Old Habits Die Hard, Can an old dog learn new tricks? Options

[haute ecole rider]

This is the story I have been posting on the Unnamed Forum. I'm in the process of moving it over here for those who have not yet seen it. Enjoy!

Chapter 1.1a Escape

Waking up vomiting nothing but a small amount of bile, I gagged on the burning in the back of my throat. Coughing the last of it from my mouth, I curled on my right side on the foul cot, knees drawn to my chest. The rough wood of the cot’s frame pressed into my cheek. The smith’s hammer pounding on the inside of my skull sent stars shooting across the backs of my eyes. Grinding the heels of my hands into my closed lids in an attempt to drive the lights away only made the damn hammer pound even harder. Groaning, I turned until I lay on my back, opening my eyes.

Ignoring the taste of moldy stones on my tongue, I gulped down deep breaths of the damp air. The stars subsided as I stared at the stone blocks rising into the gloom above my head. The hammering slowed to once every shaky breath. Raising my thin wrists, I looked at the iron shackles encircling their ache. The prominent veins in the backs of my hands disappeared as the blood drained from them. Turning them so their palms faced me, I studied the ghosts of rough calluses, dark skin pale in the dim light of the window above my head.

Shouting. Clashing of steel on steel. A dark room spinning around me. Pitchers breaking, fluid flying everywhere. The helmed face of the Legion rider before me, his gauntleted hand holding my shoulder in an implacable grip, shouting something at me. My empty hands between us, palms facing the rider, my voice drowned by the chaos around us. Then the cold night air, my bare feet cringing from the rough cobblestones. Falling through the paving into darkness.

“Ach, what happened?” I muttered softly to myself. In spite of my whisper, the smith’s hammer pounded hard for a couple of heartbeats before slowing down again. Struggling to a seated position, I ignored the familiar stabbing pain in my left side, the hard throbbing in my right knee. Scooting my rump along the cot, I reached the pitcher sitting on the rickety table at the foot of the cot. Looking into the mug next to it, I grimaced at the dirty fluid inside. Picking up the pitcher, I raised it to my lips. Trying to avoid tasting it, I gulped the stale water hurriedly. Taking another mouthful and setting the pitcher down, I rinsed my furry teeth with it. Rising to my feet and leaning my right hand on the wall, I limped to the privy at the rear of the cell, spitting the foul water out.

“Awake now, are you, pretty Redguard?” the sarcastic, biting voice sounded behind me. Shooting a glare over my shoulder, I took in the barred door, the Dunmer in his cell across the way. “How do you like your cell?” he continued, his voice still mocking. Pretty, am I? Disheveled, filthy, thin and weak - no, pretty would be the last word I’d use to describe myself.

Turning around, I took a limping step through the trickle of faint moonlight falling from a window too small to show stars. Another limp took me past the table, its pathetic candle shedding little additional light. One more step brought me to the cell door.

“Roomy enough for you?” the mocking continued as I studied the Dunmer. He looked as unhealthy as I felt. Turning away from him, I limped around the small room, hunched against the sharp pain in my left side. Nausea roiled in my stomach, and my muscles quivered uncontrollably, their former strength forgotten. “I can’t even imagine what it’s like for you,” the other’s voice followed me on my limited perambulation. “No more sunshine, no more open seas. Just a box and a dirty sunbeam for the rest of your sorry life. Bet you’re glad it won’t last long, eh?”

“What?” I returned to the barred door, squinting at the Dunmer across the way. “I won’t be here long?” my voice cracked, weak in my still-burning throat. My dry lips split as I spoke.

“Oh, didn’t you know?” The Dunmer’s voice turned bitter along with his faded red eyes. “They put you here to forget about you. They don’t care if you die, Redguard.” His sharp-edged voice grated on my already raw nerves. The sound of a bolt being drawn back, a heavy door creaking open somewhere down the passage reached us. “Hear that Redguard?” the Dunmer’s tone became strident. “They’re coming for you!” He drew back into the shadows of his cell as I heard voices.

“Tell me what happened to my sons,” an old man’s voice reached me, heavy with grief.

“Sire, all we know is that they were attacked,” a woman’s voice, clipped with authority and respect, responded as booted steps drew nearer the cells. “We must hurry, Sire, we need to get you to safety.” I heard the slightest undertone of anxiety in her voice.

A tall figure, clad in steel armor with blue enamel and brass trim marking him as one of the Blades, lifted his torch at me. He stopped outside my cell, his Redguard features scowling at me in the guttering light. The woman, a little shorter than I and clad in the same armor, paused at the sight of me. Her blue eyes sparked angrily beneath the helm. “This cell was supposed to be empty!” she exclaimed softly under her breath.

“I don’t know, Captain,” the tall Redguard shrugged, keeping his cold black eyes on me. “Some mix-up with the City Watch.”

“It doesn’t matter,” the captain responded. Beyond her, another armored figure and an old Imperial man in royal purple robes appeared. The third Blade matched my height, and like me, turned out to be Redguard as well.

“Prisoner!” the captain’s voice crackled between the stone walls. My back straightened involuntarily, painfully, at the unmistakable command in the woman’s voice. “Stand back beneath the window!”

Although I had been out of the Legion for four years, old habits die hard. Complying with her order, I limped to the back of the cell, behind the moonbeam. The captain unlocked my cell door while I squinted through the grey light. Opening the door, she stepped back to let the other two Blades enter. The tall one advanced to stand between me and the others. Sensing his dislike of me, thick as molasses in a Skyrim winter, I accepted it, as I accepted the captain’s authority, since I could do nothing else.

“Watch the prisoner, Glenroy,” the captain ordered, moving to the side wall opposite my cot.

The slim sword whickered as Glenroy drew it. “Aye, Captain,” he growled, turning the blade so it shimmered in the moonlight between us. “You stay where you are,” he snarled at me. “Don’t even breathe.” Breathing slowly and shallowly, I stayed put. Looking past him, I regarded the other Redguard. Standing at ease near the door, his impassive expression scared me in its implacability. Years of combat in the Legion had taught me that the most deadly enemies are the ones you can’t read.

The captain started muttering under her breath, and I felt the unmistakable tingle of magicka shimmer over the plain rock face. Catching my breath, I realized the captain was a Breton, with high innate magicka. Probably trained as a battlemage.

The old man, his dark fur-lined robe a shadow in the shadows of the cell, stepped past the impassive soldier and peered at me, his sad eyes puzzled. “Come closer,” his voice smoothing from a grieved coarseness to a commanding tone.

Glancing at Glenroy, I hesitated, but he fell back to stand beside the old man, keeping his blade between me and the other. Acutely aware of the shimmering sword, I stepped forward into the light.

The old man’s eyes widened. “Ah, yes, I’ve seen you before.” His dark gaze held mine, once again becoming sad and resigned. “That means today is the day, and the hour is near.” Suddenly aware that the smith’s hammer had stopped pounding in my head, I stared at the old man.

Licking my dry lips, I remembered how the captain had addressed him. “Pardon me, Sire?” He can’t be - no, not the Emperor, not here, not in my cell! My eye fell on the large red amulet on his brocaded chest. The Amulet of Kings? The Emperor! Stiffly against the pain in my left side, I bowed. “How may I serve you, Sire?” Old habits die hard, very hard, indeed. Looking up, I saw a faint smile touch Uriel Septim’s eyes.

“I have served Tamriel all my life,” he answered. “You too, shall serve Tamriel in your own way. But you have your own path to follow.” His eyes grew even darker. “Be warned, though. There will be blood and death before the end.”

“Blood and death are not new to me, Sire,” I spoke softly, surprised by the weariness I heard in my cracking voice.

The wall of my cell crumbled beneath the captain’s hands, falling away in a cloud of dry, choking dust. A passageway appeared beyond. “Sire,” her voice cut between us. “We must go now, there is little time.” She disappeared into the darkness beyond the jagged stone edges.

Glenroy turned the top of the slender blade toward me as the Emperor started toward the opening. “What of the prisoner, Sire?”

“Leave her be,” the command voice was quietly unmistakable as Uriel Septim stepped through the opening, following the captain. “Her path may yet lie with ours.” Glenroy gave me one last glare, sheathing his sword and following the Emperor. The third Blade turned his back on me and brought up the rear.

Listening to the sound of their booted feet fading away, I glanced around the cell again. Something coiled in my belly, just below the breastbone. On my discharge from the Legion, I had once hoped to find peace and health after decades of blood and death. Peace and health had avoided me, and now a mere hint of blood and death had found me.

[haute ecole rider]

@mALX: Thanks for the blurb. Check back later in the week.

@Destri: Yes, I have to remind myself to post slower. I read fast (I read most of your Interregnum in about five hours on my day off) - and I frequently forget that most people don't read as fast (or type as fast) as I do. Sorry to all!

@SubRosa: Actually Granny Smiths are all green, and very very tart. I think you're thinking of Jonathans. Some of the newer hybrids coming out are absolutely wonderful. I've always been partial to G.S.'s, but I love the Fiji, which is what these probably are. And Jauffre is such a dirty-minded old Breton, isn't he?

@D.Foxy: Wilkommen bie Chorrol! Gut zu sehen Sie hier! Vielen Dank für das Lob!

I am currently many, many chapters ahead of both Chorrol.com and the Unnamed Forum threads. I have many chapters that will need rewriting before posting. There are a few chapters already posted that I will probably polish up a little, but I'm one of those where I work so much on each chapter, then I'm done and move on. Before each is posted, they are rewritten about four or five times (the latest update on the other forum took six major rewrites), so I don't plan to do major rewrites on them as I bring them over here. Some can stand some polishing, and that will happen, but most will likely remain the same. This story is running away with me and I'm currently struggling to keep up with it.

Here is Chapter 3.2: for those who are new, let me just say that I'm drawing on my equestrian experience very heavily here. I finally learned to ride just eighteen years ago as an adult, and remember it very well. I hope you enjoy sharing my experiences with Julian.

******************
Chapter 3.2 Paint

I found Prior Maborel in the stable behind the Priory, brushing out the mane of a paint gelding. I paused outside the stable, eyeing the horses. In the stall next to the paint, a chestnut stallion tossed his head, and the bay mare in the adjoining enclosure pinned her ears and stamped her foot at him, clearly rejecting his amorous advances.

“Brother Jauffre tells me you have a long and lonely road ahead,” the prior spoke, leading the paint out of the stable. “Have you ever ridden before, Julian?”

I stared at Maborel, unable to believe where this conversation was going. In my time in the Legion, I had served only in the infantry, had never learned to ride horseback, though in my younger years I had yearned after the magnificent horses of the cavalry. I had given up on the dream of becoming an equestrian so long ago I had forgotten it.

After a moment, I could only shake my head wordlessly, my eyes full of the gleaming brown and white splashed coat of the paint gelding before me. The horse blinked a great brown eye at me, then turned his head to blow softly on my chest, his nostrils fluttering.

The paint stood quietly while the prior picked up a saddle from the nearby railing and settled it over the horse’s round back. He gestured for me to come closer, and showed me how to position the saddle to the horse’s comfort, and to tighten up the girth.

Then Maborel picked up a confusing tangle of leather straps, buckles and a jointed metal bar. He identified the different parts of the bridle, and demonstrated how to put it on. I noticed that the paint opened his mouth to take the bit, lowering his head to let the prior slip the headstall over his ears.

Leading the gelding to a nearby rock, Maborel motioned for me to climb to the top of the rock. He took my shield from me and waved me to the saddle.

“Always mount from the horse’s left side,” he advised. “With that bad knee, I’d mount from a rock or something similar to make it easier on yourself.” He reached for the left stirrup, twisting it so I could put my left foot into it. “Take the pommel,” he patted the high front of the saddle, “in your left hand, your left foot in the stirrup, that’s it,” his tone became encouraging as I followed his instructions. “Now step off your right foot. Put your weight into the left stirrup and swing your right leg over the cantle,” he indicated the high back of the seat.

The horse stood motionless as I swung my right leg over the cantle and landed with a thump in the saddle, without any of the smoothness and grace I had observed in the Legion riders. The paint lifted his head momentarily, then lowered it to Maborel’s hand. As his head dropped, the gelding’s back rose alarmingly beneath me, and I grabbed the pommel with both hands. The prior smiled up at me.

“He’s gelded, so you don’t have to worry about him being around mares,” he continued. “He’s slow, but his gaits are very smooth and easy. Temperament is very kind, too. He is very smart, and he has taught me much about riding. I know he will take good care of you, too.”

He put the reins into my right hand, showing me how to guide the horse by laying the rein on the side of his neck opposite the way I wanted him to turn. “For now, just neck-rein like this. When you want him to walk on, just give him a loud kiss,” he smooched. The paint took a step forward, catching me off guard. Again I grabbed for the pommel, but the horse stopped again when Maborel laid his hand over his long nose. “If you want him to canter, just kiss again, and he will pick it right up.”

The prior handed me my shield, waiting until I had settled it on my forearm. “If you want him to slow down, just sit back in the saddle. If you want him to stop, tell him ‘whoa.’ Be ready though, because he will stop very quickly, and if you’re not ready, you’ll catch the pommel in your belly and knock the wind out of yourself.” His tone suggested Maborel spoke from personal experience.

He stepped back with a final pat on the paint’s arched neck. “I’m certain Jauffre’s mission is most urgent, but take things slow at first. Walk Paint for a while, practice stopping him, making him walk on, and turning him. Remember, keep your back straight, and your legs long but relaxed. You want to move with his movement.” He cast a look over me, walking around Paint and checking the girth. “Once you’re comfortable with the walk, try the canter on flat, level ground. I would suggest you do that on the Red Ring Road, where it’s safest.”

My head reeling, I stared at Maborel while the full meaning of his assistance sank in. “You are lending me your horse, Prior?” I whispered incredulously. “You would trust me with him?”

The haughty expression dissolved into a wide and brilliant smile. “It’s more a case of trusting him with you,” he answered. “Remember, if you feel you need to panic, just say ‘whoa.’ Don’t forget to brace yourself!” He clapped my left knee. “Safe travels, friend.”

Tentatively, I stroked the horse’s neck, tangling my fingers in his coarse, two-toned mane. “Thank you, Prior,” I whispered, feeling overwhelmed. “I will bring him back to you.”

Maborel only nodded. Paint’s back rounded beneath me again as he turned his head toward the prior, nuzzling him affectionately. I kissed at the horse, as I had been instructed, and was pleased when the horse stepped off readily. I looked up, and realized how high off the ground I rode, how different the world seemed from this higher vantage point.

Paint’s walk was gentle and slow, giving me time to feel the swaying motion of his back. His footfalls sounded quietly on the cobblestones as we passed beneath the porte-cortere towards the courtyard. As we made our way onto the Black Road, I glanced back at the Priory to see two figures watching my departure - Prior Maborel and Brother Piner. I gave them a final wave with my shield before a roadside tree hid them from my sight.

**********

We passed Fort Ash without incident, and I could see the spire of White Gold Tower ahead as the road started to wind down from the highlands. Paint tossed his head up, and his amble faltered to a halt. I looked at him, and followed his intent gaze into the woods ahead and to the left of the Road. A rustling in the underbrush warned me of some creature. Dismounting with some awkwardness, I drew my sword, dropping my shield into my left hand. Paint remained still as stone as I slowly walked toward the trembling shrub.

A low growl emanated from the leaves, sending a chill down my spine. I spotted a hint of grey fur and braced myself, lifting my shield before me. A wolf ghosted out of the bush, snarling, his yellow eyes blazing on mine. He charged me swiftly, and leaped for my face. I fended him off with my shield then slashed at him with my blade as he fell back.

The handsome predator staggered as the blade cut through his pelt. Go away. Don’t make me kill you. He shook himself and circled me, head down and hackles bristling. My sword ready, I waited, keeping my eyes on him. I held my breath as he came between me and Paint, still facing me. In the edge of my vision, I could sense Paint tense up, his head up, ears forward. Don’t bolt, Paint. Stand your ground. And you, wolf, if you so much as look funny at Paint, I’m not going to hold back. Leave, now.

The wolf stopped, staring at me, teeth bared in a silent snarl. Forcing my shaking body to hold still, I locked eyes with the animal, keeping my gaze steady. Another tense moment, and the wolf blinked first. He turned and faded back into the forest without a backward look.

Shaking, I found myself panting hard from the confrontation. What the hell just happened? Did that wolf just hear my thoughts? Soft hoofbeats on the cobblestones broke into my musings. Sheathing my sword, I turned just as Paint reached me, nudging my shoulder with his muzzle. Looking closely at him, I noticed his relaxed stance. I can not let predators get near Paint. I recalled how Fulvius had dismounted and left his horse some distance away when he rescued me from the wolves at Fort Nikel.

Slipping the shield carry-straps back onto my forearm, I led Paint to a nearby boulder. He stood quietly as I struggled, first to climb onto the rock, then to step into the saddle as Maborel had instructed me. This time, I made a more gentle landing onto his strong back. Rubbing my hand along his crest, I ruffled Paint’s mane. He turned his head slightly toward my right knee, his ears flopping sideways briefly.

“Let’s go, Paint,” I said softly to him, ending with a soft kiss.