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]

Hi all: Thanks for reading and commenting on the last chapter.

As for the screenshot, I tried gpstr's trick, and it looks quite a bit better, though not quite what I had in mind.

Kirk Douglas or Charleston Heston as Julian's father? Hmmm, not.

Everyone seems surprised by the eye color. I had mentioned it (if only in passing) in chapter 2.1:

Studying my careworn features in the water, I tried to see what the Emperor saw in my face to trust me with something so precious as the Amulet. Grey-green eyes, deep-set, complete with crows-feet. Thin lips with fine lines bracketing them. A slightly bumpy nose. A naturally dark complexion with the grey cast of illness.

Now I would prefer to tone the lightness down a bit, but the game does not let me tinker with it so much. And now, the more I look at it, the more I like it. It does show up in high contrast with the dark skin, though.

Destri, I'm glad the screenshot doesn't disappoint.

mALX, Julian is outmatched by the competition (Maxical, Shivani, and that sizzler of a black Khajiit)! Still, I'm glad you think so!

On to the next chapter in Julian's saga:

*****************
Chapter 3.4 The Refugee Camp

Paint paced nervously at my shoulder as I led him up the slope toward the campfires at the base of the mesa. His breath blew hard on my shoulder and cheek.

All the way from Chorrol, he had been an easy ride, ambling up and down twisting, curving paths, cantering easily on level ground. His ability to detect enemies was more sensitive than mine, and I had quickly learned to rely on him to warn me of opponents on the road ahead.

But as we had approached Kvatch after our overnight stay at a bandit camp outside Skingrad, Paint had become more and more jittery. Even joining a Legion rider for part of the way had not calmed him down. The roiling thunderstorm I could see above Kvatch’s walls had not helped matters, either. Though the sky was overcast, and a light rain drizzled down, that clot of blood-black clouds over blackened city walls had only increased our mutual feeling of dread.

When the panicked Altmer had run down the road toward us, waving his hands and screaming, “Run, run while you can!” - Paint had nearly jumped out of his skin. The Altmer had disappeared behind us by the time I dismounted the trembling horse.

Ahead, we approached a cluster of small campfires, some with tents around them, others showing only huddled bodies. The rain increased, until both Paint and I were soaked.

Three children, covered in soot and blood, watched me numbly as I passed them. One girl, an Imperial, had tears tracing white paths down her cheeks. A small Dunmer boy curled next to her, his head in her lap. A slightly older Altmer girl had her arms about the Imperial.

At the next campfire, an old man, a Breton by his slight frame, lay shaking on a rough bedroll, moaning. He held his shattered left arm, the ends of bone poking through a mess of flesh and skin, close to his ribs. His eyes stared unblinking at the sky above, heedless of the rain. A young Redguard woman covered him with a tattered blanket before looking up at me, despair in her dark eyes.

By Akatosh, what happened here? Who are all these people? Pausing in the center of the plateau, formerly a hayfield, I looked around, trying to find someone who was somewhat coherent. Seeing only fear, desperation, and shock in the faces around me, I limped on, following the road towards the mountain. Behind me, the moaning faded away. Looking back, I saw the young Redguard woman rise to her feet and wander away, her face turned to the ground at her feet.

“I lost everything,” the hoarse voice sounded at my left shoulder. Paint flinched and snorted as I stopped to look at the tall Nord woman. Covered in soot, her once-fine blue velvet dress dragging over the trampled grass, her hair straggling from a bun that was coming apart, she was still beautiful in her despair. “I’m just tired, really,” she said to me. “I can’t face it anymore. You picked a bad time to visit Kvatch, ma’am.”

“Who are all these people?” I asked, waving my hand at the campfires.

“What’s left of Kvatch,” the woman said bitterly. “Everyone else is dead.”

“Now, Sigrid,” a man’s voice reached us. A Redguard joined us, standing between me and the Nord woman. “We don’t know that for certain.” He looked at me. “I’m Boldon, traveler, and this is Sigrid. She’s an alchemist.”

“I was,” she corrected. “Now I’m nothing. I lost all my equipment, my ingredients, up there.”

Where is Martin in all this? Whatever happened here, it didn’t kill him, did it? “I’m Julian, from Anvil. Can you tell me what happened here?”

“Something, a Gate to Oblivion, I think it’s called,” Boldon began, then faltered, uncertain eyes on me. Gaining courage from my nod, he continued, “it opened late last night while we were all asleep. They had a siege engine that came through the walls. It blasted us all with fire, burned the whole city. Most of us were killed, and the few that are left -” he waved his hand expressively at the campfires scattered across the hayfield.

“If you don’t believe him,” Sigrid spoke defensively, “go see for yourself!”

Thinking of the memories of blood and fire that had haunted me the past two nights, I met Sigrid’s blue gaze. “I believe Boldon, and you, too.” Glancing back at the refugees, I took a deep breath. “There’s the evidence right there.” Just like the aftermath on the battlefield. The blood, the smell of death and dying, the sounds of pain and agony. I looked back at the two survivors. “It looks bad from here.”

“You think that’s bad?” Sigrid’s tone became less angry, more weary. “It’s worse up there, believe me.”

“Savlian Matius is up there,” Boldon added. “With what’s left of the Guard. He’s holding the road, keeping the daedra from overrunning us here. But once the Guard gives way -”

“I came here for Martin,” I met Boldon’s gaze. “He is a priest of Akatosh. Did he survive this?”

“I’m not sure,” Boldon and Sigrid exchanged glances. He looked back at me, his expression guarded. “The last I saw of him, he was leading a few citizens into the Chapel. I don’t know if he is still alive. Savlian may know.”

Cacat! If he’s dead, who is left to re-light the Dragonfires? “He didn’t make it down here?” I asked, looking from Boldon to Sigrid. Again, they exchanged looks, then shook their heads.

I unslung my pack from my shoulder, hanging it over the cantle. Reaching in, I drew out the mutton and the vegetables I had scrounged from the bandit camp. I handed them to Boldon, along with the remaining food Jauffre had packed for me two days ago. “I know this isn’t much,” I said to him. “But you’ve got to get these people fed. They need food in a bad way.”

My fingers felt the mortar and pestle, caught at them. I handed them to Sigrid. “Here, you know how to use this better than I do.” Pressing my collection of ingredients at her, I caught the astounded looks on their faces. “I’ve got to go up there,” I continued, detaching the steel bow stave, a gift from a dead bandit, from the pack. Tucking the coiled bow strings into my belt pouch, I slung the quiver over my shoulder. “I cannot give up looking for Martin as long as there is a chance he is still alive.”

Boldon stopped me before I picked up Paint’s rein. “Don’t take your horse up there,” he warned me, his eyes grim. “What’s up there -” he shook his head, “your horse is jittery enough as it is.” He pointed out a small open area to the west of the camp. “I’ll put him there, make sure he has water. There’s grazing for him.”

Regarding him silently, I considered the options. These people are desperate. If they get hungry, what’s to keep them from slaughtering Paint? I had seen enough refugee camps to know the depths to which people could fall. On the other hand, it would be cruel to force him to go up there with me. Paint regarded me with wide brown eyes, his ears pointed at me. He’s scared enough as it is. He never asked to be in this situation.

“He’s not my horse, Boldon,” I said quietly, putting as much strength as possible into my voice. “He was entrusted to me, and as such, I’m responsible for his welfare.”

“I will care for him myself, until you return, Julian,” Boldon assured me. Regarding his open, honest expression, I made my decision. Patting Paint on his curved neck, I leaned to his ear.

“Go with Boldon, friend, and wait for me.” Handing the rein to Boldon, I let my hand move along Paint’s body as he followed Boldon away.

Checking to make sure my longsword was secured on my belt, I strung the bow, then started for the road switchbacking up the mountain. Sigrid turned to watch me go. “I hope you find Martin, Julian,” she called after me.

This post has been edited by haute ecole rider: Mar 31 2010, 02:19 AM