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]

haute – actually the classic definition of ‘twilight’ refers to both the time between sunset and dusk and the time between dawn and sunrise, but I can understand the point you are making. I used the word because something about it denoted a very specific image in my head. I will change it to something else if it causes too much confusion.

As for the use of sandstone: I wasn’t as interested in the literal representation of arenite as a sedimentary rock as I was in the evocative connotations of the two words together, sand-stone. To me it gave a tactile feel to Stros M’Kai that I couldn’t achieve by any other means that occurred to me at the time.

I am glad that you are still enjoying this, and thank you for your always constructive comments.

mALX – Hey!! A spoiler warning in my thread!

*Destri maniacally rubs his hands together*

I am glad that the chapter still holds the impact that I intended. As you already know, Arnand’s fate is necessary to set up the next faze of the story.

minque – Any comments you make are like the cherry on top of the sundae. The fact that you read this thread is the sundae! Thank you so much, I really do appreciate it.

By the way, I have just finished reading Serene of Cyrodiil, chapter 1. I will comment on your thread when I have fully caught up, but what I’ve read so far has been great!

SubRosa – I did once make a 'sleep spell' at the spellmaking altar. If memory serves it was a combination of Drain Fatigue for the maximum points available with a duration of five seconds and a maximum level Calm spell with a duration of either one or two seconds (I can’t remember which). When cast upon a target it worked much like a five second Paralysis spell (complete with a fall down effect), but it cost less magicka to cast.

Rest assured, it has been a very long time since I wrote anything without a purpose. The point of those earlier chapters with Arnand will become apparent as the year continues (somehow I think you know that though ).

He felt the blade enter his kidney from behind. His back twitched from the pain. He felt his blood begin to boil. . . The blade twisted, causing his back to twitch again.

That doesn’t seem painless to me. As someone who has been stabbed (albeit with a pair of scissors and in the leg, not the kidney), in those first few horrible moments shock and fear push pain to somewhere far back in your consciousness. Pain didn’t come until later, after realization as the adrenaline starts to fade. Even then it started off like a sound on the edge of hearing that grows louder and louder until it becomes not just a part of you, but it becomes who you are. At least that was my experience.

Olen – Point taken on the sandstone. I can see how the connotation would have been lost on you.

I know it seems cheap and almost amateurish to whack Arnand before his promise in the story is fulfilled. Don’t worry; all of your questions about how he fits in will be answered in the chapters to come.

* * *

8th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Glenumbria Moors, High Rock
Dawn


They stood on the edge of the moors surrounded by the cold mists drifting in from the Eltheric Ocean. Behind them the sunrise lifted the gray cast from the land and bathed the soggy ground in shades of brown and green. The house guard that accompanied them kept a respectful distance, but Lattia could tell that they were miserable. Standing knee deep in a cold bog when they could be in a warm tavern celebrating the Day of Release was not something that they should have been called upon to do. Lattia decided to make another appeal to the grim figure before her that wore her brother’s face.

“Aran, please do not ask me to do this,” she said, kneeling. “All of Glenumbria embraces our clan today. Let us join their feasts and celebrations instead of hunting for ghosts.”

Aran turned and faced his sister. “I know what day it is,” he said, “do you think we came all this way to prance and drink with the noisome rabble? Three thousand years ago the Alessians were stopped right here. I must know exactly how it was done.” He reached out and his strong fingers dug into her arms and shoulders. He pulled her to her feet. “I am not asking.”

Lattia stood her ground. “Magic is not a tool placed at your disposal, brother. What skill I have takes a heavy toll, not that you seem to care.”

“Spare me the self pity, sister. If you are not strong enough to perform the task then perhaps you are not strong enough to stand by my side. There are other mystics in the world, you know. Now, are they here or not?”

A rush of heat banished the cold from Lattia. Her face and neck flushed, her clothes felt heavy. Even the silk outer cloak seemed to chafe at her throat. She glared at her brother, fear and rage battled against love and devotion in an inner struggle that boiled the blood in her veins and flashed through her emerald eyes.

Aran smiled and touched his sister’s face. There was pride in his voice when he spoke. “Now I see a Direnni Elf before me.” He said. “Are they here?”

“Yes.” Lattia’s eyes closed, a tear tumbled over the mound of her cheek.

“Show me.”

Lattia’s sigh echoed throughout the moors. She arched her neck and shoulders, her eyes remained shut. A sudden gust seemed to pass through her. As close as he was to her, Aran felt the warmth leave her body. It was replaced by something that was both cold and ancient. The moors grew darker, as if the sun were a simple candle that had been extinguished. Noises that were equal parts wail and laughter carried in from the darkness. The house guards began to finger the pommels of their swords. Aran saw the faintest ghost of a smile spread across Lattia’s lips and he shuddered despite himself.

She lowered her head and looked at him. The green that had once made her eyes seem like twin pearls of jade had been replaced by a black that even ebony couldn’t match. All the pigment had been drained from her skin. She raised an arm that could have belonged to a cadaver.

“Take my hand.” She said in a whispered voice that sounded like the crunch of brittle leaves.

Aran’s hand rose slowly, tentatively. I must know, he thought to himself. He grasped her hand and all the warmth he felt dissipated like old memory. All around him the world began to blur and fade. He could not turn away from her. The endless void of her eyes became the sum of his existence. Time became irrelevant. At one point, before unconsciousness claimed him, he heard himself screaming.

_____

7th Sun’s Dawn, 1E 482
Glenumbria Palace, High Rock
Evening


Light flooded his eyes as he came back to himself. The moors were gone, replaced by the great hall of a long dead palace. A large fire crackled in the hearth, and for the first time since he had taken his sister’s hand Aran felt warmth.

He still held her hand. He looked down to her face. A semblance of her former color had returned, but her eyes remained black and trackless.

“We have arrived.” She said.

Aran’s eyes focused on those around him. The great hall was filled with activity and hushed, anxious voices. Men from Colovia, High Rock and Skyrim mingled amongst each other in uneasy alliance. They all wore leather armor, offset by chainmail, cloth, silk and fur. Each man’s chest was colored with the symbols and insignia of his house, province, or tribe. The many Altmer in the hall stood out in their ancient Elven armor, but the insignia that covered their hearts was familiar enough.

“They wear the standard of Clan Direnni.” Said Aran.

“Yes,” she said, “this is Glenumbria Palace on the night of 7 Sun’s Dawn in the year 482 of the First Era. Tomorrow these men will join their respective armies in the battle of Glenumbria Moors. Tonight they share accommodations in this castle.”

Aran stepped toward a Direnni retainer, but he was held fast by her icy grip.

“Do not break contact.” She said.

Something in the quality of her voice caused Aran to study her face. “You are not my sister.”

That smile played across her lips again. “No. But for this journey I am your guide, and it would behoove you to heed my word,” she regarded him as one might regard a tenaciously clinging insect, “unless, of course, it is your wish to remain here.”

Aran turned his attention back to the great hall. “They cannot see us?”

“We were not here. What you see tonight is what you wished to see, but these events have already occurred. The voices you hear are only echoes of voices that have long been silent. Come.”

She led him past the gathered soldiers toward a closed and guarded door leading from the hall. The guards were Direnni retainers armed with halberds made of silver and gold. They stared through Aran into the great hall and made no move to bar him from the door.

“Beyond this door lie the answers you seek,” she said.

Aran nodded and reached for the door, but in the reaching the door and wall dissolved in front of him and reformed behind him, leaving him and his guide in a large chamber.

The walls of the chamber were filled with tapestries that depicted ancient battles and the heroic postures of the heroes who fought in them. A raging fire burned in the cavernous fireplace against the far wall. The scarred oak floors were covered in rugs of red, green, and gold that featured detailed maps of all of the provinces of High Rock. A large golden table fit to seat a score of men dominated the room. Around this table those who would lead the battle congregated, their raised voices echoed off the walls of the chamber.

An Altmer sat at the head of the table wearing Elven armor plated with gold. His long platinum hair caught the light and made him look to Aran like a statue given life.

“That’s Aiden Direnni,” Aran whispered as if he were afraid that the sound of his voice would break the spell.

“It is,” she said, “His brother Ryan sits on his right hand.” She pointed to the figure with his back to them. “I do not see Raven, but I assume she is here. Her magic is vital to the coming battle, but I suppose you already know that.”

“Why are there so many men here?”

“Your knowledge of this event does not allow for the presence of so many men does it? Know you that Clan Direnni came late to a rebellion whose origin sprang in the world of men.”

She pointed toward a Colovian standing near the table’s center staring intently at a map unfolded before him. He looked to Aran to be a man in his mid-thirties, in the prime of his life. He wore leather armor with the ancient standard of Skingrad emblazoned on his chest. A hawk larger than a cat rested on his left shoulder and the handle of a heavy axe poked over his right.

“There,” she said, “is the man that your history will remember as Rislav the Righteous, King of Skingrad. It is he who defeated the Alessian Emperor Goerius, an act that inspired Clan Direnni to join the rebellion.”

She pointed toward the opposite end of the table where an elf larger than any that Aran had ever seen sat resplendent in solid gold armor. He held himself erect, as if the foundations of the castle were dependant upon his carriage.

“There is a lonely soul. The King of Nenalata, last of the Ayleids. He was born into an empire long bereft of glory. Even now he rules over a ruin. Yet he carries the pride of his kind, and will not appear as anything less than what he still believes himself to be. He has more reason to hate the Alessian Reform than any other in this room.” Her voice had grown quiet, almost reverent. Aran could sense a great sadness that emanated from her. “Sunnabe tarnabye av sou math, baune aran.” she whispered.

“What did you say?” asked Aran.

“Nothing,” she answered, “a simple benediction for the last of his line.”

“I heard my name in that.”

“Curious is it not? Have you never wondered why you and your sisters were not given the names of the Aldmeri?”

“Our loyalty to the Isles is tenuous at best,” said Aran. “What language was that?”

She looked at the table, into the face of the long dead King of Nenalata, “one that he would understand, if he could hear us.”

Aran looked about the room. He studied the harried faces of men and mer, of soldiers and kings. “I never realized there were so many.”

“No,” she said, “you never did. But you will.”

This post has been edited by Destri Melarg: May 31 2010, 10:25 AM