Ra'jirra's tongue-in-cheek narrative continues to make me smile and even laugh.

So's his 'breaking the fourth wall' - speaking directly to the reader in an aside. It's a tough nut to crack, and I think you're doing it quite well.

And I loved Abhuki's explanation of Alteration. I never thought of it that way. Thanks for a little education wrapped up in humor hidden inside satire!

Fun fact: This is actually a replay from my last full save. Before I wrote this, I had just realised that I was completely underprepared for what waited in Silorn. Spectral warriors and wolves are only vulnerable to shock, damnit. And thanks to OOO, there's always two or three as well as the necros.

Hmm. Maybe it's time to pay a visit to Bruma again...

I have to look that up, I have heard a lot of others talking about it on their game! (OOO)

@mALX: Brace yourself. It's a real challenge.

Anyhow, another expository chapter, although I'm leaving a few things out. I have a blind spot in Bruma the exact size and shape of the Jerrall View.



Chapter 23: Goosey Jossip

There were three horses parked up outside the inn and we paused outside the door. Abhuki had got into the habit of assessing what was going on inside before entering, apparently.

Fortunately the patrons were behaving themselves and lightly floured S'jirra was happily loading a large basket with fragrant loaves. “No tasting,” says she to me, “these arre only half-baked.”

Sod.

“Glathiel!” Abhuki smiles at the seated Bosmer whose nose is on the level with the counter and whose hair rises a foot above it.. “So good to see you again. And how is Salmo?”

“Busy,” says he, “And he'll be looking forward to finishing these up. Honestly,” and he looks sly at my wife, “can't you put him out of his misery and give him the recipe?”

“And let poor S'jirrra's secrret out?” My wife just laughs and shakes her head. “And will grreedy Salmo parrt with his rrecipe for his sweetrrolls? I think we know the answerr to both those questions.”

“What news anyway?” I was eyeing the sweetroll basket.

“Well, I'm just been into Bravil. You know Varon Vamori? The poet?”

“Didn't he and Ardaline break up?”

“It wasn't so much a break-up as a cataclysm, or so I heard. I made the mistake of talking to him over dinner last night, and he's composed an... um... about it.”

And the Bosmer stands up and assumes a dramatic pose.

“It'll live on in my nightmares,” and away he goes:

Ohhhhhh

It was the Third of Sun's Dusk in Third Era Four-Three-Three,
And a humble lad did pay court to the lovely Ardaline.
“My love! O fairest alchemist! Would you choose to marry me?”
But her lowered brows and clenching fists proved this was not to be.

“Oh for the love of the Gods,” my face sinks into my palm.

“You tom-fool of an ashskin!” fair Ardaline did rage,
“Did you not play a part in the loss of my staff of mage?
And thrust me into trouble dire that could have last an age?
I hope we understand each other and read from the same page.”

“O Ardaline!” did cry the lad, “I know I hurt you hard,
But let me try to make amends, and work to earn your pard
-on,
For I can think of none but you, and your pain is shared by this bard.”
“Be off with you!” the lady cried, “before on you I call the guard.”

I could feel my eye twitching. No, make that convulsing. Glathiel noticed and stopped. “I think you've suffered enough. I flogged some alchemy stuff at the guildhall this morning, and there were these pieces of broken glass and smelly stains everywhere.”

“Which is why I'm here,” says a familiar voice, and I haul my eyes off the sweetrolls far enough to spot a rattled Ayalie. “Last I saw of Ardaline, she was scrubbing the floors and getting a tongue-lashing from Kud-Ei. Oh! Did you hear she and Henantier finally tied the knot?”

“Yeah, someone told me about it in the Imperial City,” says I. “How long have those two been an item?”
“Long as a piece of string,” fair enough.

“I also heard,” I couldn't resist, “that the Arch-Mage was seen at the Imperial prison. I think we've found a way to get one over the corpse-humpers.”

The Altmer shuddered. “I've heard stories about Traven's interrogation techniques. But if it means dealing to the necromancers... is it true? They're saying Mannimarco's returned?”

“We're assuming he has. The Bruma guild was bowled by more than just a pack of morons with summoned ghosties and ghoulies. There were spectral warriors in there as well, and that takes more than mortal conjuration.” I looked around grimly. “If any of you run across what look like ghostly warriors freezing the very air about them, hit the swine with shock magicks – they're so cold fire just makes them angry. If you can't – run like Molag Bal's in love with you.”

“Maybe that explains it,” Glathiel says suddenly, “I met a Black Horseman on the road. Apparently the Count of Skingrad shipped a prisoner off to the Big Jug a few days ago – under heavy guard.”

“Big Jug?”

“Ah – I'm told that it's, um, thieves' term for the Imperial City Prison. They say 'in jug' if you get jailed, you see. But the King of Worms?”

“We don't know if it's true! Could be some smart fart using the name, but we're assuming not. Which means, once Traven pays a visit,” and I smile evilly, “they'll wish they were never born.”

“If there's enough of them left to wish with,” Ayalie says also grinning evilly.

“Well. If that's the opinion of two members of the Mage's Guild,” says Glathiel, “then it must be true.”

And I have a thought. “Hey, is Glarthir still acting strange?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. I've heard he's been heading off to the chapel every night around midnight, but he goes around the back instead of going in. Maybe that's where Sheogorath talks to him.”

Yep. Glarthir was crazy. I suddenly realised he must have been doing this for months, waiting for me. Well, he could hang out behind the chapel for the rest of his life for all I cared. I had bigger fish to fry.

“What's happening in Kvatch?”

“I think it's plague,” says Glathiel, “it's the only explanation that makes sense. I had to continue to the Gottshaw Inn to find a bed. While I was there, I met a man who tells me that Altmer wizards in the Summerset Isles are leading some sort of trade boycott of magical things.” He shrugs. “I can't remember what of, probably imported potions and such.”

“Sometimes my kinfolk shame me,” Ayalie groans. “Heard anything about these rangers out of Valenwood?”

“Heard? I've seen them! They were fighting a group of heavily armoured warriors southwest of Skingrad, in an Ayleid ruin. I saw the warriors first, and as soon as the rangers popped up, it was all on!”

“As long as they stay that side of Skingrad they're fine with me,” growls I. “Did you talk with those rangers?”

Glathiel grimaces. “I hailed one. All he said was, 'This is not for you.' As he had an arrow on me, I, ah, took him at his word.”

Wise fellow.

“It feels like the carrrion crrows arre cirrcling,” S'jirra says suddenly. “What is going wrrong with the worrld?”

So I go over and embrace her. She sighs and relaxes into me and I can't help thinking that even dusted with potato flour she smells nice.

“I'll keep you safe,” I promised, and I promise still, and woe betide the silly bugger who tries to make me break it.



“I wonderr if Trraven has asked Jantus Brrolus,” Abhuki wondered over dinner.

“Brolus? As in the ones who finished off that –?” Sometimes it's good to stop while you're ahead.

“The same,” Abhuki nodded, “She was a fine illusionist. Herr parralysis spells stopped that bearr in its trracks, and herr night-eye was almost as good as Ahnissi's gift.”

I had a think. I knew I desperately needed to get my Illusion schooling up to speed, and maybe Mrs Brolus would be amenable. Not only that, but I could test the waters before nominating her to Traven.

“Where would they be now though?” Adventurers tend to move around a lot.

“I rrememberr they talked of a quiet life in the norrth, wherre things arre coolerr.” And she frowns. “Strrange, I would think Imperrials arre used to the warrmth herre, but they said it was getting too hot!”

“You arre not leaving again?” cries S'jirra.

“Not until tomorrow,” says I, “but I promise you, my love: I won't go playing with necromancers.”

I subsequently ducked a low-flying baked potato.



The following morning, I rousted the unicorn from Harcane Grove and set off northward in the company of a Legionnaire and a brace of pilgrims who were awed by the figure I cut in burgundy and purple, riding a creature out of myth. Eventually I arrived in Bruma and handed the reins to an ostler at Wild Eye stables.

“You wait here,” says I to the unicorn, “Where there's plenty of feed and a warm stall for you.”

The unicorn just looked disdainful.

“You're that fellow from the Mage's Guild, aren't you?” said a guardsman on gate duty, “the one who raised the alarm about the guild burning.”

“I am,” says I, looking at the Mage's Guild. It was clearly untouched since that dreadful night, timbers blackened and scorched. “Hasn't anything been done to repair it?”

“Not a damned thing. Countess Carvain won't lift a finger until she knows whoever destroyed the guild is dealt with, because if we did, what if they came back? And what if they decided the Countess was to blame?”

Oh for the love of... wonderful. No more Bruma guild until you finish your Mannimarco. Damn it.

“Anyway, I wanted to see Jantus Brolus. Do you know –”

“The illusionist? Her and Istrius live around the other side of the chapel. Right next to Bradon's house.” And he shakes his head. “Bradon Lirrian, a vampire. Who would've known?”

It's hard to believe, but I got lost in the stews behind the chapel. If it wasn't for a hard-faced Nord I'd have been wandering in circles until I got waylaid.

“Should've brought my bow or something,” I grouse, “could've shot arrows in houses as I went along as trail markers.”

“You an archer then?” and her face softens a bit. “Didn't think spell-slingers used weapons.”

“Well this one does,” says I, “and it's saved my life countless times. Besides, bows don't light up and give you away.”

That lightened her up a bit more, and after a jingle of the purse she led me to the butts and taught me a couple of tricks. Ten septims and forty drakes later she led me to the Brolus household. They were out. Sod.

I wandered into Olav's Tap and Tack, where I saw a balding Imperial man peering doubtfully at what smelled like undercooked wolf meat with a side of baked potato. “Summat wrong wi' yer meal?” That must be Olav scowling down at him. “Mebbe I should go get t' Emp'ror's chef?”

“Just thought it was a bit pink that's all,” says he a bit quickly, “but it's just juicy.”

Olav just grunted. “Iffn yer got any ot'er concerns,” says he, “keep'm t' yerself.” And away he goes to annoy another customer.

“Charming fellow,” says I as I approach the man, “did he teach Maulhand how to cook?”

“What?” and he peers at me. “He's usually better,” he adds quickly, “but recently he's been in a state after Bradon was put down. I can't get over it, having a vampire for a neighbour!”

“Neighbour?” says I, “you must be Istrius Brolus.” and I sit down and offer my hand. “Ra'jirra, husband to S'jirra – you might know her mother, Abhuki.”

“Abuhki of Faregyl Inn?” Istrius looks at me surprised and absently chews on a chunk of wolf. “I haven't seen her in years. And I do remember little S'jirra – so she's a married woman now, eh?”

“Yep – I tell you, it was a whirlwind romance!” Putting it mildly.

He just chuckles and slices off another piece of meat. “She always was the impetuous one. Did I tell you she kept saying how she was going to run away with us? And this from a wee kitten only five!”

And we have a good laugh at that. It certainly explains where our son got it from.

“Look,” says he, “you should come have dinner with us tonight. Jantus will love to meet you and learn what's become of little S'jirra.” And he looks down at his surprisingly empty plate. “Well, no rest for the wicked.” And off he goes.

“Good riddance to him,” and I realise Olav's at my side, “grumbling about good plain food... What'll it be stranger?”

“You knew Bradon Lirrian then?” asks I.

“I did,” says Olav grimly, “and he had us all completely fooled. And if someone like Bradon could fool me like that – who the hells else am I wrong about?”

“Well, you can't suspect everybody,” says I getting up, “it ruins the appetite.”

Rule number one of merchanting, any merchanting: Never keep your temper in the same pocket as your purse. You, dear reader, are welcome.



“Much better than Olav's,” says I around a belly full of aromatic wolf chunks, mixed with chopped carrots and onions and served on a bed of rice. Jantus Brolus was a fine cook and needed no illusions to improve her food.

Istrius had been waiting outside his house for me, which only made my getting lost more humiliating. All I'd had to do was cut across the front of the chapel and I'd be almost there!

I checked into the guildhall, but all that was there was detritus, smoke and ash. Nobody had done a damn thing, like the guard had said. It was a disgrace, both to the guild and to the cravenness of Countess Carvain.

However, the Broluses weren't interested in that; they were instead interested in S'jirra, and for that matter myself, and what I'd been doing. The story of how I'd met S'jirra in the first place raised laughs, and then recounting the third time we met, even while heavily censored, raised eyebrows.

“Moves a bit fast doesn't she?” Jantus says at last, “But then she always had very definite ideas about things.”

“Let's just say she didn't leave me much choice,” says I, carefully being vague about the she in question. “Anyway, Abhuki got a letter from the Mage's Guild yesterday. Would you believe they wanted her to rejoin and man the guild up here?”

“Abhuki?” Both of them stared at me. “Well, that explains it,” Istrius says more to his wife than me, “that shielding spell she laid on me isn't the sort of thing most folks go paying for. Or could cast for that matter.”

Jantus nods. “And casting on others is more difficult. Oh yes, my husband said you wanted to speak to me about the Illusionary arts?”

“That I do,” says I, “but before we do, just want to know: would you be interested in –”

“You're recruiting for the guild?” and Jantus frowns at me.

“Well, no,” says I, “I'm just asking if you'd be interested. If not, I won't even raise your name.”

And she relaxes. “I'm just good with that school. Mostly basic stuff. But it's always useful to go over the basics now and again.” And she rubs forefinger and thumb together. I understand the gesture at once.

“So you'd consider it?” And I reach for my purse and study the contents.

“And end up with a bunch of old airheads bossing me around? Besides, we're retired, our own people and we like it that way.”

Well, I'd tried. “Fine then,” says I, starting to count out drakes, “I won't tell Traven. But about the Illusionary arts...”

“What spells do you know?”

“Starlight,” says I, “I learned it ages ago... sort of by accident.”

And I invoke it at her prompting. The dim interior of their simple home was picked out in slightly greenish light. “Is everything lit up?” asks she, shading her eyes as she looks at me.

Huh? Thinks I, and “Yes,” says I.

“Wrong.” says she with a smug little smile, “the only light in here is from the fireplace and the candles.”

“There's no light in the world, you're saying,” says I slowly, “that means it's not my body, it's my mind that's being affected. But if that's so... is everything lit up to you?”

“My eyes can deceive me,” says she, “I don't trust them.”

“Illusion... affects minds, then,” says I. Istrius rises from his chair and collects up the plates.

“There may be no extra light here,” says he, “but I'm going to pretend there is since it's useful.”

“So it's affecting not just my mind,” says I, “it's affecting everyone else's around me.” I frown. “You know that feeling when you're being watched? Is that like my Starlight here?”

“If it is,” Jantus replied, “that means...?”

“Minds are connected,” says I suddenly. It made sense. The tales of mind-reading Telepath people. The queer coincidence when you think of someone and then said someone walks through your door. The way you can feel a threatening presence, eyes boring into your back. “Illusion is about altering your idea of reality – but it sort of overflows into other people's realities as well!”

“You're getting the general idea,” Jantus nods just as Starlight goes out. “What we perceive as reality is a trick of the mind. But since most everyone sees the same thing, like this table here as a table, it takes a sizable effort of will to change what people see. Or don't see. I take it you're wishing to vanish in a pinch?”

“I think I might need to real soon.”

“Well... I can't really teach you much more than that. On the other hand, I know of some books that touch on the mysteries of Illusion. Ever read volume three of The Wolf Queen?”

I couldn't remember. “Oh well. Another is the first book of the Palla series; I used to have it but then we hit lean times and I had to sell it. Book four of The Mystery of Talara is supposed to have some pointers in it too – that's what Hil the Tall told me.”

“Hil the Who?”

“Hil the Tall – he's part of the Cheydinhal chapel crowd. He knows a few things about illusions too.”

I nod and push a stack of coins Jantus' way. “If I can cobble up an excuse to visit him, I will,” says I, “but that's a big if. S'jirra doesn't like me going away.”

Both the Broluses chuckled at that. “Like we said!” cries Istrius, “she's got very definite ideas about how things should be!”

And on that note we parted and went our ways.



The following morning I emerged from the Jerrall View Inn and left for Wild Eye Stables, where a slightly bitten stable-lad was emerging from the stalls.

“You're takin' the unicorn away then!” says he, “I thought it was a wonder at first, but now all I can think is good riddance.”

“He's pining for his grove,” says I, “and we're off that way.”

A jubilant whinny came from the unicorn's direction.



“So that's what's happening in Bruma,” says I, “everyone's all agog over this Lirrian person being a vampire, and nothing's been done to clean up the guildhall. Oh, and Istrius and Jantus were delighted to hear of your marriage,” I finish, looking at my wife seated next to me, one hand around my waist and the other tackling dinner.

“So they did rretirre therre,” says she softly, “Maybe one day Rra'jirra will take his family visiting?”

I had a vision of the interior of the Brolus house with S'jirra and Jantus talking, me and Istrius chinwagging, and a little bundle of joy haring all over the place. It was actually quite an appealing thought – until J'dargo was two.

As it was, S'jirra's effective godparents had to make do with letters for another three or so years until the boy learned to control his assorted parts. You know: arms, legs, mouth, speed, sphincters, violent impulses, stuff like that.

But that's neither here nor there, and right now's a good time to skip over several days of nothing very much. They were pleasant, peaceful days.

And I would need them. Oh, gods, I would need them.

Ah, don't tell me climate warming is affecting Tamriel too?? Where is all their gas coming from? The Oblivion Gates?



Only three years? My three-legged barn cat is already six and a half years old and he is still like that!

Yes, but we're talking sentient, tool-using felidae here. Ra'jirra has all the tools of Imperial discipline at his disposal - let's just say J'dargo's bum near glowed in the dark at times.

I still spew every time I read "corpse-humpers," Lol. I see some foreshadowing in this chapter, so glad you had S'Jirra picking up on it, the feline ability to sense change in the air - Great Chapter !!!

[Been a long time. Had writer's block. Got the Second Life DJ bug. OK, filler chapter.]

Chapter 24: Ra'jirra Attends a Council Meeting

About a week later I was summoned to a Council meeting. There I met the other newly selected members, before Traven plunged us into one of the least pleasant tasks I had ever had to do for him.

You think your lord has too much on his plate? Traven's was overflowing. There were issues involving who was going to bore and/or teach the students about what for the next semester; issues involving disciplinary matters, in which I remained mute; and a whole raft of other stuff I would come to know all too well.

There's some folks who find all this fiddlework relaxing after an adventure, but I don't. At least you know where you are in some cave or ruin and problems are straightforward.

Anyway, let me introduce my fellow councillors. There's Raminus of course, not to happy but at least he has a head instead of a cabbage on his shoulders.

The exploding doublet encases – just – one Heraclitus Vonen, a grape and Imperial cross. He's well known for his work in something-or-other, and better known for exploding.

The lady in unflattering scarlet is Antonia Otranto, and she looks almost as pale as a vampire. She's a sorcerer of some note, and the centre of all sorts of alarming rumours.

“Right then,” Traven kicked off, “we've got a lot of little things to get rid of before we get on to the corpse-humpers, so let's knock 'em on the head first. Any objections?”

Nope.

“Right: Skingrad guild. There's been a number of complaints, especially from the ladies, regarding bedding arrangements. Apparently they lack a spare bed, so visitors have to either go somewhere else or share.”

“And now Erthor's back,” says I, “that means there's no room at the guild. I'm sure the local innkeeps will give thanks, but it's not a good look.”

“So?” Vonen looked down a bulbous bit at me. Two holes suggested it was a nose or home to fruit flies.

“So,” retorts I, “it makes a mockery of the Guild's pledge to provide a free bed in all the guildhalls. You might like to re-read the charter sometime?”

And he begins to sputter and steam a bit, before Antonia looks down her nose at him. “That is indeed listed as a benefit of membership, Master Vonen,” says she, sending bugs made of ice down my spine. “We can hardly allow guildmates reason to criticise their guild, now can we?”

The coming explosion was averted with a sound like sat-on bog beacon. (When using bog beacon, always cut off the stem at ground level to use as a handle. Make a cut on the top of the cap, holding the stem so it's pointing away from your face. Aim it into the pestle – and always work outside or with open windows. Caps should be slightly soft to the touch – if it's hard it's overripe and will stink out your pack when it bursts. Need I tell you one of the most popular pranks around?)

“Well, buy another bed,” is my intelligent suggestion. “Where's the nearest furniture maker?”

“Kvatch,” is Heraclitus' irritable response, “but as you know, they're isolated for plague.”

“Well, what about shipping one in from here or Chorrol or something?”

“Do you have any idea what the costs of cartage are? We'd be lucky if the damn thing wasn't used for firewood by bandits! Why, my last shipment of Tam– ah, alchemical supplies cost almost double what it was six months ago!”

He was going to go on, but Traven just looked at him until he shut up. “Maybe do less with more?” says he mildly, but he made an elbow-bending gesture we all understood.

Heraclitus just subsided with another squashed-bog-beacon noise.

“Ra'jirra, are you moving that we purchase another bed for the Skingrad guildhall?” asks Traven.

“Yes sir,” says I.

“Who will second that?”

“I will,” says Antonia.

And the motion was carried. Female guildies would now sleep easier and cheaper if they were visiting Skingrad now – well, when the bed was finished and set up anyway.

“Now then, the Bruma guildhall,” Traven rolled along like a siege engine, “how are we for potential staff?”
And he looks at me.

“I presented your letter to Abhuki,” says I to him, “but she says no. Oh – I also followed up a lead to Jantus Brolus, she's a dab hand in Illusion magicks, but she said the last thing she needed was 'a bunch of old airheads bossing me around'.”

Traven snorted with amusement, Vonen sat on bog beacon again, and Antonia laughed, head back and revealing mercifully ordinary teeth.

And so we spent an hour imagining who could be sent to Bruma once Countess Carvain would let us set up shop again. “It's all bloody academic until Mannimarco is dealt with,” Traven growled at some point, “but it's always good to have a plan.”



“What the bloody hell do all those scholars do all day anyway?” I burst out at one point.

Instant silence. “What do you mean?” Traven asks.

“Right. A couple times in the past I've heard the apprentices grousing about endless lectures on doomstones. In fact, some have said they learned more at the other guildhalls than here. Whenever the scholars talk to each other, I swear it's all 'I was right' or 'You were right' but never anything concrete!”

And Traven looks at me with a faint smile on his face. “There's an old saying. 'Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach.'”

“But why are we subjecting apprentices to those useless lidgies?”

Traven is still smiling faintly.

I've learned why, by the way. Those that can't teach those that can't. Those that can get posted to the guildhalls. The only problem is that this results, generally, in generations of new magi without any real hands-on experience or common sense, just endless theory. Some of whom end up dead, or turning into Ancotar, or going bad, or, sometimes, turning out all right since they took the time and had the curiosity and intelligence to educate themselves.

But that's too scatter-shot for my liking. Once the new curriculum is completed, well, the screams will probably be heard clear to Mournhold.



All through this Traven had gradually started to sport a grin like the cat that ate the songbird – you could almost see a cloud of feathers surrounding him.

“Finally,” he's smiling evilly, “we get round to our number one problem. I've been chatting with a few people, and Count Hassildor's provided some useful information as well.”

I suspected Traven's 'chats' had involved more red-hot pokers than tea and tiny cakes. Actually, I hoped so. Everyone else seemed to agree with me.

“I take it we've got the drop on them, Arch-Mage?” Vonus asks.

“Definitely. They've been rather busy making black soul gems, in fact one or two got rather caught up in their work. So... we asked them why.”

I had the vivid image of Traven asking some hapless corpse-humper: “Now, one poker or two?” But I kept that to myself.

“They've been working towards making a unique black soul gem, hiding out in Silorn.”

“The Ayleid ruin south of Skingrad?” I butted in. “I've been there months ago, but it was sealed up. I take it I'm to retrieve it?”

“You're quick, Master Wizard,” says Traven, “but you shouldn't have to risk your neck this time. A contingent of battlemages has been sent to the site. I would like you to oversee their actions on my behalf.” And he grimaces. “Don't worry, these chaps are more skilled than the idiots we sent to Nenyond Twyll. Besides, we know now how tenacious the scum are in a fight. But your job is to get that gem. Understand?”

I understand.

“Right. There's something else. A little bird tells me that the head of operations is one Falcar.”

My ears went flat. Vonus growled, and I spotted Otranto flexing her fingers like claws out the corner of my eye. Word of Falcar's treachery had evidently got around.

“I know. If you want to kill him, fine. After you get that gem. Because whatever that gem's for –” and he gets in my face – “Us having it will spike Mannimarco's wheel hard.”

“I'll get my gear then,” says I, “and be off.”

And Julian asks Why in 'blivion did this not get done until after she visited the place, damn it! Actually, the language she used was far more befitting an old DI - I had to clean it up a bit to make it PG 13. You know how it goes.

Loved it all! Especially your description of Traven as the meeting ground on:

who was going to bore and/or teach the students
Now that is higher education!

issues involving disciplinary matters
Involving a certain snow white khajiit no doubt!

I loved the bit about the bog beacon! Remind me to steal that for the TF!

Don't worry, these chaps are more skilled than the idiots we sent to Nenyond Twyll
No they are not...

ROFL !!! You're Baaaack !!! WOOOOT !!!! Awesome Chapter !!!!

Antonia Otranto is a recurring character I've previously written fanfic about before. She's not very nice.

Originally she was a Dunmer orphan who was adopted by the Breton Otranto family and inducted into their worship of the One. Unfortunately she ended up slaying the entire family and a cross-section of servants before being captured and sent to the Lady of Merciful Repentance prison.

Then some idiot decided she was perfect to fulfil the Nerevarine prophecies, but instead she -- well, my game fell over and died.

I tried again, with a different rollout, but by now I'd had a gutsful of Morrowind.

The third time she was an ill-favoured Breton in jug for a case of mistaken identity (if you do yourself up in the raiment of a bandit, folks think you're one!) However she couldn't manage to keep Martin alive on the final lap so her go at Champion of Cyrodiil came to an end.

Now she's a bit part actor. Probably Breton again, but creepy in a stereotypical way.

ROFL !!! Oh, Martin died so many times in the Battle for Bruma in my game - I saw the words "All hope is lost" till I could have choked Martin with my bare hands - what a mess !!! Finally did make it through though, lol.

What a fun Council meeting. Very entertaining as it wound its way toward dealing with the necrodudes at Silorn.

[Sorry about the delay. I've been fixated on FNV and one or two other things, and also I've been pretty much stymied by the difficulty in Silorn. It's taken several goes and I only today finally managed to chase Falcar to ground. So a short chapter.]

Chapter 25: The Silorn Operation

I wasn't a pretty sight when Traven finally got out of bed on Loredas – 10 Sun's Dusk, to be accurate. I'd ridden hard from Silorn, my armour was still dinged and dented, my greaves were shattered, and to be brutally honest, so was I.

“Well? What happened at Silorn?” asks he.

“It went tits-up from the start,” says I disgustedly.



“Traven sent you?” Thalfin was not pleased. “We're still going to be outnumbered, I'm afraid. Follow me. I'll show you.”

So while the other two battlemagi waited, Thalfin led me towards the entrance to Silorn. Unfortunately, as he rounded a corner, he nearly ran into a corpse-humper who'd snuck off to take a crap. The guy managed to let out a yell before Thalfin and I recovered from our surprise and silenced him.

“Damn it!” he cried as the battle got underway, “Falcar's getting away! Stop him!”

Sure enough, I saw a familiar Altmer charge up the steps and disappear down into the bowels of the ruin. It was up to me, apparently, and in I went!

There's not much to report, except that some of the corpse-humpers and their little spectral friends are still there, no doubt. Unfortunately the lidgies tended to clump together in little groups of four or more, making careful sniping next to impossible. At one point I saw what must have been Falcar dash across a bridge, before gates crashed shut, but as I was racing around dodging summons after a trio of his mates, I didn't stop to ask. So, naturally, I ended up having to take the scenic route through the damn place to open Falcar's route again.

On the other hand, I had carefully selected as many shock-inflicting weapons as I could tote, and mixed up several shock damage potions, and kept the raging atronach as close to the front of my mind as I could. The result was several very surprised and soon very dead necromancers and, a little later than I liked, dead spectral warriors and wolves.

I like shock damage. Shock is nice. Done to other people.

When I finally reached Falcar, the treacherous criso had his fan club with him. By this time, all of his spectral friends had been lured away and dealt to – while almost dealing to me – and for some time I paused, looking over the Bow of Jolts, waiting for the chance to drop one of the swine without alerting them all.

Eventually I gave up and just skewered the Keeper of the Dead in the group.

This tactic was then followed up by charging in like a Nord, waving a Mace of Jolts and guess who I ran into!

At first Falcar was happy to just hang back and shout encouragement, but as his mates weren't up to the task, he pulled out his own weapon and said something about getting a job done properly. I didn't give a damn and just kept laying into him and anything else in range with my mace hand and chugging health potions with the other. Honestly, Traven would have had a fit if he'd seen it.

So I didn't mention it.



“So the murdering spurius' been dealt with,” says he at last, “good. So did you get that gem of theirs?”

I didn't reply, I just extracted the huge blackened misshapen gemstone from my pack and handed it over. The damnable thing looked like several soul gems had somehow been melted together in the shape of a turd.

“Dedicated to the last,” Traven breathes, touching the horrible thing carefully, “I cannot thank you enough for getting the bloody thing. I have need of it immediately.” And he looks grim. “We have much to speak of, and very little time. If I'm right, a new task awaits you, and... it is by far the most important you have been entrusted with.”

“Task?” asks I.

“Ra'jirra...” Traven says, still looking grim, “Look at you. You're not ready, and I need to make sure my fears are justified. But if I am correct... it will be the last task I ever assign you.”

Then he shakes himself and wrinkles his nose.

“But before that, for all the gods' sakes get yourself patched up! Those greaves are one thread away from being indecent. And go jump in the lake or something. You stink!”

I began to laugh a little hysterically at that.

“And get some sleep as well!” Traven wasn't as amused as I was. “I'll summon you when we're ready. Now move!”

Silorn was a tough one. I usually end up having to run Falcar to ground. Only once did I manage to nail him at the front door. The SOB is just too damn fast for my slow reflexes and lousy aim.

And so you leave us hanging waiting for the inevitable. I was stunned - stunned - the first time I played this through. WTF??? What did Traven just do?

[Technically, I suppose I could have run these two together. The cameo was an impulse thing.

I'm feeling more enthusiastic about Ob' again, and I'll see if I can complete the questline soon. (Oh hooray - R.)]

Chapter 26: Ra'jirra Rests and Goes Home

The next coherent thought I remember having after that was Rohssan shaking my shoulder and calling me to wake up.

“What?” was pretty much as intelligent a response as I could make.

“You were having a nightmare,” says she, and I notice a pair of Bosmer women, one with unnaturally red hair, the other remarkably short, staring at me like I'd grown an extra head. “Should've got some sleep before you came here.” And she sniffs. “Not to mention a bath!”

The two start giggling at that and I can feel myself blush.

“I don't know what you've been doing in this armour,” says Rohssan as she returns to her forge, “and after that little performance, I don't want to know. Try to stay awake and not frighten the other customers, okay?”

And I just pull the loaner robe around me a little tighter and try not to doze off again as Rohssan resumes her smithcraft and the Bosmeri resume their discussion about bows, poison and clothes.

I must have been dozing because when it hit me I know my eyes popped open.

The last task I ever assign you.

There was something wrong with that statement. Did Traven mean it would be the last task concerning Mannimarco? If so, that meant the polished turd I'd left with Traven was somehow crucial to the plans of the King of Worms. Or did he mean that after this final job, he'd never require tasks of me and I'd be free to explore magic any way I chose? I tried to imagine myself standing at the lectern inside the Arcane University walls, lecturing away on some abstruse principle or other. No, that was a ridiculous idea.

I began to suspect that Traven knew something about the future that I didn't. Which was scary. Did he think he was going to die or something?

No, that was ridiculous. It was the sort of thinking that led to defeat by stupid decision-making. The more I thought about it, the more it made sense that we had Mannimarco cornered, and that Traven's “last task” would be completed over Worm-boy's body.

Yes, that was it. Mannimarco was going down for the count. Maybe Traven wanted me to hold his pack while he put the fear of the Nine up him.

I could imagine what he looked like: nine feet tall, dressed in black and red and skulls and bones, evil glowing eyes – and Traven pulling out all his tricks and reducing him to dust. Yep, that would be a fight to see, put the Arena to shame.

Rohssan jolted me out of my reverie by presenting me with newly repaired armour and thoroughly repatched greaves. “You know,” says she, “you really oughta stay away from stand-up fights, or learn s'more about smithing around enchantments.” She was right and as such I left with a head full of almost, but not quite, understood concepts and about ten less septims.

That was the annoying thing. I could almost grasp what smiths said about weaves and warps and how that had to do with the price of fish, but the details eluded me.

Anyway I ended up in the Elven Gardens sewers. I don't know why, but it was oddly relieving to go up against enemies that weren't so life-threatening, nor spellcasters, nor undead. Picked up some nice bits here and there, but I also found something odd.

In one chamber, there was a table and chair, fresh candle lighting the scene. It looked like an odd place for a meeting, and there were gates that were locked. The locks looked new and fancy enough to foil lockpicks.

So I look around, and get the impression I'm being watched. Casting Watchfulness didn't help identify who, but I got the willies strong enough that I fled.

With most of the day gone I retired to my little shack on the waterfront and ran before the nightmares until dawn on Sundas.

In dawn's early light, I walked, armour and all, into the cold waters of Lake Rumare, until the water tasted sweet, and sat there on the bottom, playing with Starlight. Now there was a set of concepts I could and eventually did get a better grasp of.

Underwater was quiet, cleansing. The dark memories of Silorn – memories of pale stone framing hateful faces lit by hellish magics – began to fade as though the water was cleansing my mind as well as my body and armour. Truth be told, it was quite a peaceful experience.

At least until the local slaughterfish became curious about the bathing beauty and came over to investigate!



“Go on, off to your grove,” says I that afternoon to the unicorn, “I'm not intending to leave for quite a while.”

The unicorn whickered happily and trotted off southwards, head and tail high, while I stepped into the inn, my head and tail also high.

“Rra'jirrra!” S'jirra's welcoming cry was music to my ears as she almost knocked me over with her hug. “Oh my husband! Wherre have you been? You said you werre going to a council meeting and would be back days ago! Oh, we've been so worrried...”

“Daughterr mine,” Abhuki said from behind the counter, “Perrhaps if one werre to loosen one's grrip, one's husband could tell you why he has been so long. And also, think of the babe!”

S'jirra absorbed that and I was once again able to breathe, to the amusement of the patrons. She steered me to the chair in the corner and fetched some Dibella's cookies, then basically interrogated me.

I left little out. Alix joined the now quiet crowd as I described the small war of attrition I'd endured chasing down Falcar, and why I'd taken such pleasure in beating his brains out.

“So the corpse-humpers are enjoying a major setback,” says I, “and I have it from Traven himself that there's just one more step to take, and –” I made a chopping motion. “– they're done for.”

“And you will rreturrn and stay?” S'jirra asked me.

“Oh yes,” says I, “that's what I'm going to do.”



I spent the next few days in domestic bliss, Faregyl style; I learned more about the making of potato bread than I ever wanted to know; I learned about the arts of brewing; and S'jirra and I spent hours just enjoying each other's presence. Not carnally, just revelling in the other being near and alive.

S'jirra also had the dubious pleasure of morning heaves and other effects of pregnancy, and she complained about those with an almost ritual air, railing against the inevitable.

Sometimes I would invoke Awareness, and marvel at the tiny but very distinct separate life growing in her belly.

Unfortunately this idyll didn't last.

[/me makes race car noises]

Chapter 27: The Final Task

There have been all sorts of rumours concerning the way in which I was elevated to Arch-Mage, and most of them aren't even wrong. There's one wild conspiracy theory – I'm looking at you, Ottus – suggesting I'm some sort of sleeper agent and that Wormboy is still... well, well, and waiting my signal to turn Tamriel into a necropolis or something. Others say I took Traven on in a magical duel that to judge by even the most sober accounts should have been seen clear out to Anvil.

I do like the ones where Traven sneaks out to deal to Mannimarco under cover of invisibility, and loyal muggins here spots him and hares off to finish what he started.

The official lie is that Traven was affected for the worse by Mannimarco's magic, eventually becoming bedridden and dying, while Master-Wizard Ra'jirra took up the slack and championed Galerion's cause.

But it's time to come clean. The truth is worse.



“Councillors.” Traven's face was grim as he regarded the revolting gem before him. “I've called you all here today to bear witness to my last actions as Arch-Mage.”

There was almost an outcry at that, but he looked up. His gaze silenced us all like we had been muzzled. Then he spoke to history.

“Master-Wizard Ra'jirra delivered this thing to me on the morn of 10 Sun's Dusk. As of today, 13 Sun's Dusk, I now know, and have altered, what it was meant to do.

“As you all know, soul gems normally capture only the energy released when body and soul part ways. But this gem was different. It was intended to literally capture a soul, like a surrogate body, but one that could then be... manipulated... by Mannimarco.”

None of us spoke. The very idea was revolting. It was the worst allegations of Alessia Ottus or some similar damn fool made real.

“More specifically,” and Traven gave us all that look again, “this gem was made to capture me.”

I don't know who screamed first, but the general consensus was that the filthy thing should be destroyed. Traven just drew the gem to him and stood up straight, and I swear he... growled... with more than mortal voice. All our tongues fell silent as he just... more than... stood there.

“So. Three ayes in favour of this gem's destruction... and one no. The noes have it.” He looked down at the gem. “Who recalls the theme of The Prayers of Baranat?”

We all looked at each other, but it was Vonus who finally spoke, querulous, thoroughly bewildered. “Um... Baranat finally gets his reward... but doesn't like what he gets?”

Traven smiled. It wasn't nice.

“Exactly,” says he, “and Mannimarco's going to enjoy the same experience when Ra'jirra fronts up and kicks him in the nuts.”

And I can only sit there and stare. After about a million years I was able to squeak, “Me?”

“You,” confirms he, “Since you're the most two-fisted of all of us. I'm too old,” and now I realise he's right: for all his clanking about in daedric his hair's silver and his face lined; Vonus is a sot; Otranto is more suited to a laboratory than – hang on, what's this? Otranto's glaring hard at Traven, and Traven's the same.

“Was there something you wanted to say?” Traven asks mildly, but his eyes promise hell. And Otranto gets the message and drops it, whatever it was.

Raminus, being the headmaster, is totally out of contention.

“Now, effective immediately, Ra'jirra is by my authority Arch-Mage of the Imperial Mage's Guild. His first act as Arch-Mage will be to confront and destroy Mannimarco, the King of Worms, in his lair – which is Echo Cave. Map!”

I just stare at him until he snaps his fingers and there's my hands handing him my map. As he marks a point northwest of Bruma, he continues to instruct me.

“With this gem in your possession, once it's prepared, you will be impervious to his attempts to enthrall you. When the arrogant Lord High Corpse-Humper fails, that is when you shall strike.”

A little snicker went around the table; evidently my term for our enemy had got around.

“Right then. My last duty as Arch-Mage will be to prepare this gem. Once I have, only Ra'jirra is to touch it.” He looks around, then at me, and his eyes...

I saw resolve, kindness, and was that fear?

“Lead your fellow mages, Arch-Mage Ra'jirra, and lead them well. The future rests on your shoulders.” He stood up with the gem in one hand. “Farewell, my friend.”

Friend?

I was so surprised by being called 'friend' by Traven that I completely failed to comprehend the meaning of the red and purple magics that enrobed him until the other councillors had been shouting for about a full minute, gathered where Traven now lay.

“Quiet!” Raminus yelled with all the righteous wrath of a headmaster demanding order from a rambunctious class. “This is getting us nowhere! Arch-Mage! What do we do?”

Traven didn't respond. Raminus came over to me and shook me by the shoulder.

“Arch-Mage!”

And I just stare at him and say, “The Arch-Mage is over there,” in a dopey voice.

“Traven's dead!” Raminus yells at me, “You're Arch-Mage now!”

I stood up, pushing him away, and tottered over to where Traven lay. Vonus was wheezing like a bellows and pumping a surprising amount of healing magics into him, but I could tell even from here it was too late.

“We should lay him in state,” Otranto said in a dazed voice, “shouldn't we lay him in state?”

And I have a think with those parts of my brain still operating and she's right. It wouldn't look good to have Traven found laying on the floor like... like a common bandit.

“Yes,” says I, “let's get him in his bed. If...” and another part of my brain wakes up, “if anyone asks to see him, just say he's indisposed, all right?”

And that's what we did. The worst part was removing his armour (“Sick men don't wear armour,” Otranto said) and putting it away. Without any obvious wounds, Traven looked as though he was, indeed, merely sleeping – except for the traditional coins on the eyes.

There would later be another little conspiracy regarding retrieving his body and getting it to his tomb. We kept his coffin closed, citing the state his corpse was in. And to be honest, by the time I got back, he was getting a little ripe.



Back in the council chambers, I regarded the gem, which lay where it had fallen from Traven's hand. The thing didn't just glitter blackly with energy, it fairly glowed; but nevertheless I swallowed hard and picked it up.

About time, a familiar voice said in my head, good thinking about a cover story. Shouldn't we be getting along?

And I just kneel there catching flies.

Knock it off, furface! We haven't got all year. Make sure Raminus swears everybody to silence until you come up with a good cover story. Sneaking out during guard changeover? Seems to happen in all the popular trash.

And I blink at that and realise Raminus is speaking: “...until the threat is over. Once we know Mannimarco's done for, we'll formally recognise Ra'jirra as Arch-Mage. Until then, I can keep the Guild on an even keel.”

“You?” It sounded like Otranto. “Why you?”

“Because I've served the Arch-Mage directly far longer than you have,” he was clearly angry. “But I am not going against Traven's wishes, and –”

I gave my opinion of that. It was a fine, blunt, earthy opinion, and everyone dropped their knitting to stare at me.

“The Arch-Mage,” says I carefully, “is alive and unwell.” Which wasn't entirely untrue. “He's made his intentions clear, and we should stand together against the necromancer threat. If we don't, we fall. Got it?”

They got it, some slower than others.

“Traven chose us as councillors for a reason. And I suspect that each of us, alone, couldn't govern our way out of a wet sack, but together we can. So stow the knives until I return with Mannimarco's head, or his balls, whichever he thinks with, all right?”

“His head, I think,” Vonus says suddenly from around the contents of a wine bottle.

“Come again?”

“His head,” Vonus says again, “Since we don't know if he still has balls after all these years, do we?”

It wasn't much of a joke, but we needed the (slightly hysterical) laugh.

This post has been edited by Cardboard Box: Mar 28 2011, 12:19 AM

[Almost done. Unfortunately now I'm running to spectral reavers, who can knock your weapon out of your hand. I think I'm going to have to cheat to get to Mannimarco - I'm sick to the back teeth of frigging corpse-humpers...]

Chapter 28: The Road to Echo Cave

Some wit once wrote 'getting there is half the fun'. Well, it might be on a pleasure-boat with plenty of septims and good company, but not when you're on a mission.

My initial intent was to simply find Echo Cave and charge in, but as the unicorn and I rounded the north side of Bruma, the sounds of fighting came to our ears. The unicorn actually stopped dead, and I could feel it trembling.

Then I saw a flying Khajiit.

Shortly afterwards I saw the reason why: an immense white minotaur, nine feet high at least, and it was looking at me. With a warhammer being held in just one hand.

The next thing I knew, the unicorn screamed, reared and spun, throwing me off, before bolting away, and there I am on the ground with this big thing stomping towards me!

Well, it made sense to hang fire on Echo Cave until this minotaur was dealt to, but first I had to get up before it stomped on me. What followed was a desperate backwards scramble, as I tried to extract my Mage's Staff out of my pack without getting bailed up against a tree or something.

Once before I'd downed a minotaur with staff and spell, but that was months ago, and just a regular common or garden sort. This beast was a lot tougher, and soon I was juggling my staff in one hand and magicka potions in the other. I'd paralyse the monster, then let fly with two Discharges before it got back to its feet, then either keep running like hell or swig another potion.

And just to add to the fun, arrows started whizzing about.

One of my Discharges missed the monster – at least I think it did – and I heard an outraged yell of “I'm on your side!” Legion! Great. Now if only he'd hit this damn beast instead of me.

And so the three, then four of us, made our mad parade along Bruma's north wall, until the creature finally lay still. Both Legionnaires (actually one was a forester) put their weapons away and we all regarded the foe.

“Never thought I'd see a frost titan this close to Bruma,” says the legionnaire thoughtfully, “You're lucky we were dealing to bandits.”

“Yeah,” says the forester.

“Maybe it thought I was after its food,” says I thoughtfully.

“Nine!” shudders the legionnaire.

“Yeah,” says the forester matter-of-factly.

“Well, it's quite the tale to tell eh?” says I.

“I could drink off that for a week,” the legionnaire grins.

“Yeah,” says the forester unenthusiastically.

“Anyway, I need to find Echo Cave,” says I, “Any pointers?”

“I'm not sure where that is,” says the legionnaire.

“Applewatch,” points the forester, then he adds, “Westward. Rock arch. Stendarr Peak. Right into the dead trees.”

“Man of few words, huh?”

“Yeah,” says the forester.

“I want a few with you,” the legionnaire says to the forester, pointing at an arrow jutting out of one pauldron.

“Yeah?” says the forester pugnaciously.



I found some bandits before I found Applewatch, and next to the gate I found a couple of sprigs of wormwood. Contemplating it, I remembered one of its essences appeared to be invisibility. It had killed me that I'd been unable to identify another ingredient way back then –

“Tinder polypore,” I said into the cold night, breath steaming like my irritation. I'd plucked one days ago, more out of idleness than anything, and of course, now I was miles away from my alchemy gear, I realised what its third essence was.

And then there was the tremendous drain on not only my nerves, but my staff, that the frost titan had caused. I already had enough potions in my pack that I clanked if I didn't watch my step. I needed to think through what to do once I found Echo Cave.

It didn't take me long to decide to press on, find the cave, then decide what to do.



Just past the unmistakeable rock arch – actually more like a dolmen – Stendarr Peak rose to my right. So did a highwayman, of all people. How on Nirn anyone could make a living in banditry up here baffled me. It wasn't as though there was daily traffic between Bruma and Skyrim these days.

Beyond, I could see the dead trees, a whole valley's worth, as the forester had stated; presumably this was the valley to Echo Cave. A cold wind – yes, even colder than the rest of the Jerralls – was blowing from the north. I've been told that this valley somehow manages to funnel extremely cold air down itself, freezing everything within. Makes sense – not even the King of Worms would want a big stretch of blight appearing out of nowhere and pointing him out.

I watched the lone guard wandering about below me as I carefully withdrew the Bow of Jolts, and equally carefully primed an arrow with poison.

Screw invisibility. Losing Falcar and the giant crystal turd might make Wormy decide he had nothing to lose. And since I was already here...

I introduced myself to the guard, and he was kind enough to provide a key and let me in.

So that's how the feud between those two guys got started! It's all Ra'jirra's fault! If he hadn't shown up in the area, they would never have started fightin'!

This was great - a belly laugh here and there. And yes, that thing about wormwood! Why can't you use it at lower levels? You've got to get insanely high in alchemy before you can combine it with something else and make a damn potion! Sheesh!