The smell hit first. It was fresh air, mixed with the tannic scent of smoke from burnt wood as opposed to the acrid smoke from the hellish landscape of Oblivion. The realization that it was raining came second, though with it came the realization of just how sweaty I was. My eyes finally focused after the blinding flash from the explosion in Oblivion, and I realized that I was back where I started. Kvatch. Tamriel. Nirn. Mundus. I was crouched down, my right knee in the moistening earth with my arms gripping the glowing ball of Daedric magic-infused rock to my chest. I could still the low, steady hum that the stone made.

Then came the shouting. “Water! Bring water, quickly!” It took me a moment to recognize the voice of Savlian Matius, suddenly standing at my back and helping me up. A water skin was held to my lips, though I spilt more than I drank as I tried to hold the skin in my shield hand, my right arm still clutched around the humming stone. As I emptied the water skin and handed it back to Savlian, he forced two vials into my hand. “Here, drink,” he commanded, the same voice any Legionary captain would use when getting a man with a minor injury to take care of himself. I waved them away.

“I’m fine, took restoratives before I came out. According to Goneld, this,” I gestured, raising the sigil stone slightly, “was what kept the gate open.”

“You closed the Gate?” Relief spread over Savlian’s voice at the first indication of some end to his nightmare. “I knew you could do it! This is our chance to launch a counterattack! I need you to come with us. You’ve got far more combat experience than these men. Are you able to join us now? I can wait, but not for long. We’ve got to move quickly, before they have a chance to barricade the city gate.”

“Of course,” I agreed, but then realized that I could not follow him in with a Daedric sigil stone tucked under my arm. “Is there anybody from the Mages’ Guild in the camp? I need somebody to take care of this.”

Savlian nodded, and turned to one of the younger faces. “Go fetch Sigrid.” He turned back to face me. “She’s a Nord, alchemist by trade. She’s the only one of the Kvatch Mages’ Guild in the camp.” The statement made me swallow hard. I was hoping for an expert in enchanting and Daedric Conjuration. I was lucky to have anything at all. “What of Goneld? You mentioned him, where is he?”

It was then that I finally had a chance to look around carefully. Vonius was there, apparently in position with his fellows, but no sign of Menien Goneld. “Last I saw, he was trapped in some Daedric cage. He has only Arkay now.”

Savlian muttered a silent, solemn curse at the Daedra under his breath. “Vonius briefed us. I don’t know what you were able to see there, but I…” Savlian was cut off by the approach of the young guard and a tall, blonde Nord in a blue dress.

“Greetings,” said the alchemist. Some small part of my mind registered that even though she was of typical height for a Nord, my own ancestry of Nord and Elf put my eyes just above hers, allowing me to avoid what might be a difficult conversation had I been level with another set of her impressive attributes. An even smaller part of my mind noted that the dress concealed barely more than decency when it came to a man of my height or greater, but that small thought was quickly stampeded by more important things. Namely, I still had a glowing, humming piece of Oblivion clutched tightly to me, and I didn’t know what to do with it. “I’m Sigrid, Evoker of the Mages’ Guild.”

“I greet thee in turn, and wish we were better met. Awtwyr, Associate of the Guild, as of three nights ago. Can you help me with this?”

Sigrid took the stone from me, delicately holding it as if prepared to drop it and run in the same instant. I had similar ideas, but forced myself to stand my ground. “I’ve heard of these, but never seen one up close. It’s a Daedric Sigil Stone, though it looks like this one has attenuated to lightning.”

“Lightning? Attenuated? I’m sorry, but my study of magic has been more for habit than any thorough study.”

“These things are composed of a magically energized core, drawing power from Aetherius, with the outer layers allowing it to function in Oblivion. When brought to Nirn, or exposed to a Nirn-based influence, the outermost layer solidifies, with the middle layers settling on an interpretation, translating raw Aetherial energy into a set form that can operate both in Oblivion and on Nirn. Here, give me your sword.”

Wordlessly, I drew the longsword and handed it to her. “Thank you,” she said, before turning the blade so as to strike the object with the pommel. “If I can just crack the shell, the disturbance should cause the Aetherial and Oblivion energies to cancel out…” As she struck, there was a sound of rushing air and fire, while the blade flashed red and the scent of electrified air briefly touched my nose. “Oh, well that’s strange.”

“What happened?” asked Savlian, daring to step closer to the two of us, and cutting off my own question along similar lines.”

Sigrid wiped the ashen remnants of the sigil stone from the fingers of her left hand. “I believe I transferred the magical energy to the blade. I hope I haven’t upset you, but it looks like your sword now has a lightning enchantment on it.” She handed the blade back to me, allowing me to feel the pulse within that I knew to be indicative of enchanted energy. I hadn’t been able to obtain an enchanted weapon of my own before, but I was familiar with the sensation when I had dealt with the more tricky assignments that required the use of the Legion’s enchanted gear. Those items, however, were always carefully maintained, returned after every assignment, and kept under lock and key.

“Well, if that will be all? Said Sigrid, and Savlian gave her his thanks before she left. I didn’t remember my own manners in time, so enamored was I with the enchanted steel in my hand.

“Well, are you ready?” asked Matius, the rest of the guard now assembling in battle formation. By the looks, there was probably only about a century and a half’s worth of manpower, when each city was entitled to the use of up to two cohorts' strength in regular guards, and the same number of militia troops for emergencies. With this paltry number, Savlian Matius intended to retake a city.

“I’m ready,” I said, nodding. “Let’s go.”

“Good, you’re with me. Guards! Tight and firm! Keep the archers protected from melee, and keep your wits about you! On Me!” Savlian turned, facing the gates of the city itself. “FOR KVATCH!!!” As the others echoed his battle cry, we charged the gates of Kvatch.

True to Savlian’s word, our rapid attack had interrupted an attempt to blockade the gates. There were a number of Dremora busy reaching for maces when we hit them like a tidal wave. We were arranged in staggered ranks, so that there was space between each of us to the left and the right, but that space was occupied by the rank behind, evoking images of a ludus board so that we had the room to use our longswords.

The daedra fell faster to me inside Kvatch than they had in Oblivion. I thought it attributable to the separation from their plane of existence, but a nagging thought told me that wasn’t the reason. I couldn’t concentrate on that line of thought, lest I find myself dead. I was used to squad based tactics or solo operations, not line of battle, and certainly not the chaos of urban warfare. We may have started in formation, but it quickly devolved into smaller actions as we cleared the plaza. The alleys and thoroughfares had to be swept clear or we could face attack from the rear, and the damaged buildings provided too many places to hide. Fortunately, the rubble and ruin ended up forming effective barriers that isolated the front part of the city to the great chapel.

Once the denizens of Oblivion were dispatched, and stripped of usable materials, Savlian and a few others went to the unblocked doors of the chapel, knocking on the massive oak doors in a pre-arranged signal. It was answered, and then opened. The wreckage of the steeple had put rubble up against the main entrance, and in fact looked to make the chapel the only effective portal between the cleared part of the city and the rest of Kvatch. But for now, I had to know if our hopes would go any further.

Inside the chapel, I was stunned to find it barely filled to a quarter of its capacity. Savlian was gripping the side of a pew as he looked, seemingly supporting his weight on his right arm. I understood immediately. Chapels such as this generally held multiple services over the course of the week, at varying times, and were incapable of holding the entire city’s populace at a single time. Savlian had expected a crowded structure, the assembled portion that was lucky enough to survive the onslaught. And I knew, as the other soldiers did, that the people we were to rescue were gathered here. So little to salvage, and so much destroyed.

One of the soldiers approached Savlian and saluted, banging fist to chest before extending her arm. “Report, soldier,” said Matius, forcing the words out.

“Sir, we’re all that’s left. Berich Inian, myself, our men, and these civilians.” The female Redguard spoke in careful, reserved tones.

“That’s it? There’s no one else?” I saw a small shift in Matius’s arm, as he tightened the grip he had on his only solid piece of support. The man was about to do one of two things. Either he would collapse, or he would erupt. I hoped for the latter.

“There were others, sir. But they refused to stay put. We tried to convince them it was dangerous, but they left anyway. I guess they didn’t make it.”

“Very well. Thank you, Tierra. The area outside the Chapel has been cleared, and these people need to be taken to safety. Escort them to the camp south of here at once.”

“But sir! I want to help fight!” she protested, but to little avail. Savlian merely shook his head at Tierra’s request.

“You will, soldier. Once they’re secure, get back here immediately. We’ll need every available blade, and there’ll be plenty of fighting to go around.”

“Sir, yes sir!” came her response. She saluted, and then turned towards the gathered throng. “Civilians, it’s time to move out! Let’s go!”

As they assembled to move out, a brown-haired man in priest’s robes caught my eye. It wasn’t an exact match, but close enough for there to exist a familial relationship. Before I could approach him, however, Matius closed the distance with me, grabbing my shoulders with both hands, even with his shield still strapped to his left. I could see the fire grow in his eyes again.

“We’ve done it! I can’t believe it – I didn’t really think this would work.” He paused, trying to catch his breath. “Maybe we do have a fighting chance. Oh, yes. We’re not done. Not even close. This was only the first step. If this town is to be ours again, we’ll need to get inside the castle. You’ve come this far with us: will you go further? If we’re truly going to succeed, I’ll need much more of your help. I warn you, though, what we’ve seen so far is nothing compared to the battle that likely awaits us. Take a few moments to catch your breath and think it over. When you’re ready, let me know, and we’ll get underway.”

I didn’t respond immediately. On one hand, Savlian Matius was clearly prepared to fight to the finish now that the momentum was in our favor. On the other, I had an obligation to get Martin to Jauffre, to protect the emperor, though uncrowned. Instead, I drifted toward the main altar, kneeling in front of it and baring my head to rest it on the cool, cloth-draped stone. I felt the surge of energy as it healed my wounds, mostly fresh from the most recent fight. I raised my head, as my eyes took in the image of Akatosh, miraculously still preserved in the stained glass window ahead of me. Flanking him were the images of Stendarr and Talos. I didn’t take it as a sign from the gods themselves about what I should do. But it did remind me of the teachings of the priests. There was a time and a place for everything. Now, it was time for Fury.

The others had by now emulated my example and healed themselves at the chapel altar, Savlian going last. Once the blessings had taken effect, men would move aside for the next, and began assembling at the door that opened to the uncleared part of Kvatch. I joined them.

“Are you ready to go? We need your help getting to the castle, but we need to move soon,” said Savlian, joining us but addressing me.”

“Yes,” I said. “Let’s go.”

“Ha ha, I knew you’d be up to it!” It wasn’t bravado filling Captain Matius’s voice. It was enthusiasm. He had genuine anticipation for what was coming. “Our goal is the Castle gate. We should be able to use this door to get out to the plaza in front of the Castle gatehouse. You know the drill. Stick close, and keep your eyes open. Let’s move out! For Kvatch!”

“FOR KVATCH!!”

True to word, we were able to use the door to get around the rubble and into the rest of the city. Unlike the first charge to the chapel, this was a slow, methodical progression. We had not lost any men when we cleared the gates, a fate more attributable to fortune and luck than any particular skill on our part. The same was not true as we cleared the way towards the castle. At one point, two of our men ran ahead, breaking away from support and running smack into a tight group of scamps and two Dremora. Another was lost trying to go to their aid, rushing forwards when he heard the screams of our comrades. The rest of us were kept in line by Savlian, even as he tried to help the doomed. His rage was terrible to see against the daedra, but it didn’t stop there.

“Why didn’t you listen to me, you stupid son of a dog?! If you’d listened to me, you would still be f*cking alive right now, stupid f*ck! Now you’re Dead, and you’ve killed two other good men with You! The least you could have done was go quietly so as to give them the chance to live!” Savlian paused for a moment, surveying the scene around him, and I finally realized why the face of the man Savlian was yelling at looked familiar. It was Ilend. “Come,” said Matius, shaking me and others out of our momentary stupor. “We’ve got to make it to the castle. Onward.”

It became a daze after that, clearing the through the rest of the city as we tried to get to the castle’s gate. It was only when we got past the statue of Antus Pinder (the famous captain whose final stand had delayed the Camoran Usurper by two days while most of the city was evacuated) that we came under arrow fire. Dremora had taken the castle’s outer walls.

“Chelonia!” roared Matius. We hastened to obey. Unlike the more static Testudo formation, the Chelonian shieldwall was designed to allow for quick movement to a covered position, which in this case meant the archway for the castle gates. I would have had my reservations, but upon reaching the cover I realized that the castle’s inner defenses, while including a moat and inner walls, lacked the murder holes common for defense against siege warfare. Generally, such architecture reflected either poor design, or a healthy respect and appreciation for the people and the guard. It was clear that this was probably an instance of the latter.

“Dammit!” swore Matius, kicking furiously at the unmoving gates. “This is no good! The gates are locked, and the only way to open them is from within the gatehouse.”

“Is there any way to get at them from another route?” I asked. Nobles were paranoid creatures, and you never knew when you might be stuck on the outside of your own castle, trying to get in.

“We can’t open that gate from out here,” he said, before the gears started turning inside his mind. “The only mechanism for raising it is inside the gatehouse. And the only way to get into the gatehouse now would be through the passage at the North Guard House. But that’s always kept locked. Hurry and find Berich Inian. He should be back in the Chapel, and should still have the key to the Guard House. Once you’ve got it, get to the Guard House, find the passage, and open that gate. Then we can get inside the castle and secure it.”

“Aye,” I responded, and then I was off, back towards the chapel.

I arrived to find Berich Inian cooling his heels, having seen the last of the civilians out of the city. Empty, the damage to the chapel now struck me with sharp focus. The feeling of unease rising from my stomach did little to help, and the whisper of the wind from outside turned to a discomforting whine as it passed through the holes in the chapel’s structure. I shook the feelings a little, reminding myself why I was here.

Inian saw me, and came over. “Do you have orders? I’m just waiting for Captain Matius to give the order.” I nodded, and his eyes took on a hard glint of anticipation. “Finally, a chance to fight back!” The man wanted revenge.

“Do you have the Guard House Key?” I simply asked.

“Yes, I have it. Why?”

“I need it to get into the castle.”

Realization dawned on his face. “That’s right! They managed to close the castle gates just before we were forced in here. I’m afraid you’re in for a tough time, friend. The city’s in bad shape, and it will be difficult to make it to the Guard House by yourself. I’d better go with you. We’ll have to go through the Chapel Undercroft, and then through what’s left of the city. If…If I don’t make it, take the key and carry on without me. You need to reach the tower at the north wall of the city.”

Before we could depart, the doors opened and in marched the heavily armored forms of twelve men in legion patrol gear. “We saw the smoke from the Gold Road while out on patrol. How can we help?”

“Fall in. Our goal is to open the castle gate. Follow him,” I said, gesturing to Inian. It was coming back. As a Legionary Champion, I was expected to lead small groups in individual assignments and larger actions. While my experience with the latter was minimal, I had experienced a certain amount of the former.

We encountered small resistance in the Undercroft of the chapel, but Berich led us steadfastly through to a passage that led outside, depositing us behind the chapel. From there it was another struggle through the city streets, this time taking us past the ruins of the Kvatch Arena. My previous venture with Savlian and the better part of the city guard had cleared most of the daedra, drawing them in as we had made bloody progress. Some were left, which Berich demanded we mop up lest they rally and strike Savlian from behind. My authority in the matter was tenuous at best, and so we deferred to Inian.

Eventually, though, we made it to a concealed tunnel, but another two men fell in the combat to wounds nobody could treat in time. At the edge of the trapdoor, Berich motioned for us to circle around while he knelt at the ground. “This is it. The entrance to the passage is right here. I’ll unlock it for you. Best of luck.”

Once the door was open, he stood, pausing to barely say “Go, I’ll meet up with Captain Matius” and a brief “Protect Hero-Boy here,” to the guards before hustling off. I nodded to the men with me, then descended into the tunnel. The one two spots behind me lit a torch, barely casting enough light for me to see ahead but still better than nothing. The passage was narrow, so I switched to the shorter blade I had acquired during my sojourn in Oblivion, but we encountered no foes. They hadn’t entered this part yet, and might not have even known about it.

Just below the entrance to the gatehouse, I gathered the soldiers. “Alright, we need to go fast. There’s some Daedra still in the courtyard, but our objective is to open the gates and clear the walls. I’ll handle the gates. Split into two groups, one for the south wall, the other to take the north. Don’t give them the chance to throw you from the walls. Once the walls are ours, descend and clear the staircases. Regroup in the courtyard.”

The rest was a fast paced strike. The gates were well balanced, and once set in motion raised with little effort on my part, allowing me to rejoin Captain Matius. The legionnaires performed admirably, and we cleared the courtyard.

As soon as it was done, though, Matius was ordering us on. “This area’s clear. We’ve got to get inside and find the Count before it’s too late. Move out!”

Entering into the castle, however, found us facing interior destruction greater than I imagined. More Dremora and scamps were encountered, and another man was lost to a well-placed mace blow to the chest. Savlian gestured me over, surveying the scene with heavy eyes. “All right, this is it! We’ll hold this area. You head to the back of the castle, and find the Count. Don’t come back here without him!”

I nodded and moved on, the legion soldiers following on my tail. We fought our way through the next, horribly burned passage, but upon reaching the count’s quarters we encountered the source of all the structural damage. Two flaming women stood over a body. Flame Atronachs, they were. They raised their hands and emitted more fire at us, but it wasn’t the strong inferno they could muster at full strength. Screaming through the pain, I stabbed at the one on my right while my comrades took the one on the left. I thrust, bashed her face in again and again with my shield, and hacked at her until her form collapsed onto the warm stones. I gulped down the last two of my healing potions, and then cast my heal spell until my magicka ran dry. Only then did I turn towards the body.

There, lying in a pool of blood long since dried by the heat of his attackers, and scorched beyond recognition, was the Count of Kvatch. I knew it only by the gleaming ring on his hand, somehow less damaged than the rest of him. Suppressing an urge to vomit, I bent down and removed the ring from his swollen finger, to hand it over to Savlian.

Matius stared as I returned, only the other soldiers as my company. “Where is the Count? Why is he not with you?”

“I’m sorry,” I choked out, throat still raw. “He didn’t make it.”


“We...we were too late? If only we’d gotten here sooner!”

“No,” I said. “He’d been killed much earlier.”

“This is indeed a dark day for all of us left. But I thank you for risking your own life to help us. Did you find the Count’s ring, by any chance?”

“Yes,” and I extended my hand, “Here it is.”

“At least this is safe. Thank you: I shall make sure it is protected, for the time when a new Count is crowned. Here, take this. I have no use for it; I’m tired of fighting.” Matius undid the buckles on his cuirass, sliding the weight of chain and surcoat and shoulder guards off before folding it and putting it in my arms. “It may serve you well in the days to come.”

I looked around, at the nearly destroyed Great Hall, realizing that this was what Uriel had foreseen. And with grim suspicion, I thought that the real target may yet be in harm’s way.

I made my way out, past the chapel and through the gates, passing the spot where I had entered Oblivion and descending to the camp where the survivors gathered. I asked for, and was directed to, Martin, with words about the fact that his actions had helped save many of the survivors that took shelter in the chapel.

I found him, alone and staring, seeing and not seeing the destroyed city in front of him. When I approached, he did not seem to notice, but turned when I got close. He eyed the chain cuirass over my shoulder, and my unfamiliar face. Now that I was close, I could see that he did have a resemblance to Uriel Septim VII. “I heard about how you helped the Guard drive the daedra back,” he said. “Well done.”

“Sir, I need you to come with me. You’re in danger.”

He scoffed at my remark. “Danger, you say? You came here to tell me this? Explain yourself or leave me alone. There are many others here who actually need your help.”

“You’re Martin, right? The priest?”

“Yes, I’m a priest,” said my emperor, rage and sorrow in his voice. “Do you need a priest? I don’t think I’ll be much help to you. I’m having trouble understanding the gods right now. If all this is part of a divine plan, I’m not sure I want to have anything to do with it.”

“There is a plan,” I said, trying to sound convincing. “We’re part of it.” In truth, I didn’t think I had myself convinced.

“What plan? What are you talking about?” He turned and stalked, but I followed, and he continued to speak. “I prayed to Akatosh all through that terrible night, but no help came. Only more daedra.” He stopped, and turned to face me. We were now truly alone, save for the fact that the Prior’s Paint horse stood watching, accompanied now by branded Legion steeds. “What can you possibly know that would help me make sense of this?”

I needed a different tactic. I set the Kvatch Cuirass down carefully. Then, I took off my open faced helmet, holding it in the crook of my left arm. I drew my longsword, the glow on the blade pale from the use of its charge. I set the point lightly into the hard packed earth, then went to one knee, and bowed my head.

“Ave, Ave, Dragonborn.” I intoned the words I had learned in the Legion, words I had only ever said before a standard of a man, a man who I had met once a week ago, only to see him die to save me. Now, though, I said them to his last living son. “Hail, Emperor of Tamriel.”

This post has been edited by Captain Hammer: Jan 30 2011, 07:11 PM

WOO HOO !!! You did it again !!! Powerful ending to this chapter - I got chills reading the last paragraphs !!!

Finally caught up with you!

I loved, in the prologue how you unmistakably used the intro to the game, voice, music, words that evoked the full cinematics, all of it. It felt just like firing up the game for the first time!

Nice job with the tutorial, accounting fully for Awtwryr's Legion background.

I enjoyed the brief pause to 'go fishing.'

To his credit, Awtwyr was too disciplined to be distracted by Jauffre's rather unfriendly interrogation.

Inside the gate, I (as did wise Destri) very much liked that you portrayed the dangerous plant life there.

I'll limit myself to one quote from the entire story:
'And I still needed a way to close that damn gate, preferably sending me back to Kvatch in the process.'
Awtwyr assumes that in closing the gate, his life may be forfeit inside. A stunning reminder of the courage required to make the attempt.

I enjoyed what you did with the sigil stone and Awtwyr's thoughts on how the Legion used enchanted gear.

And lastly, I thoroughly agree with our wonderful mALX that this most recent episode was very powerful. Fine and stirring combat, and the fitting recognition that Martin is the next Emperor.

Well done!

On the subject of dialogue. I too have a fondness for some of the in game dialogue. Almost everything Uriel says, Jauffre's interrogation, and oh my goodness - Savlian Matius' opening rant! All these memorable words are magnificent and I never tire of them. I think Master treydoggie nailed it however, in suggesting (for the future) that some of the more mundane game dialogue may be better summarized or even 'enhanced' with some license. Just my two septims.

Captain Hammer, I have read your story up to date in one sitting. From the dream sequence at the very beginning I was hooked! Your fight scenes are very exciting. I love the specific details you use in your descriptions. The armor and plants in the Deadlands really stand out.

I’m glad I’m not alone in dropping a weapon by Menien’s cage in the game. That was a rough moment. It took me a long time to finally leave him.

I especially enjoyed the tactics in the battle for the castle. You make sense out of what seems to me like a bunch of running around in the game. And wow, the way Awtwyr handled Martin’s tantrum… *shiver*

I have added this one to my list of readings. Nicely done so far. Great battle scenes. And the acknowledgement of Martin as Emperor there at the end was a real nice touch. Everyone that has been following this already commented on the same items that I would have, so I won't get repetitious.

One nit - The length of this last post. Over 4600 words was a big chunk. Someone much wiser than I suggested to me that I keep my installments to between 1500 and 2000 words, so I will pass that same advice to you

Other than that, Good job and looking forward to more!

@mALX: Thank you. Your responses have always been prompt and encouraging, and well-appreciated. May you find this ending to your standards.

@Acadian: Welcome! Glad you could join early to the party, or at least, fashionably on time. Upon reflection, I realized "You know what? I can write better dialogue. Some of the game's stuff is good, but not necessarily all of it." May future chapters (not this one) show your advice taken to heart.

@Grits: High praise indeed. As with Acadian, Welcome (To. The. FANFIC!) Sorry, couldn't resist throwing the Wes Johnson shout-out in there. I must admit to admiring Jerric, and would wonder: What happens when a Kvatch native, Son of Skyrim Battlemage Born under the Atronach goes drinking with a Shornhelm Highlander of Reachmen Descent that was Born under the Mage and grows into a Spellsword (haphazardly)?

@TheOtherRick: Do I want to know what happened to the Original Rick? Thank you for your support, and I hope your hopes are not dashed. Additionally, I pray that you find this post of a more manageable length, hmm? You are correct (as was wise Acadian in your case) and so I hope you find a 50% reduction appropriate.

@All: Feel free to notice and point out those nits. Never can be too careful. As for the story:

We pick up where we left off, our heroes having met properly for the first time...

--------------------------------------------------------



Martin just stood and stared at me. I didn’t know what was going through his head. Probably worries that I was some emissary of Sheogorath. Given the fact that I had just bowed and called him emperor in the middle of a clearing with horses nearby, I didn’t think I could blame him. It was not the traditional way by which an emperor was proclaimed.

“What is going on?” asked Martin, finally breaking the long silence.

“I am sorry, Sire. But according to Jauffre, a…trusted source, you are the last surviving son of Uriel Septim.”

“Emperor Uriel Septim? You think the emperor was my father?” He looked at me with unfettered incredulity. “No, you must have the wrong man. I am a priest of Akatosh. My father was a farmer. And get up,” he added, beckoning me to rise. I did so, but did not don my helmet again.

“If that were true,” I began, searching for the words, “then I would not be here. I would not…,” Jauffre’s words came back to haunt me. “If the enemy is aware of his existence, as seems likely, he is in terrible danger.” I realized now what Jauffre meant. It was apparent enough that this was Dagon’s doing. It seemed he had means of finding the potential threats to his plan. “The daedra came here for you. The emperor knew you were in danger. Jauffre knew as well. It is his place to explain these things, not mine. What I can say, though, is this: the enemy knows that as long as you live, their victory is not assured.”

I could tell that Martin wasn’t convinced. The disbelief in his face had not yet vanished entirely. But he was at least considering the idea, no matter how distasteful it seemed. “You spoke to the Emperor before he died? And he told you to find me?” He stared off, looking over my shoulder at the dark grey clouds that still hung over Kvatch. “An entire city destroyed to get at me? Why?...Because I’m the emperor’s son?”

“Because as the emperor’s son, you are the only one that may potentially stop this.” Was it the idea that bothered him, or just me? Maybe if I can convince him of my own sincerity, he’ll be more willing to accept me as a reliable source. “Consider the following. You and I stand alone, here where nobody else can get to us in any hurry. My horse is just over there. I am armed and armored, and yet I have not made any move to harm you, even when I have my best opportunity. I did not need to clear the castle to do my duty. I did not need to risk myself repeatedly when I could have accomplished my goal. And I didn’t just speak to the emperor before he died. I was the one that killed his assassin. And had it not been for his own action, I might have died there with him, had he not given me the chance to survive. So tell me: Why would I lie to you?”

“I don’t know. It’s strange…I think you might actually be telling the truth,” he said, holding my gaze. “What does this mean? What do you want from me?”

“Come with me to Weynon Priory. Speak to Jauffre. He can answer your questions.”

“You destroyed the Oblivion Gate, they say.” My emperor half turned, taking one slow step, then another. “You gave them hope.” He started pacing. “You helped them drive the daedra back.” He stopped, and looked straight at me. “Yes, I’ll come with you to Weynon Priory and hear what Jauffre has to say. Lead on.”

Thank the Nine! I thought to myself. “Do you have a horse?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “The Chapel had two that we would use if our duties carried us to a nearby village or farmstead, but none have survived.”

I nodded, thinking to myself and eyeing the other horses nearby. Martin noticed my glance, and stopped those thoughts immediately. “I shall not take a horse from an Imperial Legion soldier. I am not yet certain if I am the rightful emperor, nor would I find it appropriate to exercise that right even in these circumstances.”

“Alright,” I said. “But I warn you, it was six days and nights of hard riding for me over the rough terrain from Chorrol to here, inter-spaced with dismounting and walking. If we walk, we can look forward to a minimum of ten days travel, more likely to be two weeks by the time we get to the Priory. See if you can get something better suited for the road. Priest’s robes will ruin, and if the need should arise we may need to escape a danger too great for the both of us. I’ll see about the appropriate supplies. Do you know anything by way of magic?”

“Yes,” said Martin. “Before I became a priest, I studied at the Mages’ Guild. I had a…an experience that changed my path. I have camped before, and I know spells useful for the wilderness.”

He was avoiding something, but then so was I. Even Emperors are able to keep their secrets. Must I really know what haunts his past? Must he know mine? Morrowind was a lifetime ago. It has nothing important about the matter before me. “Very well. See what you can get.”

I picked up the Kvatch cuirass from where I had placed it on the ground, and turned to head back towards the camp. Hopefully, I could exchange some the extraneous equipment for the necessities of travel. I went to the smith first. Batul smiled as she greeted me, motioning me over. Her small make-shift forge had a number of battered pieces of armor and weapons, with the identifying inscriptions that marked them as Guard property. “I heard about your actions inside the Gate, and in the city,” she said, looking up from a metal plate she was repairing. It was one of the bowled out pieces that sat on the shoulder, not a true pauldron but rather a piece of a spaulder. “And now I see you truly do have Captain Matius’s cuirass. If you have some time, I can see about fitting it for you.”

I had enough inches on Matius in the shoulder and in height for there to be a difference, but not enough time to justify waiting. “Can you measure me and keep it? I came to Kvatch for a reason, and now I need to go. I don’t know when I’ll be back for it, but I can’t wait around. Besides, it’s light armor, and I’m more used to wearing heavy plate.”

Batul looked a little remorseful as she took the finely wrought cuirass, but she accepted it and carefully stowed it away. “It will be sad that the Hero of Kvatch will not wear the Wolf. Still, I will keep it for you. And you do not need to pay for this!” she ordered, stopping me as my hand went to my fetch some coins. “You have the thanks of an entire city. If we can not look after the Hero of Kvatch, what can we do? Come, let me measure you.”

Hero of Kvatch? She means me? I unbuckled the straps holding my heavy armor on, the Orsimer smith helping. “Batul, why do you keep calling me that?”

“Hero of Kvatch? Because that is what you are. We know you closed the Gate. One of the legion soldiers said you were like his old pilus, claimed you led them into battle personally, and opened the castle for the City Guard.” She took out a strip of carefully maintained leather, marked with dyed hash-marks at regular intervals, and began the process of measuring my torso height, chest, shoulders, waist, neck, and reach, recording each tally. “You saved our city, or what was left of it. Some say that because of you, we may yet rebuild.”

All this for living where others died? All this for sending some Daedra back into Oblivion? I shook my head at the thought, trying to find the right words. “Batul, I was lucky. Lucky that I came when I did, instead of in the midst of the battle and the fall of the city. Lucky that I faced a small force in that gate, without facing an organized opposition to me. Lucky that I was not the foremost man when we cleared the city, for those men died in the streets. I was Lucky Menian Goneld figured out how to close the gate, though he did not make it back. For Mara’s sake, I’d murdered when I was still in the Legion! All because I didn’t know what I had gotten myself into, and because what I’d been told to do didn’t agree with what I actually did. And now you call me a Hero?”

Batul gra-Sharob sat on a small stool and looked at me, calmly. “I do not know what you did in your past. I know only what you did for us here? Is that not something? Can you not see the good you have done here?”

It’s true, came a voice in my head. Here nobody knows about the dead Argonians. Vedam’s reach does not extend so far. And Hammerfell lies between you and Morrowind. Make a fresh start, bask in the acclaim.

And what happens when Martin becomes Emperor? There’s still the vengeance upon those that killed his father and brothers. What will become of me? I cannot become Count Kvatch, I know nothing of rule, and have no blood claim. And if I seek their acclaim, how long until some enemy, some worshipper of Dagon, decides to seek consolation in my blood? The road is not yet finished. The enemies on any side still wait with daggers drawn. And others are more deserving.

“No,” I said to Batul. “You are right, but you are also wrong. When travellers ask, name Menian Goneld the Hero of Kvatch. Name Berich Inian that Hero of Kvatch. Name Savlian Matius the Hero of Kvatch. Name the City Guard the Heroes of Kvatch. They deserve the title more than I.” And Stendarr forgive me, for I may yet doom another to death for one seeking vengeance against me. But I cannot fail now, not when victory is close.

“Very well,” said the Orc woman. “I will do as you request. I will ask others to do the same. But Awtwyr,” she said, holding my gaze carefully, “I am also known for my business sense. And no matter how hard we try, the truth eventually comes out. Your actions here, your very presence will be known eventually. And when that time comes, these ghosts that haunt you must be faced. You have undergone trial by fire. You are stronger than you realize.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Hopefully, when I return, it will be under better conditions.”

Batul stood and wiped her hands on a seemingly conjured clean rag. “Wait here. I can get you supplies for your journey. What do you need?”

“Only what a man needs for two weeks of survival away from settlements. Spares would be nice, though I have enough field experience and rudimentary magic skills to make do. I don’t have time to hunt, though. Travel rations are most important, but not what could be to the survivors’ detriment.”

“Pssh. We can hunt, we have wells, we have crops outside the city that are safe enough to make us through winter, both stored and in the field. Sit and rest.”

I did, and when she came back Weedum-Ja accompanied her. “Batul told me that you musst leave uss,” hissed the Argonian. “I have prepared rationss and suppliess for your journey. May Akatossh one day guide your return.”

“Thank you,” I said. “What will you do?”

“Rebuild. I will not be driven from my home.” I could hear the fire in her voice.

“Come,” said Batul, somehow appearing behind me with my equipment. “Best get you ready to go.” She helped me into my armor, and when she handed me my shield I noticed that my makeshift fastenings for the shortsword I picked up in the Deadlands was now properly secured for the quick-draw if I had my shield-arm raised. It left space for the now-enchanted longsword on my left hip, and a mace on my right. “Fair travels, Awtwyr.”

“Farewell ladies. Thank you for everything.”

I returned to the bottom of the path, and the Prior’s paint horse, to find Martin dressed in more utilitarian garments, trading the robe for hunstmen’s pants and shirt, over which he wore a travel cloak. That was when I noticed that his robe had been co-opted for use as a pack, and a dagger rode at his hip. I placed our supplies on the horse, took up the reins, and Martin and I set off, taking the road east towards Skingrad. Only when we were alone did I begin speaking about travel plans.

“We’ll take the Gold Road northeast until the hook towards Skingrad. There’s terrain and brush, which makes it easy to slip on and off without keeping a tail. After that, it’s across the Imperial Reserve and the Colovian Highlands. We’ll come across a few settlements, but we can’t risk your recognition, so we definitively camp out in the nights till we get to County Chorrol. Can you travel as such, Sire?”

“Yes,” said Martin. “If what you say is true, then security is important. I only pray Akatosh and Talos guide us, and to Stendarr, that you have not deceived me.”

“I pray to Stendarr as well, Sire. Though for other reasons.”

----------------------------------------

EDIT: Fixed a Nit.

This post has been edited by Captain Hammer: May 24 2011, 08:24 AM

Should be Fair.

This is a damn good write, apart from that nit. Martin's confusion and acceptance didn't feel forced, and Awtwyr's rejection of the Hero label rings true.

Good write here - I liked how the hero Awtwyr gave due credit to the real heroes of Kvatch - those of the Guard who sacrificed and risked themselves at the barricades and in the city. I also like how he struggled with his guilt of his past misdeeds, and how Batul told him those don't matter any more, what he did for the people of Kvatch are the deeds that count now.

Good work!

Well, Jerric could easily have been the big Nord standing next to me angry about something that one of the aforementioned Dark Elves had thrown. After all, that night out did end in prison.

Awtwyr’s argument to Martin was very convincing. I like how Awtwyr shared the hero acclaim. His inner conflict gives him a dark (interesting) edge.

I was happy to see the indomitable Weedum-Ja. She embodies the spirit of Kvatch for me. And Martin shows his practical side, using his old robe for a pack. I’ll say again how much I enjoy the details like how Awtwyr manages two swords and a mace. You blend them in so smoothly, and they bring richness to the story.

Very enjoyable, Captain (Tight Pants) Hammer!!

A wonderful blend of quest with your character. Only better, for you address the 'why' in a head on fashion. In this episode particularly, I note quite a nobility in Awtwyr's word and deed. It is evident in all his interactions here. Quite stirring to read. Well done!

Your last line is a gem! Awesome Write!!

I will echo the sentiments of the other comments. The exchange with Martin and Awtwyr's humility are both very well done. Awesome write!

@Cardboard Box: Thanks for noticing, the nit has been picked. Well, more like carefully pierced with a white-hot needle, but still.

I always felt the game tried to do a decent job with Martin. One day, he's a priest doing his work in the temple, the next, Daedra have attacked, the city had been captured and then re-taken, and then the guy/gal that saved the city comes up and says "Hey, buddy, guess what? You're emperor!" The voice acting by Sean Bean is good about getting it across, but the player's own dialogue options are rather...limited. Glad that you think I could change that.

@Mistress of the Horse: High praise coming from Julian's own personal scribe. Though to be fair, I think my young wipper-snapper Breton's just a little bit less altruistic than our favorite Anvil-bred veteran. The more people that claim the title 'Hero of Kvatch,' the less time the assassins have to hunt him down.

Batul was always one of my favorite characters. For as much practical aid she can be before heading into battle, the game does a great job of making her a person you can connect with. She remains one of my top five favorite smiths in the game. She's also my favorite she-orsimer of Oblivion.

@Grits: As above, so again, though it's tough to compare wanting to ditch assassins with losing one's entire family. As for the equipment arrangement, I have Roman re-enactors to thank for that. Spare weapons could be carried on the inside of a Roman scutum, so if you lost one weapon in the heat of battle, you had a serviceable replacement or three to continue on with the killing until Mars was satisfied for another day.

And yes, Weebum-Ja is indomitable. I often wonder if the scales in her hide contain unusually high concentrations of metal.

@ the Old Paladin: Thank you. It's high praise indeed to have one such as yourself state that Awtwyr has "quiet nobility."

Now, about that bet on dragons eating the undesirable count and countess...?

@ Malx: Thank you again for your dedication, both here, and on the rest of the forum. And hey, it's easy to make the last line a gem. You just find a point in the story, take an axe, and then sand and polish the edge to a brilliant luster.

@ The-Rick-Who-Is-Not-This-Rick: Thanks again for your advice. I must admit, I find it much easier to keep the flow going if I break the posts down. Your advice on length has helped me stop writing research papers as narratives, and hopefully cut down on mistakes wriggling in.

@ Omnes (That's Latin for 'All'): As always, nit-finding appreciated. I can barely be trusted to my own mind, so the help is definitely appreciated.

We last found that Martin was willing to at least believe that Awtwyr wasn't an emissary of Sheogorath. We now spend some time...thinking.

---------------------------------------------------------



I tried to convince Martin to take the horse first, but he wouldn’t have it. “I’ve healed a fair number of people coming to the Chapel with injuries,” he had said with only minor annoyance. “You’re tired, exhausted were it not for the stamina restoratives you’ve consumed, but that can only mitigate the need for sleep for so long. At some point, the body requires rest. If we must cover ground until after dark, we’ll get farther with you on the horse.”

What bothered me most was the fact that I knew he was right before he tried to convince me. I had been on marches, fought some skirmishes, and taken the night watches that were every soldier’s due. I knew how far my body could go, how far it would go, and I would reach that limit before Martin did. No. Emperor. Emperor Martin Septim. Must remember that. Must remember to think of him as emperor. I was slouched forward in the saddle, as Martin walked beside the horse on the road. The Gold Road was one of the main arteries of commerce, well maintained and heavily traveled. As such, it was kept paved and generally free of the holes or breaks that could cripple a horse or ruin a wagon-wheel. For now, it meant I could trust more to Emperor Martin to guide the horse while I tried to rest in the saddle. I couldn’t sleep or nap riding, but I felt some of the fatigue ease out of me as I rode. Martin did a fine job of keeping pace, his stride surprisingly long and confidant for a priest recently told he was emperor.

We reached the point to turn off shortly before sunset, and I dismounted to walk beside Martin while leading the horse. Thankfully, we had not run into any bandits, probably due as much to luck as to the fact that the burning of Kvatch had made the area less favorable to outlaw bands. They would have retreated to their camps and hidden refuges to wait out the inevitable increase in Legion activity or avoid whatever evil force had visited the land. Either way, once the conflict was less likely to catch them in the crossfire and the fear of destroyed city glazed over by passing days, the outlaws would re-emerge. Until then, it was prudent to press the advantage of solitude and avoid contact. Any person we met on the road could as easily be an outlaw, a refugee, or a waiting assassin.

Some two hours after leaving the road, we stopped to camp for the night. The spot afforded us good views of the area without leaving us terribly exposed. We built a very low fire, and then Martin cooked a travel soup while I tended the Prior’s loaned horse. It had occurred to me that I never bothered to learn the name of the paint horse, but worrying over a detail struck me as absurd in that moment. After seeing to the animal’s needs, I joined Martin by the fire for our meal.

“Does it strike you as strange to be here?” Martin asked, staring at the stars.

“Honestly, Sire, it does not. This past week, I met Emperor Uriel Septim the Seventh, a man that had been my emperor since before I was born, I man I had served for years during my time in the Legion. Only, I met him in a prison cell, by chance, due to being arrested for a bar brawl I shouldn’t have started. From there, it only got more interesting. This pales by comparison.”

“And since? Are you certain that this week hasn’t all been one long dream, maybe for the both of us?”

“Who can say? If it is, it’s the most vivid and convoluted dream I’ve ever had. And the worst nightmare I’ve had.” I took the skin of water, drained some, then passed it to Martin. “You seem to be taking it well.”

“It’s not a matter of taking it well or poorly. In a few days’ time, I’ve learned of the death of the emperor, seen my home mostly destroyed by daedra, witnessed the reclamation of an entire city, and been told that Emperor Uriel was my father. I guess I’m still trying to piece everything together.” Martin shook his head, than turned to look at me. “You should get some rest. You’re far more tired than I, and I could use the opportunity to think. I’ll wake you for second watch, but for now, you need sleep.”

I nodded, taking the travel blanket and turning in for rest. The last thing I heard before the darkness of sleep was a low chant to Akatosh and Kynareth, one often used by travelers for speed on a journey and safety from storms.

I awoke slightly past my allotted time, Martin still up and staring into the night. My rising caught his attention, and I spent a moment thankful that he had kept himself alert through his contemplations. I moved to sit next to him, then made a show of studying the position of Masser and Secunda.

“Looks as though it’s about my time for the watch, Sire,” I finally said. “Seems I should have woken earlier."

“Yes, but I had some thinking to do, and you had a need for the sleep. And please, I think you should stop calling me ‘Sire.’ For one, I must still speak with Jauffre.”

“My apologies, but what you are, you are. A thought or desire alone does not necessarily change that.”

“Then, consider that by using any honorific, you mark me out for my enemies. Are you not supposed to be keeping me alive?”

I opened my mouth to respond, but paused for a moment as his words sunk home. I had waited until we were alone before saluting him as Emperor of Tamriel. “I concede the point, Martin,” adding emphasis to the address. “Might I ask what you were thinking on?”

“What is the greatest trouble of your soul?” he asked, looking out to the surroundings.

“Do you mean that rhetorically, or are you truly asking me?” I replied.

Martin turned towards me, raised an eyebrow, and simply said “Yes,” accompanied by a small nod.

“I am not yet ready to say mine. If that troubles you, take the pack horse and continue, I will not try to bar your passage. The guilt I feel now is the struggle, and I have not yet fed that to the fire.”

“You would feed your guilt to a fire?” Martin asked, the barest hint of the question on his voice.

“Pardon. It’s something that I was taught by a Redguard Swordmaster who thought I was too distracted by what was around me. He called it ‘Feeding the Fire in the Vacuum.’ It’s a way to get past the shortcomings of ourselves and to better understand the true nature of reality. For a philosopher, he was incredibly easy to understand.”

“Ah,” replied Martin. “I know of what you speak. Priests of Akatosh will, before they are raised, be taken to the Temple of the One for a night of meditation before the Dragonfires. We are not told anything beforehand, but are asked questions later. Some question us about the thoughts we had during the night. Some question us about our brethren, society and its ills. Some ask us about the true nature of totality. The responses determine much about where we are sent, and how we serve.”

“So,” I said, “Is that what allows your order to separate itself from the other Eight?”

“Actually, no,” said Martin. “Priests of Zenithar will follow a similar ritual, and some few of each order will also undergo the others’ ritual in preparation for theological debates between the acolytes of our two patrons. Additionally, the Psijic Order makes use of another, closely related process for similar purposes.”

“But why? Do you each simply want to be able to test yourselves differently from each other, to evaluate the initiates of your own order?” Something about the way he said it made sense to me. And something else did not.

“Yes, and no. It is impossible to fully answer without some basic preparation. But I will say this, the answer lies in Anuiel.”

“Do you know any man, mer, or beastfolk that have grasped the answer?”

“A few. Some to a greater degree than others. There are far more individuals that are capable of doing so than they themselves realize. Frequently, the only outward indication is a degree of exceptionalism that does not seem probable.”

“Does that include yourself?” I asked. Perhaps if I could not convince, he could convince himself, thinking that he was convincing me.

“Perhaps,” said Martin, giving a tiny half-laugh and turning the corners of his mouth up in the faintest smile. “Perhaps.”

We sat for a few more moments, neither of us looking directly at each other, both surveying the landscape. Finally, Martin got up, dusted off his clothes, and turned towards the bedrolls. “I think I have found some of my answers tonight. I will acquiesce to your wishes and rest, though I ask you wake me in the morning. I fear I may not be the most eager of people to rise with the sun. Please, try not to kick me awake.”

“I’ll do my best,” I replied. Martin settled in, and I settled down for the watch. His words had given me food for thought. It brought me back to what Nelthan had taught me.

Once you spill seawater onto a tree, you cannot force the roots to give up what they have drunk. Rinse your mistake with clean water, if you can. If not, then wait. The tree may live, or it may die. Do not wallow in your grief, for your misery comes from a desire for that tree. If it lives, it lives, and nothing more need be said. If it dies, it dies. Cut it down, split its branches, feed the logs to the fire. It may yet provide you warmth, cook your food, drive away the darkness. What has passed is in the past. Leave it there.

The trouble was following through on that advice. Nelthan had warned me that I would take it too quickly. I had tried before, feeding everything to the fire, but it hadn’t been consumed. I stood, pacing in circles to watch every approach, and trying once again to kindle the Fire that burned in the Void.

------------------------------

EDIT: Nit fixed.

This post has been edited by Captain Hammer: May 18 2011, 06:03 AM

Let's get the nit out of the way first: Seems to me the closing quote got fed to the fire!

Speaking of feeding the fire, it's a great analogy for dealing with guilt. I came across a similar method for dealing with fear - write "fear" in the palm of your hand, then 'eat' it. Continue until your fear is all 'eaten.' Not suitable for combat, but great for dealing with the anticipation of a nightmare waiting to happen. I'll have to find a place to use it in my fiction.

And already Martin is dispensing sage wisdom beyond his years! As a priest, he should be unable to resist giving helpful advice to our (relatively) young Breton warrior.

And how appropriate that Martin should point out that calling him "Sire" before they are safe only makes him a target for assassins.

I enjoyed the logic in deciding who rode the horse. I also liked Awtwyr's reasoning as to why they did not encounter bandits.

I'm with Rider in thinking Martin was wise to have Awtwyr knock of the Sire honorific until they were safer.

'Some two hours after leaving the road, we stopped to camp for the night. The spot afforded us good views of the area without leaving us terribly exposed. We built a very low fire, and then Martin cooked a travel soup while I tended the Prior’s loaned horse.'
This, along with establishing a 'watch schedule' shows a solid and prudent awareness of the danger they are in as well as a fine awareness of their surroundings and how to survive.

@ Acadian: I figured I should have added an in-game justification to the ease with which one may fast-travel to Weynon Priory. And yes, Awtwyr has a very developed situational awareness and assessment ability. He once failed in that regard, something we begin to touch upon in this next part of our story. The lesson has stayed with him, forcing him to think about every factor to avoid getting caught up in a terrible situation again.

@Hawt E.coli Ryder: Thanks, Nit picked. Glad you picked up on Martin's inability to stop being a priest, as well as his more practical side and desire not to be called 'Sire.' And now I'm going to be looking for the "Eat the Fear" sequence in Julian's story. Should I assume it's an old habit making its use known again after such a long time?

For those who are wondering, the actual technique of "Fire in the Void" is an almost direct parallel to Robert Jordan's "Flame in the Void" used in the Wheel of Time series. The process itself is actually based on Zen Buddhist meditation techniques, some of which I picked up from a Buddhist Philosophy professor/adviser/confidant at my school. I actually learned the practice before ever picking up that first book, and recognized it almost immediately. Other issues with the series aside, it is one of the things that translates accurately, and I felt that priests of Akatosh (or Auri-El, the Soul of Anuiel, the Soul of Aurbis in the Void) would use the "Dragonfires in the Night" for similar reasons in seeking to understand themselves and the nature of reality.

Just as they call it the "Temple of the One," so too is it a place where a manifestation of "Oneness" may exist on Mundus.

@ all: Thanks go out to those that continue to stay with Awtwyr on his journey. I know update progress has been slow and highly irregular. Illa Vita Est (That's Life!). Your continued support has meant a lot to me as I find motivation to pick up with a soon-to-be out of date story (though if Athlain is any indication, I've got a few years' grace period after November to wrap up everything. Thanks for the example, Trey!).

As always, finding those pesky nits is appreciated. Let's not blame the Forum this time. Instead, we'll blame bad Copy-Paste execution on my browser (Shh!, it's just a joke, 'Zilla. I'd never abandon you for IE.)

In this next installment, we learn a bit about Awtwyr's upbringing, the topography and meaning of 'home,' and two men with intertwined destinies find out what the dark spot is on the other's soul.

-------------------------------------------------



Martin and I spent the next days walking and riding, with a majority of the time spent on foot. I became suitably impressed with my new emperor’s ability to travel on his own feet, though his remarks about visiting outlying areas for his priestly duties explained a great deal. While he couldn’t force us to split time on the horse equally, if he had spent time in the Legion he would have had an easier time of it than the average recruit.

By the third evening we were properly into the region called the Colovian Highlands. A casual remark by Martin, and a half-muttered reply from me, jump-started the seemingly inevitable conversation about our personal histories.

“Well, we’re in the Highlands now, Awtwyr. Rough travels from here on. Hill and mountain country till we reach Chorrol,” said Martin as he prepared the low fire.

“Ach, these be wee bonny hills where I’m from,” I said, a bit louder than intended and not in proper Tamriellic.

“‘Bonny hills?’ I’ve heard that expression twice before, and a heavier form of that accent. You’re from Shornhelm, aren’t you?”

“Aye. I grew up in a small village in the north, west and a little south of the City of Old Gate. We’re located in one of the valleys that sit between the mountain shoulders, wide enough for passage but still in sight of permanently frozen peaks.”

“I take it you’re comfortable with high places, then,” said Martin.

I nodded. “Shornhelm’s portion of the Wrothgarian Mountains contains the highest peaks in High Rock. Orsinium and Evermore have peaks with steeper climbs and a greater difference of vertical height for individual mountains. But the valleys and dales in Shornhelm all sit higher, and we don’t have a large number of ravines or canyons. Beyond us, to the west and north, are the foothills that slope down to the coast, but most of that is still higher than what we’ll see till we get closer to Chorrol. The closest approximation I can give is that there are mountains of middling size, all sitting on a single large plateau that drops out to the forested coastal lowlands. It’s not an alpine region like some parts of Skyrim or the Reach, and the climate’s moderated by oceanic currents.”

“You surprise me,” said Martin. “And until now, I didn’t think you had an unusual accent. You drop it well.”

“Habit, actually, though now it’s even more natural to speak without it than with it. Eight years in the Legion will do that to you. Otherwise lives would be lost,” I replied. Martin raised an eyebrow, and made a small gesture to continue. “Accents, idioms, and figures of speech that vary too greatly can disrupt communication. It’s why the Legions will recruit from the province they’re stationed in before they rotate to their next province. Enlistment training isn’t just about teaching new fish how to fight. It’s about breaking down the barriers that will keep soldiers from working together properly, turning them into members of a community that share a mission and a way of life. If there’s something that’ll interfere with that, the pilii priorum will catch it before it becomes a problem. They can be pretty inventive about it.”

“You speak as one from experience,” said Martin, inviting but not accusing. If he could deal with the Elder Council in the same way, he’d make a truly remarkable emperor. If we could get him crowned. If he believed Jauffre after getting to Weynon Priory. Plenty of “If’s”.

“Pretty inevitable when you’re talking about recruits from the Wrothgarians. Bretons and Orcs thrown together in a mix, and this was a mere nine years ago. It’s only been 16 years since the Warp occurred, and there’s still a lot of deep seated bias in the area.”

“Yes, I can see that there would still be problems of that sort. Is it still like that? Have you been to High Rock recently?”

“I visited home after my discharge came through, but didn’t stay. Met my new nephews, and realized that my brother Roland was better suited to the family land than I. So I came to the Imperial City for the first time right after. Spent a week there. Got drunk, got thrown in prison for upsetting the wrong watch captain, got put in the wrong cell on the wrong night. Or, alternatively, I was guided to being placed in the right cell at the right time. Depending on your interpretation of events.”

“What happened?” asked Martin.

“That was the day the emperor died. And it was he who sent me off on this mission to see his heir crowned,” I said.

“You were there? Were you with him when he died? What happened?” Martin was suddenly sitting upright, more alert and more focused than before. Mentally, I imagined the feeling of a hammer dropping towards me, straight for my stomach and myself without armor. Tell him. He needs to know the type of man his father was, not just the sort of emperor he was.

So, I told him. I explained, from the point where I woke up just before the Blades came to my cell, all the way through my escape from the sewer tunnels. I told him about the assassins that had infiltrated the escape route; I told Martin what little I knew of the Blades, advising that he ask Grandmaster Jauffre for their biographies. I talked about the side tunnels I used to escape, meeting up again with Emperor Uriel Septim VII, and I told him, in detail, the final minutes of his father’s life. I tried to hold back some, but his few pointed questions and inquisitive expression made the story flow like a river from my lips. I told Martin about the deaths of the Blades that had sworn to guard his father’s life. I told him about the rage and misery written across Baurus’s face when he found me. I recounted the most vivid moment of my entire life, when my emperor threw away the precious last minutes of his life to ensure the survival of mine.

By the time I was done, I was exhausted. Not physically, but emotionally. Martin demanded the first watch again, though I had taken it without trouble the night before. “Please. There are prayers I must offer. Whether I am truly Uriel’s son or not, the man was still my emperor, and he was still the anointed of the Nine. Your tale must be intoned, the actions of the emperor sung to the spirits.”

“Then shouldn’t I be the one to pray?” I asked.

“In your own time, yes. But for now, I am still a priest of Akatosh. In some ways, the emperor is the chief priest of our order. Either way, I have a duty that I must fulfill to him.”

I noticed the brief look of…was it regret?…that flashed across Martin’s face. Whether it was for the father he never met, or the emperor he had lost, I didn’t know. I left him to his thoughts and prayers, and turned in for the night.



We continued the next day, after having properly split the night’s watch schedule, and as we traveled on towards Chorrol I found myself telling Martin more about my childhood. I talked about the games I played with my friends, many of whom had gone off on their own, about half returning with wives, betrothals, or even families.

“Too many sons,” I explained. “And that’s mostly unique to my village. Half the lads in a generation will go out, marry some merchant’s heiress or farmer’s daughter and only come back once every few years to see family. Those that return will have helped deal with the surplus of daughters from elsewhere, only for the cycle to repeat again with their children.”

“Hence your height and build?” asked Martin, sitting on the horse.

“Hence my height and build,” I replied. “I can thank healthy infusions from Skyrim and the Western Reach. I’m tall for my village, but not by much. Most of us don’t have much trouble swinging around the larger one-handed and two-handed swords.”

“As so ably demonstrated by your actions back in Kvatch. It seems your decision to enlist in the Legion was fortuitous not only for myself, but for the rest of the survivors.”

I was silent for a moment. “You know,” I said, shooting him a glance from my position beside the horse, “You still haven’t told me anything about yourself. Or am I to imagine that you’ve never had an interesting experience?”

“Changing the topic on me, are we?” asked Martin.

“No. Just pointing out the large discrepancy between how much I know about you, and how much you know about me. Of course, if we were something other than just two men on a journey together, I’d not be in a position to ask such questions…” I trailed off, mouthing the word ‘Majesty’ silently.

“No, you are correct. I was not always what I am. At one time, I was training as a Sorcerer in the Mages Guild.”

“Well, as my powers of observation and assessment have told me, that clearly changed.”

“It changed on account of my own weakness,” said Martin. “There were boundaries that I pushed and broke, prices I paid. Would it surprise you to know that I once acted the role of a conjurer?”

That did surprise me, and I looked up at Martin intently, almost tripping over a large, sunken boulder in the process. Martin continued with his narrative, as though it was not a great admission of guilt. “I and my friends grew reckless. And in our hubris, others died for me. Including my own friends. What of you? You carry some burden with you, else you would not be one who claims the need of Stendarr’s mercy.”

I mulled his words heavily inside my mind. I had once confessed that deed, a few years ago, to the same man that taught me to ignite Fire in the Void. The Redguard had listened to my words, considered my explanations, then rapped me over the head for what he called “Bloody arrogant idiocy, coming from the mouth of a petulant, greedy child.” Much of my guilt had gone, but there was still the seed of its origin hiding in the back of my mind. Keeping it in the dark hadn’t helped. And if Martin wanted to run, then at this point I would have a decent chance of tying him up for the rest of the way back to Jauffre.

“During my tour in Morrowind, on the second half of the cycle, I led a group of legionaries on a mission for the Duke. We successfully murdered escaped slaves and pacifist abolitionists that were part of a movement called the ‘Twin Lamps.’ And we didn’t know.”

Martin drew rein even before I finished talking. “You did what?” he asked, open shock on his face for the first time.

“Like I said, murder,” I replied, calmly. “Slaughter, really, based on what happened. We thought we were clearing out a violent, outlaw anti-slavery ring. At least, that was what I had figured we were supposed to do. It wasn’t until after the fact that I realized what had really happened. I’d been deceived, myself and the men under my command, for a political goal of dubious morality.”

“Then how did it happen? How come nobody ever heard of it?” Martin looked concerned, probably weighing whether to bolt with the horse now. If he did, I didn’t know if I could catch him.

“It was in Morrowind, Vvardenfell after that whole Nerevarine business wrapped up. In truth, it was just a little after the collapse of the Tribunal. The place was mostly wilderness and native culture with only a few solid footholds of the Empire, the Great Houses still engaged in their land-grab. I’ll explain tonight, the entire story. My actions were the result of a tangled mess of machinations that formed a verifiable vortex for those trying to make any progress in their respective fields.”

“Tonight, then,” said Martin. “And please, excuse my outburst. I’m a Priest of Akatosh, I’ve heard legionaries’ stories before. My anger is that things like this shouldn’t happen, especially if it involved Legion officers and magistrates. I have some knowledge of the chaos of the time in that locale.”

“Tonight, then. We trade stories of failure and death.” Martin sat for a moment, then nodded. After a few more moments of walking, I couldn’t help but add, “You know, I’m actually not dreading the prospect of telling you.”

“Tell me Awtwyr, should I laugh, or weep?” asked Martin.

“I don’t know. You’re the one that’s supposed to understand that sort of thing. Being a priest and all.”

EDIT: Multiple nits fixed. Small admission: the difficulty of actually mulling through this sequence (basically an info-drop used as a means of developing the dynamic between two characters without making it too boring) required the assistance of unearthly powers. Specifically, Sanguine. Several bottles of well-brewed liquid bravely perished to bring you this installment. Honor their brave but inevitable guzzling.

This post has been edited by Captain Hammer: May 25 2011, 10:45 AM

Let's start by saying I really enjoyed this chapter - a nice easy walk, a bit of male bonding, and quite a bit of background for us clueless readers.

Now I want to get the few nits out of my way. First: You have our own feet and his own feet rather close together. It's a bit disruptive to the flow. I would suggest changing the first incidence to on foot.

Next is a change in verb tense in the middle of the paragraph: I'd use slope here.

Your choice of words technically is okay, but I found it a bit startling again. I'd use sunken instead.


And last nit: The proper form here is rein. The King gets the reign, while the horse gets just a mere rein. That's what I'd do to remember which is which!

Now on to better things.

Ah, yes, Julian knows too well what Awytwyr speaks of here. It is the source of her open mindedness when it comes to the different races (though her years in a polyglot town like Anvil didn't hurt). She is judgmental only on the basis of behavior. Unfortunately it doesn't always work that way --

I really appreciated this mildly insolent dig at Martin's insistence to drop the 'Sire.' Awtwyr isn't so subtle in his reminder that Martin is still the Emperor to be.

Do I detect a reference to a certain great fan fic? Well done! Thanks for reminding me of that story.

I couldn't help but chuckle at this bit of dry humor at the end. It shows how well these two men, mere strangers just a few days ago, have grown closer together.

Overall, a really good chapter. I'm still enjoying this story, and plan to continue riding/walking alongside with these two guys. -Majesty-

This post has been edited by haute ecole rider: May 24 2011, 03:13 PM

This is a really interesting journey. It's nice to see the time being taken for this journey being portrayed as both realistic and used for these two men to become friends. I'm betting that friendship will strengthen over time.

'Mentally, I imagined the feeling of a hammer dropping towards me, straight for my stomach and myself without armor. Tell him. He needs to know the type of man his father was, not just the sort of emperor he was.'
Very effective, this.


Nit? “Yes, I can see that there would still be problems of that sort. Is it still like that. Have you been to High Rock recently?”
Do you perhaps want a question mark instead of a period after the second sentence?

I am reading, and for death, for glory, for Chorrol, and for bludgeoning objects across the world, I WILL catch up!

Something that stuck out to me, though:

This is not necessary at all. Horses already have excellent dark vision (at the cost of not being able to see the color red). Not only that, but they have a very keen sense of smell, and are quite apt at navigating in the dark. These are animals that only need three hours of REM sleep a week, after all, nighttime operation is paramount to their survival.

Not a nit, as this observation was made by the character who probably doesn't know that, I just thought i'd point that out.

My concern with the November happening is that people will lose interest in their own Oblivion stories and stop writing them. I’ll still be eagerly reading!!

And if Martin wanted to run, then at this point I would have a decent chance of tying him up for the rest of the way back to Jauffre.

There’s that tactical planning.

I loved listening to Awtwyr fill in some blanks for Martin. There’s so much I’d like to know about our Shornhelm Spellsword. Their little humorous jabs at each other show their friendship growing. Both of them having a tale of failure and death to tell certainly provides some common ground. And the atmosphere of a roadtrip encourages the telling.

Maybe they can risk a campfire tonight, and tell some tales.