Interregnum, 854 of the Second Era Options

[Destri Melarg]

To the Reader

This story takes place over the course of one year, 854 of the Second Era. It details the end of interregnum and the founding of the Septim line of Emperors. Inspiration for this story is drawn from two sources. The first is a one line entry in the timeline for the Second Era:

2E 854 - The Emperor was assassinated by a High Rock nightblade who also burned the Imperial Palace to the ground and attempted to kill General Talos.

I have come to believe that history is merely the propaganda of the winning side. This entry tells you what happened, but it doesn’t tell you how or why it happened. I have attempted to address those questions in this story.

For the second source of inspiration I express no embarrassment in saying that the form is blatantly lifted from my favorite of the in-game books, Carlovac Townway’s remarkable 2920: The Last Year of the First Era

Some of the characters you will encounter in this story have been lifted from the in-game books. Others are the product of the author’s imagination. I do not claim to have mastered the lore so if I stray too far from it, please don’t hesitate to call me on it. That said, there are a few ‘liberties’ that I have taken in this story which I feel I must draw to your attention:

- Tamriel is a much larger place than the game world. A day’s journey in game takes a week (weather and terrain permitting) in the story.
- Cities are larger and far more populated than they are in the game.

My deepest gratitude goes out to RemkoNL, mALX, Acadian, hauteecole rider, Winter Wolf, SubRosa, and treydog for their steadfast support of this story. Without you I doubt that it would exist.

As always any comments, criticisms, or suggestions are most welcome.

* * *

Table of Contents

Book One: Morning Star
Book Two: Sun's Dawn
Book Three: First Seed

This post has been edited by Destri Melarg: Aug 14 2010, 12:15 AM

[Destri Melarg]

Book Two: Sun’s Dawn


1st Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
The Nameless Tavern, Sentinel, Hammerfell
Evening


He may have been the largest Nord to ever venture out of Skyrim. He sat with his legs splayed under the table and drained a full tankard of mead with two long tilts of the elbow. The sound that his steel gauntlet made when he slammed his fist against the table drew hooded stares from the darker patrons. But one look at his size or at the battered head of the silver mace that hung from his hip cowed them back into their drinks.

“More mead,” his voice reverberated through the noise of the tavern and bent the barman to his purpose.

The Nord’s companion was fair of complexion and of average height by the standards of High Rock, which is to say that he was short. He wore a weather-stained green tunic over battered mail. At his side the hilt of a silver longsword caught and reflected the light from the candles which dimly lit the inside of the tavern. He held a full goblet to his chest, away from the table which had already started to wobble being subject to the Nord’s fits of temper.

The tavern itself gave stage to the carousing of loud, overbearing sailors while also lending itself as the location that sullen mercenaries sought for drinking and brooding. Here and there a few flinty-eyed specimens of the merchant class moved amongst the rough trade, for it was a well known fact that if you had goods to move or goods to protect, you could find the means to do it in the Nameless Tavern.

“He should be here soon,” said the Breton, he had to raise his voice to be heard across the table.

“You said that an hour ago,” boomed the Nord. “We could have been in Anticlere by now. Maybe even Vermeir, staring up at the Wrothgarians if not for this unnecessary detour.”

“You may be right,” said the Breton, “but say that we were at the base of the Wrothgarians, where would we go from there? Our quarry might be in Cyrodiil by now for all we know. I for one would rather set our feet to purpose than wander blindly through Sun’s Dawn in the mountains.”

Any comment the Nord was about to make was interrupted by a serving wench who appeared with another tankard of mead. With shaking hand she set it on the table. Sweat beaded her brown, Redguard forehead and her eyes were akin to the doe that has just caught the scent of a predator.

After she withdrew the Nord lifted the tankard and drank deep. His brow still held to the scowl, but the fire in his eyes had been replaced with resignation. “What makes you think this friend of yours knows more than we do?”

The Breton rose from his chair; his eyes were focused on the entrance to the tavern, “you can ask him that yourself.”

The Nord turned in his seat. A broad-shouldered, lean silhouette of a man stood shadowed in the doorway. Most of the other patrons barely noted his entrance. However, as he shut the door behind him and the candles lent light to his dark features conversations at all the tables stopped, movement through the tavern was aborted, and there was a new smell that mingled with the sweat and smoke that had seemed almost oppressive in the moments before his arrival. The Nord had no problem identifying it.

Fear.

The newcomer paused, his eyes adjusting to the dim light of the tavern. The Nord studied him from across the room. He was a Redguard, young for the amount of turmoil his presence caused in the room. Yet he carried himself like a man accustomed to defending his honor. He wore a scarlet vest over an unbuttoned white shirt; his black trousers were tucked into high black leather boots that were made for riding. A steel cutlass dangled easily on his right hip, and a matching dagger was tucked into the belt on his left. If it bothered him that his presence alone caused most of the other patrons to move hands towards the hilts of weapons he gave no indication of it. The Nord could appreciate such courage, but that didn’t make him feel less uneasy about this meeting.

The Redguard spotted the Nord’s companion and gave a nod of greeting. He crossed the tavern toward their table. The other patrons returned to their own pursuits at his passing, but every eye remained trained upon his movements. The Nord brought his wayward legs into formation, to lift him from the chair should the need arise. The Breton noticed, but that only caused the smile that was already spreading across his face to grow.

The Redguard reached their table, his eyes sought out the Breton’s.

“Alain,” he said with a smile that matched the Breton’s. He extended his right arm. “Praise be to Arkay that you survived Sancre Tor. When the news reached us I feared the worst.”

Alain clasped the Redguard’s forearm. “Casnar my friend, it is good to see you again. I understand congratulations are in order. A Knight of the Moon at your age, that is quite impressive.” He released Casnar’s arm and motioned toward the third chair at the table.

Casnar gave a slight bow to acknowledge Alain’s hospitality and sat down. “I would advise you to keep your voice down, old friend. This is a Forebear tavern, the last thing that any of these men want to see is one of the Crown’s chosen, hence my appearance before you out of uniform.”

“A disguise that clearly seems to be working,” said the Nord as he drained the dregs from another tankard.

“Forgive me, Casnar,” said Alain, “allow me to introduce my friend, Sir Valdemar of Skyrim.” He turned to the Nord. “Valdemar, this is Sir Casnar, a friend of my youth.”

“Redguard,” said Valdemar.

“Nord,” said Casnar.

“Have things really grown so bad?” asked Alain, trying to allay the tension at the table.

“They have,” said Casnar. “We are fighting battles on many fronts. The Forebears will have civil war before they submit to the Na’Totambu. Attacks of the Selenu have grown more frequent, and have begun to occur within the city walls. And, as if that weren’t enough, now we have to deal with the misguided actions of Zenithar’s flock.”

Alain shook his head. His eyes were attentive, but blank.

“Some priests of Zenithar have decided to stake out territory here in Arkay’s region,” Casnar explained. “They call themselves the Knights of Iron. Many Forebears see them as a natural rival to the Knights of the Moon, Zenithar being held in such high esteem by most Forebears.”

“Who are the Selenu?” asked Alain.

“The local vampire clan,” said Casnar, “it used to be that you could expect an attack or two a month inland. And the disappearance of a few beggars now and again was something that the Crown was willing to turn a blind eye to. But of late the attacks have increased. I have heard rumors that a new matron holds the ear of the patriarch but we know nothing for sure.”

“I am sure this is all very interesting,” said Valdemar, “but I hope that the discussion of politics, effete gods, and vampires is not the reason that we have ventured hundreds of leagues out of our way.” He held his tankard aloft, the barman rushed to fill another. “State yourself plain, Redguard, I grow tired of quaffing the watered down swill that passes for mead in this country.” His eyes ventured throughout the tavern. “Besides, it appears that the time grows short before your countrymen turn murderous thought into action.”

Casnar’s eyes narrowed, “in the event of such an exchange, I doubt that the two of you would find any friends in the room.”

“Forgive my friend’s manner,” said Alain, “he means no offense. Though I confess that I too wonder why you have asked us here.”

“I bear a message,” said Casnar, “one which I’m sure that even your giant friend will appreciate; the whereabouts of he whom you seek.”

Alain and Valdemar exchanged glances across the table. The serving wench returned with three tankards weighing down her tray. She set one in front of each man before backing away from the table.

“How is it that you know that we seek anyone?” asked Valdemar.

Casnar laughed. “The two of you have not been subtle. We heard tell of a Nord and a Breton allied in desperate search over a year ago. Since then your exploits have been the source of whispered rumor from here to the Reach I would imagine.”

“You have known of our search for a year and only now seek me out?” asked Alain.

“You misunderstand, the information that I have only recently came into my possession, along with instructions to pass it on to the two of you.”

“Who gave you these instructions?” asked Alain.

“That I am not at liberty to say.”

“We could force the information from you,” said Valdemar.

Casnar laughed again, “I don’t doubt it, but to what end? If the information proves good, then the end of your search will soon be at hand. If the information proves false, then you are out nothing save a week of your, ahem, valuable time and the expense of drinking some watered down mead.”

Valdemar lifted his tankard from the table. Alain was still holding his goblet. He stared down at the tankard in front of him.

“But I don’t even like mead,” he said.

Casnar’s eyes widened. His arm shot out, the hand covering the mouth of Valdemar’s tankard before the Nord could bend it back.

“Hold,” he said.

Valdemar lowered the tankard; his face bore a puzzled look. The tavern was strangely silent. Casnar looked to the bar, but the barman and the serving wench were gone, as were all the members of the merchant class. Around them the patrons of the tavern began to rise. The silence was broken by the sounds of swords, dirks and axes being drawn.

“I think thought just turned into action,” said Alain.

Valdemar rose, his hand sought the hilt of his mace.

“Good,” he said.

This post has been edited by Destri Melarg: Dec 12 2010, 11:50 AM