Old town doesn’t sound like a polished brass and window boxes kind of neighborhood. I hope Ferir looks around a little on his way out the gate. Looking forward to more!

I loved the description of Ferir's ordeal at that checkpoint outside of Kvatch. To quote yourself, you have laid some really nice hooks into this story. I wonder how Ferir and Ruben will fare together in Cyrodiil's wilds (if they can make it past the gate). The tension in this chapter was palpable! What happens next?

he’s always wanting to blame rouge mages since Farwil got himself killed in that gate.”
Could not have happened to a nicer guy! He was probably killed by the Champion of Cyrodiil, not the Daedra...

So Ferir makes his escape! I liked how you compared the thrill of when he sneaked by the guards in Kvatch to the simple dread he felt here. It shows how much higher the stakes are, how bad he really knows things can get now. Now to see if they can slip out of the city, and then make it far enough to evade the inevitable pursuit.


nits:
Perhaps not{,} but don’t you think a smuggler might be of use in the wilds?
I think this would flow better with a comma where I inserted it above.

[I] The final was hardest, but a trained eye could spot someone pretending to be calm. You had to [I]be
This looks like it might have been some left over bbcode.

You owed me one for taking that guy down, but I recon you’ve paid it back now.”
I think you wanted reckon, recon is short for reconnaissance.

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Aug 16 2011, 02:34 AM

1.3 - It’s nice to have friends in high places, or to make friends with those with friends.
1.4 – Out! Well, not quite. It’s going well now which makes me nervous about the next episode.

I just now saw this, Olen! Haven't been getting on the Fan-Fic board much lately and missed all the new stories being posted !! I'll have to catch up on this, so sorry I didn't see it before now!!

All - Sorry for the delay, RL has become hectic and will remain so for a while but I've scraped enough time to post this.

Grits - No old town isn't that nice. A lot of places I've lived the old bit of town's been the worst.

Destri - thanks for the comment, I'm glad it's working.

Subrosa - agreed on all the nits. I'm glad the description of running a guarded point worked as a counter to trying to escape.

KC - Thanks, I'm not sure I'd describe Ruben as high places but...

mALX - I know what RL can be like. It'll be here if you have time.

1.5 Freedom

The crooked buildings leant like the drunks and junkies who made their unsteady ways on the dark pooled streets beneath. The smell was the same as in a thousand slums in a thousand cities which differed only in colour and culture. The eye watering stench of stale urine lay like broken glass over a tapestry of sewage, decay and the reek of fires. They wove their way through it and into it.

Ferir broke the silence. “You know this area?”

“I know the main ways,” Ruben shot him a look which said be quiet, “but daren’t use them. But we’re as deep as I’d go into the old town.”

A stir in the air, no real breeze could penetrate here, brought the rich smell of a tannery. From a house somewhere nearby a woman was screaming. Other people’s problems. The cardboard filled windows were blind, but they offered scarce privacy. It was just the city, thought Ferir, must be. They made him uncomfortable. You could disappear, but only in plain sight. Much better to put a few miles between yourself and danger.

A man lay unconscious in the gutter of the narrow alley ahead. An ambush? No, the vomit running down his chin and pooling on his chest was too real. Ferir took the opportunity to glance behind while stepping over him. Nothing but shadow. So why the feeling? He ignored it and hurried on between the crowding buildings.

Before he’d been worried about being seen. Perhaps it was still a risk, or would be when they left, but he doubted the guard came into the old town often. The people they passed didn’t look, even those who could walk steadily, perhaps especially those. Something had him on edge though, and he trusted instinct. At worst it made a fool of you. That was a small enough price.

At the next crossroads he drew alongside Ruben and wrinkled his nose at the other man’s smell. Not that he’d be any better. “Are we being followed?” he asked.

“I think so. They’ll spring at the next junction if they do, after that we’re too near the wider streets.”

And you didn’t think to tell me. Ferir said nothing. He eased out the muscles of his chest and back, checked that the pack was loose enough to ditch in a single movement. The axe was there. Too late now. There was no running for the guard, there were plenty of rough shirts in the old town but his was still a style they might recognise. And it failed to cover the irons. He swore inwardly and focussed on his breathing.

When it came it was poorly executed. A man burst from a narrow close. “Drop the freking packs!” he shouted.

“What?” asked Ruben.

What Ferir had taken as shock clearly wasn’t. The mugger had barely opened his mouth when Ruben’s fist hit his jaw. But his mouth was open and the punch was solid. A lightning flick of the guard’s hips and the mugger toppled in the way of the second man in the close.

A noise behind made Ferir turn. Movement. He ducked and lunged towards the source. A bottle whisked past his head and glanced form his ribs sending a shiver of pain through him. He ignored it. He was in close and the bottle was more a liability than a threat. His knee found a groin. The figure didn’t drop but he knew where it was now. The second had more force and got a cry and the man tried to disengage. Ferir didn’t let him and piled in a third with all the force he could. As the figure stumbled back he threw an punch. It was slow but the iron shackle lent it weight. It connected well and the mugger went down. Ferir felt greasy blood between his fingers where the freshly scabbed knuckles opened.

There was another figure. Without thinking he’d kept the first between them. He rose in a fighting stance and tried to hide how much his side bothered him. The figure hung back for a moment then darted forward. The stab was to his throat and fast, he barely avoided it. He lunged for the wrist but it slipped from his bloodied hand before he could grasp it. Another strike followed, he jumped back.

When faced with a knife attack the outside. The lesson rose in his mind. It limited their options, you knew what was coming. Close behind it came another thought. Frek that. Dither and die, how many fools had been killed thinking maybe. Better a stupid action than none. But where was Ruben? He didn’t dare look behind-

Another lunge took advantage of his thoughts. He watched the body not the blade. The tells were earlier and the corners of the eye faster. A string of curses ran through Ferir’s mind. He made a lunge to the left but the figure turned away and tried to stab. It was clumsy. Even so Ferir had to block it hard. His bones met the knife-wielder’s with a stinging impact. He was slowing. Another stab, at his head this time. He avoided it. Then out of nowhere a slash.

Well not nowhere. It started high but it was fast. It slipped through his block and he felt a line of hot pain open across his chest. He staggered back. The figure advanced. Then paused.

Ruben was there, he had a rough club in one hand and circled behind Ferir’s attacker who turned and lunged. Ferir sprung forward, a move of desperation. He grabbed higher up the attacker’s arm and was surprised to find he more or less controlled it. He thumped the side of his head into the attackers jaw ineffectually then sunk his teeth into the nearest flesh. Unwashed sweat and the tang of blood filled his mouth. He didn’t care.

He felt the impact. It was like someone kicking a sack you were sat on, only more. It knocked the wind half from him then he collapsed on top of the mugger.

He panted. There was no movement until a hand grasped his shoulder. “You okay?” asked Ruben.

“Yes,” gasped Ferir, more from habit than thought, “Whoreson caught me one though. Could heal it up if not for these damned irons.”

Ruben grabbed his arm and helped him to his feet. “You’ll live, which is more than can be said if the guard catches up with us.”

Ferir nodded. “Lead on. I’ll follow. Just don’t expect me to be much use.”

“No worries. We’re almost there.” Ruben had grabbed Ferir’s pack, he went to pass it across then hoisted over his chest and turned to continue down the alley. Ferir followed.

It joined a larger one about fifty yards further on. There were more people here. There were still the drunks and enough who were smacked out on whatever mixture of honey, salt and gods knew what passed as skooma here. But they were a higher class of social dropouts, Ferir saw the signs. There were less pissed pants, their eyes were less vacant. It might slide but this was recreational, not just habit. There were others too, people on their way to work and a few women working. Ferir looked the other way.

He also noticed that everyone else on the street was doing the same from him. The occasional tentative glance before turning aside. A short way down Ruben ducked into an alley. Ferir followed. The city wall had joined them quite suddenly from the tangled maze and stood to their right.

“The gate is just through here,” Ruben said, “There will only be two guards, and only the foot gate will be open. One guard will be drunk and possibly asleep in the gatehouse. If we’re lucky the other will be with him but you can never be sure with new blood.”

Ferir nodded. So what? It was hard to concentrate now the pain from the wound had got it’s teeth into him and the adrenaline was dissipating.

“If he’s standing guard be ready to run, the Newlands Lodge is next to the gate.” He said it as if that was explanation enough, and it was. The Newslands’ reputation preceded it.

The alley came out down the side of the Newlands, a few crates of empty bottles and a couple of cracked ale casks were piled against the puke stained wall. Ferir hung back in the shadows while Ruben put his head round the corner. Shouts drifted from a window of the Newlands Lodge. It was late, but the time mattered little there, in better days Ferir had appreciated that.

A moment later Ruben drew back. “He’s there, but he’s more interested in the Newlands than in what’s going on at the gate.”

Ferir said nothing. If he tries anything I’m going to try to kill him. It was a simple thought, a fact unburdened. He looked at Ruben. So would you, it might be one thing to kill a Imperial agent and quite another to kill a local, but you still would. It didn’t matter. It was out of his control.

Ruben plucked a bottle from a crate of empties and felt its weight. For a moment it floated before falling back into his palm with a dull thwack. “This’ll attract his attention,” he gave a half smile then hurled the bottle through the window of the Newlands. There was a moment of silence after the vicious shatter of glass then a storm of shouting. A moment later there was another crash. “Move,” said Ruben.

Ferir needed no second telling. He ignored the sharp protest from the wound which still felt like it oozed blood and the deeper, but blunted, ache from his ribs and followed. The gate guard was running for the grimy door from whence issued screams and the murmur of a full blown barfight ramping up. He didn’t see two moth-eaten travellers making their way toward the gate, and likely wouldn’t have given them a second glance.

Ferir’s nerves started to thrum again. It was there, across a small stretch of plaza. The smaller door within the gate called him. A square of wooden boards which led to freedom. He didn’t run, but his pace was brisk behind Ruben. Ten yards. He was in shock. The idea he was to die had only started to stretch enough space in his head to be understood. Now he had a chance. Five yards. This was the stuff of legends, they would hunt, true. He would run, in the distant wild places, his skill against theirs.

It opened on well worn hinges revealing the darkened road ahead. He waited for the shout and wondered if he could still run. But none came. He closed it behind him. The road stretched out ahead, beckoning him to the world. He would vanish, just as he had before and it would be fantastic.

But there was still a way to go that night. “We’ve done it,” he said. Ruben grunted, no doubt lost in thoughts of his own. There was still a way to go, and Ferir did not expect the coming miles to be pleasant.

This post has been edited by Olen: Aug 30 2011, 08:55 PM

Tell me about RL! Two major projects last week, and two finals this week!

And new classes start Monday. Ah well!

Okay, this story. It continues to be intriguing. I want to learn more about Ferir. I'm still undecided about Ruben, but for now, like Ferir, I'll go along with him.

And are those two moth-eaten travelers going to be significant later on? I wonder . . .

Great description of the flight through the old town and the brawl with a few of the unsavory locals. Wonder if the guard is going to even notice something went down in that part of town.

And yes, there is still quite a few miles to go, and none of it pleasant.

After that first paragraph remind me to steer clear of the slums of Cheydinhal! You really laid the atmosphere on thick in this chapter. Your version of Cyrodiil continues to be a very dark, forbidding place. I was beginning to think that Ruben had lit out on his own, but Ruben needs Ferir's survival skills and Ferir needs Ruben to get him clear of the city. It will be interesting to see who turns-cloak first.

You certainly have painted us a vile picture of Cheydinhal's Old Town! No wonder the tourist board left that off their pamphlets!

At first I was worried that whoever was following them might be the law. But when you said the ambush was poorly coordinated, it realized it was simply ruffians. Still, a knife is nothing to sneer at, especially when you are unarmed. I think you did an excellent job of showing the danger Ferir was in.

And a clever way of distracting the gate guard by stirring up a ruckus in the dark elf/orc bar.



nits:
The crooked buildings lent like the drunks and junkies
I am thinking you may have wanted leaned there instead. Lent is the past tense of lend (in the non-religious use of the word).


Another lunge too advantage of his thoughts.
I think that knife lopped off your 'k' in took.

The Newslands’ reputation preceded it.
And it looks like Walter Cronkite turned the inn into a news station.

He didn’t dun,
I think you meant he didn't run?

I took the two moth-eaten travelers to be Ferir and Ruben with their packs and cast-off clothing. That was a great tussle in old town, I’m sure I enjoyed it more than Ferir did. I liked Ferir’s thought in the alley beside Newlands, that he would still kill Ruben if necessary. One fight does not make them BFFs.

Haute - I think you might remain undecided about the characters for quite a while yet. I avoid moral black and whites, grey is more fun. I doubt the guard would notice, or care if they did.

Destri - I've always seen Cyrodiil as quite a dark place. Slums everywhere, a large guild of devil worshiping murderers working more or less unchallenged, various unpleasant cults, wilds infested with mad wizards and bandits... To produce that its going to have to be pretty grim in the cities too.

SubRosa - agreed on all nits, as ever. I *do* proofread, three times normally after redrafting. There will be more of Cyrodiil's underbelly.

Grits - The travellers were indeed Ferir and Ruben, and no they don't like each other. What happens there is yet to be seen (indeed I haven't written that far ahead).

1.6 Waking to the Wilds

Ruben woke with a sore back. He opened his eyes to a listless predawn light revealing the twisted branches of the half-fallen tree they’d collapsed under. Not long ago judging by the bone weariness which suffused his limbs and sat like bilge water in his muscles. At least it hadn’t rained. Wet clothes were misery and he’d still not opened his pack, he’d been too tired.

Through the exhaustion other emotions swirled. He was alive, he might even continue to be so. For better or worse, he thought and glared at the mouldering leaves he’d slept on. But he was an outlaw. It didn’t fit somehow. The him shaped hole in his ego rejected the term and shied away.

Brrp. Brrp. Brrp. The sound had been going since he’d woken and he only then heard it. Perhaps it had woken him. He pushed himself so he was sitting up and saw the man he’d escaped with. Had that been wise? Perhaps not, double murder on top of smuggling and skooma: the scum had the works. He also claimed to know the wilds though, and Ruben had heard enough stories never to want to go backcountry. For good or ill he was stuck with the dour man.

He’d called himself Ferir. Ruben was fairly certain of this, though it was hard to tell where the reality of the previous night ended and his nightmares began. The young man sat with his back to Ruben, his rough shirt hung oddly and a couple dark curls of tattooing showed between its collar and his short black hair. His right elbow moved back and forward rhythmically, with every push there was another rough sound. Puzzled Ruben stood and approached.

“Good morning,” he said.

The noise stopped. “Morning at least.” Ferir didn’t turn. Ruben walked round the log the other man sat on and saw why his shirt hung oddly; the front was tattered. Ferir met his gaze and as he did Ruben noticed his dark eyes were red and puffy. “The cloth had stuck to the wound, I’ve cleaned it but it needs healing.”

That explained the shirt, but not the eyes. Ruben decided not to ask, partly because something about Ferir unsettled him slightly and partly because he didn’t care. It wasn’t his business anyway. “Where do we find a healer out here?”

A dry smile curled on Ferir’s mouth but didn’t touch the rest of his features. “We don’t. I can do the magic, but not with these things on.” He tapped the file he was holding against the dark metal of the mage iron. The head of a rivet on one side was diminished. “I found a cairn bolete and this area’s thick with lavender. The mixture should stop the infection spreading but I’d need some better apparatus to do more.”

A bloody alchemist too. Who is this guy? Ruben pulled back the bloodstained tatters and looked at the wound across the Ferir’s chest. It had sliced into one muscle a little, that was going to hurt, likewise where it ran over the sternum. Otherwise it was shallow, but Ruben didn’t like the way the tanned flesh had puffed up red around it.

“Where are we?”

The rasping restarted. “Somewhere near Harlun’s Watch I think. You should know this area better than I do.”

“Never really left the city much, except once when I went to the Imperial City.”

Ferir shook his head, “Harlun is a large farming village, we’ll pass it soon I suspect. We’re not far south of the main road, I followed it long enough that our backtrail will be lost to traffic then made into the wood.”

Ruben nodded and pretended to understand. He didn’t know which questions to ask. How would they eat when the food in the packs ran out? Where were they going? What did they need? He knew going into the village, especially this close to Cheydinhal this soon would be foolish.

“What’s the plan?” he opted for.

“Disappear. They’ll search hard for a week. Give it a month and it will be a cold case and no one will care.” Ferir paused. He turned his attention back to the file and seemed to have finished but then continued, “If you mean today then I need to get these off. I won’t get far enough without healing, and you wouldn’t get that far without me.”

Ruben said nothing.

The rasping noise continued. “Is there something I can use as a lever. I don’t want to break the file but this might bend off now.”

The bag was heavy. It contained most of the standard kit Ruben had expected: a tarpaulin, supplies, a pot, a knife and some clothes. As ever the thing he was looking for was at the bottom, a small waxed cotton bag with a flint, and more importantly, steel in it. The steel bar was chipped, but thick enough to be strong and if it got bent who cared?

“This do?”

Ferir turned and nodded, “I’ll give it a try.” He put the file down and Ruben threw the steel. It was deftly plucked from the air. He pushed it along side his wrist and pulled ineffectively.

Ruben stood and advanced on him. “Want me to try?”

“Think you can do better?”

“Yes.” He was going to leave it at that but could sense Ferir’s irritation. “I’m stronger than you and have a better angle.” It was a simple fact. He grabbed the iron and sat down before Ferir could protest. “Tell me if it hurts.” He gripped the steel in one hand and the wrist iron in the other and levered up.

Ferir grunted and his arm tensed but he said nothing. Ruben pulled harder pulling with his back, the thin remains of the rivet bent, he pulled harder and got another grunt. Then the rivet burst and the hinge fell away. The iron landed on the ground, an incomplete black circle.

The sound Ferir made was more than a grunt, he rubbed where the skin had twisted away like damp paper under the steel’s pressure. “That hurt. A lot.”

“Can you cast?”

Ruben stepped hastily back as Ferir raised his right hand. A look of immense concentration twisted into effort, like someone with a full bladder trying to lift a heavy object. Nothing. He raised his left, blood dribbled from the fresh wound. The same look, except this time Ruben saw a dull glow run up it like an aura. It converged in his closed fingers then scattered white light. Ferir lowered the hand and rubbed the wound on his wrist. It no longer bled and looked a day scabbed.

“The bracer is absorbing it I think. It’s not efficient and I’m rubbish at casting left handed, but yes I can a bit.”

Ruben didn’t understand magic, all he knew was that mages were best avoided, at least the guild controlled them. Wild ones were a different matter.

Ferir was shaking his head, “It’ll take a long time though at the rate I can. Longer than we can afford.”

“If you hate casting with your left had why attack that iron first?”

“I could use my right hand.”

Was that the hint of a smile on Ferir’s face? Ruben decided to ignore it and sat quiet.

Ferir shook his head again, “Look it’s awkward, can you help, it would be quicker.” His voice dropped towards the end.

Ruben nodded and picked up the file. “That one?” He scraped it over the top of a rivet which was already marked.

“Yes,” said Ferir and allowed his arm to be manoeuvred.

Ruben worked with the filed for a time before either spoke again. When he did Ruben’s thoughts escaped almost by surprise. “So what really happened?”

“The Imperial Guard came,” Ferir muttered it, “we were guilty as they come, but I don’t know who tipped them off. They killed my friends, well one wasn’t there and another escaped I think. I got a couple of lucky hits in then got knocked out.”

“And they took you back to Cheydinhal?” Ruben was surprised.

“You don’t think I wouldn’t have rather died there than been hung? They spent the return trip beating the hell out of me. The officer only warned them off after he had to use a healing potion.”

“Damn.” Having exposed the surface of the sore Ruben wasn’t sure he wanted to break the silence.

But Ferir did for him. “You’d have done the same.” There was no accusation, he could just as well have been commenting on the weather.

For a moment Ruben thought it a comment on the brutality of the guard, both Imperial and local, but then he wondered if Ferir meant the killing. Either way, he thought. Either way he has a point. He continued filing. Eventually the rhythmic tedium pushed his curiosity past unease again, “Did you smuggle much?”

“We made skooma, well I did.” Ferir seemed glad of the subject change, and the distraction. “The stuff I cooked sold high, warm-sands they called it. Hrissa’s idea, she shifted it. As much as I could make, and with the kit we had that was gallons a day if I could be bothered and we had the sugar.”

Ruben said nothing. There was something dreadful about the pride Ferir had in his work. In the guard they heard about stuff, and warm-sands was bad news. It was strong, true, and because of that adulterated. But occasionally some would hit the streets pure. Last time that happened four people were dead before word got around.

Ferir must have sensed his feelings. The young man shrugged, momentarily throwing the file off track. “I was good at it,” he said as if that was explanation enough. Perhaps it was.

I'll leave the occasional nit for someone else this time.

I really want to comment on where you're going with this story. After your last one, I fully expected another story full of greys rather than black and white. It's just the sort of story I love - one where I can't decide who's the hero and who's the villain, and settle for calling 'em by the more mundane terms protagonist and antagonist. The moral quandaries you put forth are wonderful, and the characters all the more real for it. I firmly believe that each and every one of us is capable of pure evil, and, just as equally, of pure good. I see that quite well in your characters.

The fact that Ruben is mildly conflicted about traveling with a Dunmer convict rings true; also that he seemed mildly bothered by Ferir's description of the guards' actions against his friends. To me, that smacks of a man capable of good, and unaware of the harm his own actions can cause, simply because he never considered the prisoners as living, breathing beings like himself.

The apparent lack of emotion on Ferir's part also hits home - he's been through a lot and is busy rebuilding the hard shell he needs to wear to survive. His focus on survival bodes well for him. The fact that Ruben is helping him indicates that Ruben isn't insensitive to Ferir's situation, as well as his own. After all, this soft city boy has no chance of surviving out in the wilds, where Ferir is most at home far from civilization.

The fact that the two of them have decided to cooperate with each other to their mutual benefit is reasonable. I wonder whether that will change once circumstances change, or if this mutual cooperation will turn into a deeper friendship. It is not unlikely to me, and I look forward to seeing where this story takes us.

I've always seen Cyrodiil as quite a dark place.
Given the stories of your's that I have read, I'd say you see everywhere a quite a dark place!

The him shaped hole in his ego
I love this phrase!

It was interesting to see things from Ruben's pov now. His unease around Ferir - not only due to him being a mage, but especially because of being a cutthroat skooma runner - makes perfect sense. Ruben's not used to being on the other side of the law, or making alliances with those who are. It all shows so clearly in this segment. His musings on the dangers of a pure drug were also excellent to read, and really show the differences between him and Ferir. Where Ruben sees it as the poison it is, Ferir only feels pride in its creation.

I loved seeing Ferir from Ruben’s POV, just his reddened eyes said a lot. An uneasy partnership, for now. I hope Ruben has thought of a way to make himself useful once he gets that right bracer off. I’d hate to see Ferir just slip off into the trees. Watching these two come to grips with their situations and each other is too enjoyable.

"He only warned them off after he had to use a healing potion" That seems like something the Imperial Legion would do (nice, squeaky clean, and shiny to the public eye...not so much behind closed doors.)

Very well done.

Before I get into the chapter itself I just wanted to comment on the subtle brilliance of this first paragraph. The repetition of the water motif, starting with the description of the listless (which is a synonym for languid, which in itself is close to liquid) predawn light, followed by the ‘bilge water’ suffusing Ruben’s tired muscles, and then ending with his rumination on the misery of wet clothing. Wow!

Not only are you writing this in third person this time, but you are planning to switch POV’s as well. It was a little jarring to see the story through Ruben’s eyes at first, but that has more to do with my expectation than with anything you did in the writing.

I especially enjoyed Ruben’s realization that if put in the same circumstance, whether as guard or smuggler, he probably would have behaved as Ferir pointed out. I detect a certain degree of empathy within Ruben. I wonder now if that is echoed in Ferir.

RL has been rather hectic of late but I have another update. Can't promise that they will be particularly regular but this piece isn't strictly dead, more just semi-dormant. For individual responses:

Haute - I'm glad the characters are working for you, and the morality. I've never been particularly convinced by good and bad, most people are working for what they think is good (even the power hungry lunatics generally want to change the world in a way they see as better). I have a few plans for them but not that many, this piece is largely character driven, it makes writing it quite a lot of fun.
One thing I'd mention is that Ruben isn't travelling with a dunmer, Ferir is human. This may become relevant at some point - is there anything on how long different races live?

SubRosa - I've been playing with changes of PoV, the last piece I wrote had multiple PoVs in different arcs and didn't work for me (it ran aground at the 60k mark). This time I'm sticking with one arc but hopping between characters. Perhaps not the most standard format, but then this is the internet so I'll do what I want.

Grits - Yes I wanted to put two rather incompatible characters together. There will be more.

Zalph - Thanks for the comment. I'm glad my view of law enforcement in Cyrodiil works for you.

Destri - Now you point it out I do seem to use water motifs. I'm glad it worked, though I'm not sure it was entirely deliberate.
And yes I'm keeping within a unit but switching PoVs. As much as I like the immediacy of first person for character interactions (which is what this piece grew from) third is better. I still don't know how you manage so many characters though

All - the question about how long races live was directed at everyone. Also apologies again for the slow rate of this piece, RL is busy.

Recap: So far Ferir, a smuggler and skooma maker, has had the base of operations he worked from stormed and the other's there killed (with a couple of exceptions). He wound up injured in Cheydinhal jail for killing two guards during the raid with a fireball being involved. In my version of Cyrodiil they use 'black irons' to prevent mages from casting in jail, these are a problem for him. Before they executed him he ran with Ruben, an ex-guard who was also in jail for killing a Guard from the IC whose contacts within the Cheydinhal guard got them out. We join them in the wilds.

1.7 Freedom's Call

The fever headache had built in dark waves. They crashed over him bringing nausea in their wake. Ferir glared at the food. He knew he should eat but he didn't want to. Ruben was clearly struggling, the result of too many drakes spent in the tavern and too much of what exercise he got aimed at strength. Even so they'd made good enough time before breaking for what was too late to be lunch - though Ferir doubted you could have afternoon tea sat on a rock in the middle of nowhere wearing clothes turned stiff with dried blood. Still the cooler air under the tree had quieted the roar in his head to a dull pound he could just think over.

The second iron had to come off soon. The idea of beginning the afternoon's walk again slithered from his mind, but it was his to suggest. Not a chance. But neither did he want to ask Ruben to do what he should be able to do himself. Using the file would eat time, though he wasn't sure if that might be a good thing.

Did they have time now, he wondered. They were a long way off the beaten track, it was over an hour since he’d seen the last evidence of habitation. Healed they might make the Reed River by the following evening, he doubted anyone would follow them as far as the eastern shore, and by then they’d be back in country he knew.

He glanced to his pack. His intention had been to recommence the journey, that evening would be soon enough to see to the iron but the thought of the pack on his sore ribs made his fingers curl. Instead he reached in and grabbed the file. He needed healing, and that meant being able to cast a spell.

After a time the sound of his ineffectual progress against the iron drew Ruben’s attention. The man stood with a long groan. “You want a help with that.” Ferir wasn't sure if it was a question.

“If you want,” he said and tempered the words with a shrug.

Ruben took the file. “How’d the other one go so quickly?”

Ferir stretched his fingers, the work made his hand cramp. “It was damaged, probably the smith struck it wrong.”

“You’re not in any condition to get much further, I might not know the country but I know people.” There was a blade of black humour in his tone. “Aye I know them well. I’ll see to this and you’ll tell me how you came by it.”

“What?”

“How a smuggler ended up a mage, or was it the other way round?”

“Neither,” Ferir said with a half smile, “I’d not say I was a smuggler, it was just work. But I’m even less a mage, if you think I’m Oruntur you’re wrong.”

“So why’d they crack out the black irons. Need the castle mage to open and close them and Ulene can be a guar about it, bloody dark elves are all the same.”

Ferir tensed involuntarily. Whoreson, how much else don’t you like? How in hell had he ended lumped with this moron? He took a breath, the same moron who was trying to free him so he could heal. He would keep the peace, that was insult enough in itself.

Ruben must have sense some of his thoughts, though not the root. “I’m curious, that’s all.”

“I killed two pigs, a fireball was involved.” There was a certain pleasance in the way Ruben tensed at the term.

“You must know some magic?”

Ferir gave a half shrug, as much as he could while keeping his hand still. “I picked up some, we had some books, the odd lesson here and there. It's just a bit of fire, and I can heal.”

“But learning magic is really expensive. That’s why only the rich have it, and the guild and at least they control it unlike the damned altmer nobles.”

“I had money. The skooma was profitable. I’m rubbish at destruction really and I learnt my restoration from a healer I helped.”

“A priest?”

“A witch.”

Ruben was silent for a moment. “Oh,” he said. “You know you can’t trust those.”

Here we go. Ferir waited for it.

“Only last week Jarand, one of our foresters came in saying he’d run across daedra in the woods well east of Cheydinhal, they hushed it but I overheard his initial report. Fair state he was in too. It was the mages who opened those damned gates in the crisis. We lost a lot of good men," he paused long enough to gulp a breath before the rant continued, "oblivion the Empire’s never recovered, I wonder if it will.” Ruben sounded like the idea saddened him, Ferir supposed it took all sorts. “And they do darker things, witches, daedra worshippers, sorcerers. You must have come across them.”

“There are places to avoid if that’s what you mean,” said Ferir.

Ruben went quiet, the file continued its passage back and forth across the rivet, grinding the proud head into obscurity. “One of my early assignments, the first which went backcountry outside the city.” He paused again. “Mages are all the same, they all mess around with things they shouldn’t. Some do it by accident, most don’t.”

Ferir wondered if he was exempt but didn’t much care.

“We went out to Fort Scinia, we’d had reports of problems there. Who the hell wanted Cheydinhal to deal with a problem that far into the wilds I don’t know. There was talk of garrisoning it again, sometimes I wonder…” Ruben broke off and took a slow breath. “Mages, and corpses walking around. Zombies like things from stories, or nightmares. They ambushed us, only I survived.”

Ferir nodded and let the slow rasp of the file fill the silence. “And you never went backcountry again?”

Ruben nodded.

“Avoid the deep places. If you want a home choose a cave over a mine and a mine over a ruin. Stay clear of the forts of old and better to lie down in a grave than enter anything older.” It wasn’t exact, but Ferir remembered the gist of the words of an old forester he’d met years before.

There was no reply but the hypnotic sound of the file.

They both sat with their thoughts. Ruben with whatever distant memories he’d dredged, and Ferir doubted he’d heard half of it. Nor did he care, his thoughts had returned to the foothills of the Valus mountains and he high pastures beyond. To Sundew Cave. Was it chance which led his feet east?

Returning there would be insane. Really? They’d expect him there, but he needed to see it. To see what he’d lost. Would looking on the bloated bodies of those he’d called friends really help? To be certain. To be certain, to know that the old legionary had spoken true, that those who he thought were dead were. Could he face the smashed ruins of his life so easily?

Yes. He sighed, his eyes flickered closed as he did and pressed a frown on his mouth. He already felt what he’d gained. As much as he tried to hide from it the sense of freedom repaired glowed in his mind. The world was laid bare before him, for now he was pushed, but soon he would be blind for choice. Could he look on the shattered glassware, the broken barrels and burnt crates and empty coffers which had represented his achievement? Yes, without a second thought he'd burn them himself for the freedom. The thought forced its way into his head like a snake, but the worst part writhed within it like a devouring worm. It was thought before he could stop it. Would he look on the corpses? All but one.

The idea was barely formed before he smashed it to pieces. But had he not dreamed of such? What am I? Who am I? Ferir shivered.

“Pass me the steel.” Ruben's voice dragged him back to the present. He blinked and saw the other man looking at him. “You alright?”

“Yes. Fine.” Ferir shook his head and pulled the steel from the pack.

Ruben took it and Ferir braced for its bite. It pressed into his skin. He felt Ruben apply more pressure. It got sore. Very sore. He bit in a cry. The cry pushed forward. Just before it could escape the iron gave a metallic screech and twisted apart. The hateful thing fell to the loamy ground.

Ferir met Ruben’s eye and smiled. He rubbed the reddened skin where he steel had pressed it and then raised his hand. Ruben scuttled back as a flow of white energy rose up it and burst from his palm showering him. He felt the cold splash and instantly felt a little better. He went to again and stopped, he wouldn’t be able to heal it all, he had a will to him, enough people had told him that, but it didn’t take long before he just couldn’t pull any more magic from within. What needed it most?

The internal stuff. He’d got away with it but he wasn't even sure how bad that was and it was hurting more. That was sensible, but almost immediately he knew he wouldn’t. It could wait, they might be a little late to the river but the wound across his chest had time against it. If he’d got it immediately it would have been nigh on invisible, but a day left to mild infection and the inexpert machinations of nature was another matter. The sooner he got it the less it would show. Not that he didn’t see it for what it was.

Vanity. But where was the shame in that? He pulled off the filthy and torn shirt and put his hands over the long wound. It was a tight line under them, hot and angry. He reached for his magic. His mind followed the tricks he’d been taught, flowing in tracks worn by a thousand cuts and burns earned cooking up khajit juice. It was a thin line of power burning through the centre of his mind, a hot filament of power rushing ever skyward. He reached into it and drew, shaping the raw energy balancing it like a carnival plate spinner and letting it run from his fingers. He was at every point in the process. The burning face of the source and the cool shower from his fingers were one. Not just together but the same place and thing, all points at once as time stopped. Only then did the true healing start.

He reached through his fingers into the wound. He felt the first pockets of pus where the lavender had been spread thin. Tiny things for the moment, dwarfed by the hot anger of the surrounding flesh. He felt the coarse scarring which already formed across the rift in the skin. He manipulated, squeezing, diminishing and killing the poison, ultimately an act of destruction, while simultaneously reknittng the skin, the blood vessels in it, opening some, joining others. They laid new tissue down at an unnatural rate while he made sure it was smooth and controlled. The drew the wound shut.

Then time began to knock. The white force he was using slowed, he could no longer quite kill the pockets of matter, nor stop the growth going as it pleased. The concentration became hard. The process which made the healing balm faltered and as soon as he thought of it it was too much and the whole fell apart leaving him blinking in the late afternoon sun.

The wound was much diminished. Only the deep sections remained, and they looked better, not so much healed, for it was cleaner than that, closer to mended. The next session would finish them when he’d rested. Other sections of the wound were almost invisible, though some had left a puckered whitish pink line, especially where the pus had been worst. Ferir frowned. It would go or it wouldn’t, time would tell and the spell had spread enough that he felt better elsewhere.

His frown deepened when he looked at the shirt. With the clean feel of the magic, he’d heard some people describe it as minty, it looked foul, even if he was in need of a wash. He slung the blood stained thing over the back of his pack and stood. The casting was tiring, but he felt better for it. Psychologically as well as physically, now he was improving things as well as just running. He glanced at the black iron where it lay. However little he liked it leaving the other had been a mistake, he wanted nothing certain on the trail so he put it in his bag.

“Ready to continue. The country gets more interesting soon. Hillier so we should be able to find a stream to camp by because I’d welcome a wash.”

Ruben grunted. He seemed surprised. With his back turned Ferir grinned and led the way.

This post has been edited by Olen: Nov 21 2011, 09:52 PM

bloody dark elves are all the same.
I loved this. She probably even asks everyone if the worship the Nine perhaps? And what good it ever did them?

An interesting discussion about how Ferir learned to use magic. Not to mention how widespread the use of magic is, and a common Cyrodiilan's thoughts about it. Given what the Ayleids did to them, I have always pictured the Imperials as being more than little fearful and distrustful of magic. It is an elvish thing after all, so not only dangerous, but corrupt. That Ruben would blame the Oblivion Crisis on magicians was very believable.

A wonderful description of Ferir's use of magic to heal himself at the end as well. Now all he needs is a bath.




nits:
his thoughts had returned to the foothills of the Velas mountains
I am sure you meant Valus Mountains.


The world was laid bare before him, for now he was pushed, but soon it would he would be blind for choice.
Take a look at the end of this sentence, I think you had some leftovers of a previous edit jumbled in there.

Oh hell yeah...I'm a sucker for a good quote...

Love that...Really enjoyed the section about the healing...Well thought out...Brilliant...

Nice one... ...

I don’t have a lore answer for life spans, but I do remember one argument that I read somewhere and liked. The opinion was that magicka is responsible for slowing the age process, and roughly elves live longer than humans. Bretons were the shortest-lived human race, due to their resistance to magicka. Altmer were the longest of the mer. Not really an answer, just something to think about.

I’m so glad to see an update to read, re-read, and savor. Ruben and Ferir have been popping into my mind for the last two months, semi-dormant or not.