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]

Thanks to all who are reading this the second time.

Olen, welcome to Julian's story! I'm glad you're enjoying this so far. I wrote the horsey stuff mainly for non-horse people. There are plenty of those in my RL, so I'm used to explaining stuff. TBH, Oblivion is the first fantasy game I've encountered where the horses actually seem pretty realistic, especially in their spontaneous movements (rubbing noses on forelegs, looking off into the distance, stretching necks and shaking heads, etc). Even their gaits are realistic. However, to imbue each horse with a distinct personality remains beyond the capabilities of anything less than a supercomputer.

I noticed a couple of people are commenting on the instructions to always mount (*choke* - thanks a lot, Foxy!) from the horse's left side. This is actually tradition, and goes back at least as far as the Middle Ages, if not all the way back to Xenophon. Most people are right handed, which means warriors carried their swords on their left hips and their shields (when applicable) on their left arm. Mounting from the right side of the horse would require swinging your left leg over the horse's back, getting tangled up in the sheathed sword, and banging the poor creature on the back with the shield. Sure way to get bucked off before you even get on! Mounting from the left side of the horse keeps all your heavy metal gear against the horse's left side, less likely to mess things up. The military being the military, that has continued down to this day. Dressage was actually developed by the military, has has eventing (jumping, cross-country, and dressage/parade gaits). The only thing in the Prior's instruction that is out of consideration for Julian's bum knee is the recommendation to always mount from a point higher than the ground (i.e. a boulder or stump).

As for the stand-off with the wolf, I don't believe the wolf was reading Julian's mind, so much as he was reading her body language. IRL, there is actually a lot of communication between predators and prey - that is how predators single out the sick and weak. The wolves and big cats are smaller than the big game they hunt, and they know all too well how easily the big game can hurt them. So they evaluate the prey animals, and look at their body language. The ones that make eye contact, or assume defensive postures (or even aggressive postures, in the case of mothers protecting their young), are avoided. However, the sick and weak often will not make eye contact, are easily confused, and are slower than their herd mates. Those are the ones the predators go for. In this given situation, Julian was not acting like a sick or weak prey, she was acting like the big, strong animal that can cause some serious hurt (and she did). This particular wolf was hungry, but not starving, he wasn't about to risk it all on something that was probably going to kill him.

Oh, and W.Wolf, sorry, Paint isn't trained for combat. Julian is an infantry soldier (i.e. groundpounder) and is appalled at the idea of riding Paint into a horde of scamps with her sword swinging. She's afraid she'll bury her blade into Paint's neck! For your dream to happen, first she needs to get a combat-trained horse, then she needs to learn how to ride him (be quiet, Foxy!). Stick around long enough, and she may work up the courage to do that!

Okay, enough with the equestrian and biology lessons! Let's get on with the story! This is one of my favorite side quests, simply because the old man is such a cool character (in my mind, at least).

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Chapter 3.3 Gone Fishing

It was nearly noon before we reached the road that led east from the Red Ring Road to Weye and the Great Bridge. I slowed Paint, my left side beginning to stab me repeatedly, and turned him towards the inn. Pausing momentarily, I wondered if anyone there would recognize me as the drunken addict that had brawled with the Dunmer mercenary. The fragmented memories I had still didn’t clue me in regarding the cause of that brawl, and I cringed to think what it could have been.

But Jauffre’s advice was greater than my shame, and I decided that now would be a good time to get my daily meat ration. I stopped Paint beside the Wawnet Inn. An old Breton limped toward us, his eyes admiring Paint.

“Good day, ma’am!” he called to me. “Need your ‘orse tended?”

Glancing at the old man, seeing the tattered fishing waders and the worn sandals, I regarded him skeptically. A Watch soldier standing on the doorstep of the Inn, helm under his arm, saw my look.

“That’s Aelwin Merowald, ma’am,” he volunteered. “He’s disabled, can’t fish any more. Taking care of travelers’ horses is about all he can do, but he does it well.”

But for the grace of Akatosh go I, I mused as Merowald stopped beside Paint’s head, holding his hand out for the gelding to sniff. Paint blew softly at him, then nudged the old man’s cheek.

“Well, I was going to stop for lunch,” I mused, considering the Watch’s words. I dismounted and handed the reins to Merowald. “Yes, I would appreciate it, sir,” I told the delighted Breton.

“Ye won’t regret it, ma’am,” Merowald grinned at me. “I’ll be takin’ ‘im across to my ‘ouse - there’s good grass there ‘e can graze.” He patted Paint affectionately on his neck. “Come find me when ye are ready to leave.” As Paint docilely followed the old man across the road towards a humble cottage with a beautiful garden and a little paddock next to it, the watchman shook his head.

“I think you just made his day, ma’am,” he commented to me. “It’s all Merowald’s got to live for, the occasional traveler letting him take care of the horse. Most of them go on up to the Imperial City, and leave their horses at the Chestnut Handy Stables by the City Gate.”

“You said he was a fisherman, sir?” I asked, my eyes on the small Breton, dwarfed by the paint gelding.

“Aye,” the soldier said. “Made a good living at it, too. Apparently, he had an alchemist paying him well for slaughterfish scales. And not just any slaughterfish, mind you, but the Tamriel Barracuda. Nasty things, more teeth than anything else.” He shook his head again. “A full grown one will strip a man of his very flesh, right off his bones, in a few seconds flat.” He waved his arm toward the nearby Lake. “They’re found only here, in Lake Rumare.”

He looked at me. “It was a juvenile that got Merowald, ended his career.” He rubbed at his close-cropped blond hair. “Merowald’s always complaining that he only needed scales from just twelve more slaughterfish before he had enough saved for retirement. Now, as it is, he’s struggling to make ends meet.”

“I see.” Feeling a little sad for the old man, I knew how that felt. “Seems like you’re a little fond of him, sir,” I said to the soldier. He shrugged.

“It’s hard not to be fond of the old man,” he answered. “Merowald’s always cheerful, always glad to help or cheer one other than himself. Even when he was in pain from that bite -” his voice trailed off. The soldier squinted up at the sun, just east of the zenith. He placed his helm on his head and nodded at me. “Well, ma’am, I’d best get going, or I’ll be late for my post.”

Watching him march for the Great Bridge, I turned to look across the road at Merowald’s cottage. He had Paint loose in the small paddock, and was stripping him of his tack. Unable to shake the feeling of pity for the old man, - pity for myself? - I turned away. Walking around the inn to the lakeshore, I spotted an old dock and limped out onto it, looking at the water.

The sun shone warm on my back as I set the pack down on the wooden planks. It’s too bad the old man can’t get twelve more Barracuda for his retirement. It would be nice to live comfortably after a lifetime of hard work. There was a time when I felt that way, when my fellow pili had roasted me on the twenty-fifth anniversary of my enlistment in the Legion. After seven years of endless training cycles and whipping raw recruits into fighting soldiers, I had felt ready for inactivity. But the Goblins changed that. The pain changed that. I looked over my shoulder at the bulk of the Wawnet Inn on the bluff above. I lost everything I had. No one knew how to help me, and few wanted to help me.

Impulsively, I stripped down to my undergarments, piling my gear on the dock. Digging out a length of cord, I tied it around my waist, leaving a long end trailing free. Taking the steel dagger in my teeth, I dove off the dock into the clear water in a shallow arc. Ducking my face under the surface, I found the Lake to be surprisingly clear. Several yards away, I spotted the lean form of a large slaughterfish. Swimming toward it, I nearly swallowed water in surprise as the fish darted toward me. I caught a glimpse of a gaping mouth full of teeth before my blade swished through the water into its underbelly.

A few cuts and slices later, the fish floated on the surface, dead. Taking the cord, I attached the fish by its gills close to my body, leaving the long end free to trail behind me. Casting a healing spell, I looked around underwater again, and spotted another. In this manner, I found and killed eleven more Tamriel Barracuda, bringing them ashore after every two or three kills. They were heavy fish. The healing spell I cast kept me going in spite of the cuts and scrapes the barracuda gave me.

Returning to the shore, I gathered the tethered fish on the deck, then scraped the water off my skin before donning my leathers. Though I was tired, it felt good to be swimming again. Still, it’s not like the Abecean Sea. Gathering up all my gear, I looked at the sun again, realizing how hungry I felt. Just after noon. I trudged up the hill, the fish dangling from my pack, and entered the inn.

If anyone there recognized me as the brawling drunk that got a Dunmer mercenary killed, they showed no sign of it. The stew was hearty, and the water fresh, well worth the three drakes the Altmer innkeeper charged me for it. I ate quickly, for I wanted to get back on my way. Kvatch waited at the end of a very long and dangerous road, and I had Paint to worry about.

Stomach full, I stepped out into the brilliant afternoon light, the breeze cool on my warm cheeks. Crossing the road to Merowald’s cottage, I found him seated in his garden, puffing on a pipe and watching Paint graze. He jumped up when he saw me, setting his pipe carefully on the bench and meeting me at the garden gate.

“‘Ello, ma’am,” he greeted me courteously, opening the gate and welcoming me in among the fragrant flowers. “I rubbed ‘im down for ye, watered ‘im, and ‘e’s been grazing for the past ‘our ro so.” He picked the bridle up from the fence post and entered the adjacent paddock. Paint raised his head as Merowald approached him, and accepted the bit gracefully. Merowald stroked Paint’s face as he settled the headstall over his ears, adjusting the buckles, and making sure the bit was seated comfortably in the horse’s mouth. “Aye, ‘e’s a fine one, well mannered and kind,” Merowald remarked with a wide smile as he led Paint to the road.

Following them, I had to agree, “Aye, that he is, sir.”

The Breton held the reins out to me. I unknotted the cord holding the fish at my back and held the shimmering bodies toward him. His brows lifted in amazement at the offering. “Here, sir, take these for your trouble.”

“Stendarr bless ye!” he exclaimed, taking the cord from me. “Twelve Barracudas!” he twirled the fish on the cord, evaluating their size and weight, before staring at me. “How did ye know?”

“A friend of yours told me, sir,” I answered. Tapping my right knee, I winked at him. “Us old gimps have got to stick together, right?”

Laughing heartily, Merowald slung the cord over one thin shoulder. “Aye, we do!” he followed as I led Paint to a nearby boulder, patting the horse on the neck as I mounted from the top of the rock. “But ma’am, ye risked much to ‘elp me,” he said, as I settled myself into the saddle. “Let me give this to ye in return - I ‘ave no further need of it.” He pulled a small brass ring off his ring finger, handing it up to me. Taking it, I studied the simple yellow circle in the late afternoon light, noting the opalescent pearl setting. “It’s the Jewel of the Rumare,” he explained. “It gives ye the ability to breathe underwater.” Trying the ring on the little finger of my right hand, I found it fit perfectly.

“I appreciate you taking good care of Paint,” I smiled at him in gratitude. “My name is Julian, from Anvil, and I will try to send more business your way.”

“Ah, no need for that!” Merowald lifted the weighted cord off his shoulder in emphasis. “Ye just paid for my retirement!” His eyes turned dreamy. “Long mornings in bed, long afternoons in the stables, a fine smoke in the evenings.” He gave Paint a fond pat on the horse’s shoulder. “But ye come back, ye ‘ear. Paint’s welcome to stay with me anytime!”