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]

@all: I see that Sigrid is fast becoming the favorite character of many. Not only is she well-endowed, but she is also well-liked. I have plans for her future.

I'm also glad to see that I'm not the only one who felt bad about leaving Goneld behind. And SubRosa, I have a tendency to write dark stories, so please don't distract me from this one! I've got a lot to finish first!

And Destri, this won't be the last orc Julian faces down. Gra-Sharob is actually the best friend (except for Mazoga) that any warrior or soldier could ask for. Thanks for the PM. I put your advice to work starting with this chapter. Let me know if it works better for you.

Thanks, Olen. I was exhausted when I finished that Gate for the first time! I'm glad I could convey that feeling as effectively as you say.

This next chapter is one of my little favorites of the quiet interludes.

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Chapter 4.4 Request for Help

After a dreamless slumber, I lay for a few moments, disoriented. After a while, memory came back, and I sat up suddenly. My burned right shoulder had healed, and so had the top of my back where that churl had slammed me with his fist. The bruising over my left hip had faded to an ochre tinge against my dark skin. Raising my right arm brought no pain.

My leather gear lay neatly folded, beside the bedroll. Shaking out the greaves, I found them not only cleaned and repaired, but also conditioned. The tough leather was now supple, and pulled on easily. As I laced them up, I found them soft and light over the wound on my left hip. The padded tunic had been washed as well, and lay softly against my skin. The boots had been resoled with the softest buttery leather that embraced my still-tender feet.

The patch across the front of my cuirass was cleverly worked to follow the original stitching. It was much easier to shrug it on, not only because my aches and pains had mostly healed with only an occasional twinge, but also because the stiff leather was broken in at all the right places. Buckling it on, I took a deep breath. It moved over my body like a second skin.

This gra-Sharob is a truly talented smith, I smiled to myself. Four drakes? The work on this cuirass alone is worth oh so much more! Fingering the patch on my breast, I shook my head to myself. Who would have thunk an old Legion pilus like me would prefer light armor to the old plate? It was true that after my experiences over the past several days, I found the leather armor to be better suited to this new way of fighting. I couldn’t hide in the shadows clanking around in a tin suit. Uh-huh, no way. My smile faded, as memories of my century surfaced, the young tironii so eager to prove themselves, anxious to blood their weapons. The same tironii laying scattered around the battlefield, their armor and weapons broken, their bodies bleeding into the hard ground. The hope of glory gone from their dead eyes.

Fleeing those memories, I stepped out into bright sunlight. The air smelled clean and fresh after the rain. The campfire before me was warm and friendly. The bareheaded soldier, sitting hunched over a plate of polenta, looked around at me and rose to his feet. It was Matius. Hastily swallowing the grub in his mouth, he gestured me to a nearby stool.

“Hello, Julian,” he greeted me, remaining on his feet as I returned his gaze. “I’m sorry I was such a pain in the heinie to you before.” He still looked tired, but his eyes were sharper, his boyish face less strained.

He seems to be in a better mood this morning. “Sigrid wouldn’t let me wake you when I got back,” I said after a few moments, taking the proffered seat. “She said you had finally gone to sleep.”

Matius reached one-handed towards the fire, handed me another plate, then plopped a ladleful of polenta onto the metal disc from the pot simmering beside the fire. Sticking a spoon in the thick gruel, he handed me an empty pewter cup. He poured klah into my cup, still balancing his own plate of half-eaten grub.

Staring at the meal in my hands, I stifled a chuckle at his brisk style of hospitality. Just like the mess line in the Legion. Take your plate, here’s your grub, no complaints now, move along soldier!

Matius hesitated as he sat back down, glancing at me. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he murmured. “That was rude of me. I can try to find something else to eat -”

I looked at him. “Sit down and eat, sir,” I told him, taking a sip of the hot klah. The weakness of the brew made me wince. I set it down on the ground, next to my boot, and picked up the spoon. “I asked Sigrid to wake me when you were up, sir,” I added, before taking that first bite. The taste of the bland polenta took me back several years.

Relaxing a little, Matius sat down and refilled his spoon. “She wouldn’t let me wake you up when I found out you had returned.” His tone was dry.

“What time is it, sir?” I asked. Judging by the angle of the eastern sun, it was still fairly early in the morning, but my body insisted I had slept more than a few hours.

“Seven bells in the morning,” Matius shot me a glance. “You slept the day through yesterday.”

I choked down the polenta. “I slept over twenty-four hours, sir?”

“Akatosh knows you deserved it,” Matius smiled crookedly at me. “I gather you closed that Gate after all, ma’am.”

“I found Menien Goneld, but I couldn’t get him out of that place,” I looked away from his gaze, “I’m sorry, sir.”

“We have lost many of the guard here,” he matched my tone. “Goneld will be counted among the fallen.”

We ate in silence, while the camp woke from the long night. A couple of children appeared just beyond the small circle of tents, watching us hungrily. Matius, finishing off the last of the polenta, looked up and saw them. With a gesture, he waved them to the fire. Refilling his plate, he held it out to the pair. They looked at him hesitantly, but he did not meet their looks, only picking up his klah with his other hand and taking a long gulp. He did waggle the dish slightly.

Finally the older boy, a Redguard, took the plate from Matius. He turned to lead the little Bosmer girl away, but Matius stopped them with a wave. He pointed at a bench on the opposite side of the campfire from me. Hiding my smile behind my cup, I sipped at the klah as the two children took the seat and dove into the food together.

“Well, Julian,” Matius turned to me. “I may be presumptuous, but there’s still work to be done, and I’m still short good soldiers.” He cast a glance up and down me, as he had before. “We need to clear Kvatch of daedra, and get to any remaining survivors. The Count is still in the castle, we must get him to safety.” He held my gaze as I put the spoon down on my dish. “Obviously you’ve got more experience than my guard - what’s left of them. I could use your help.”

Across the fire, the children watched me, wide-eyed. I must seem old - no, ancient, to them. I certainly feel it, after that Gate. “Well, I came here looking for Martin,” I said slowly. But I can’t turn my back on these people. If Martin is alive, and if he really is his father’s son, he won’t, either. “I’ll do it.” I saw a flicker of relief in his blue-grey eyes. “Don’t know how much good I’ll be, but I’ll help.”

He clapped his hands on his thighs, rising to his feet. “Good!” He nodded at the next campfire behind me. “I believe gra-Sharob has finished with your weapons.” Giving the children a wordless glance, he picked up his sword and shield. “I’ll meet you at the barricades, whenever you’re ready, ma’am.”