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]

Olen – Good call on Casnar, I see him as a character who comes to the realization that he has backed the wrong horse. Skill prompted his invitation to join the Knights of the Moon, but he is more of a hired gun than a devotee to the cause. Still, being Redguard, he is not without honor, so he soldiers on.

Good luck with exams, I don’t envy you!

mALX – Thanks again! Believe me, it feels good to be back.

I have never done it, but I was under the impression that you ‘release’ the ghosts in Sancre Tor from a curse imposed upon them. It might just be semantics, but that seems a whole lot cooler to me than having to ‘kill’ them.

I am glad that you’ve grown attached to the characters and now can’t look at them in the game the same way. After all the times you have done it to me (with Vicente, Lucien, Janus, Eyja, and now Agronak), it is nice that the shoe is on the other foot.

Remko – I suppose you could always just write :twirl:! In any case, thank you for the vote of confidence.

haute – The sequence you singled out is my favorite of the entire tavern scene. What is it about certain characters? In my initial plan for this story the four Blades were set to appear in maybe three scenes. In the writing, however, they seemed to demand a larger and larger role. Now I can’t imagine telling this story without them.

SubRosa – Fun with ragdoll physics! Jehanna will have to wait for a while. As for meeting some of the famed Witchmen . . . you never know.

minque – Thank you so much. How you manage to keep up with all the stories you do is just beyond me. Wise Woman, indeed.

_____

2nd Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
The Draggin Tale Inn, Stros M’Kai
Morning


“Though the title is a bit macabre,” he said, “I am known as the King of Worms, and you come highly recommended.”

Arnand could only see his scarlet silhouette out of the corner of his eye. He still could not move, but he could imagine the void that existed where a face should have been, and the blue points of light within that regarded him in ways that eyes never could. The King of Worms drew closer.

“You find yourself in need of my knowledge,” he said, “I find myself in need of your abilities. Perhaps we can aid each other. . .”

* * *

His eyes opened and the dream was gone, but the feeling of helplessness remained. He lay in bed, his eyes focused on a dimly lit ceiling that seemed to close in upon him as his mind shifted from dream to reality. It’s so hot already, he thought. The linen sheet was soaked in his sweat. He sat up and placed his feet on the floor. Small tears of sweat fell from his damp hair onto his bare shoulders. A thick column of sunlight shone through the only window and illuminated the small, well-appointed room. Night’s candle had burned out, leaving a trail of hardened wax that hung from the small table near the bed, and dried into a coin-shaped puddle on the floor.

Arnand rose and crossed to the basin near the door. The water was cool on his hands. He washed his face and neck. I will find a ship today, he told himself. You’ve been saying that for weeks, was his answer.

He dressed in a white shirt and tan linens and secured his dagger to his hip. The sounds of revelry and the acrid smells of sweat, sex and skooma were already thick along the stairs when he left the room. The bar was full, though it was not yet mid-day. Perhaps a ship had come in the night, Arnand thought.

Dreekius was doing a brisk business behind the bar. His green scales glistened, though whether that was due to effort or to a trick of the light Arnand could not say. Bottles of ale and mead flew from his hands into the waiting hands of the sailors who drank, sang and fought with each other, or anyone else unlucky enough to draw their attention. The Draggin Tale was transformed into the busiest market place in Stros M’kai. Working girls, each younger than the next, paraded their wares in front of the loud, brash clientele. Arnand waded through the crowd and sidled up to the bar.

“Ahh, Breton, you are awake. Good,” Dreekius said. Like all Argonians he smiled through his eyes, though his were red and filmy. “I have need of your room for a few hours.

“I’m paid through the week,” said Arnand.

Dreekius placed a bottle of mead on the bar and slid it toward Arnand. “I realize that, and I apologize for the inconvenience. You will not need the room for the rest of the day anyway.”

Arnand quaffed his mead. Warm. The Argonian’s words sunk in. “A ship . . .”

“One that suits your needs, perhaps.”

Arnand scanned the debauchery around the bar.

Dreekius laughed. “No, these men just docked. They aren’t going anywhere for as long as I can keep them happy, which will be longer with the use of your room. Don’t worry; I will have it cleaned by the time you get back.”

“Get back from where?”

Dreekius leaned in close, his breath smelled of ale and old cheese. “One of the sailors mentioned a smuggler’s ship docked at Saintsport. Apparently they have been there for several days.”

Arnand drained the bottle, “I’ll get my things.”

_____

He left the Draggin Tale and made his way toward the docks. Outside the heat was even more pronounced than inside. He walked through the cobblestone streets crowded with the hectic rush of sailors, guards, hustlers and children. All had eyes that seemed to hint at some desire unfulfilled. He traveled through the humid shade made by two story buildings built of sandstone, wood, or clay. He passed over the arched sandstone bridges. As the cobblestones began to give way to sand the smell of the bay caressed his nostrils, tantalizing him with his own unfulfilled desire:

* * *

“I am all too familiar with the power of the dark gift,” the King of Worms had said, “I have been told that one you love is so afflicted, that you seek a cure?” With a gesture the spell was removed. The King of Worms returned to the dinner table. Arnand had felt a spreading of sensation through his body as mobility was returned.

Told by whom? “I do,” Arnand had said.

The Necromancer sat. “I have heard that such a thing exists. For a price I would be willing to point you in the proper direction.” He motioned toward an empty chair and the second glass of wine.

Arnand joined him at the table. For Elissa, he told himself. “Name your price.”

“An artifact that was once my property has been recovered. I would have you return it to me.”

“Where is this artifact?”

His answer had caused the cowled head to tilt slightly. The voice that emanated from the void was bemused. “You do not ask what the artifact is.”

“All that matters to me is that you fulfill your end of the agreement.”

“I shall. Now, listen closely. You must travel to the Isle of Artaeum. In the halls of the Psijic Order you will find the Necromancer’s Amulet. I want you to steal it and return it to me.”

Arnand drained the glass. “Such a thing will not be easy . . . your Majesty.”

With a flourish of his cloak the Necromancer produced a red velvet purse. The gold inside jingled when he set it on the table. “For someone of lesser ability it would be impossible. For you, I suspect it will be a challenge. This gold will secure your passage, the rest I leave up to you.”

Arnand’s memory sprung forward. He left the King of Worms and nearly killed his horse riding north to Jehanna. There he sold the beleaguered animal and found a half-drunk Reachman with a small boat willing to skirt the edge of the Sea of Ghosts to carry him to Northpoint. In Northpoint he booked passage on a merchant ship that brought him to Stros M’Kai. For weeks he searched fruitlessly for a ship that would conduct him to the Summerset Isles.

* * *

Arnand passed beneath the heavy town gate and turned to the west. He began to walk around the bay, his feet sinking into the hot sand along the shore. To his right the palm trees cast retreating shadows in the grass that grew a few short feet from the beach. To his left the great statue of Hunding, sword raised high, invited visitors to Stros M’Kai. He veered to the south and the ornate Dwemer Observatory came into view. He left the beach and continued on the dirt and sand walkway, past the lighthouse, and into Saintsport.

He saw the ship immediately. It was a galleon, slightly worn along the stem, with rolled threadbare sails tucked near the mast. Several men were engaged in the hauling of casks onto the ship from wagons drawn by swaybacked horses whose sullen disposition was only matched by the crew.

“You there!” came a voice to Arnand’s right. “What do you want around here?”

Arnand turned. The voice was worn by a short, fat, shirtless Redguard with half-healed lash marks across his sunken chest. He sat in a squat wooden chair whose legs bent outwards with his weight.

“Where’s your Captain?” asked Arnand.

The Redguard used a whetstone to sharpen the edge of a rusty dagger. “What are you wanting him for?”

“My business, not yours.”

The Redguard’s smile showed half-a-dozen rotten teeth in gums stained black with age and neglect. He stood slowly, his weight redistributing itself on short, thick legs that were as bowed as those of the chair. The whetstone disappeared into his filthy green linen pants and the rusty dagger jumped from hand to hand.

“Suppose I look to make it my business,” he said.

“That’s enough, Delron,” A female voice said from the ship.

Arnand turned. The voice belonged to a Dunmer woman who stood above them on the gangplank. She wore a pair of wide black pants that ended well above her ankles. Her sheer silk shirt was unbuttoned, the ends tied into a knot well up on her mid-section. Her long sable hair was pulled into a bun at the back of her head, and secured with slaughterfish bones. A silver cutlass hung from her belt and flashed in the light of the mid-day sun.

Delron backed away, “aye, Cap’n.” He sat back in the chair and reproduced his whetstone, but his eyes never left Arnand.

“I’m Captain Shin-Ilu,” said the woman, “who are you and what is it that you want?”

Arnand bowed a greeting. “My name is Arnand Desele, Captain. I have business I wish to discuss.”

“Is that so? What sort of business?”

“The lucrative sort.”

“I guess you had better come aboard then.”

Inside the Captain’s cabin an elderly crewman poured them each a glass of wine. She removed her cutlass and leaned it against the arm of the red velvet couch upon which she sat. She motioned Arnand into the empty chair across from her.

She took a sip of her wine. “This business of yours?”

“I would hire your ship to take me to the Isle of Artaeum.”

“Artaeum? That’s a very expensive trip.”

Arnand removed the purse that the King of Worms had given him. He tossed it into her lap. “I am in something of a hurry.”

“So I see.” she lifted the purse and weighed it in her hand. “What’s to stop me from taking this, killing you, and throwing your body overboard?”

“I am difficult to kill.”

She squeezed the purse . . . then she tossed it back to Arnand. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“May I ask why?”

“Three reasons. First, one does not just sail to the Isle of Artaeum. That’s the home of the Psijic Order. Strangers aren’t welcome. Second, this ship is already overdue in Senchal. There is a certain cargo that I need to procure if I’m going to keep this crew paid. Third, and most importantly, this ship isn’t going anywhere without a navigator.”

“What happened to your navigator?”

“The stupid lizard is sitting in the jail at Stros M’Kai. He tried to kill a guard, if you can believe it.”

“I imagine that a crew such as yours has made the trip before. One could navigate the entire way by staying in sight of the coast.”

“One could,” she said, “if one were a merchant vessel which, I am sure by now you know, we are not. Speed and guile might be sufficient under ordinary circumstances, but word is there is a Colovian fleet anchored off Torval that we would rather not have to deal with.”

“This is a fair amount of gold,” said Arnand, “enough to pay for the inconvenience that my detour would create and enough to pay off your crew, I’m sure. I’m also sure that you can find another use for the profit from your cargo in Senchal.” He tossed the purse back into her lap. “If I can free your navigator, would you reconsider?”

“I told you, ships don’t just sail into Artaeum. You need an invitation or something.”

“Then what about taking me to Dusk? It’s near enough and ships go in and out of there all the time.”

She lifted the purse again and gently squeezed it between her fingers. She smiled. “The lizard’s name is Earns-His-Keep, if you can believe it.”