I loved this chapter the first time I read it, and I love it even more now. The threads you've created in past chapters are starting to come together here, and I can feel the plot developments to come are going to be so worth the wait.

I love intrigue! It's a challenge keeping things straight at times, but that's exactly what appeals to me about such stories/plots. It's sort of like chaos theory, how a butterfly flaps its wings in Japan and a hurricane strikes the East Coast of the United States. All these little unrelated characters and events we have been witnessing so far are starting to come together and play on each other in ways that are both predictable and unexpected.

I am looking forward to more. If I recall correctly from the previous read, what follows next is some of the best high drama in this story so far.

I second Hauty on the feeling of coming together and many threads making a whole that you have produced. This was a most interesting part plot-wise, you certainly manage to have plots within plots and all sorts of complexity and over a vast scale, I can't imagine what you're planning looks like.

The next part certianly promises drama and along with such mysteries as Renald who as yet I can't see the position of lay pleanty of hooks to keep me in.

Only one nit on the otherwise very clean writing:
a pair of wayward urchins ..... not overrun with daedra.”

Emero brushed a wayward leaf
and
shut the door.

Alorius stood near the door and allowed
The second is less noticable than the first but I found both repetitions somewhat jarring, especially as wayward is a relatively unusual word.

I am trying to catch up, Buffy, Destri, Hauti, and Remko - you all have posted so many chapters since I was last on here that it will take a while to catch up - just letting you know "I'm on it!" Lol.

Captain Hammer – Thank you for your comments, and welcome to Interregnum. I am fascinated by what the Arcturian Heresy puts forward as the story of Talos’ rise to power, and how it differs from what the official scribes of the Empire accept as the truth. It reminds me of what the Dissident Priests believe vs. Temple doctrine. I think that the truth might lie somewhere in the middle. This story is my attempt to deal with that question.

SubRosa – I will try to answer all the points you made in your comments:

The only other reference I can find on Polydor and Eloisa comes from Sun’s Dawn, Book Two of 2920:

The story itself is never told.

There is a reason why the daedra did not overrun Tamriel while the Amulet was lost. It is lore specific (after a fashion), but I won’t spell it out for quite a few chapters yet.

I think Morihaus was a cosmic bull. I personally imagine that he was the progenitor of all the minotaurs running around Tamriel.

Ah, I should have known that you would notice that the timeline mentions that High Rock offered no serious resistance to Talos’ conquest. I caught that too, and I will try to incorporate the reasons for that in this story.

As for your unopened bottle of flin . . . I know exactly where it is, and when it will make an appearance. But that doesn’t happen for quite a while.

Acadian – You got me! My intention was to remain in Emero’s POV during that portion of the story, but the example you gave about Varla’s eyes being pulled from the statue does read like I have switched points of view. In the second example you cited my thinking was that Emero had seen that anger in Varla throughout the trip from Balfiera. He was just seeing it again. Reading it back now I can see how it might have looked otherwise. I have gone back and changed it to better reflect Emero’s POV. Thanks again for the editorial eye.

haute – Chaos theory is exactly how I would describe the writing of this story! Sometimes even I have trouble keeping all of the strands of this web together. I am extremely excited about what’s to come. I don’t want to give too much away, let’s just say that it is going to be a hot summer in Tamriel.

Olen – I think you would be surprised at the simplicity of this story’s outline. It is just a calendar with the relevant dates highlighted. The research behind the writing was extensive, but a lot of what happens in the writing is an organic by-product of what has come before.

I have re-read the repetitions that you pointed out. I agree that ‘wayward’ does seem a little jarring. I have gone back and changed it. Thank you for catching it.

mALX – YOU’RE BACK!!!! You have no idea how much you have been missed. I haven’t had a single gobble and I feel like I’m going through withdrawal! I don’t envy you the task of catching up on everyone’s stories. Take your time getting to mine. There are a few new chapters, but most of it you have read before.

Everyone – I broke this segment into two parts when I posted it before. I decided to make it all one large chapter for this incarnation of the story. I just feel that it reads better this way. I’m sorry for the length.





22nd Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Imperial Palace, Imperial City
Mid-Day


The Emperor granted audience inside a vast circular chamber on the bottom floor of White Gold Tower. The floors were heavy cut stone festooned with paintings of the Imperial standard at regular intervals. The ceiling was opened to the floors above. What illumination there was came from gold lamps set in sconces along the walls, and from ornate iron framed windows stained green. In the middle of the sunken floor a round stone table held dignitaries from the seven cities of a united Cyrodiil, and those unlucky enough to have business before the throne. The throne itself was forged in gold and decorated with more than four thousand rubies to mark the passage of years from St. Alessia’s founding of the Empire. It was raised above the table to allow the Emperor to look down upon his subjects. Fifteen marble columns lined the perimeter of the chamber and served to hold up the floor above. And on this high floor a gallery of furtive palace workers and those with favor or fortune enough to gain entry looked down on the proceedings with great interest.

Zurin Arctus sat in his chair at the round table and noted the faces of those around him. Some of them were familiar. To his right the emissary from Kvatch, a tonsured Breton named Prior Sanne, wore the robes of a Temple priest. He sat in quiet conference with the Duke of Skingrad’s silk swaddled representative, an Imperial firebrand named Synnius Carbo. Chorrol’s Regent was a large man who looked as if he possessed Nordic blood. His name was Miles Galenus and he had made the trip personally, only to find himself seated on the right hand of the Emperor’s Chief Advisor, that oily elf Farenenre. General Talos sat by himself several chairs to the left of Arctus, as far from the throne as possible while maintaining attendance at the table.

Others were not so familiar. The Count of the new city of Leyawiin had sent his court mage, who was not only female, but Khajiit. She tried to remain inconspicuous while fending off the overt advances of the new representative of the Baron of Sutch, who already seemed too far into his cups to suit Arctus. No one paid any attention to the envoy from Bravil because he was not a man of great wealth or importance and he was, after all, from Bravil.

Conversation around the table stopped as the door to the chamber opened and an honor guard entered. They marched across the room and stood on each side of the Ruby Throne. They were followed by a herald whose abbreviated stature caused smiles and stifled coughs from the table, and overt laughter from the gallery above. His stunted legs came to a stop at the edge of the recess and, in a surprising tenor that carried to the bell at the very top of White Gold Tower, he announced for all to hear:

“All Hail His Majesty, Akatosh’s Chosen Vessel and Emperor of all Tamriel . . . Cuhlecain, the First of His Name!”

All at the table stood and turned their attention to the door. The Emperor of all Tamriel barely stood a head taller than his herald. He swept into the chamber flanked by more guards and dressed in silk robes that matched the Imperial Standard while they dragged on the floor behind him. What little hair he had was shot with grey and served to help prop the Red Diamond Crown that sat upon his pointed head. Despite his stature he carried himself with the bearing of a knight, and the look in his grey eyes indicated that he was not a man to be trifled with. Still, he had to lift himself onto the Ruby Throne and when he settled into the seat his boots dangled.

Once the Emperor was settled, everyone returned to their seats except Farenenre.

“Your Majesty,” he said, bowing to the Ruby Throne. “Honored Lords and Lady. We are here to sit in judgment of the actions taken by General Talos on the night of twelfth Morning Star last, known to you all as the Battle of Fort Black Boot.”

“I do not understand,” said the Regent of Chorrol, Miles Galenus. “We judge a man for achieving victory? Honor him with a statue and let us move on to more pertinent business.”

“I believe this is pertinent,” said Synnius Carbo, the Skingrad representative. He stared across the table at General Talos. “You Nords revel in battle, but this battle should have been won for the glory of the Empire, not for the vanity of a single man.”

“Vanity is a sin against the Eight,” said the priest from Kvatch, Prior Sanne. “The victory was gifted to you because the Gods looked down and they judged our cause worthy. All hail Cuhlecain, rightful Emperor of Tamriel.”

Several “hails” were shouted around the table as those who curried favor stood to applaud the Emperor whose feet did not reach the ground. They were joined in their adoration by the many in the gallery who knew that the Emperor’s spies were always watching.

“Master Arctus,” said Farenenre as the tumult faded. “On the night in question you were aware of the General’s refusal to use the Skyrim reserve as ordered.”

Arctus met Farenenre’s stare and held it until the Altmer looked away. “Was that a question, Lord Farenenre?”

Chorrol’s Regent suppressed a smile. The Khajiit from Leyawiin could not.

Farenenre turned a deeper shade of gold. “Were you aware, Master Battlemage?”

“I was aware of no such order,” said Arctus.

“He is the General’s lackey!” said Synnius Carbo. “Tell me, Arctus, what did the General promise you for lying to this Council?”

A wave of hushed voices flowed from the table to the upstairs gallery. Farenenre held his hand in the air to quiet the whispers. He turned to the guard near the door.

“Show in the first witness,” he said.

The guard saluted and left the room. There was the sound of activity from the hallway, and the guard re-entered leading an armored Nord with a jagged vertical scar that dominated the right side of his face, claimed his right eye, and disappeared into the folds of a heavy grey beard. An ebony warhammer was strapped to his back, and the winged helmet he held was made of silver. He stood at the base of the table near General Talos and directed his gaze past the Ruby Throne.

Prior Sanne rose from his seat. “Do you swear by the Eight Divines that you shall give true testimony to this Council?”

The Nord’s laughter filled the chamber. “You can take your Eight Divines and shove them up your robe, woman! I swear to Shor and the Gods of men!”

The look on the Prior’s face would have been the same had the Nord told him that Mehrunes Dagon was relieving himself in the fountain of the wayshrine of Akatosh.

“Then swear to Shor,” said Farenenre, “and let us proceed.”

“I do so swear,” said the Nord.

“What is your name and occupation?”

“I am Hjolfr, Commander of a Skyrim militia sworn to serve the Emperor of Cyrodiil.”

“You mean the Emperor of Tamriel,” corrected Carbo, rising to his feet.

Hjolfr gave him a look that caused Carbo to search the table for an ally. When none was forthcoming, Carbo sheepishly regained his seat. Hjolfr returned his gaze to Farenenre and did not amend his statement. Arctus thought he saw amusement in General Talos’ eyes.

“What were your orders in the weeks preceding twelfth Morning Star last?” asked Farenenre.

“I had no orders,” said Hjolfr, “the militia was camped in the Jerall Mountains. We were requested to hold the privates of the Cyrodiil Legion in some skirmish near the border with Elsweyr.”

“Did you receive orders to move down to the border?”

“No. We froze our arses off in the mountains.”

“Thank you, Commander,” said Farenenre, “you are dismissed.”

“Just a moment,” said Arctus. He directed himself to the Ruby Throne. “May I question the witness, Your Majesty?”

Silence pervaded the chamber. For several seconds even the air was still. Cuhlecain’s eyes narrowed but he answered with a nod. Arctus bowed, rose, and turned to Hjolfr.

“Commander,” he said, “it is your testimony that you were ‘requested to hold the privates of the Cyrodiil Legion’, is that correct?”

“Yes it is.”

“Requested by whom?” asked Arctus.

“There was a letter sent from White Gold Tower,” said Hjolfr, “it was forwarded to us by a messenger from Falkreath.”

“Are you in possession of this letter?” asked Arctus.

“I carry a warhammer, Master Battlemage. I am not in the habit of carrying letters.”

“Does this line of questioning bear any relevance?” asked Farenenre.

“You claim that General Talos disregarded an order,” said Arctus, “yet I submit to you that neither I nor the General were ever given an order to use the Skyrim reserve. The fact that this ‘request’ for the Skyrim militia came as a missive from White Gold Tower instead of from Fort Black Boot proves that neither I nor General Talos had a hand in its conception.” Arctus turned his attention back to Hjolfr. “Thank you, Commander. I have no further questions.”

Hjolfr bowed awkwardly, it was not an act he was used to performing. “General Talos, Master Battlemage.” He turned and exited the chamber.

“I told you they all aid each other,” said Carbo. “Never trust a Nord.”

Galenus slammed his fist on the table. “Be careful, Lord Carbo. My mother was a Nord.”

“Show in the next witness,” called Farenenre.

The guard at the door repeated his salute, left the chamber, and returned leading the gleaming armored form of Captain Alorius into the room. Alorius made his way to the foot of the table and bowed to the Ruby Throne.

“Your Majesty,” said Alorius, “my Lords.”

It took an effort for Arctus to keep his face impassive. Could Alorius have been a spy all along? He thought to himself. He remembered their conversation on the road from Fort Black Boot. He looked to General Talos, but if he were thinking the same thoughts as Arctus his face gave no indication of it.

Prior Sanne rose, “do you swear by the Eight Divines that you will give true testimony to this Council?”

“I do so swear,” said Alorius.

“What is your name and occupation?” asked Farenenre, rising.

“Titus Alorius, my lord, captain of the Imperial Legion and adjutant to General Talos.”

“In the days leading up to twelfth Morning Star last,” said Farenenre, “were you made aware of any orders involving the disposition of the Skyrim reserve?”

“I was aware that there was a reserve force from Skyrim waiting to assist us should the need arise.”

Farenenre smiled. “And was it your opinion that the situation warranted . . .”

Arctus was indignant, he rose from his chair. “Please do not tell me that we are seeking to solicit opinion and calling it testimony.”

Farenenre bowed, “I withdraw the question.” Arctus returned to his seat. Farnenre turned back to Alorius, “Captain, as the General’s adjutant, any orders he gives come through you, do they not?”

“No my lord,” said Alorius. “My duties are to assist the General in the dispensing of orders, but the General is free to give orders however he sees fit. Many times he does so without my knowledge or aid.”

“Captain Alorius,” said Farenenre, “I am not interested in the semantics of your position in the chain of command. Did General Talos send an order through you to deploy the Skyrim reserve?”

“No my lord,” said Alorius, “he did not.”

“Thank you, Captain. I have no further questions.” Farenenre sat, every eye at the table turned to Arctus.

“This entire line of questioning regards the disposition of troops on the night of twelfth Morning Star last is that correct, Lord Farenenre?” asked Arctus.

“It is,” Farenenre offered, regarding Arctus through narrowed eyes.

Arctus turned back to Alorius, “Captain, in your recollection, what was the result of the events of twelfth Morning Star last?”

Alorius smiled, “an Imperial victory, Master Arctus.”

“No further questions,” said Arctus.

The silence in the chamber was broken by the booming voice of Miles Galenus.

“You see,” he said, “There you have it, an Imperial victory. Now, can we suspend this mummer’s farce and get about the task of getting some real work done?”

There were nods of approval by the Khajiit mage sent from Leyawiin and her would be consort from Sutch.

“This hearing is not yet completed,” said Farenenre, “Captain Alorius, you are dismissed.”

Alorius saluted in the direction of General Talos, turned on his heel, and left the chamber.

“Show in the next witness,” said Farenenre.

The guard performed his obligatory salute and re-entered the hall, returning moments later leading a shined and polished Captain Itinius. Itinius strode to the foot of the stone table and his salute carried to everyone seated. He held himself at attention.

Prior Sanne rose to his feet, “do you swear by the Eight Divines that you will give true testimony to this council?”

“I do so swear,” said Itinius.

Farenenre leaned back in his chair. He absently stroked the side of his face with the feather from his quill. “What is your name and occupation?”

“Captain Quintus Itinius, officer of the Imperial Legion and commanding officer of the garrison at Fort Black Boot.”

“Do you recall a conversation you had with Master Arctus regarding the Skyrim reserve on twelfth Morning Star last?” asked Farenenre.

Arctus saw fault with the question, but he elected to hold his tongue.

Itinius kept his eyes on the wall behind the Ruby Throne. “Yes, my lord. Before the battle I asked the Battlemage if he had received any message from the Skyrim reinforcements.”

“Was this because it was your understanding that the garrison would be reinforced?” asked Farenenre.

“My lord,” said Arctus, addressing himself to Farenenre, “if you are going to both ask and answer the questions then the presence of the witness is superfluous.”

“Agreed,” said the Khajiit mage from Leyawiin, “this hearing is irregular enough without straying from the letter of the law.”

There was silence around the table, as if the soft voice of the Khajiit had breached some form of protocol.

“I agree with the Lady from Leyawiin,” said the quiet, high-pitched voice of the representative from Bravil, ”if not for General Talos, the fort would have been taken. It is less than two days march from the fort to the gates of Bravil. Who knows what would have happened to the city had it fallen to those monsters. . . with no offence meant, Milady.”

“None taken,” said the Khajiit.

The representative from Bravil looked at General Talos, “I was of the opinion that we were gathered to honor this man, not haggle over the methods he used to achieve his objective.”

“Lady S’Kaassi, Lord Mido, I shall rephrase the question,” Farenenre bowed in their general direction, and then he looked to Itinius, “Captain, Why did you ask Master Arctus about the Skyrim reinforcements?”

Itinius’ eyes remained on the wall, “The Khajiit host was larger than our reports indicated, my lord. I believed that the garrison was lost unless we were reinforced.”

“And what was Master Arctus’ response to your query?”

“He told me to assume that we were on our own.”

Farenenre smiled, “meaning that there would be no reinforcement?”

“That is how I took his meaning, my lord.”

“Thank you, Captain, I have nothing further,” Farenenre turned to Arctus, the smile still stretched the width of his cheeks. “Do you wish to question the witness, Master Arctus?”

“Yes thank you, Lord Farenenre,” said Arctus. He rose and faced Captain Itinius. “Good day, Captain.”

“Good day, sir,” said Itinius

“Your power of recollection does you credit. I wonder if you recall the rest of that conversation with such clarity. Do you remember the order I gave you after telling you to assume we were on our own?”

“Yes sir,” said Itinius, “you ordered me to prepare the men for an impending attack.”

“And what was your response?”

Itinius looked away from the wall. He could not meet the eyes of the Battlemage or anyone else around the table, so he let his gaze fall to his boots.

“I tried to dissuade you, sir,” he said, “I believed that the Khajiit force was bedded down for the night. You convinced me otherwise.”

“Do you remember what day General Talos and I arrived with our force, Captain?” asked Arctus.

Itinius straightened and returned his gaze to the wall, “I believe it was the sixth of Morning Star last, sir.”

“Correct,” said Arctus. “According to your testimony concern for the garrison prompted you to ask me about the Skyrim reinforcement, is that correct Captain?”

“Yes sir.”

“You are quite fond of the men under your command, are you not?”

“They are my responsibility, sir.”

Arctus smiled, “of course they are, Captain. How many are in your garrison?”

“Five hundred legionnaires, sir,” said Itinius.

“Did you accompany the garrison to the post or were you assigned to a post that was already manned?”

Farenenre stood, “I fail to see the relevance of this line of questioning.”

“I agree,” said Synnius Carbo, “perhaps Master Arctus should stop wasting this Council’s time.”

“I did not realize that it was I who wasted the time of this Council,” said Arctus. “I have not had the advantage of interviewing the witness as Lord Farenenre has. I hope that you will indulge certain latitudes in my line of questioning.”

Miles Galenus turned to Farenenre, “let him ask his questions.”

“I wish to hear where this leads,” said S’Kaassi. She was joined by murmurs of approval from both Lord Mido from Bravil and the inebriated representative from Sutch. Farenenre relented and returned to his seat.

Arctus turned back to Itinius, “shall I repeat the question, Captain?”

“No sir,” said Itinius, “I led the garrison from the Imperial City to the post.”

“How long did that take?” asked Arctus.

“Nine days, sir.”

“Thank you Captain,” said Arctus. He directed his remarks to the Council, “I beg your indulgence a moment longer. Captain, it is your testimony that General Talos and I arrived with a force of five hundred men on sixth Morning Star last. It is also your testimony that it took you nine days to escort a garrison of five hundred men from the Imperial City to Fort Black Boot. Given those two facts, if General Talos had sent a message to the Skyrim reserve encamped in the Jerall Mountains on the day that we arrived at Fort Black Boot, would they have been able to arrive in time to reinforce the garrison?”

“No sir,” said Itinius, shaking his head, “they would not have.”

“Thank you Captain,” said Arctus, “I have no further questions.”





The gallery waited in silent anticipation. Their numbers swelled with the arrival of several off duty guards still wearing their Legion armor. Prior Sanne slowly rose to his feet and cleared his throat, “do you swear by the Eight Divines that you will give true testimony to this Council?”

“I do so swear,” said General Talos. He stood in front of his chair opposite the Ruby Throne.

Farenenre was standing next to the Throne. He gently placed his quill on the table.

“Despite the testimony elicited by Master Arctus,” he said to General Talos, “there remains the fact of your refusal to send for the Skyrim reserve in direct opposition to an Imperial order. Do you have anything to say before this Council renders judgment?”

“I do,” said Talos, “I have a question for the Throne.”

“His Majesty is not a sworn witness,” said Farenenre.

Arctus stood, but a gesture from General Talos rendered him silent. Talos leveled his gaze at Farenenre, and for a moment it appeared that the Altmer’s time on Nirn had come to an end. When Talos finally spoke, Arctus heard the same authority in his voice that he had heard at Sancre Tor.

“I have spent the better part of the afternoon listening to you and your allies question my judgment, second guess my decisions, and impugn my honor,” said General Talos, leveling his gaze at Synnius Carbo and Prior Sanne, “That is not something that I am likely to forget. I have a question for the Throne, and unless one of you honorable gentlemen wishes to unsheathe a sword to stop me, I intend to ask it.”

Silence engulfed the table, no one dared to move. It was as if Sheogorath himself had fallen upon them with his staff.

“Your Majesty,” said Talos, “did you not commission me as commander of your armies?”

Every eye in the chamber sought out the Ruby Throne. Cuhlecain leaned forward, “I did.”

“And did you not order me to secure Cyrodiil’s southern border with Elsweyr?” asked Talos.

“I did,” was the answer from the Throne.

“And have I executed that order?”

“You have.”

“Then by your leave, your Majesty,” Talos turned and strode toward the door to the chamber. The two guards stationed at the door held it open and bowed at his passing. When they closed the door behind him the sound carried up into the gallery. Miles Galenus leaned back in his chair and allowed his smile to be seen by all.

“I think we should put this matter to a vote,” he said.





22nd Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Imperial Palace, Imperial City
Dusk


The chamber was deserted, the delegates had tendered their votes and retired, allowing the heavy doors to close behind them. The gallery had been emptied by the palace guard. Farenenre remained in his seat at the stone table. The Emperor paced through the chamber like a man expecting to be hit by a stray arrow.

“This was a disaster,” said Cuhlecain, “instead of casting Talos as the villain who would usurp the throne, we have made him an even bigger hero. Now he controls both the Legion and the Council.”

Farenenre kept his eyes on the table, “he should not have won at Fort Black Boot, your Majesty. We gave the Khajiit every advantage. The Skyrim reserve could not have arrived in time. . .”

“But he did win!” said Cuhlecain, “at Fort Black Boot and here today. In truth I should make Zurin Arctus my Chief Advisor. He certainly seems more qualified for the position than you!”

Farenenre’s head found a way to dip even lower, “I am sorry, your Majesty.”

“You’re sorry?” spat the Emperor, “sorry doesn’t give us a solution to this problem. You had better contribute a lot more than ‘you’re sorry’ or I might decide that the myrmidons in the Arena need someone else to practice on!”

“I do have an idea, your Majesty, if you would indulge me.”

Cuhlecain gave an impatient wave of his arm. Farenenre rose and made his way over to the door to the chamber. Using both hands he was able to open the door just enough to whisper into the hall. He backed away as the door swung open, admitting a pair of Altmer, a man and a woman, dressed in a silk robe and a silk dress, respectively.

Cuhlecain took his seat on the Ruby Throne as the three elves walked across the room.

“More elves,” he said, “I have just about had my fill.”

Farenenre bowed before the Throne, “your Majesty, may I present the Lady Varla Direnni of Clan Direnni.”

Varla bent her knee to the Ruby Throne. She suppressed a smile at the sight of the Emperor’s dangling boots.

“Your family is no friend to Cyrodiil, Lady Direnni,” said Cuhlecain, “why should I listen to anything you have to say?”

Varla’s knee remained bent, “because I believe that I can deliver something that you want, Your Majesty.”

“What could you possibly have that I could want?”

Varla straightened to her full height and allowed the smile to light up her face, “High Rock,” she said.





22nd Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Reman Plaza, Imperial City
Dusk


A grinning Captain Alorius opened the door and saluted, “good evening, Master Arctus.”

Arctus nodded a greeting, “You performed your testimony well today. You told the truth but did not give away more than you had to.”

“Thank you, Master Arctus. You know where my loyalty lies.”

“I do,” Arctus allowed himself a smile, and then he crossed the room through the fog of skooma smoke while being careful not to look at Ysmir in the corner. He climbed the stairs to the second floor and crossed the hall through the haze of incense to knock on the door to General Talos’ quarters.

“Come.”

Arctus entered. General Talos sat in a chair close to the fire. He had replaced his armor with a blue silk robe and he held a silver glass of Cyrodiilic brandy.

“Four to two in your favor,” said Arctus, “Farenenre and Carbo voted against you. Galenus, S’Kaassi, Mido and the one from Sutch whose name I don’t recall voted in your favor. Prior Sanne abstained, he did not look well when he left the chamber as I recall. The Emperor chose to uphold the vote.”

“Of course he did,” said Talos. He poured a second glass and motioned Arctus into the chair beside him. “Farenenre keeps telling him that he needs the Council’s approval before he can act against me. The purpose of this hearing was to see if he could gather support against me with the Council.”

“I would say that it backfired,” said Arctus, leaning back in his chair. The brandy was excellent.

“Indeed,” said Talos, “I now have a majority of the Council in my favor. Farenenre played his part well. See to it that he is compensated.”

“Yes General,” said Arctus, “what are your plans now?”

“My plan is to enjoy a good meal,” said Talos. He rose from his seat. “I think you should join me. After all, we will need our strength if we are going to kill an Emperor.”


The Year Continues in First Seed

This post has been edited by Destri Melarg: Aug 13 2010, 11:23 PM

Oh, bloody excellent!

I particularly liked all the pompous fanfare that accompanied Cuhlecain. Despite all that, he's still not wearing the Amulet of Kings, and it looks like he knows it.

Of course, you leave it on a cliff hanger, but what can we do about that. Excellent work.

That said, my nitpick: The Red Diamond is the Chim-el Adabal, the central large gem in the Amulet of Kings.

Hence, the War of the Red Diamond was the war between Septims for the Amulet of Kings, and the obvious associations with Red Diamond Jewelry indicates that in-game, it's probably a marketing ploy by the proprietor.



Thus, it strikes me as odd, that Cuhlecain, who does not have the Amulet of Kings, would possess something like the Red Diamond Crown. It just calls attention to the fact that the genuine article is possessed by his general.

Granted, the apocryphal tales state that Reman Cyrodiil I wore the Red Diamond upon his brow, but that was as an infant when newly given to the world as the founder of the Second Empire.

But what appears to be the common thread throughout the lore-books, as well as the game experience in Oblivion, that it is in fact the Amulet of Kings which is considered to be the equivalent of Tamriel's Crown Jewel, and that the amulet is the sign of the Emperor and the Imperial line.

Granted, it is a minor issue, and honestly it's the only thing that stood out as contradicting other material.

Cuhlecain was an interesting one. I was not sure what to expect of him (given the name, I was half-wondering if he would be a tattooed Celt riding a chariot!) I suspect his choice of herald's was not simply based upon the merit's of the man's voice, but also of his stature.

This was an interesting scene. Once more, it reminds me very heavily of the final days of the Roman Republic, when the Senate and Pompey ordered Caesar to report to Rome to stand trial for war crimes against the Celts. While the Council Chamber was not quite the Rubicon, Talos crossed a very dramatic line before the eyes of the leaders of the Empire, from which there is no turning back. He may as well have thrown down his glove before Cuhlecain and called him out! (but I think he plans to have Arctus slip some dog meat into Cuhlecain's dinner first... )

“You can take your Eight Divines and shove them up your robe, woman! I swear to Shor and the Gods of men!”
This gave me quite a grin!

Then Varla returns. And shows that she still has quite the stones:
Varla straightened to her full height and allowed the smile to light up her face, “High Rock,” she said.


nits:
No one paid any attention to the envoy from Bravil because he was not a man of great wealth or importance and he was, after all, from Bravil.
This seems to run on a bit repetitively. Perhaps breaking it into two sentences?
No one paid any attention to the envoy from Bravil, as he was not a man of great wealth or importance. He was, after all, from Bravil.


“the militia was camped in the Jerall Mountains. We were requested to hold the privates of the Cyrodiil Legion in some skirmish near the border with Elsweyr.”
This left me confused. It sounds like the Nords were imprisoning the footsoldiers of the Cyrodiil Legion. Or fighting a battle against them. But the Nords were camped in the Jerall Mtns, which are at the north side of Cyrodiil, and the legionaries they were holding at the other end of the province. So how could the Nords hold them?

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Aug 11 2010, 02:55 AM

Now we have one of my favorite courtroom dramas ever! I enjoyed the verbal sparring here.

One thing:
While I agree with Sage Rosa about the geographic confusion here, I also had a smile thinking of "holding the privates . . ." Were the Cyrodiil Legion so inept that the soldiers of Skyrim had to hold their privates during a battle? I'm sure Foxy sees it the same way I do!

Get your mind Out of the Gutter!

You are undoubtedly the master of courtroom drama.

The following passage is just one of countless examples where you so perfectly immerse us:

Interregnum contains several scenes that are indelibly etched in my memory. The errant sweet roll making its rounds in the tent. The Argonian bartender slinging ales. And who could ever forget being sniffed by a DRAGON? Well, here is another that I remember well from your first telling. Neither time nor retelling have lessoned its impact:

As always, simply, wow!

Captain – But Cuhlecain does have the Amulet of Kings (or Chim-el Adabal if you prefer). It was recovered by his forces under the command of Talos at Sancre Tor two years before the events in this story. You can blame me for artistic license, but I just don’t see Cuhlecain keeping Talos around if he refused to give up the Amulet. You have to remember that at this time Talos was just one of Cuhlecain’s generals, any thoughts of his place as rightful heir to the Empire were the province of vague prophecy laid forth by the Greybeards of High Hrothgar, and in whispered rumor amongst the Nords who had witnessed his thu’um at Sancre Tor. Either way it was not a widely held opinion of the average citizen of Cyrodiil.

The problem that Cuhlecain has is that, because he is not of dragon blood, he cannot wear the Amulet. To compensate for this he wears the Red Diamond Crown of the Cyrodiils that the Pocket Guide to the Empire says that he possessed. In my opinion this symbol of monarchy would have been more concrete to the citizenry of the time because the Amulet had been lost for centuries, and no one (human) alive at that time had ever even seen it outside of a representation within the pages of an old book.




'Rosa & haute - That is exactly how Hjolfr meant it! I see him as somewhat disdainful of the military arm of this supposed Cyrodiilic Empire. Hence he refers to the Battle of Fort Black Boot as 'some skirmish near the border with Elsweyr'. His loyalty is to the tenuous alliance that his countrymen have entered into with General Talos. If given his druthers, I imagine that he would just as soon invade Tamriel and put all of those Elf-God worshiping fishwives to the sword.

This post has been edited by Destri Melarg: Aug 11 2010, 09:56 AM

Echoing the above: "wow!". A fine courtroom drama well woven into the fantasy setting, most enjoyable verbal sparring and convincing too. I agree that it put me in mind of the end of the Roman republic (or perhaps a couple of decades prior) in therrms of political manouvering. It also reminded me (somewhat) of some of Colleen McCullough's writings (her books dramatise the last few decades of the republic in great detail).


Now there was a twist, I knew he wasn't really with the emperor but is there a side he's not playing? And he played it very well after the courtroom thing. I suspect we'll be seeing more of hm hedging his bets.


Brilliant.

Nit:
You misspelt Chorrol as Chorral near the beginning (at least I assume it was accidental).

I was also slightly confised at the Skyrim milita holding the privates of Cyrodiil (while I did think of it as you meant I assumed it was meant to be something else, possibly holding a bunch of raw privates (as in the rank) out the way or something.

This post has been edited by Olen: Aug 11 2010, 11:49 AM

So then Hjolfr was not imprisoning Cyrodiilic soldiers in the Jerall mountains, but was making a statement about holding their testicles because he saw them as cowards? You might want to reword that. The way you use modern rank names like captain, it makes one think that private means a individual, grunt soldier, rather than genitalia.

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Aug 13 2010, 08:34 PM

let's put the genitalia aside for a moment as I say, Hello!. I've spent all day reading through this story and I am not disappointed. There are many characters which at first glance appear to be completely separate from one another but as the story has progressed, the characters stories are becoming interwoven. Bravo!. I also wish to congratulate you on the ability to make a courtroom feel as exciting as a battle field. more please.

Acadian – I’m happy to hear that you enjoyed Talos’ scene during the hearing. The passage that you quoted was the one that gave me the most trouble in the writing. I wanted Talos’ appearance ‘on the stand’ to be brief, yet unequivocal. In the initial draft his testimony, which included questioning by both Farenenre and Zurin Arctus, covered three full pages. In the end I decided that a man like Talos wouldn’t tolerate being second guessed by those he viewed as subordinate.

Olen – I have always looked upon Talos as Tamriel’s version of Caesar. His part in this story is heavily influenced by the relationship and eventual conflict between Caesar and Pompey. I am glad that you can see the parallel.

Faranenre is interested in only one thing, his own prosperity. It is the only thing worthy of the application of his superior intellect. He will enter into an alliance with anyone that he feels can be used to further his own ends. You will most definitely be seeing more of him.

Thank you for spotting the nit with Chorrol (Chorral?). It has been fixed.

SubRosa – I agree that I should reword Hjolfr’s statement about the Imperial Legion. I am actually glad that you brought it up because I never liked the word ‘privates’ coming from Hjolfr. It struck me as too respectful from a man who has no respect whatsoever for the Empire. The problem is that I want to do it in a way that fits the speaker. Hjolfr is not a man to mince words, but I don’t want to get smacked by the forum’s swear filter. No honored users or Belgian boats for me, thanks! I toyed with the idea of saying ‘private parts’, but that just doesn’t sound right to me. And ‘hold their hands’ doesn’t give you a sense of Hjolfr’s vulgarity in the setting of an Imperial council chamber. I notice that testicles passed the swear filter, but that doesn’t sound like something that Hjolfr would say. I will continue to think about it, any ideas that you may have would be appreciated.

hazmick -



Welcome to Interregnum! Thank you very much for the kind words. I am particularly glad that the courtroom felt like a battle field to you, that is exactly what I was going for. I hope that I haven’t overwhelmed you with all the different characters. Trust me; they all have a part to play in the events ahead.

Book Three: First Seed


2nd First Seed, 2E 854
The Reachman’s Tavern, Jehanna, High Rock
Evening


The young man’s lineage could not be told easily at first glance. On his face was writ the history of the Western Reach. He had a Nord’s height to be sure, but his lean silhouette and pointed ears told of his Aldmeri heritage. His pale skin and small, close-set blue eyes were framed by an unruly shock of blond hair that further marked him for a Breton. He sat with his legs akimbo, well into his cups, and listened with drunken fascination at the venom spilling from the stranger who shared a table and a tankard with him.

“I was at Sancre Tor,” said the stranger. He was a short, choleric Breton gone to fat who waved his tankard to emphasize his point, spilling half his mead on the tavern’s stone floor. “It wasn’t the ‘genius’ of your General Talos that won the battle.”

The young man’s head had drooped during the diatribe, but at the invocation of the name ‘Talos’ he roused himself and focused on the stranger through squinted eyes. “What are you saying?”

“What am I saying?” the Breton lowered his voice. His darting eyes searched through the tavern. Most of the patrons were Reachmen who were too far, or too drunk to hear their conversation. A small group of armed mer, Altmer from the look of them, drank at a nearby table. They were as out of place as he was along the Reach but the Breton relaxed. He had nothing to fear from the Elves.

He turned his attention back to the young man, who sat with his legs splayed and his eyes indignant. The Breton savored the moment; there was a perverse thrill to be had in destroying the delusions of youth.

“Refill my cup and I shall tell you,” he said.

The young man raised two fingers and swayed from an excess of mead. An attentive wench brought two bottles that she placed on the table. The young man pressed some gold coins into her hand and the two exchanged a private smile. Then he turned his attention back to the Breton.

“Now,” he said, “what were you saying?”

“I’m saying that your precious Early-Beard. . .” whatever was to follow became caught in the Breton’s throat. The door to the tavern was flung open and a sudden lightning flash lit the armor of the two figures framed in the doorway. Conversation stopped as they entered the tavern, dripping rain onto the stone floor. Their eyes began to move through the tavern and, as they scanned the faces within, the Breton just knew.

The young man paid no mind to his drinking companion. His eyes were agog and trained on the two armored men whose presence filled the tavern. The first was as tall as any Nord the young man had ever seen. Though soiled and battered, his steel armor still glistened in the lamp light. He bore a heavy tower shield that was slung to his back and a weathered silver mace hung from his hip. The second man was smaller though in no way slight. He was encased in light mail, and his worn green tunic clung to his chest and dripped into a puddle between his boots. He carried a light iron shield comfortably in his left hand, and when he shifted his stance the young man saw the pommel of a silver longsword on his left hip.

The smaller man’s scan of the tavern stopped at the table where the young man drank with the stranger. He threw an elbow into his companion and the Nord’s gaze followed. The young man shifted uder their scrutiny.

Thunder broke the silence in the tavern and shook the empty tankards gathered on the bar. The tall Nord shut the door behind him, muffling the sound of the falling rain, and joined his companion near the young man’s table. They stood to both sides, blocking the exit and the stairs behind the bar. They ignored the young man and glared down at the Breton, who kept his eyes on the table in front of him.

“Sancre Tor,” said the tall Nord, through a voice made hoarse with rage. “I am Valdemar of Skyrim.”

“And I am Alain of Wayrest,” said the smaller man, through a set jaw in a face flushed crimson.

Valdemar kept his eyes on the Breton, but made his comments to the tavern. “Being the craven braggart that this man is, doubtless by now he has made it known that two years ago he stood in stout fellowship with the Nord/Breton host at Sancre Tor. He probably filled his cup at your expense telling you how he fought valiantly in the face of certain death and that, when the fortress was taken, fate or divine providence alone allowed him to escape the kiss of the axe that claimed the heads of so many of his poor lamented brethren.”

“Lamented brethren,” said Alain.

“We were at Sancre Tor,” continued Valdemar, “and what he didn’t tell you through all those tankards of mead is that by his own hand he condemned to death all those whose only crime was calling him ally. What he didn’t tell you is that he alone removed the wards that allowed the invaders to take the high command unawares, and that his reward for this treachery was the right to walk free of that valley when so many others did not. Not to mention enough gold in his purse to buy his own damn mead, and the tavern that it was served in.”

Alain shifted impatiently. Valdemar’s eyes shone with unshed tears, a sight more frightening than the scowl that he wore.

“Two years we have spent on the chase,” said Valdemar, “the wheel stops spinning here.”

“Stand and draw your sword,” said Alain, “or die a coward’s death, whimpering into your cup!”

The young man rose so suddenly that his chair flew back against the hearth. He backed away from the table with his eyes as white and wide as mother pearls. The Breton kept his eyes on the table, but his hands eased down to his lap.

“You’ll be keeping your hands where we can see them,” said Valdemar.

“This is a mistake,” the Breton said, eyes still firmly on the table.

“The mistake was yours,” said Alain.

“So I am to face two knights?” the Breton looked into Alain’s face, he held his hands out to the side. “I am alone, and unarmed. What odds are those?”

“The odds are as fair as those you gave when you opened Sancre Tor to the invaders,” said Valdemar.

Alain drew his sword, the blade whined as it cleared the sheath. He placed the point near the Breton’s throat and held it with a steady hand.

“Have no fear,” he said, “it was the Breton host that you condemned to slavery and death, and it will be a Breton alone who exacts retribution. Now get on your feet.”

The Breton slowly rose from his chair. The point of Alain’s sword rose with him. Without taking his eyes off of his adversary, Alain raised his voice to be heard by all in the tavern.

“Someone give this man a sword,” he said, “I’ll not have it known that I slew an unarmed man.”

The tavern was silent; the only sound was the muffled rain tapping on the roof. From behind Valdemar one of the Altmer men-at-arms pushed past his fellows. Valdemar spun at the sound, his hand seeking the hilt of his mace. The Altmer froze; he raised both hands and shook his head once. The big Nord relaxed and motioned the Altmer forward. The Altmer drew his elven longsword and offered it hilt first to the Breton.

“Take up the sword,” said Alain.

The Breton hesitated. Alain placed the tip of his sword against the Breton’s throat and pushed forward enough to draw blood.

“Take it up,” he repeated.

The Breton took the sword in hand. Alain lowered his sword to the floor and handed his shield to Valdemar. He faced the Breton, both men on their guard.

“If I am victorious?” asked the Breton.

“Then I shall mourn my friend,” said Valdemar, “and after I have finished mourning I shall have one more death for which to hunt you down.”

The Breton roared and lunged forward. Alain shifted his weight to meet the attack, but it was a feint. The Breton changed his position and aimed his slash towards Alain’s exposed flank, but the knight was younger and quicker. The two blades met with the clang of silver on steel, and then the duel began in earnest.




The young man stood near the hearth transfixed. For several moments the flight of the two swords shimmered and trailed in the lamplight. Silver rang on steel, with the occasional flash of lightning framing the combatants. Great rumbles of thunder shook the tavern and momentarily drowned out their curses.

And they were both cursing. The knight was the best swordsman that the young man had ever seen. But the older man was canny beyond reason, well versed in sword-craft, and possessed of that diabolical luck that graces evil men. Thrice he had been left open, his weakness so apparent that even the young man could see it, and thrice he had been rescued from the killing blow by some unseen agent that moved him to the one spot whereby he could re-gather himself and duel on.

The curses grew louder. To the young man it seemed that the knight’s sword was slowing, while the sword of the other man grew swifter, bolder. He had taken the knight’s measure and found him wanting. He began to drive the knight back. With each grudging scrape of the knight’s boots the sneer across the Breton’s face grew.

With a bellowed curse the knight went down, his boots sliding on the rain wet stone. The young man’s breath caught in his throat. The Breton’s sneer grew into a smile with no hint of warmth. With the elven sword raised high above his head he rushed in for the killing blow. The young man turned his head from the duel as a flash of lightning exploded against his closed eyelids.





Alain lay dazed on the floor where he had fallen. My sword! He thought. And there it was, still firmly gripped in his hand. He saw his opponent coming forward, sword upraised, framed in the flash of a lightning strike. Instinctively he raised the nicked silver blade but, even as he did so, the thought slammed down on him like a hammer, No time!

The older man’s momentum carried him forward. His blade whistled downward in a blow meant to sever flesh and bone. Alain rolled to his right. For the space of a heartbeat the world in front of his eyes exploded with the sparks from the sword’s impact with the stone. There was a stab of pain across his cheek, and for a brief instant he imagined that the blow had landed. Then through his hazy vision he saw the exposed left knee of his enemy. Alain lifted his boot and kicked out with everything he had left in him.

There was a distinct crack, like the breaking of dry timber that caused everyone in the tavern to gasp, but to Alain the sound was sweeter than all the music in Tamriel. His boot had broken the other man’s knee at the joint and pushed the stressed bones to an impossible angle. The Breton went down with a groan as Alain struggled back to his feet.

In the same way that his code would not allow him to attack an unarmed man, he could not attack a man who was down. So Alain circled his opponent, waiting. The Breton began to push himself backward with his sword held in front of him. His left leg remained straight, but his left foot dragged along the floor on its side. He reached the hearth and slowly struggled to his feet. All of his weight rested on his right leg. His sword was held weakly in his left hand. Alain lowered his sword.

“Yield,” said Alain, “and submit to the King’s justice.”

“What King would that be?” asked the Breton, the sneer returning to his face, “the one in want of a head, or the one bowing to the Ruby Throne? I should have made sure that you were both put to the axe before I left.”

Alain charged with all thoughts of mercy forgotten. The Breton made no move to escape, nor did he raise his sword to defend himself. He stood there in defiant resignation waiting for the killing blow to fall. Alain began his thrust, the momentum of his charge and his bodyweight behind it.

The Breton moved. His right arm shot out to the side, locking onto the wrist of the young man who had shared his table. He yanked hard to his left; the young man lost his footing and stumbled into the path of Alain’s oncoming sword. Alain could not check his thrust.

There was a sound like a faint hiccup, the young man’s breath smelled like honey and mead. This close, Alain could see past the wide eyed shock to the first sense of recognition on the young man’s face, and the draining of the light from his eyes. Alain drew back as if he had touched a blacksmith’s forge. His sword was buried to the hilt in the young man’s chest. A tavern wench screamed, and the young man fell to the stone floor.

Alain stood rooted to the spot. All of his anger and all of his pride had been spent in the young man lying at his feet. The Breton faded to a dim memory beyond the edge of hearing. He stared down at the body of the young man and at the hilt of his sword which comically protruded from the chest.

The Breton raised his sword and set his one good leg for a final swing. Alain did not even react. With a turn of the hip and a roll of the shoulders the elven sword cut through the air. . .and was repelled by the tower shield that seemed to materialize in front of Alain’s neck.

The impact caused the Breton to loose his balance. He went down in front of the hearth. He looked up in time to see the head of a weathered mace coming toward him, held by a giant Nord with murder in his eyes.

This post has been edited by Destri Melarg: Aug 17 2010, 08:42 PM

I remember how this chapter kept me on the edge of my seat, and I'm pleased to find that on the second read-through it still does!

Ah, Alain and Valdemar! Two of my Sancre Tor heroes! These two, along with Caspar in Hammerfell, have really come to life here, as opposed to their appearance in Oblivion. I really appreciate how you have really made their ultimate sacrifice (as witnessed by the NPC during the MQ) so much more tragic by giving these men voices of their own. Rielus will make an appearance later, as well, if I recall correctly.

The tragedy of the young man's death really brings home the risks of dueling in close quarters with an audience. It amplifies the craven nature of the fat Breton, and adds to the sense of tragedy haunting Alain. First his Breton comrades-in-arms, then an innocent bystander. Valdemar's reaction, as exemplified by this line: only serves to highlight the kind of ruthless, unforgiving honor that drives many a seasoned warrior.

This chapter can stand alone as a short story in itself - so much is said in so few words, and it is so complete in and of itself. The fact that it slots so seamlessly into the rest of Interregnum is a testament to your skill in the writer's craft.

I recall this one vividly.

Descriptions, dialogue, pacing, the storm, the twists. . .

Simply magnificent Destri. I don't know how better to put it.

About Hjolfr's holding, why not just go with balls?

Ahh, this blood-pounding battle is what I remember best of Interregnum 1.0! Action, suspense, and treachery! I loved the Breton as much as I did the first time. That guy really is a good villain.

At the same time this segment also gives us some background on Alain and Voldemort Valdemar. I might be wrong, but I think this was the first mention of them being at Sancre Tor. I wonder how it is that they escaped? Either death in the battle, or a life of slavery after being captured. Most of all I keep wondering how these two might end up serving the same man who slaughtered so many of their comrades and sold the rest into slavery. I cannot wait to see it all!


nits:
You have some heads being hopped:
The Breton savored the moment; there was a perverse thrill to be had in destroying the delusions of youth.
This makes it seem like we are in the pov of the fat Breton.

The young man felt the saliva vacate his mouth and skitter down the back of his throat.
Now we are clearly in the young man's pov.



The tall Nord shut the door behind him, muffling the sound of the falling rain, and joined his companion near the young man’s table.
This long sentence needs either a pair of commas where I inserted them, or hyphens (I find I am using the latter more and more in these situations).


The Breton made no move to escape, nor did he raise his sword to defend himself.
This also needs a comma.


I think you ought to give a name to "the young man". It gets repetitive after while, and seeing that some parts are told from his pov, he ought to have one and be a full character rather than just be a stand-in. Also giving him a name makes him seem more real, like a person. This will add more weight to the tragedy of his death. Just have someone say it early in the story. Perhaps the Breton could ask it? Likewise, all the same can be said for "the Breton".

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Aug 14 2010, 05:47 PM

Another great chapter, I particularly enjoyed the character of the Breton. Your description of the tavern really set the atmosphere for the mysterious Breton and the fight scene was fast paced and energetic A good chapter all round.

This post has been edited by hazmick: Aug 14 2010, 09:43 PM

That was an interesting part which would almost stand alone. Opening with the young man (I agree a name might have been wise, though equally not giving him one prevents the reader trying to file away another) as the pov character was a good idea and worked well to make it matter that the breton then had him killed. I wonder if it will bother Alain in the long run...

Well written action throughout, very exciting and sustained.


The rather astute things like this really add a lot to this story. They really sit well with the people involved (and with reality).

Nits:

the chest of the young man lying at his feet. The Breton faded to a dim memory beyond the edge of hearing. He stared down at the body of the young man and at the hilt of his sword which comically protruded from the chest. -- 'the chest' jarred the second time, possibly something like 'the potruding sword' would flow better.

“it was the Breton host that you condemned to slavery and death, and it will be a Breton alone who exacts retribution. Now get on your feet.”
The Breton slowly rose from his chair. The point of Alain’s sword rose with him. Without taking his eyes off the Breton, -- the first three were fine because they were different Bretons but the final one somehow jarred them all. Giving the breton a name would sort this. And yes I do seem obsessed with repetitions.

of his poor lamented brethren.”
“Lamented brethren,” said Alain. -- I don't quite see why he said that, it seemed like he was correcting but he said the same.