously, opening the gate and welcoming me in among the fragrant flowers. “I rubbed ‘im down for ye, watered ‘im, and ‘e’s been grazing for the past ‘our ro so.” He picked the bridle up from the fence post and entered the adjacent paddock. Paint raised his head as Merowald approached him, and accepted the bit gracefully. Merowald stroked Paint’s face as he settled the headstall over his ears, adjusting the buckles, and making sure the bit was seated comfortably in the horse’s mouth. “Aye, ‘e’s a fine one, well mannered and kind,” Merowald remarked with a wide smile as he led Paint to the road.

Following them, I had to agree, “Aye, that he is, sir.”

The Breton held the reins out to me. I unknotted the cord holding the fish at my back and held the shimmering bodies toward him. His brows lifted in amazement at the offering. “Here, sir, take these for your trouble.”

“Stendarr bless ye!” he exclaimed, taking the cord from me. “Twelve Barracudas!” he twirled the fish on the cord, evaluating their size and weight, before staring at me. “How did ye know?”

“A friend of yours told me, sir,” I answered. Tapping my right knee, I winked at him. “Us old gimps have got to stick together, right?”

Laughing heartily, Merowald slung the cord over one thin shoulder. “Aye, we do!” he followed as I led Paint to a nearby boulder, patting the horse on the neck as I mounted from the top of the rock. “But ma’am, ye risked much to ‘elp me,” he said, as I settled myself into the saddle. “Let me give this to ye in return - I ‘ave no further need of it.” He pulled a small brass ring off his ring finger, handing it up to me. Taking it, I studied the simple yellow circle in the late afternoon light, noting the opalescent pearl setting. “It’s the Jewel of the Rumare,” he explained. “It gives ye the ability to breathe underwater.” Trying the ring on the little finger of my right hand, I found it fit perfectly.

“I appreciate you taking good care of Paint,” I smiled at him in gratitude. “My name is Julian, from Anvil, and I will try to send more business your way.”

“Ah, no need for that!” Merowald lifted the weighted cord off his shoulder in emphasis. “Ye just paid for my retirement!” His eyes turned dreamy. “Long mornings in bed, long afternoons in the stables, a fine smoke in the evenings.” He gave Paint a fond pat on the horse’s shoulder. “But ye come back, ye ‘ear. Paint’s welcome to stay with me anytime!”

Posted by: D.Foxy Mar 27 2010, 05:40 PM

then she needs to learn how to ride him (be quiet, Foxy!). Stick around long enough, and she may work up the courage to do that!

ER...

If the stick's round and long enough...she works up the courage to do...WHAT???



Man THIS STORY IS GONNA BE MUCH HOTTER THAN THE OLD ONE!!!

*finds glasses, puts them on and reads*

GNAAAH!!! And here I was, thinking a whole new meaning into "Old Habits Die Hard"!!!


Just kidding....I love this chapter!! (No, not in that way)

Posted by: mALX Mar 27 2010, 05:48 PM

SPEW! * CHOKE * ROFL [gasp, gasp, choke] ROFL (re-reads) SPEW! * mALX died choking at Foxy's comment *

Posted by: SubRosa Mar 28 2010, 05:09 AM

Yay, its Aelwin. I really liked how you gave him the Cockeny accent. Your version of him is much more lively than mine.

nits:
I was going back over some of the earlier chapters, and found this in 1.3b:
“honoured user!” I yelled, I rolling to my right.
I think the forum played a practical joke with your dialogue.

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

I loved your decription of Paint and of course the depth that you wrote about her, I don't know anything really about horses which is why I would avoid writing about them in anything

Is it weird that I learned some things by reading it?

I'm really enjoying this story, especially the way you described that Akaviri katana at the start of it.

Now I just have top find this unamed forum that everybodies talking about

Posted by: haute ecole rider Mar 29 2010, 02:56 AM

I'm working on screenies - hard to do when I'm on the XBox 360.

Anyways, here's one for all of you -

http://i862.photobucket.com/albums/ab186/hauteecole/Old%20Habits%20Die%20Hard/JuliansScreenshots8.jpg

Posted by: SubRosa Mar 29 2010, 03:09 AM

Looking good! She could rescue me any day! She has that classic heroic face, like she is the daughter of Kirk Douglas or Chuck Heston, and piercing eyes. Why the black and white though?

You got your code mixed up though, with a combination of a link code and inline image. Quote this post and copy the following for just the inline image:



Or this for the link:
http://i862.photobucket.com/albums/ab186/hauteecole/Old%20Habits%20Die%20Hard/JuliansScreenshots8.jpg

Posted by: haute ecole rider Mar 29 2010, 03:53 AM

Okay, thanks! This is all new stuff to me. I'll have to watch for the IMG tags.

The black and white is because I hate the blotchy skin tone I get all the time. At least with the black and white you don't see the blue and green on her face. Ugh. I have tinkered with it a zillion times, and can't get rid of it.

I'll try to get a decent color version up, but I may have to tinker with it in my image application. Until then, you'll just have to settle for the B&W.

Posted by: SubRosa Mar 29 2010, 04:39 AM

There is a little trick to get rid of the blotchiness. This is something gpstr discovered:

Posted by: Destri Melarg Mar 29 2010, 10:07 AM

Ahhh, it's Merowald and his accent! I still can't hear him speak without thinking about it. I think that this chapter just underscores what we all like about Julian. It is her effortless nobility, her unforced heroism that keeps us all coming back for more.

And now a screenshot! You know, that's almost exactly how I imagined her, even down to the hair. The eye color is a bit of a surprise, though.

I can confirm that this trick works on both the 360 and the PS3.

Posted by: mALX Mar 29 2010, 04:03 PM

Woo Hoo! Julian is a HOTTIE !!!!!

Posted by: haute ecole rider Mar 29 2010, 06:00 PM

Hi all: Thanks for reading and commenting on the last chapter.

As for the screenshot, I tried gpstr's trick, and it looks quite a bit better, though not quite what I had in mind.

Kirk Douglas or Charleston Heston as Julian's father? Hmmm, not.

Everyone seems surprised by the eye color. I had mentioned it (if only in passing) in chapter 2.1:

Now I would prefer to tone the lightness down a bit, but the game does not let me tinker with it so much. And now, the more I look at it, the more I like it. It does show up in high contrast with the dark skin, though.

Destri, I'm glad the screenshot doesn't disappoint.

mALX, Julian is outmatched by the competition (Maxical, Shivani, and that sizzler of a black Khajiit)! Still, I'm glad you think so!

On to the next chapter in Julian's saga:

*****************
Chapter 3.4 The Refugee Camp

Paint paced nervously at my shoulder as I led him up the slope toward the campfires at the base of the mesa. His breath blew hard on my shoulder and cheek.

All the way from Chorrol, he had been an easy ride, ambling up and down twisting, curving paths, cantering easily on level ground. His ability to detect enemies was more sensitive than mine, and I had quickly learned to rely on him to warn me of opponents on the road ahead.

But as we had approached Kvatch after our overnight stay at a bandit camp outside Skingrad, Paint had become more and more jittery. Even joining a Legion rider for part of the way had not calmed him down. The roiling thunderstorm I could see above Kvatch’s walls had not helped matters, either. Though the sky was overcast, and a light rain drizzled down, that clot of blood-black clouds over blackened city walls had only increased our mutual feeling of dread.

When the panicked Altmer had run down the road toward us, waving his hands and screaming, “Run, run while you can!” - Paint had nearly jumped out of his skin. The Altmer had disappeared behind us by the time I dismounted the trembling horse.

Ahead, we approached a cluster of small campfires, some with tents around them, others showing only huddled bodies. The rain increased, until both Paint and I were soaked.

Three children, covered in soot and blood, watched me numbly as I passed them. One girl, an Imperial, had tears tracing white paths down her cheeks. A small Dunmer boy curled next to her, his head in her lap. A slightly older Altmer girl had her arms about the Imperial.

At the next campfire, an old man, a Breton by his slight frame, lay shaking on a rough bedroll, moaning. He held his shattered left arm, the ends of bone poking through a mess of flesh and skin, close to his ribs. His eyes stared unblinking at the sky above, heedless of the rain. A young Redguard woman covered him with a tattered blanket before looking up at me, despair in her dark eyes.

By Akatosh, what happened here? Who are all these people? Pausing in the center of the plateau, formerly a hayfield, I looked around, trying to find someone who was somewhat coherent. Seeing only fear, desperation, and shock in the faces around me, I limped on, following the road towards the mountain. Behind me, the moaning faded away. Looking back, I saw the young Redguard woman rise to her feet and wander away, her face turned to the ground at her feet.

“I lost everything,” the hoarse voice sounded at my left shoulder. Paint flinched and snorted as I stopped to look at the tall Nord woman. Covered in soot, her once-fine blue velvet dress dragging over the trampled grass, her hair straggling from a bun that was coming apart, she was still beautiful in her despair. “I’m just tired, really,” she said to me. “I can’t face it anymore. You picked a bad time to visit Kvatch, ma’am.”

“Who are all these people?” I asked, waving my hand at the campfires.

“What’s left of Kvatch,” the woman said bitterly. “Everyone else is dead.”

“Now, Sigrid,” a man’s voice reached us. A Redguard joined us, standing between me and the Nord woman. “We don’t know that for certain.” He looked at me. “I’m Boldon, traveler, and this is Sigrid. She’s an alchemist.”

“I was,” she corrected. “Now I’m nothing. I lost all my equipment, my ingredients, up there.”

Where is Martin in all this? Whatever happened here, it didn’t kill him, did it? “I’m Julian, from Anvil. Can you tell me what happened here?”

“Something, a Gate to Oblivion, I think it’s called,” Boldon began, then faltered, uncertain eyes on me. Gaining courage from my nod, he continued, “it opened late last night while we were all asleep. They had a siege engine that came through the walls. It blasted us all with fire, burned the whole city. Most of us were killed, and the few that are left -” he waved his hand expressively at the campfires scattered across the hayfield.

“If you don’t believe him,” Sigrid spoke defensively, “go see for yourself!”

Thinking of the memories of blood and fire that had haunted me the past two nights, I met Sigrid’s blue gaze. “I believe Boldon, and you, too.” Glancing back at the refugees, I took a deep breath. “There’s the evidence right there.” Just like the aftermath on the battlefield. The blood, the smell of death and dying, the sounds of pain and agony. I looked back at the two survivors. “It looks bad from here.”

“You think that’s bad?” Sigrid’s tone became less angry, more weary. “It’s worse up there, believe me.”

“Savlian Matius is up there,” Boldon added. “With what’s left of the Guard. He’s holding the road, keeping the daedra from overrunning us here. But once the Guard gives way -”

“I came here for Martin,” I met Boldon’s gaze. “He is a priest of Akatosh. Did he survive this?”

“I’m not sure,” Boldon and Sigrid exchanged glances. He looked back at me, his expression guarded. “The last I saw of him, he was leading a few citizens into the Chapel. I don’t know if he is still alive. Savlian may know.”

Cacat! If he’s dead, who is left to re-light the Dragonfires? “He didn’t make it down here?” I asked, looking from Boldon to Sigrid. Again, they exchanged looks, then shook their heads.

I unslung my pack from my shoulder, hanging it over the cantle. Reaching in, I drew out the mutton and the vegetables I had scrounged from the bandit camp. I handed them to Boldon, along with the remaining food Jauffre had packed for me two days ago. “I know this isn’t much,” I said to him. “But you’ve got to get these people fed. They need food in a bad way.”

My fingers felt the mortar and pestle, caught at them. I handed them to Sigrid. “Here, you know how to use this better than I do.” Pressing my collection of ingredients at her, I caught the astounded looks on their faces. “I’ve got to go up there,” I continued, detaching the steel bow stave, a gift from a dead bandit, from the pack. Tucking the coiled bow strings into my belt pouch, I slung the quiver over my shoulder. “I cannot give up looking for Martin as long as there is a chance he is still alive.”

Boldon stopped me before I picked up Paint’s rein. “Don’t take your horse up there,” he warned me, his eyes grim. “What’s up there -” he shook his head, “your horse is jittery enough as it is.” He pointed out a small open area to the west of the camp. “I’ll put him there, make sure he has water. There’s grazing for him.”

Regarding him silently, I considered the options. These people are desperate. If they get hungry, what’s to keep them from slaughtering Paint? I had seen enough refugee camps to know the depths to which people could fall. On the other hand, it would be cruel to force him to go up there with me. Paint regarded me with wide brown eyes, his ears pointed at me. He’s scared enough as it is. He never asked to be in this situation.

“He’s not my horse, Boldon,” I said quietly, putting as much strength as possible into my voice. “He was entrusted to me, and as such, I’m responsible for his welfare.”

“I will care for him myself, until you return, Julian,” Boldon assured me. Regarding his open, honest expression, I made my decision. Patting Paint on his curved neck, I leaned to his ear.

“Go with Boldon, friend, and wait for me.” Handing the rein to Boldon, I let my hand move along Paint’s body as he followed Boldon away.

Checking to make sure my longsword was secured on my belt, I strung the bow, then started for the road switchbacking up the mountain. Sigrid turned to watch me go. “I hope you find Martin, Julian,” she called after me.

Posted by: Olen Mar 29 2010, 06:23 PM

You describe the camp well. It always seemed to clean and clinical in game, not nearly as desperate as such a place would be. I like how you add the emotion and realism which is often absent while playing into your writing.

I like this piece and look forward to reading the next part.

Posted by: SubRosa Mar 29 2010, 09:43 PM

I always liked the people running down the path when you first come to Kvatch (when you take the road at least).

Like Olen, I enjoyed your description of the camp, especially the shock and despair of the survivors. Having read OHDH before, I now paid more attention to the three children Julian sees when she first rides in.

I think this was your first use of this lovely word to bypass swear filters:
Cacat!
I always liked that inventiveness. It not only fixes the problem of censors, but also adds flavor to the story at the same time.



nits:
This line makes it sound more like Julian is there to kill Martin then rescue him:
“I have to be sure Martin is dead before I can give up.”
Perhaps saying something like:
“I cannot give up as long as there is a chance Martin is alive.”

Posted by: Winter Wolf Mar 30 2010, 06:22 AM

Awesome writing in this chapter.

You are breaking my heart with that one Hauty.

And when Hirtel scared him on the road leading up to Kvatch I was ready to chase that low-life down the road. How dare he scare my lovable Paint.

Posted by: mALX Mar 30 2010, 07:12 AM

SOMEBODY (no names mentioned, COUGH, COUGH) seems to think my comments are annoying and tactless!

That aside, I love the job you did on this and the upcoming segments in Kvatch - although I am not going to use a seven letter word that starts with A as I have been told it is the adolescent poundings of a...

*

Posted by: D.Foxy Mar 30 2010, 07:33 AM

But EYE can do it, since I have now preventerd HER (no names COUgH CoUgH, SHALL BE MENTIONED, AHEM mALX) from doing so...


A.W.E.S.O.M.E!!!

DOUBLE

Posted by: Destri Melarg Mar 31 2010, 01:24 AM

The tension in this chapter has been drawn out almost as much as mALX’s resentment over being called tactless and annoying (nobody really thinks you are, mALX, despite your best efforts! ).

The ‘blood black clouds’ really serve to set the mood for the refugee camp, and act as an apt (five ‘a’ words in a row = alliteration) metaphor for what Julian is about to face.

Paint continues to be one of the most vivid characters dreamed up in any fan-fic. His reaction when Hirtel came running out of the camp was just great. The only thing missing was for him to turn that giant head of his, look at Julian, and say,

Cacat!

Posted by: Remko Mar 31 2010, 05:09 PM

Have you changed things? I have the distinct impression you made some changes or added somethings to the first chapter (that's as far as I got today)
Anyway; I dropped in to say I loved it, whether or not is's been changed from what I read in that other forum

Yay Julian!

Posted by: haute ecole rider Mar 31 2010, 10:57 PM

@Olen: I've read waaaay too many war stories to not mention the grisly side of combat and the effects on the noncombatants. I agree that this gets glossed over too much in the game, but since it's PG-13, unfortunately it's necessary. Those of us who know better can fill in the blanks.

@SubRosa: Part of the fun of posting on a PG-13 forum, as I was saying to a friend at work this morning, is that I have to think up creative swearing. It is actually quite interesting to see what passes the filters and what doesn't. Doesn't always make sense, but there you have it. And I fixed your nit - good point about semantics.

@Winter Wolf: It's nice to know that Paint has his own adoring fan. Horses are actually very sensitive to the emotions of people around them - it's one of the things that make them amazing animals. They are highly social, so that helps.

@mALX: I never said you were annoying, just the poetry written by certain people! But then, I'm not a big fan of poetry. Some I like, and some I'm just

@D.Foxy: Does that mean you're an adolescent pounding . . . I'll let you fill in the blank.

@Destri: My old mare liked to pretend she was a spooky girl. She did jump out of her skin once and bolted on me when a deer came out of the trees behind us. To this day I still don't understand how I managed to stay in the saddle! Paint has a lot of her characteristics - she was my first horse and took care of me in many ways. I still miss her. Writing Paint is my way of honoring her memory.

@Remko: I've polished up a few things here and there, but little really in the way of drastic rewrites. I'm glad you liked this so far. I'm enjoying your own two stories myself!

I'm sure those of you who have read this before are hopping to get into action. For all of you, here it comes.

******************
Chapter 3.5 Matius and the Great Gate

The rain turned heavier as I hiked up the steep road. Above, the sky grew darker, more forbidding. Beneath the thunder, I started hearing an unholy shrieking, like a horde of tortured souls screaming their agony to Nirn. My breath started puffing in the cooling air as I trudged higher, higher, up that escarpment.

Finally I saw something ahead, something other than bare rocks and scorched tree trunks. A rough barricade was thrown across the road at the top of the slope, where it leveled out onto the top of the mesa. A scattering of soldiers stood along it, once-white surcoats smudged with soot, blood, and other things. Their shoulders were slumped, and a couple of them swayed on their feet.

Now I could hear something else beneath the thunder and the screaming of souls. A crackling, buzzing sound set my teeth on edge, and made the small hairs on my neck stand up beneath my soggy ponytail. As my head reached the level of the mesa, the sight that met my eyes bought me to a stunned halt.

A hot wind blew in my face, causing the rain to disappear into steam. On the mesa, Kvatch’s broken, burned walls rose behind an ovate lens of fire and sizzling energy. Black, blood-stained tusks rose around it, some propping the flames up, others serving as grounding rods for the red lightning that flew off the Gate at irregular intervals. It seemed to suck the life out of its surroundings.

Creatures began appearing out of that inferno, naked male creatures with stringy muscles, monkey-like faces and pointed ears. Scamps! Damn! As the bare-headed soldier shouted orders, the men sprang to action, some slower than others. Two archers started firing arrows, while the others ran through the barricades to tackle the scamps.

Drawing my longsword, I shouldered my bow, its string loosened, and limped forward as fast as I could. Pausing behind the archers, I counted swiftly. Eight scamps against four swordsmen. The daedra were forming fireballs and flinging them with deadly accuracy at the mailed soldiers. As I moved through the barricade, I could hear bowstrings twanging madly. Hobbling toward the nearest scamp, I came up behind him and struck him in the side. His screech, too high pitched to hear, nevertheless drowned out the roaring of the Gate for a brief moment. He turned for me, but the guardsman he had been attacking swooped in and stabbed the scamp in the lower back.

As the scamp slid off the other’s blade, the guardsman shot a puzzled look at me, then ran to take on another scamp. Following as quickly as I could, I came under fire from another of the daedra. I dodged the fireballs and turned for him. He tossed another fireball at me, then came running. Ducking the fiery missile, I shoved my shield into him, knocking him off balance. Closing with the staggering creature, I shoved the tip of my sword into his upper abdomen, twisting the blade as I did so, before stepping to my left and tearing the blade out his side. Intestines and blood trailed the tip of my blade as the scamp fell away.

Turning back to the melee, I found that while the numbers of scamps had decreased to three, so had the number of guardsmen, from four to three. The soldiers had drawn together into a defensive knot, their backs to each other, and faced the remaining scamps. Not a good idea. They can’t duck those fireballs. For the moment, the scamps were focused on the three guardsmen. As I had done before, I hobbled behind the nearest one and stabbed him in the kidney. Now the odds are better. The men separated, going after the remaining two scamps. In a flurry of steel, almost too fast for my eye to follow, the three succeeded in finishing off the last of the daedra.

The bare-headed soldier, apparently the commander, spotted me, and said something to the guardsman I had assisted earlier. He shrugged in response, and knelt beside the fallen man. Shaking his head at the commander, he waved the other swordsman to help him carry the body to the barricades. The commander stalked up to me, sheathing his sword when I put mine away.

“Who in Oblivion are you?” he demanded once he was within earshot. His square face, which would have been boyish if not for the exhaustion and pain, scowled at me.

“I’m Julian, from Anvil,” I answered. “I came here -”

“You don’t belong here,” he cut me off. His brown eyes were cold on mine. “I don’t care if you carry a frickin’ daedric claymore, you’re not one of us!” He jabbed a gauntleted finger at the barricades. “Get back there, now!”

I stood my ground, my need to find Martin warring with my natural inclination to obey a commanding officer. “Sir, are you Savlian Matius?”

“Yes, I am!” he growled, but I saw he was swaying on his feet. Younger than I expected, the strain around his eyes belied the weight on his wide shoulders.

“Then maybe you can help me, sir,” I said, turning for the barricades. Now is not the time for a pissing contest.

“Help you?” Matius returned, his voice quieter now. “What makes you think I can help you? I can’t even help my own people!” he stabbed his hand at the Gate behind us.

“I’m looking for someone, I’m hoping he’s one of the survivors, sir,” I said when we reached the barricades.

“Did you look down in the camp?” Matius shot a glare at the Gate.

“I talked to Boldon, he said Martin might be in the Chapel. He told me you would know.”

Matius turned to look at me, and now I could see the despair he refused to show his men. “Know? Me?” he shook his head. “I know nothing.” Regarding him thoughtfully, I considered what approach to take with him.

“You know something, sir,” I said finally. “What do you know?”

“What do I know?” Matius’s anger flared up again. “I know we failed to protect the city. It was too much, too damned fast. We couldn’t get everyone out in time -” he stopped suddenly, straightening up and turning away from me, staring at the slice of Oblivion crackling before the smashed gates of Kvatch.

I stepped close behind him, so I could speak into his ear without the men overhearing me. “Sir, you’ve never seen anything like this before. By Akatosh, I’ve never seen anything like this, and I’ve been around the provinces. What could you do, what can you do?”

“The only thing we can,” he answered grimly. “Hold these barricades as long as we can.”

“And when the last one of you falls, what then?” I asked. His head snapped around at me.

“Do you think I don’t want to do something about that?” he snarled, punching his fist at the Gate. “My damn home is in flames, and I can’t do anything about it! But we can’t leave the barricades until that damned Gate is closed!”

“And how do you close it?” I asked him. He shook his head, turning to face me.

“It’s some kind of portal to Oblivion. The daedra are using it to attack the city. I’m not sure how it can be closed. There were three smaller Gates that opened just before this one,” he jerked his head backwards at the Gate. “They closed once the Great Gate was open, so I assume this can be closed the same way.” His eyes shifted. “I sent six men in there several hours ago, but they haven’t come back. And I can’t spare any more -” he waved at the four men standing behind the barricades. “I’ve got ten men down in the encampment, badly wounded, maybe dead by now.”

Stepping past Matius, I studied the Gate. “Your men went in there?” I said. If they went in there, then they should be coming out. But if they close that Gate, can they come back out?

“I fear the worst for them,” Matius was saying. Tears were in his eyes when I glanced back over my shoulder at him.

Ach, what else is there to do? If Martin’s still alive, as a priest, he probably won’t leave his flock, as long as this thing is open. What to do? Eliminate the source. How? Something shifted in my gut, just below my breastbone. Close shut the jaws of Oblivion.

“I will go in there,” I found my mouth saying, before my mind could stop it. Me? In there? Am I crazy? But it has to be done. It needs to be done.

“You?” Matius stepped in front of me, blocking my way. “It can mean your death if you go in there.”

Holding his steady gaze for a few moments, I looked away and stepped past him, through the barricades, and started limping toward that ovate fire.

“Julian!” Matius called after me. “Good luck to you! It’s a brave thing you’re doing!”

Brave? Me? I’m all jelly inside. I straightened my back and kept limping.

Posted by: SubRosa Mar 31 2010, 11:39 PM

I have read it before, but I was not hopping to get into the action. That is just me though, I am weird.

I liked your truly horrific description of the gate and its surroundings. The shrieking, lightning, hot wind, etc... It really sets the mood.

This I liked too. The serpent in Julian's gut speaking:
Something shifted in my gut, just below my breastbone. Close shut the jaws of Oblivion.

But especially this:
Brave? Me? I’m all jelly inside. I straightened my back and kept limping.
Nothing like honesty.

Posted by: D.Foxy Apr 1 2010, 02:04 AM

Adolescent poundin (a pudding).

There. I filled in your....er...er...blank.

Posted by: mALX Apr 1 2010, 01:38 PM

Still find myself riveted to the page on this one!

Posted by: Jacki Dice Apr 2 2010, 03:02 AM

I just got caught up in your story and I love it so far! I like the choice of character. Normally I see ones that are pretty young and fit. I can see a lot of creativeness on how she gets through certain parts of the game coming up. Great job!

Posted by: mALX Apr 2 2010, 03:28 AM

Er...is that a chocolate pudding?

Posted by: D.Foxy Apr 2 2010, 06:46 AM

No, m'dear.

'Tis the pudding sweet
which adolescent boy's meat
Ever, 'n ever wishes to meet
in a place discrete...

..and in tryst complete
he hopes to (censor delete)
an delicious reproductive feat
To know more - you, me Tweet!!!

Posted by: Destri Melarg Apr 2 2010, 09:58 PM

This is one of my favorite chapters. From the description of the gate, to the depiction of the battle with the scamps, to Julian’s subtle ‘handling’ of Savlian Matius in the aftermath (do I detect a subtle dig at the malleability of men-folk in there?). Everything just works in this chapter.

I like how Julian questions whether the men that Savlian sent in can get out in the unlikely event that they succeed in closing the gate. It really underscores her decision to go in there herself.

Just a question, though: If the scamp’s screech is too high pitched to hear, how can it drown out the roaring of the gate?

Posted by: haute ecole rider Apr 2 2010, 11:53 PM

@ SubRosa, mALX1, D.Foxy: thanks for the comments.

@ Jacki: Welcome to Julian's story! I'm glad you're liking this so far. You're not the only one to comment on Julian's age and condition. She is not the first "older" character I've written; as a matter of fact, most of my characters in other fiction are in their 30's and 40's. That doesn't mean I don't enjoy younger characters, like Teresa and Buffy, et. al - they are terrific stories because they are told well. I hope you continue to enjoy reading Julian's story - there's quite a bit to come yet!

@ Destri: I'm glad you liked this chapter, and the interaction between Julian and Matius. I wrote it more as an experienced NCO "handling" a green lieutenant more than a man-on-woman thing. But I'm glad you picked up on the subtlety of that conversation.

The first Gate is always a memorable one, like your first kiss, your first, well, you know. The first time I played the Kvatch Gate, I was a nervous wreck the whole time, and hours later, when I finally got out of there, I just felt drained. That feeling is what I've been able to give Julian when I wrote this chapter.

******************
Chapter 4.1 The Kvatch Gate

A moment of disorientation, a red flash, then I found myself in a totally strange environment. Red sky, red rocks, boiling red lava, even the wind was red. It felt like Morvayn’s smithy, only a thousand times more so. The heated air robbed me of breath. The Gate stood behind me, my link back to a normal world.

Down a rocky slope in front of me, I spotted the surcoat of a Kvatch guardsman as he battled a scamp, fending off fireballs with his shield. Locating one of the fireball throwers, I moved forward to lend the soldier my blade. The scamp spun toward me as I neared him, hissing as he slashed his clawed hand at my face. Swinging the edge of the shield, I hit him hard in the nose, sending him reeling back. I followed, ignoring the pain in my knee, and slid my sword into his bony chest. After sweeping the tip of the sword across the inside of his rib cage, I stepped back, withdrawing the blade. The soldier finished off his scamp, then we were clear. For the moment.

The soldier turned to me. “By the Nine, I thought I’d never see a friendly face again!” he panted, sheathing his sword. Doing the same with mine, I wiped the sweat off my face. “But who are you?”

“I’m Julian, from Anvil,” I answered. “Where are the others? Matius told me there were six.”

He shook his head, looking around at the hostile environment, swaying with exhaustion. “Ilend Vonius,” he responded. “They ambushed us,” he pointed toward a closed pair of tall metal gates. “They trapped us on that bridge, picked us off one by one.” He looked back at me. “I escaped, and have been fighting daedra since. I can’t find another way across, though.” Now his brown eyes sharpened on me. “Matius is still alive?”

“Yes,” I answered. “You’re the only one left alive?”

“I saw them taking Menien Goneld prisoner,” he winced. “They took him to that big tower,” he waved at the tall tower barely visible beyond the war gates. He looked me up and down thoughtfully. “I should go and report to Matius, but if he sent you here, maybe we should stick together . . .”

Don’t tempt me. You’re exhausted. You’re more of a liability than my knee is right now. “Matius needs you more on the barricades than I do here.” Again my words surprised me.

“Thanks!” Vonius responded. “I’ll see you again when the Gate is closed. Best of luck!” He ran to the portal and disappeared. I took a deep breath against my audacity. I would have liked his company.

********************
Only one door unlocked, I looked around the hall again. The great tower that Vonius had pointed out had been the most difficult part so far, with the constant roar of that pillar of fire running up the center of the keep, and the dremoras and daedra infesting the passages and side halls.

Only the amazing magicka founts and the blood wells had kept me going. Slinking along the walls, hugging the shadows, I had crept ever higher and higher. My feet hurt, my throat burned, and my knee threatened to down me for good. My right shoulder ached where a fireball had hit me - twice.

Three doors led off this side hall, but only one was unlocked in the outer wall. Cautiously, I opened the door and peered out. A narrow bridge, high above the ground, connected the main keep with one of the smaller towers I had noticed from outside.

Akatosh! That’s a damned long way down! Forcing my eyes up from the vertiginous drop, I looked across the bridge at the smaller tower. Maybe the key to those doors is in there. Having nowhere else to go at the moment, I crept across the spindly bridge. Akatosh, don’t let any of those creatures find me here!

Fortunately the door opening into the smaller tower was unlocked, and I escaped into the relatively cooler interior. This tower had no central pillar of fire, and was quieter as well. A ramp spiraled up its inner walls from below. A guttural voice sounded above, and another, this one human, responded in pain. Torture? Menien Goneld? I crept up the ramp, making sure of each step before putting my weight on it.

I saw a glass floor at the top of the spiraling ramp, a glass dome above it, showing nothing but red, red sky. Corpses dangled down the center of the keep, suspended by chains from the floor. Thunder from outside shook the stone of the tower and vibrated through the scorched soles of my feet.

Nearing the dome, I could make out a cage suspended just above the glass floor. A man crouched within, stripped to his undergarments with blood splattered on his bruised and fair skin. His voice was angry, despairing. A tall dremora spoke to him in an interrogatory tone. Slowing down at the top of the ramp, I held my shield and sword ready. Waiting until the dremora was facing away from me, I stepped onto the floor. In spite of my caution, the glass surface thrummed under my feet, and the dremora spun around. He immediately approached me, his posture threatening.

“You should not be here, mortal,” his voice had an odd inflection, like stones tumbling down a long mountainside. “Your blood is forfeit, your flesh mine!” His mace swung for my head, trailing clotted blood and gore. Stumbling to my right, I came up hard against the side of the dome. The horned head of the daedric weapon snagged the edge of my shield, wrenching it down and twisting my elbow.

Bent off balance by the weight of the mace, I brought my right arm over and sought the gap between the churl’s pauldron and cuirass. The tip of the blade slipped between the metal pieces and bit into something soft. Twisting my body to face the churl, now starting to recover from his swing, I reversed my grip on the hilt. Raising it, I pivoted it around the tip in the other’s shoulder, and drove the blade in a downward angle as far as it would go. It sank in half its length before the end struck something hard.

Slipping the shield straps onto my wrist, I seized the guard in both hands and twisted it in place, causing the blade to tear through flesh and sinew. The dremora screeched, the sound almost too high-pitched to hear. He turned into me, his right arm useless, and punched me to the floor with his left hand. I hung on grimly to the hilt of my sword, which slid out of the churl’s body.

Scrambling backwards across the glass floor, I managed to raise my sword at him. The top of my back, where his blow had landed, screamed with the effort. The churl stumbled toward me, his mace dropping from nerveless fingers, blood seeping out of his right armpit, and red foam appearing at his mouth. He fell forward, and his great bulk struck the cage and set it swinging wildly.

The prisoner inside shouted as the iron enclosure tossed him from side to side. Struggling to my feet, I managed to catch the thing and bring it to a stop, though it nearly threw me off my feet. Panting, I managed to sheath my sword as the injured man subsided into moaning.

“Menien Goneld?” I asked, scanning the frame for a way to open it. He became quiet, and I glanced at him to see his eyes steady on me.

“Did you get the key?” he asked, pain making his voice ragged.

“There is a key?” I asked. “I can’t get any higher in that big tower, I need a key.”

“He has the key!” Goneld pointed at the churl I had just killed. “He’s the sigil keeper. Take his key, get to the top of the main keep, and take the stone. It’s the stone that’s keeping the Gate open!”

Limping to the churl, I knelt stiffly beside him and searched his corpse. A ring of keys dangled from a loop on his armor, at his waist. Getting the ring off took a couple of tries, but I managed in spite of my shaking fingers. Returning to the cage, I looked at the keys. Let’s see if one of these unlocks the cage. I’ve got to get Goneld out of this!

The injured Imperial shook the cage violently, catching me in the face and causing me to drop the keys. His desperate gaze met mine.

“You do not have the time,” he rasped. “Leave me! Hurry!”

Staring at him, stunned, I realized he was right. I can’t leave him here in this place, but he’ll only slow me down. He knows it. I know it. I could see encroaching death in his face. Stepping back, I drew my sword and swept the blade into vertical before my face, in the salute accorded only to Legion officers. Courage showed in Goneld’s gaze as I picked up the keys and returned to the ramp.

Posted by: SubRosa Apr 3 2010, 12:30 AM

The Kvatch Gate. That one always seemed the hardest, because you never know what to expect. You do a good job of keeping the story moving by skipping over every minute fight in the struggle. That would get boring quick. Instead you present us with the high points, and indicate what a long road it is has been for Julian to get even that far.

Good descriptions as well, of the redness everywhere, the heat, the roar of flame in the main tower, etc... You really transport us into this corner of Oblivion. It makes me glad I have the windows open!


nits:
glass floor.A man
I think a Daedra ate the space after your period above.

Posted by: Winter Wolf Apr 3 2010, 12:59 AM

The way the man shook the cage at the end was perfect, a splash of water in the face that made Julian face up to the reality of the situation. I can just imagine the dawning look of horror on both their faces as they were forced to part. Awesome write!!

“You should not be here, mortal,” his voice had an odd inflection, like stones tumbling down a long mountainside.
Perfect use of description here. We all can relate to the sound of the churl.

Posted by: D.Foxy Apr 3 2010, 01:19 AM

A man
I think a Daedra ate the space after your period above.




And I though humans were perverted...

Posted by: SubRosa Apr 3 2010, 03:14 AM

What, you have never earned your red wings? Poor fellow. The blood is the life my friend.

Posted by: mALX Apr 3 2010, 06:51 AM

GAAAAAK !!!


Great Write Hauty!

Posted by: Destri Melarg Apr 3 2010, 07:35 PM

I always marvel at how swiftly Ilend Vonius bolts when you tell him it’s okay to leave. ‘Vapor trail’ doesn’t seem adequate to describe it.

And why, why, WHY didn’t the devs give us a way to save Menian? It seems a shame to sacrifice someone who has to be the bravest man in Tamriel.

Posted by: haute ecole rider Apr 5 2010, 09:01 PM

@all: thanks for the ongoing support!

A warning about the upcoming chapter: Do not read this immediately before, during or immediately after meals, especially if you have a weak stomach for gore. I ought to get one of those surgeon general's warning labels for this one. Those of you who have read this before will remember why.

Chapter 4.2 Taking the Sigil Stone

Re-entering the central well of the keep, with its roaring, screeching pillar of fire, I nearly bumped into a scamp. He saw me before I could duck into the shadows. Too close to use his usual fireball spell, the creature leaped for me. His claws raked across my cuirass, tearing through the tough leather before I could raise my shield to bear.

Swinging the shield as hard as I could, I brought its edge down hard on the scamp’s arm before he could come back with another swipe. I felt the bone snap, and the daedra screamed, reeling back. Raising my right leg, I shoved my heel into his belly. The scamp staggered back, then flipped over the low iron railing that lined the spiral ramp.

The thin stone vibrated under my feet, and I looked up to see a dremora charging at me, his mace raised high. Managing to duck under his swing, I hobbled around to swing the iron blade outward across the unprotected back of his knees. Buckling to one side, he somehow brought the mace back and clipped my left hip. Pain exploded out of the old wound, and I spun away, to nearly meet the same fate as that scamp. Only by grabbing one of the clawed struts with my shield hand did I keep myself from going over that railing.

“Damn you, keister!” I shouted at the top of my lungs. My panic and terror tore out in a string of curses that would have turned my old pilus prior’s hair as white as my own. Feeling the heat build up in my right hand, I threw the sword at the dremora as he limped towards me. He batted the blade away and moved to give me the fatal blow. He was so close, I couldn’t miss his face with the fireball if I wanted to, and I didn’t.

The flames melted the red flesh off his head as he reeled back. Pulling myself forward off the railing, I half ran, half stumbled toward my sword, laying beside the door through which I had entered. Skidding to my knees and bracing my left arm against the wall, I grabbed the hilt and whipped it around at the dremora. He was kneeling, screaming that odd, almost soundless screech that temporarily blocked out all other noise, his hands still over his face. I limped up to him, and taking the hilt in both hands, swung the sword at his neck with all my remaining strength.

The sturdy iron blade smashed into his neck and bit into his spine, then jammed. The force of the blow knocked his bulk over to his left, dragging the sword, and me, with him. His sheer mass forced me onto my right knee, sending even more daggers of pain shooting into my thigh. Cacat!

Sitting on my right hip, I twisted the sword loose from the neck bones and set it down close to hand. Reaching into my belt pouch, I fumbled out the last vial of healing potion. Leaning back onto my right elbow, I looked up the central well of the keep, my eyes tracing that pillar of fire. Still a long ways to go. Yet there was no walking on this bum knee right now. Uncorking the little bottle, I choked down the vile liquid.

Waiting for the full effect of the potion, which wouldn’t be enough to fully counteract these injuries, I hoped it would at least let me function again. Picking up the sword, I crawled over to the dead churl. A quick search of his gear netted me a couple of lockpicks, some septims, and a piece of amber.

“Honey, run down to Felen, see if he has that order of daedra heart for me.” My mother’s voice snaked through my memory. “I’m getting low on the Fire of Life potions.”

Gingerly putting some weight on my knee, I fell back down to the floor. Ach, damn. Fumbling at the churl’s cuirass, I struggled to lift the heavy plate off of his chest. Settling for pushing it to the side, I drew my dagger. With the hilt in my right hand, and my left hand over the pommel, I drove it into the breastbone with as much of my weight as I could bear behind it. My left palm stung with the impact, but I felt a satisfying crack! as the sternum split into two.

Feeling it give under my fingers, I wrestled the knife out and used it to slice the flesh over the broken bone. Then I shoved the tip of the dagger back into the fracture, picked up the sword, and jammed the the iron blade next to the knife. The longer weapon gave me the leverage I needed to wedge the rib cage apart. Leaning my right hand on the sword kept the incision open. I picked up the dagger, which had fallen away, and reached into the chest cavity with the blade cupped in my left palm.

Using my fingers on either side of the small weapon, I located the heart, then the great vessels coming off of it. The dagger made short work of them. Then I peeled the heart out of its membranous sac, and pulled it from the chest cavity. The rib cage snapped shut with a thud when I withdrew the sword.

The heavy organ dripped clotted blood as I cradled it in my lap. Using the dagger, I sliced the muscular walls into thin sections, much like slicing a sweet bell pepper as my mother used to do. Closing my eyes, I popped one of the sections into my mouth and started chewing.

Almost immediately, I started gagging. Gods, this is awful! The meat was tough, gristly, and foul tasting. Part of the metallic taste was from the blood still coating the heart, but the meat itself was almost as vile. But the pain in my knee drove me to continue chewing. Finally I choked it down, fighting the increasing urge to vomit.

Waiting for a few moments, I regarded the remaining sections. Do I have to eat the whole thing? Wishing for my mortar and pestle, I took another piece and chewed it into submission. Fortunately, the pain subsided enough after it that I could stand up. Wrapping the remaining pieces of the heart into parchment, I slid the whole gory mess into my belt pouch and picked up my weapons. Sheathing the dagger, I limped up the ramp towards the top.

*******************
I reached the blood well with some relief. Extending my shaking right hand into its red fountain, I felt the healing surge through me. My strength restored, the pain in my left hip, right shoulder, and right knee damped down to more tolerable levels.

Limping to the double doorways that led into the central chamber, I realized I had finally reached my goal. Through the red dome that formed the floor of the immense room, the sigil fire punched upwards to something that hovered at its tip. That something glowed, throwing off sparks and red lightning bolts, and howling with the barely audible sound of tortured souls. The sigil stone!

Two ramps, formed of bloodstained talons, rose on either side of the chamber, meeting at a mezzanine that ringed the room. Another balcony, this a round one, jutted out above it, at the level of the sigil stone.

Assessing the room, noting the long sightlines from one side to the other, I sheathed my sword. A little archery would be good here. Tightening the string on my bow, I made it ready. Notching one of the steel-tipped arrows to the string, I moved to the ramp on my right. Slowly, feeling my way up the ramp step by step, I climbed until I could just see above the edge of the ring balcony.

Two more ramps, these made of a leathery material, connected the mezzanine with the round platform above. Two scamps patrolled the circular floor, dwarfed by the immense scale of the chamber. Neither seemed aware of my presence as I paused to watch their movements. Their patrol seemed confined to the base of the leather ramps, across the room from me.

Picking the scamp on the right to be the first, I sighted on him with the bow. I raised my aim point quite a few degrees above his head to allow for the greater distance and the slightly upward angle of my trajectory. He paused in his patrolling, and I loosed the arrow. Pulling another shaft out of my quiver, I watched the scamp stagger and turn in my direction. By the time he started forming his fireball, the second missile was already winging its way across the chamber into his abdomen.

The second scamp had moved behind the ramp, out of my sight. Limping quickly onto the balcony, I continued widdershins around the room, hugging the wall. He appeared past the base of the far ramp, pacing back towards his partner. He stopped at the sight of the corpse, and started scanning the chamber. Arrow already nocked to my string, I aimed and loosed it in a smooth movement. The bodkin tip slammed through the scamp’s bony chest, the shaft disappearing until only the fletching could be visible. The scamp stared down at the missile, then turned his face in my direction before falling backwards.

Drawing my sword, I hobbled to the first scamp. Dead as the Deadlands. Moving to the second, I found him in similar condition. Crouching at the base of the ramp, I looked up at the sigil stone. A shadow moved on the platform just past it. It seemed bigger. Dremora. Cacat! Those beings were more than I could handle. I had been lucky so far, but I knew I wasn’t strong enough for those oversized war machines.

Working my way up the ramp, crouching to keep my silhouette low, I nocked another arrow to the bow. The dremora was pacing restlessly from one side of the sigil platform to the other. He’s missing his minions. He stopped at the far side of the platform from me. Take him. Now.

In a smooth motion, I sighted on him. Calm came over me as my arms steadied, and my aim settled on that small space at the back of his left knee, where the armored greaves left a gap as large as my hand. Letting the arrow fly, I nocked a second arrow before checking to see if the first had flown true. The churl staggered as the bodkin point stabbed through his knee, felling him to a half-kneeling stance. He spun around, trying to stagger back to his feet, and my second arrow thunked home in his side. He went down instead of up, and stayed down. Drawing my sword as a precaution, I approached him cautiously, but the churl was dead.

Turning to the sigil fire, I walked up to it, to the very edge of the platform. The heat of the fire scorched my face and left hand as I reached for the stone. Taking a lung-searing breath, I cupped my fingers around the round thing and pulled it out of the fire. The stone pulsated in my hand, a high-pitched screeching emanating from it, yet it was comfortably warm to the touch. The unexpected sensations nearly caused me to drop it. I pulled it instead to my chest, behind my shield.

Fire exploded outward, flames swirling first red and orange, then turning through yellow to blinding white. The platform shifted beneath my feet, and I dropped into a crouch. Abruptly I could no longer feel solid ground under my soles.

Posted by: mALX Apr 5 2010, 09:06 PM

Bleah! I didn't heed the warning, and should have remembered it, lol. HUGE details on this one, I love it in spite of my queasy stomach!

Posted by: Olen Apr 5 2010, 09:30 PM

Nice update, I like the description of the Gate closing. It got the feel of it without taking too long and slowing things down.

I'm a little confused as to what she did with the dremora to get it's heart out though. I'd have thought it would be easier to attack the ribs where they join the sternum or even go up under the ribcage (they say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach) than going to the effort of breaking the sternum and prizing the ribcage open.

It was well done though, not too many details so I could fill in enough myself , and of course opening a ribcage is that bit nastier.

Nice piece.

Posted by: SubRosa Apr 5 2010, 10:40 PM

I think this might be the first time we have seen this patented Julian move?
I hobbled around to swing the iron blade outward across the unprotected back of his knees.

This was an excellent way to seamlessly weave a description of your main character into the action:
that would have turned my old pilus prior’s hair as white as my own.

This is also an excellent way to show how Julian knows that she can use Daedra heart for alchemical healing:
“Honey, run down to Felen, see if he has that order of daedra heart for me.” My mother’s voice snaked through my memory. “I’m getting low on the Fire of Life potions.”
It also reminds me of hunting rituals, where a first time hunter eats the heart of their first kill, or at least has their blood smeared over their face.

The Witch in me loves this:
I continued widdershins around the room
It is not often I hear the word widdershins outside of Witchcraft!


Olen: I cannot speak for after someone is dead, but for open heart surgery the ribcage is cut in half right down the sternum to get at the heart. My brother had quintuple bypass surgery nearly two years ago, it has taken nearly this long for his sternum to heal again.

Posted by: haute ecole rider Apr 5 2010, 10:59 PM

@ Olen:

Going up through the diaphragm (from the abdominal cavity) would make it more difficult to get the heart out in one piece. You're going in blind, and it would be easy to cut your fingers!

Doing necropsies (animal autopsies) back in vet school, we were taught to cut through the ribs parallel to the breastbone using bolt cutters (one of the most useful tools in the veterinarian's repertoire) and break the ribs back to expose the heart. That allows us to get it out intact. Of course, Julian doesn't carry bolt cutters with her!

Bashing the ribs next to the sternum would be okay, but time consuming. You've got to break at least five or six of them to fit a small hand through (the ribs are close together at the breastbone). It's also easier to cut your hands on the ends of the ribs when you reach in to get the heart out (shades of Indiana Jones!). Cracking the sternum lengthwise, however, would get all of those ribs out of your way, and you can use the sword blade to leverage the opening wider.

I suppose for the purposes of Alchemy, one doesn't need the heart whole, but it's easier to get it out whole, then cut it up into neat pieces for transporting (or chewing, as she did).

Gory enough?

Posted by: D.Foxy Apr 6 2010, 01:20 AM

Me see it before and me see it again
And second time around is better, by ten!!!


eees alll goooood!!!

Posted by: Winter Wolf Apr 6 2010, 06:29 AM

The heavy organ dripped clotted blood as I cradled it in my lap. Using the dagger, I sliced the muscular walls into thin sections, much like slicing a sweet bell pepper as my mother used to do. Closing my eyes, I popped one of the sections into my mouth and started chewing.

Apart from the stories about Paint (which you already know I love more than anything else!!) this sentence was the one part over at Beth that blew me away. The way that you showed that Julian was not scared to get her hands dirty and would do what ever needed to be done spoke volumes about her.
Without a shadow of a doubt she is our girl to close shut the jaws of Oblivion.
Look out Mr Dagon!!

Posted by: Destri Melarg Apr 6 2010, 08:34 AM

I wonder if eating the heart will make your voice sound like stones tumbling down a mountainside? That would be attractive on Julian, I’m sure. This chapter was fun to read the first time, and time has not eroded the effect. Unfortunately, I got caught making faces at the screen this time . . . so thank you for that!

Posted by: haute ecole rider Apr 7 2010, 06:46 PM

@mALX: Dang, I knew I needed that Surgeon General's warning label on this one. Not that it works - people still smoke!

@Olen: Because of my line of work (veterinarian), I have to keep reminding myself that not everyone has the stomach for gore that I do. Likewise, not everyone understands the implications of different approaches to the same place as I do. I hope I have explained Julian's approach adequately for you.

@SubRosa: In view of the absence of clocks in Oblivion, the terms clockwise and counterclockwise still bug me. I have known widdershins as the term for counterclockwise, but I have long forgotten the alternate term for clockwise. I hope I remember it before I need to use it! I'm glad you noticed some of my favorite parts in this chapter.

@D.Foxy: Thanks for the German (Afrikaans? Dutch?) accent! Made me smile!

@W. Wolf: Paint says Heyyy, Adoring Fan! Julian says thanks for the vote of confidence!

@Destri: Sorry you got caught making faces at the screen this time!

The pace will slow down over the next couple of chapters, so catch your breath, put your feet up, and grab some drink of your choice while you can. After that, we'll be off hobbling into combat again.

**************
Chapter 4.3 Recovery

Landing on my knees with a grunt, I hunched over the pain flaring in my right leg and left hip. Lowering the sigil stone, hissing and crackling in the cold rain, I braced myself on my left arm. My scorched breath steamed in the damp night air, the rain hissing into vapor as soon as it hit my heated cuirass. Lifting my head against the pain in my back, I let the cold drops stream onto my burned face. Oblivion was gone, Nirn had replaced it. A normal thunderstorm roared above my head. Before me, the twisted and ruined metal gates of Kvatch rose from shattered walls. A circle of steaming ashes and charred struts were the only evidence of the Oblivion Gate’s erstwhile existence.

Goneld! He’s still back there! The realization hit me hard. Warm tears mingled with the cold rain on my face. Not wanting to imagine his fate, I shivered suddenly. Bringing my eyes back down to the world around me, I could see the barricade behind me, barely visible in the downpour. Two shadows moved cautiously toward me, weapons drawn.

“Julian?” one of them called. “Is that you, ma’am?”

Not recognizing the voice, I sheathed my sword and struggled to my feet, turing to face the pair. The tall archer hung back as the other walked up to me. “It’s me, sir,” I said, my voice harsh in my parched throat. “Where is Matius?”

“Down in the encampment,” the Imperial answered. “I’m Jesan Rilian,” his gaze moved past my shoulder towards the remnant of Oblivion behind me. “You did it,” he exclaimed softly. “You really did it! Akatosh be thanked!”

The Altmer had lowered his bow, returning his arrow to his quiver. “I’m Merandil,” he said to me, looking me up and down. “You’re hurt.” Oh, no kidding. “Matius is resting at the moment,” he added. “He’s been on the barricades nonstop for almost twenty-four hours. He will be glad to see you again.”

“Vonius?” I asked, looking from one to the other.

“He’s fine,” Rilian volunteered. “Matius made him go down and rest right away, he should be coming back to relieve us.”

“You should head down yourself, too,” Merandil advised. “You look like you need rest as well.”

************************
At the bottom of the mesa, Boldon greeted me. “Julian!” he exclaimed. “What happened up there?”

Meeting his gaze, I tried to think. Well, there was this Oblivion Gate that was blocking the way into Kvatch - my mind couldn’t focus on his question.

“Julian,” Boldon tried again, gripping my right elbow when I wavered. “Paint’s been restless, pacing all yesterday and for much of the night. But look!” he pointed at the small grazing area where he had turned the horse loose. Paint’s brown and white splotched coat was barely visible in the rain, but I could see him standing three-legged, characteristic of horses at ease. “He’s been like that for just the last half-hour.”

When I closed the Gate, my eyes widened. “Well, Boldon, that Oblivion Gate is gone now,” I said.

The Redguard stared at me. “That thing is closed? You closed it?” he looked me up and down, taking in the gash across my cuirass, the scorch marks on my right shoulder and my shield. “By Akatosh, you really did it?” He led me to a nearby campfire, where a big Orsimer sat slumped by an anvil. “Batul!”

She lifted her head to look at us, rising to her full height. “What?” she growled.

“This is Julian, from Anvil,” Boldon ignored her tone. “She has need of you.”

“Me?” the Orsimer snapped. “Look at this!” she whipped her hand around the fire, at the anvil, the few repair hammers next to it. “I lost everything! Everything!”

Boldon turned to me. “This is Batul gra-Sharob. She is our best smith.” Now he faced the angry Orc again. “Mind your manners, Batul,” he said mildly. “Julian just closed the Oblivion Gate. Can’t you hear it? The silence?”

Gra-Sharob eyed me thoughtfully. Returning her gaze, I drew my longsword. She tensed, as did Boldon, but I took the sword by the blade and held it out to her, hilt first. “How much to sharpen this blade?” She eyed the blade, then snapped her eyes at me. “I see you have your anvil, a fire, and some hammers,” I continued, keeping my tone bland. “I’m assuming you still have your skill, ma’am.”

The big mer narrowed her eyes at me. I held my breath - Orcs are hard to stop once they get going, especially angry ones. She exhaled suddenly, and her pointed teeth gleamed in the firelight. Taking the sword from me, she examined it expertly. “Two drakes,” she answered, after casting that same expert eye at my armor. “Throw in your bow, shield and armor, and I’ll repair the lot for four drakes total.”

Looking down at myself, I considered gra-Shrob’s offer. Nodding, I thanked her. She gestured for me to lay my weapons down next to the anvil.

“Julian,” Sigrid greeted me, waving at me from the next fire. “Come with me, you can use my tent to change.” Following the tall Nord, I was struck again by her regal bearing in spite of her disheveled appearance. “Thanks for the mortar and pestle,” she said to me over her shoulder as she drew back the flap of a pavilion. “I’ve been making healing potions as fast as I can get the ingredients.”

The daedra heart. I drew out the bloody package from my belt pouch. “My mother used this in her strongest potions,” I said, handing it to Sigrid. “Sorry about the mess.”

Taking the object, she gasped when she had unwrapped it. “A daedra heart!” her eyes shot up at me. “Then it’s true, you closed the Oblivion Gate, didn’t you?”

Already unbuckling the cuirass, I only grunted. Easing it off over my shoulder, I looked down at the linen tunic. Other than being stained with sweat, it was fine. Dropping the cuirass onto the floor, I sat down to peel off the greaves. Sigrid bent down to touch the scar tissue covering the outside of my right knee. The knee itself was badly swollen, already turning black and blue. The wound over my left hip hadn’t broken open, but the flesh around it was severely bruised. Sigrid looked at me wide-eyed, handing me a blue woolen robe. Stripped down to my undergarments, I wrapped myself in the soft fabric.

“You need to sleep, Julian,” she said finally, picking up my leathers and tossing them outside the tent. “No amount of healing spells or potions are going to heal these,” she pointed out my various bruises, muttering under her breath.

“I need to see Matius,” I gritted my teeth against the weariness overwhelming me. Sigrid shook her head.

“He’s finally asleep,” she answered. “I’m not going to let you wake him. He needs his rest, too.” She pointed me to the bedroll behind me.

Obeying her unspoken command, I lay down gingerly on the thin mattress. “Then let me know when he wakes,” I mumbled as Sigrid left the tent.

Posted by: Winter Wolf Apr 7 2010, 07:40 PM

“I see you have your anvil, a fire, and some hammers,” I continued, keeping my tone bland. “I’m assuming you still have your skill, ma’am.”
Julian rolls the dice here and wins!!
This moment could have got nasty real fast. And I don't think our Redguard had another fight left in her.
Now where is that mattress....

Posted by: mALX Apr 7 2010, 08:27 PM

Ahhhh, Sigrid!! (said like a sneeze)


http://www.uesp.net/w/images/images.new/thumb/4/44/OB-npc-Sigrid.jpg/600px-OB-npc-Sigrid.jpg



If Matias had used her bra as a slingshot he may have been able to beat the Daedra single-handedly.

Posted by: haute ecole rider Apr 7 2010, 09:04 PM

But Matius is too chivalric to ask Sigrid for her brassiere!

Posted by: mALX Apr 7 2010, 09:10 PM

It looks like it may burst off of its own accord though, lol. Then he could just pick it up. That is my fave pic of Sigrid! I about made Acadian die of embarrassment with that pic when he brought Buffy to Kvatch, lol.

Posted by: SubRosa Apr 7 2010, 10:16 PM

The opposite of widdershins is deosil (or sun-wise). It is the direction traveled when creating a circle. While widdershins is the way you go to remove it.

Goneld being left behind was something I rather liked in the game. It told me that this was not a nice, neat conflict where the good guys always won in the end. But rather one where sacrifice was not only common, but necessary. I sometimes wonder what happened to Goneld afterward. Was he simply tortured to death as we might imagine. Or was there perhaps a worse fate in store for him. Perhaps rather than killing him, Mehrunes Dagon instead fashioned him into a weapon, brain-washing him and sending him back to Mundus to wreak some form of havoc? That would make for an interesting story for a writer willing to go to some very dark places...

Posted by: haute ecole rider Apr 8 2010, 12:00 AM

Hmm, don't tempt me!

Posted by: D.Foxy Apr 8 2010, 02:36 AM

Sigrid has a face?

Oh....YEAH.

I only just noticed!!!

Posted by: Destri Melarg Apr 8 2010, 09:02 AM

Julian closes an Oblivion Gate and still has enough chutzpah left to stare down an orc! I’ve got twenty septims on the limping ex-legionnaire.

Posted by: Olen Apr 8 2010, 01:51 PM

You caught the feeling of tiredness there, both mental and physical, from the gate. Good stuff with her returning to the camp and it not seeming nearly as bad as it had first time, it highlights how tired she is and how bad the gate was.

I agree that Goneld being left there was a nice touch. It gave the game at least some darkness which was otherwise rather lacking (compared to morrowind anyway).

I'm looking forward to more.

Posted by: haute ecole rider Apr 9 2010, 10:13 PM

@all: I see that Sigrid is fast becoming the favorite character of many. Not only is she well-endowed, but she is also well-liked. I have plans for her future.

I'm also glad to see that I'm not the only one who felt bad about leaving Goneld behind. And SubRosa, I have a tendency to write dark stories, so please don't distract me from this one! I've got a lot to finish first!

And Destri, this won't be the last orc Julian faces down. Gra-Sharob is actually the best friend (except for Mazoga) that any warrior or soldier could ask for. Thanks for the PM. I put your advice to work starting with this chapter. Let me know if it works better for you.

Thanks, Olen. I was exhausted when I finished that Gate for the first time! I'm glad I could convey that feeling as effectively as you say.

This next chapter is one of my little favorites of the quiet interludes.

*****************
Chapter 4.4 Request for Help

After a dreamless slumber, I lay for a few moments, disoriented. After a while, memory came back, and I sat up suddenly. My burned right shoulder had healed, and so had the top of my back where that churl had slammed me with his fist. The bruising over my left hip had faded to an ochre tinge against my dark skin. Raising my right arm brought no pain.

My leather gear lay neatly folded, beside the bedroll. Shaking out the greaves, I found them not only cleaned and repaired, but also conditioned. The tough leather was now supple, and pulled on easily. As I laced them up, I found them soft and light over the wound on my left hip. The padded tunic had been washed as well, and lay softly against my skin. The boots had been resoled with the softest buttery leather that embraced my still-tender feet.

The patch across the front of my cuirass was cleverly worked to follow the original stitching. It was much easier to shrug it on, not only because my aches and pains had mostly healed with only an occasional twinge, but also because the stiff leather was broken in at all the right places. Buckling it on, I took a deep breath. It moved over my body like a second skin.

This gra-Sharob is a truly talented smith, I smiled to myself. Four drakes? The work on this cuirass alone is worth oh so much more! Fingering the patch on my breast, I shook my head to myself. Who would have thunk an old Legion pilus like me would prefer light armor to the old plate? It was true that after my experiences over the past several days, I found the leather armor to be better suited to this new way of fighting. I couldn’t hide in the shadows clanking around in a tin suit. Uh-huh, no way. My smile faded, as memories of my century surfaced, the young tironii so eager to prove themselves, anxious to blood their weapons. The same tironii laying scattered around the battlefield, their armor and weapons broken, their bodies bleeding into the hard ground. The hope of glory gone from their dead eyes.

Fleeing those memories, I stepped out into bright sunlight. The air smelled clean and fresh after the rain. The campfire before me was warm and friendly. The bareheaded soldier, sitting hunched over a plate of polenta, looked around at me and rose to his feet. It was Matius. Hastily swallowing the grub in his mouth, he gestured me to a nearby stool.

“Hello, Julian,” he greeted me, remaining on his feet as I returned his gaze. “I’m sorry I was such a pain in the heinie to you before.” He still looked tired, but his eyes were sharper, his boyish face less strained.

He seems to be in a better mood this morning. “Sigrid wouldn’t let me wake you when I got back,” I said after a few moments, taking the proffered seat. “She said you had finally gone to sleep.”

Matius reached one-handed towards the fire, handed me another plate, then plopped a ladleful of polenta onto the metal disc from the pot simmering beside the fire. Sticking a spoon in the thick gruel, he handed me an empty pewter cup. He poured klah into my cup, still balancing his own plate of half-eaten grub.

Staring at the meal in my hands, I stifled a chuckle at his brisk style of hospitality. Just like the mess line in the Legion. Take your plate, here’s your grub, no complaints now, move along soldier!

Matius hesitated as he sat back down, glancing at me. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he murmured. “That was rude of me. I can try to find something else to eat -”

I looked at him. “Sit down and eat, sir,” I told him, taking a sip of the hot klah. The weakness of the brew made me wince. I set it down on the ground, next to my boot, and picked up the spoon. “I asked Sigrid to wake me when you were up, sir,” I added, before taking that first bite. The taste of the bland polenta took me back several years.

Relaxing a little, Matius sat down and refilled his spoon. “She wouldn’t let me wake you up when I found out you had returned.” His tone was dry.

“What time is it, sir?” I asked. Judging by the angle of the eastern sun, it was still fairly early in the morning, but my body insisted I had slept more than a few hours.

“Seven bells in the morning,” Matius shot me a glance. “You slept the day through yesterday.”

I choked down the polenta. “I slept over twenty-four hours, sir?”

“Akatosh knows you deserved it,” Matius smiled crookedly at me. “I gather you closed that Gate after all, ma’am.”

“I found Menien Goneld, but I couldn’t get him out of that place,” I looked away from his gaze, “I’m sorry, sir.”

“We have lost many of the guard here,” he matched my tone. “Goneld will be counted among the fallen.”

We ate in silence, while the camp woke from the long night. A couple of children appeared just beyond the small circle of tents, watching us hungrily. Matius, finishing off the last of the polenta, looked up and saw them. With a gesture, he waved them to the fire. Refilling his plate, he held it out to the pair. They looked at him hesitantly, but he did not meet their looks, only picking up his klah with his other hand and taking a long gulp. He did waggle the dish slightly.

Finally the older boy, a Redguard, took the plate from Matius. He turned to lead the little Bosmer girl away, but Matius stopped them with a wave. He pointed at a bench on the opposite side of the campfire from me. Hiding my smile behind my cup, I sipped at the klah as the two children took the seat and dove into the food together.

“Well, Julian,” Matius turned to me. “I may be presumptuous, but there’s still work to be done, and I’m still short good soldiers.” He cast a glance up and down me, as he had before. “We need to clear Kvatch of daedra, and get to any remaining survivors. The Count is still in the castle, we must get him to safety.” He held my gaze as I put the spoon down on my dish. “Obviously you’ve got more experience than my guard - what’s left of them. I could use your help.”

Across the fire, the children watched me, wide-eyed. I must seem old - no, ancient, to them. I certainly feel it, after that Gate. “Well, I came here looking for Martin,” I said slowly. But I can’t turn my back on these people. If Martin is alive, and if he really is his father’s son, he won’t, either. “I’ll do it.” I saw a flicker of relief in his blue-grey eyes. “Don’t know how much good I’ll be, but I’ll help.”

He clapped his hands on his thighs, rising to his feet. “Good!” He nodded at the next campfire behind me. “I believe gra-Sharob has finished with your weapons.” Giving the children a wordless glance, he picked up his sword and shield. “I’ll meet you at the barricades, whenever you’re ready, ma’am.”

Posted by: SubRosa Apr 9 2010, 11:11 PM

I see the polenta has reared its ugly head.

A nice quite piece that gives us time to catch our breath after the rush of action in the Deadlands. Matius is also more manageable too, given time to sleep and closed oblivion gate. Now time for the real fight!

Your writing has inspired me to begin the MQ with a new character (my avatar), waiting to start it until she was level 17. Wow is it a challenge with Spider Daedra, Frost Atronachs and Daedroths all over the place! Clearing Kvatch was far worse than the closing the Gate outside of it.

Posted by: mALX Apr 9 2010, 11:12 PM

Julian and the children, I like the way she is with children!!

Posted by: Destri Melarg Apr 10 2010, 12:40 AM

Your writing always flows smoothly, and this chapter is no exception. I did a side by side comparison of this version and your last so that I could see for myself the changes that were made (yes, it involved me going back over to the un-named board). Starting with the very first line, every change that you made makes the story flow even better than it already did. Congratulations! You have done something that every writer strives for. You have taken something good, and made it great through diligent rewriting.

Have some placenta polenta, you have most definitely earned it.

Posted by: D.Foxy Apr 10 2010, 04:04 AM

Hmmm, I was looking for more pudenda, myself...


*crosses fingers and prays the mods will not know Latin*

Posted by: Winter Wolf Apr 10 2010, 04:13 AM

A beautiful quiet chapter before the coming storm. Horses and kids sing within your hands.

Dont forget to use heaps of shock weapon enchantment and shock spells SubRosa.
It is a nightmare without it....
Invisibility wouldnt go astray either.

Posted by: Acadian Apr 11 2010, 04:22 PM

This is even better the second time around (referring to your old thread on the other forum). I'm so glad you are taking your time so it can be savored!

Posted by: Olen Apr 11 2010, 04:38 PM

I agree about that being one of the best quiet interludes which is saying something becasue you write them very well. They have every bit as much meat to them as the action with no filling bits.

Have some polenta - I'm just glad I'm not sharing a tent with her...

buttery leather - excellent metaphor, really brought the feel of it to mind for me

pain in the heinie - I found heinie a bit jarring. To me it's a (rather archaic) disparaging term for a German so I had to look it up, that could just be because of my accent but it's not a common bit of slang. Possibly just 'being a pain' or 'pain in the back side' seeing as the filter would eat the obvious word choice.

Posted by: haute ecole rider Apr 11 2010, 07:19 PM

@SubRosa: If you think the Battle for Kvatch is hard, wait until you get to the Battle for Bruma! Talk about impossible tasks (keeping your friends alive)! I tried it once at Level Eleven and kept losing the darn Emperor! And I hate those Spider Daedra and their darned mini-me's!

@mALX1: I guess her manner with children comes from the fact that she has none of her own - she can always give them back!

@Destri: Thanks! - both for the critique and for the reminder of your confusion over the word polenta on the other board!

@D.Foxy: He he. I do know some Latin meself!

@Winter Wolf: Oh I agree - at higher levels shock and chameleon are the best friends you can have!

@Acadian: Thanks for sticking with this the second time around!

@Olen: I see you share Destri's distaste for polenta. Just remember, the Roman Empire conquered the world on polenta. Respect the polenta! As for the use of heinie, you're not the first to comment on that. I wanted something that would demonstrate Matius's self-awareness of his earlier behavior in a manner that shows his ability to be self-derogatory, and still get past the filter. There's not many one-syllable terms that do.

Back to some combat:

***********
Chapter 4.5 Securing the Chapel

My sword repaired, my shield functional, and my belt pouch restocked with Sigrid’s healing potions, I limped up the steep road yet again. Vonius paced at my side, silent. He’s thinking about the battle ahead. He had thanked me for finding Goneld, even though I could not rescue him after all. Behind us, a couple more young guardsmen, recovered from their wounds two, no, three - nights ago, trailed along.

Matius turned from the barricades as we approached. Jesan Rilian and Merandil stood next to him, and I returned their nods. Then all of us gathered around Matius at his signal. “All right, listen up!” he addressed all of us, raising his voice to be heard over the wind whipping the mesa. “This is Julian from Anvil,” he pointed at me. “She risked much to close that Oblivion Gate. Thanks to her, now we can take Kvatch back.” He looked from one soldier to another, assessing each man’s courage and determination.

“Merandil spent a good part of the day yesterday reconnoitering the lower town,” he continued, with a nod at the Altmer archer. “There are daedra swarming in there, and we’ve got to clear them out.”

Now he knelt in the mud, sketching out a rough circle. He’s mapping out the town for my benefit, I realized. “This is the chapel,” he marked it off within the circle, just north of the gates. “That’s our first goal. I believe there are some civilians and more of the Guard holed up in there. Once we get the gate plaza cleared, they can leave safely and head down to the encampment.”

Listening to Matius, I caught myself nodding. That’s what I would do. He glanced at me thoughtfully. While I silently returned his gaze, I waited for him to continue. He made a circle within the northwest arc of the larger oval representing the city walls. “This is the castle. Once we secure the chapel, we can run over here and retake the castle. The Count and some of the Castle Guard are probably still in there. Merandil was not able to get close enough to the castle to see.” Again, he looked at each of us, making sure we understood. He held my gaze longest. “With both the chapel and the castle in our hands, we’ll be able to mop up the rest of the daedra.” He rested his right forearm on his knee. “Any questions?”

“Julian,” Vonius turned to me. “We know scamps run out of magicka and switch to melee attacks. But are there other kinds of daedra we need to know about?”

“You haven’t encountered any other than scamps?” I looked around the huddle. Everyone shook their heads. “There’s a couple of other ones,” I thought back to my time in the Oblivion Gate. “Both dremora, you’ve heard of those, right?” This time I received nods. “The churls are really big, and heavily armored. They carry maces. The only way I’ve been able to bring them down is to get my weapon, sword or arrow,” I glanced at Merandil, who nodded his comprehension, “between the pieces of their plate armor.” Shaking my head against the remembered bruises and broken ribs, I looked at each soldier. “Much easier said than done. Try to cripple them first - hamstring them from behind.”

After a moment’s thought, I rocked back onto my heels. “There’s another kind of dremora - a mage. He won’t be wearing armor, but I think he’s worse than the big churls.”

“Mages are squishy,” one of the guardsmen commented. “What’s so bad about them?”

“Summons,” I replied. “Summons, and drain health spells. Shock spells, and burden.” I shook my head again and met the guardsman’s gaze. “The summons are the worst. If you see a lot of scamps coming from the same place, chances are there’s a mage hiding back there, calling them as fast as you can kill them.” With a glance at Matius, then at each man in turn, I continued, “If you see a mage, ignore the little guys. Go for him first. Otherwise he’ll wear you down.”

Matius looked around the huddle again. “Any other questions?” Silence. “All right!” he rose to his feet, drawing his sword and shaking his shield into his hand. “Let’s go!” We followed suit as he ran for the gates, yelling back, “For Kvatch!”

“For Kvatch!” the others shouted, hard on his heels. I brought up the rear, my bum knee holding me back. For once, I didn’t mind. These guys are younger, stronger than me. Let them be the heroes.

We filtered through the shattered gates, squeezing between the broken panels. On Merandil’s heels, I paused next to him to take in the carnage within. A large chapel stood at the far side of the plaza, its bell steeple laying in the street leading back into the city. Two large buildings, their wooden upper floors collapsed, lined the west side of the plaza. The east side consisted of an impassable mass of burning and charred rubble. Smoke drifted heavily across the scene, making it hard to see clearly.

At my side, Merandil’s bow twanged in a rapid rhythm. Below the wide steps to the plaza, several scamps engaged the guardsmen. Vonius and Matius ran toward the chapel, crossing half the plaza before they were swarmed. The two young guardsmen who had joined us ducked fireballs, trying to get near their assailants without much luck. To the left, Rilian struggled on his own to reach the large buildings on the west side.

Past him, movement drew my eyes to the second floor of one of the ruined structures. Scamps appeared out of the same place. Moving sideways to stay out of Merandil’s field of fire, I hopped down the stairs and hobbled towards Rilian. Three scamps converged on him while two more hung back, firing flares at him.

My sword moved through the figures of the Sunbird Dance as I reached the young Imperial’s side. Two of the scamps lay twitching on the cobblestones, but we had no time to congratulate each other, for more were coming.

“In the Fighters Guild,” Rilian panted, stabbing his sword towards one of the large buildings. “I thought I saw a dremora mage in there.”

I moved away from him to take down another of the annoying creatures, then limped back to him. “There is a mage in there. Can you cover me?”

“Yes, I’ve got your back!” he shouted, falling behind me. “Let’s go!”

A beam, one end on the ground, the other still attached to the second floor, appeared out of the murk as I hobbled for the building. Rilian stayed close to me, his light iron shield easily blocking the fire spells from the scamps. The makeshift ramp gave me access to the second floor. I hopped onto the floorboards above to find a tall dremora mage at the far end of the building, his hand raised in a summons.

Without regard for the sulfurous swirls around me, I headed for the mage as swiftly as I could. He unlooped his mace and used it to block my sword. As he deflected my blade to the side, he swung his left hand against my cuirass. A bolt of energy slammed into me, more powerful than any punch, and flung me onto my back. My nerves tingling and my muscles numb, I looked up to see the - goblin shaman raise her totem staff, no - dremora mage raise his mace for the death blow.

A steel blade flashed brightly over me, stabbing the mage in the abdomen before he could bring the mace down. I rolled away, catching a glimpse of the dremora’s left hand glowing white with another spell.

“Don’t let him touch you!” I shouted at Rilian, but he pulled back, out of reach of the wounded mage. His shield protecting his body, the young Imperial sidestepped the flung spell and leaped to close with the spellcaster. Another flash of the steel blade, and the mage crumpled to the floor.

Out in the plaza, about half of the scamps melted into sulfur wisps. Rilian reached a hand down to me. Thanks to his strong grip, I scrambled to my feet, and we returned to the ground looking for more enemies. The remaining scamps fell quickly before the swordsmen and Merandil’s accurate archery.

At the foot of the chapel steps, Matius scanned the plaza. He saluted me with his sword before sheathing it. The other guardsmen joined him. As Rilian and I walked across the square, the young guardsman nearly sent me flying with a hearty clap on my shoulder.

“Good fighting, friend,” he commented, still a little out of breath. He looked tired, and there was blood on the side of his neck, but his hazel eyes smiled at me. “Let’s go see what Matius has to say.”

“Good work, everyone,” Matius greeted us, smiling grimly through a bloodied visage. “Let’s go in the chapel and see what we find.”

The other guardsmen and I followed him within the chapel. Matius paused, scanning the dark interior. A Redguard woman wearing the Kvatch Wolf came up to him.

“Thank Akatosh you’ve arrived!” she exclaimed, her voice rough with tension. “We weren’t sure how much longer we could hold out, sir.”

“Tierra, what’s the status?” Matius got to the point, the brusque soldier still evident.

Tierra straightened up. “Sir, there’s two of us, Berich Inian and I, and four civilians here.”

Matius’s face fell. “Everyone else is dead?” he sounded discouraged.

“Sir,” Tierra responded, “we’ve been cut off from the castle. I have no idea how many survivors remain there.”

“Very well,” Matius sighed. “What’s done is done. Inian, stand watch here. Tierra, take the civilians down to the camp, make sure they’re safe.”

“But sir, I want to fight!” Tierra burst out. Glancing at her, I was reminded of myself when I was her age, looking for blood and glory. Matius cut her off with a sharp gesture.

“You’ll get the chance soon enough,” he stated flatly. “It’s more important to get these civilians out of here. Kvatch isn’t yet safe for them. Get them to the camp, then return as quickly as possible. I need your blade here, and soon.”

I looked at the four refugees. They looked frightened, exhausted, and dirty. Is one of them Martin? Rilian leaned to me to whisper in my ear, “That brown-haired Imperial, in the blue robes, that’s Martin the priest.”

As Tierra gathered the refugees to her, I studied him thoughtfully. Before I could call his name, they filed out of the chapel, the priest supporting a limping Breton man.

Still twitchy after that shock spell, I hobbled down to the altar at the head of the nave. With my sword hand on the stone pedestal, I breathed deeply as the healing energy swirled around me. Matius joined me and took some of the healing for himself. Feeling more like myself, I waited for him to step back.

“Sir, do you still need me?” I asked him. His eyes grim, Matius wiped the blood off of his face.

“I can still use you,” he responded quietly. “There is still the castle to secure. We’ve got to recover the Count. Are you able to continue on?”

“Yes, sir, and I’m ready whenever you are.” I matched his tone.

“You are truly a friend, Julian,” he said, relief in his voice. “Not many would walk in off the road and help strangers.”

“If strangers don’t help each other,” I countered softly, “the world would be a cruel place, indeed.” He nodded agreement.

“Well, then,” Matius cast an assessing glance at the other guardsmen. “Inian, when Tierra comes back, both of you join us at the castle.” He strode for the northern doors. “The rest of you, follow me!”

Posted by: SubRosa Apr 11 2010, 07:39 PM

Into the breach once more! Your pacing of the battle was good here. Enough to keep it interesting, but dragged out so much that it became redundant either. I know I said it the first time, but it bears repeating, seeing the brief flashback of Julian's debilitating encounter with the goblins in the middle of the battle was an especially strong touch.

It is nice to see this sentiment:
These guys are younger, stronger than me. Let them be the heroes.
Usually in fiction, be it in print and especially on film, it is quite the opposite. Having an older and wiser protagonist is a breath of fresh air. Then again, maybe that is because I am past 40 myself...

On the subject of Matius' heinie, you might say "can" instead, or "fundament", or "bum", or "cheeks", or "asinus"

Posted by: mALX Apr 11 2010, 08:14 PM

This is one of my favorite parts of the main questline - and you ROCKED it!!!

Posted by: minque Apr 11 2010, 10:26 PM

Oohhh I have now read through this and I must admit I just can't keep up with your ferocious posting, but my my what a great story this is...

Oh and since I'm a native Nord I naturally am very fond of Sigrid! Sigrid is a fine nordic name, it used to be rather common in both Sweden and Norway, in those very old days of course. Nowadays you do not see so many Sigrids here

Posted by: Acadian Apr 12 2010, 01:23 AM

Yes! That's our Julian! Well done again. I noticed you added some reconnoitering by Merendil this time - and realistically, he was unable to get too close to the castle.

Posted by: D.Foxy Apr 12 2010, 01:45 AM

“The churls are really big, and heavily armored. They carry maces. The only way I’ve been able to bring them down is to get my weapon, sword or arrow,” I glanced at Merandil, who nodded his comprehension, “between the pieces of their plate armor.” Shaking my head against the remembered bruises and broken ribs, I looked at each soldier. “Much easier said than done. Try to cripple them first - hamstring them from behind.”

After a moment’s thought, I rocked back onto my heels. “There’s another kind of dremora - a mage. He won’t be wearing armor, but I think he’s worse than the big churls.”

“Mages are squishy,” one of the guardsmen commented. “What’s so bad about them?”

“Summons,” I replied. “Summons, and drain health spells. Shock spells, and burden.” I shook my head again and met the guardsman’s gaze. “The summons are the worst. If you see a lot of scamps coming from the same place, chances are there’s a mage hiding back there, calling them as fast as you can kill them.” With a glance at Matius, then at each man in turn, I continued, “If you see a mage, ignore the little guys. Go for him first. Otherwise he’ll wear you down.”


Oh, how the warrior in me loves this part, even when I read it again!!!

Posted by: Remko Apr 12 2010, 05:02 PM

Had to comment; your German is atrocious. so is D.Foxy's
I'll get back to reading now. I was kinda hoping to read about some stringy, red maned Bosmer in the library.

Posted by: D.Foxy Apr 13 2010, 03:24 AM

Was? Meinen Deuschlish is nicht gut, ya?

Hmmph! Ich sprache nicht DEUSTCH....Ich sprache der SCHWARTZEN Deustch... du Weisser Speisser!!!

I picked that up in three weeks in Berlin. I also picked up quite a lot of other ... things.... but I can't talk about them here.

Posted by: Destri Melarg Apr 13 2010, 09:33 AM

I especially enjoyed Matius forming the battle-plan before they charged through the gates. As SubRosa said, Julian’s flashback to her encounter with the goblin shaman was terrific. I also liked the way that she saw an echo of herself in Tierra’s eagerness for battle, especially after showing her willingness to ‘let the younger men be the heroes.’ It seems that some old habits die easier than others. With age comes wisdom, indeed.

Posted by: haute ecole rider Apr 13 2010, 03:48 PM

@SubRosa: Let me see . . . "pain in the can." Does Cyrodiil have cans? Haven't seen one, though some of the armor I've seen in the game comes close. "Pain in the fundament." Sounds like an over-educated scholar (like me). "Bum" refers to Julian's knee, not her behind, thank you very much. "Pain in the cheeks." Makes me want to slap him. "Pain in the asinus." Hmm. that's a thought, but again, sounds a bit over-educated for a soldier. Still, it gets the juices flowing, that's for certain! Oh, and those daedra at the upper levels are tough. It's even tougher keeping your friends alive!

@mALX1: thanks for the kudos!

@minque: Hey, welcome again! I'm glad you're still keeping up with this! I'm even more glad that you are enjoying this so far. As for Sigrid, she is a sweetheart, and I enjoy writing her. Bruma is one of my favorite cities in Cyrodiil, mainly because how can you not enjoy the company of people who know how to have a good time with drink, song, and stories by a warm fire while the cold north wind is howling outside? People like that make me want to sit back, put my feet up on the hob, and enjoy a mug of spiced hard cider or a foaming stein of dark ale.

@Acadian: I'm glad you noticed that I took bobg's advice this time around and made Merandil the scout. I had added an extra day to give him time to reconnoiter - those missions take a long time! It's good to have you back - you've been missed.

@Foxy (both times): I'm always happy to make the old warrior smile. As for the German, well, I never claimed to be fluent in it. After all, it's been nearly thirty years since my last German class! But Foxy, blank food? I'm sure you picked up more than gutter German while you were in Berlin, and of course you can't tell us, or you'd have to kill us all!

@Remko: Atrocious? Of course my German is atrocious! That's why I got straight A's in my German classes. It's American high school German! Now, let me see, where did I pack that German-English dictionary?

@Destri: I'm glad you noticed the change in Matius's battle plan. And I'm also glad that you and SubRosa picked up on Julian's brief flashback. After being pretty heavily shocked then, it feels natural to me that she would relive that time whenever she gets hit with a shock spell. And yes, Tierra's gung ho attitude reminds Julian of herself as a tyro.

Now let's finish this. Time to recover the Castle of Kvatch.

***************************
Chapter 4.6 Lifting the Siege

On the other side of the chapel, the battle was more evenly matched, with four scamps between us and the tall gates that led to the moat bridge and the castle beyond. There wasn’t much for me to do but follow the guardsmen past a large statue toward the castle moat.

Matius reached the gate, and tried it before turning away with a curse. “Locked! Of course, they would have locked it from the inside.” He turned to me, but whatever he was about to say was interrupted by a barrage of arrows from the castle parapets across the moat. The distinctive armor of dremora churls appeared and disappeared behind the walls.

Under cover in the shelter of the gate towers, Matius swore angrily. If there are dremora archers in the castle, then it may have fallen. Things are not looking good for the Count. “Julian,” he called me over. “Listen, go find Inian. He has the key to the north guardhouse. That will get you inside the walls and let you unlock the gate from the inside. Hurry!”

“Yes, sir!” I responded and hobbled back to the chapel as quickly as I could. Within, three Legion soldiers were speaking with Inian. On my entrance, he glanced at me, and said something to the soldiers. The Legion pilus, his rank indicated by the white scarf tied on his right arm, strode up to me.

“We saw the smoke and flames from the Gold Road, ma’am, and came up here to investigate. What can we do to help?”

“Yes!” I exclaimed, feeling relief at their offer. So this is how Matius felt when I agreed to help him. “Let me talk to Inian first, then I’ll fill you in.” The pilus nodded at me. Inian turned his brown gaze on me as I limped to him. “I’m Julian, from Anvil,” I offered. “Do you have the key to the north guardhouse?”

“Yes, I do,” he frowned at me. “Why?”

“Matius needs the bridge gate unlocked,” I answered. Inian’s face brightened in comprehension.

“Of course! Listen, the only way to the north guardhouse is through the chapel undercroft. If you’ll follow me, I’ll get you there.”

I nodded at the soldiers to follow us to the stairway leading down to the chapel quarters. “We need to unlock the bridge gate from the inside,” I tossed over my shoulder. “Inian will get us to the north guardhouse, he has the key for it.”

“Understood,” the pilus responded. “We’ve got your backs.”

Down in the crypt, we were swarmed by scamps. Fortunately, the columns gave us ample cover from their fireballs, and the heavily armored Legion soldiers dispatched the daedra easily. Inian led us to an exit door. Pausing with his hand on the handle, he looked at me.

“Listen, there are likely more daedra out there,” he said. “If I don’t make it, take the key and get to the north guardhouse. We must not fail Matius and the Count.”

“You’ll make it,” I said firmly. Think positive. Inian seemed to take greater courage from my tone and opened the door.

Before we had moved six meters from the chapel undercroft, we encountered eight more scamps among the burning ruins. The five of us spread out and took on the daedra as they came at us. While the others fended off the flares easily with their metal shields, I started to worry about the integrity of my own leather buckler.

Inian led us into narrow, twisting streets, through a ruined arena, and toward the tower set into the city wall beyond. Fifteen minutes of heavy fighting took their toll before we reached our goal. Inian mirrored my limp, and the pilus’s left arm dangled by his side, numbed by a scorching fireball. Fumbling out two of Sigrid’s healing potions, I gave one to Inian and the other to the pilus.

After gulping the potion down, Inian led us inside the guardhouse, located in the base of one of the towers supporting the city wall. At a trapdoor in the floor, he unlocked the latch and swung it back. As I sat on the edge of the floor, swinging my legs inside, he leaned to my ear. “The passageway at the bottom will take you inside the wall at the castle gate. You’ll find the lock wheel there.” He nodded at me in salute. “I’m going back to meet up with Matius. See you on the inside!”

“Thanks,” I said to his retreating back.

****************
At the county hall after heavy fighting, we were swarmed yet again by scamps and dremora churls. Merandil and the Imperial archer fired arrows as fast as they could into our opponents. The others split off into pairs and waded into combat, their blades flashing in the smoky air. One of the guardsmen fell, leaving his partner exposed, and I moved forward to take his place.

Two scamps wheeled into a nearby burning pile of rubble with a shove from my battered leather shield. I reached Inian’s back and beat back another scamp with the hilt of my sword, not wanting to hit the guardsman with my blade. “I’ve got you!” I shouted at him over the din of the combat. Inian didn’t answer, but his blade moved with more vigor and confidence.

My glance fell on the fallen guardsman. Rilian. I managed to tear my eyes away in time to block another assault by yet another scamp. Don’t think about it now. Mourn him later. We fought down the left side of the hall, toward the throne at the far end.

Matius shouted at me from the center of the hall. “Julian!” Taking a moment to stab an oncoming scamp, he gestured with his bloody sword towards the door at the top of the stairway. “Through there are the private quarters. Go on and find the Count, his suite is at the far end. Hurry!” He turned and yelled over his shoulder. “Merandil! Go with Julian! Show her the way!”

Without hesitation, I hobbled up the stairs and glanced back to see the pilus and the remaining Legion soldier, claymore ready, following me. Merandil brought up the rear, his face grim. He carried a bloodied war axe in his hand. Out of arrows. We entered the private quarters and found ourselves in a long, narrow chamber, furniture and books tumbled to the floor and burning. Several scamps assaulted us out of the billowing smoke, but the pilus and the Legion soldier blocked their flares from me. As the four of us battled through them en bloc, Merandil led us to a small corridor at the rear of the chamber.

Once all the scamps were down, we headed to the rear, encountering a door that would not budge. The claymore-wielding soldier motioned me to stand aside, and rammed his shoulder against the panel. It flew open in smithereens, the soldier stumbling into the room beyond. Hot on his heels, I looked ahead to see a big scamp standing on a disheveled bed. He screeched at us and flung a fireball at me.

Without thinking, I blocked it with my leather shield. It disintegrated under the flames. The now-useless shield dropped off my arm as I leaped for the scamp, ignoring the agony in my right knee. My blade entered his abdomen, and I twisted it savagely. With a pained hiss, he clawed at my eyes, but I ducked back, catching the swipe on my right cheek. As he crumpled to the floor, I stabbed him in the neck to make certain he was dead.

Coughing from the smoky air, I scanned the room for more enemies. The pilus’s gaze snagged mine, his left arm useless again. Merandil stepped past him into the bedchamber, searching the room for the Count. The bloated body of a nobleman lay face down between the bed and the fireplace, the blood around it dry and peeling. Merandil stopped beside me, his gaze on the corpse. “My lord-?” his voice held despair.

My stiff knee made it hard to kneel beside the Count, but I managed to turn his body over. The sickly sweet smell of decomposition sent the two Legionaries reeling back. I swallowed hard and opened my mouth to breathe. Dead. Cacat! A couple days by the smell. I noted the dark lividity in his swollen face. Picking up the beringed right hand, I found a signet ring, marked with the Kvatch Wolf. Merandil exhaled sharply as he recognized the carving. Yes, the Count is dead. With some difficulty, I slipped the ring off and palmed it in my left hand. Using my iron blade as a support, I struggled to my feet and turned to face the other soldiers. The pilus shook his head, gripping my shoulder.

“We fought hard,” he said to me. “That’s all we can do.”

Back in the county hall, we found it cleared of scamps. I almost hid behind the big Legion soldier when Matius turned to face me, hope still in his eyes. “Did you find the Count, Julian?” he asked.

“I’m sorry, sir,” I answered, holding the signet ring to him. “The Count is dead.” His face fell as his hand came up to take the ring.

“Damn!” he muttered, turning the ring in his fingers. “We took too long!”

I shook my head. “I think they killed him right away,” I turned aside from the grief in his face. “He’s been dead longer than a couple of days, sir.” I limped over to Rilian’s body and knelt beside him. I’m sorry, Rilian. You were a good fighter. My hand moved over his open eyes, lowering his eyelids. Nearby, the Imperial archer also lay dead, his face torn away by scamps. His quiver was empty, a steel shortsword near his out-flung right hand.

“It’s over,” Matius dropped his shield with a clatter, sheathing his sword and unfastening the sword belt. I struggled to my feet and hobbled back to him. The sword dropped next to the shield as he started unbuckling the mail cuirass. “I’m done, I’m tired of fighting,” he declared. The other guardsmen eyed him anxiously. Almost angrily, he stripped off the armor, shoving the cuirass and surcoat into my hands. “Take this, friend. I’m grateful to you for your unflinching aid. You deserve better, but this may be of some use in your travels.” He eyed my battered leathers. “Where is your shield?”

“Destroyed,” I answered. “Too many fireballs.”

Matius knelt and picked up his light iron shield and steel sword. He held them out to me. “These will serve better, Julian. Carry them, and remember Kvatch.” As he stood before me in linen shirt and leather breeches, Matius still carried the air of a soldier. Speechless for the moment, I looked down at the armor and longsword.

“Go on,” Matius smiled sadly at me, his anger gone. “You came looking for a priest named Martin, didn’t you?” He nodded when I looked back at his open face. “Tierra saw him safe to the camp, right, Tierra?”

The Redguard woman glanced at me. “Yes, sir, Martin’s safe at the camp.”

“Go, Julian, and blessings of Akatosh be with you,” Matius said wearily. “Thanks for all your help and assistance.”

Posted by: Olen Apr 13 2010, 04:32 PM

Kvatch is retaken... Good change of atmosphere at the end there, you captured how they had been sitting on panic then that dissipating and leaving them tired. You also did the fight though Kvatch well, it came accross as long and arduous without becoming repetative.

I also like the continued development of Julian. Its very subtle, so much so that I dodn't notice it happening but Kvatch has changed her noticably, burying the characterisation like that with it still being effective is excellent.

One thing I think perhaps might have improved the fight scene would be the occasional close detail, like how she kills an individual scamp, or a slightly longer description of a place. It would give a brief change of perspective and make the next section of the fight seem fresh, though possibly at some cost to the continued feel of the fight. It's something to consider anyway.

Only one nit:

Dead. Cacat! No rigor mortis. But the blood has settled -- I read this to mean he was about and hour or two dead not two days, in that rigor mortis was yet to set in but the blood wasn't fresh. Changing 'but' to 'and' could sort this, and it might just be me misreading. You mention the lividity in his face, but 'livid' can mean pale or flushed so this didn't clear it up.

Posted by: haute ecole rider Apr 15 2010, 06:40 PM

Thanks, Olen. I really appreciate your comments.

I reviewed my own notes on post-mortem changes after your comments. When I originally wrote this piece, the timeline between the opening of the Great Gate and the battle for Kvatch was much shorter. In this rewrite, I added an extra day for recuperation. That would mean the Count had been dead for a few days, had he been killed right away.

My original thoughts was that he had been dead just long enough for rigor mortis to pass, which is what I meant by the lividity (settled blood) persisting past the RM phase. But in reviewing my notes (thanks for calling my attention to that bit of gory detail), I realized that not only would rigor mortis had passed, but decomp would be already fairly advanced.

And my research notes are quite a bit more scientific than CSI . . . (a popular TV show about crime scene investigators here in the US).

I have gone back and edited that scene to more accurately reflect the post mortem changes in the Count's body. Ugh.

Another change of pace, slowing down again after the intensity of the battle for Kvatch.

*******************
Chapter 4.7 The Hero of Kvatch

Walking back to the camp, I felt weary and empty. All the frenetic activity of the past twelve hours seemed futile. With the Count dead, what will happen to Kvatch? Who will replace him? At least Martin is still alive. Now I need to find him and get him back to Jauffre.

I stopped by the meadow to check on Paint. He seemed happy, and whickered at me. Bits of dried hay clung to his back and mane. Brushing his coat smooth with my hand, I looked around for my gear. Boldon came up to me, pack in hand.

“Here, I kept it aside for you,” he said, handing me the pack. “Let me know when, and I’ll have Paint ready for you.”

Squinting at the westering sun, I considered the fatigue I felt in my bones. “Tomorrow morning, I think, sir,” I answered, slinging the pack over my shoulder. “Thanks for keeping an eye on Paint for me.”

“It was my pleasure, Julian,” Boldon smiled at me. As I turned from him and limped through the camp, I saw again the grief and despair on the people’s faces. Yet, on this beautiful late summer evening, I glimpsed something new. Hope. The three children I had spotted on my arrival, and the two youngsters who had shared breakfast with Matius and me, wordlessly surrounded me. As I trudged on, they fell into step alongside me. A tiny hand crept into my right palm, and I looked down at the Bosmer girl. She kept her face averted, and I closed my fingers gently around hers.

We reached gra-Sharob’s fire, and the children hung back. The Orsimer smith glanced at them, then waved for them to sit by the fire. The air was cooling rapidly with the sinking sun, and the children had only thin night-clothes. They huddled together, their eyes on us.

Silently I handed the steel sword, the mailed cuirass, and the light iron shield to gra-Sharob. She looked at them, then at me, her eyes wide. “These belong to Savlian Matius,” she exclaimed. “What happened?”

“Kvatch is cleared, ma’am,” I said, unbuckling the iron longsword and dropping it to the ground. Sitting heavily on a nearby stool, I reached into my pack. My fingers found the sigil stone, warm within the scrap of red wool. “All the daedra are gone. The Count is dead. Jesan Rilian is dead. The Legion archer who lent us aid is dead.” I held the stone in my cold hands, seeking its warmth in spite of the screaming of souls I still could feel in it. “Matius is finished with fighting. He gave me those,” I nodded at the gear.

“Do you know what he gave you?” gra-Sharob asked, raising the mail cuirass between us. “This is enchanted. It gives you extra strength and endurance.”

So that’s how he managed to keep going for such a long time. "Then that is an even greater gift than I thought,” my voice cracked. “I need to find Martin, talk to him.”

“The priest?” gra-Sharob asked. She pointed to a pavilion across the road. “He’s exhausted, poor soul. He’s sleeping in there.” The Orc picked up her hammer. “Give me a few hours, and I’ll have your gear repaired.”

The stone still in my left hand, I reached down and drew out the iron longsword. As the dark blade cleared the sheath, the sigil stone slipped out of my grip and struck the weapon. The metal sang discordantly, making all of us gathered around the fire jump. The orb disappeared in a brilliant flash of red. The blade glowed briefly, then went dark again.

“What was that?” gra-Sharob demanded, her hammer poised in mid-air. “You enchanted the old iron sword?”

“I- I did?” I stammered, looking vainly for the orb. “I only dropped the stone on it, now the stone’s gone -”

Setting her hammer down, gra-Sharob stepped over to the blade and picked it up, evaluating it thoughtfully. She turned and tested it on a scrawny weed fighting for survival between the tents. The plant flared into fire, and burned rapidly away. “Hmm, fire damage,” she mused. “Very effective against undead and will-o-wisps.” Again, she eyed the blade. “It’s damaged. I’ll repair it for you, as well.”

Sigrid walked over from her campfire. She had washed up, and tidied her hair. “Hello, Julian,” she greeted me. “You look tired again. Let gra-Sharob tend to your gear, and come join me for dinner.” She frowned slightly, a crease appearing between her fine eyebrows. “Such as it is.” Catching my glance at the children, still huddled near gra-Sharob’s fire, she turned to them. “You little ragamuffins, too. You’ll only be in Batul’s way if you keep your arses on her fire.”

When they hesitated, gra-Sharob mock-growled at them. Her sparkling glare motivated them to leap to their feet and join me as I followed Sigrid. Once again, the Bosmer girl took my hand, and when I sat down on the bench, she snuggled next to me without a word.

My pack placed beneath the bench, I looked at the other children. They returned my gaze shyly, shifting their weight from side to side. “Come on, sit down,” I said quietly to them. “Unlike Batul, I won’t bite.”

They came and settled around me, the Dunmer boy against my other side, and the older children on the ground in front of me, their backs to the fire. Sigrid handed me a large plate heaped high with polenta and chopped vegetables, then handed the three on the ground a similar serving. She passed spoons all around, indicating that we should share. Pouring a cup of klah, she handed it to me, then provided the children with water.

“How are you for provisions, ma’am?” I asked Sigrid, recognizing peppers, onions, and edible mushrooms in the polenta. She shrugged, her face shadowed in the gathering dusk.

“It would be good to have some meat,” she replied. “But I’ve been gathering as much edible plants as I can, as well as medicinal herbs and fungi. That daedra heart you gave me is going to be so useful.” She looked up as an older Redguard woman joined her beside the fire. I recognized the newcomer as one of the refugees from the church.

“Thank you for rescuing Oleta and the others from the chapel,” Sigrid continued, serving the other woman. “I’m glad to have her healing skills again.”

“I hear you closed the Oblivion Gate,” Oleta addressed me after thanking Sigrid. “That was very brave of you.”

My mouth full, I shook my head, aware of the children’s eyes on me. With a swallow of the grub, I looked at the Redguard boy. “What is your name?”

“Avik,” he answered, looking down at the plate in his lap. The two girls on either side of him paused in their spooning.

“How old are you, Avik?” I had noticed that the two smaller children had stopped eating from my dish.

“Thirteen,” he answered. “Boldon’s my pa.”

“He’s the only one of the children to still have family living,” Sigrid volunteered from the other side of the fire. “His mother and sister died -” her voice trailed off.

“I’m sorry, Avik,” I said. “I know what it’s like to lose family like this. It’s hard, but I’ve noticed you taking care of this little girl here,” I nodded at the little Bosmer. “That’s a brave thing to do.” I looked down at her. “Isn’t it, little one?” The girl’s head moved against my side as she nodded, looking down at her spoon.

“Pa says we have to look out for each other now,” Avik drew himself up, pulling his shoulders back.

“And your pa’s right,” I said firmly. The Altmer girl met my gaze from Avik’s left side, and I smiled at her. “And you, what’s your name, and how old are you?”

“Irinwe,” she answered shyly, looking down at her hands. “I’m eighteen.”

Typical Altmer. You look all of ten. That difference will only become greater as you gain years. “I saw you with these two,” I pointed at the Imperial girl sitting at Avik’s right side, then at the Dunmer boy at my own left side. “You were looking out for them, too. That makes you brave, as well.” A faint blush crept over the young girl’s golden cheeks as she kept her eyes downcast.

The Imperial girl sat up. Her dark red hair waved around her pixie face, and she brushed it back impatiently. “I’m Melissada Veta, and I’m nine,” she declared. Pointing at the Dunmer boy, she said, “He’s Dalen Llenim, and he’s six.” A little overbearing, this one, but protective.

“You have a good heart, Melissada Veta,” I said to her. “Dalen, what do you think?” I handed my platter to Avik and put my arms around the two children. The Dunmer boy nodded.

“She’s just like my big sister -” his voice trailed off. I bent down to him.

“You mean, bossy?” I whispered to him, just loud enough for the red-headed girl to hear. Dalen looked at her mock scowl, then giggled.

I turned to the Bosmer girl. “And you, what is your name?”

“Falisia,” she whispered, finally meeting my gaze. “And I’m -” she paused, holding up her right hand, thumb folded into her palm, “four years old.” Her green eyes held mine. “And how old are you?”

I stifled a chuckle at the direct question, at the horrified gazes from Irinwe and Melissada. “Old,” I answered. “I’m Julian, from Anvil. Any of you know where Anvil is?”

Nods from the three older children, negative shakes from the two young’uns at my side. “Anvil,” I said for their benefit, “is a small city on the coast south of here,” I pointed in that general direction. “I’ve come a long way, but I’m glad I’m here, with you.”

“Can I ask you something?” Dalen looked up at me, his red eyes curious. Not sure what to expect, I nodded.

“What does it feel like to be a hero?”

“Who’s saying I’m a hero?” I exclaimed, startled.

“Why, everyone is,” Melissada piped up. “All the grownups are calling you the Hero of Kvatch!”

“Hero of Kvatch?” I repeated. “Me?” I looked up at Sigrid, then realized that several people had gathered around while I was talking to the children.

“You closed the Oblivion Gate!” Avik exclaimed. “That’s what a hero does!”

“No,” I shook my head, lowering my gaze and pitching my voice to be heard. “No, that’s what a soldier does. A real hero is someone who does not give up just because bad things happen.” Against the abrupt return of the weariness I had felt, I glanced around at the circle of faces visible in the firelight. “The daedra set out to destroy Kvatch, and they failed. What’s up there is just a bunch of ruined and burning buildings. That’s not Kvatch. You,” I looked at each half-shadowed face, “are Kvatch, and in you, Kvatch still lives.” Rumpling Falisia’s black hair, I looked at each child again. “That makes you heroes, not me.”

Posted by: SubRosa Apr 15 2010, 08:37 PM

I finally have time to get back to reading again.

“Yes!” I exclaimed, feeling relief at their offer.
I felt the same way. Seeing those guys always makes my heart leap. "Yes, the Army of Light has arrived!"

You handled the ending of 4.6 well, where Matius gives Julian his cuirass and shield. It always felt strange in the game, but you made it seem a natural culmination of events. I wonder, will we see Matius again in OHDH?

This I loved:
“You mean, bossy?” I whispered to him, just loud enough for the red-headed girl to hear. Dalen looked at her mock scowl, then giggled.
It really highlights the scene of bonding between Julian and the surviving children. I liked that entire thread, as imho it was very important. It illustrates exactly what Julian and the others were fighting for, and what their victory really was. Not to take back a bunch of broken stones, but to protect the remaining people of Kvatch, and through them, the future. As Julian says herself, Kvatch is not a bunch of buildings, but the people in the encampment.


nits:
4.6
[i]Yes, the Count is dead.
You have some errant bbcode here.

Posted by: mALX Apr 16 2010, 07:13 PM

That last paragraph is so powerful! Sorry I was so late getting here, my PC was crashed most of this week.

Posted by: Destri Melarg Apr 17 2010, 10:04 AM

Chapter 4.6:

I really enjoyed this chapter. Your decision to use Julian’s narration to describe the battle through the streets of Kvatch to the north gatehouse was inspired. You told us all we needed to know in an entertaining way without getting bogged down in the details of each engagement. I like the fact that Julian gave Inian and the pilus healing potions from her own pack . . . would that we could do that in the game. (Are you listening Bethesda?)

The assault on the castle was equally exciting. It’s always the little details that bring a story to life. Merandil runs out of arrows and has to use a war axe. One of the Legion soldiers falls and Julian only notices it when two instead of three join her.

A few things that struck me:

There is an awkward repetition of the word ‘follow’ in this sentence. I know how much you want to avoid beginning every sentence with the letter ‘I’, but perhaps if you streamlined it a bit:

There wasn’t much for me to do but follow the guardsmen past a large statue toward the castle moat.


I wanted to quote this sentence because this is one of the many times that your phrasing is just perfect.


Coming from a family of medical professionals myself I realize that you guys just can't help yourselves, can you?

Chapter 4.7:

I said his to you the first time I read this chapter, but it bears repeating. I love the way Julian discovers the enchanting properties of sigil stones. Too bad she had to drop the thing on the iron longsword and not the steel one.

Something that will never cease to amaze me is how much you can tell about a person by the way that children behave around them. From your description we can see that Julian is a natural protector, something that I’m sure will be tested by the trials to come.

One problem that I have with this chapter is Julian’s speech at the end. It was heart-wrenching, inspiring, and beautifully written . . . that’s not the problem. No, the problem is that Julian seems to suffer from the same malady as SubRosa’s Teresa. I ask myself, would it kill haute to let Julian sit back, take a sip of klah, and let people gush over her for a change? I’d say that she’s earned it!

Posted by: haute ecole rider Apr 18 2010, 08:08 PM

@SubRosa: Again you have picked out the importance of Julian's interactions with the children. I had intended this as a quiet interlude before Julian hits the road again, but this has turned into quite a revealing window into her character, as her sense of herself re-emerges again after years of addiction. And yes, Matius is a recurring character, more so than in the game. I already have a whole back story for him, and hope to bring it out in later chapters.

@mALX: So sorry to hear about your PC problems. You're cursed, you know that? First your XBox, now your PC! What's next? Your TV? I'm glad to see you back - you've been missed.

@Destri: Your rewrite of that troublesome sentence is much better. I'll dutifully go back and fix it. Thanks for the input in that. As for the gross stuff, no, I simply can not resist. Having worked in necropsy through three years in vet school, I have no problems eating lunch while working on a bloated cow. To be honest, the smell isn't so bad when it's coming from a dead animal, but when said animal is still alive . . . ugh. Not good.

No, it wouldn't kill me to sit back and enjoy the gushing, but it would kill Julian! She's not accustomed to it, and won't be for a while. Eventually, she does learn to accept the inevitable, but you'll see she draws the line somewhere!

Julian finally catches up to the purpose of her whole trip to Kvatch: Martin.

*****************
Chapter 4.8 Martin

The children shared breakfast with me, mostly quiet and subdued. Afterwards, they trailed behind me to gra-Sharob’s fire. The big Orsimer was working on a mail cuirass. She grinned at me when I paused.

“Good morning, Julian!” she said heartily, shooting a mock glare at the kids. Grouped behind me, they responded with giggles. “I’ve got your weapons here,” she nodded at the two swords stacked against the tent flap. “How do you find your armor today?” As she had before, gra-Sharob had left the leathers and mail cuirass folded just inside the pavilion where I had spent the night.

“They’re fine,” I answered, shrugging the leather cuirass over my shoulders. “I appreciate the work, ma’am.”

“Good!” gra-Sharob put the hammer down and stepped to the tent. Picking up the shield, she held it out to me so I could see the Kvatch Wolf. “Good as new. You’ll find it more durable than that leather thing.”

“I think I will, ma’am,” I took the round disc, hefting it thoughtfully. There was a flat hook on the back of it, that would allow me to attach it to a loop on the outside of my pack. Taking the iron longsword, I noticed that gra-Sharob had made a new sheath for it. Black leather capped with a dark iron ferrule, it had fancy script on one side. Daedra Slayer. I smiled. A good name for this weapon - it has killed a fair number of those creatures. Pulling the sword partway out of the scabbard, I evaluated the blade in the morning light. Its keen edge caught the roseate sunlight, tossed it back with a slight red shimmer.

“This is beautiful, gra-Sharob,” I commented, putting it next to my pack. “It will be useful as a backup weapon.”

“Well, then, I think you’ll like this for your primary sword,” gra-Sharob handed across the steel longsword Matius had given me. The plain brown scabbard, with the small Kvatch Wolf insignia, gleamed with fresh cleaning. Heavier and wider than the iron blade, its hilt snugged into my hand as if coming home.

It has been a long time since I held one of these, I thought to myself. As the sword moved through the air in a figure-eight, the rising sun flashed off the tapered blade. Good balance, solid weight. When the sword slid back into its sheath, I noticed silver script gleaming on the leather. Hero of Kvatch. Frowning, I looked up at gra-Sharob.

“Savlian was standing behind you last night, when you were, ah, educating the kids,” the Orsimer smith said. She shrugged. “He told me to add the name to the sheath. I wasn’t about to argue with a real hero.”

Neither would I. Shaking my head, I buckled the sword belt over the leather cuirass. “Thanks for all your work, gra-Sharob,” I said. “How much do I owe you?”

“You closed the Gate,” gra-Sharob picked up the mailed cuirass she had been working on. “You helped Savlian clear the city and drive the daedra out. It’s more a question of what we owe you.”

“It doesn’t feel right, ma’am,” I insisted, “taking advantage of your skills without fair recompense. It’s going to be difficult for you, all of you, with so much loss. You need as much income as you can get in the days to come.”

“I was poor once,” gra-Sharob grunted. “It’s not so scary, once you know what you can live without.”

Her implacable expression told me further argument would be futile. “Well, this one time, then,” I said finally. “Thanks, again.” Picking up my pack, I turned to leave. “Have you seen Martin?”

“Yes, I think I saw him walking towards the meadow, where your horse is,” gra-Sharob returned to her hammering. The children jumped up.

I can’t have them following me. With a shake of my head to them, I met Avik’s gaze. “Why don’t you stay and tend the fire for gra-Sharob?” I suggested to him. He stared, wide-eyed, from me to the Orsimer, who had shot me a glance.

“And I was just thinking it would be nice to have an apprentice -” her growl trailed off, her black eyes sliding over to the young Redguard. After a moment, he nodded. While the smith pointed him to the bellows over the fire, I looked at the other children.

“Irinwe, Melissada, why don’t you go look for wood for the fires,” I added. “And Dalen, Falisia,” I led them to Sigrid’s campfire, where the Nord woman sat tending her retort. “let’s help Sigrid gather ingredients. She can show you which ones to pick.” The woman glanced up at me in surprise, then regarded the youngest pair.

“Well, I suppose these ragamuffins can be of some use,” she admitted mock-grudgingly. With an exaggerated sigh she rose to her feet and showed them a pair of empty sacks. Turning to me, she stopped me with a hand on my arm. “Julian, I know you’re leaving,” she said quietly. “There are many of us who would like you to stay,” she shook her head. From a pocket of her skirt, she drew out a small volume. “Take this, you’ll find it of value in the days to come, I’m sure.”

The Pocket Guide to Cyrodiilic Flora. I met Sigrid’s gaze. “Thanks, Sigrid. I think it will be very helpful.”

As gra-Sharob had said, I found Martin with Boldon in the meadow, stroking Paint’s neck as the gelding nuzzled his shoulder. Boldon cinched up the saddle, then gave the horse a final pat on the rump. He turned to me when I reached them.

“Hullo, Julian,” the Redguard greeted me. “I’ve got Paint ready for you, as you asked.”

“Thanks, Boldon,” I responded. “I really appreciate it. But it seems,” I looked down, toeing the shorn grass of the hayfield, “I may just have apprenticed your son to gra-Sharob.”

“Oh, you did, did you?” Boldon responded, his tone warming. Hesitantly I looked up at his smiling eyes. “I’ve been trying to think up ways to keep that boy busy,” he continued. “But what about Falisia? He’s kind of taken her on as his responsibility.”

“I sent her and Dalen to Sigrid,” I admitted. “Where I’m going, I can’t have the children following me, sir. I’ve got Irinwe and Melissada gathering wood for the campfires.”

“Good, keep them all busy,” Boldon nodded in approval. “Better than dwelling on -” his eyes darkened. “- losing their families.” I looked away from the grief in his eyes. He’s doing the same thing for himself, too. With a shake of his rounded shoulders, he turned to the priest standing quietly next to Paint’s head. “Martin, this is Julian of Anvil. Julian,” he glanced at me, “Martin.”

Matching Martin’s silent regard, I found him to be about my age. His dark brown hair framed a high-browed face, his hazel eyes an echo of the Emperor’s own. Yes, he is indeed the Emperor’s son. He has the same eyes. Already tired and weary. “Hello, Martin,” I greeted him, as Boldon walked away.

“Hello, Julian,” he responded. Gods! His voice is so like the Emperor’s. “I hear you’ve come looking for me,” he continued while I struggled for my breath. He frowned, the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes deepening. “Why?”

In an attempt to recover my composure, I turned to Paint and hung my pack from his cantle. How to tell this priest that he is the Emperor’s son? He just survived three very scary nights in a destroyed town. He waited patiently as I settled my weapons and the buckler on the saddle, securing them to the rings attached to the cantle. When the tears that threatened to emerge in my eyes and voice faded away, I turned back to Martin.

“I came looking for Martin the priest, sir,” I said quietly, looking around the hayfield. Except for Paint, whose discretion could be counted on, we were alone.

“Have you need of a priest, ma’am?” Martin was skeptical. “I’m not sure what good I would be to you.” He shrugged, his eyes turning dark and his voice bitter. “I’m not much good as a priest.”

“The Emperor sent me to find you, sir,” I said finally. Here it comes. He’s not going to believe me, Jauffre. Martin’s level brows, so much like Uriel Septim’s, rose in surprise.

“Find me?” Martin repeated. “Why? The Emperor is dead, ma’am.”

“I was with him when he -” I faltered momentarily, “died. He gave me a final task in his last few moments, sir.” Now I locked gazes with Martin. “Find his last surviving son.”

“Surviving son?” Martin stared at me. “But all three of the princes were assassinated, too -” his eyes unfocused as he caught his breath. “An illegitimate son, ma’am?” He turned from me, stepping two paces away. “I never heard anything about the Emperor having an illicit affair -”

At Paint’s head, I rubbed his long nose while Martin muttered under his breath. He turned back to me. “But the Emperor would need to be very discreet about such affairs, no?” he asked me. I nodded silently. He considered me for a few moments more. “Then why are you looking for me, ma’am? I know of no such son. How am I supposed to help you find him?”

With a level gaze, I shrugged. “I already found him, sir,” I replied. “Now I need to get him to Brother Jauffre at Weynon Priory.”

“Oh, you found him then?” Martin returned to Paint’s side, rubbing his hand along the gelding’s shoulder. “Where is he?”

I only waited, watching Martin. He met my gaze after a few moments, puzzled by my reticence. Then his eyes widened, and his face paled. “Me? I’m the illegitimate son?” He took a step back, raising his hands in a warding motion. “No, no, there’s been a mistake, ma’am. My father’s not the Emperor, he’s just a simple farmer.”

“I wouldn’t believe it, either, sir,” I said quietly, turning my gaze to Paint’s bridle. Checking the fit of the headstall as I had been taught, I continued, “But I’ve met the Emperor, and I see him in you, Martin.” Again, I rubbed the gelding’s nose, tucking his forelock beneath the browband. “You have his eyes, his nose, his - “ I swallowed the lump in my throat, “voice. There’s no mistake.”

His stunned gaze remained on me, his hands dropping to his sides. “Somehow,” he frowned at me, “I believe you, ma’am. But my place -” He looked past me, at the camp beyond.

“Come with me to Weynon Priory, sir,” I said. “Brother Jauffre can explain things better than I.” I could see the conflict between the obligation to stay and help his fellow refugees here at ruined Kvatch, the people he had known for most of his life, and my request to accompany me to Weynon Priory where his destiny waited.

“Well,” Martin’s tone took on a quiet determination. “You destroyed the Oblivion Gate. You helped the guard drive the daedra back. You helped us.” His hazel eyes returned to mine. “You didn’t come here to do all this, and yet you did, ma’am. I’ll come with you, and hear what this Brother Jauffre has to say.”

Posted by: Olen Apr 18 2010, 08:52 PM

You handled Martin well there, his slowness to realise what was being said made the whole thing more believeable. It also goes some way to show the sort of character he'll become (which I'm most interested to see given how full a character Julian is).

I'm looking forward to see how she deals with the fame, I don't think we've seen the end of that...

Nice piece.

Posted by: mALX Apr 18 2010, 09:05 PM

ARGH! Bite your tongue!!!!! Actually, my XBox 360 is working well, even the new Oblivion game I started is playing (so far) on it - it was just that one game that glitched for some reason. - now I can't swear it wasn't the disk itself because we have two 360 disks, one is my sons - and since he never plays it anymore...I may have inadvertently switched disks with him. (If he ever decides to play again I am sure he knows where to find it, but I have twice pulled it from a pile of vids he was selling to the used vid store - and have been thanking my stars that I did with this happening to my game, lol).

Your after battle scenes are always so well done! They convey the exhaustion and numbness so well !! Julian's way with children is amazing, and the rapore with Martin - (insert the A word here) !!!

Posted by: SubRosa Apr 18 2010, 09:16 PM

The big Orsimer was working on a mail cuirass.
Seeing the proper term for mail armor does my anal British Boat good.

It seems that since it would indeed kill Julian to bask in the recognition of her deeds (as I fully expected it would, you have done a excellent job at portraying her) gra-Shelob Sharob has taken it upon herself to make sure that she receives it, with the names she has placed on Julian's gear. I reminds me of when Mace Windu said to Anakin: "Hand me my lightstaber, its the one that says bad-**** mother***"

Once again, I love the way you wrote Julian's explanation of who Martin is, the way she tells him without telling him. I also found her having to stall for time in order to get her voice back when she thinks about Uriel. It is an excellent way of showing us that her grief for the Emperor is still fresh and clear in her mind.



nits:
In the game Uriel and Martin have blue eyes (which is eyeDefault in the editor). I do not know if you are making them hazel by design, or if you just goofed, so thought I should point it out.

Posted by: minque Apr 18 2010, 11:05 PM

Ahhh nice conversation with Martin! I so like when writers enhance the conversations and make them more lively! Very good work!

Posted by: Destri Melarg Apr 19 2010, 01:18 AM

Or when he held Palpatine at bay and said:



I do love the way that you drew out the reveal of Martin’s identity. Even while reading it I had the image of Julian bonking him over the head with the Kvatch Wolf to help increase his speed on the uptake. On to Weynon Priory!

Posted by: haute ecole rider Apr 21 2010, 02:13 AM

@Olen: Thanks for the comment about how full a character Julian is already. She may not be full-figured but she has layers to her character that I've only begun to dig into. I do work on Martin's character a little more - the game leaves so much to be desired. I had fun writing this little scene once I got past the lame in-game dialog. I hope you like how I continue developing this unknown son of Uriel's.

@mALX: The rapport with Martin came as a surprise, for both Julian and me. It was not the same with the other characters I played later. Guess the writer in me was too immersed in the role-playing to just take things at face value. You may recall that there are more to come!

@SubRosa: How else are the people of Kvatch going to recognize their gratitude for her aid at a dark time than to announce to the whole world that the bearer of this sword (and shield) is the HERO OF KVATCH! And yes, I knew in game both Uriel and Martin have blue eyes, but I gave them hazel eyes to make them a little different. Thanks for that little detail.

@minque: I'm glad you enjoyed the conversation between Julian and Martin! There'll be more to come! I'm also delighted to see you still reading my story!

@Destri: Being a huge fan of the original Star Wars trilogy, I'm not as familiar with the prequels, so I'll take your word for it. Your image of Julian bonking Martin on the head with her new Kvatch Wolf (which she is very proud to carry) made me spew! And yes, on to Weynon! But we'll take a little while getting there, thank you very much.

On the road, Julian and Martin get to know each other a little better, but the conversation doesn't get interesting until they stop for the night in Skingrad.

*****************
Chapter 5.1 Musings in Skingrad

It was very late when we reached Skingrad. Tilmo, the ostler at the Grateful Pass Stables, was happy to take Paint in hand for the night. Martin wanted to see the Chapel of Julianos, so we trudged our way through the cobblestoned streets toward the church. The only souls we encountered were the City Watch, taciturn men clad in gleaming mail covered by quilted dark red surcoats. They did not speak to us, but I was aware of their wary eyes following us from beneath steel helms.

The caution on their part was easy to understand. After all, how do we appear to them? A bone-weary, haggard priest in sooty, tattered robes, and a gimpy old Redguard in light armor carrying two swords and a bow? Are we a threat? Will we cause a disturbance? Or are we merely travelers seeking shelter after a rough day on the road? Careful to avoid returning their gazes too directly, I kept my hands away from my weapons.

The chapel was quiet, dark in the corners, with soft lantern light throwing long flickering shadows away from the central altar. The stained glass windows typical of such places showed few hints of color, backlit only by the overcast night. Setting my gear on the floor beside one of the pews, I walked the perimeter of the chapel, deep in study of the designs. The grey-bearded sage in his tall pane returned my gaze from stained glass eyes when I stopped before him. Julianos, God of Wisdom and Logic, says: Know the truth. Observe the law. When in doubt, seek wisdom from the wise. The words of chapel-school wound through the years since my childhood.

“You were named for Julianos,” Mother said, stroking my hair back from my heated face, “before you were even born. I just knew you would always seek knowledge and truth.”

“But Julian is a boy’s name!” I exclaimed, tears still hot on my cheeks. A couple of the pretty girls in town had made fun of my name behind the priest’s back. “I’m no boy!”

“Julianos doesn’t care if you’re a boy or a girl,” Mother answered, her voice calm as always. “He only cares that you live by his code.”

Have I lived up to his code? I wondered, returning to the present. I’ve served Akatosh, not Julianos.

“You were in the Legion?” Martin asked from behind me. Realizing I had spoken my thoughts out loud, I turned away from the window to meet his shadowed gaze. With a nod, I limped to the pew and sat down, easing the ache in my right knee. “And you were named for Julianos?” he continued, taking the pew in front of me and turning sideways so he could look at me over its back.

“My mother told me I would seek knowledge and truth,” I looked down at my clasped hands resting on my thighs. “But all I know is how to fight, how to kill, sir.” At the slight tremor in my voice, I took a breath to steady it. “She wanted me to follow in her footsteps, become an alchemist. But I wanted to be a fighter. Now I wonder if I took the wrong path.”

“Who’s to say you did?” Martin responded softly. “If you didn’t know how to fight, how to kill, would you have been able to close that Gate?” He shook his head when I kept my silence. “I grew up the son of a farmer,” he remarked, looking away from me. “But I found it dull, quite boring. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life working the land. So I joined the Mages Guild.”

The memory of how he had utilized potent frost-flares to help me bring down a bandit we had encountered at dusk still fresh in my mind, I considered his words. “Is that where you learned how to cast those spells, sir?” I asked.

“Yes,” he answered, his voice becoming dry. “I thought it would give me more adventure and power. Instead, I found it quite tedious - studying, studying, practicing, practicing, then studying some more, and so on. It seemed to take too long to advance. I never made it beyond apprentice level.”

“What happened, then, sir?” Martin didn’t meet my gaze. “If I may ask, sir,” I added hastily.

“You may ask,” Martin looked at me, a faint humor in his eyes. “Like-minded friends and I,” he continued after a moment, “left the Guild to explore other ways of gaining power. We were reckless, and I made some - mistakes. People died. My friends died.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” I murmured when he paused, averting his eyes again. “It’s hard, losing friends.”

Still not meeting my gaze, Martin nodded, sighing. “It all seems so hubristic, now,” he remarked. I frowned at the unfamiliar word.

“Hubristic, sir?” I repeated.

“Hubristic,” Martin confirmed. “It means excessive pride or defiance of the gods, to the point of being one’s own nemesis.”

“Hubristic,” I muttered to myself. Have I ever been hubristic? I’ve been over-confident at times. But have I ever defied Akatosh, or even Julianos?

“You are the last person I would consider to be hubristic,” Martin’s voice warmed with good humor. With a silent chuckle, I shook my head.

“You didn’t know me in my younger days, sir,” I remarked. “In hindsight, I’m sure I caused my mother no end of grief growing up.”

“And you’ve learned from your mistakes, I’m certain,” Martin responded, smiling at me. “Now you’re older, experienced, and you seem to know better.”

“Huh,” I felt my mouth lift on the right side. “There are days when I doubt that I do, sir.” Like when I went into that Gate.

“We all do, Julian, we all do,” Martin agreed. His smile faded. “When we met that Legion rider, what was his name -?”

“Hugh Berennus,” I answered, thinking back. We had encountered him near Mortal Camp. He had remembered me from a few days before, and we had exchanged news.

“Hugh Berennus,” Martin repeated. “Why didn’t you tell him you were the one that closed the Oblivion Gate?”

Leaning back in the pew, I stretched my spine. “Why should I, sir?” I said after a moment. “It doesn’t matter who closed the Gate, only that it was closed.” He frowned at me. “It doesn’t apply to you, sir,” I continued, trying to find the words to explain. “But for most soldiers, there is something called ‘need-to-know.’ We only need to know that something needs to be done, not necessarily why or who. If my century is assigned to perform a task, we do it, we don’t ask ‘why is it necessary,’ or, ‘why us? Why not the other century?’”

“When I order you to jump,” Carius, my first pilus, growled at us, pacing along the first rank, “you don’t say ‘Yes, sir!’”

“No sir!” Lariat piped up from somewhere behind me. “We ask ‘How high, sir!’”

“Don’t waste my frickin’ time with that bull talk!” Carius roared back. “You just frickin’ jump!” Now he glared at each of us in turn. I managed to keep my spine straight under that fierce stare. “Recruits! Jump!”

We jumped.

“Without question?” Martin asked, bringing me back to the present. “What if it is an immoral order? What if it is treacherous to the Emperor, or Akatosh himself?”

“It is the officer’s job to question such orders, sir,” I answered. “He or she must do so respectfully, and very carefully. The officers have sight of the greater picture, not the soldiers in the ranks themselves.” My eyes studied my hands, avoiding Martin’s gaze. “Soldiers have to kill, and sometimes the civilians suffer. They may be caught between two opposing forces, or they may be harboring the enemy against their will, or their leaders may refuse to cooperate with us. Most people think we don’t care about the innocent, but the truth is, we do.” With a deep breath, I thought about the soldiers I had served with through the years. “Most of us, anyway,” I continued. “If we were to challenge every order, not only would wars be lost, but more people would die in the ensuing confusion.”

“It’s hard to govern by committee, I suppose,” Martin mused. “I suppose the same is true for the Legion.”

“The ranks are asked to do the dirty job in war, sir,” I continued. “All we can do is trust that our officers and leaders are working toward a higher goal.” I shrugged. “It is sometimes the only way we can survive as a unit.”

Martin rose to his feet and walked away, hands clasped behind his back, head bowed in thought. “And since you serve the Emperor,” he mused, so quietly I could barely hear him, “you must always obey his order, correct?”

My eyes followed him, and I wondered where he was taking the conversation. “Yes, sir.” Now Martin turned halfway towards me, his gaze sidelong at me.

“And the Emperor ordered you to find me?”

With a blink, I considered his words. “It was more a request of a man facing his death, sir,” I said finally. “But I accepted it as an order.”

“Why?”

Why, indeed? “Old habits, I suppose,” I answered. “That, and he was courteous and respectful to me, when I was so wretched.”

“Wretched?” Martin repeated. “You?”

“Just -” I did a quick count, eight already? “eight days ago, I was in a cell in the Imperial Prison. I had been in a brawl, though about what I don’t remember. I had been drunk, and off skooma just a little too long -” I trailed off, avoiding Martin’s gaze. He returned to the pew and sat down again, facing me.

“Go on, Julian,” he prompted quietly. “You were in the Prison for drunk and disorderly.”

In the dim lighting of the chapel, I saw again Uriel Septim’s visage in front of me. With a shiver I blinked away the memory. In almost a whisper, I told Martin of how the Emperor had come into my cell on the last night of his life. The tears came when I told him of Uriel’s courage and acceptance of his fate, how he had placed the Amulet in my care, just before his death at the hands of an assassin.

Martin stared at me. “Uriel gave you the Amulet of Kings?” he muttered, incredulous. I nodded.

“I realize now how important it is,” I responded. “But at the time, all I could see was how he grieved for the death of his sons, how prepared he was for his own death -” again my voice failed me. After a deep breath, I recovered my composure enough to continue. “I did not have the heart to refuse him.”

Posted by: SubRosa Apr 21 2010, 04:04 AM

You set the scene with a strong description of the chapel. The shadows in the corners, the soft light, the darkened windows, etc... all build a powerful foundation for what follows.

I have always thought it odd though, that Akatosh seems to be the patron of the Imperial Legion (it is his dragon all over them), not Talos, who is supposedly the war god. That is not a nit on your storytelling, it is just an observation of the Bethesda's setting.

“And you’ve learned from your mistakes, I’m certain,” Martin responded, smiling at me. “Now you’re older, experienced, and you seem to know better.”
This really catches my eye, as it sums up so much of the characters of both Martin and Julian. You have done an excellent job of drawing strong parallels between the two. In many ways they are mirror images. Both have seen hard times, fallen from grace due to their own actions, and are fighting for redemption. Even more compelling is their experiences have made them exactly the right people to face the crisis besetting Tamriel. As if an unseen hand has been shaping them for their entire lives. Best of all, it is all done very subtly, without shoving the hand of fate down the reader's throats.

Posted by: mALX Apr 21 2010, 05:34 AM

The last paragraphs are so powerful! Julian's vulnerability was so well done when she was being honest and frank about her own situation to Martin. Really great write!!!

Posted by: Acadian Apr 22 2010, 03:15 AM

Caught up again. Wonderful stuff. I'm covering several chapters here so let me hit some of the things I really liked:

- The way you portrayed Savlian Matius as he gave his gear to Julian.
- That Julian carries the trappings of the 'Hero of Kvatch'. Now we do not have to wonder how it is people know who closed that gate!
- As said above, nice interaction with Martin.

Posted by: haute ecole rider Apr 23 2010, 04:10 AM

Hey all, I'm in St. Louis this weekend visiting my sister. I've got a little time to post the next chapter before turning in for the night, but I might not post again until I get back home.

@SubRosa: I never thought too much about Akatosh vs. Talos - the Imperial Legion predates Talos Stormcrown, so it makes sense to me that they would have always served Akatosh. Like military organizations everywhere through time, they would find it hard to change tradition. I'm glad that you see Julian and Martin have much in common, though in some ways Martin is more advanced than Julian (especially in the use of magicka, as we have already seen).

@mALX: Martin somehow brings it out of Julian - she feels she can confide in him. Is it because he is a priest? Or because he shared some of his past with her? Who knows? I doubt Julian understands it herself.

@Acadian: I'm glad you are still reading Julian's fiction. No, I don't subscribe to the telepathic guards myself. All they have to do is look at her sword and Kvatch Wolf and white hair and realize this is the Redguard of the rumors! Hey, you're the - Shh, be quiet!

Julian learns a new magic trick that will become very valuable in the future.

*********
Chapter 5.2 Convalescence
A gentle touch on my arm rescued me from a maelstrom of uneasy emotion of loss, of fear. I lifted my head, blinking at the bright light from the altar. A small-boned Breton woman stepped back as I straightened up, her hand dropping from my shoulder. Her gaze held concern and wariness. Rubbing at my eyes until I saw stars, I looked around. The stained glass windows glowed with daylight. Beyond the Breton, Martin watched me patiently, the dark circles under his eyes still present.

“It’s just past dawn, Julian,” he said softly. “We should eat breakfast and go, if you’re ready.”

Taking a deep breath, I nodded. After the day yesterday, I felt stronger, refreshed. “We spent the night here?” I exclaimed softly.

“You fell asleep,” Martin responded. “And I spent the night in meditation.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” I apologized to the Breton. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep here.”

“If you found some measure of peace here,” the woman responded, her light voice nearly musical, “then that is all that matters.” She frowned at me, and leaned forward to take my chin in a surprisingly strong but gentle grip. Turning my face this way and that, she traced the parallel slashes on my right cheek, now healed into raw scars.

“That’s from no wolf or rat,” she said quietly.

“Scamp,” I muttered, tilting my head back out of her fingers and turning my head away.

“I’m Marie Palielle,” the Breton woman volunteered, stepping back to let me out of the pew. “I’m the healer here. If you ever get injured in these parts, don’t hesitate to see me.”

I remembered something one of the Legion riders had said to me. “I’d like to learn how to cast a convalescence spell,” I met her gaze uncertainly.

“See Tumindil,” she pointed out the tall Altmer near the altar. “He’s a little snobbish, but a good mer. If you ask, I’m sure he’ll teach you a spell, for a price.”

Martin nodded when I glanced askance at him. He remained next to my gear, still stacked at the end of the pew. The Altmer lifted his head as I approached the altar uncertainly.

“Yes, what can I do for you, stranger?” he asked, his high brows arching higher at my patched leather cuirass and my scarred face.

“I’d like to learn a convalescence spell, sir,” I murmured hesitantly.

“Do you know how to cast a healing spell on yourself, then?” When I nodded, he gestured impatiently. “Well then, show me.”

Momentarily off balance, I wavered. Thoughts of pain and blood crowded my mind, white energy surged down my arm, and I raised my fist and opened my hand to let it cascade around me.

“As I thought,” Tumindil mused to himself. “You’re a novice. One must be an apprentice in restoration magic to be able to cast a convalescence spell. Hmm, can you do it again?”

His tone irritated me, and I took a deep breath to calm myself before repeating the spell. “How do I become an apprentice?” I asked him.

“Ah, you can join the Mages Guild,” Tumindil responded. “But if that is not your style, then simply practice this small spell of yours and gain experience. Then you will be able to cast a convalescence spell on your friends. It will cost more of your magicka.” He regarded me a moment longer, then smiled. “Your desire to heal others is admirable. And I believe you are close to becoming an apprentice of restoration. I will teach you the cheapest convalescence spell.” He named a price that made me blink.

Counting out the drakes, I looked up at him. “If I’m not ready to cast this spell, how can you teach me?”

“Oh, knowledge and ability are often two separate things,” Tumindil’s smile grew wider. “I can teach you how, so when you can, you will be able to do so.”

Dubiously, I handed over the drakes. He drew me off to one side, near Mara’s window. “Tell me what you do to heal yourself,” he said. Slowly, I shook my head.

“I don’t think about it,” I said. “It’s something that comes when I’m in pain, or bleeding.”

“What do you feel then, when you cast it?” Tumindil asked, nodding encouragement.

“I’m not sure how to put it into words,” I faltered, taking a deep breath. “It’s a power that comes from down my arm here,” I touched my breastbone with my knuckles, “and builds up in here,” I held up my fist, “and escapes around me when I open my hand like so.”

Tumindil was nodding vigorously. “You’re well on your way to understanding,” he murmured. I stared at him. Was that excitement in his voice? “Have you ever tried, well, holding that power in?” He clenched his fist in demonstration. I shrugged.

“Is it supposed to hurt when I hold it?” I asked him.

“That is how you make a stronger spell,” he confirmed. “Hold it in as long as you can. Of course, it will build up, and take more of your magicka, so you will take longer to recover.” Again that impatient gesture. “Try your spell again, but hold it in as long as you can.”

I obeyed, keeping my fist clenched above my head. The energy I could feel built up in my hand, fighting to open it against my will. My forearm and wrist ached, then a sharp, silver pain shot down my arm into my shoulder. I gasped, my fingers flying open, and the magic surged up then cascaded around me. The pain disappeared almost immediately, but I was left breathless and dizzy. Tumindil caught my shoulders as I staggered, steadying me easily.

“Did that hurt?” he asked. Blinking away the tears, I nodded. “Now you understand more,” he continued. “Don’t hold it in so long that it hurts like it did just now. Let it go before that pain comes.” His gaze sharpened on me. “Does that make sense, Redguard?”

I nodded. It did make sense! The comprehension must have been clear on my face, for Tumindil smiled in satisfaction. “So how is a convalescence spell different from a healing spell?” I asked him.

“Ah, I’m glad you asked that!” he exclaimed. “You are quite an apt pupil, indeed.” He held up his long-fingered hand and started ticking off his fingers as he continued. “A spell is made of three components, first the effect,” he tapped the first finger, “in this case restore health. Secondly,” he indicated the second finger, “the means of transmission - self,” he tapped his own chest, “touch,” he reached out and laid his palm gently against my shoulder, “or target,” he flung his hand out toward Martin, still waiting beside my pack.

“And the third thing,” he continued, touching the next finger, “is strength or duration of the effect. That is most dependent on your amount of magicka and the strength of your willpower. As you practice, this third effect will increase.” Tumindil touched my shoulder again, murmuring softly. White light passed from his fingers into my shoulder, and I felt my shakiness disappear. He nodded at Martin again. “Try casting this energy of yours at your friend.”

Regarding Martin dubiously, I imagined him injured, hurt and bleeding. For some reason, the memory of the Emperor lying dead came into my mind. The white energy surged down my arm rapidly, and I barely kept the presence of mind to cast that energy toward Martin instead of letting it cascade around me. The magic, however, fizzled as soon as it left my fingers.

“You see,” Tumindil laid a hand on my shoulder as I stared at my fingertips. “You do not yet have the will to throw your magic. But it will come, I can see that.” He shook me gently, drawing my attention back to him. “What did you think of when you made that attempt just now?”

“I imagined Martin hurt,” I said, my voice unsteady. “Then I remembered a - a friend who was killed recently,” my voice broke. Tumindil squeezed my shoulder in sympathy.

“You are a Protector,” he leaned down to me. “You want to keep harm from your friends, and from those who are innocent, no?” After considering his words for a moment, I nodded. “Ah, yes, and you can not bear to see them hurt, yes?” Surprised at the Altmer’s assessment of my own heart, I nodded again. “That alone bodes well for your ability. There,” he tapped my shoulder for emphasis, “lies your secret, your power. The desire to protect others from harm, and to heal them when they are injured, drives your restoration spells. Don’t deny that desire.”

I looked down at my hands, thinking over his words. That was worth the price. I met Tumindil’s gaze. “Thank you very much, sir. I will not forget.”

The Altmer’s smile belied the arrogance Palielle suggested he possessed. “It is not every day I get such an apt pupil. It has been my pleasure.”

Martin lifted an eyebrow in askance at me as I returned to my gear. “I learned something,” I answered the unspoken question. “Now I must practice to use it.”

Posted by: mALX Apr 23 2010, 04:22 AM

This was one of my favorite chapters before, and it still is. I love where Tumindil is teaching Julian about healing - so well done!

Posted by: Olen Apr 23 2010, 01:01 PM

Excellently done. A description of magic with more depth than just 'it's magic'. And you show more of Julian, she's developing into a brilliant character, a pure hero but with sufficent realism and weaknesses to be quite believable. It's really nice to read a happy (or at least hopeful) story which holds together so well.

This really is a treat

Posted by: SubRosa Apr 23 2010, 03:58 PM

“If I’m not ready to cast this spell, how can you teach me?”
I have always wondered about this myself, you did an excellent job of putting a reasonable explanation on this bit of game mechanics. Likewise for the rest of the description of magic. You fill in the very large blanks left by the game in this regard.

Once again I liked your portrayal of Tumindil. At first he comes across as the typical arrogant Altmer. But as we see more of him, we find that he is quite the opposite. When he calls Julian an apt pupil though, it makes me think of the Stephen King short story by the same name.

Posted by: Winter Wolf Apr 24 2010, 01:16 AM

The way you build up your scene and characters is so real it is frightening. Wow.

I loved the second last chapter with the crowding shadows in the chapel and the dialogue that followed. And this one with the magic lesson. Simply great!!

Safe trip back home Haute.

Posted by: minque Apr 25 2010, 11:34 PM

This is great...two wonderful updates! Oh hautie, rest assure I read your story! haven't the chance of responding as quickly as you update, but I'll do my very best.

You are a master of conversations...I appreciate that alot...you make the charachters so alive...

Posted by: haute ecole rider Apr 26 2010, 02:41 AM

Hello all, back after a fun weekend in St. Louis:

@mALX: So that was one of your favorite chapters? I recall struggling with that one, until Tumindil got fed up and took over. Once I let him have control, it came easily.

@Olen: I'm glad you find this still interesting. I've thought long and hard about magic, restoration/healing, and the ethics of such things in the context of the TES universe. I'm glad that my solutions to my dilemmas sit well with you.

@SubRosa: Tumindil is one of those characters that seem a little thin at first, but in typical Altmer fashion he became impatient with me and just took over my keyboard. I'm glad he did. He turned out quite good after all.

@Wolf: I remember how much you and Destri liked my description of the chapel at night the first time around. I'm glad it still touches you the second time around. And yes, I had a safe trip back home today, thanks.

@minque: I love writing conversations! I think it's a great way to get a feel for characters. I think you're a master at character development yourself, after having read your own Morrowind fiction (Selena). To get these comments from you is high praise, indeed. And don't feel that you must comment after every post. I know you have a busy life, and I trust that my story will wait for you to come!

Julian gets to introduce her new friend Martin to a (relatively) old friend, and enjoy a simple but hearty meal (no polenta this time!) at the same time.

***************
Chapter 5.3 Lunch and Stories

The walk through the West Weald east of Skingrad was quiet. The imps I had encountered on my way to Kvatch still lay beside the road outside Greenmead Cave. It reminded me of something that had been bothering me.

“There’s this flare spell,” I said, “but my problem with it is that it only comes when I’m angry, sir.”

“Well, of course, anger and rage are the driving forces for destruction spells,” Martin explained. “But we must always keep it focused, or the spell will not be effective.”

“In other words, don’t lose my temper, sir?” I asked. He nodded in response. Thinking about it for a few moments, I glanced at him. “I never could cast a destruction spell before, sir,” I remarked. “That’s pretty new, only since I left the Prison. I’m not sure why I can do this now.”

We walked along in silence, Martin’s eyes unfocused. He shook himself and returned my gaze briefly. “Julian, are you as strong now as you were when you served in the Legion?”

“No, sir,” I answered. “These wounds, and the past four years, took away a lot of my strength, and my skills.”

“Would it be fair to say that when you’re in combat now, you’re scared more than you were before?”

Combat was pretty scary then. “Yes, sir, I guess so,” I said slowly. “There’s been a couple of times I’ve been glad these greaves are dark brown -”

Martin shot me a startled glance, then laughed shortly. For a second, his cares and tension melted away, and I smiled at his humor. Then he grew sober again, though his hazel eyes still sparkled. “There’s a pretty fine line between fear and anger,” he said. “Likely you’re scared, then you get angry that you’re so scared -” Again he glanced at me.

“I guess I get pissed a lot quicker than I used to, sir,” I commented. “And that’s why I can cast flares all of a sudden?”

“Well, it doesn’t come spontaneously,” Martin responded thoughtfully. “Like your healing spell, it’s something that most people learn as very young children. You may not remember learning it, but you always knew how to cast it.” He shrugged. ”But it would explain why it’s come back to you now.”

********************

Gathering clouds chased the high sun by the time we reached the Red Ring Road. Paint began walking slower as we crossed the bridge across the draw. He returned my gaze steadily, but I thought he looked tired.

“We have been walking a long way,” Martin commented, looking at Paint as well. “He will keep going as long as we do, but he needs a rest soon.” He sighed. “As a matter of fact, so do I.”

Feeling the growing dampness in the balmy air, I surveyed our surroundings. “There’s Weye,” I pointed out the hamlet to Martin. “I know someone there.”

“If you are sure we wouldn’t impose on his hospitality,” Martin remarked. “I would be glad of a short rest, and I think Paint would, too.”

As I hoped, Merowald was in his garden, tending the beautiful blooms. He heard Paint’s hoofbeats on the cobblestones and straightened up to look in our direction. Recognizing the gelding and I, he moved to the little paddock and opened the gate for Paint. “‘ail, good Julian!” he greeted me cheerfully, working to draw water for the horse. “Bring your ‘orse over here, and sit down there,” he pointed at the garden bench near his front door. “Take a load off, and tell me what news ye ‘ave, friends,” his friendly gaze included Martin.

The Imperial seemed a little relieved by Merowald’s hearty welcome. As we sat down side by side on the bench, Merowald set the full bucket down in front of Paint.

“Well, we have walked from Skingrad,” I began, when the aged Breton returned to the garden.

“Ye must be parched after walking all morning!” Merowald exclaimed. “Let me fetch ye some food and water. The road is dusty today.” He held up a finger. “Just a moment.”

Leaning back with a sigh next to Martin, I watched the cloud shadows cover the land. The warmth of the sun disappeared, replaced by the chill of impending rain. “It’s nearly fall,” Martin commented. “We are turning toward winter. The days are getting shorter and colder.”

Merowald returned with a tray full of bread, cheese, and smoked mutton. He handed us tumblers full of water, and set the tray on the bench between Martin and I. Merowald pulled up a stool. “Now, good friend,” he said to me, sitting down, “the last time I saw ye, ye were alone and poor. Now it seems ye ‘ave moved up in the world,” he gestured toward the hilt of my steel longsword at my left side. “With a new friend,” he nodded at Martin. He met the Imperial’s gaze as Martin assembled a sandwich of mutton, cheese and the wonderful bread.

“This is delicious, Merowald,” I commented, taking a bite out of my own construction. “Thanks for this.” Seeing the curiosity in the Breton’s eyes, I nodded at my companion. “This is Brother Martin. He is a priest of Akatosh. Martin, this is Aelwin Merowald, retired fisherman.”

“My pleasure,” Martin offered around a mouthful of his sandwich. “This is good food, sir. Thank you for your hospitality.”

“Did Julian ever tell ye ‘ow we met?” Merowald asked. Martin shook his head. While I squirmed, Merowald told an overly flattering tale of our encounter, his offer to care for Paint, and my payment of twelve Tamriel Barracudas. “A stranger, on the road to somewhere, not in great ‘ealth ‘erself, took on the burden of ‘elping me, a poor, crippled old fisherman! And all I ‘ad to give ‘er was a little ring -” his voice trailed off as his eye fell on my right hand, where the brass pearl ring encircled my little finger.

“All you gave me?” I countered, swallowing the grub first. “You gave me an enchanted ring, and more importantly, your friendship, the value of which you are proving right now.”

Merowald shrugged. “Aye, it’s the least I can do,” he remarked bashfully. His eyes sharpened on us. “But now, dear Julian, tell me ‘ow ye came to return in just a few days with fine gear, and a fine friend,” he nodded at Martin.

“I traveled to Kvatch -” I began, and that was as far as I got.

“Ye were at Kvatch?” Merowald interrupted, interested. “Is it true? The ‘ole city is destroyed?”

“Yes, pretty much,” I answered grimly. “An Oblivion Gate opened in front of the city, and daedra invaded the place. I’m told they had a siege engine that came right over the walls and killed most of the people there. The Count was killed in the Castle, the Guard decimated, and very few civilians survived.” A glance at Martin showed him sitting quietly, downcast eyes on the half-eaten sandwich in his hands. “Martin managed to get some of the civilians into the chapel. I guess Akatosh was in that chapel that night, for the daedra could not gain entrance, though only two of the Guard were left to hold the place.”

I thought again of the guardsmen, of Matius. “Savlian Matius, one of the Guard, managed to get other survivors out of the city. He had the remaining guardsmen set up a barricade at the top of the road in front of the Gate to keep back the daedra. Their bravery saved the survivors.”

Merowald turned to Martin. “I am sorry, good sir,” he spoke quietly. “Ye must ‘ave lost many good friends on that terrible night.”

“So I did, good friend,” Martin responded, his calm tone belying the grief I knew he still felt. “And yes, Savlian was very brave to hold the road against the daedra. Tierra and Berich Inian were the two guardsmen in the chapel with us, they too gave much courage to hold out until Savlian and Julian could get to us.”

“Ah,” Merowald’s voice took on a note of satisfaction as he regarded me. Ducking my head, I focused on my sandwich. “I knew Julian ‘ad more good deeds in ‘er. So tell me, Brother Martin, ‘ow did good, brave Savlian and Julian rescue ye?”

Martin glanced wryly at me. “She closed that Oblivion Gate.”

“By ‘erself?” Merowald exclaimed, astonishment clear in his voice. “And that is why,” he pointed at the scabbard of my steel sword, “she is named ‘ero of Kvatch?”

“Aye, that is why she is the Hero of Kvatch,” Martin’s tone was firm, though a little amused. “One thing I’ve noticed, traveling with Julian, is that she is quick to speak of bravery and courage in others, but says next to nothing of her own.”

“Why, I never -” Merowald declared, regarding me more intently. “I knew Julian ‘ad a good ‘eart, but to go into Oblivion alone, why, that is a true ‘ero!” He smiled at my growing discomfort. “Ah, my good friend,” he leaned forward to grasp my right shoulder in his still-strong hand, “I will always remember ye as the stranger who ‘elped me find a comfortable retirement. Ye are always welcome ‘ere, friend.”

Paint wandered over to the stone wall separating the garden from the paddock, clearly refreshed. Martin licked the last of his sandwich off of his fingers, finishing the water and sitting back with a replete sigh.

“More water, or food, per’aps?” Merowald reached for the empty tray.

“No, thanks,” Martin shook his head. When Merowald glanced at me, I, too, shook my head.

“We have far to go before we are done, and the day is growing late.”

“Very well,” Merowald rose, taking the tray under one arm. “I’m glad ye took the time, then, to visit an old man and tell ‘im stories.”

“It seems you told us a good story, yourself,” Martin responded, rising to his feet and bowing slightly to the shorter Breton. I stood too, but found myself being hugged by the old man.

“Do come by again, Julian, Brother Martin,” he said to us. He clasped my upper arm in his free hand. “When ye are a great and famous ‘ero, do not forget the old fisherman of Weye!”

“I’ll never be great, or famous,” I responded. “But I will never forget you, Merowald.”

Posted by: SubRosa Apr 26 2010, 04:33 AM

I always like seeing Aelwin. You make him a much more lively and engaging character than I ever did. Seeing him make Julian squirm was simply delightful.

“One thing I’ve noticed, traveling with Julian, is that she is quick to speak of bravery and courage in others, but says next to nothing of her own.”
Quoted for truth here. Julian is obviously one of those people who understands that some things speak most eloquently for themselves. Not to mention she is fighting four years of extremely low self-esteem...

“I’ll never be great, or famous,” I responded. “But I will never forget you, Merowald.”
Methinks that Julian will be wrong on one of these counts...

Posted by: Olen Apr 26 2010, 12:01 PM

It's nice to see a return to Aelwin rather than him simply being a one off side quest, it makes the world seem alive and changing which can be hard to achieve. The dynamic developing between Martin and Julin is good too, their characters are developing and coming together well off their interactions.

Good section

Posted by: mALX Apr 26 2010, 01:53 PM

This chapter gave Martin some insight into Julian's character - loved it then and now!!!!

Posted by: Acadian Apr 27 2010, 04:36 PM

Two very nice chapters! I very much enjoyed the Skingrad Chapel, learning of some more healing magic. And, of course I am pleased to see Julian revisit Weye and introduce Martin to her old fisher-friend. Very nice to curl up, settle down and read this!

Posted by: haute ecole rider Apr 27 2010, 07:27 PM

@SubRosa: I enjoyed watching Aelwin make Julian squirm, too. And yes, actions do speak louder than words. Julian will never forget Aelwin is her friend. So I guess she either will be great, or famous . . .

@Olen: Thanks for the comments. It's good to know that revisiting some of these NPC's after finishing a side quest is welcomed by readers. When I'm role-playing, I always stop by and visit some of the NPC's that I've helped in the past, and Aelwin is one of the favorites. It's also good to know that the growing friendship between Martin and Julian is appreciated as well.

@mALX: I used this chapter as a way for Martin to learn more about Julian. Getting her to talk more about herself is sometimes like pulling teeth. Aelwin's so good at making her squirm!

@Acadian: So very glad to see that you are still enjoying Julian's story.

@all: Now we finally reach Weynon Priory, and the end of the road turns out to be further away than our friends originally thought . . .

******************
Chapter 5.4 Thievery and Death

The rain started as we passed Fort Nikel, picking up the Black Road toward Chorrol. We trudged on into the highlands, not speaking much to each other. At first, it was just a light drizzle, but as we passed Fort Ash, it became a downpour. The entire afternoon was grey, and our mood turned to match it. After two days of walking, I was looking forward to the simple, warm hospitality of the Priory. Perhaps Martin will find some peace at last. He still had dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep, and I could only guess at the nightmares that haunted him.

Thoroughly drenched, we reached the bend in the road that led to Weynon Priory. The priory itself was a dark shadow in the rain, the chapel on its hilltop an even fainter shadow. “There it is, Martin,” I said, pointing at the barely visible structures ahead. “A warm fire, good food -” my voice trailed off when the clash of steel on metal, the shouts of men in combat, reached us. Dropping Paint’s rein, I drew my longsword, and shook my shield into my left hand. Beside me, Martin drew his dagger. We started toward the Priory, but did not get far before a running figure appeared out of the downpour.

It was Eronor. “Weynon Priory is under attack!” he gasped when he saw me. “They’re killing everyone!”

Through the rain, I could see a robed figure battling a familiar hulking form. I caught my breath at the sight of the daedric armor. Assassins!

“Stay with Paint!” I shouted, as much at Martin as at Eronor. Without looking to see if they obeyed, I hobbled toward the priory as fast as my bum knee would let me. Two red-armored figures loomed at me, both with maces raised high. With a skip to my left, I stabbed the sword beneath the lower edge of the daedric cuirass of the nearer assassin. Not stopping my forward movement, I recovered the blade and turned the Kvatch Wolf toward the second assassin. The coldness of a frost-flare shot past me and impacted the shoulder of the assailant. He staggered, and I shoved him off balance with the shield. As I slipped to the right and behind him, I backhanded the blade across the back of his knees.

Turning back to the first assassin, I found him already dead, frost across his face and the top part of his cuirass already melting away in the rain. Martin ignored the glare I shot him, before I spun away and plunged my sword into the exposed neck of the second assailant.

“Son of a farmer, huh?” I panted at Martin as we continued toward the priory and the persistent sounds of combat. In the porte-cochere, Brother Piner deflected the assaults of two more assassins. Not bad for a monk, I thought silently as Piner wove his slim katana in an intricate web of slashes and parries that kept the two assassins at bay. One of them fell as I approached the other. Another frost-flare drew him away from Piner and towards me. My steel sword sparked as I slashed at the cuirass, already made brittle by Martin’s potent magic. The tip of the blade sank into the other’s abdomen, catching on bone before I could pull my swing.

As the assassin fell lifeless from my weapon, I looked at Piner over his body. “Thank Talos you’ve returned!” he gasped, lowering his katana slightly. “Brother Jauffre is in the chapel!” The stabbing pain in my knee worsened as I ran past Martin, toward the chapel. I could hear the priest and the monk at my back as I flung the chapel door open.

Two assassins towered over Jauffre. The old man wielded a slim two-handed weapon, longer than Piner’s katana, with deceptive quickness against their assault. He sent the two assassins reeling from his counter-attack. One of them staggered into my ready blade, which slid into the gap in his side. Taking his greater weight on my sword, I angled the tip upwards into the rib cage, seeking vital structures.

As he fell from my blade, Piner stepped past me and took on the other assassin. Unable to decide which of the two monks was the greater threat, the assailant fell quickly before their flashing weapons.

As the daedric armor dissolved into sulfurous smoke, leaving behind ordinary-looking corpses, Jauffre and I stared at each other. “They must be after the Amulet!” he exclaimed. “I have it hidden in a secret room in the priory. I must go and see if it is still safe!” Not waiting for a response from me or Piner, he ran past Martin out the chapel.

“Wait!” I shouted. What if there is an ambush inside the priory? The old Breton kept running. With a mouthful of curses for my bum knee, which stabbed with every stride, I hobbled after him back out in that pouring rain. He passed a black-robed body slumped against the front facade of the priory and slammed through the door. In the brief second I allowed myself, I recognized the dead man. Prior Maborel. My stride faltered, but I forced myself to continue into the priory, hearing Jauffre’s footsteps already pounding up the stairs.

When I followed the Grandmaster to the landing, I saw one of the bookcases shoved to one side, books scattered on the floor from its shelves. Jauffre had disappeared through a doorway in the wall, an opening previously covered by the displaced bookcase.

Entering behind him, I took in the chaos of the small room, the overturned chest and desk, and the sudden despair in Jauffre’s shoulders as he sheathed the long blade at his back. “They have the Amulet,” he muttered. “The enemy has defeated us at every turn!”

“How could they know of the Amulet?” I exclaimed, stunned. “I told no one of it! Only Baurus knew I had it!”

Jauffre turned to face me, his gaze grim. “Dagon is powerful,” he answered my question. “He can see things invisible to us mortals.”

My sword slid home in its sheath, and I returned to the landing, where Piner and Martin stood near the stairs. Piner’s eyes closed in discouragement, and uncertainty showed in Martin’s expression. How hard has this been for him, I thought, seeing again the weariness and exhaustion in his gaze. Three nights of horror, two days of hiking, now combat, and not knowing who is friend and who is foe. I waved him up, turning back to Jauffre. “I found Martin, sir,” I said to the Grandmaster. “Here, he is safe. Martin, this is Grandmaster Jauffre of the Blades. He served your father for many years.”

“I still serve the Emperor,” Jauffre turned to Martin and bowed deeply. “So it has not all gone against us,” he addressed us both. “Talos be thanked! But Sire, you can not stay here. Once they learn about you, they will track you down.”

“Where will he be safe?” I asked, thinking of Martin’s fatigue and of my own.

“Nowhere is truly safe,” Jauffre responded, clasping Martin’s shoulder encouragingly. He too, had noted Martin’s exhaustion. “But Cloud Ruler Temple near Bruma is the best place for now.” He looked around the landing, at the books scattered across the floor. “First, we must rest and recoup.” Heading for the stairs, he turned back in our direction. “My Lord,” he said quietly, “welcome to Weynon Priory. I apologize for the reception. If you’ll follow me, please.”

Martin shot me a slightly panicked glance. It’s beginning to sink in. He’s Uriel’s son, not the son of some farmer as he has believed all these years.

As Jauffre led Martin to a seat beside the fire, I went outside, back into the rain. Eronor appeared, leading Paint. “Is it over?” he asked. I nodded, stopping beside Prior Maborel’s body. “I was in the sheepfold, when I heard voices,” he said, joining me beside the black-robed corpse. “They seemed like ordinary travelers, talking to Prior,” his voice became ragged. “All of a sudden, weapons appeared in their hands and they struck him down. I ran, and found you.”

If only we had walked a little faster. If only we hadn’t stopped for lunch at Weye. As I watched, Paint stepped to Maborel’s body, nosing him briefly, then recoiled, sidling away. It’s the blood, and bowels. Horses don’t like death. I took the rein from Eronor and led Paint away, toward the stable. Putting him in his stall, I removed the saddle and bridle.

Eronor had followed me, and took the tack from me. “I’ll take care of him,” he said quietly, sadness making his voice unsteady. “Go on inside, Julian.” Taking the pack from the saddle, I turned back to the priory.

Piner stood outside, looking down at Maborel. “I’m sorry, Brother,” I said quietly. He raised his eyes to me, his cheeks wet, from tears or the rain, I couldn’t tell. His eyes were dark, sad. Turning away from me, he knelt beside the prior. As I had done with Rilian in the castle at Kvatch, he closed the older man’s eyes.

Eronor appeared from the rear, pulling a fodder cart behind him. He stopped the cart next to Maborel’s body. Wordlessly, Piner and I moved to pick up the dead prior, and gently laid him out in the cart. We helped Eronor pull the wooden cart up to the chapel’s door. First we carried out the bodies of the two assassins, dumping them unceremoniously outside the chapel, off to the side.

Piner brought out a wooden bier from a storage cabinet near the door, and set it up in front of the small altar. After he covered it with a white cloth, he led me back out to the cart. Together, with Eronor holding the door for us, we brought Maborel inside and set him down on the bier.

“Thank you for your help, Julian,” Piner turned to me. “I’ll take care of this.” It was a dismissal. I understood. Brothers take care of their own. Back out in the rain, I helped Eronor gather the bodies of the assassins and loaded the cart. Together we took them to the road leading away from the priory, toward the Black Road. Eronor stopped the cart at the side of the path.

“I’ll take them up to Chorrol in the morning,” he said to me quietly. “The Watch needs to be notified about this. Thanks for helping, Julian.” He gripped my shoulder. “Now go inside and warm up.”

Posted by: SubRosa Apr 27 2010, 11:31 PM

A very exciting play of words here:
I recovered the blade and turned the Kvatch Wolf toward the second assassin. The coldness of a frost-flare shot past me and impacted the shoulder of the assailant. He staggered, and I shoved him off balance with the shield. As I slipped to the right and behind him, I backhanded the blade across the back of his knees.

First, saying "the Kvatch Wolf" is far more dramatic and evocative than "my shield". Then the bit of teamwork from Martin (the frost attack), the bash with the shield, and finally Julian's patented slash to the back of the knees all add up to not only a very realistic feeling battle, but also an exciting one!


“Dagon is powerful,” he answered my question. “He can see things invisible to us mortals.”
Or the Mythic Dawn has a spy in Weynon Priory...


If only we had walked a little faster. If only we hadn’t stopped for lunch at Weye.
Could'a, would'a, should'a. John Crichton could not have put it better.


dumping them unceremoniously outside the chapel, off to the side.
Jauffre will take care of those heads later...


nits:
I asked, thinking of Martin’s fatigue, of my own.
this might flow better with an "and" tossed in after the last comma:
I asked, thinking of Martin’s fatigue, and of my own.

Posted by: D.Foxy Apr 28 2010, 02:04 AM

Entering behind him, I took in the chaos of the small room, the overturned chest and desk, and the sudden despair in Jauffre’s shoulders as he sheathed the long blade at his back. “They have the Amulet,” he muttered. “The enemy has defeated us at every turn!”

“How could they know of the Amulet?” I exclaimed, stunned. “I told no one of it! Only Baurus knew I had it!”

Jauffre turned to face me, his gaze grim. “Dagon is powerful,” he answered my question. “He can see things invisible to us mortals.”


This is a touch that brings the game to life.

The game itself requires you to 'fill in the blanks' a lpt. With touches like this, you and your character immerse themselves into the game...

Well done, an excellenct rewrite!

Posted by: Olen Apr 28 2010, 12:09 PM

I like this piece a lot. It's coming to life in and of itself while following the game and bringing out so much more from the game world and characters we know.

I agree with SubRosa about the Kvatch wolf line, brilliant way of putting it.

You captured to feel of that bit of the game well (or perhaps more accuritly how it should have felt) the uncertainty and panic then come down after. And Martin continues to proove to be an interesting character.

One thing, perhaps not a full blown nit but a bit unusual:
As the daedric armor dissolved into sulfuric smoke -- you might want to consider changing 'sulfuric' to 'sulfurous'. I've rarely heard sulfuric used outside a chemistry context, unless you meant the smoke smelt of sulfuric acid. Might just be me though.

Posted by: mALX Apr 29 2010, 01:03 PM

The first time I came up on this part of the quest I was freaked out by all that going on - it was unexpected and overwhelming being at a lower level and not knowing Martin was marked essential at the time, lol. You did a very accurate rendition of that scene!!!

Posted by: haute ecole rider Apr 29 2010, 08:53 PM

@SubRosa: Only once during my playthroughs did I obtain the Kvatch Wolf from a fallen guardsman. I loved carrying that shield - it was lightweight, effective (up to a point), repairable with low armor skills, and had a wonderfully bold graphic on it that was easy to see at any distance. While Julian herself never carried it in game, I gave it to her in the fiction because I knew she would feel the same way about it that I did. Oh, and yes, I was thinking of Jauffre posting those heads later, as well. Your nit has been fixed.

@D.Foxy: thanks for continuing to read this! I agree that the game leaves much to be desired as far as interactions between the characters, but I like to think my own imagination is up to the task! I certainly hope so!

@Olen: Your words mean a lot to me, especially coming from an author as imaginative as yourself. Yes, following the game is sometimes restrictive (especially in the tutorial dungeon), but I'm finding ways to break out of its monotony and make it more compelling. I'm especially glad that you like the way I'm developing Martin. I hope you continue to like the direction I'm taking him. Oh, and you're right, "sulfurous" is much better in this context than "sulfuric" - I guess all those chemistry classes I took twenty years ago had more of an effect on me than I realized.

@mALX1: Yeah, I remember thinking "Can't you stay put in one place for a change??" when he would follow me into combat. "Aaahh, you're going to get yourself killed!" Especially after I had a Kvatch guard get between my sword and a daedra earlier in the game. "Stop following me!!" About the third or fourth time through, I realized I had a dialogue option where I could tell Martin to stay put! D'OH!

@all: Onwards to Cloud Ruler Temple!

*****************
Chapter 6.1 Night Ride

The rain had stopped when we returned to the horses. I sat on Paint, looking back at the Priory. The overcast sky made the dark night even darker. Water dripped from the trees and roofs, matching our mood.

Next to me, Martin waited on the calm bay mare. He seemed a little uneasy, and I wondered if it was due to fatigue, or to lack of riding experience. He seemed to know what he was doing, however, so I decided it must be fatigue.

“We need to leave tonight,” Jauffre’s voice echoed in my mind. He had insisted we eat something while our gear was drying off by the fire. “They won’t expect us to leave until morning. If they return, we must be gone.” I couldn’t argue with his logic, but Martin, Paint and I were tired from the past few days.

Beyond Martin, Jauffre’s chestnut stallion jibbed at the bit, tossing his head and prancing. The Grandmaster noticed my regard, and nodded calmly, his hands steady and quiet on the reins of his restless mount.

Ahead, the road led out of the priory, northward to meet with the Orange Road. Paint turned his head in response to pressure from the rein, and I smooched him into a walk. He stepped forward without hesitation. Behind, I heard the other two horses fall in behind me, the mare’s slow footfalls and the stallion’s quick strides.

We reached the Orange Road and headed eastward, where the road wound through the foothills of the Jeralls. The cobblestoned way dropped down a steep slope, then turned northward to rise again. Paint picked his way carefully across the slippery stones. As we neared a curve, I saw a dark figure appear out of the night, unshouldering a large battle axe. At the same time, I felt a sharp breeze pass just in front of my nose. Paint half-reared in front of me when I abruptly leaned back. I heard the distinctive twang of a bowstring somewhere in the trees on my right. Archer!

As one, the three of us dismounted. While I turned for the bandit with the battle axe, Jauffre took off into the woods to the south of the road, his weapon drawn and ready. The bandit swung wildly at me, nearly knocking me off balance when I deflected the axe with my shield. His momentum carried him past me, toward Martin, who flung a frost flare into the bandit’s chest.

As the bandit staggered back toward me, I limped behind him and slammed my sword overhand into his right shoulder. His weapon arm effectively disabled, the bandit lost his grip on the axe. He whirled toward me, his left fist aiming for my face. Ducking his roundhouse blow, I moved to sink my blade into his leather-covered chest. Before I could do so, he staggered, his eyes flying wide, and collapsed at my feet, blood gurgling black from his mouth.

Martin stood just behind him, his own silver dagger bloodied to the hilt. We locked eyes, and I frowned, not liking his quickness to engage in combat. Jauffre joined us, already sheathing his drawn weapon. “That archer’s dead,” he stated simply.

“I wish you wouldn’t jump in so quickly, sir,” I said quietly to Martin. He glanced up at me in surprise.

“I don’t want to sit idly by and let you do all the work, Julian,” he countered softly. “I am not Emperor, yet.”

“And I don’t want you getting killed before you are Emperor, sir,” I replied, keeping my voice even. “It is my job to protect you.”

Martin shook his head, his mouth grim. “And I don’t want to see my friend killed in front of me,” he held my stare steadily. “I’ve had enough of that, Julian.”

I turned to Jauffre in silent appeal. In the gloom, his blue eyes twinkled at us, though his face remained stern. “Tiber Septim led from the front lines,” he said to me, “as did Uriel the Fifth.” He turned his intent gaze to Martin. “However, if you, my Lord, are killed before the Dragonfires are lit, we have no way of turning back Mehrunes Dagon’s plans for Tamriel.”

Martin fidgeted under Jauffre’s level stare. He looked at me, just a little abashed. “I will be careful, I’ll promise you that much, Julian.” That’s all I’m going to get from Martin. It is enough. It has to be.

Once back aboard Paint, I twisted in the saddle to look back at Martin, who was already guiding the mare towards me. “You’re a priest, sir, who grew up a farmer and trained to be a mage.” I said to him. “Where in Oblivion did you learn to fight like that?”

Martin’s smile was barely visible in the darkness. “My fa - the man who raised me,” his voice held amusement, “was in the Legion for many years, much like you, Julian, before he retired and went into farming. He taught me how to use a dagger.” His face turned away from me to look down the road ahead of us. “When I was part of the Kvatch Mages Guild, I specialized in destruction. I had the opportunity to practice those skills when I left the Guild.” Now he looked back at me. “I’ve been a priest only for the last five or six years, Julian.” He shrugged. “Old habits die hard, I guess.”

I blinked, my mind working fast. He was placed with a Legion soldier? Was that Legion soldier already retired, or was he forced to retire when he was handed the babe? Leaning to my left just a little, I looked past Martin at Jauffre. The Grandmaster returned my gaze blandly.

********
The sky cleared as we started up the switchbacks leading into the Jerall Mountains themselves. Stars twinkled between the black leaves of the trees, and the twin moons cast dappled light across the cobblestones. As we climbed higher, the trees grew thinner along with the air, and opened up glimpses of the lowlands. Near the topmost switchback, I looked down the mountain range, and caught my breath at the vista spread below us.

Lake Rumare glistened softly in the moonlight, an argent halo around the white marble of the Imperial City and the tall spire of White Gold Tower. Paint stopped near an outcropping at my signal, where I dismounted. At the edge of the road, the ground dropped away in a plunging escarpment. As I knelt in the grass, I studied the landscape below us, matching its contours with the map in my head.

Behind me, I heard Martin’s breath catch as he paused, taking in the awe-inspiring sight. The growing fatigue in his star-filled eyes was clear to me. “Shall we stop here for a rest?” I glanced back to include Jauffre in my question. The old monk began to nod agreement, but stopped at Martin’s head shake.

“Let’s keep going,” the priest answered. “I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since Kvatch.”

************

The road crested just below the snowline, skirting the shoulders of the Jerall Mountains. The moons shone unobstructed on the cobblestones, outlining everything around us in silver.

“Is it true, Grandmaster,” Martin’s voice reached me as we walked along the road, “that it never rains in Bruma, only snows?”

“Aye, even in the summer,” Jauffre responded. “It is so high, the air is crisp and clear, and blizzards are common in the summer. During the winter, it is often too cold to snow.”

“Too cold to snow?” Martin repeated. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Believe it,” I responded, irony in my tone. “The Wrothgarians are higher and colder than this. Have you not noticed how chilly it’s become? I’ve been seeing my breath since we left Chorrol!” I shivered in my cuirass, thankful for its long sleeves. The oiled leather had repelled the worst of the rain, but my hair and the back of my neck were damp and chilly. My hands felt frozen to the reins. With some difficulty, I unclenched my left hand and flexed my fingers, trying to shake some warmth back into them. I managed to do the same to better effect with my right. “Are you two warm enough?” I called back, thinking of their woolen robes.

“Yes,” Martin responded, though I could hear his teeth chattering. “Wool is warm, even when wet, thank Akatosh.” He exclaimed softly, under his breath. “Speaking of Akatosh -” he called my attention to the circular colonnade perched on the mountainside to the left of the road. “I believe that is his one of his wayshrines.”

Paint halted, and I dismounted when Martin did so. “Shall we go look?” he asked me.

“Very well,” I answered, glad of the chance to get down and walk a bit. My behind is almost frozen to the saddle. Jauffre motioned for us to hand him the reins of our horses. He remained on his stallion, eyes watchful. Martin found the half-buried marble steps leading up to the small circle of white columns, which were topped by a dark grey ring-shaped cornice.

Joining Martin beside the small altar within, I studied the round object. Martin laid a hand on the rim, and was immediately covered in a white burst. “It will heal you,” he said, “cure any diseases you have, and, in the case of Akatosh, give you a blessing of speed for a short time.” He gestured for me to touch the altar as well.

As we returned to Jauffre and the horses, I commented to Martin, “That blessing of speed can be useful. Too bad it can’t be used on Jauffre’s horse.”

Martin chuckled softly. “Red is not as fast as he thinks he is,” he said, reaching for the bay mare’s reins. Jauffre smiled as he handed me Paint’s. “Jasmine, on the other hand,” Martin continued, mounting the mare effortlessly, “knows her own limitations, it seems.”

As Paint followed me to a nearby rock, I laughed softly. “I’m not sure of Paint, except that he has been a good companion.” Swinging into the saddle, I ran my hand down his crest. Paint tossed his head, then bumped his nose lightly against my right knee.

“Paint is like you,” Martin responded. “Brave and courageous.”

Heat rose in my cheeks, and I was glad of the darkness. “I think he is wiser than I am,” I remarked. “He certainly has been very patient with me.”

“That is why the good Prior,” Jauffre’s voice faltered momentarily, “gave him to you.”

Twisting around in the saddle, I looked back at Jauffre as Paint started eastward down the road. “Prior Maborel did tell me it was more a matter of trusting him with me, rather than the other way around.”

“Paint and Jasmine are not foolhardy at all,” Jauffre’s voice turned warm in the cold night. “Red, on the other hand,” I heard him slap the chestnut stallion affectionately on the neck, “thinks his balls are bigger than anyone else’s.”

“Like all stallions,” Martin remarked, the humor still in his voice. And some men, I added silently to myself. The black flight of a raven caught my eye as the bird ghosted silently across the road in front of us. A raven? At night? Its dark form disappeared into the trees below the path as we continued on. Paint did not seem bothered by its sudden appearance and disappearance, only flicking an ear at the bird. I decided to follow his example and think no more of it.

Posted by: SubRosa Apr 29 2010, 11:19 PM

The battle with the bandits was exciting. More importantly however, it brought an important piece of character development on the part of Martin. We see him leaping into the fray himself, and learn it is because of his unwillingness to stand by and watch the people he cares for die. Poor chap, he is going to learn that being Emperor means doing exactly that...

“Old habits die hard, I guess.”
I bet you could not wait to use that line!

Was that Legion soldier already retired, or was he forced to retire when he was handed the babe?
This was an excellent bit of conjecture. The game tells us nothing about Martins parents (i.e. the people who raised him), not even if they are still alive. Julian's musing is very logical. Perhaps you might want to delve more into Martin's family in future chapters? One imagines that they lived in Kvatch, and were killed there.

Lake Rumare glistened softly in the moonlight, an argent halo around the white marble of the Imperial City and the tall spire of White Gold Tower.
I quoted this just because it is a lovely piece of writing. I especially like your use of the word "argent" here.

The black flight of a raven caught my eye as the bird ghosted silently across the road in front of us. A raven? At night?
Now where did that bird come from, I wonder...

Posted by: mALX May 1 2010, 02:56 AM

The last lines in this chapter hit me then and now as some of the best Martin/Jauffre/player dialogue ever!

Posted by: Olen May 1 2010, 10:00 AM

Hmm it appears I haven't commented on this one yet...

It was because I couldn't think of anything to say though, the last part was excellent. It held together tightly and the dialogue between the three was excellent. The inclusion of a wayshrine was inspired too, it really helps being Cyrodiil alive in this quest and makes it drive the setting and characters in a way the filler in the game failed to.

Good update, more?

Posted by: haute ecole rider May 1 2010, 10:55 PM

@SubRosa: I'm glad you picked up on Julian's thoughts about Martin's foster parents. I'm planning to explore this more towards the end of the Main Quest. At this point I wanted to emphasize the progress of becoming an Emperor, with the mindset that follows. I really enjoyed the dialogue between the three of them. As for "Old habits die hard," I recently reviewed all of my fiction, and out of ten or twelve pieces that I had actually finished, I think only one or two of them does not have a character say this! I guess it's one of my lines. In reviewing this story, I realize this line is fast becoming one of those that every character gets to say, much like "I've got a bad feeling about this" in the original Star Wars trilogy.

@mALX: That dialogue in that part of the chapter is mostly free-typing. I'm sure you can pick out the rare line that is drawn from the game itself. This is one of the places I like to sit back and let the characters speak for themselves, and apparently others like it when I do that as well.

@Olen: Your request is granted!

I've said this before, but it's worth saying again. Julian gets her first glimpse of what is one of my favorite places in all of Cyrodiil - where the air is crystal clear, the view awe-inspiring, the climate freezing cold, and the company warm. Welcome to Cloud Ruler Temple!

****************
Chapter 6.2 Dawn Arrival

The Orange Road ran into the Silver Road, leading us higher into the Jeralls. The twin moons were low in the west, and the stars overhead seemed brighter and clearer. The air drew colder around us. With a shiver, I ran my right hand over my head, startled at the ice crackling in my bound hair. I untied the red cord, shaking out the white strands until all the ice had fallen off, leaving my hair feeling less damp. With the reins crossed over Paint’s neck, I retied my ponytail at the nape of my neck.

At the point in the road where it turned sharply west, I looked up the steep slope to the left to see the tops of the Bruma city walls, black in the indigo sky. More mountains towered above us to the east and north, higher even than the alpine plain on which Bruma nestled.

Paint followed the road easily, his ears pricked forward. The path forked just before the gates, still closed against the night, and Paint took the right hand path. He walked toward a small stable tucked against the city walls, stopping near the gate to the corral. Turning in the saddle, I looked at the sign above the stable door. Wildeye Stables.

Jauffre guided Red alongside Paint. “This is where Paint was born, about seventeen years ago. He has not been back since Prior Maborel purchased him, ten years ago.” He smiled at Paint. “He does not forget. This was a good place for him.” Now Jauffre pointed at the secondary road that wound northward past the city walls. “Follow that around to the road that comes down from the North Gate,” he directed. “That road will take us to Cloud Ruler Temple. Lead on, Julian.”

I chirruped at Paint, who, with a last look at the paddock of his youth, stepped onto the path and continued on. We followed the slender thread around the city walls to the slightly more prominent road dropping away from the North Gate of Bruma.

After we turned onto the new path, my eyes traced the route ahead. It crossed a little dell to the side of a steep escarpment. The road turned west to climb across the face of the slope, leading my sight up to the top, where a squat stone structure crowned a shoulder of the mountains. Topped with a peaked tile roof possessing upswept eaves, the uppermost stones of the fortress gleamed a faint pink in the first flush of dawn.

The sky above was growing light in the east, where the high peaks kept us in shadow. On the escarpment, I could see the shadow line cast by the eastern mountains thrown across the walls of the fortress.

By the time we reached the top of the road and turned northeast to face the huge iron gates, the roseate light had crept down the sides of the fortress to light the top of the mountain’s shoulder. It dazzled my eyes, forcing me to turn my face toward the fortress. Those tall metal panels creaked open as we dismounted, and a steel-clad figure, dwarfed by the gates, stepped out to face us. The dawn light flashed off the brass trim and the blue enamel of the Blades armor as he paused to study our faces.

The Blade faced the one man he recognized, his hand on his hilt, “Grandmaster, is this -”

“Yes, Cyrus,” Jauffre responded, “this is the Emperor’s son, Martin Septim.”

The Redguard turned smartly to Martin, his armor clinking slightly. He raised his right fist to his chest and tipped his head forward in salute. “We are honored, Sire,” he said crisply. “Welcome to Cloud Ruler Temple!”

Cyrus stepped back to lead us into the Temple. Within the gates, a wide stairway rose within the high walls to bring us to a raised plaza. Red protested initially at having to climb the steep steps, but gave in when Paint and Jasmine, following us, left him behind. At the top, Cyrus caught my gaze, and gestured toward a small stable tucked beneath the fortress wall at the west side of the plaza.

After collecting the reins of all three horses, I led them to the stable. As they entered the tie-stalls, I loosened the girths and removed their bridles. Fresh hay drew them towards the manger that ran along the stalls.

Back in the plaza, I watched the company of Blades gather in two ranks on the open pavement, leaving the way from the stairs to the Temple proper at the north side clear. Jauffre led Martin to the broad steps leading up to the Temple and paused there, turning to face the assembled Blades. Limping across the paving stones, I stopped behind the nearest rank to listen.

“Blades,” the Grandmaster’s voice rang in the dawn. “This is your new Emperor, Martin Septim!”

The air sang with the sound of katanas drawn in unison, as the soldiers lifted their weapons in salute. “Hail, the Emperor!” The strength of their response caught me off guard. “Hail, the Dragon Born!”

Past armored shoulders, I could see the chagrin in Martin’s face at their cheering. He glanced at Jauffre, then took a deep breath.

“Thank you, I think,” he spoke haltingly, quietly. His voice, soft compared to Jauffre’s, still carried well in the cold mountain air. Years of casting whispers into the farthest reaches of a chapel, I thought to myself. Very different from the command voice of combat veterans. “I will try to do my best for you,” he continued. “Your loyalty to the Emp - my father, as well as to me, is greatly appreciated. That is all.”

A tall Blade, his armor slightly more ornate than the others, stepped out of the line and turned to face the others. “Dismissed,” his rough voice broke the ranks. “Return to your duties, Blades.” As the others scattered to their posts around the plaza, more than a few met my gaze with level stares. None held overt hostility, rather more an assessment. Becoming acutely self conscious of my repaired leathers, I searched their faces for Baurus. Though I saw quite a few Redguards, none were my first friend.

“Sire,” Jauffre was saying as I approached Martin and the Grandmaster, “they’ve prepared a room for you. It’s been a long trip from Kvatch, and you look exhausted.” He nodded at Cyrus, who waited patiently near the front entrance to the Temple Hall. “Cyrus will show you the way.”

Martin glanced at me. “What about Julian?” he asked.

What about me, indeed? I wondered, aware of Jauffre’s gaze on me. What do I do, now that Martin’s safe?

“Don’t worry,” Jauffre turned his blue gaze back to the priest. “She is welcome here, too.” What? Me? I stared at the Grandmaster, who returned my gaze calmly.

“This is so strange, Julian,” Martin said to me. “After all that’s happened, I’m the Emperor here. I’m supposed to act like one, and I don’t even know how.” He paused, holding my gaze with his own, so like his father’s. “I’m grateful to you, Julian,” his mouth curved, the smile not touching his eyes. “You got me here safely, and I owe much to you, friend.” He looked around at the fortress plaza, at the Blades patrolling the walls. “These soldiers are waiting for me to tell them what to do, and I don’t know where to begin.”

“That’s what the Grandmaster is for, Sire,” I said to him quietly, aware of Jauffre’s and the tall Blade officer’s steady regard of me. Martin flinched at my use of the honorific reserved for the Emperor. “It’s his job to tell the Blades what to do. For now,” I smiled at him, “I’d take his advice and get some rest, first. You’ll be able to think better after some sleep and some food.”

With a rueful glance at me, Martin turned to Cyrus. “Lead on, then.” As I watched Martin follow Cyrus into the Temple Hall, Jauffre clapped a hand on my left shoulder.

“Well, Julian,” he said in that clipped voice of his. “You have done all that I have asked, and more. Your assistance has been of great value.”

I began to shake my head, but stopped when the Blade officer handed Jauffre a sheathed katana. “Thanks, Steffan,” Jauffre acknowledged him. Holding the katana across his open palms, he extended the sword to me. “You’ve shown not only bravery and courage, but also tact and reticence. We are always in need of people like you, Julian. It would be an honor to have you join us.”

I stared at him, stunned. Join the Blades? Me? Am I good enough? I finally found my voice. “Uh, y- yes,” I stammered. “The honor would be mine, sir.”

“Good, then,” Jauffre nodded in satisfaction. He gestured at the Blades officer. “This is Captain Steffan. He is the officer in charge here. If you need anything, please go to him.”

Posted by: SubRosa May 1 2010, 11:17 PM

Ahh, Paint's homecoming. I have been waiting for this. I always liked that scene, because of how it shows Paint is a character, rather than a mode of transportation.

This was one of my favorite lines from the game:
“After all that’s happened, I’m the Emperor here. I’m supposed to act like one, and I don’t even know how.” I like it because it shows Martin not as a one-dimensional superhero, but rather as a regular guy who has found himself thrust quite unwillingly into the boots of said superhero.

Just as importantly, I liked how Martin turns to Julian at the end. We see here that she is indeed the Son's Companion. She is the one he trusts most now, the one thing he knows he can always count on.

Now Julian is a Blade! I bet she never saw that coming when she was getting in fights with her brother! Or when she was in the Legion!

Posted by: Olen May 1 2010, 11:34 PM

Woo update

I loved the description of cloud ruler in the mountains, you really bring that bit of the game to life. It never felt high to me in the game, but in that description I could feel the cold almost dry feel of thin air and see the shape of the mountains. It reminded me very much of a real place in the himalayas.

Again you managed a lot with the dialogue, if I recall that is along the lines of what is in game but altered slightly which I like, it gives the game a nod while keeping your characters different and setting them apart. It really worked well for showing Martin out of his depth and a little uncomfortable, then Julian feels similar. Excellent stuff.

The air drew colder around us. - I like the choice of 'drew', it has so much more than 'became'.

casting whispers into the farthest reaches - this really worked for me, lovely bit of description.

Posted by: mALX May 3 2010, 04:10 PM

That is one of the scenes I love in the game, when they raise their Katanas in salute to Martin when he arrives at Cloud Ruler Temple - as you always do, (dare I use the word?) Awesome Write!

Posted by: haute ecole rider May 3 2010, 05:20 PM

@SubRosa: Paint is a living, breathing character to me, and I'm glad my readers pick up on it as well. As for Martin's line after being hailed by the Blades (that's when it really hits home, I guess), that is one of my favorite lines, too. I think it really sums up his situation so well. And no, she never saw her acceptance into the Blades coming. It was not even a dream back when she was in the Legion. If only her brother could see her now!

@Olen: I do stick with the in-game dialogue a lot, but I'm glad that you are enjoying how I'm managing it. As for Cloud Ruler Temple, it is one of my favorite places in the game. Looks like you went higher than I ever did! I've been to Sante Fe, NM (7,000 feet), Hurricane Ridge in Olympic National Park (about 5,600 feet), and Going to the Sun in Glacier National Park (6,600 feet). You were in the Himalayas? I envy you - you definitely have the bragging rights!

@mALX: Thanks for the Awesome praise!

In this chapter Julian is introduced to life at Cloud Ruler Temple.

****************
Chapter 6.3 - Captain Steffan

Captain Steffan removed his helm as Jauffre walked away. He possessed Imperial features, but stood taller than most Imperial men. Intense blue eyes studied me from beneath level black brows. Close-cropped black hair with a shock of white above the left temple topped his head.

“Welcome to Cloud Ruler Temple, Julian,” he said in that rough voice. Why so rough? Old injury? Sore throat? “I know you’ve traveled a long way,” he continued. “Let me show you the barracks, the armory where you can keep your gear, and the dining hall where we share our meals.”

“What will be my duties here, sir?” I asked, looking around the plaza. Two Blades patrolled the outer walls, and I could see two more in the watchtowers above the gates. Another Blade stood guard beside the door to the Temple Hall.

“I’m sure Grandmaster Jauffre has something in mind for you,” Steffan responded, starting for the east wing. Falling into step beside him, I wondered what he meant. “For now, you can rest, repair your gear or replace it, and catch up on your food.” Again he gave me that assessing glance, making me aware of my thinness. “Grandmaster said you were pretty gaunt,” he continued, “but it looks like you’re making up for it.”

He’s right, I admitted with some surprise. This cuirass isn’t fitting so loosely as it used to. Maybe it isn’t all gra-Sharob’s doing. “I’ve been trying to eat meat once a day, like the Grandmaster told me to do,” I answered. Steffan nodded, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Ah, yes, Grandmaster would tell you that,” he commented. He directed my attention to the two Blades trading blows with their weapons in a square of sand. “Personally, I think there’s nothing like using your muscles to build them up.”

One of them wielded the same two-handed blade that Jauffre carried. “What is that blade, sir?” I asked, indicating the taller of the two Blades. “I have never seen the like of it before. It’s almost like a claymore, but so much lighter.”

“Aye, it is lighter than a steel claymore,” the captain agreed. “That is an Akaviri dai-katana, the big cousin to the katana most of us carry. Very few of us use it - it takes a great degree of skill and strength to wield it effectively. That’s Fortis, and Baragon is the only other Blade to carry it.” Catching my eye, he jerked his head toward the sunken stairway leading down to a door in the east wing. “We have one available in the armory, if you’re interested in it.”

“Certainly, sir, I’d like to see it,” I turned away from the practice sands and followed the tall captain. A wide brazier set at one side of the main steps fended off the chill with a merry crackle as we passed it. Steffan opened the door and waved for me to step inside.

A short passageway led straight ahead to a dogleg up to an upper level, a wooden railing separating it from the entry level. “Up there, that’s the dining hall. You’ll find provisions, and we eat here.” Steffan explained. “Most of us are on rotating schedules, but we try to gather for dinner, with just a couple out on the walls. When we are on combat footing, though, it’s fend for yourself time.”

“Grab whatever grub we can get when we can get it?” I commented. “Makes sense.” Directly to my left, a truncated stairway led down to another door, beneath the dining hall floor. The captain preceded me down the steps.

“This is the armory,” he said, leading me within. The sounds of clashing metal on wood ceased as I followed him. “Hello, Ferrum,” he greeted the young Blade standing at the training dummy, his katana lowered toward the floor. Ferrum wiped the sweat from his brow with his ungloved left hand. “This is Julian,” Steffan continued. “She’s our most recent Blade-sister.”

“Sir,” Ferrum gave the captain a short nod, then regarded me with black eyes. “Hail, sister,” he greeted me, barely winded. “Welcome to Cloud Ruler Temple.”

“Thanks, - brother,” I responded. The dark-haired Breton smiled at me, then glanced at Steffan.

“As you were, Ferrum,” the captain answered the unspoken question with quiet humor. The Breton turned away and started slashing again at the wooden dummy. Steffan led me to the rear of the underground chamber. A smith’s forge sat in a corner, its fire banked. Along the wall next to it, several blades rested in a weapons rack. At the opposite wall, shelves held long, narrow chests.

Steffan regarded the chests for a few moments, then knelt and selected one that sat on the floor. Swinging the lid open, he stepped back. “Here, you can use this one for your gear,” he explained. “Whatever you don’t need while you’re here.”

Thankfully, for the pack was pulling at my spine, I lowered the bag into the locker. The container was long, long enough for weapons, as well. I unloaded the bow and quiver, and laid the two swords I had brought - Hero of Kvatch and Daedra Slayer, within the box. The katana in my left hand, I closed the lid and pushed it back under the shelves.

After I buckled the new weapon to my waist, I followed the captain to the center of the long room. He opened a weapons cabinet, similar to the one at Weynon Priory, and drew out a dai-katana. The slender blade sang slightly as he unsheathed it and handed the hilt to me.

Slightly longer than my new katana, with a two-handed grip, the weapon was heavier and felt sturdier. Still, it felt much lighter than the steel claymore I remembered from my Legion days. Steffan stepped back to give me room as I hefted the dai-katana thoughtfully.

“Its speed and reach are the same as a katana’s, and most longswords,” the captain commented. “But its balance is more like a claymore, and it does more damage for its weight, like a claymore.” He turned his head to the side. “Ferrum.” The younger Blade stopped and turned to give me a little more space.

With the hilt in both of my hands, I could feel the meaning of Steffan’s words. The balance was indeed different than a longsword’s. As the blade swished through the air in a figure eight, I could feel the speed in its movement, but its weight caused my shoulders to tighten after a few circuits. “Yes, sir, I see what you mean,” I said after a moment. Handing the blade back to the captain, I shook my head. “I think I’ll stick with the katana, thanks.”

“You may be tall, Julian,” Steffan slid the elegant blade home in its sheath, “but even I don’t handle it all that well. It takes much practice and strength to handle a blade such as this.” He placed it back in the weapons cabinet. I studied the pieces of armor on the shelves as Ferrum returned to his exercises.

The captain selected one of the distinctive Dragonscale cuirasses worn by the Blades and held it up in front of me, visually measuring it against my torso. “This may fit you, if you would like to wear it.”

Taking the armor, I nearly dropped it when Steffan released its unexpected weight into my hands. Gods! Have I really lost so much of my strength? I held it up with a twinge of regret. It was beautiful, with brass buckles fastening the segmented body plates, blue enamel and brass medallions on the pauldrons, and a stiff leather collar lined with softer kidskin. “Am I supposed to wear this, sir?” If the answer is yes, I’m in big trouble.

The captain took it back. “No, most of our agents do not wear the armor,” he said, replacing the cuirass in the cabinet. “And that’s what I think Grandmaster Jauffre has in mind for you.”

“Agent?” I repeated, looking down at my leather cuirass.

“Most Blades work undercover,” Steffan explained, leading me out of the armory. As I passed Ferrum, he sent me a farewell glance without breaking his rhythm. “There are actually few of us who wear the armor,” the captain continued as we headed to the dining hall. “The garrison here at Cloud Ruler Temple, and the Emperor’s personal bodyguard.”

“Like Baurus?” I asked. Steffan nodded. Limping after him, I smelled smoked boar and roast mutton. My stomach growled, and the captain glanced back at me. Mortified, I returned his gaze sheepishly.

Without pause, he scooped an apple off a table and tossed it back to me. “I’ll show you the rest of the Temple, then you can come back here and get some more grub,” he said with a lopsided smile. “In the meantime, enjoy.”

Without hesitation, I bit into the apple as I hobbled through the upper door into the central Hall. Steffan led me to the center of the immense space. Heat from the enormous fireplace against the north wall caressed my right cheek. My leather boots thudded softly on the wide floorboards. Around me, the post-and-timber construction led my eyes upwards to the clerestory windows near the peak of the roof, which let morning light into the space and made the roof appear to be floating above the walls. That morning light shimmered on the argent blades of katanas hung along the rafters down each side of the long Hall.

“This is the Hall of Blades,” Steffan gestured at the katanas. “Here we honor the fallen.” With a touch on my shoulder, he turned me to face the fireplace, and showed me two weapons hanging by themselves above the hearth. “Those belong to Captain Renault and Glenroy. I believe you knew them.”

Choking down the bite of apple, I nodded. “Only for the briefest of moments,” I answered. “Glenroy was brave - and angry.”

“Yes, I can understand that,” Steffan’s rough voice became very quiet. “Baurus reported that by the time the three of them reached your cell with the Emperor, they were the only Blades left of the Imperial Bodyguards. Even the ones guarding the princes fell during the assassinations.”

“All of them?” I shot a glance at the captain, but his gaze was on the two lone katanas. “All but Baurus?” At his nod, I looked down at the apple in my hand. “I know how that feels,” I muttered.

Posted by: SubRosa May 3 2010, 05:40 PM

Why so rough? Old injury? Sore throat?
Perhaps like Shelby Foote, too many cigars and mint juleps while sitting on the back porch...

A good piece-o-chapter, establishing not only the physical space of Cloud Ruler Temple, but also introducing us to many of the Blades, now Julian's sisters in arms.

Posted by: Olen May 3 2010, 06:45 PM

Great as ever. I like your description of cloud ruler, very much as I imagine it to be.

“Ah, yes, Grandmaster would tell you that,” -- I liked this line, it shows a lot of personality both of Jauffry and Steffan. Quite a revealing line really.

As ever the same request: more?

Posted by: Acadian May 5 2010, 06:32 PM

Well, I am caught up again. I am finding that dedicating part of a day to reading wonderful stories about once a week seems to suit well for me. I am definitely following Julian's wonderful adventure though!

5.4 was a heartpounding return to the Priory and glimpse into the bigger challenge ahead. 6.1, although not absolutely necessary was a wonderful trip along the road revealing more than enough to make it a wonderful piece. 6.2 was a masterful reflection of the beauty of the Temple sitting atop the mountain with its thin, crisp cold air. 6.3 was a wonderful glance into life at the CRT and introduced Julian, Secret Agent!

In one of your comments you mentioned the line you walk between truth to the game and literary license. I see you are listening to your heart, for that is where the answer lies for each of us that wrestle with that question. And the answer is different for each of our fictions. You are doing a wonderful job and have found the right line for you!

Posted by: haute ecole rider May 5 2010, 08:03 PM

@all: Thanks for reading and for the comments.

More of Cloud Ruler Temple and Julian’s new comrades-in-arms. This entire part-o-chapter is not in the game, but pretty much free-typing.

******************************
Chapter 6.4

Soft murmurings and rustlings roused me from a black slumber. I lay for several moments, feeling disoriented by the heavy timbers above and around me. I saw several Blades moving around the room, some stripping their armor for bed, others rising and dressing for duty. With a luxurious stretch, I felt the delicious tension in my muscles. My left hip, for once, didn’t twinge with the movement. I’m getting more fit, I observed. The long day’s walk, and the long night’s ride, didn’t leave me sore, as I would have been a week ago. Rising to my feet, I tested my right knee carefully. It didn’t hurt much this afternoon.

Captain Steffan had shown me to the barracks in the west wing of the Temple. Heated by a hypocaust, the floor was warm, making the bedrolls surprisingly comfortable to sleep on. Torn between filling my empty stomach, still growling after that apple, and finding sleep, I had chosen sleep, at least for a few hours. Now my belly would not let me postpone feeding it any more.

The clashing noise of swords greeted me as I stepped through the smaller door leading to the plaza. I looked across the area to the practice sands. They’re still at it? Recognizable by the dai-katana he carried, Fortis sparred with his partner as I paused beside the western brazier to watch them.

The sentry at the front door caught my gaze. “Good afternoon, Julian,” she greeted me. “I’m Jena. Welcome to Cloud Ruler Temple.”

“Thanks, Jena,” I answered. “Is that Fortis?”

“Yes, it is, and Pelagius. They spar every day, all day.”

“The entire day?” I stared at Jena. The Imperial woman smiled, her brown eyes twinkling.

“Yes, and Ferrum in the armory is still at it, too.” Her tone held a suppressed chuckle. I shook my head in wonderment. “Will you join us for dinner? It will be served in two hours.”

My eyes squinted at the westering sun, then fell on the stable. “Yes, I think so,” I answered. “I’d like to check on Paint.” With a glance back at Jena, I considered my next question. “Would it be wrong for me to take an apple for him? He likes them so.”

“By all means,” Jena smiled. “Help yourself.”

A few moments later, I reached the stable, apple in hand. The three horses had been stripped of their tack and brushed down, their coats dry and gleaming in the shadows of the stable. They greeted me with soft blowing, and Paint nudged me with his nose as I made my way to his head. The wonderful smell from their hides, the aromatic hay in the manger, the clean scent of glycerin soap, felt good as I inhaled deeply. I smiled at the eagerness in Paint’s eye.

Paint eagerly accepted the pieces of crisp apple as fast as I could bite them off. Red watched us from the other side of Jasmine, but when he tried to reach past her towards me, she pinned her ears and snaked her head at him. Red turned his head away. Best ask Jauffre to give him an apple or two, I mused, feeling sorry for the way the mare picked on him so mercilessly. She got along fine with Paint, however. It must be because Paint is gelded, and not as pushy as Red.

In the shadows of the stable, I recognized Paint’s saddle by the round light iron shield still attached to the cantle ring. The Kvatch Wolf gazed back at me in the gloom. As I reached out to it, I thought of gra-Sharob, of Sigrid and Boldon. I wonder how the children are doing. I missed them already. My right hand remembered the feel of Falisia’s tiny fingers resting in my palm. My thoughts wandered to Matius. That’s the real hero of Kvatch. He held the guard together, kept them going in the face of impossible odds.

Goneld’s bloodied face, Rilian’s hand on my shoulder appeared in my mind’s eye and hit me hard. With my breath suddenly gone, I leaned against the wall next to the saddles. I thought I left all that behind.

“Julian?” a tall figure appeared in the rectangle of afternoon light that formed the doorway. At the unfamiliar voice, I wiped my cheeks and turned to look at him. “I’m Roliand,” he continued, removing his helm so I could see his face. Fair skin, golden blond hair cropped short, light blue eyes. Shoulders broad and Nordic. “I took care of the horses. I hope you find everything all right, sister.”

I regarded him, then gestured toward the rumps standing in a row. “I think they look happy, Roliand. Thanks for your care.”

“It was my pleasure,” he responded, smiling at me. As I stepped out of the stable, I tipped my head back to make eye contact with him. “I heard you were in the Legion, sister,” his voice, surprisingly soft for such a big man, held a note of curiosity. With a nod, I looked away, toward the practice sands. He caught the direction of my gaze. “Go watch them,” he remarked. “They enjoy performing for an audience.”

“I will see you at dinner, then?” I asked. Roliand nodded, replacing his helm and brushing his right knuckles on his breastplate with a soft clink. As he walked away, toward the outer wall, I limped across the plaza to watch the two soldiers.

They are good, I decided after watching them for several minutes. They braced for each other’s blows, blocking, parrying and counter-parrying. Pelagius used his shield much the way I did, mainly to deflect the blows from Fortis’s two-handed weapon. Without the benefit of a buckler, Fortis used his gauntlets or the sturdy blade of his dai-katana to block Pelagius’s katana. As I watched, Pelagius avoided an overhand strike from Fortis, then swung his blade straight down, only to have Fortis’s upraised elbow knock his wrist away.

The dinner bell rang, and the two men stepped back from each other, sheathing their swords. “Good evening, sister,” Pelagius greeted me, pulling off his helm. In spite of sparring for hours in full armor, the two Imperials were only slightly winded. “Welcome to Cloud Ruler Temple.”

“Thanks,” I answered, limping toward the east wing. The two men matched their strides to mine. “You two are really good,” I gestured back at the practice sands. “I think I learned a thing or two.”

Fortis, having removed his helm and stripped his gauntlets, shook his head. “I don’t know,” his teeth shone in the gathering dusk, “I think you could teach us something, too. Twenty-five years in the Legion, sister. That’s a lifetime of hard fighting.”

As Pelagius opened the door for us, I shrugged. “More like years of training, years of waiting, years of boredom. Throw in a few moments of sheer, Goblin-induced terror here and there, and that pretty much sums it up.”

We walked into the dining hall, where the two men led me to a nearby table. Platters of roasted meat and vegetables, fresh-baked bread, waited, wafting steam. Sitting down, Pelagius eyed me thoughtfully. “Goblins?” he repeated. “Are they really as tough as people say?”

“The peons aren’t, really,” I answered. “They’re quick and aggressive, but lightly armored and armed, and not very effective in their tactics.” Fortis filled a plate and set it in front of me. “They’re more slash and smash, and not even good at it.” I shook my head at the offered wine, and reached for the teapot instead. The chatter died as Captain Steffan and Jauffre entered the hall, Martin in tow. They took seats at another table at the far end of the hall. This time, I was ready, and waited as the soldiers bowed their heads silently in grace. Fortunately, my stomach stayed quiet in the silence.

After a moment, Fortis looked up at me. “What about the other Goblins?” he asked, slicing a chunk of roast mutton on his plate. A few of other Blades wandered to our table and sat down. I recognized Roliand and Jena.

Taking a sip of the hot tea, I considered his question. “The skirmishers are trickier,” I answered. “More cunning. They use iron bows, but shoot fast and accurately.” With a pause to take a bite of grub, I continued, “Berserkers are big, strong, and heavily armored. They are unrelenting in their attacks. And the shamans,” I forced that image from my mind, keeping my voice steady, “are very nasty. They hang back and fire spells at you. They like to paralyze you, then hit you with shock spells - .” Swallowing against the sudden dryness in my throat, I took another bite of mutton. Stop it. It’s over.

“And of course, you can’t get near them unless you’re a sniper or battlemage yourself,” Fortis commented around a mouthful of grub, gesturing with his fork for emphasis. With a nod of agreement, I swallowed my own mouthful.

“The worst of them all, though, are the war chiefs,” I finished. “They’re bigger than the berserkers, strong, and fast. They love to use touch paralyze spells on you, then hammer away while you’re down.” My fork scraped across an empty plate, causing me to look down in some surprise. “I lost a lot of comrades to those things,” I finished.

“Here,” one of the other Blades dropped another slice of mutton onto my plate. “If you’re going to be one of us, and teach us a few things about Goblin-fighting, you’ll need more meat on your bones.” His brown eyes sparked at me.

I didn’t have time to be embarrassed by my relative weakness next to these sturdy Blades. “That’s Belisarius,” Fortis jerked his thumb at the other Blade. “He’s the brains in this outfit.” He pointed at the rangy Breton next to himself, across the table from me, “And this is Baragon.” Now he pointed at the quiet woman on his other side. “This is Caroline.” He nudged her teasingly with his elbow. “Doesn’t say much, but keeps us all in line.”

Her hand moved quickly and she speared the last slice of mutton from his plate. The dripping meat disappeared into her mouth before Fortis could protest. With a stifled chuckle, I met her grey gaze. “A woman’s work is never done, hmm?” Her grin mischievous, Caroline shook her head.

At my side, Pelagius’s eating slowed. I followed his gaze to see Martin - Emperor Martin - eating with better appetite than he had shown before. It must be the cold, the altitude. I was surprised at how much I had already packed away myself.

“I’m sorry, Julian,” Pelagius muttered, noticing my regard. “I’m sworn to protect the Emperor, no matter what. But I can’t help wondering, what sort of man is he?”

In thoughtful consideration of the question, I nibbled on some potato. “He’s been a priest of Akatosh for a number of years,” I said finally. “He has lived a life of peace and service, to others as well as the Divine. He is a good teacher,” I thought of how he had taught me to cast my flare spell more effectively. “He sees the good in others, and takes their suffering to heart.”

Fortis was nodding as I spoke. I sensed there was some ongoing discussion between the two. “Aye, the Emperor must be like Father Akatosh himself, wise, kind, gentle -”

“In times of peace,” Pelagius countered softly. “But peace has fled Tamriel, and we are facing daedra -”

The nature of their discussion became clear, and I firmed my voice, still keeping my tone low. “I don’t doubt for a moment that Emperor Martin has the courage necessary to defend Cyrodiil against daedra.” The memory of how he had faced the assassins at Weynon Priory still fresh in my mind, I continued, “On the way here, whenever we were attacked, he never sought refuge, but stood his ground and faced danger with dagger and frost-flares.” As I spoke, Martin met my gaze across the hall, nodded and smiled at me. As I returned his silent greeting in kind, I finished, “and he’s pretty good with those spells, too.”

“Hmm,” Pelagius grunted softly, sopping up the last of the gravy with the last bite of bread. “That’s high praise, coming from someone who’s fought with battlemages.”

“If he weren’t the last son and heir,” I murmured, feeling full. Pelagius saw the look on my face, and speared the last potato from my plate. “I had more problems keeping him out of trouble than taking care of trouble itself.”

Pelagius surprised me with a hearty chuckle as he finished my potato. “All right, Julian,” he said. “That’s the way I like ‘em.”

I shook my head. “Not if your job is to keep them alive,” I countered. Fortis’s broad grin met my gaze across the table.

Posted by: mALX May 5 2010, 09:25 PM

I'm hungry after reading this! Great Write Hauty!

Posted by: SubRosa May 6 2010, 01:05 AM

The Return of the Hypocaust! I could swear that was a monster movie from the 50s... Along with its sequels, Bride of the Hypocaust, and Revenge of the Hypocaust.

Once again, the horses were one of the high points for me. But what really resonates in me from this chapter-part are Julian's recollections of the people of Kvatch, both living and dead.

Finally, a nice sit-down with more of the Blades and a hearty meal. Best of all, no polenta!

All in all, a strong part-o-chapter, that adds up with the rest of this chapter to create a solid foundation upon which to build the rest of Julian's story. In fact, a solid foundation for Julian herself to build the rest of her life upon. Something she has been sorely missing since being discharged from the Legion. I have a feeling that Julian is one of those people who needs the focus of being a part of something, of having a mission, a purpose to direct her life. Now she has it once more.


nits:
I lay for several moments, feeling disoriented by the heavy timbers above and around me. Around me, I saw several Blades moving around the room, some stripping their armor for bed, others rising and dressing for duty.
These two sentences fit together awkwardly, due to the same two words ending one and beginning the next. You could probably just lop off the "around me" from the second sentence, and start it with "I saw several Blades moving around the room..."

Posted by: D.Foxy May 6 2010, 05:42 PM

* has visions of HE Rider being on a diet, and me carrying savoury dish after dish of aromatic food past her nose*

Posted by: Winter Wolf May 7 2010, 07:38 AM

Awesome write Haute, the dialogue flowed oh so smooth. Wow.

Careful, I feel myself about to sneeze.

The conversation about the goblins was great. The dialogue was the exact type of flow and ebb that warriors would use. And don't forget Goblin Jim, he may keep under the radar a bit but that quasi-little ferret is the worst of the lot.

Posted by: haute ecole rider May 7 2010, 06:06 PM

@SubRosa: It's good to see that my hypocaust can still delight you! You have pretty much nailed Julian's character - she has been missing the Legion since her discharge, and has now found something else to fill that void. Yes, she needs to be needed.

@mALX and D.Foxy: sorry to stimulate your appetite! My vulpine friend, if I had known you were on a "die with a t" I would have lingered longer on the meal!

@Winter Wolf: Sorry about your allergies. Now you've got me thinking about how I can fit that little weasel into Julian's fiction! Hmmm!

In this chapter, Julian learns of her new place in the Blades, and of her next task; finding a friend and returning to the place of her incarceration. Warning: do not read on an empty stomach!

******************
Chapter 6.5 A New Task

Stiffly, I rose from the bedroll, casting three healing spells to relieve the aches in my joints. My knee felt stronger, though it still hurt to stand on it. Dressed in my leathers, I headed out to the plaza just in time to see the sun peeking past the tall mountains to the east. In a clear space near the western brazier, I faced the dawn.

Okay, let’s see how much I remember - I started taking deep breaths of the chilly air, feeling the frost all the way down into my abdomen. My eyes following the puffs of my slow exhalations, I centered myself and called up long-buried memories of Jelin’s Way of the Crane. Awkward at first, I persisted through the dance-like movements that focused on balance and centering, on fluidity of movement and flexibility of muscles, on peace of mind and breathing control. Though not as smooth as those of my second pilus prior in the Legion, the forgotten patterns became easier as I worked through the routine.

When I finished, I was warm in spite of my fogging breaths, and felt the most limber I had in years. Now, at my age, I appreciated the value of these exercises that so many of my Legion comrades had dismissed as fancy-pants.

As my awareness returned to myself, I noticed Cyrus watching me from his post beside the front door to the Hall of Blades. “Good morning, Julian,” he greeted me. My cheeks warmed with embarrassment.

“I’m sure I looked pretty foolish just now,” I muttered. With a smile, I met his gaze squarely “Good morning, Cyrus.”

“No, that wasn’t foolish at all,” the big Redguard assured me, his teeth gleaming in the growing dawn. “A little awkward maybe,” he conceded with a shrug, “but some of those moves looked hard.”

“Well,” I moved toward the east wing. “I’m out of shape, so they are harder than they should be.” My hand on the door handle, I glanced back at Cyrus. “See you later, brother.”

Again, his teeth shone. “Later, sister,” he said.

Inside, I found Martin and an armored Blade hunched over mugs of steaming fluid. The priest - no, Emperor - caught my eye and waved for me to join them. After I loaded up a plate with breakfast, I obeyed Martin’s unspoken invitation. The Blade - no, Grandmaster Jauffre! - pushed a mug at me, and held up the klah pitcher with a questioning look.

“Thanks, Grandmaster,” I said, sitting down next to him and across from Martin. “Good morning to both of you.”

“How are you feeling today, Julian?” Jauffre asked as I started into my grub. Smoked boar strips, scrambled eggs seasoned with salt, pepper and scallions, fresh-baked bread covered with amber honey, and yet another red-and-green apple covered my plate, and my stomach craved it all.

“Hmm,” I said around a mouthful of food before swallowing. “Pretty good, actually, sir.” Jauffre and Martin exchanged glances. “Other than being hungry,” I added, a little abashed.

“You’re getting fit,” Jauffre observed, taking a sip of his klah. “You’re not as gaunt and sickly as you were when I first met you over seven days ago.”

With a pause to consider his words, I realized he was right. “I’m surprised, I think,” I said, finally. “I thought I would be slower to regain my strength.” My gaze returned to my plate, and I refilled my fork. “Of course, this is much better than Legion grub, sir.”

Jauffre chuckled. “We’ve got a bunch of youngsters to feed here, Julian,” he commented. Youngsters? These Blades are in their third and fourth decades! As I shot him a look, I caught the flash of humor in his bright eyes. That sparkle faded as he regarded me for a few moments more. “I doubt you’re at your full strength yet, Julian,” he commented. “You’ve lived a hard life before Emperor Uriel found you, and it has taken its toll.”

Uncomfortable about the turn the conversation had taken, I met Martin’s gaze across the table. “And you, Sire, have you been able to sleep?” The dark circles under his eyes still remained.

“No, I still can’t,” he admitted, crossing his arms on the table and setting the cup at his elbow. “Though my appetite is returning. Hopefully that means sleep can’t be too far behind.” Again he and Jauffre exchanged glances. Now what is that all about?

“Grandmaster,” I said to the Breton next to me, “Captain Steffan said that you would decide what my place here is.”

“Ah, yes,” Jauffre nodded, his eyes moving to his mug. “Martin and I were just discussing that. The Amulet of Kings is crucial to things now. Without it, it would be difficult to prove Martin’s claim to the Ruby Throne.”

“Prove his claim?” I repeated, looking at Martin. “Why, anyone who has ever met Uriel Septim would see him in Martin!”

“It’s not so simple,” Martin met my gaze from under level brows. “The Dragonfires are dark, and the Amulet of Kings is necessary to relight them. Without the Dragonfires, the barriers between Nirn and Oblivion are open. That Gate you closed at Kvatch is an example of that failure.”

As I stared at him, my mind skittered over the implications of his statement. “You mean, more Oblivion Gates can open?” I whispered. “There can be more Kvatches?”

Martin nodded, his hazel eyes grim. With a deep breath, I leaned back. “By Akatosh.” Cacat. Cacat! Visions of burned out cities, haunted refugees, crying children flashed through my head, interspersed with images of dremora and tortured soldiers. My heartbeat slowed down, became a dull thud in my chest. No. We can’t let that happen. We have to find the Amulet. “We have to find the Amulet,” I echoed myself, blinking to bring myself back to the present. “But how?”

“That is your next task, Julian,” Jauffre responded. “As a Blades sister, you do realize that you are now under my command.”

“Of course, Grandmaster,” I responded. “That goes without saying, sir.”

“Good, we understand each other,” Jauffre took a sip. “We need to recover the Amulet before the enemy takes it out of our reach. The problem is, we don’t know who the enemy is. I’m hoping Baurus has managed to learn something more about the assassins.” He glanced again at me. “He is still in the Imperial City, investigating them. You can find him at Luther Broad’s Boarding House in the Elven Gardens District.”

“You want me to go find Baurus, learn out what he knows?” I asked.

“Not quite,” Jauffre responded. “I want you to find him, and place yourself under his command. He’ll find some use for you, I’m sure.”

Studying the black liquid in my mug, I considered his words. On the one hand, I found myself delighted to see Baurus again. He had been my first friend in this new life I found myself in. Would he feel the same way about me? His parting words to me gave hope that he indeed felt the same sense of comradeship that I did, the kind of bond that arises during intense combat.

On the other hand, I quailed at the thought of returning to the Imperial City, the place of my incarceration. Still unable to remember the events that led to my imprisonment, I wasn’t sure that I wouldn’t be thrown back into Prison. What if the City Watch recognizes me?

Meeting Jauffre’s steady gaze, I took another breath. “When do you want me to leave, Grandmaster?”

Draining his mug, Jauffre rose to his feet, taking his plate and fork. “As soon as you feel well enough to travel, Julian,” he said. “Time is critical, but you’re no use to us if you push yourself into a breakdown.” He stepped to a dry sink, and placed his dishes on the scratch pile within.

“Then I will leave this morning,” I glanced at Martin. “By your leave, Sire.”

He closed his eyes momentarily, then held my gaze. “Be careful, Julian.” I nodded at him, then rose to my feet to add my own breakfast debris to the dry sink. “I’d hate to lose my companion,” he added behind me. The words shook me. Sun’s Companion. Son’s Companion. As I glanced back at him, still seated at the table, I saw how lonely he looked there.

“I will see you again, Sire,” I put as much conviction as I felt into my voice. Martin lifted his gaze to mine and smiled.

“I do not doubt it, Julian.”

Posted by: mALX May 7 2010, 11:23 PM

I loved all of it, but this line stood out because it is exactly how I felt the first time I played:


"On the other hand, I quailed at the thought of returning to the Imperial City, the place of my incarceration. Still unable to remember the events that led to my imprisonment, I wasn’t sure that I wouldn’t be thrown back into Prison. What if the City Watch recognizes me?"


I remember hiding out in woods to travel, afraid the guards would say "Escaping Prisoner" or something - till my son went into hysterics over it and embarassed me, lol.

Posted by: SubRosa May 7 2010, 11:28 PM

A tasty breakfast. Good thing I read this after dinner. The Blades certainly eat good! Obviously Julian was in the wrong service all this time! Seriously though, Julian is toughening up. Strength which she will certainly need, given what is still to come.

The tai chi-esque exercise was a good touch, especially since you took the extra step to reveal it was more valued by the older soldiers for its value in toning muscle.

“You mean, more Oblivion Gates can open?” I whispered. “There can be more Kvatches?”
Bam! There it is, and the meaning of "Close Shut the jaws of Oblivion." now becomes all too clear. Not just one gate needs closing, but the entire open doorway that now exists between Nirn and the Daedric Realms. Yikes!

Posted by: Destri Melarg May 8 2010, 12:43 AM

I should start by warning you that this is going to be a long post. I am going to try to use it to get myself current with Old Habits again. I swear, a few weeks away and I feel almost like a stranger to this board. You have been warned, let’s get started:

CHAPTER 5.1 Musings in Skingrad

Reading this chapter was like eavesdropping on a quiet conversation between two fascinating people.

I loved the way that you used Martin to anchor Julian in the present. The transitions between her memory and Martin’s questions were just superb.

In the end you have them both make confession to each other. The fact that they do so in a chapel, under the moonlight streaming through the pane-glass window of the God of wisdom, logic, and truth is a subtlety that really resonated with this reader.

Brilliant.

Chapter 5.2 Convalescence

*Destri hears the rhythmic click of tap shoes as haute dances around one of Oblivions glaring inconsistencies.*

This is a very good explanation of the ridiculous idea that you can buy a spell for which you have neither the skill nor the magicka to cast. I still can’t figure out why the game allows you to do that.

I’m also quite impressed with your description of the three components of a spell. It would be interesting to see how you would expand on the teaching of spells if Julian were to join the Mages Guild (blasphemy, I know).

Even if I had not read this before, I would have the feeling that Julian will get ample opportunity to practice restoration in the days to come.

Chapter 5.3 Lunch and Stories

This was another good explanation of why Julian can spontaneously cast the flare spell. With the easy humor that she and Martin share, you can almost feel the friendship forming between the two.

As minque so ably pointed out, your conversations alone are reason enough to want to keep reading. Bringing our haggard travelers to Weye and sitting them down with old Merowald is another fun, wonderful interlude. A lot of writers use these quiet moments in a story to prime their readers for the next moment of crisis, but with you I sense the same care and, I don’t know, respect given to these quiet moments as to your battle sequences.

A professor once gave me a wonderful piece of advice. She said:

“Treat your conversations like battles, and your battles like conversations.”

That seems to be a lesson that you know instinctively.

On a final note: YES!!! Julian finally has to sit there and take some praise! I imagine that she would deal with flying arrows with less discomfort!

Chapter 5.4 Thievery and Death

I echo all the comments already made about this chapter. ‘The Kvatch Wolf’, ‘Dagon’s sight’, Martin’s tendency to dive headlong into battle, all of it works extremely well.

Where I thought this chapter shined, though, was in the aftermath; the policing of the bodies of the assassins, Eronor’s insistence on taking care of Paint and taking the loaded cart to Chorrol himself was a far more eloquent statement of his gratitude than words could ever hope to convey. Finally, the disposition of Prior Maborel’s body was so well-rendered that it brought a lump into my throat. When Paint goes over and sniffs the body . . .

Heart-breaking.

Chapter 6.1 Night Ride

Thank you, thank you, thank you! I was wondering when Julian would address herself to fact that Martin seems to leap into battle far too quickly for a man upon whom so much depends. It must be difficult for him, after all. He goes to bed as a priest of Akatosh; he wakes up the Emperor of Tamriel. Nothing that has happened since the daedric invasion of Kvatch has occurred through Martin’s actions. Maybe jumping recklessly into battle is the only way that he can assert some measure of control over his fate.



*Insert applause here*

Like SubRosa I am struck by the sudden appearance of the raven. That can’t be a good omen.

Chapter 6.2 Dawn Arrival and Chapter 6.3 Captain Steffan

I combine these two chapters because, for me, they are two parts of a whole.

Like Olen said, I was mesmerized by your description of the Temple looming high up in the Jeralls. Martin’s speech when greeted by his new bodyguards held just enough reticence to show us that the reality of his situation has finally started to sink in.

The matter-of-fact way in which Jauffre inducts Julian into the Blades was still effective enough to bring a proud smile to my face. After all, we have followed and rooted for Julian from the depths of the Imperial City Prison to the heights of Cloud Ruler Temple. It almost feels as if our faith in her has been rewarded.

It is at this moment that Captain Steffan steps in. As ever you portray him with just the right amount of gruff confidence. I must confess that I was hoping to see a little more, I don’t know, not resentment but maybe a short, curt attitude towards Julian. I’m sure he, like all the Blades, trust implicitly in the judgment of Grandmaster Jauffre. But deep down it might be nice to see that this is a man who doesn’t think that Julian has earned the right to be a Blade . . . Hero of Kvatch be damned. That is a matter of personal opinion and doesn’t in any way take from the overall quality of your writing in these two chapters.

Chapter 6.4

Awww, I miss the polenta. You say this chapter was an exercise in free typing, eh? In that case you should free type every chance you get. The thing that I liked the most about this was the way you enabled us to get to know each Blade by his/her stances, attitudes, comments, and gestures. By the end of this chapter I had the feeling that Julian had been accepted and welcomed into this very special family who live their lives dedicated to the service of something greater than themselves. As a former member of the Legion, I bet Julian finally feels at home.

Chapter 6.5 A New Task

I remember asking you about Jelin’s Way of the Crane last time so I won’t rehash an old question. What I will comment on is the interplay between Julian and Cyrus, is there something there or should I avoid reading into it? And what about Baurus? Julian calls her feelings for him ‘comradeship’ but they seem to be more than that. I know that right now Julian is lost in the nightmare images of another Kvatch that play havoc with her mind and darken her sleep, but still. Even amidst tragedy we can still find the capacity to love.

Whew! Now I'm all caught up again.

Posted by: Olen May 8 2010, 01:34 PM

Good couple of parts, I'd never noticed the sun's companion/ son's companion thing before.

I'm enjoying Julian's continuing development, you handle it well letting it happen then drawing attention to it once it's done. It makes her quite a complelling read. And now she's going back to the Imperial City... this could be most interesting and I'm interested to see how it goes.

Posted by: haute ecole rider May 9 2010, 08:09 PM

@mALX: heh heh he - hiding from the telepathic guards, huh? Such a Maxical thing to do! No wonder your son cracked up!

@SubRosa: Yes, Julian is in for a tough time - she has no idea yet!

@Destri: Thanks for the fantastic review! Oh, and welcome back!

@Olen: Your thoughts and comments are most appreciated!

Nothing much happens in this chapter, just the sheer exhilaration of a fast ride down the mountainside and wandering thoughts. Something nice and quiet before things pick up again. Enjoy.

*************

Chapter 6.6 On the Road Again

As I stepped out onto the plaza, I caught Fortis’s wave as he ducked Pelagius’s charge. Waving back, I started for the stable, my limp barely slowing me down. My heart felt heavy, unable to shake the feeling that I was abandoning Martin. Don’t be an idiot. These Blades will keep him safe. Somehow I couldn’t bring myself to believe it.

My path intersected Captain Steffan’s patrol. He slowed his stride to match mine, looking down at me from beneath his helm. “How have you settled in here at Cloud Ruler Temple, Julian?”

“Wishing I didn’t have to leave already,” I responded truthfully. “The place is warm inside, and the company even warmer, sir.” With a glance at the distinctive roof line of the Hall of Blades, I shook my head. “This fortress is amazing - unlike any I’ve ever seen.”

“Aye, she’s a beauty, isn’t she?” the captain said, fondness clearly evident in his rough voice. “It’s hard not to admire the stonework. That’s some real craftsmanship.”

“I’m no judge,” I admitted, “but I noticed there is no mortar visible in the joints.”

“That’s because there isn’t any,” Steffan stated. “You can’t fit a knife blade between the stones, they’re so tightly laid.” He gazed proudly around the plaza. “You can travel all of Cyrodiil, nay, all of Tamriel, and never find anything better built than Cloud Ruler Temple.”

“For now, I’ll take your word for it, Captain,” I replied. Pausing outside the stable, I shifted my pack over my shoulder, looking back at the Hall. “Martin will be safe here, won’t he, Captain?” I gave voice to my worry.

Steffan’s gaze, as intensely blue as the sky behind his head, held mine for long seconds. Then he looked away, breathing deeply. “There was a time when I would have assured you of it,” he said quietly. “But after what has happened -” He turned back to me, his eyes and rough voice hard. “But I promise you, there isn’t a single Blade here who won’t die protecting the Emperor.”

“Thank you, Captain,” I said finally. “I believe you.” I did. That worry had eased quite a bit with his words and tone. “Until we meet again, sir.”

“Farewell, Julian,” the captain nodded at me. “Keep your eyes open and your heart true.” He turned from me and resumed his patrol.

“I have Paint ready for you,” Roliand appeared in the doorway of the stable, Paint in tow.

“Thanks,” I said to the tall Nord, hanging my pack from the cantle ring. I checked the bow and the Kvatch Wolf, still attached to the saddle. With a pat on his crested neck, I took Paint’s rein from Roliand.

“Come on, I’ll give you a leg up,” he said, putting his hands together beside Paint’s girth. “Put your left knee in my hands, and I’ll boost you up.”

With a moment’s hesitation, I did as he said. When my hand rested on the pommel, I glanced at Roliand. “Ready, Julian?” he asked me. I nodded.

Then I flew upward, barely keeping the presence of mind to swing my right leg over the cantle before I started returning to earth. Thanks to Roliand’s steadying grip on my left knee, I managed to make a soft landing on Paint’s back. Breathless, I looked down at his laughing grin.

“That was on purpose, wasn’t it?” I commented dryly.

“You’re in the saddle now, sister,” he returned, clapping my left knee. With a step back, he saluted me, fist to chestplate. “May your sword always strike true.”

Chirruping to Paint, I guided him toward the stone stairs leading down to the tall gates. He walked down the steep steps without hesitation, sure-footed and confident. Difficult terrain is easy for him, being mountain-born and -bred. Grateful for Paint’s sturdy bones, I remembered the other horses’ finer limbs.

We reached the tall gates and walked through. I patted Paint’s neck fondly as he stepped onto the mountain road. I’m glad Prior Maborel gave you to me. He tossed his head, as if agreeing with my thoughts, and his back rounded up beneath me.

Curious about what it was he wanted to do, I eased up on the reins. With no further prompting from me, Paint bounded into a wonderful, rocking canter down the steep mountain road. The sheer exhilaration of our rapid descent took my breath away, and my heart pounded as I took hold of the high pommel with my right hand.

After a couple of strides, I relaxed into the rocking motion of Paint’s back, keeping my legs quiet at his sides. Paint slowed a little when we reached the bottom of the slope, but did not break out of the canter as he took the sharp bend. He followed the road towards the North Gate, and faltered only when we approached the fork where the path wound along the city walls. I leaned the rein against the right side of his neck, and Paint smoothly glided left to take the path. His body shifted under me as he took the curves in stride.

Reveling in his powerful canter, I did not stop as we neared the East Gate, only steered the gelding onto the Silver Road. His hooves pounded the cobblestones rhythmically as we followed the road. He did not slow down to a walk until we reached the junction of the Orange and Silver Roads. With a hard snort, he tossed his head and bounced a little, as if to say, well, that was fun, haven’t done that in a long time.

His obvious pleasure made me laugh out loud, even though my eyes automatically scanned the area around us for enemies. The sunlight cascaded warmly around us, and the air grew warmer as we continued onto the southern half of the Silver Road. As Paint settled into a marching walk, I looked up and noticed the vista opening up before us, anchored by the White Gold Tower. It fascinated me that I could look almost directly down into the Imperial City from the heights in the Jeralls.

That’s the mark of the Ayleids, I mused. They built their cities to be visible for miles, as a way to assert their dominance over their slaves. How hard was it for Alessia’s forces to capture that city? How long did they besiege it before it fell? How many warriors died taking it?

The snow faded into green grass and blooming shrubs. Trees changed from towering pines and aspens to spreading beech and oak. The air grew softer, milder. Our breaths became invisible. Bird song changed, from the chirping of sparrows and the croaking of ravens, to the melodies of larks and the laughter of jays. Butterflies became larger and more colorful. Scents rose on the warming air, the scents of honeysuckle and wild roses, rich loam and animal dung.

And Cloud Ruler Temple, who built that? It is so different, so unique. I’ve never seen anything like it. Maybe Captain Steffan is right, there’s nothing else like it. I should ask him more about it. I liked looking at buildings, identifying the different styles. I had already noticed the regional variation within Cyrodiil itself, much as I had found it elsewhere during my postings. Yet Cloud Ruler Temple followed its own rules. How did they get those massive stone blocks up that steep mountainside? How did they get stones fitted so tightly that mortar is unneeded? And where did they find such massive timbers for the framing?

“Well, Paint,” I said, rubbing the gelding’s coarse mane affectionately. “I guess we’ll never know, won’t we?” He just flicked an ear back at me without faltering in his stride.

Posted by: SubRosa May 9 2010, 08:59 PM

Now I have Willie Nelson on the mind, thanks to your title...

Julian's feeling of abandoning Martin at the beginning was moving. Once again we see she is the Son's Companion.

“You can travel all of Cyrodiil, nay, all of Tamriel, and never find anything better built than Cloud Ruler Temple.”
A certain stringy wood elf still argues that Nerussa is built better...

How hard was it for Alessia’s forces to capture that city? How long did they besiege it before it fell? How many warriors died taking it?
I have been reading some Ayleid stuff lately, and it was basically one guy. Pelinal Whitestrake, who stormed the tower single-handedly and killed the Ayleid King. You can tell that was written by a modern American male...

Ahh, the wild ride down the mountains! This is one of my all time favorite parts of OHDH, featuring my two favorite characters bonding in an experience that would typically be overlooked by most writers. Your riding skillz show through in the writing, and really makes the ride come alive.

You mentioned Paint being mountain-born and bred. Have you ever thought about going into more depth on the breeds of horses in Tamriel? Obviously many modern names could not be used, like Arabians, but some could be squeezed in (I think it reasonable for Bretons to have breeds named Percherons, Brabants, and of course Bretons. Cyrodiil might have the Shire, and generic names like Quarter Horse and Thoroughbred would still work.), and others just invented. I can see the desert horses of Hammerfell (called Alik'rs?) and Elsweyr being the hot bloods, like our Arabians and Barbs. Then cold bloods native to places like Cyrodiil, and warm blood mixes all over. It is something I would go into more depth on in the TF, but being that Teresa does not know how to ride and is not likely to ever learn, horses are not really a focus of mine.

Posted by: Olen May 9 2010, 09:06 PM

You show how at home she feels in cloud ruler well with her thoughts and conversations on leaving, it shows quite a lot of her. How she never recovered from being in the Legion then not being and how she's finding herself again.

There was more of her improving mood with the ride down the hill, sounded terrifying to me but she seemed to enjoy it

I'm still looking forward to seeing the Imperial City again.

Posted by: minque May 9 2010, 10:51 PM

Ahhh, what a good read, now just before bedtime! Calmly you take the story forward, with those utmost superb conversations....it's a sheer pleasure to read, you know!

Btw....do you have a pic of Julian? I've heard she'd be a redguard with white hair? that sounds amazing...

waiting to see Jules!!

Posted by: SubRosa May 9 2010, 11:51 PM

Way back in http://chorrol.com/forums/index.php?showtopic=4423&st=40#

Posted by: mALX May 10 2010, 05:22 AM

On the road again...just can't wait to get on the road again...the life I love is making music with my friends...and I can't wait to get on the road again!

Try getting it out of your head now!

You have really given Cloud Ruler Temple itself and also its inhabitants such great personalities!!!

Posted by: Winter Wolf May 10 2010, 07:16 AM

Cloud ruler temple is an amazing place. The only thing that it doesn't seem to have is a lock on the front door. Bloody thing is always open everytime I rock up to the place. With daedra prowling the land it just doesn't make sense.....

I loved the description on the journey south. The birds, the flowers, the fall of the land. Awesome !!

Just a question. What level would Julian be at this point?

Posted by: Destri Melarg May 10 2010, 09:54 AM

In this chapter I see the same quality in Paint that I imagine exists in the rented mules that ferry people down the trail of the Grand Canyon. You know, that sort of ‘I know the trail’ confidence that makes it seem as if they would much rather the idiot on their back just close his eyes and enjoy the ride than try some feeble attempt at steering. It was nice to see that Julian has developed enough trust in Paint that she is willing to just let go.

A few things that caught my eye:

This truly is a minor nitpick, but you could probably get rid of the first utterance of the word ‘blue’ in this sentence.



One of my favorite things about Julian’s story is her fascinating lapses into reverie. Her tendency to wonder at the rich history of Cyrodiil really makes the enormity of her world come to life.

Posted by: haute ecole rider May 12 2010, 04:46 PM

@SubRosa: Thanks for your insights. I can not read (or listen to) Steffan's comments about the craftsmanship of Cloud Ruler without your comment echoing in my mind. As for how White Gold Tower fell to Alessia's forces, well, Julian is likely aware of the story of Pelinal Whitestrake. Being Legion herself, she knows all too well how stories of combat become unrecognizable as the truth. Just listen to Farwil Indarys's account of how his Knights of the Thorn decimated the daedra inside the Cheydinhal Gate! As for the breeds of horses, I found basing breed on color to be simplistic, but I recognize that most people can not tell the difference between a piebald and a skewbald, or a Paint and a Pinto, let alone a Thoroughbred and an Arabian. I wanted to highlight some of the other not so obvious differences between the breeds. The Cheydinhal blacks are definitely of a Thoroughbred type, while the chestnuts make me think more of Saddlebreds. The bays are likely reminiscent of generic warmbloods, however the Legion bays are definitely Selle Francais. As for Paints, well, they're most like Paints/Quarter Horses, natch. The white ones are Morgan/Lippizaners - the baroque type. I've seen Slof's horses, and some of them strongly resemble the draft horses (Belgians, Percherons, Clydesdales, Shires). Likely I will expand on bloodlines and breeding for specific types and purposes later in the story.

@Olen: I think you've pretty much summed up her character at this point most precisely. Being out of the Legion has left a void in her soul, and she is trying to fill it back up. The Blades, or at least the garrison at Cloud Ruler Temple, is doing a good job of it. As for the ride down the mountainside, I'm glad I've conveyed the terror of a headlong gallop, and hope that I've conveyed the trust Julian has in this mountain-bred horse of hers. The first time I rode in the mountains (on a rented horse, no less), I pretty much let the horse pick his own way. I just pointed him in the direction I wanted him to go, and left him alone. It's the safest way to do it! One can not micromanage a horse, nor should one try.

@minque: So glad to see your comments! It lets me know you're still reading Julian. As I PM'd you, and as SubRosa pointed out, there is already a screenie earlier in the thread.

@mALX: It's a good thing I'm not familiar with Willie Nelson! I've had problems with earworms in the past, and they're not always enjoyable! I'm glad you still enjoy visiting Cloud Ruler Temple. Julian and I wish we could stay there forever (though my motives are somewhat different from hers - )!

@Winter Wolf: He he! I always wondered why the city gates are always closed, no matter the hour of the day, and Cloud Ruler is always open! Cloud Ruler has a permanent watch on the gate (Achilles), he can always call down to have the gates opened when he recognizes someone in the driveway; yet I can always get in the cities though there isn't always an obvious gate guard. Go figure! As for what level Julian is at this point, I'm not strictly following gameplay. Based on the enemies appearing here, she'd be about a Level 3 or so, and will probably be about 10 or 11 at the end of the MQ. However, I'm not following the strict leveling system of the game, as it feels so artificial to me. Instead, I'm letting Julian develop at her own pace, regardless of what is appearing in the world.

@Destri: I think you have nailed Julian's relationship with Paint (and I think your average mule is way smarter than the majority of the tourists). Paint is the perfect horse for novice riders - confident, sensible, and just plain fun. I'll have to warn you, though, eventually, Julian outgrows Paint, and will have to move on to another horse. At some point in the far future, you will be introduced to her next steed. And this one will gladly run up the Chapel steps and take on the daedra with Julian! However, at her present level of riding, that's just too much horse for her. I have fixed your nit, I agree it reads better without the repetition. And I'm glad you enjoy the peek at Julian's private reveries.


The next chapter describes an encounter with a Legion rider. Being Legion herself, Julian always tries to keep on their good side. Makes life (and traveling) so much easier . . .

************************
Chapter 6.7 Marc Atellus

The sounds of combat reached us as we approached the white arches of an Ayleid ruin to the left, where the Silver Road joined the Red Ring Road. A Legion bay stood in front of the ruin near the road. I stopped Paint next to him and dismounted, collecting the Kvatch Wolf from the cantle. My katana drawn, I followed the sounds into the ruins.

Within a damaged colonnade, I found the tents of a camp. Two men in heavy armor battled a Legion rider, arrows bristling in his steel plate. The twanging of a bowstring to my left drew my attention to a catwalk around the colonnade. Oblivious to my presence, a red-haired Imperial archer notched another arrow to her weapon. Using a nearby broken column as an impromptu step, I hobbled onto the springy boards of the catwalk. She caught my approach and dropped her bow in time to draw her dagger. Without hesitation, I charged her as swiftly as my bum knee would let me.

While I had the advantage with the longer reach of my katana, she was quick, and well armored with a steel cuirass. Ducking my first swing, she closed in with her dagger swooping low. As I skipped back out of its arc, I tapped her in the back of her bare head with the hilt before she could draw away. She staggered, but somehow kept her feet and retreated a couple of steps.

In the corner of my eye, the rider felled one of the two marauders he faced, and took a heavy blow on his shoulder from the remaining fighter. In front of me, the woman made her charge, but I stepped to my right, deflecting her weapon on my shield. As she stumbled past me, I stabbed the tip of my blade into her side, between the front and back of her cuirass. She groaned as I pulled the sword out, her dagger skittering away off the catwalk as she fell. Just to be certain, I stabbed her exposed throat.

My good knee flexed to absorb the shock of my landing, I jumped down and hobbled toward the two men still battling it out. The Nord towered over me, his bare head higher than my own. My katana moved low and slashed across the exposed backs of his knees. When he staggered and dropped to his knees, the horseman’s blade flashed across the marauder’s exposed throat. As the Nord dropped with a clatter of steel plate, I locked eyes with the rider.

Distrust flared in the other’s eyes, and I quickly put my katana away. “Are you hurt, sir?” I asked breathlessly. He inhaled deeply, taking a wary look around before sheathing his sword. Without answer, he started yanking arrows out of his steel plate in disgust. When he pulled on one embedded in his left greave, he caught his breath. The rider limped to the broken column I had used previously, and half-sat, half leaned against it, dropping his shield with a clatter. Following him, I took a closer look at the wound. Blood seeped through the quilted underpinning of the steel plate, around the shaft of the arrow.

“My name is Julian,” I offered. “May I help you, sir?”

“Just pull it out,” he growled between clenched teeth. As I knelt next to him, I lowered the Kvatch Wolf to the ground. My left hand braced against the padding around the arrow, I gripped the shaft with my right.

“Count to three, sir,” I said.

“One, OW!” he bellowed as I yanked the arrowhead out. With a groan he leaned against the stone arch behind him. “Oh, frick, what happened to two?”

My dagger made quick work of cleaning the padding from around the wound as I carefully picked out the fibers that had embedded into the flesh with the arrowhead. I kept pressure on the gash while I groped beneath my leather cuirass for some of the red wool from the assassin’s robe. Folded down, it made a suitable, if colorful, dressing, the long ends tied around his thigh. The rider looked at me as I leaned back.

He had removed his helm, and his craggy, weathered face registered pain. His grey eyes considered me in appraisement. While I returned his regard, I found him to be about my own age, though he still had strength and agility to spare in his movements.

“I’m surprised you would help me, ma’am,” he remarked, still breathing hard. Wiping the sweat from his face, he locked gazes with me again. “Not that I’m ungrateful, mind.”

“Why wouldn’t I help you, sir?” I rose to my feet and reached into my belt pouch. “After all, we both serve the Emperor.”

The last vestiges of distrust faded from the horseman’s eyes, to be replaced by sadness. “We did,” he corrected. “Now we serve no one.”

Not I - I serve the Emperor still. “But isn’t the Emperor more than just the man?” I asked, drawing out a vial of healing potion. “Isn’t the Emperor an idea, too, the idea of empire, an empire of peace and prosperity?”

He tilted his head thoughtfully at me, scrubbing at his bristled salt-and-pepper scalp. “Odd hearing such talk from a Redguard,” he muttered. Silently, I handed him the potion. On a sudden smile, his grey eyes warmed at me. “Thanks for helping me, ma’am. I would have been hurt much worse had you not come along and finished that archer for me.” He gave me a loose salute, brushing his right fist against his chestplate. “Marc Atellus, at your service.” He uncorked the vial and gulped down the vile liquid.

“Hey, us Legion soldiers have to stick together, don’t we?” I returned his smile as he handed the vial back to me.

“You’re Legion?” his eyes sharpened at me. “Carrying a Kvatch Wolf,” he pointed at my shield, “and, if I’m not mistaken, an Akaviri katana?”

“Well, I was discharged a few years ago,” I admitted. “But old habits die hard, sir.” I picked up the shield and slid it onto my left forearm. “I got this for assisting the Kvatch Guard.”

His gaze darkened. “Terrible news, that,” he muttered. “The whole town destroyed, overrun by daedra.”

Still winded, I leaned against an upturned stone block next to Atellus. “Not anymore, sir.” I remarked, avoiding his stare.

“So that’s how you assisted the Guard?” Now Atellus regarded the hilt of the katana at my side. “May I see that blade, Julian?” he asked, addressing me by name for the first time. “I’ve seen them, but never handled one.”

Initially I hesitated, but saw only open curiosity on the rider’s face. The katana whispered as I drew it. I handed it to him, hilt first. He hefted the blade thoughtfully, then swished it experimentally through the air. Its song as the weapon carved intricate figures of reflected sunlight was almost audible from where I sat. Flipping the weapon, he caught the blade in his gauntleted hand and extended the grip back to me.

“Thanks, ma’am,” he said. “Pretty light, but that blade looks wicked keen. I’m told it keeps its edge better than our own silver longswords,” he slapped his own hilt for emphasis. “What did you do to get an Akaviri katana?”

The sword put away, I glanced sidelong at him. “Assisted the Blades, sir,” I answered after a moment. Atellus rubbed at the stubble along his jaw.

“Is there anyone you didn’t assist?” he remarked, his tone deceptively casual. I pointed at the marauders.

“Them, sir,” I responded. Atellus guffawed loudly, clapping me on the shoulder and nearly knocking me off my block.

“Ach, you’re all right,” he grinned at me. Then his smile faded into somberness. “The Blades were supposed to protect the Emperor. They failed.” It took considerable self control to bite my tongue against the inclination to defend Baurus and the others. “That’s not to say the Legion would have fared better,” Atellus added softly. Silently I regarded the armor encasing the dead marauders.

“Lowest scum,” Atellus had caught my gaze. “But good source of heavy armor, if you can kill ‘em for it.”

I slapped my own cuirass. “No, thanks, sir, I like Batul gra-Sharob’s work too well.”

Again that hearty guffaw. Atellus rose, careful of his injured leg. Tentatively he tested it, then grinned at me. “Just a flesh wound, it’ll heal in a heartbeat.”

Thoughtfully I regarded him, then reached into my belt pouch again. “Do you have any more healing potions, sir?” He shook his head.

“Nay, I used the last of it up by Fingerbowl Cave, and haven’t had a chance to resupply.” His eyes lit up when I handed him my last two vials. “By the Nine, you would share your healing potions?”

“I don’t have the willpower to cast a convalescence spell on you yet,” I answered dryly. “Though I’m told that with a little practice on myself, I ought to be able to.”

His eyes on my face, Atellus drank down the potions and handed back the empty vials. Gesturing at my left cheek, he grinned. “There’s some practice right there. That archer got you with her dagger, it seems.”

My fingertips felt the blood where he had indicated. “I didn’t notice,” I muttered, quickly casting a healing spell on myself.

“Aye, the way you fight,” Atellus’s tone took on an admiring note, “you wouldn’t notice anything so slight. You have more grievous wounds that hurt like the dickens, the way you move.” He started out of the camp. I rose to my feet and trailed him back to where the horses waited. “I’m headed to Roxey Inn,” he continued, waving eastward. “Are you going that way, ma’am?”

“No, sir, I’m headed to the Imperial City,” I answered, picking up Paint’s rein and leading him to one of the interminable blocks scattered around the ruin. “I think I’m going west.”

Atellus mounted his horse slowly, with some effort. With a slow exhalation, he waited until I had clambered onto Paint. “I’ve cleared the road as far as Aleswell,” he pointed up the hill to the west of us. “Nice inn there,” he frowned at a sudden thought, “though I haven’t seen anyone there for a while. I’m starting to hear stories from travelers that the place is haunted. Don’t make sense, though,” he added that last to himself. Grinning at me, he gave me a casual Legion salute. “Travel safe, and by the Nine, stay on the roads!”

“All right, Atellus, I will,” I answered.

“And thanks again, Julian, for your unexpected assistance!” he called back as we parted ways.

Posted by: Destri Melarg May 12 2010, 07:11 PM

Once again we see the easy fashion in which Julian makes friends. I am with Atellus, is there anyone that Julian doesn't assist (apart from the marauders, I mean)? Your description of the battle was terrific, I always wondered why an archer would draw a dagger on an opponent with a sword and shield. Talk about bringing a knife to a sword fight!

You have just described the removal of every loose tooth, splinter, and burr of my youth. I cringed reading it!


I really like how you are able to sum up hundreds of years of lingering animosity with a sentence of seven words. Being from Anvil, I doubt that Julian would foster the hatred in her heart that someone born into a Crown household in Hegathe might have.


*Insert applause here*


Her initial hesitation tells us all we need to know about how Julian feels about surrendering her weapon. I am a little surprised that Atellus would even ask, knowing her to be former Legion (of course, that might be why he feels comfortable asking).


I like how you incorporated the in game dialogue here.

This was an excellent chapter the first time I read it. Familiarity does not diminish my enjoyment. More please!

Posted by: mALX May 12 2010, 07:28 PM

Julian ROCKS! She comes across so natural the reader can't help but become attached to her!

Posted by: SubRosa May 12 2010, 07:35 PM

Chapter 6 has been all about laying foundations. This installment is no different, in that we see Julian creating solid relationships with the legionaries who patrol the roads. Something I am sure we will see more of in the future, given how much she will have to travel during the MQ.


a red-haired Imperial archer notched another arrow to her weapon
So is Athynae making her OHDH appearance here?

Another exciting battle. I was wondering if you might have gone back and edited in that brilliant move that the one left-handed samurai used in When The Last Sword Is Drawn, where he struck the guy in the chest, and then moved behind him and stabbed him through the back before he could fall. I would have to watch that scene again to remember exactly what he did, but I am sure you recall the one I mean.

I see Julian is also practicing her jumping. Good thing, considering what is ahead of her in the sewer!

“Oh, frick, what happened to two?”
Indeed, most people at least wait until two to pull it out on a three count! That Julian is a tricksy hobbit...

I’m told it keeps its edge better than our own silver longswords,
Just an idea that you can use or freely ignore, but I have decided not to use silver weapons in the TF, as the metal is really not suited to it. Instead I am replacing them with mithril ones. It goes with the armor that is already out there, looks the same (for screenshots), and is a lot more believable.

Posted by: Olen May 12 2010, 08:26 PM

I can't really think of what to say except excellent as always. It shows how far Julian has come since escaping in many ways that she can (and does) wade in and help out a legionaire. She'll be getting quite a name among them...

The fight was well done and a clear demonstration of why it is vastly preferable to have two people in a fight rather than one (it always puzzled me that the road patrols travelled alone).

Interesting point on the silver longswords, I'm quite sure steel would hold a better edge... unless magic was involved . Saying that I'd always imagined them to be some sort of combination, like a steel sword but with silver decor on the blade (though that would be extremely difficult to do giving the tempertaure required to melt silver is similar to that to temper steel).

Posted by: Acadian May 13 2010, 01:20 AM

Just caught up again with 6.4 - 6.7. Julian's story continues to be a wonderful read. Very rich. I love your first person POV of course.

Posted by: haute ecole rider May 14 2010, 06:38 PM

@Destri: I'm glad you picked up on the multiple layers in this interchange between Julian and Atellus. He's relatively uncomplicated, and a good man to know (unlike a certain rider near Skingrad). He does bring out the best in Julian's character i.e. her tendency to help others that need it.

@mALX and Acadian: Thanks for continuing to read this!

@SubRosa: The red-headed Imperial archer is not Athynae - I wouldn't make Trey's wonderful lady into a mere marauder in my fiction! As for the maneuver you described from the movie, I think I know the one you mean. That left handed swordsman is amazing in those fight scenes, I think. As for silver weapons, I find them quite useless for the most part. They do as much damage as steel, if I remember correctly, yet weigh much more than steel. Julian ends up keeping her katana throughout the MQ.

@Olen: It shows how far Julian has come since escaping in many ways that she can (and does) wade in and help out a legionaire. She'll be getting quite a name among them... More prophetic words have not been spoken! As for the steel vs. silver debate, as I said above, I find silver to be awfully heavy for the amount of damage it inflicts. Though not necessarily true in-game, I've always visualized the katanas (and dai-katanas) as being of better quality manufacture than the standard steel swords, the way the samurai or the Damascene blades were better than the standard swords - it's all in the forging. Oh, and I hope you enjoy this next chapter, considering how you've been looking forward to her return to the Imperial City.

Now Julian confronts her worry about whether or not she will be recognized as the brawling drunk that got herself kicked out of the City, only to be arrested in Weye and thrown into the Prison. She also sees the City through sober eyes for the first time.

*********************
Chapter 7.1: A Walk Through the City

Leaving Paint with Merowald in Weye, I limped across the Great Bridge and trudged up the steep road to the Imperial City entrance. A Watchman met my gaze, and I saw recognition in his eyes.

“Hello, Julian,” he greeted me. “That was a nice thing you did for Merowald, ma’am.” The Watchman I met at the Wawnet Inn.

“It was the least I could do, since he took such good care of Paint,” I answered. “I know next to nothing about horses, and that was my first day in the saddle.”

His eyebrows lifted under the steel helm. “Really?” he remarked. “Could’ve fooled me.” He tilted his head at the open gates just behind him. “Business in the City?”

“Yes, sir.” My eyes moved to the massive portal before me as I nodded. Here goes nothing. Either I get thrown into jail, or I find Baurus.

“See you around, Julian,” the Watchman said, his eyes already scanning the traffic moving in and out of the City. I let the flow carry me within the white walls.

Moving to the curb, I paused to take a look around. Ahead, wide steps led up to a circular colonnade which sheltered a rearing dragon. Tall mansions surrounded the statue, their ornate facades complementing the style of the rotunda, their bronze doors gleaming in the late afternoon light.

The smell of stone dust, sun on lichen, the sweat from numerous bodies assailed my nose after the clean air on the road. Heat shimmered off the pavements and marble walls, overcoming the slight lake breeze that crept in the open gates.

Voices and footsteps swirled between the buildings and crested along the high walls like the high tide running through the coastal chimneys of my childhood in Anvil. High Rock, Skyrim, Wrothgarian accents competed with myriad other dialects I didn’t recognize. Street urchins and ragged Khajiits darted through the chaos.

Stop gawking like a country bumpkin, Julian, I told myself. It’s not like it’s the first large city you’ve ever been in. Looking for someone I could ask for directions, I locked gazes with a Watchman, his plate armor adding to the commotion as he clanked toward me. My heart started pounding, and my palms collected all the moisture from my mouth. Please, Akatosh, let him be going somewhere else. He stopped in front of me, his gaze traveling from my white hair to the Kvatch Wolf on my left arm to my dusty boots. I ignored the voice in my head screaming Run! and held my ground, breathing deeply.

His level gaze returned to mine, containing only a neutral alertness. His sword remained sheathed at his side. “Good day, ma’am,” he said, his quiet voice carrying well in the babble of the street. “What brings you to the Imperial City?”

“I’ve been traveling all day, sir,” hoping the nerves I felt didn’t show in my voice, I answered as quietly. “I’ve been told that Luther Broad’s Boarding House is a good place to stay, but I don’t know where it is.”

“That’s in the Elven Gardens District, ma’am,” he responded. “You’re in the Talos Plaza District.” He pointed at the tall dragon statue in the center of the round piazza ahead. “Turn left at the Dragon, follow Talos Way. Go through the gates at the end, you’ll be in the Elven Gardens then. Continue down Garden Way, that’s what the main street is called there, to the center. You’ll find Luther’s on the left hand side at the intersection with Home Street.”

“Thanks, sir,” I nodded, recalling that the Imperial City was laid out like a wheel.

“You’ll find Luther’s to be comfortable,” he assured me, before turning to the Watchmen standing near the gates in the outer wall. With a stifled sigh of relief, I headed toward the plaza.

Diving back into the traffic, I trudged up the steps to the towering statue of Akatosh. Turning left at the open rotunda, I identified Talos Way by its gentle curve and started northward. The daylight faded fast, brought on by the overcast gathering above. The air grew more oppressive, more humid. Around me, the streetlights began glowing, set alit one by one. A petite Breton woman, clad in a mage apprentice robe, cast a pinpoint flare at the next lantern. The glowing flame settled within its iron cage and grew into a snapping, crackling torch fire that filled the entire fixture. She caught me watching and smiled, not pausing in her task.

The open gates dividing the two quarters appeared before me as I limped along Talos Way. The traffic of people trickled away, and I realized that the dinner hour was upon us. It was full dark by the time I reached the gates and passed through, avoiding the gazes of the Watchmen standing guard on either side of the portal.

“It’s going to storm,” one guard said to his counterpart on the other side of the portal. “I can feel it in my joints.”

“You can feel everything in your joints,” the other growled back. “I think it’s just your rhoomatik talking.”

“And my rhoomatik knows everything,” the first shot back. He caught my involuntary glance as I walked past. “Ma’am.”

My limping stride paused as I regarded the weathered face of the older Watchman, the boyish visage of the other. I couldn’t resist the repartee. “Actually, my nose says it’s going to storm,” I added, laying my finger along my thrice-broken appendage. “I can smell it.”

The younger Watchman grumbled something about old folks as I winked at the weathered face and continued on. They don’t recognize me, or they don’t care, as long as I don’t make any trouble. Smiling to myself, I continued deeper into the Elven Gardens.

The air here was softer, less oppressive, the buildings set back from the streets. Small gardens fronted each residence, smaller than those in the Talos Plaza, but still ornate in their decorations and design. The doors here were clad in copper, rather than the bronze of the more wealthy district, but still beautiful with that distinctive verdigris patina. Lush roses, fragrant jasmine, and showy morning glory climbed the lower levels of the residences, while perky primroses bloomed alongside the curb.

Dark green magnolias and brilliant red dwarf maples arched over the street and stood guard beside the stoops leading to those copper doors. In spite of the overcast, the atmosphere of the district was inviting, clean, and cheerful.

Ahead, triple-armed streetlamps marked the center of the district, casting a warm yellow light on the surrounding plantings. On one corner, a sign above a large double door announced The King and Queen Tavern. Across the smaller Home Street, Luther Broad’s Boarding House topped a single green-patinaed door. The rain started falling as I crossed the street and opened the door.

Posted by: Olen May 14 2010, 07:06 PM

I good description of the Imperial City but still no Baurus, I want to see how you potray him .

Brilliant. Especially the sun of lichen, an unusual observation but all the more evocative for it. I'd have never thought of mentioning that smell but it really brings the place alive.

I liked the gate guards. rhoomatik , a little homage to Pratchett per chance?

Good stuff.

Posted by: SubRosa May 14 2010, 07:51 PM

A Watchman met my gaze
So was that The Comedian? Nite Owl? Ozymandius?

I ignored the voice in my head screaming Run! and held my ground, breathing deeply.
Reminds me of a certain stringy Bosmer her first time back in the IC as well. I think we were all there our first time playing the game, when we had no idea what would happen the first time we met a guardsman after escaping from the prison.

One of the things I liked in this was how you created street names. Talos Way, Garden Way, Elm Street (watch for the burned guy with the claws...), etc... It is a small thing, but little things like that, and the apprentice lighting the lamps, add up to weave a strong setting.

And now on to Luther, I hear he has the best broads in the city! Then of course Baurus, James Baurus...

Posted by: Destri Melarg May 15 2010, 12:42 AM

My first impression upon reading this chapter was that I, like Olen, was drawn in by your description of the Imperial City, but it did raise a question. Is this Julian’s first time in the city proper? I know that you made a point of saying that her last visit to the city was done under the debilitating effect of skooma. And we have all witnessed the fact that she has a great familiarity with the dungeon and the catacombs beneath it. It comes as a surprise to me that she describes the city as if she were coming into it for the first time in her life. I would imagine that even under a skooma haze, familiar surroundings remain familiar.

Then I read this line:

Isn’t it nice when reading something raises a question in your mind that is answered only a few paragraphs down the page?

SubRosa already addressed the wonderful detail of the street names. Let me add to her praise by saying that the Breton woman lighting the street lamps was an especially nice touch.


This poor guard has no idea just how true that statement is!

Posted by: mALX May 15 2010, 03:05 AM

I like Julian's inner dialogue. She doesn't chatter to herself, but she is thinking constantly - another great chapter !!!!

Posted by: minque May 15 2010, 10:27 PM

Hautie! This is amazing! Julian really is one of a kind....love it, just love it!

Everyone makes so extensive comments and as I agree with most of it, I'll jusrt say....


S.G.M

Posted by: haute ecole rider May 16 2010, 06:06 PM

@Olen: Ahh, the smell of sun on lichen - I wanted to capture the hot sun on this late summer's day, and the feel of a city sweltering in the last gasp of the dog days. According to my story calendar, it's 6 Hearthfire. Around here, we often get one last hot day or two in the week after Labor Day weekend (the first weekend in September for those who don't live in the US). I figured describing it that way would evoke that same feeling for others. I've never read Pratchett, to my dying chagrin, but my Dad always pronounced it as rhoomatik. Oh, and heeeeere's Baurus!

@SubRosa: Do you have the same graphic novel I do? I think of it sometimes, but no, nothing to do with the Watchmen. I've heard the same thing about Luther, too!

@Destri: Actually, Julian never made it across the Great Bridge until she was arrested in Weye. At that time, she was too out of it to remember more than a mishmash of impressions. So, this was actually her first time in the Imperial City under her own volition.

@mALX: Thanks for the compliment. Yes, Julian is a thinker, but she's no chatterbox.

@minque: Getting a S.G.M. from you is quite the honor! I do hope you'll write more Serene - she's an amazing character and I have enjoyed reading her story. In response to your comment on another thread, please don't be shy about your writing. I really enjoy how Serene gets put through the wringer and manages to hang on to her best qualities and only grows stronger.

Things start to pick up again, as Julian finds her first friend in her new life. And yes, there is a broad in Luther’s.

******************
Chapter 7.2 Finding Baurus

Within the warm interior, I paused to look around. The large common room contained comfortable chairs and benches around tables of varying sizes, most of them occupied by small groups of patrons. Animated conversations, punctuated by laughter, added to the cheerful atmosphere. The bar, set in the back next to a flight of stone stairs headed up to a second floor, had few open stools, the rest taken up by patrons in varying stages of inebriation.

My gaze lingered on a dour Breton man seated by himself in the rear corner opposite the bar, reading a book. He stood out like a minotaur in a crockery shop. I eyed the other patrons again. A few Redguards were sprinkled through the gathering, all in nondescript street clothes. How would I know Baurus? I’ve never seen him out of armor, without his helm.

A buxom serving-lass, cleavage emphasized by a tight-laced bodice, wove her way between the tables. She paused to empty her tray of ale-glasses with a group of three men, and stopped before me. A winsome smile on her rosy lips belied the canny eye she cast at me. “Table or bar?” she asked, pitching her voice to be heard over the constant cacophony.

Glancing at the bar again, I spotted an empty seat next to a burly Redguard. I couldn’t be certain, but I thought I saw the glimmer of a katana at the man’s left hip. “Bar, I think,” I said to her. The wench pouted.

“Luther’ll take care of you, then,” she said, waving for me to seat myself. I almost apologized to her, but bit my lip. She’s earning enough tips from these patrons.

A stout Imperial man regarded me with brown eyes beneath white arched brows as I set my shield down against the bar and perched on the stool. Grey hair in a fringe above his ears emphasized the egg shape of his head. He set the glass he was wiping down. “What’d ya have, ma’am?”

My stomach emphatically reminded me that I had not had anything to eat, other than a few slices of waybread in the saddle, since breakfast that morning at Cloud Ruler Temple. My dry throat insisted on satisfaction before permitting the thought of eating. “I’ll have water, sir,” I said. “For now.”

One brow climbed into his forehead as Luther Broad regarded me sardonically. “How would you like that, ma’am?” he remarked. “On the rocks, with a brandy chaser, or a twist of lime? How about an infusion of ginger?” Some of the barbirds stopped their conversation long enough to listen. “Oh, wait, let me guess,” Broad held up a finger, “a couple of drops of citrus oil, with a garnish of mint?”

Aware of the growing attention on me, I held the Imperial’s gaze steadily. “How’s your well, sir?”

His eyes narrowed at me.”Spring-fed, and clean, ma’am.”

“Then that’s how I’ll take it, sir,” I countered. Chuckles rippled up and down the bar as the barkeep grinned at me. He picked up a clean glass and headed to the back bar, where the brass water tap gleamed against the dark wood. As the customers on my right returned to their chatter, I glanced at the Redguard on my left. Baurus?

“I wonder if the food here is any good, sir,” I remarked to him as the barkeep returned with my glass, full of clear liquid.

“If you like it plain and hearty, yes,” Baurus’s voice responded. The Redguard took a sip of his ale reflectively. “If your tastes run to candied plums and spiced roast Niben boar, you’re crap out of luck, ma’am.” The barkeep, catching his comment, chuckled.

“As long as it has more flavor than Legion polenta, I’d be happy,” I countered, meeting the Imperial’s gaze.

“Listen,” Baurus leaned slightly to me, lowering his voice, “I’m going to get up and walk out of here in a minute. Notice that Breton in the back corner by himself when you came in?” I nodded. “He’s going to follow me. You follow him.”

With a quick glance at the barkeep, who watched us with a somber expression, I took a sip of my water. “Ready whenever you are, sir.” I said to Baurus.

“Wait for him to follow me. I want to see what he does next,” Baurus stood up, draining the last of his ale, then walked to the rear, around the corner of the bar. As I reached down for the Kvatch Wolf, I saw the Breton put his book away in a back bag and hurry after Baurus. After a heartbeat, I limped to the rear, just in time to see the other man step through a door.

The barkeep gave me a slight nod when I glanced back, making certain no one else had spotted me. The door swung open silently at my light touch, and I stepped through onto a descending flight of stairs, their steps shrouded in darkness. Against the dim light of the cellar below, I could see a dark figure disappear around the corner.

Limping as silently down the steps as my heavy boots would allow, I soon reached the cellar floor. Baurus’s voice reached me from the shadows of the underground chamber. “Hello, stranger,” he stepped casually toward the Breton. “Why are you following me?”

The other man jumped back, raising his left hand to cast familiar sulfur smoke. “Die, Redguard!” Baurus drew his katana in time to strike the other’s arm, now encased in red-and-black armor, deflecting the daedric mace to the side. My own katana had sought my right palm and moved, almost of its own volition, toward the backs of the assassin’s knees.

The assailant spun and fell to one knee, snarling as he swung that horrible mace wildly at us. Even with that dread armor, his lack of combat training showed in his indecision about which of us constituted the greater threat. Baurus stepped in and caught the other’s mace against his katana’s guard, disarming the Breton with a flick of his blade. The summoned weapon dissolved into sulfurous smoke before it hit the stone pavers. The assassin froze when the tip of Baurus’s sword slid beneath the other’s helm, stopping just short of the Breton’s throat.

“Who are you?” Baurus demanded while I stepped behind the other, resting the edge of my blade against the back of his neck. “Who are you working for?”

With a snarl, the Breton seized Baurus’s weapon in both gauntleted hands. Metal shrieked on metal as he tipped his body forward, impaling the tip of the blade into his own throat. We stared as the daedric armor disappeared with a yellow swirl that caught in our throats, making us cough and our eyes smart from the sulfurous tang. With a rattling gasp, the Breton slumped off Baurus’s katana and crumpled to the floor, rage already fading from his dark eyes.

Stunned, I met Baurus’s furious gaze above the other’s body. “What was that about, sir?” I gasped.

He scowled, scanning the cellar for more enemies before sheathing his katana. “Every time I disarm one, he or she commits suicide before I can start asking questions.” He met my gaze as I put my blade away, and gripped my right shoulder. “But by Talos! Am I glad to see you again, Julian!” he said, his grin flashing white in the dim light. “I got a message from Grandmaster Jauffre that he was sending an agent, but I never expected it would be you!” Holding me at arm’s length, he eyed me up and down. “You look much better than when I last saw you.”

“Grandmaster told me to take my orders from you, sir.”

“All right,” Baurus nodded, stepping back to the body and kneeling beside him. A quick search of his pockets revealed a small identification tag. “Astav Wirich,” he read. “Never pegged him for one of those assassins, not until I noticed him following me.” He handed me the back bag. “See what you can find in there.”

“Yes, sir.” In the bag I found the book he had been reading, and little else. Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes, Volume One. I showed it to Baurus.

“Never saw anything like it,” he shook his head. “But this might be the break we need.” He rose to his feet, brushing the dust off his pants.

“What have you learned so far?”

“The assassins who killed the Emperor were part of a daedric cult called the Mythic Dawn,” he responded. “Apparently, they worship Mehrunes Dagon.” He toed the body thoughtfully, nudging the Breton over so he lay face up.

“The enemy has the Amulet,” I told him. His black gaze shot up at me, and Baurus’s brows lifted in surprise and despair.

“What? They took it from Jauffre? Things are worse than I thought.”

“We have Uriel’s son, Martin Septim,” I offered. I didn’t think his black brows could climb any higher, but they did.

“Thank Talos he lives!” His gaze fell on the Kvatch Wolf. “You found him in Kvatch?” his fingers brushed the edge of the light iron buckler. I nodded. His eyes grew dark. “So that’s why they opened that portal there -” his voice trailed off.

I inhaled sharply. “They knew about him?” I whispered. “They were looking for him?”

“I doubt they picked Kvatch at random,” Baurus said grimly. “That means when they find out where he is in hiding, they’ll open another one there.” He plucked the little book from my right hand, flipping through its pages. “Go see Tar-Meena at the Arcane University in the morning. I’ll send her a message to expect you.” Handing the book back to me, he met my gaze. “Show her that book, see what she makes of it. For tonight, get some food and a bed from Broad.” He knelt beside Wirich. “I’ll take care of this.”

Posted by: Olen May 16 2010, 08:17 PM

Woo, good part, that back of the knee slash is becoming her trademark move.

You're managing to build good tension too, there's definatly a good hook drawing me into this which shows how strong the characters are (given I already know the plot (but even so can feel it thickening). I want to read more.

There's something about reaching Luther Broad's in the plot, it feels like a milestone has been reached and the mythic dawn start to become less obscure and more real badies. I can't wait to see how you show them, if pulling the sword through his own throat is anything to go by I think they might be real nutters...

Posted by: SubRosa May 16 2010, 08:55 PM

Baurus, James Baurus meets Julian Powers, the International Woman of Mystery!

I read Watchmen when it first came out, back when it was in individual comics rather than all put together in one big book. I like how they put the clock on the back, and with every issue it got closer to midnight, and more more covered in dripping blood.

Nice bit with the serving wench, and her disappointment that Julian chose the bar. Although when you think about it, she would probably make much more in tips from men than women anyhow...

I liked your description of the sulfurous stench of the conjured weapons and armor. It adds a extra dimension, and brings the scene more to life.

I see Baurus has been at this for a while! I wonder how many Mythic Dawn agents he has killed? It sounds like quite a few. Also good bit of moving the plot forward in his conversation with Julian. We finally learn who the enemy is, why they attacked Kvatch, and even have some foreshadowing about Bruma thrown in. All was done in a few sentences of dialogue, coming out naturally. Was some of that new? I cannot recall if all of it was in there before, namely the part about Bruma?

As a sidenote, I worked up a Mythic Dawn mod (to let you play as a member) and discovered that their bound armor is actually rather weak. It has the equivalent stats to Iron Armor. So good in the early game, but rather weak later on. I had to make leveled versions of it. What blows me away is how expensive it all is magicka-wise though. They had to make it a lesser power, with no cost, otherwise it would be impossible for anyone to summon it.

Posted by: mALX May 17 2010, 12:13 AM

I'm glad you changed this one, I like this version better and I think it fits Julian better. Her mind is as sharp as a tack!!!

Posted by: D.Foxy May 17 2010, 02:16 AM

Somebody's been reading too much Ian Fleming.

Posted by: Destri Melarg May 18 2010, 01:34 AM

Sorry, I can't resist:

- We have learned that in Cyrodiil would be assassins are considerate enough to wear nametags to keep us from guessing at their identity.

- We have learned that advances in plumbing are such that water springs from brass taps in Luther Broad’s, yet no one in Cyrodiil seems to own a bathtub.

- And finally we have learned that haute ecole rider is incapable of writing a bad chapter.

Posted by: haute ecole rider May 18 2010, 05:59 PM

@Olen: I agree about reaching a milestone when entering Luther's and coming face to face with Astav Wirich. I'm glad you're noticing that Julian has a trademark move! Yup, that just developed that way. Good way to bring your opponent down. As for Wirich being a nutter, religious fervor does that to one . . .

@SubRosa: I don't know, that wench probably could make plenty in tips from the right kind of women . . . Anyways, the combat part is rewritten, due to comments about Baurus's ineptitude as an undercover agent (which is why he went back to bodyguarding, obviously), and also to a comment somewhere that those assassins get killed and no one keeps them alive long enough to question them. Your comment about the magicka expense of the summoned armor and weapons is very interesting . . . already I see ways to work that into my fiction, if that's okay with you.

@mALX: Thanks!

@le Reynard: Fleming? Who's Ian Fleming? Oh, yeah, the guy who wrote the James Bond novels. Never read 'im. Unless maybe you were referring to a certain skinny Bosmer lady?

@Destri: Of course Wirich carried a nametag! How else do we know his name in-game? It kills me that I know an NPC's name before we even start talking (or swinging weapons) in the game. Actually, I was thinking the IC is such a big place, its citizens might carry ID tags to differentiate them from tourists. It might come up in a conversation later (with Ozymandias perhaps?). As for bathtubs, well, I'll make sure to include one. I've already included a piss pot in the first post, why not a bathtub? Or a hot shower? Ah, running water! The Best Thing about Civilization! And thanks for that last compliment. I'll try not to let any of you down!

Julian finds out just how many volumes make up the Commentaries. Yikes! Not that she hates to read, just that her eyes aren’t as good as they used to be . . . Getting old’s a b***, ain’t it?

By the way, deosil refers to movement in a clockwise direction; it means with the movement of the sun (at least in the Northern Hemisphere, it’s the opposite in the Southern).

**********************
Chapter 7.3 The Arcane University

Broad served a breakfast as hearty and plain as the supper last night. As I tucked away the cold roast mutton, warm bread, and sliced pears, he poured me a cup of klah to go with it. “Sleep well, ma’am?” he asked me. With a quick glance up from my plate, I nodded.

After supper last night, I had gone up to the room Broad had let for the night. The clean and well-lit room was the ideal place to catch up on some reading. I still had Piner’s Warp in the West and Sigrid’s Pocket Guide in my pack. When my eyes burned from reading, I had slept dreamlessly, and woken this morning feeling stronger than before. Instead of pulling on my leathers, I chose to wear the stitched green shirt and tan skirt, with the rough cowhide shoes, that Belisarius had slipped into my pack yesterday.

Breakfast finished, I pushed the plate away. “I’d like to keep the room for another night,” I said, handing over a few drakes. The pack was heavy enough, and the thought of carrying it around all day didn’t sit well with me. Both the bag and my weapons still remained in the room. I carried only my small bag containing Wirich’s book.

“Fine with me,” Broad took the coins nonchalantly. “Keep the key for another day.”

“Can you tell me how to get to the Arcane University?”

“Head back to Home and Garden,” Broad started sketching a rough circle on the bar surface, using condensation from the water jug. “Hang a left down Home Street, to the gates at the end. That’ll get you to Green Emperor Way.”

He traced a circular path around the center of the circle. “Go deosil around the Palace until you get to the third gate along. That’ll let you into the Arboretum District. Go straight across the District, past Tiber Septim, to the gates in the outer wall.”

Now he drew a second, smaller circle off to the side of the first. Connecting the two with a straight line, he continued, “Go across the bridge, and you’ll be at the Arcane University.” He looked up at me. “Unless you’re a University member, the only part you can access is the lobby on the first floor of the Mages’ Tower.”

“Thanks,” I said, “I appreciate your help, sir.”

Outside, rain fell from a dark sky. Even though dawn had arrived several hours ago, the streetlamps still flickered in the light wind. Making my way past the plots that gave the Elven Gardens District its name, I soon reached the open gates at the top of the broad stairs. People scurried back and forth, heads down and shoulders hunched against the weather. The slight chill in the air reminded me that fall was coming. At the thought of Cloud Ruler Temple, I shivered. It will only get colder there. Yet I had enjoyed meeting the Blades there, had felt comfortable among their company.

My thoughts back in the present, I climbed the steps to the open gates that pierced the inner ring wall dividing the Palace District from the surrounding neighborhoods. At the sight of more stairs leading down to the Green Emperor Way, I barely stifled a groan and moved to the side so I could hobble down without slowing other pedestrians. Gravestones and marble tombs, memorial columns and carefully pruned topiaries made up the outer ring section of the Palace District. The central portion consisted of the Imperial Palace set on a raised platform within an open rotunda. Above it, White Gold Tower rose to pierce the overcast sky. Palace Guards, in silver and gold armor that flashed even on this dull day, paced around the Palace itself.

My feet moved deosil around the Green Emperor Way, and I weaved among the gravestones and tombs. The topiary heads made the hairs on the backs of my neck rise, their featureless eyes seeming to follow me as I passed them. The rain faded to a light drizzle, and the overcast brightened. Counting gates, I reached the third portal from the Elven Gardens.

I had thought the Elven Gardens District beautiful, with its gardens and plantings. The Arboretum District, on the other hand, took my breath away. More of the magnolias and dwarf maples filled the open space, with fountains burbling beneath their branches. Boulders rose out of beds of cheerful primroses and tall bugloss. Azalea shrubs lined the wide stone path that led from the Green Emperor Way to the center of the District, where an immense stone man stood within an open rotunda. As I made my limping progress toward the statue, I looked up into his face, recognizing the square features of Tiber Septim, familiar to me from years of pay scrips.

Surrounding him stood eight equally large statues, but they seemed smaller than the first Septim since their plinths were slightly lower. Still, they stood head and shoulders above the magnolia trees. Julianos, with his long beard and his triangle, stood just to my left. Opposite him, I could just make out the dragon head of Akatosh.

The drizzle trickled away, and the clouds parted to let the sun through, a beam landing on Tiber Septim. The rain on his face gave his stone eyes a gleam that made him seem lifelike, watchful and wary. My feet faltered just outside the rotunda, and I stared at him. Clanging armor tore my gaze away as a Watchman approached. He caught my eye, and hesitated.

“Sometimes I feel like he’s watching me, ma’am,” he commented. “I don’t get that from the other Divines.”

“Probably because he was a real Emperor, and a general,” I responded, stepping away from the rotunda. “Attention from a general usually means bad news.” The Watchman grinned with a chuckle, then walked on. Continuing in the other direction, toward the outer wall, I found the open gate. Beyond, I could see the straight line of a bridge, and the pale grey walls of the Arcane University in the distance.

The bridge, of stone construction with a low parapet, leaped across the chasm separating the main hill of City Isle and the smaller hill crowned by the Arcane University. I trudged up yet more stairs leading to another set of gates. Within, an Imperial Legion battlemage, recognizable by the blue hood in place of the usual Legion helm, turned his regard on me.

“Good morning, ma’am,” he greeted me. “Welcome to the Arcane University.”

“I’m supposed to meet Tar-Meena,” I said to him, pausing at the bottom of the stairs. He pointed toward the central tower, up more stairs. By Akatosh, I’m getting tired of this Imperial City! All these stairs!

“Go in the lobby,” he directed. “Ask Raminus Polus. He should be there.”

Please let there be no more stairs inside, I prayed as I trudged up the last flight of steps to the bronze double doors at the base of the tower. Inside, I was relieved to find only a couple of steps before I reached the main floor. The round room was high-ceilinged, and took up the entire first floor. An Imperial mage turned to face me.

“Welcome to the Arcane University,” he greeted me, his brown eyes assessing me. “Have you come to join the Guild?”

“Join? Me?” I repeated, startled. “I - I came to speak to Tar-Meena, sir.”

“Ah, my mistake, then,” he bowed to me, putting his palms together. Then he gestured toward an Argonian woman seated on a nearby bench, reading. “She is there,” he said, before moving away. My limping stride loud in the silence, I moved to stand before her. After turning a page, she looked up at me, her red-orange eyes curious.

“Tar-Meena?” I asked. “Baurus sent me, ma’am.” Her gaze turned assessing, then she waved me to the bench beside her. I sat down at the indicated place, stretching my right leg to ease the ache in my knee.

“You musst be the one I got the messsage about,” she said, with a slight hiss in her voice. “How can I help you?”

“I’m Julian, ma’am,” I volunteered. “I’m here to learn about the Mythic Dawn.”

“You know of them?” Tar-Meena’s spined brows lifted. “One of the mosst ssecretive of the daedric cultss.”

Pulling the little purple book from my bag, I showed it to Tar-Meena, “I found one of their books, ma’am.”

“Ah, yess,” she took the book in her long, scaled fingers, examining it closely, gently turning the pages. “The Commentariess of the Myssterium Xarxess, written by Mankar Camoran. Wonderful!” she handed the book back to me. “You have a sscholarly interesst in the cult?”

Do I? “We think they may be behind the Emperor’s assassination,” I said quietly. “We need to find them.”

Tar-Meena’s brows rose again. “Really?” she matched my soft tone. “I won’t poke my nosse any further - I know how ssecretive the Bladess can be.” She rose to her feet, her book in hand, and brushed the creases out of her blue robe. “Wait here,” she said. “I will be back.”

The slender Argonian moved with deceptive quickness to one of the doors in the rear of the room, leaving me alone with the Imperial mage. He had remained at the far side of the room, studiously ignoring us, but with Tar-Meena’s departure he now turned to regard me openly.

Uncomfortable with his stare, I looked down at the purple book in my hand. Opening it to the first page, I started reading. Almost immediately, I was confused. Instead of the dry, factual recitation of the Pocket Guide, or the terse narrative of the Warp in the West, the tone of this book was obtuse, flowery with no obvious purpose. My mind blanked after the first two pages, and I closed the volume and tucked it into my bag.

“Is Tar-Meena of assistance to you, ma’am?” the Imperial mage had drawn closer.

“Yes, sir, she is,” I answered. “She told me to wait here.” A sudden thought crossed my mind. What if she wanted to get rid of me? But no, Baurus wouldn’t send me to her if she would do such a thing.

“Then I believe she shall not keep you waiting long,” the mage responded with a half-smile. “I am Raminus Polus, Advisor to the Council of Mages.”

“I’m Julian, from Anvil,” I responded, moving to rise. Polus shook his head, gesturing me to remain seated.

“No, no need to stand on ceremony here,” he insisted. “I can see that your leg is bothering you. If you’ve walked from one side of the Imperial City to the other to get here, I can only imagine what all these steps have done. “

“Excuse me, sir,” I cast a healing spell, and the throbbing ache in my knee eased. “I keep forgetting that I know at least this much.”

“That was a little one, ma’am,” Polus had followed the spell-light with his brown eyes. “Do you not know a stronger one?”

I remembered what Tumindil had told me, back in Skingrad. “I’m only a novice in restoration magic, sir,” I responded.

“Ah, well, you’re never too old to learn new things!” Polus commented cheerfully. Somehow I wasn’t offended.

“That’s what I’m finding out, these days,” I returned dryly. Just then, Tar-Meena returned, and Polus discreetly withdrew to the opposite side of the room once more.

Seating herself by my side, Tar-Meena handed me another book, nearly identical to the one I carried. “Here, you can take the library’ss copy of Volume Two,” she said. “The Commentariess come in four volumess. I believe that Mankar Camoran’ss writingss contain cluess to the location of the sshrine. If you want to find it, you will need all four of the volumess.”

“Where can I find the other two volumes?” I asked, carefully tucking the library’s book next to Wirich’s tome.

“Try Phintiass, in the Market Disstrict,” Tar-Meena responded. “He runss Firsst Edition, and bragss that it iss the premier booksstore in all of Cyrodiil.” Now she leaned toward me conspiratorially. “Phintass caterss to sspecialisst collectorss. He may have an idea where to find volumess three and four.”

“Who was Mankar Camoran?” I asked, thinking about what Tar-Meena had said.

“The ssuppossed leader of the Mythic Dawn cult,” she answered. “He wrote thesse infamouss Commentariess. They are contemporary with Tiber Sseptim, over four hundred yearss ago, sso he’ss unlikely to be alive sstill. Though,” her tone turned pensive, “you never know.”

“What is this M- Mysterium Xarxes?” I asked, referring to the title on the book spines in my bag.

“It iss the holy book of the Mythic Dawn,” Tar-Meena said. “Ssuppossedly written by Mehruness Dagon himsself. If it exisstss, it would be an artifact of great -” she shook a finger at me, “and evil - power.”

“And the Mythic Dawn?” I wanted to be certain I had all the information I needed.

“No one knowss how widesspread the cult iss, or where their sshrine to Mehruness Dagon iss located.”

“Thank you, Tar-Meena,” I said, rising to my feet and closing the flap of my small bag. “You’ve been helpful.”

Posted by: Olen May 18 2010, 06:40 PM

Good part, I loved this bit of the main quest (which didn't go on long enough IMO), the intregue and discovery you put in the writing are very much as I remember them.

Deosil is a good word... though I've never seen it spelt that way. Deasil is the normal spelling I think (though given it's scots root there are probably a dozen different spellings).

Again I liked the description of the imperial city and its many stairs. Great stuff

Posted by: mALX May 19 2010, 04:53 AM

I love how you gave Tar-Meena a slight hiss, I picture a forked tongue darting in and out of her mouth now, lol. You are really making the MQL come alive with Julian, I love this!!

Posted by: SubRosa May 19 2010, 04:50 PM

The wench probably would get rich off of Teresa... But sadly women like her are far and inbetween.

The Mythic Dawn armor & mace combo summoning would normally cost 32,100 magicka to cast, and the armor & sword combo 46,500. For that you get armor with a base AR of 20, a helmet with a base AR of 6, a mace with a base damage of 22, or a claymore with a base damage of 29. The weapons are the standard Bound Mace/Bound Sword, which are pretty powerful. But the armor is slightly worse than having all the same in Iron (Iron Cuirass, gauntlets, greaves, boots, and helmet), which gives a base AR of 28.

For my mod I dropped the weapons (because I do not like the look of Daedric weapons), and made versions of it with the same stats as Iron, Dwemer, Elven, Ebony, and Deadric.

Anyway, on to what you actually wrote. A hearty breakfast for Julian, she is eating much better since joining the Blades. No water this time either I see...

I always thought it was odd that the graveyard surrounds the palace. I suppose that might tell us something about the government of Cyrodiil... Oh, are those dwarf maples, or Dwemer Maples...

Attention from a general usually means bad news.
Something Volsinius can attest to!

On deosil, that is how I usually see it in Neo-Pagan circles. I have seen it deasil as well, usually only from older sources.

Posted by: Acadian May 19 2010, 05:55 PM

7.1 - 7.3

Woohoo! This continues to be wonderful. I like the intrigue. You are doing a great job with it.

Posted by: haute ecole rider May 20 2010, 05:12 PM

@Olen: When I roleplayed Julian's walk through the IC in my head, I remember thinking "ouch, ouch, ouch, what? MORE stairs??" I had never noticed that before! I agree, the intrigue and discovery just did not go on long enough. I love few things more than a good espionage novel. Never read Ian Fleming, but read a lot of Robert Ludlum and John LeCarre way back in college. Ahh, the good old days of the Cold War . . .

@mALX and Acadian: Thanks again!

@SubRosa: All those numbers don't mean much to me! Just how much magicka cost does the Mythic Dawn gear compare to? I only know the relative costs, playing this on the Xbox and all. As for deasil/deosil, the first is Gaelic in origin, and old, the second is newer, like you said. It probably is spelled other ways, but I can't remember just how. And I didn't call them Dwemer maples because the Dwemer, according to the Lore, are normal in height (or tall?), not stunted at all. The Bosmer males continue to hold the record for the shortest of the folk, mer, men or beast. I had pictured Japanese dwarf maples in mind (specifically the Bloodgood variety), since they are the most beautiful and graceful of the smaller trees.

Some of you might have heard me say this about Gwinas before, but it bears repeating. He remains one of my most endearing NPC's in this story.

In the last chapter Julian learns she has to find two more volumes of the Commentaries. In this upcoming chapter, she locates the third volume. Gwinas caught me totally off guard. I had been struggling with this chapter, and he literally seized the keyboard from me and took off running. I couldn’t type fast enough to keep up with him. Enjoy!

************
Chapter 7.4 Volume Three

A bustling scene greeted me as I passed into the Market District. Pausing at the top of the stairs near the gates to Green Emperor Way, I looked down Commerce Street to the tall portal set in the outside wall. Unlike the other gates in the Imperial City, this portal was closed, and had four Watchmen posted near it.

The tip of a tower peeked just above the outer wall. I realized with a chill that those gates at the far end led to the Imperial Prison. With a stifled shudder, I limped down the steps and moved to one side of Commerce Street, squinting at the shop signs. The sun had come out, and between the white marble that seemed to be the favored construction material and the gleaming wet that reflected the sunbeams, the glare was a little strong.

People moved back and forth past me, some running, some walking. Some carried large bags crammed with stores, others moved empty-handed. I found it difficult to walk a straight line, first sidestepping a porter, bent over from a heavy load, then skipping ahead to avoid a pair of Khajiiti streaking past, before ducking back to give way to a well-dressed matron trailing a retinue.

Finally reaching the first of the doorways on the right side of the street, I paused to catch my breath. Never been in a market this busy! The sun beat down between the white marble walls, the air simmering as the recent rain evaporated away. Ahead, on Market Way, I could see open stalls crowding the street, hear the shouts of vendors, and smell assorted foods. With a shake of my head, I looked at the sign above my head.

First Edition. A pictograph of an open book left no doubt in my mind that my eyes were not seeing things. How lucky am I?The first shop I reach is the one I want! I couldn’t get the bronze door open quickly enough, escaping the chaos that was the Market District.

Within, the shop was cool, dark, and oh, so blessedly quiet. As I paused a moment to let my eyes adjust, I smelled dry, musty pages. The dust motes floating gently in the air tickled the back of my nose, and I stifled a sneeze.

“Yes, how may I help you, ma’am?” the haughty voice drew my eyes to the Redguard merchant standing behind the shop counter. Rubbing at my still-itching nose, I moved toward him slowly.

“Phintias?” I asked uncertainly.

“At your service, ma’am,” he responded. “Take a look around. If I don’t have it, maybe I can get it.”

Music to my ears. “I’m looking for the -” I hesitated over the unfamiliar words, “- Mysterium Xarxes, sir.”

“You must be referring to the Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes,” his tone became condescending. “Comes in four volumes. First two are rare, but the third and fourth are even more so.”

“I’m looking for the third and fourth volumes, sir,” I tried to hide how important they were to me. No need to drive up the price if I have to haggle. I hated haggling.

“I have the third volume,” Phintias responded. “But it’s a special order. I’m holding it for another customer. Gwinas would be disappointed if I sold it to another.”

“What about the fourth volume?” I started walking around the shop, looking at the books on the shelves.

“I wish I had one, but I’ve never even seen a copy,” Phintias said, a tone of avarice creeping into his voice.

“Is there any way I could buy this third volume from you, sir?” I asked. “Or maybe get another copy?”

“I’d hate to let Gwinas down.” Phintias shook his head. “I gave him my word that I would hold the book for him. He’s come all the way from Valenwood.” He shrugged. “Feel free to wait for him.”

Back to the shelves, I surveyed the titles again. The Lusty Argonian Maid, Dwemer History and Culture, Gods and Worship, History of Lock Picking, The Last King of the Ayleids, Manual of Arms, and The Amulet of Kings. My hand reached for the last volume, and I brought the book down. It was small, smaller than the Commentaries, dressed in a plain brown cover.

“You read it, you bought it,” Phintias called from behind the counter. I held the book up for him. “Ah, yes, The Amulet of Kings. How appropriate for these dark times.” He nodded at me. “That would be two drakes.”

Searching my bag for the coins, I placed the drakes on the counter. “Thank you, sir,” I slipped The Amulet of Kings into my small bag.

Behind me, the bell over the shop door chimed, its tinkle nearly drowned by the street noise. As I stepped away from the counter, I turned to see a small Bosmer, in red silk robes, blond hair pulled up into a topknot, enter the shop. The door swung closed behind him as he beelined for the counter and Phintias.

“I’m here for my book,” his high-pitched voice sounded like a prissy boy’s. “Mankar Camoran’s Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes, Volume Three.” Phintias sent me an arch look, see, this one knows what he is talking about - he got the name correct, he seemed to be saying. The Redguard merchant reached beneath the counter and drew up a small purple volume, identical to the two books I already carried.

“Of course,” he said, laying the book into the Bosmer’s eager hands. “Here you go, sir. Keep us in mind for your future needs!”

“Oh, thank you, thank you!” the Bosmer clutched the book to his chest. “I can’t tell you how long I’ve been searching for this!” He spun on his heel, red silk swirling around him, and passed me with barely a glance, a whiff of perfume trailing him. Phintias shot me a look and a slight nod as Gwinas left the shop.

Following the little Bosmer out, I called after him, “Gwinas?” making the word a question. He paused, glancing back at me. Uncertainly he turned to face me as I stopped an arm’s length away. His head barely reached my chin. “I’m interested in your Volume Three of the Commentaries,” I said.

His round little face became alarmed. “Have you been following me? Leave me alone! The book is mine!” the vehemence in his tone on the last word surprised me.

“I’m trying to find out about the Mythic Dawn cult,” I decided to try a different tack. “I’ve been looking for that book, too.”

“The Mythic Dawn?” Gwinas repeated, his brows rising. “Are you - I mean, I don’t know anything about it!” His tone told me he did, indeed, know something. As I considered my next move, I caught a whiff of that perfume from his silk robes. That made up my mind.

He backed up against the wall as I stepped closer to him, towering over him. “You’re in way over your head,” I warned softly. Gwinas paled, but drew himself up onto tiptoe indignantly, trying to match my own height but succeeding only in reaching my eyes.

“I beg your pardon?” he spluttered huffily. “You presume to tell me about daedric cults? I’ve visited the Shrine of Sheogorath during the Festival of the Mad! I’ve spoken with Hermaeus Mora beneath the full moons! I’ve -”

Stooping down so we were eye to eye, I interrupted quietly and forcefully, “They killed the Emperor.” He gasped, his fine brows shooting up his forehead.

“What?” he exclaimed, his eyes locked on mine as I straightened up. “The Mythic Dawn were the ones? I - I - I had no idea!” he caught his breath, easing his heels back to the ground. “Mankar Camoran’s views on Mehrunes Dagon are interesting, revolutionary even, but to - to murder the Emperor!” His voice rose. “Oh, Mara save me!”

“Trouble?” a Watchman clanged up to us, his gaze moving from me to Gwinas. My mouth suddenly dry, I kept my face as neutral as my pounding heart would let me, and tipped my head at Gwinas. He looked frantically from me to the soldier.

“N- no, sir, n- no t- trouble at all,” he stammered. “Just getting some terrible news!” He grabbed my elbow. “Please, let’s take this somewhere less - public, shall we?”

“If you’re certain, sir,” the Watchman stepped back as Gwinas pulled me after him into the maelstrom that was Merchants Way. The Bosmer’s grip was surprisingly strong, as Gwinas weaved through the crowd toward a stoop opposite a tall statue in a plaza. I caught the sign above the door before he pushed through - The Merchants Inn. Inside, it was quiet and dark, cool after the oppressive heat outside.

Gwinas didn’t give me a chance to let my eyes adjust, only dragged me to the rear of the common room. A young Imperial man wandered over to us, towel over one shoulder. “Whaddya have?” he asked us as Gwinas plopped himself down on an upholstered bench, pulling me down next to him. I became aware of several pairs of eyes on us as Gwinas ordered a goblet of Surilie Brothers wine. Ordering klah mostly to get rid of the server, I turned to look at the flustered Bosmer.

“Is it true?” he whispered, his eyes showing white all around the irises like a spooked horse. “The Mythic Dawn assassinated the Emperor?”

“It looks that way,” I responded, keeping my own voice even. As the scattering of patrons turned back to their meals, I leaned back, easing my knee, which had started throbbing again. “I’m trying to find them, find the truth.” Pausing as the server returned with our drinks, I waited as Gwinas handed over a couple of septims. The boy grinned at us and withdrew to the bar. Did Gwinas just give him a fat tip? Good way to remain unnoticed.

“Oh, Mara!” Gwinas put his hand to his topknot, patting at the hairpin that held it together. With a start, he dropped the book onto the table, nearly knocking his wineglass over. I caught it and handed him the glass, taking the mug of klah for myself.

“Drink up, Gwinas,” I said curtly. “And calm down. It’s not the end of the world.” I waited until he took a gulp of his wine before sipping at my klah. “Yet,” I added when I had swallowed the hot liquid. He made a sound like a yipping lapdog, and the wine sloshed in the glass again.

“What am I going to do now!” he managed to keep his voice down, but I could still hear the panic. “They’re expecting me!”

“Expecting you?” I repeated. Gulping down the rest of the wine, Gwinas picked up the third volume and shoved it at me.

“Take this, I don’t want it anymore!” he exclaimed, still holding the presence of mind to keep his voice down.

“Expecting you?” I pressed, clamping my right hand on his wrist, letting him feel the strength of my sword-grip.

“Yes, ow!” Gwinas gasped. “You’re hurting me!” he hissed. When I released his wrist, he rubbed at it, staring at me. “The Sponsor is supposed to meet me and give me the fourth volume - if I pass his test.” He pulled a piece of folded paper from a pocket in his robe. “Here, see?” I took the paper and read it.

Gwinas,

Your interest in the writings of the Master has been noted. You are taking the first steps towards true enlightenment. Persevere, and you may yet join the exalted ranks of the Chosen.

If you wish to continue further down the Path of Dawn, you will need the fourth volume of the Master's "Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes." It can be obtained only from a member of the Order of the Mythic Dawn. As your designated Sponsor, I will pass on my copy to you if I deem you worthy.

Study the first three volumes of the Master's writings. Look for the hidden meaning in his words, as best as you are able.

When you are ready, come to the Sunken Sewers under the Elven Gardens in the Imperial City. Come alone. Follow the main tunnel until you reach the room with the table and chair. Sit down. I will meet you there and give you what you desire.

The Sponsor

“Oh, what am I going to do?” Gwinas leaned forward, putting his head in his hands, elbows propped up on his knees. “Everyone will think I was involved in their insane plots!”

“Is there any other way to get the fourth volume?” I asked Gwinas. He looked at me from under his hands.

“No, that’s the only way,” he said. “But if I don’t show up, they’ll know something is wrong, and they’ll hunt me down!” He sat bolt upright. “If they’re capable of killing the Emperor himself, what will keep them from killing me?”

I gripped his shoulder hard enough to make him flinch. He glared at me. “I will go in your place,” I said quietly. “They’ve never met you, correct?”

“No, never!” he exclaimed. “And I wish to keep it so! You -” his eyes widened as he took in the implications of my statement, “you will go in my stead?”

“I’ll take care of this,” I waved the note for emphasis. “They won’t bother you.” Finishing the rest of my klah, I rose to my feet. “Where are you staying?”

“At the Tiber Septim Hotel,” Gwinas said. “Oh, thank you, thank you!”

“Come on, I’ll escort you safely there.”

Posted by: mALX May 20 2010, 06:20 PM

Poor Gwinas!!!

Julian then goes on to bully the poor fop into submission - one of her few times she hasn't been pleasant to know since the story began - makes me wonder if Gwinas had to change his drawers at the end of the encounter, lol.

I loved this chapter the first time I read it and still do. You nailed both Gwinas and Phintias and showed us a different side to Julian all in the same chapter. Er...she wasn't spoultry, was she? ROFL !!!!

Posted by: SubRosa May 20 2010, 07:33 PM

Good description of the busy streets of the Market District, with Julian having to dodge people through the streets. Also good work on the bright sunlight reflecting off the wet, white marble. These little things build the setting and make it feel like a real place.

Also good job of conveying Phintias as an overbearing jerk. In every one of my games he comes off more condescending than the stereotypical snooty Altmer.

Ahh, Gwinas! One of my favorite Bosmer. He is so much fun! I hope we can see more of him in future OHDH chapters.

Edit: About those magicka costs:
The Flare spell you start the game with has a base magicka cost of 11
The Heal Minor Wounds you start with has a cost of 14
You can look up all the spells in the game http://www.uesp.net/wiki/Oblivion:Spells.

Posted by: Destri Melarg May 20 2010, 10:04 PM

First you give me Tar-Meena and her sssybilant esssesss (kudos again for rendering that in a way that didn’t become annoying), then you follow it up with Phintias (who always makes me want to kill him anytime I do the quest Order of the Virtuous Blood), then you cap it off with the wonderfully obsequious Gwinas (who for some reason reminds me of Maglir from the Fighter’s Guild). I too hope that we will be seeing more of the little Bosmer in the future.

Posted by: minque May 21 2010, 10:39 PM

Oh my...what can I say that's not been said before?

Julian is impressive, I honestly admire her way of dealing with ppl...he but that's of course your brilliant writing right?



oh.. yes I will continue my story...I will. I'm very glad you like it! thank you so much!

Posted by: haute ecole rider May 22 2010, 05:28 PM

@mALX: No, that's not Julian being spoultry! More like the old pilus coming back. You'll see more of this side of her as the story goes on. And yes, I still adore Gwinas in this more than I like him in the game. We see him in a somewhat better light later in the story.

@SubRosa: Thanks for the info about the comparative costs for the basic spells - that helps a lot with comparing them to the Mythic Dawn summons. That may be useful later on!

@Destri: I'm glad you liked my version of Gwinas. I never liked Maglir - I can't find it in me to tolerate people who weasel out of their commitments/contracts. If I ever write the FG storyline, believe me, Maglir will be very unlikable! But Gwinas is a scholar in search of ever more knowledge, and that's something I can relate to. I also imagine he is a man of his word, as well.

@minque: Julian deals with people better than I do! She has far more patience with idiocy than me! I'm glad you're still enjoying this. Hopefully this (and some of the other excellent fiction on this forum) will inspire you to continue Serene's story.

In the last chapter, Julian collects the third volume of the Commentaries, and finds out how to get the fourth and last volume. Now she and Baurus head off after it.

***********************
Chapter 7.5 Meeting the Sponsor

Baurus approached me as I sat at Broad’s bar, shoveling some of his grub into my mouth. “You’ve been a hard one to track down, Julian,” he said quietly. “Have you found anything useful?”

Filling him in on my education, I handed him the note. His eyes gleamed as he read it. “Good work, Julian,” he said, his brows lifting at me. “I’m impressed.” He studied my street clothes with a feral glint in his dark eyes. “Get your battle gear,” he said.

Back in my room, I put the three volumes of the Commentaries and The Amulet of Kings into the pack. The small bag, with its drakes and jewels I had collected, went alongside the chest. The street clothes went into the pack with the books, and I changed into my leathers. With a sigh of relief, I recalled how vulnerable I had felt walking along Market Way in my skirt and green shirt.

My katana back on my hip, I decided to take the bow and quiver at the last minute, remembering how they had served me in the sewers. Baurus was waiting for me beside the front door when I returned to the common room.

“Come on, I know where the meeting place is,” he said. “There isn’t much time, we’d better get going.” Suiting action to words, he stepped for the door. As I followed him out, I noticed that the pair of leather bracers on his wrists was all the armor he wore. For weapons, he carried only the slim katana on his left hip.

He strode across Garden Way to an alley between two residences. The narrow path led into a small, verdant courtyard, with a fountain in one corner. Baurus led me to the opposite corner, where a grate set in the ground was shielded by azaleas.

“The sewers run beneath the entire Imperial City,” he explained as he unlatched the grate and swung it back. “There are access points in every district. We Blades use them in our undercover work, as well as a means to move around the City without attracting attention.” He slid down into the access shaft, pointing out the iron rungs set into the stone work. With a last deep breath of the sweet night air, I followed.

**********
After about half an hour of walking through fetid sewer channels and cisterns, we reached a padlocked door. Baurus turned to me. “Listen, the room with the table is on the other side,” he said quietly. “I always wondered who put it there.” He gestured toward a nearby flight of stairs that led up to a door set in the same wall at a higher level. “There’s a vantage point into the room through that door up there. If you can cover my back from up there, I’ll handle the meeting.”

“All right,” I agreed. “I’ll cover you.”

Baurus smiled, that feral glint back in his eyes again. “Good. Remember, we must not leave without that fourth volume. It’s our best chance at finding the Amulet.”

“I’m ready when you are, sir,” I said, unslinging my bow and stringing it. Baurus put a hand out to stay me.

“Listen,” his tone, and gaze, turned serious. “I may not survive this. But if I don’t, then you must. You must recover the book and find the Amulet of Kings.”

“I understand,” I matched his tone. “We’ll do it - together.”

“I’m glad to have you at my back,” Baurus said. “Okay, let’s do this.” Pulling a lockpick out of his pocket, he turned to the padlock. I limped up the stairs as quickly as I could, finding an unlocked door at the top.

Crouched within the shadows, I opened the door and slipped through. A closed iron gate barred me from a bridge that crossed the room below. A table and chair sat in the center of the chamber, and the bridge led to another iron gate and a dark space beyond. The gate in front of me creaked softly as I eased it open, and I nocked an arrow to my bow and settled down to wait in the deepest part of the shadows.

Footsteps drew my attention down into the room. Baurus appeared below the bridge, walking casually toward the table. As I watched him move with feline grace and awareness, I momentarily envied him that ability. Once on a time, I could do that, I pushed the thought away. He didn’t look up in my direction as he seated himself, yet I sensed that he knew I was there.

Murmuring voices drew my attention to the bridge on the other side of the second iron gate. The glow of a torch outlined the shape of a room beyond that second bridge. Though I had no target yet, I half-tautened my bowstring and took aim. In my peripheral vision, I saw a tall, red-cloaked figure enter the room through another gate below. He greeted Baurus imperiously. Without hesitation, the stranger immediately launched into a lecture of the Commentaries, pacing around the table and Baurus.

“So you think you have what it takes to become one of the Mythic Dawn,” the haughty Sponsor continued, as I watched that torchlight grow and coalesce into a flaming brand carried by one of two red-robed figures. “It is not so easy or simple as you think. However,” now the first of the two figures bent to unlock the gate, “the fact that you now have three of the four volumes of the Commentaries shows that you are anxious to find the path to enlightenment -”

The torch bearer glanced across the bridge in my direction, and I could see alarm come over his face. I let the arrow fly and quickly notched a second one to my bowstring. The torch fell and fizzled out, throwing the two figures into darkness. A shout, and sulfurous flares indicated the summoning of daedric armor, not only from the acolyte on the bridge, but also from the Sponsor below. Releasing the second arrow into the afterimage of the acolyte, I shouldered my bow and drew my katana. With a deep breath, I leaped from the bridge to the floor below, staggering at the stabbing pain in my right knee.

Baurus had kicked the table over, blocking the Sponsor’s charge. He rose to his feet, sending the chair crashing back into the wall. His katana flashed in time to deflect the descending daedric sword that the black-haired Altmer had summoned. As I hobbled up behind the Sponsor, I swung my blade at the backs of his thighs, forcing him to one knee.

Boots thudded to the floor behind me, a voice shouting “For Lord Dagon!” I spun around in time to deflect the falling mace of the acolyte with the Kvatch Wolf. Too close to bring my sword to bear, I shoved into him, bringing the edge of my shield up to his face with a sharp crack. He reeled back, blood pouring from his nose and mouth, giving me room to use my blade. Sliding the katana beneath that summoned cuirass, I twisted the blade within the other’s rib cage. As the acolyte slid off my sword, I spun back to the Sponsor.

Baurus had avoided the wild swing from the Sponsor’s sword and sent his katana into the other’s neck, twisting it so the helm came flying off. The helm dissolved into sulfurous smoke as the Altmer collapsed, breath rattling from the mortal wound.

When no more enemies appeared, Baurus and I sheathed our swords. “That was well done,” he said to me. “A few more of these bastards dead.” He nudged the Sponsor’s body with his booted toe, frowning at the other’s face. “That’s Raven Camoran,” he said suddenly. “I’ve heard of him - he’s a powerful mage.”

“Any relationship to Mankar Camoran?” I asked, kneeling beside the dead Altmer, now unarmored. Baurus considered my question while I searched the robes.

“It’s hard to say,” he said finally. “Mankar Camoran lived so long ago, but these Altmer do live for many, many years.”

“Here it is!” I exclaimed, my fingers finding the edges of a small volume within a pocket in the Altmer’s robe. Pulling it out, I peered at the title. Volume Four. “The fourth one,” I held it up to Baurus. He looked at it, but did not take it from me.

“Now that you have all four books,” he said, “you should be able to handle it from here.” Clapping my right shoulder as I rose to my feet, he grinned at me. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

“Wait,” I said, thinking of the first acolyte I had shot. “Let me make sure the third one’s dead.” I pointed at the bridge where it disappeared into the far wall. “There’s a room there.”

“I’ll wait for you,” Baurus said, heading for the door by which he had entered. I backtracked to the stairs outside the entrance, returned to my hiding place and moved out onto the bridge. Through the iron gate, now open, I crept forward into the dimly lit room beyond. It had bedrolls and chests, and a single, very dead corpse. I cut out the arrow still protruding from his chest and returned to Baurus.

“All good?” Baurus asked me when I returned. I nodded at him, loosening the string on my bow.

***********
We emerged from the stinking sewers into cool, clean rain. Glancing at the overcast sky, I tried to estimate the time. My stomach growled, suggesting that it was quite late in the day. Baurus turned to me, clasping my right wrist in the warrior grip. “It was good fighting with you, Julian.”

“What’s next, Baurus?” I asked. He shrugged.

“Ask Tar-Meena about those books,” he suggested. “As for me, I’m heading back to Cloud Ruler Temple. My place is at the Emperor’s side.”

“All right, sir,” I brushed the last of the sewer grime off my hands, scraping my boots on a nearby stone. “I’ll see you when I get back.”

Posted by: SubRosa May 22 2010, 06:39 PM

More of James Baurus and Julian Powers! I can sense places where you have edited it, and now it flows smoother. That leap of Julian's still makes me grit my teeth. Yow, that had to hurt!

the haughty Sponsor continued
But not the haute Sponsor I see...

Posted by: Destri Melarg May 23 2010, 09:30 AM

Yes, this does flow smoother than before, especially the action sequence. One of the things that I like most about this chapter is the way that you illuminate the fact that the Mythic Dawn acolytes are zealots, but not warriors. In close quarters against a Blade and an ex-Legionnaire slavish devotion doesn’t do you much good.

SubRosa calling her Julian Powers makes me think of Mankar Camoran sitting in a volcano lair, pinky bent to the side of his mouth, screaming for everyone to hear:

Posted by: Olen May 23 2010, 06:14 PM

Good as ever, the action scene was well shown and I must agree with Destri that having them as zealots but not warriors makes the piece much more believable and realistic. Using the shield in combat was also a nice touch in so far as realism goes.

Nice bit of characterisation type stuff

Posted by: haute ecole rider May 24 2010, 05:27 PM

@SubRosa: The way I see that leap of Julian's, I see it as the old legionary coming back to the fore - old combat habits coming into play, without the thought of the pain landing on a bum knee was going to cause. She's going to be rough on that old knee before things get better.

@Destri: That comment of Mankar Camoran made me laugh. I've never seen the movie Austin Powers, but I have seen clips of the arch-villian and his mini-Me, both sucking on their pinkies. I can picture what you describe. Hmm, I haven't written Camoran's Paradise yet, maybe that might be a more interesting version than the overzealous egoistical dialogue that irritating SOB spouts in the game.

@Olen: Thanks for the comments on my combat writing. It sucked in the beginning, to be honest. But I came across D. Foxy's thread about combat techniques and learned a lot from it. Plus, I've also started paying attention to the swordplay in some of the more realistic sword/samurai movies recently (one of the reasons I've watched When the Last Sword is Drawn three times already), and reviewed some of the material I've collected over the years.


This next installment was tough to write. How did Julian figure out where to go to get the next clue? This is worse than a scavenger hunt!

********************
Chapter 7.6 Deciphering the Commentaries

Cleaned up and back in my street clothes with my belly full, I returned to the Arcane University. Hoping to see Tar-Meena before it became too late, I found the streets easier to navigate with fewer people out. Tiber Septim’s stone gaze did not follow me as I crossed the Arboretum, instead staring blankly over my head.

As before, I found her seated in the lobby, reading a different tome this time. She looked up expectantly as I sat beside her. “Well?”

Her reptilian eyes gleamed as I drew out the four purple books. “Ah, I knew you would ssucceed!” she exclaimed in her hissing accent. “Now, to find their sshrine, you’ll need to sstudy these four volumess. Essoteric cultss ssuch as the Mythic Dawn put hidden messsagess within their ssacred writingss.” She smiled at my grimace. “By ssimply finding your way to the sshrine, you have passsed the firsst tesst on the path to enlightenment.” She placed her long-fingered hand, surprisingly warm, on my right wrist. “You’ve piqued my curioussity about this puzzle. I will think on it mysself and let you know if I have any ideass.”

“Thanks, ma’am,” I said, and meant it. The Argonian woman had been very helpful, and patient in the face of my ignorance of mysterious arcana.

*************
An hour later, back in the room I had rented from Broad for a second night, I sat on the bed, my right leg dangling over the edge. The four books of the Commentaries spread around me, their pages gleaming softly in the golden light from the lanterns. Picking up the first volume, I took the plunge.

Greetings, novitiate, and know first a reassurance: Mankar Camoran was once like you, asleep, unwise, protonymic. We mortals leave the dreaming-sleeve of birth the same, unmantled save for the symbiosis with our mothers . . .

The prose remained as dense and thick as when I read it the first time. Still I forced myself to plow through all four volumes, hoping it would become easier. It didn’t. Finally I tossed the last book on the bed, leaning back against the wall and staring at the lantern above my head. There were no references to locations or descriptions of places that I could recognize. Four keys? What were the four keys? Where is this Nu-mantia?

Hoping to find something I had missed the first time around, I re-read the texts. Maybe the answer is not in the text itself, but rather in the pages. With the book closed in my hand, I ran my fingers over the bindings, looking for lumps or irregularities. Each book’s cover was perfect in its symmetry, the condition of the leather excellent. Could text or magic words were hidden elsewhere than on the pages themselves? I studied the elaborate carvings on the covers.

Again, I failed to recognize anything. I held the pages of the third volume up to the lantern, looking for patterns in the parchment. Again, nothing. Sighing in frustration, I tossed the volume down on the bed and set my feet on the floor. Careful to keep my footfalls quiet to avoid disturbing the other patrons at this late hour, I began pacing. As I limped across the room, my eye fell on the open pages of the volume I had just put down. Its illuminated letters leaped off the parchment at me. Suddenly I stopped, staring at them.

The illuminated letters! What did they just spell? I picked up the book and studied the letters on the open pages. W-E-R. No, not quite a word. I flipped back to the first page. T-O, then returned to the page that had caught my attention; W-E-R. Tower! I turned the page. T-O-U-C-H-E-S was spelled before I finished the volume. Tower touches? What tower? Touching what?

Feeling the excitement that comes with discovery, I opened the first volume and started spelling out the illuminated letters: G-R-E-E-N E-M-P-E-R-O-R - Green Emperor! The second volume: W-A-Y W-H-E-R-E. Way where - aha! tower touches. The fourth and last volume: M-I-D-D-A-Y S-U-N.

I lowered the last book to the bed, stunned. Green Emperor Way where tower touches midday sun. The mental exertion left me exhausted, but I knew I had made an important discovery. Something on the Green Emperor Way will lead me to the shrine. It will be something that appears only around noon, when the sun is at its zenith.

After I put the books away in my pack, I blew the lamp out. Casting my now-customary three healing spells, I lay back on the bed. Again I visualized the letters in my head, double-checking the spelling, making certain I understood the reference correctly. I couldn’t do anything more until noon -

*****************
Bright sunlight poured through the narrow windows of my room when I woke. Downstairs, Broad set a breakfast plate in front of me. “Up late?” he asked. I glanced at him in surprise. “It’s ten o’clock this morning,” he added, “and you’ve got dark circles under your eyes.”

“I was reading,” I mumbled, already diving into the food.

“Must have been a good book,” Broad chuckled. I grumbled something noncommittal.

It was nearly noon when I reached the Green Emperor Way from the Elven Gardens District. Looking around, I tried to identify the tower mentioned in the books. None of the tombs along the Way possessed features that could remotely be called towers. Studying the high outer perimeter wall, I could only see stubby guard towers at regular intervals, each one exactly the same as the next.

Reaching Talos Street, leading down from the Talos Plaza entrance, I turned and faced the center. Imperial Palace Guards in their flashy silver-and-gold uniforms stood en garde beside the engraved bronze doors leading into the Palace. My gaze traveled up the spire of White Gold Tower. White Gold Tower! Of course! I refrained from smacking my forehead at my own obtuseness.

A glance at the sun revealed that it was near its zenith. My back to the Tower, I observed its shadow falling away to the north. Facing back the way I had come, I followed the Way, past worn gravestones and watchful topiary heads, ornate tombs and simple family crypts. With an eye on the sun, I soon reached a small, domed mausoleum, its gleaming marble cut into two by the Tower’s shadow.

Prince Camoran’s Tomb, said the engraved bronze plaque set in its side. Walking around the tomb, I recalled seeing it before. Its walls were made of half columns, the arches they formed filled in with featureless marble blocks. On the side away from the Palace, where the stones remained cool to the touch in their own shadow, a carved map decorated the stone wall.

Cyrodiil? Above it, a rising sun spread its rays. This has to be it. Pulling my chart out of my bag, I spread it open on the marble below the carved version. A comparison of the two maps matched the major cities of Cyrodiil - Imperial City, Bruma, Chorrol, Skingrad, Kvatch, Anvil, Bravil, Leyawiin, Cheydinhal.

Another check of the sun showed the edge of its disc just touching the side of the Tower’s apex. As my eyes moved back to the map, I inhaled sharply as the carved lines began to glow red. Now there was another mark on the carven map that did not correspond to anything on my chart. The red four-pointed star lay just north and a little west of Cheydinhal.

Yes! I shouted inside. Yes! That’s the place! Carefully I marked the location of the star on my map, being careful to keep the angles relatively constant. Stepping back, I breathed a sigh of relief to Julianos. Thank you for giving me your thirst of knowledge.

I moved to a low gravestone and leaned carefully against it, studying my map more closely. Go out on the Red Ring Road, north back the way I came. Continue on the Red Road past Sercen, and on past, what was it Atellus said, Roxey Inn? Yes, Roxey Inn. Follow the Red Ring to the other side of the Lake, to where the Blue Road heads out to Cheydinhal. I folded the map and put it away, my route now set in my head. Back to Luther’s to pick up my gear, then fetch Paint and head out.

Squinting at the sun, I calculated the time it would take me to get there. Ten, twelve hours, if not more. It’ll be well after dark by the time I reach Cheydinhal. I’ll rest at an inn there. Maybe someone will know what this mark means.

Posted by: mALX May 24 2010, 10:01 PM

I struggled with why Baurus sent her upstairs due to her old injury. I think I tackled you before on this though, and you said there was a reason behind it. Of course the writing and story are Awesome as usual, that one part just gets me everytime. (I picture Rachel's Jauffre saying, "What were you thinking, Baurus!")

Posted by: SubRosa May 24 2010, 10:31 PM

So old Tiber kept his eyes to himself this time I see? About time that old bugger learned some manners...

Where is this Nu-mantia?
It is http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Numantia, in Spain. The Romans killed a lot of Celt-Iberians there a long time ago.

Seriously though, I always have admired this part-o-chapter. You show Julian wracking her brain trying to figure out the puzzle of the book in a very believable, and very thoughtful manner. Looking first in the words, then for hidden clues in the binding, the pages themselves, etc... It shows that she can use her head for more than just holding up her helmet.

I discovered an interesting thing last week. My current character, who is not doing the Main Quest, walked by Prince Camoran's Tomb at noon and the map was glowing red. So apparently it does that every day at that time, regardless of whether you even start the quest associated with it.

Posted by: Destri Melarg May 25 2010, 06:23 AM

Ah, the power of the subconscious mind. Isn’t it always the case that when hours of diligent search fails to provide the answers we seek, the solution presents itself in the corner of our eye when we aren’t even looking for it.

Every now and then I can see you struggling with this self-induced paranoia that you have about not wanting to begin every sentence with the letter I. This paragraph is a perfect example of that struggle. The simplest way to narrate the action of a scene is always the best, regardless of how it starts. In this case you could have said something to the effect of:

Once I had cleaned up, filled my belly, and changed back into my street clothes I returned to the Arcane University. I was hoping to see Tar-Meena before it became too late. I found the streets easier to navigate with fewer people out, and Tiber Septim’s stone gaze did not follow me as I crossed the Arboretum. Instead he stared blankly over my head.

Did Julian make it to the Lake Arrius Caverns in the other thread? I don’t remember what happened to her there.

Posted by: Olen May 25 2010, 01:38 PM

I can see how that part was hard to write but you nailed it, the meaning coming to her half by subconsious and half by chance was well done and sits well with her character.

I'm looking forward to seeing her in the Mythic Dawn base too, makes me wonder which approach she'll take (and how much hacking and slashing she'll end up doing).

Great stuff

Posted by: haute ecole rider May 26 2010, 06:39 PM

@mALX: Baurus sent her up to snipe because of her injury - he didn't think she could maneuver in close-quarters combat with that bum knee. She proved him wrong. Remember, the last time he saw her, she was pretty sick and frail. First impressions are important!

@SubRosa: Camoran's Tomb is one of those things that don't need the quest to trigger the event. I discovered it too, one time, before I even started looking for those darned books. As for Tiber Septim, he is a general, he don't need no stinking' manners!

@Destri: Thanks again for the help. I have made the change you suggested. And yes, she did make it into the Caverns and back on the other forum. That will be coming up in, oh, another couple of posts, so I'm thinking early next week I'll be caught up! Then it's on to material that will be new to former Unnamed Forum readers as well as those who started reading this here.

@Olen: Have patience, friend. Julian has to fight her way past a few bandits and deal with the Orum gang before she gets there!

@all: After some discussion with our beloved Nord minque, I've decided to stop this thread here, at the end of Chapter 7. It's over 200 posts now, and I think that's long enough. Chapter 8 starts http://chorrol.com/forums/index.php?showtopic=4467 Enjoy!