[Time for an update! I've been laying ground work for the Oblivion/FO3 crossover I've threatened, but I haven't forgotten Ra'jirra. I have to complete the Mage's Guild questline at least before launching into the crossover proper.]

[EDIT: Brought the dates in line with my game.]

Chapter 15, Pt. 1. Ra'Jirra Takes a (Working) Holiday

The following morning – 18 Frost Fire – I fussed about creating restoratives before pulling on the merchant rags and taking a few bits of junk off to the Market District. First stop was the Copious Coinpurse and Thoronir, where I exchanged some silver trinkets and other clutter for a sack of spuds and melons.

"And there we are, thank you for your patronage," intones he with a sour look as he handed over the sacks and change.

"What's the long face for?" asks I.

"Haven't you heard? There's a new tax coming out soon," says he. "As if we don't pay enough already!"

"I blame Morrowind," says I, "Maybe it's a war tax, they're going to do something about all those damn daedra or whatever's rampaging there."

"I've heard stories," snorts he, "But they're all exaggerated I'm sure. Why else would Helseth and House Dres be picking apart the carcass of House Indoril? If there was a daedra problem, they wouldn't be doing that!"

And we both agreed taxes stink and new taxes stink even worse.

"Anyway," says I, "What's with Rohssan? Went to her place but she wasn't open yet."

"Rohssan? I think she was out on the town last night with some friends. I was, well, let's just say I saw her being assisted home around midnight."

"Oho," says I, "I'll be sure to talk quietly."

And we have a good laugh and away I go.

En route I saw an Imperial that I've seen hawking broadsheets around the Waterfront heading out of the offices of the Black Horse Courier – slowly. "Take it easy Vlan," a khajiit said to him from the doorway. Evidently he'd been on the town as well. Maybe I should have gone on the town.

Rohssan did in fact look a bit second-hand. "Old friends," she explained, "From long ago." She smiled then, winced and rubbed her forehead. "I didn't want to leave them... gods, am I paying for it now."

"Well, make sure you drink plenty of water," says I, "I've been there, done that myself." She just grins at me. "Still, I've got these magic greaves to get fixed, so are you up to it?"

"Making money?" She perks up and peers at my greaves, which have an agility enchantment on them. "At least there's no hammering involved. How in hells did they get in this state?"

I make up a story about seeking shelter from the weather and finding necromancers instead.

"Ugh!" says she, "Those people turn my stomach. Stealing people's souls for the gods-know-what... Did you hear that they violated the sacred grove of the Mage's Guild?"

"Certainly did," says I without going into details. "But being in the guild means I'm likely to run into them again. So while I'm here," and I fiddle noisily with my purse, "maybe some pointers on armour care? Like as not I'll be too far away to run back to you."

She actually giggled at that and waved me over. About an hour later I left with a bit more of the old smith's knowledge and about a thousand less drakes – ten septims and twenty drakes to be precise. She'd obviously not been in the best of moods when I plonked that idiot battlemage's armour, and a silver axe, on the counter; the haggle for a trade-in was a bit rugged.

All that was left was two staves. Navigating clockwise around the various hawkers, carts, layabouts and other pedestrians, taking big steps and little ones, I found myself in front of a door labelled 'Rindir's Staffs'. Since all signs pointed to this being a good to place to flog off excess staves I went in.

"Hail Khajiit!" This came almost immediately from a well-dressed and slightly overstuffed bosmer looking over the counter. "I am Rindir. You are looking for a staff. And here we are in Rindir's Staffs." He made a wide gesture with both arms. "Just fancy that!"

For some reason that made me smile.

"Now that's what I call a coincidence," says I, "since I'm looking to trade for a good 'un. What do you have?"

And Rindir takes my staves and eyes them. "They're a bit worn," says he, "but I can give you a septim or two for them. But enough of yours, let me show you mine!"

I looked over the staves he offered carefully. Rindir took good care of his stock, but nothing really made me hungry, except one.

"What's that fancy looking thing there?" I pointed to a staff behind the counter that positively screamed with Destruction energies, almost warping the gold banding about its shaft.

"Aha!" Rindir grinned as though to say here comes the big sale! "Behold Apotheosis! Smite your enemies with all the power of the atronachs – frost, fire and shock! Trust me, nothing will withstand your wrath when Apotheosis is yours sir!"

"A weapon fit for a Magician such as I," breathes I, gently jiggling it for weight and balance. I didn't have to tell Rindir I wanted – needed – this weapon. If I was of a bad bent, I would have rushed out the door then and there. "What would this be worth?"

"Not much at all," says he, "why, you'll get change out of nine-and-thirty septims."

Yes, that was with trade-in. Unfortunately, while he was interested in some of my other gewdads, I kept coming up several septims short. I just didn't have enough in my purse. Rindir was polite, but immoveable regarding a discount.

"Well then," says I, "I'll just take however many septims you'll give me for these staves, here, and go raise the cash. Maybe sweep the streets or something."

Rindir actually burst out laughing. "Oh good one! Seriously though, there's talk of scofflaws and goblins hiding in the city sewers. Maybe they can give you a loan!"

"I'll be sure to ask," says I pocketing the few coins he passed me and heading for the door. "I will return! Apotheosis," and I pointed past Rindir with a dramatic gesture, "wait for me my love!"

And so I left the Market District for the Waterfront with Rindir's laughter and a few funny looks following me.

* * *

Emerging from the fetid tunnel that links the Waterfront with the Temple District I almost walked into Raminus.

"Hail Warlock," says he, "and before you say 'What?' that's Traven's orders. He also told me to give you this letter." And he hands me a fairly fat chunk of parchment bearing the guild seal.

"Black Horse Courier," came from behind me, and I turned to see that rather second-hand looking Imperial – oh yes, Vlan – I'd seen emerging from the broadsheet's offices. "Everyone needs a copy of the Black Horse Courier," he added without any real enthusiasm.

"I'll take one," says I, and he picks one out and hands it to me as though his arm doesn't work properly and also as if holding a dead fish.

"You all right there, uh, Vlan?" asks I.

"No," mutters he, "not that we're friends, thank'eeser," then limps off half-heartedly plying his trade.

"What's the matter with him?" Raminus wondered. The answer came straight from the Horse's mouth.

GRAY FOX UNMASKED!

Vlanarus Kvinchal recently admitted to being the notorious thief, the Gray Fox. Under questioning by the Imperial Watch, he also confessed to being the reincarnation of Tiber Septim, the love-child of Lord Stendarr, a were-shark, and the mother of Hieronymus Lex. Only after he spent a night in the Imperial prisons was it discovered that Vlanarus had recently consumed a near-lethal dose of skooma.

And we look at each other then at the departing Vlanarus.

"Oh dear," chorus we and read on.

Vlanarus is now back home and recuperating from the hospitality of the Imperial Watch and from the close attention he received during his interrogation. He speculates that he might be able to work again in a month or two, so long as it doesn't involve walking or lifting anything heavier than a beer mug. The sometimes-dockworker has sworn a solemn oath never to trifle with Skooma again, and earnestly warns everyone to stay away from the Orum gang.

"Silly Imperial," says I rolling up the rag, "Skooma is for kahjiit."

Raminus just laughs and walks off, task accomplished.

* * *

At home I opened Traven's letter. As I expected it was blunt and to the point.

Warlock Ra'jirra,

About soultrap spells. You were especially disturbed by using a black soul gem. Don't be.

Soultrap doesn't. What it does do is collect the energy released when body and soul part ways. This energy bond is also revealed when you cast detect-life spells. If the times weren't as dire as they are now I'd tell you off to Delmar for a month to learn all this and more, but we don't have the time.

As per our discussion, you will use the next two days to:

1. collect as many souls as you can – you'll need them and magickal weapons in the future.
2. practice Conjuration, Alteration and Illusion. Your magickal abilities are hopelessly out of balance, favouring Mysticism, Destruction, Restoration and Alchemy. Buy spells you can't cast yet and work towards being able to do so.
3. get all your equipment into top condition and ready for your upcoming task. Expect necromancers.

I recommend going soul-hunting for a couple of days. Return by sunrise 20th. Yes, FROST FIRE. I expect you to report directly to me then. As Warlock, you don't need permission to enter the Council Chamber.

Do not make me wait again.

TRAVEN, ARCH-MAGE.

P.S. Once the emergency is over, you will be expected to attend regular lectures by our resident scholars and take workshops and assignments to guildhalls as per our apprentices.

Time to take stock, I thought. It was clear that Traven was a hard master, and worried about the necromancer threat. Something was up, and I was being used as the – well, champion, I told myself. Sacrificial lamb, another part of me whispered.

From points south came a third whisper, stuff that, let's visit S'jirra! Um, no, thinks I. Traven might not be understanding. Besides, I began to excuse myself, if some corpse-jockey noticed I was hanging out a lot at Faregyl Inn, they might put two and two together and... I kiboshed that line of thought.

Much of my equipment was already in good shape, but something I knew was that Traven was right about my skills. But try getting a battle-crazed bandit to hang fire while you whistle up another bound cuirass.

"Time to suit up," I muttered to myself, but first sat down at the table and laid out my map, using a couple of books to spread it flat. Closing my eyes, I stabbed a point at random.


This post has been edited by Cardboard Box: Aug 29 2010, 06:23 AM

Welcome back, Boxee and Ra'jirra!

Another delightful romp through the Market District!

Some things never change. Death. Taxes.

And Ra'jirra's wry take on things!

Another fun romp alright. I love how you took the in-game rumors and worked them into believable conversations. The Black Horse Courier was just perfect!

But enough of yours, let me show you mine!
Yep, that's a man for you...

champion, I told myself. Sacrificial lamb, another part of me whispered.
Correct on both counts I believe!

SPEW !!!! Your rendition of Traven has me rolling !!! Telling him not to be disturbed over using black soul gems and to take as many souls as he can - SPEW !!!! - Oh, I can't wait to see where his finger landed on that map !!!!

You'll find out. I finally replaced the FO3 disk with the Ob' one, so I'll be researching Ra'jirra's next moves.

Traven's actually under a little more stress than usual. Normally all he has to worry about are rogue conjurer gangs; rogue magickal researchers like Ancotar and Henantier; keeping those idiot scholars in touch with a) the reality of their teaching duties and B) reality in general; daedric cults of various sorts, including the Guardians of Oblivion; the training of battlemagi; ensuring the guildhalls don't blow themselves or their host cities up; securing funding from the Imperial coffers in the face of stiff opposition from the Imperial Treasury; and just to ice the cake, there's also all that lovely paperwork.

/me notes that ending the part-chapter on a cliffie seems to incite interest in the reader.

Here's a fun fact: about a year before Ra'jirra arrived in Anvil, a group of drunken apprentices scrawled mystic symbols and such graffiti on the Ottus residence. Said apprentices and their fate have already become the stuff of legend. Unfortunately said fate didn't alter Alessia Ottus' views on the Guild one bit.


This post has been edited by Cardboard Box: Aug 26 2010, 10:21 PM

Next part will be on hold while I code a "defusing traps" mod, or work out how to adjust the traps from "instant kill" to "maim severely".

Chapter 15 Pt. 2: Ra'jirra Takes a Working Holiday

I found myself aiming at a point roughly east of Chorrol and north of Fort Ash. I shrugged. As good a place to pass a day and a half as any.

East of Chorrol and mostly north of Fort Ash is an Ayleid ruin named Lindai. I observed gravestones near the entrance, which baffled me; why on earth had people come all this way from civilisation to bury their dead? Nevertheless it told me what to expect. There would be undead.

And there were undead, undead by the half-dozen. I stood it as long as I could before fleeing past the blade traps to the surface, heavier by silver and shields enough that I needed to repeatedly cast a fortification of strength to make it to Chorrol by the morn of the 19th.

Once inside, I went straight to the Mage's Guildhall and took a seat. A nearby book, A Game at Dinner, took my attention and I learned a thing or two about alchemy, despite bittergreen being hard to come by in these parts. Afterwards I dozed until I heard the guildies moving about.

"Ho, Ra'jirra!" It was Baldy the bosmer – what was his name? Athragaer? - "Nice to see you again. What brings you here?"

I stood up, slowly, and cast that fortifier again. "Flogging off treasure from Lindai," says I.

"That necropolis? Whatever for?"

I told him I'd been out practising my skills. This led into a helpful hour's lecture on the ins and outs of alteration, which left me a little lighter in purse before Rasheeda over at Hammer and Axe made me lighter in burden.

My purse was heavy, and it felt heavy enough to achieve Apotheosis. Three hours later, Rindir dropped a house on me.

"Ah, yes, Apotheosis," says he, "You know, I've had some offers on that staff. Very good offers as a matter of fact."

"What do you mean, offers?" says I, smelling a rat, "Is the price thirty-nine drakes or not?"

It was not. Now the gouging little tree-hugger wanted sixty drakes to give it to me! And I'll give the little bugger credit, he stuck to his story like glue. He knew he could simply have sold the damn staff outright, but he'd been so kind, there was a gentleman on order, he said, unless I changed my mind?

I said I wouldn't change my mind. He admitted that, while I was lacking in coin, a suitable trade, say in enchanted clothing, would be admissible...?

I said I'd see about it and stormed off.

I took my bad mood into a cave actually quite close to the bridge to Weye; Dzonot was the name scratched on the door. Bottles galore on the ground outside suggested either a very happy fisherman or bored bandits. And this close to the city!

Inside I crept, then heard a crashing sound and a male death cry. "What was that?" said a woman's voice from above and ahead, in the cavern that opened above me. I froze as a wet dream in boots and a battle-axe – nothing else – stalked out of the cavern mists and peered at a corpse, which apparently had walked straight into a swinging trap set up beneath a natural bridge. That's if the facts that his face was plastered across the inside of his skull, and his brains were either side of him, meant anything.

"Some male," she called with chilling indifference, "no use to us now."

She then turned and stalked away. In my night-eyed vision, blue female outlines dispersed and went about whatever it is amazons do when they're at home. I wasn't at home, so I crept forwards until I could raid the corpse's pockets.

Outside I looked at my spoils. The most interesting thing was the most recent entries in a diary belonging to one Amel Lentus, which began:

I am in love. It was sheer coincidence that brought me out onto the walkway today, mother wished me to purchase fresh slaughterfish in Weye. It was on my way home that I saw her - my glorious nymph, so full of spark and skill that she was slaughtering mudcrabs while wearing nothing but a pair of boots and her sword.

I do not know whether to curse or bless the fish mother wanted! Were it not for them, I would never have passed by to see her, but were it also not for them I might have had the time to stop and learn her name.

I don't need to repeat what followed, since you readers are intelligent types and don't use your balls for brains. Those of you who do, remember poor Amel.

I decided to go beat up goblins instead. Fat Back Cave, southwest of the Arcane University, is full of them.

While creeping through the upper levels, I filled my remaining soul gems and finally achieved an understanding of both Alteration and Conjuration that, when I informed Traven later, moved him so much he grunted and said, "Amazing. You've finally reached the level of the most stupid apprentice ever."

I didn't care since I could now unlock things with magic.

By the time I emerged to the surprise of a herd of wild horses over on the mainland bank, it was the wee hours of the 20th, and I headed back to my little abode to dump the loot fast. I didn't want to keep Traven waiting!




This post has been edited by Cardboard Box: Aug 29 2010, 06:35 AM

ARGH! I didn't know about that in Dzonot cave! Now I have to go and see for myself! Great Write!!

That's typically what happens!

Are you sure that's all you did, Ra'jirra?

Methinks Ra'jirra's the former type.

I enjoyed this. I believe the lady and the diary in Dzonot are not vanilla Oblivion.

Oh darn! I was going to go find that diary and ogle the bandit! ROFL !! Thank you for the heads up Hauty!!!

The Amazons and the late Mr. Lentus, like the Guardians of Oblivion, frost bears, mystical and crazed imps, spectral warriors and their hounds, and something very large, white and deadly I've seen wandering around northwest of Bruma [Don't remind me - R.] are all part of Oscuro's Oblivion Overhaul.

As for Foxy (the D, if I recall, stands for 'dirty mind'?), please remember that Ra'jirra was expecting hostiles. Additionally, someone had very recently died in front of him, which tends to diminish the ardour. Also please note that the lady's weapon was a) bigger than his, and b) was at the ready. [And c) she's very, very good with that thing - R.]

Another fun episode, with Ra'jirra flogging his loot, learning a few things from old baldy, meeting some Amazons (why do they only wear boots? Wait, let me guess, because the person who made the mod is male...), and earning the disrespect of the Arch-Mage. Sounds like another day in Cyrodiil!

My purse was heavy, and it felt heavy enough to achieve Apotheosis
I loved this!

Actually the other amazons spawned do wear armour. There's also an Amazon Queen somewhere with unique equipment, but at level 27 I think Ra'jirra will be keeping her off his dance card.

Chapter 16. In Which Ra'jirra Returns to Skingrad

I arrived promptly in the council chambers at half-past six and ended up cooling my heels with a couple of books. One went on interminably about some sort of conspiracy involving the Psijic Order, which I had trouble following. The other, Implements of Violence, made me gasp briefly, and made Jarol, who was also waiting, look at me.

"Ah!" says he, "I see you're reading my work. Takes your interest, eh?"

"I recall finding a staff that fits this description," says I, "in an Ayleid ruin east of Leyawiin. I ought to give it a closer look."

"Really?" Jarol perks right up. "Why not bring it here and I can have a look at it." I agree and wonder if it's still in my chest at the old lodge down there.

Traven arrived promptly at nine. After the exchange of unpleasantries, namely him grilling me over what I'd been doing, he grunted.

"Remember Skingrad? Count Hassildor wants to see you."

"Me? He doesn't want to dong me another one does he?"

Caminalda makes an unladylike noise – that's elves for you, always ear-farming! – and Traven just smiles thinly at that. "Don't ask me, ask him. He asked for you especially. Apparently he has vital information, but he's playing games." And he sighs, and adds, "Mind you, I'd be playing coy after that business with Hosidius too, if I were him."

"All right," says I, "I'll be off then."

"Good," says Traven, then adds, "Don't give him another excuse will you?"

And Raminus wondered why I was chuckling when I materialised in the foyer.

To my confusion the damnable unicorn was hanging around the Chestnut Handy again, as though waiting for me. I simply cannot understand why. If I drop anchor in the middle of nowhere, away it goes back to the grove. If I come to the big smoke, it happily waits around. Usually.

After arriving at Skingrad I made my way directly to the castle. The Argonian woman, Hal-Liurz, had apparently taken over Hosidius' duties. "Very well," said she when I explained why I was there, "Take a sseat. The Count will be with you sshortly. Sso no need for bookss thiss time, yess?"

"What happened to Hosidius anyway?" I wondered aloud to the large well-dressed Orc loitering nearby.

"Nobody knows," says he in carefully modulated tones, "But I seem to recall that he vanished about the time you were last here. Making a nuisance of yourself, as I recall." And he frowns at me as though I – well, I probably had landed the killing blow on Hosidius. But he started it.

About the time I was getting hot under the collar from the Orc's accusing stare, Hal-Liurz reappeared, followed by Count Hassildor, as usual in his full suit of armour. I stood to meet him.

"Ra'jirra the Warlock," hails he, "keeping your helm on I see."

I feel my cheeks burn and he grins. "Let us just say I don't want it to happen again, my Lord. Actually I don't think selected councillors want it to happen again either."

And he bursts out laughing before collecting himself and covering his mouth.

"I fear this time you may find the results no more to your liking than the last. Less so, perhaps," says he rather more seriously, and I realise his refined, slightly flat tones are what that Orc is trying to imitate. "The information I have for your guild will not be met with smiles and hand-shakes, I fear."

"It's that bad, eh?" says I.

"I'm afraid so, but first things first. I have called you here because from our previous encounter, I believe you can be trusted."

"What do you want me to do?" I may be a hayseed but I'm not thick. You want thick? Try old Nug. If you belted him on the bonce with a warhammer you'd have to spend an entire day explaining why he should fall down. You want thicker? Take a warhammer to Nug's bonce and look in the mirror.

Anyway Count Hassildor looks at me approvingly. "It's a minor thing," says he, "A nest of vampires has sprung up in Bloodcrust Cavern, southeast of town."

"Again?" cries I, to his obvious surprise. "Sorry my Lord, but the first time I came here I explored that cave, and cleaned out vampires – nearly became one too!" I shake my head. "How the hell did they come back?"

"You took on an entire cave of vampires by yourself?" Hassildor looks at me. "I'm impressed."

Now, the main hall of Skingrad Castle is fairly gloomy, and the Count is standing in shadow. And he's smirking at my expression as I put two and two together from that glimpse when he laughed.

"It's not just the vampires is it?" states I, "You've got vampire hunters."

"Exactly," says he, "very well done, Warlock. Rumours have been spreading about vampires in the town, and, well, I cannot let my identity be compromised."

"Do you know anything about them?" asks I, "the hunters, I mean."

"There are at least, three, under one Eridor. From what I hear he's rather good."

"Well then," says I, "If they want vampires they'll get vampires. And either they leave happy, or..." and I shrug. "I get their scraps."

Hassildor looks at me with even more respect. "You're smarter than you look," says he, "You understand what to do and why. Go now."

I go now.

Shortly thereafter I had a pleasant conversation with Falanu Hlaalu about bittergreen.

"Now there's a taste of home," says she wistfully. "You know, stewed bittergreen was a traditional dish, the perfect thing with mudcrab meat or nix-hound. Sure you could get poisoned if you didn't cook it right, but..." and she sighs again. "I don't have any, but I do have these..."

And we discussed the relative merits of volcanic glass, timsa-come-by, golden and noble sedge, and then she opens a package and –

"Faugh!"

"'Faugh' is right," says she with one hand pinching her nose and the other holding a piece of meat that's a dark green. At first I think it's rotten until I see that the green is too consistent – it's the colour of the flesh!

"Durzog meat," says she, "hunted from beneath Mournhold, city of Blessed Amalexia." She puts the meat away and opens a few windows. "They're dangerous beasts, mounts of the goblins that infest the caverns beneath. I've got a picture here somewhere..."

Goblins are ugly, vicious little beasts. Durzogs are ugly, vicious large beasts, like a daedroth gone wrong. I've never been to Mournhold, let alone delved into its legendary Old Mournhold, and with monsters like that down there I never will.

Anyway I asked about Eridor, claiming I had a message for him.

"Eridor? Oh, you mean the tree-hugger who claims he's a vampire hunter. Came in with a little speech about 'we mean you no harm' and other rot. I told him to ask at the chapel, since they'd hear about such things. What a poser!"

Sinderion didn't know anything about vampire hunters, but I picked up a few elixirs of exploration before heading over to the chapel.

I spotted Eridor right away by seeing where citizens were fleeing from. He was a Bosmer with a battleaxe that came up to his nose, leather trimming, and a topknot adding an extra inch to his height.

He saw me approaching, and as I closed I heard him mutter, "Oh, no. Not another one," before straightening up and reciting, "Citizen of... Skingrad. Please be advised that I am here on official business, and wish no harm..."

And I just looks at him. Picture the scene: a Bosmer in brown leather (except for a cuirass) and me, a Khajiit almost all in elven togs and toting the white stallion.

"Oh, forget it," says he as he realises that I could probably dismantle him unaided. "Let me guess: you're worried about what my men and I are doing here in town, right?"

"Someone told me you're looking for vampires," says I, "In the wrong place."

Eridor doesn't like that. "Wrong place?" says he nastily. "I'll have you know I'm one of the best vampire hunters in all Cyrodiil, f-Khajiit!" I think he remembered I'm in full jacket. "Not to put a fine point on it, but I don't usually head off in the wrong direction! So, where is this 'right place' then?"

"I've seen the bloodsuckers at Bloodcrust Cavern," says I, "right here." I point to it on my map. "Just go out the east gate and follow the road to where it jinks north, then go south toward Silorn and look to your right. You can't miss it – there's fires and skulls outside."

Eridor perks right up at that, and so do I. Knowing my sense of direction I'd have sent him towards Anvil without that map.

"My friend," says he expansively, "That's the information we've been seeking. We'll have to pay them a visit soon. Thanks for the tip, friend!"

And he shakes my hand and away he goes. "That got rid of him," says a guard behind me.

"Seconded," says I, "I hope he's got a decent suit for vampires."

"Are there really vampires in Bloodcrust?"

I just look at him. "I have it on the highest authority."

It wasn't until the wee hours of 21 Frost Fire that Eridor and his band appeared. "Hail Khajiit," says he from behind me, where I'm watching the cave door, "keeping vigil?"

"Yep," says I, "There's been no movement, but I heard talking. I think they're all inside."

"Tell me, Khajiit," says he thoughtfully, "you seem well equipped, how come you haven't slain the vampires?"

I turn and look at him. Eridor, and his band, are to my eye hopelessly ill-equipped, not enough armour between them to protect one man let alone four. I take a breath.

"I'm afraid of undead," says I quickly. It wasn't a total lie either.

Eridor snorts. "Big baby! Tell you what, follow us and we'll show you how it's done. If you're good, we'll leave one for you to finish off!"

And so I followed them in the wake of some unkind laughter.

The vampires had the second to last laugh. The vampire hunters' technique wasn't much more than overwhelming ferocity, with the group barrelling down the right-hand tunnel to their deaths.

And it was up to me to work hard for the last laugh, slaying the half-dozen remaining vampires and collect their precious dust. It was fearful, nasty work, and to this day their bloodless faces haunt my nightmares. And then there was that terrible incident with the skooma, which led to my wife forcing me to take a solemn pledge to never touch a drop of the stuff again. She didn't have to force me too hard.

I emerged from the cave feeling a little tired, dumped some loot on the step, then reported to the Count.

"My vampiric senses tell me," says he with some amusement, "that the animals in Bloodcrust Cavern are no more."

"That is correct, my Lord," says I, not rising to the bait.

"My guard commander also tells me," he goes on, "that Eridor and his band were seen leaving the city early this morning by the east gate, then cutting south towards Bloodcrust Cavern, followed by a Khajiit in elven armour and a purple cape."

"That would also be correct, my Lord," says I.

"And now a Khajiit in elven armour and purple cape returns alone."

"Well, Eridor and company were quite good," says I, "but they ran out of steam around their fourth bl-vampire and I had to finish off the rest myself."

"So the work is complete, and we can discuss the information promised."And he grows solemn. "Your guild does not fully appreciate the danger which quickly approaches. Hopefully when you return to them, their eyes will be opened."

"Danger, you say," says I. "This is about those bloody corpse-jockeys isn't it?"

"The Necromancers are a sign of things to come. An old acquaintance of the guild has come to Cyrodiil, and they are answering his call." He sighs, and then looks grim. "While I do not know for quite what purpose he has arrived, I believe the Guild of Mages is in great danger. Mannimarco has returned."

"Hang on," says I, "are we talking the Mannimarco? As in Galerion and Mannimarco? Not some Johnny-Jump-Up claiming the name?"

"I do not think so," says he, "and we made sure when we... asked our informant at Fort Linchal." Evidently I wasn't the only one to see the Shade of the Revenant at that fort. "Nearly invincible, he has established himself somewhere in the north of Cyrodiil. This is all that I know."

This was bad, I could tell. Some great undead necromancer – how else would he have 'lived' so long? - from the mists of time, back to finish off Galerion's legacy – the guild. And by extension me.

But Hassildor is still talking. "See to it that your leader, Traven, learns this as soon as possible. I have no love for your guild, but I have no wish to see it destroyed either."

"Neither do I, my Lord Hassildor," says I grimly, "therefore with your permission I will depart at once."

"Before you go," he raises a hand, "one more thing. Yesterday afternoon a Khajiit in elven armour was seen riding to the city on a unicorn, about two of the clock. Then, late last night, two guardsmen on the roads encountered a Khajiit, in elven armour, riding a unicorn near where the trail to Silorn meets the road. And now, I am told, a unicorn waits at the gate below for its rider, described as a Khajiit with elven armour and a purple cape." He looks me up and down, and his mouth twitches. "Is it true?"

I can't hide a smile. "True as there is daylight outside," says I, "And if it wasn't for that daylight I'd introduce you to him myself."

And Count Janus Hassildor roars with laughter! "Oh well done Warlock! Maybe you'll make Arch-mage some day. Let me know the next time you are in Skingrad, and I will commission a portrait. But," and he sobers, "go now. Traven must know what I have told you."

I go now, rubbing my eyes tiredly as I emerge into the sunlight.

I arrived yawning at the Arcane University about noon and made my way to the council chambers and Traven. "Well, Warlock?" says he, "what happened?"

"Vampires," says I, and fill him in on the business briefly. "But the Count says Mannimarco has returned, he's put out the call, and he's holed up somewhere up north."

Jarol was ear-farming and gasped in shock. Caminalda followed suit a little later.

Traven just stares at me. "Are we talking about the Mannimarco? Or just some jumped-up high priest who's–"

"They raided Fort Linchal," says I, "and brought one or two to the question. Count Hassildor himself said that it was a certainty this was the Mannimarco, like in the ballad of Horides."

Now I'm not known for sweet language, but Traven's ensuing brown streak shocked me, Caminalda and Jarol with its force, vehemence and lack of repetition.

"I thought necromancy was virtually eliminated from Cyrodill," said he, once you took the lumpy bits out, "How could I be so wrong? Now the grove's been desecrated, guildhalls sabotaged, traitors found..." He lets fly with a bellow that makes us all jump. "POLUS!"

A rather startled Raminus appeared in the chamber about ten seconds later. "Y-You called, Arch-mage?"

"He's promoted." Pointing at me. "Call the damn Council. Emergency meeting." Pointing at a startled Caminalda. "Ra'jirra, why are you yawning?" Pointing at me again

"Been up all night sir," says I.

"In a vampire cave? Think, damnitall! Go get a cure. Then go warn the Bruma guildhall. Then expect my summons. Dismissed!"

I left, I thought, I chugged a cure disease potion I had on me.

Damnitall! Actually, the my preferred term was For the love of the Nine NOT AGAIN!



This post has been edited by Cardboard Box: Sep 1 2010, 04:05 AM

Loved the Count of Skingrad in your story! A vampire with a sense of humor! Ah, yes, sometimes humor's the only thing that keeps one going after so many years.

Ra'jirra's assessment of the vampire hunters cracked me up. Oy, vey! Who ever thought the leader of the vamp hunters ought to be a male Bosmer is genius - it adds just a hint of tragic comedy to this quest. You picked it up and just ran with it.

Keep 'em coming!

Lots of fun again!

After the exchange of unpleasantries, namely him grilling me over what I'd been doing, he grunted.
I love how you are portraying Traven. In the game he is this kindly uncle type character. But in the RF he really seems like someone mean and ruthless enough to run a megacorporation.


“Me? He doesn't want to dong me another one does he?”
*rawr* Hot vampire on khajiit action!

Reading your story is like reading Rachel's - your characters become so marked that everyone will envision them as you have written them! I will never look at Arch Mage Traven the same again, nor be able to write a good love scene with Hassildor again! Lol. - With Rachel it was Jauffre - amongst numerous others. Awesome Write !!!!!!

Great. September and something in my computer is dying. Hopefully just one thing and not several. Will resume once I can either a) get at my files or get the damn game going again.

Aw, bless your heart! Sorry to hear about your PC! ARGH! Good luck to BOTH!

[Strap your forehead to the monitor and hold onto your pants - here's over four thousand more words about everyone's favourite guildie! (All right, 'except Mannimarco's'.)]

Chapter 17. Ra'jirra Makes Unexpected Discoveries

I decided the best thing to do was saddle up for Bruma first. I arrived after nightfall and made my way into the guild. Turning towards the downstairs dormitories I ran into Volanaro.

"Ra'jirra!" says he, "Long time no see." And he looks me up and down. "You've been doing well for yourself – obviously."

"All hard work and drudgery," says I in a put-upon tone, and we have a good laugh.

"I wish I could travel the lands," says he wistfully, "but I'm stuck here in this dank little icebox." And he sighs. "Still, what can I do for you?"

"Pass on some news," says I, and I quickly fill him in as we head downstairs and park on a bench. His cheerful face gradually bent out of shape with surprise, then shock, then alarm. By the time I'd finished, Jeanne Frasoric had parked herself on the other side of me and was looking very distraught.

"But are you sure this is the –" she starts.

"Absolutely certain," snaps I, "and if you don't believe me you can bloody well ask the Arch-Mage, and Count Hassildor, and any corpse-jockeys you run across. So keep an eye out, and sound the alarm if anything happens. Speaking of anything happening," and I turn to Volanaro, "Traven said as I was leaving, 'Get that prankster to teach you his special.'"

And Volanaro goes red and Jeanne harrumphs. "Well! Well... I know how to summon a dremora lord. It's a complex spell, and it requires a great deal of magicka. On the other hand..."

With most of my gold in Volanaro's pocket and my head full of conjuration magics an hour later, I went to bed. He hadn't been lying. Dremora are dangerous and fiddly summonings, and their lords are worse. However Volanaro had also taught me how to summon a skeleton for practice, "and," he'd added, "it'll help a little in combat."

You might wonder about Apotheosis. Well, I'd had a think and given up on it. No doubt if I fronted up with nine-and-sixty septims, the price would have gone up again. Screw Rindir.

The following morning I got up early and was watching the sun climb the peak the locals called Gnoll Mountain, waiting for a store called Novaroma to open, when I hear "Good day," from behind me. The speaker was a well-dressed, middle-aged stomach attached to a Nord.

"I'm Tolgan, herald to Countess Narina Carvain here in Bruma," he introduces himself, "She requests your company at your earliest convenience."

"She does?" and I blink at him in confusion. "What for?"

"Countess Carvain would prefer if you speak to her in person," says he. "She also said to present you with this stipend as a taste of things to come."

Said stipend was a quarter-septim. Hardly enough to whet my appetite, but the door behind me was unlocked and I turned to see an altmer giving me a funny look. I put the 'stipend' away. "All right then, when should I go to her?"

"Now would be a good time," says he, "My Lady Carvain holds court from eight bells in the morning until six in the evening each day." He paused and cocked a meaningful ear at the obvious tolling from the chapel.

And so I tell him I will be there soonest and he's all very well and good day and away he and his stomach go.

"What was that all about?" I ask nobody in particular as I enter the store.

"I bet it's something to do with the Countess' collection of artefacts," says the altmer, eyeing where I stashed that little purse. "Our tax drakes at work."

"Well, never mind that for now," says I, "I've been waiting on you first, so you take priority."

And he laughs. "Oh, let me introduce myself. I am Suurootan, proud owner of Novaroma, a little piece of Heartland Empire here in the lofty Jeralls."

And we have a little dicker and I offload some excess salvage. "Now remember," says I at the end, "I expect you to curse me up and down the town about how I ripped you off on those enchanted axes – with any luck it'll get word to the Countess and she'll pay me properly!"

And we have a good laugh at that and off I go to the castle. I would just like to mention that I enjoy feather spells very much. So you know.

The countess was easy to spot: her throne was in the middle of several display cases, mostly holding swords of an oddly light and appealing blade and round, elaborately decorated shields.

"Milady Carvain," says I with a bow, "I am Ra'jirra, Warlock of the Mage's Guild–"

"And that stipend Tolgan gave you whetted your appetite," says she quickly. I caught her eyes as she scanned me up and down; a very sharp, analytical stare. She was up with the play, no doubt about that. "You've noted the Akaviri relics I'm displaying."

I couldn't exactly disagree with that so I didn't.

"Well, it's safe to say I'm a collector of sorts. I've invested a great deal of time and money acquiring these bits of ancient history," says she with great pride, "In fact, I'd be so bold as to proclaim my collection the most complete in all Cyrodiil; perhaps even beyond." Her eyes go sharp again. "Except for one thing."

"Which you want me to find," says I, "what is it?"

"I'd heard you were blunt and to the point," says she, "I'm of course referring to The Draconian Madstone." And she looks at me expectantly so I play along.

"That's a relic I haven't heard of before," says I truthfully, "What do you know about it?"

And she beams at the chance to play scholar to my apprentice.

"The stone is a fine bit of Akaviri craftsmanship. Worn like an amulet, this talisman is said to protect the wearer from poisons of any type. The Madstone appears as a snake coiled around and encircling itself. The eyes of the snake are supposed to be precious gems or some such. Through my sources, I've learned that the last reported location of the Madstone was the ruins at Pale Pass."

"And why would they be there?" asks I. Now you might think that history lessons are boring, but I ask because there is no knowledge without power. History is always helpful in explaining why you'll find undead here and not over there, or why Sheogorath has an obsession with cheese and evisceration, or something totally unexpected but no less useful.

"Back at the end of the First Era, raiders from the continent of Akavir attempted to gain a foothold here in Tamriel," she explained, "At that time, the Empire was broken into smaller factions. Reman Cyrodiil decided to unify them and form an army to repel the Akaviri raiders – the Army of Reman. The two armies clashed in what's now northern Cyrodiil. The Akaviri were strong and well supplied, but they went through Morrowind on the way to their objective," and she smirks, "and dismissed the response it would garner from Vivec."

Ouch. You don't tick off gods. Even the local gods.

"He attacked them from the rear, right?"

"Exactly!" cries she, pleased at such an apt pupil. "They didn't count on Lord Vivec forming an alliance with the Trident-Kings of the Dreugh. From Morrowind, he struck at their rear flank," she made a chopping motion with her hands. "Not only did this make the Akaviri fight on two fronts, it also cut off access to reinforcements and supplies from the sea."

"And that was them all done," says I.

"Not quite. The Army of Reman knew that the organized Akaviri forces were commanded from a hidden post in the mountains. Ah, you guessed it, Pale Pass. And that's where Reman focussed his efforts. As his forces fought their way across the Jerall Mountains, the Akaviri suddenly surrendered. It was assumed they were overwhelmed and gave up." And she frowns. "The only strange part was that the command post and Pale Pass were never found. It was dismissed as rumour and the Army of Reman celebrated."

"Except it's not rumour is it? You know where it is."

"I certainly do," she says all smug. "It's come to my attention that the post did exist and it happens to be the last reported location of the Draconian Madstone." She leaned forwards, giving me an interesting view of her north face. "If you retreive the Draconian Madstone for me, I'll be happy to compensate you by rewarding you with another Akaviri artifact I already have an example of. Are you game?"

Now I was interested; it was a change from corpse-jockeys and besides Traven would probably like to pay her a visit once this Madstone was in her possession. "I'm up for it," says I.

"Yes!" and she bounces in her seat with excitement before getting control of herself. "I had a feeling you'd accept. Good. Then let me tell you how you're going to find the Madstone," she says happily. "I've come into the possession of a diary written by an Akaviri messenger. I suspect that the text within can lead you to the ruins." And she jabs a thumb over her shoulder to a mouldering book in a case. "Tolgan!"

Tolgan's stomach appeared, followed by the man himself. "You called milady?"

"Tolgan, fetch the diary translation and the key please." And as he trundled his stomach away, the Lady Caravain turned to me. "I'll give you a translation of the passages we could still read, since I doubt they teach Akaviri at the Arcane University. I've also included a rough map that was drawn in the diary as well, and a unique key that was supposedly found with the diary. I'm assuming it will prove useful when you arrive at the site."

And so Tolgan reappears and hands me the documents and key, and I make my polite farewells and away I go.

Being the day was still young, I emerged from the northern gate and looked at the map provided. It was actually more a graphic. Dragonclaw Rock had an arrow pointing left from it to a statue, 'The Sentinel', according to the diary except, which in turn aimed upward to a door. So once I found the rock, I guessed I had to go west to a statue, then north. Fine.

My map of Cyrodiil showed that the road to Bruma actually also extended a short way north, then broke into a little dotted line marked as an old trade route to Cheydinhal, ominously marked "UNPATROLLED". There be bandits, thought I, so I strode northward with bow ready.

As it was, the only menace I encountered was a wolf that never saw me coming. But from its movements it was a young wolf, and like all young 'uns dumb enough to think an armoured khajiit was a tasty snack.

Approaching the statue – it wasn't that far away after all – I felt a sense of being watched. As usual, the watchers were beyond the range of Watchfulness, my long-range life sensing spell. I quickly found out they were trolls. They quickly found out I wasn't going away.

Inside the cave, I nearly brained myself on a trap before pulling up. Of course the Akavir would have trapped the damn place, there was no way they'd just let the Imperials waltz in! With that in mind, I crept into the next chamber and paused. There was a skeleton nearby, with a slate under its hand. And it wasn't making the ogre noise I could hear.

The ogre ahead wasn't interested in coming over, so I carefully slid the slate out from under and had a look at it. Despite the incomprehensible swirls I decided were the Akavir language, it looked like instructions. I looked at the translation again.

The slate rock that the orders have been carved upon for safety weighs me down; it is a constant reminder of the more than physical burden that I carry.

The Countess would like it so I pocketed it.

My skeleton wasn't a match for ogres, which tended to smash it even before it finished summoning. However, I had my mage's staff, which tended to lay them out long enough to slam two Firestarters and a Flare to see them off. I had quite a collection of teeth by the time I reached the far end of what was, really, a twisting tube into Pale Pass.

Pale Pass would be quite a nice place if it wasn't for the ogres. And the cold. I snuck past those I could sneak past and killed those I could not. My goal was soon in sight: the wreck of a fort, one great tree growing in the middle of its stone ring. Two more ogres fell before I could enter.

Inside the fortress I was almost at once attacked by a fairly tough skeleton waving the ruins of a slender sword, and the ruins of an intricately decorated, round shield. Undead. I should have known.

For hours I slogged through the dungeons, several times finding myself going in circles and avoiding traps that I had already avoided. I was rather pissed off by the time I penetrated to the last chamber.

A shade waited, bedecked in the memory of armour I had never seen before. His eyes, what I could see of them, appeared oddly uptilted, and he had one hand on his sword.

"You have made a long and perilous journey, but there is no time to rest," says he, "The Army of Reman is at our doorstep, and our supplies have dwindled. We have awaited your arrival. Tell us, what news do you bring from Akavir?"

It struck me that the restless dead I had been stalking and slaying were the shades of the long-dead Akaviri forces, still waiting all these long centuries for their instructions. I pulled out the slate. "Here are your orders, sir," says I.

The chill of the ghost's hand went straight through the slate into mine, as it took the ancient, and now very out of date, orders. "Well done, soldier. Your mission is complete, and you have my thanks. Now we may rest. Long live the Akavir!" said the ghost. He turned and walked to the far wall, then through it, the slate shattering on contact.

And then the wall sank into the floor, revealing a hidden chamber with a small plinth. The ghost was nowhere to be seen, but on the plinth was a remarkable amulet. A snake, biting its tail. The Madstone, I presume.

It wasn't until 23 Frost Fire that I finally emerged back into Cyrodiil, having carefully evaded the remaining ogres and made my way back to the cave the ancient Akavir had called the Serpent's Trail. Scanning the night-draped snows, I saw no more trolls or anything else, so I made a run for the road and the Bruma Mage's Guild.

I woke the following morning and thought for a bit. I was definitely getting smarter with all the practice in magic; not to mention nimbler with all the sneaking and bowplay – and the odd breaking and entering didn't hurt either. As the rest of the guildies broke their fast I considered patching up my gear, then decided against it. Better to appear travel-stained and prompt than raise questions about what I'd been doing for the past two days.

"So what were you doing for the past two days?" Volanaro asked a little snippily. Something to do with me crashing in his bed, so totally unconscious I couldn't be roused.

"Been seeking an Akaviri artefact in Pale Pass," says I.

"There's our taxes at work again," J'skar said sarcastically, "And how many millions did she pay you?"

"Twenty-five drakes," says I.

There was a short silence, then: "Is that all? – I heard she was paying scouts two hundred for something or other – You'll never earn a living at that rate! – Did you give her a discount or something? – Don't you know we have a reputation to maintain in the Guild? – Didn't you show her your axe?"

"J'Skar!" Jeanne yelled, and the young khajiit shrank back into his shoes. "Sorry Ra'jirra, but twenty-five drakes is far too small. It was an advance, surely?"

"Yes," says I, "and I'll get my reward for the Madstone shortly."

"The whatstone?"

So I dig out the Madstone and hold it up, and away we go again! "The Draconian Madstone! – Good gods, man, do you know what that's worth? – That should be in the Imperial Museum! – And you fetched it for twenty-five drakes?" and on and on until I pulled out my mace and thwapped the table for silence.

"Once the Madstone is handed over," says I, "and when I return to the Arcane University, I will inform Arch-mage Traven of this discovery. I'm sure the Countess will be agreeable to his suggestions that the local Mage's Guild will be only too useful in examining this artefact. And the next fetcher to second-guess me or tell me to welch on the deal," and I raised my mace, "gets the Skingrad Special."

That either cowed or confused them enough to shut up and let me eat breakfast in peace.

Next stop was the castle, where the good Countess Carvain was holding court. As soon as she saw me, she rather peremptorily dismissed the two courtiers or whatever they were and approached me, demanding, "You have the Madstone?"

I just smiled and handed it over. Her eyes went wide as she closed her grip on the thing, holding it up to the light.

"I never thought it possible. I mean... I had hoped... but to actually hold it in my hands. It's more beautiful than I imagined it." She stared at it for a long while, then remembered I was there. "Congratulations. I had a feeling you were the right person for the job. And it seems I owe you a reward." She fished something out of her belt pouch, which was a blue velvet matching her dress. "This Akaviri ring was found with the messenger's diary. It awards the wearer with increased agility and resistance to harmful magic. It's known as the Ring of the Vipereye. As I said, I already have one of these, so this is your reward."

I pulled off the ring of agility I'd been wearing for so long and slipped the Ring of the Vipereye on. It fit a little snugly, but the additional wards would complement my Spelldrinker Amulet. I thanked the Countess profusely and managed to drop hints about using the skills of the Mage's Guild. I'm not sure if they took root but I tried.

* * *

From Bruma I headed southward, stopping at last at Wawnet Inn. I doffed my helm and entered.

"Rra'jirrra!" S'jirra cried, making my name into a cry of pleasure that still makes my knees weak to this day. Not a good thing when a pretty young she throws herself at you before you even clear the doorway. "Wherre have you been? Did you find yourr frriend? Yourr bed was so empty!"

It takes me a while to become coherent again because, well, the sensation of her face against mine, and despite a dusting of potato flour she smelt quite nice, and I was juggling a slender waist in one arm and my helm in the other.

"I... well, it took me longer to find him, um, than I thought," says I, which is half right.

"Oh, S'jirra!" Abhuki had hands on her matronly hips and an exasperated look. "Let the poor man come in and sit before he tells his tale!"

S'jirra just rubbed her face against mine before letting me go. I counted out ten drakes for a room which I definitely intended using this time and prepared to land on a stool, but both Abhuki and S'jirra directed me to a nice chair in a corner instead.

"Now then," Abhuki said once I was seated, "tell us all about it."

I didn't. I simply mentioned that my friend appeared to have taken shelter in a nearby Ayleid ruin that turned out to be a necromancer lair, and exaggerated from there. To tell the truth, I found myself enjoying the experience: sitting like a lord, my audience hanging on my every word, foes and mace-blows increasing tenfold, and my cup neither running over nor dry. Which might explain why my audience increased twofold when I wound up.

"And I 'eard," I remember saying, "Tha' th' Mage'shesh Guild'sh worr-worr-shcared o' theshe corpshe-humpumpumpersh 'n' doin' all th' can t' wipe th' fetchersh out."

"Trruly?" One of Abhuki said (I think it was the top one) while both of the S'jirras gasped. "We live indeed in trrying times. S'jirrra dear," and both look at one or both of her daughters, "help ourr honourred and rrather drrunk frriend to his bed?"

I did my best to help her but not one of my four or five legs seemed to want to work.

* * *

The following morning I woke to the unpleasant scents of vomit and piss, which acrid smell made the ogre in my head either angrier or breed. To this day I have never drunk even half as much in a night. I'm a Khajiit, not a Nord. To make things worse, I'm the Arch-age now, so I can't afford to in case something explodes. Yes, even Bravil.

The door opened like the gates of hell and S'jirra entered, bearing a covered plate and a jug. "Rra'jirrra needs waterr," says she in a voice that alternately stroked and stabbed, "since so much drrink takes much out of one."

And so I carefully sat upright, trying not to let the back of my head fall apart and my brains roll out and under the bed. S'jirra was almost saintly, making sure this hungover, soiled mess of a khajiit drank his water and ate his ham and eggs. After an hour I felt sufficiently alive to get up without the floor trying to escape, and another hour later I paid my rather large bar tab with laundering fee and left.

I swear the unicorn was sneering at me and took pains to walk as loudly as possible.


I arrived at the White Stallion Lodge after sundown and dismounted. "Wait here," says I to the unicorn, "we'll be heading back past Harcane Grove shortly."

The unicorn just snorted, did a neat little pirouette and almost crapped on my feet. I made a mental note to buy a proper horse. See how this snotty beast liked that!

Ignoring the unicorn – which I was sure was still smirking at me – I went inside. Mazoga was out, which wasn't surprising, so I had time to check the chest at the foot of my bed. The Molag Stava was still there. I hefted the thing, black iron and blue-white welkynd housing deadly magicks. Jarol would love to see this all right.

I sat for a while and reflected on just how far and wide I had come. I certainly hadn't expected to travel the entire country to get into the Arcane University. Nor had I expected to become a knight, certainly not for just one day's work. Then again, I hadn't –

An hour later I was chuffed to find the unicorn waiting. For some reason I felt an urgency to head back to the Imperial City and I didn't know why. "Sorry," says I as I mount, "Things are coming to a head. I can feel it."

The unicorn must have agreed, as it almost immediately broke into a gallop and nearly threw me off!

We flew past beasts, past bandits, past Bravil – and close to Harcane Grove the unicorn finally slowed down to a slow walk, then stopped, ears pricked. A tiny light had appeared just ahead and off to the side of the road.

Carefully, I dismounted with as little noise as possible; bow in hand I approached the flame.

There was one figure bent over a white candle, bare back to me. It was a she, and she appeared to be trying to write something on a... a leaf? Anyway she sat up on her haunches – they were very nice haunches – and if it wasn't for her feathered hairdo giving her away I'd recognise that voice anywhere.

"May this flame of passion burrn within your hearrt," S'jirra sang,
Frrom me you will not parrt,
With harrm to none,
So mote it be – it is done!"

And she held the leaf in the flame until it caught.

"Sweet Dibella," she intoned, "Let Rra'jirra declarre himself to me trruly, I mean him no harrm and can contrribute to his life of sett – kchhttt!"

She immediately hunched over and put her fingers in her mouth.

I immediately rose and walked over to her. She looked around sharply and went all red when she saw who I was.

"Give me your hand," says I, and she just looks at me at first, then gingerly takes her hand out of her mouth. The flesh was a little pink, and some hair was scorched; it didn't really need my casting Convalescence at close range but I did anyway.

"Back home," says I, "you'd always know who was in love, because they'd buy a little pink candle."

And she just looks at me.

"And what they'd do," I go on, "is write their name, and that of their lover, in a circle, and while the candle burned down, they'd say:

"Our fate is sealed," and I gently kiss her hand.

"We are one," S'jirra starts to smile and pull close.

"So mote it be," and her other hand tugs on a wing and removes my helm.

Neither of us said much after that.

And I never got around, obviously, to telling her she didn't have to strip off to do all that other rubbish either.

Maybe her improvised love spell worked after all.




This post has been edited by Cardboard Box: Sep 8 2010, 04:54 AM