Oooh, boy, the atmosphere of the cave!

Starting with the zombie's viewpoint was fascinating, and it only became better.

And that last line was priceless!

As others have said, the zombie POV scene was stunningly good! Well, really all of this was. The attention you assigned the the black robed alabaster skinned escort as well as the King of Worms himself - wow!

I was pleased to see our two brave knights freed of their service to this . . . expedition.

And the sload. See, I'm not so deeply into lore that I can't chuckle and steal quite the enjoyment from an image of . . . Jabba the Hut! WooHoo!

I lovedlovedloved the part of the zombies. "not again...."
The Sload's name was interesting too....
can't wait till you have another update.

This post has been edited by Remko: Sep 16 2010, 11:40 AM

oh my. this was an exciting chapter! The Zombie-Vision, the Sload and The King of Worms. I love your KoW in particular, you show him as a figure of massive power and a brilliant necromancer. MORE! SOON! please.

First, let me reassure you regarding Lattia and her “ascent.” What she is holding on to is her identity- her personality- her “self.” All of those are the “god-like” part of her in her Altmer belief system. So, while she might willingly shed her mortal flesh, she would definitely try to hold on to her “immortal” essence- her identity. Short answer- I believe you got it exactly right.

The entire zombie-POV was brilliantly written, especially Nolquinn’s last(?) thought.



There, you begin to hint at the power of the KoW. And the eventual meeting delivers on that hint in full. Every part of this was spot on- the descriptions, the atmosphere, the incredible tension. Loved it.

The sload was an inspired touch- especially his identity. I wonder when he will have time to write his newsletter…? And of course the last line was perfect.

Nits:


“Carrion” refers to the dead flesh…. “Carrion feeders” would work.



Apostrophe wrangler at your service- “orc’s”.

"Scavengers" would be the term of art, methinks.

Ahem. Destri, your historical fiction continues to be very, very fine. Love how you weave all these disparate machinations together.

mALX – New chapters to you. I have been waiting since March to post this one! I hope you like it.

SubRosa – The fate that you ascribe to those who engage in necromancy will become apparent to Aran as the year continues. And that is the N’Gasta that I intended (as if there is another one).

hautee – Thank you so much! That last line was one of those happy accidents that occur during the writing. I am glad that you enjoyed it.

Acadian – The similarities between the Sloads and the Huts never occurred to me until you mentioned it. I may have to address that at some point. And it is funny you should mention our two brave knights . . .

Remko – You finally get to see a chapter you haven’t already read three times! N’Gasta’s part was intended to be a cameo, but thanks to Acadian’s comment it may turn into more.

hazmick – As always, thank you for the kind words. Here is the more you requested . . .

treydog – Okay, so we can add Altmer theology to the long list of subjects at your command! Thank you for the vote of confidence regarding Lattia, and thank you for the clarification of 'carrion'.

canis216 – Thank you for the compliment. I didn’t use the word ‘scavengers’ because it would have given me a repetition within the same paragraph, but I do appreciate the suggestion.





6th First Seed, 2E 854
Somewhere Along the Western Reach
Mid-Day


“Stop sulking and spur that horse,” said Valdemar, “I’d like to be halfway to Dragonstar by nightfall.”

“We should not have left them,” said Alain.

“They needed nothing more from us. I, for one, am glad to put that place to my back.”

“We are knights, Valdemar. What good are we if we run in the face of evil?”

“I do not run,” said Valdemar, “I was ordered to leave. There is a difference. As for this evil to which you refer, it existed before our time, it exists now, and it will continue to exist long after our bones are dust. Fight it if you wish, but it is a battle you cannot win.”

“All the more reason why it must be fought,” said Alain.

“Then by all means, go. I will not stop you. For my part, I plan to stop at the first tavern I see and drink until I forget all about caves and zombies.”

They rode in silence.

“What is it about the undead that unsettles you so?” asked Alain.

Valdemar turned in the saddle and shot a sidelong glance toward Alain. “I am not unsettled.”

Alain drew back on the reins. “And I am not stupid, Valdemar.”

Valdemar slowed his horse to a trot. “What difference does it make?”

“It makes a difference to me. We have spent a great deal of time together, yet I know precious little about you.”

“You know the important things.”

“Yes I do, but I would know the rest.”

They continued to ride toward a cluster of trees in the distance. For a time neither man spoke. Valdemar broke the silence with a long sigh through the nose.

“Bretons,” he said. He looked over at Alain, “I was born in Riverwood . . .”

“I am serious,” said Alain.

“So am I. Now do you want to hear this or not?”

The only sound was the soft clump of hooves sinking into the melting snow.

“As I was saying,” continued Valdemar, “we were a small village near Cyrodiil’s border, about thirty leagues south of Whiterun. Do you know where I mean?”

“Near the foot of the Jeralls,” said Alain.

“Not so near as that. We split the distance between the Jeralls and the halls of Castle Whiterun, about twenty leagues north of the valley that contains Pale Pass. What do you know of the fort that was built there?”

“Very little, it was used by the Akaviri who fought one of the Reman’s, wasn’t it?”

“Reman the first,” said Valdemar. “I have heard stories of that fort since childhood. The elders used the legends of that place to frighten unruly children.”

“Of which you were one, no doubt.”

Valdemar’s eyes were far away. “I thought you said you were serious.”

“Sorry,” said Alain.

“In winter the wind blows out of that valley and carries north, freezing the river and covering the whole of Riverwood in a sparkling blanket of snow and ice.”

“It sounds beautiful.”

Valdemar shook his head. “It hisses, Alain. That wind is like a snake coiled in those mountains waiting for winter’s chill. When it strikes it cuts through fur and skin, it blinds and it chokes. It drives the game and the fish away, starving us for months at a time. And, because of it, my village remains poor even now.”

He lapsed into silence. The two of them rode through trees newly bloomed with the sun high above their heads, yet Alain could still feel the cold of receding winter. When Valdemar spoke again it was through a voice made quiet by the weight of memory.

“The Akaviri built that fort to launch their sack of Cyrodiil. But they were undone by winter in the Jeralls. A piece of those mountains fell upon them, burying the fort and the pass under mounds of snow. The elders used to say that the dying screams of those snake-men were carried by the wind.” He paused in his remembrance, and then his voice rose as he began to recite:

“East to Akavir with Spring,
Fall South to Colovian plains,
Summer to the Western sea,
North in frozen Winter remains.”

“An effective legend to scare unruly children,” said Alain.

“That it is,” said Valdemar. “Just after my seventeenth name day a stranger came into the village. He boasted of the farsight, what your people call prophecy. He claimed to have learned it at the feet of the Graybeards of High Hrothgar. Do you know much about them?”

“They are reported to be oracles of the Nords. I have heard that they possess great power,” said Alain.

“They do. You must understand the mind of a Nord, Alain. We revere magic that serves useful purpose in battle. It is why so many of my countrymen jumped into Talos’ service when he displayed the thu’um at Sancre Tor. But magic that conceals and confuses is looked upon with disdain. And magic that looks beyond the veil of time is the province of the Graybeards alone. To profess knowledge of such is considered the worst form of hubris, and he who claims it is not to be trusted.”

“So you turned this stranger away?”

Valdemar nodded. “The elders did. They banished him south to the base of the mountains, but not before my friends and I stoned him under the village tree.”

Alain could not hide the revulsion that furrowed his brow and set his mouth to a grim line.

“I am not proud of it,” said Valdemar. “I even sought to make amends. My friends and I, the eight of us who threw the stones, journeyed to his wagon camped at the base of the mountains. We sought to do whatever service he deemed just to atone for our actions. He greeted us without rancor, gave us warmth by his fire, and fed us from the meager stores of his own wagon. He told us tales of the Akaviri treasure that lay buried in Pale Pass. And, after we had spent many hours in his company, he saw each of us in turn and cursed us with death at the hands of the undead. I alone still survive.”

“Valdemar,” said Alain.

“Let me finish. Another year passed. A year spent scratching for survival in the shadow of those mountains. It was our time to be young, when the days are long, filled with wonder, and marked by small victories and setbacks. In youth the shadow of death is easily forgotten. What we could not forget was the promise of treasure buried within the pass of those mountains. That treasure would sustain us all through even the coldest of seasons. Winter was bearing down on us. Each day that the air grew colder, the desire to claim the treasure grew warmer. It became a longing that we were helpless to deny.”

The trees above cast shadows that darkened the path before them. Alain kept to his silence.

“We left during the night,” said Valdemar, “in the days after the trees had shed all their leaves. The hunt that morning had produced scant game for our bows. We knew that time was short before the wind uncoiled and froze the world around us. Our hope was to reach the fort, claim the treasure, and return before the advent of snow. Eight of us crept from the village to fulfill dreams of glory with the strains of imagined bard-song ringing in our ears.”

He leaned back in the saddle and cast his eyes skyward. The sound of falling water could be heard from somewhere in the distance.

“We made our way up through the growing cold to the first summit of the Jeralls, and from there we looked down into the valley below. The pass and the ruin were there just as the elders and the stranger had claimed, but they were not buried. Years worth of spring and summer thaws had exhumed the fort for our eager eyes and we set upon it like the wolves we fancied ourselves to be.”

He grew silent again, his gaze pulled from the trail through the corridors of time to a long forgotten ruin. Alain thought better of prompting and left him to his memories.

“We found no treasure in those halls,” said Valdemar. “No buried Akaviri gold or trophys. The entire place, all five levels, was barren of anything save deadly traps and undead defenders.”

“The snake-men?” asked Alain.

“No, we met no serpents. They were human skeletons, armed with Akaviri swords. You know the ones I mean; long and thin, with a slight curve? They bear a name that sounds like a woman’s weapon.

“Katanas,” said Alain.

Valdemar nodded. “They wielded them with purpose. Maybe they were mercenaries charged with guarding the fort, but they were once as human as you or I. Eight of us entered that ruin. Only three made it to the lowest level. There we encountered a ghost that again bore a human aspect. He claimed to be the Commander of the Akaviri force. The name he gave us escapes me now. He looked upon us as messengers bearing official orders from Akavir. When we confessed we had none, he set upon us with a two handed . . .” he looked to Alain for help.

“Katana.”

“Yes, katana. Both of my friends fell before his might. I alone made it back to the sunlight.”

“Then you proved the stranger’s prophecy wrong,” said Alain. “You did not fall by undead hands.”

“No I did not,” said Valdemar. “But it is not because of fortune or my prowess in battle. I ran Alain! I fled from that place as if the forces of Oblivion itself dogged my heels.”

“You are no coward, Valdemar. I know that better than any. You withdrew in the face of a foe you could not defeat. You showed discretion, and in so doing you now live to honor the memory of your friends.”

“You do not understand. I do not regret leaving that foul place. I regret leading them there in the first place. They all looked to me, Alain. I led them in throwing those stones and I led them to the stranger’s wagon where he pronounced judgment on them all. I told you he saw each of us in turn.”

“Yes.”

“Well, as the leader, he reserved a special curse for me. He told me that I too would fall to an undead hand, but that would not be the end of my curse. He doomed me to walk as one of them. I shall never see the halls of Sovngarde. I shall never drink of the golden mead at Shor’s table. I shall spend eternity roaming the darkened halls of some cave or forgotten ruin.”

“You cannot believe that,” said Alain.

“By the time we reached the lowest level of that fort the two friends I had left believed it. They fell believing it. I am a Nord, Alain. I can think of no more glorious fate than a righteous death in battle. My fear is reserved for what lies in wait for me beyond it.”

The warmth of the western sun gave neither man solace as they rode together in uncomfortable silence. Whether it was the length of rest, the lateness of the hour, or some intuitive understanding of the mood, both horses were ready to run.

“You are now the only other person who knows the tale,” said Valdemar. “If you are intent on going back to face the evil in that cave, I will go back and stand with you.”

Alain looked over at his friend. “No. Whatever evil exists in that cave shall be for some other knights to vanquish. Your tale has awakened my thirst. I say we spur the horses, stop at the first tavern we see, and drink until we forget all about caves and zombies.”

This post has been edited by Destri Melarg: Sep 21 2010, 09:37 AM

Valdemar's story was bonechilling. Great write Destri, I could almost feel the cold wins whip- no, hiss by me.

I pulled this early in my reading of this story to quote. By the time I was well into the story, I felt too affected by the powerful tale to believe that quoting the humor in this was appropriate. Yet, I do quote it now:
Much wisdom contained here.


This is what changed my mind and let me decide to offer the quote after all:


A very powerful story, and expertly told, my friend!

In your hands Valdemar has shown unexpected depth and strength of character. And I loved your tale of Pale Pass - it remains (along with Sancre Tor) one of my favorites of the quests involving undead. Probably it's so because the undead are freed, not just destroyed. Knowing what awaits them at Sancre Tor, hearing the prophecy/curse that Valdemar carries with him adds even more tragedy to the story of the four greatest Blades. My mind is already thinking how I can borrow from this for Julian's encounter with Casnar, Rielus, Valdemar and Alain . . .

May I?

A wonderful story! Valdemar's tale brings some very welcome depth to his character, all done with a very strong viking Nordic influence. The story itself stands up strongly in its own right. The traveling mage, the young, pig-headed men and their foolish act, and finally the terrible doom that fell upon them.

Also, I see you went with Oblivion's depiction of the defenders of Pale Pass as being human rather than Tsaesci. That, plus some mentions of the survivors of the Akaviri host interbreeding with Imperials lends a great deal of weight to the belief that the term 'eaten' in Mysterious Akavir was not meant literally, but rather figuratively. Or perhaps it was literal, and the Tsaesci only ate the men, but not the women, who then had kids who grew up to serve the Tsaesci in their armies.

nits:
Fall South to Colvian plains,
I think you meant Colovian.

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Sep 20 2010, 08:03 PM

I am loving this story! Valdemar is awesome--he appears to be the classic Nord (Tough, big guy) and he is but under the surface he is sensitive and deep.





This part made me chuckle but at the same time I kinda feel sorry for Valdemar's obvious hatred for and discomfort about the undead. I will have the usual please, more!

Throughout this episode, I was furiously taking notes, hoping to learn how to give my characters a past that informs their present… And how to write like this:





There is a perfect touch. You do not “tell” that Valdemar searched for the name of the weapon- you “show” him admitting he does not recall it, even as he describes the sword.



I feel the need to pull my furs closer around me to shut out the sudden chill.

First: WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT !!!!!!!

I love the way you slid in references so the reader could picture the location of Valdemar's home - the minute you said twenty leagues north of the valley that contains Pale Pass - I could envision it in my mind. I actually went off-map out of Pale Pass and may have crossed through his town, lol.



I expected the name of the weapon to be Regina or maybe ...berry sundae... ARGH!!!!

OOOOOH! That curse...foreshadowing !!!

Sorry it took so long, I started reading this before going to work, but had to savor it. This was no chapter to rush through! I had to work till late and crashed when I finally did get home. This was worth the wait...I knew it would be !!!!


*

This post has been edited by mALX: Sep 23 2010, 01:26 PM

Remko – Bonechilling huh? What a great choice of word given all that Valdemar goes through! Thank you.

Acadian – Valdemar’s experience has given him a fatalistic optimism, he is quite certain that the worst is going to happen! Because of that he tends to display a form of gallows humor without even realizing it. The fact that you picked up on it is gratifying indeed.

hautee – Valdemar’s tale was something that came almost fully formed with his character. Like I said before, he just kicked the door in, sat down, and put his feet up on the table. I haven’t had to do much with him except listen. I think a lot of what you see now will be echoed in the future when he is confronted by Akaviri, and their weapons, again.

And I can’t wait to see how you treat all this in Julian’s story.

SubRosa – I have always been of the mind that ‘eaten’, as expressed by Mysterious Akavir, was not to be taken literally. 'Assimilated' is probably the more accurate term. I think the fact that the Tsaesci who stayed in Cyrodiil were able to rise to such lofty heights in the Empire gives ample evidence of their adaptability.

Then again, maybe the Tsaesci ate the men in front of the women, and then conceived kids for their armies!

Thank you for finding that ‘o’ in Colovian, it must be the one that Ysmir sent back.

hazmick – I am so glad that you are enjoying this story. I wish that I could take more credit for Valdemar. But, as I told hautee, he is one of those characters who just hijack the keyboard. I always feel like I’m taking time off when I write his chapters.

trey –

High praise from the master of immersion and atmosphere!

I think that Athlain brandishing a sword to get Egnatius to put out to sea accomplished your aim nicely. I still remember Carbo’s expression when he took away the last one!

mALX – I forgot all about berry sundae!!

I had a girlfriend named Regina once. Thinking of her has just given me the perfect name for my new character’s weapon: Regina, an ebony warhammer with a hefty drain health enchantment!

I am sorry you had to work so late. I hope your job is something that you love. I know that real life comes first, but rest should come second. This story is content being a diversion rather than an obligation.

Everyone – The 7th of First Seed is the longest day that we have experienced so far in Interregnum. There was no way to adequately cover everything that happens in one post, so I have broken the day up into what I hope will be four (maybe five) segments of my usual length. I hope you enjoy them.





7th First Seed, 2E 854
The Hotel Juilek, Imperial City
Pre-Dawn


In a dimly lit corner of the lobby, past the untended front desk and the Imperial couple locked in an embrace before the hearth, two Altmer sat in high-backed chairs and engaged in quiet discussion.

“She asks too much of me, Emero,” Farenenre said.

“She would disagree,” said Emero. “She merely wishes to know the Emperor’s plans for these Tsaesci.”

“I imagine that she is not alone in that regard.” Farenenre’s eyes darted once again toward the couple by the fire. The man was young, handsome, broad in the shoulders, and dressed in burgundy linens. The woman was comely as Imperials went, with long brown curls and green eyes. She was dressed in blue suede with leather boots that rested easily on the young man’s legs. Their attentions were devoted to each other. If they were eavesdropping, they hid it well. He turned back to Emero. “Tell Lady Direnni that the Emperor has not divulged his plans to me.”

“Not yet, but he will. When he does . . .”

“The Tsaesci surviving the day is not assured. You already know this. Any thoughts of future plans are premature.”

Emero leaned back in his chair. “Milady has faith in Tsaesci prowess.”

“Your lady has a habit of building her faith on unstable ground.” Farenenre rose from his chair, “I receive regular reports from Alinor. The Dominion is failing. Soon there will be war between Summerset and Valenwood. That letter she possesses will then be of little account. There was a time when I enjoyed your company, Emero, but that time is long past. I expect we shall not meet together like this again.”

He moved to walk away, but Emero’s hand locked upon his wrist.

“Unhand me!” said Farenenre.

“Soon perhaps,” said Emero. “But right now Milady’s letter still bares teeth. The Dominion’s retribution carries little weight this far from Northpoint. You should be more concerned with the fact that you remain within Cuhlecain’s grasp.” Emero released his grip.

“He needs me,” said Farenenre. He pulled his arm across his chest and inspected his wrist for bruises as he sat back down in his chair.

“Not once he gains the services of Zurin Arctus,” said Emero.

“Arctus?” Farenenre began to caress his offended wrist. “Arctus is fiercely loyal to Talos.”

“You are so certain? Now who builds faith on unstable ground?”

One could almost see the calculations going on in Farenenre’s mind. He rubbed his wrist with renewed vigor, his eyes darting back and forth as if over a page.

“What do you know?” asked Farenenre.

“Are you proposing an exchange of information?” asked Emero.

“I am,” said Farenenre, with a haste borne of desperation.

“Very well, my instructions upon leaving you are to go to the home of Master Arctus and invite him to dine with Lady Direnni in the palace this evening.”

“In the palace?” Farenenre grew pale; his jaw began to shift from side to side. “The Emperor uses your mistress to do his bidding?”

“You cannot fail to notice that the two have become close of late,” said Emero.

“Yes, but . . .” Farenenre clenched both fists, “why are you sharing this information with me?”

“I suppose I could tell you that it is because we share a familiarity that goes back many years. Or I could tell you it is because I do not approve of Lady Direnni’s actions in this regard. But the simple truth is that we cannot count on Master Arctus’ . . . friendship as we have come to count on yours.”

“Tell your mistress that her faith is well-placed. I do not know the specifics of the Emperor’s plans, but I do know that they involve the celebration today. The Emperor is keeping the lead snake out of the sands. Talos himself will share the Emperor’s box, as will Arctus and Lady Direnni. One does not need to be a smith to see that the forge is hot.”

“The snake-captain will not participate? That is news indeed.” Emero rose from his chair.

“You go to seek out Master Arctus?” asked Farenenre.

Emero smiled. “It is a bit too early for that. I go to tell Lady Direnni that she can continue to rely on your friendship.”

“We have an agreement, an exchange of information. I would know the substance of her meeting with Arctus.”

“And we would know the specifics of the Emperor’s plans,” said Emero. “It is my fondest hope that neither of us shall be disappointed.” He bowed, turned, and strode with purpose across the lobby and through the door.

Farenenre sat with his elbow on the arm of the chair. His hand slowly rubbed along his chin. The only sound was the crackle of the fire in front of the young couple, and the soft, gentle music of their kissing. The sound of a door closing upstairs awakened Farenenre from his meditation. He stood and cast a final glance toward the couple. Then he crossed the lobby and left the hotel.

As the door closed behind him, the couple disengaged. The young man stood, reached into his trousers, and produced a small silk purse that jingled when he placed it into the woman’s hand.

“I can’t remember an assignment more enjoyable,” he said, “Miss . . .”

“Trentius. Alma.” She opened the purse and peered inside. “Tell Master Arctus that I expect fair compensation if his assignments are going to be this labor intensive.”

“It was not that bad, was it?”

She smiled. “It beat sitting at the desk all night. You better get going; you’re going to lose him.”

He turned and started toward the door.

“Wait,” she said, “what do I call you?”

He flashed a crooked grin back over his shoulders.

“Rielus,” he said.





7th First Seed, 2E 854
The Elven Gardens District, Imperial City
Dawn


Dawn brought new light into the world, but it did nothing to brighten Farenenre’s mood. He walked through the streets with purpose, his head down, and his mind churning.

He seeks to supplant me, he thought to himself. But what have I done to offend? Could this be Lady Direnni’s work? They had indeed grown close of late. She was spending more of her time in the palace. Has she shown him the letter in order to place herself near the throne?

He shook his head to dismiss the thought. The act made him aware of his surroundings. He hesitated for a moment, unsure of which direction he should travel. No it could not have been her. Cuhlecain lacks the subtlety for subterfuge. If he had knowledge of the letter I would now be a tenant of the dungeons, or worse. Besides, if Lady Direnni covets my position, what does she gain by giving me this information? That decided, Farenenre turned toward the gate leading to Green Emperor Road.

What of Talos? Could his hand be pulling the strings? My reports to him have become lax since the arrival of Lady Direnni. Could this be the beginning of an elaborate play for the throne? Emero said that they wish to keep me close to the Emperor because they can’t count on Arctus’ friendship. But if tonight she was able to somehow lure him into her confidence . . .

He stopped at the gate to Green Emperor Road. There were no guards present to open it. Damn the shift change! He pressed his weight against the door until it opened grudgingly before him. He stepped through to the other side.

Arctus! It all comes back to him. His loyalty to Talos has never before been questioned. Was that assumption a mistake? He could see the spire of White Gold Tower looming before him, framed by the new day’s sun under a cloudless sky of sparkling blue. Thankfully there were no guards or peasant rabble cluttering the entrance to the palace. There was no one waiting to solicit favor or engage him with inane chatter. Events were moving too quickly. He needed to be alone with his thoughts. Ironic that with the whole city celebrating the first day of spring I would have cause to be so alone.

He stopped. Alone! He looked again at the palace entrance. Then he turned back toward the gate through which he had just passed, and all of the gates leading to the various districts. No guards. No people. Stendarr’s mercy!

He felt a sudden pressure in his back that drove him to his knees. His gasp was involuntary; the pain was so sudden and intense that he could not cry out against it. A warm, coppery liquid rose like bile in the back of his throat. He pitched forward, and vomited dark thick blood on the grass in front of him. As he looked down he saw the tip of an arrow, painted red with his own blood, protruding from the upper part of his stomach. Out of the corner of his eye he saw three pairs of leather boots.

“Compliments of Master Arctus,” a voice said from above him.

He felt the sharp impact of their boots as they began pummeling him. He tried to turn from their attack, yet each way he swung sent waves of pain from the arrow lodged within him. His screams filled the silence of the plaza, but there was no one to come to his aid. He heard and felt the breaking of his own ribs. For several moments, an eternity it seemed to him, all thought was set adrift in a turbulent sea of pain and blood. One thought rose to the surface, and he grasped hold of it with everything he had left and clung to it like a man drowning. Arctus. Arctus.

“That’s enough,” said the voice above him.

There was more pain from the arrow as he was turned onto his back. He cried out again as he felt pressure against the tip. He was thrown to his stomach and treated to more waves of agony as the arrow was drawn through his body and yanked free. With blurred vision through swollen, half-closed eyes, he looked up and saw his tormentors. All wore hoods save the one who had spoken. The one who was still speaking, reading from a scroll that he held in one hand. I’ve seen him before. Where?

He felt himself bathed in light. The pain began to diminish. He felt his ribs reforming and the closing of the wound in his stomach. The dark bile in his throat disappeared. Presently his vision focused on the handsome face of a young Imperial squatting in the grass in front of him.

“I’ve seen you,” Farenenre whispered, his voice hoarse with the effort. “The hotel.”

“I carry a message from Master Arctus,” said Rielus. “This duplicity of yours will not be tolerated. You would do well to remember where your loyalty lies. Next time there will be no healing scroll, and we will not be as polite.” He straightened and walked slowly back toward the gate leading to the Elven Gardens.

Farenenre lay on the blood soaked grass. Gradually his faculties returned. He rose to a seated position and looked down at the state of his clothing and the darkened grass around him. I must leave before I am seen. He rose unsteadily, and found that his legs still functioned when he tried to walk. He tested his lungs by taking a deep breath of crisp morning air. The words of the young man’s warning still lingered. But they were like a whisper against the screaming insistence that his own words made in his ears and mind, words that threatened madness unless they were acted upon.

Zurin Arctus must die!

*drooldribble* WOOOOOOOOO!!!

AAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!! This has to be counted among the most powerful chapters written - and that is saying a lot !!!!!!!!!!!!! WHEW !!!!!!!! It is not even the words of this chapter, but the implications of it and anticipation of what is coming !!!!!!!! MORE !!!!!!!!! MORE !!!!!! Don't wait and be polite, MORE !!!!


Oh, and obligation? ARGH !!!!! NEVAH !!!!!!!!

This post has been edited by mALX: Sep 23 2010, 03:03 PM

This one has almost rendered me speechless. There are no passages to pull out and quote, because the whole is so tightly written...

Wonderful descriptions, incredible intrigue, and several turns of the tension.

One particularly imaginative (and frightening) touch was the beating (and healing) of Farenenre. How much clearer could the message be? "We can hurt you- and heal you- only to hurt you again. And we can do it as often as we feel the need."

Two wonderful scenes.

I. Here I was mentally taking copious notes as I envied your powerful mastery of dialogue to move the story. The realization that the kissing lovers were spying was delicious.

II. A dangerous warning. How brilliant to make your point with an arrow (ok, pun intended), then deliver your message, heal your victim and leave them alive in a puddle of blood (and possibly pee? Lol). Brilliant - a tactic equally suitable for warning or extortion that I shall have to remember.

After reading, I smiled that the continuity between the pair of scenes was the pair of kissing 'lovers'.

This post has been edited by Acadian: Sep 23 2010, 04:10 PM

And we get to see what a smooooooth operator Rielus is! Typical Imperial.

This is sooooo good - and the thickening of the plot is almost palpable.

I can't pull any one thing out either, like treydog. I can only say that this was a superlatively enjoyable segment of a chapter. The day promises to be a long one, yet I have a feeling that it will go by very quickly.

Looking forward to more!