Old Habits Die Hard Part Two, An old dog learns new tricks Options

[haute ecole rider]

Hi all,

To continue my story, I decided to break it up in more manageable chunks. The 200 post limit seems to be a reasonable number.

You can see Chapters 1-7 here:

Now begins Chapter 8.

Back on the road again, Julian catches up with a friend, and makes another, among the Legion riders. Riding along the Blue Road under the full moons is special. I hope I’ve managed to convey that feeling to all my readers.

This post is a little longer than my self-imposed limit, but it was hard to edit a much longer interlude down into something that was more manageable for the forums and still had the important stuff.

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Chapter 8.1 Bandits and Riders

Paint was eager to go. He chose to gallop around the Red Ring Road, only slowing down when we caught up to Marc Atellus between Sercen and Red Roxey Inn. Blowing and bouncing as he slowed down to match the Legion horse’s slow amble, Paint whickered at the other horse.

“Hello, Julian!” Atellus greeted me heartily. He slapped his left thigh. “Thanks to you, all healed now!”

“Good,” I mirrored his grin as I tried to catch my breath. “I’m glad to see you again, Atellus.”

“In these dark times, friends are more valuable than treasure,” the Legion rider commented as the two horses continued down the road at an easy pace. “Your horse looks well-rested this afternoon.”

“He should be, sir,” I responded, slapping the brown-and-white neck fondly. “He’s been loafing for the past two days, since I saw you last. He just galloped all the way from Weye.”

Atellus’s brows lifted beneath his helm. “All that way?” he whistled. “Paint must be feeling really good today!” He laughed as Paint tossed his head and bounced twice, as if in agreement. The Legion bay pinned his ears briefly at Paint, who subsided and became sedate again. “Shush, Bucky,” Atellus chided his mount quietly, with amusement in his voice. “Our horses may seem lazy,” he admitted to me, “but it’s because they go all day and all night, with little time for rest. They’re smart enough to conserve their energy.”

“I’ve noticed, sir,” I responded. “It’s a good thing when you have to ride long hours.”

“So, Julian, where are you and Paint headed on this fine afternoon?” Atellus asked.

“Cheydinhal, sir,” I answered. Ahead, in the shadows thrown by the westering sun, I saw a shabby little inn off to the north of the road, tucked beneath high mountains.

“That’s Roxey Inn,” Atellus pointed at it. “And we’re near the end of my patrol. You’ll run into Marius Tarquinius between here and Wellspring Cave, just past the Blue Road. Caelius Drusus patrols the Blue Road. He’s the youngest of us, and has never served in the provinces.”

“Is he the least experienced, sir?” I asked.

“Humph,” Atellus shook his head. “Actually, Drusus has done nothing but patrol,” he responded. “Started out as a forester, so he’s a pretty tough character.” He looked hard at me. “I mention him because he’s likely the least prejudiced of all of us riders.”

“Against Redguards, you mean, sir?” I asked, thinking of Adrian Remus, the rider I had encountered east of Skingrad. He had been cool, even suspicious, toward me, though he had maintained a professional demeanor. Atellus nodded, a little ruefully.

“And Dunmer,” he added. “That’s why he’s assigned to the Cheydinhal patrol route. That city’s half Dunmer as it is. He gets along very well with everyone there.” Atellus halted Bucky and threw me a half salute before turning the bay back westward. “Farewell, Julian!”

“Thanks for the company, sir,” I said. “Stay safe,” I called to his departing back. “And watch out for marauder archers!” His guffaw trailed behind him. Paint resumed his slow walk. Patting his neck again, I found it cool. “Out of energy, Paint?” I asked him. He tossed his head and bounced once, but resumed his walk immediately.

The night settled around as we turned onto the cobblestones of the Blue Road. The highway climbed steeply to the top of a ridge, and Paint marched resolutely up the slope. Near the top of the hill, I spotted the ruins of an old farmstead to the right of the road. When I saw movement within the ruins, I stopped Paint near an oak tree about twenty meters away. After I dismounted, I limped forward, the Kvatch Wolf in my left hand, my right hand near the hilt of my katana.

Two shadows detached themselves from the ruin, one carrying a hammer, the other a shortsword. They separated as they drew near. I recognized the tactic from my years in the service. They intended to attack me from opposite sides. I hobbled toward the swordsman, barely recognizable as a Redguard in the darkness, and ducked his blade, circling to get him between me and the hammer-wielding Khajiit. My katana picked up the starlight along its slender blade. My buckler blocked the sword strike from the Redguard, and I shoved him back into the Khajiit, sending both of them staggering.

Before the swordsman could recover, I brought the edge of my shield down on his sword arm, feeling the bones snap beneath the metal disc. With a groan, he hunched over his broken arm. In spite of his greater weight, I managed to knock him aside in time to backhand my katana against the man-feline. The tip of my blade sliced through the other’s upraised right arm.

The Khajiit spat as my blade caught on the edge of his leather cuirass. He pulled back, freeing my katana, and raised his hammer again with more difficulty. My sword slipped beneath his chin, twisting through his throat and tearing it out sideways.

As he fell back, a shout reminded me of the Redguard with the broken arm. As I hopped to my right and spun around to face him, I saw that a Legion rider had already engaged the bandit. Awkward with the sword in his left hand, the Redguard was no match for a fresh fighter, and a heavily armored one at that.

Kneeling stiffly to wipe my bloodied blade on the Khajiit’s sackcloth pants, I sheathed it as the rider strode up to me, his own weapon put away. “Caelius Drusus?” I asked, aware of his assessing gaze and the way his eyes lingered on the Kvatch Wolf in my left hand.

“Yes,” he answered, “and you must be Julian.”

“I see you’ve heard about me already,” I muttered. “Thanks for your help, sir.”

“Yes, I have heard about you,” Drusus remarked, amused. “Are you unhurt, I hope?”

“I’m fine, sir,” I answered. “Tired of battling bandits and marauders, though.”

“Well, if you’re going to Cheydinhal,” Drusus remarked, lighting the torch, “you’ll probably run into another bandit ambush about half a kilometer west of the city gates.” The torchlight illuminated the youth in the other’s face, as well as the experience in his level gaze. He shrugged. “They are never around when I ride by, but travelers have come to grief there. They’ve been particularly -” he paused, “bothersome lately.”

“Well, I’ll see when I get there, sir,” I commented. I turned back to look for Paint. “I left my horse back a ways.”

“I did, too,” Drusus admitted. “Tell you what, I’m weary of hearing about those invisible bandits. They’ll likely ambush you - with that white hair of yours they’ll think you’re easy game. I’ve got to ride on down to Fort Urasek,” he indicated the ruined fort on the lakeshore, past the end of the Blue Road, “then come back toward Cheydinhal. If you wait for me, maybe we can take care of those bandits once and for all.”

“All right,” I said. “I’ll travel slow until you catch up to me.”

“Travel real slow,” his tone was dry. I couldn’t help smiling at his irony.

Masser and Secunda were just rising over the eastern horizon when Paint and I passed the ruined farmstead. He was all too happy to remain at a slow amble for now. The road floated along the shoulder of the foothills to the north, the lofty Jeralls just visible beyond. To the south, on my right, the land dropped away into an expansive plain, dotted with groves, small lakes, and a single Ayleid ruin.

I spotted an overgrown gateway and a faint dirt path heading north into the foothills just past the farmstead. Briefly I wondered what lay at the end of that path.

Deer spooked at us and ran off, quick shadows highlighted by the white undersides of their tails. A grey ghost paced us from the side of the road, but veered off when Paint turned his head and looked directly at him without faltering in his stride. That wolf’s not hungry tonight. Bet those bandits up ahead are. I followed the wraithlike form with my gaze as the canine ran up a bank to the shore of a highland lake, just north of the road, its waterfall argent in the growing moonlight.

Ahead, the trees became thicker as the road began to rise into the foothills of the Valus Mountains to the east. A crenellated silhouette of a wall nearly blended into the treetops, only the right angles along the top of the barrier giving away its manmade origins. I slowed Paint even more and waited until I could hear the clopping of Drusus’s mount behind us. At the bottom of the slope, I stopped and dismounted from Paint. As I limped forward, I strained my eyes into the shadows on either side of the road, where thick trees and boulders crowded close.

Perfect place for an ambush. No wonder Drusus never saw anyone here - plenty of places to hide close to the road. Shaking my shield into my left hand, I drew my katana. A bird whistle - birdcalls in the middle of the night? - prompted me to raise my buckler as the thwap! of a snapping bowstring followed. The broadhead arrow smacked into the light iron, staggering me to the right. Booted footsteps on my right drew my head and katana around in time to catch the wrist of a mace-wielding woman. I kept my shield to the north side of the road, where I knew the bowman hid, and elbowed the female Redguard hard, freeing my blade from the bones of her wrist and kicking her legs from beneath her.

Drusus’s footfalls and clanking armor reached me. Still focused on the Redguard woman at my feet, I shouted at him, “Archer, in the trees on the left!” Drusus changed direction, and his footfalls went silent as he left the cobblestones of the road.

The woman regained her feet with an agility that surprised even me. She proved to be ambidextrous, just as adept with the mace in her left hand as in her right. She charged me, and before I could back away, she was inside my guard and swinging that mace low. The heavy iron head smashed into my right hip. With a groan, I danced left, chopping downwards with my katana to catch her left elbow. The blade bit into bone before skittering away, tearing muscle and tendon with it.

Effectively neutralized, the bandit dropped back, her mace striking sparks as it landed on the cobblestones and rolled away. Shouts in the trees across the road told me that Drusus had found the archer. Lifting the tip of my blade, I pointed it at the Redguard’s throat. “Are there more of you?” I demanded.

Her jaw clenched in defiance, the bandit used her right forearm to knock my katana away. Her left foot came up and slammed me in my belly, knocking the wind out of me. I managed to recover before she could follow through, and stabbed the katana into her lower abdomen. As I sliced the tip of my blade sideways, I heard her gasp, and stepped back as she shuddered to the cobblestones, blood appearing black beneath her body in the moonlight.

Short of breath, I looked around as the shouting fell into immense silence. Turning towards the trees where Drusus had disappeared, I limped across the road, my right hip stabbing with each step. The Legion rider reappeared out of the forest, sheathing his sword. A couple of arrows protruded from his chest plate, a couple more in his shield.

“There,” he said, catching his breath, and walking up to me. He yanked the two arrows out of his armor and looked at me, “That went rather well, I may say so.” His gaze sharpened on my face. “Are you hurt, Julian?”

“Ach,” I groaned as my hip twinged. “She managed to hit me once or twice, sir.” Together, we pulled the bandit’s body off the road, placing the corpse behind a clump of azaleas. I turned down the slope and started limping back to the horses. “It’ll heal,” I added, casting my healing as I spoke.

“I see Atellus is right,” Drusus said, an approving note in his voice. “You do know how to fight.”

I shook my head. “I don’t think I’m as good as I used to be, sir,” I answered. “It’s been a while.”

“Don’t worry, it’ll come back,” Drusus assured me as we reached the horses. My hip protested at the thought of mounting up, so I picked up Paint’s rein and started trudging for Cheydinhal. Drusus fell into step beside me, his bay trailing behind.

“I do hope I get it back, sir,” I muttered. “It would seem my work is far from done.”

“There are days when it seems like it never ends, huh?” Drusus commented. I nodded at the wisdom of his words. He may be young, as Atellus said, but experienced beyond his years. At the top of the slope, the closed gates of Cheydinhal visible less than a hundred meters away, Drusus stopped and mounted his mare.

“Thanks for your help, Julian.” He pointed out the stables to the left of the road. “There’s Black Waterside Stables. If you leave your horse in the corral, they’ll take care of him. You can pay them later.” He considered me a moment longer. “Get a bed at the Newlands Lodge. The innkeeper is a Dunmer, but it’s warm, cheap and comfortable. You’ll do well to stay there. There is the Cheydinhal Bridge Inn, but it’s more expensive.”

“All right, Drusus, thanks,” I said, leading Paint towards the stable corral. “I’ll see you again, sir.”

This post has been edited by haute ecole rider: May 26 2010, 11:37 PM

[haute ecole rider]

@mALX: So the lodge scene is one of your favorites? Wait until she comes back to the lodge! I know you haven't read that part yet, since it has not yet been posted on the other forum.

@Acadian: Thanks for the continued support! I'll start posting new material next week that no one has read yet, so be sure to check in once a week at least!

@Olen: Good call on the remark by Drusus. I'll rethink that one and fix it later. I'm glad you're enjoying it so far. At this point in the story, Julian doesn't spend much time in Cheydinhal, but she will eventually come to love it as much as I do, dichotomy and all. However, Anvil remains our favorite.

@SubRosa: I hope you like how I portrayed Romalen here. She is one of my favorite NPC's in Cheydinhal. Darn the censor! Drusus meant it as a sign of respect. As for the description of the Khajiit, I struggled with that one. Cat-man? Man-cat? Feline-man? I wanted to indicate that though Khajiiti and Argonians may be descended from cats and lizards respectively, they are as - well, human as men and mer, and therefore just as deserving of respect and courtesy, at least from Julian's POV. And thanks for the reminder about the bandits. I'll keep it in mind as we go along.

@Foxy: As long as you let me know when I screw up my combat scenes, that's all I ask from my vulpine friend. I know I don't have to ask for innuendos from you!

@Destri: Bigotry is way more prevalent than racism in real life, and a lot harder to combat. No, Remus isn't racist, just a bigot. And he's quite perlite about it, too. Thanks for the comments on my combat scenes. Julian will get banged up and beaten down a few more times before the end of the Main Quest. I will keep that in mind, though. She does meet bigger and badder foes as the story goes on. However, it's not the foes she's scared of, it's the rookies she has to fight with that scare her. You'll see . . .

Now I'm getting to the part of the story that some of you missed over on the Unnamed Forum. Basically interest in it there has been dead in the water, so I'm unlikely to continue it there. I hope that all of you reading here will continue to find this a good read.

And today is an absolutely gorgeous day, so I'm taking my mother to the Morton Arboretum (outside Chicago) for a picnic lunch and a walk among the trees. She hasn't been there since she had her picture taken with her dad when she was thirteen. He passed away the next year. I've never been.


In this next chapter, Julian finally has a chance to rest and recuperate.

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Chapter 8.2 Searching for Enlightenment

After settling Paint in for the night, I limped up to the closed gates of the city. A lone guard stood outside, his mailed armor covered by a surcoat. Entwined green vines on an ochre background covered the front of his surcoat and marked his shield.

“Out late, traveler,” he greeted me.

“Yes, sir, and I’m tired,” I answered, hearing the persistent pain in my voice. “I’d like to head in and find a bed.”

“Of course,” he said, knocking a rhythm on the heavy wooden panel with his gauntleted fist. The thick timbers rattled as the crossbar on the other side thumped out of place. The gate creaked open, and another guard peered out. “A traveler,” the first soldier said. The other stepped back to let me in.

As I turned to help him close the heavy gate, his eye fell on the Wolf on my left arm. “Hey, you’re the Hero of Kvatch, aren’t you?” he exclaimed, his gaze moving from the shield to my face. “The one that closed the Oblivion Gate and saved the city?”

“It was too late to save the city,” I answered, too weary to shush him. May as well get used to it. The gate closed behind me, I regarded the quiet street before me. Two half-timbered structures stood near the gate, directly across from each other. Cheydinhal Bridge Inn, the sign on the right said. The Newlands Lodge stood opposite, on my left. With a good-night nod at the guard, I limped toward the inn on the left.

Its diamond paned windows gleamed golden in the late night. The moonlight shone on the pale river stones that made up its foundation and ground floor walls. The upper level, half-timbered in elaborate patterns, rose to a steep-pitched shale roof. Four stone steps, rounded to match the contour of the corner tower, led to the reinforced wooden door in the base.

Smoky darkness welcomed me within, the common room just a little warm for my comfort. Grouped around a couple of small tables, five or six Orsimeri dwarfed their seats as they hunched together, murmuring between themselves. They gave me an assessing gaze as I looked past them to another room, where I saw the bar and the proprietor. As I limped by their table, I returned the gaze of each Orc without pausing long on any one visage.

At the bar, I set my pack and shield down and selected a stool, adjusting the katana at my hip so I could grab it if needed. The hard stares of those Orcs did not sit well with me.

“Hello,” the Dunmer woman behind the bar greeted me, setting a clay goblet before me. “Welcome to the Newlands Lodge. I’m Dervera Romalen, proprietor. What’s your pleasure, muthsera?”

“I’m Julian, from Anvil,” I answered. “Water, and some hot food, please, muthsera.”

“Did you run into those bandits in the valley west of here?” Romalen met my gaze. Looking down at my hands, I saw the blood stains on my right wrist and on the front of my leather.

“They won’t be a problem any more,” I said, scrubbing my right hand on my greaves. Romalen dipped a clean rag in a bucket of water beside the bar, wrung it out, and handed it to me wordlessly. “Thanks,” I said, wiping the blood from my hands, then my cuirass. “So I’m tired, I’m hurting, and I want a place to sleep tonight. Drusus told me this was a good place for it.”

“Of course,” Romalen smiled at the compliment, placing a bowl of stew in front of me. “This is a Dark Elf bar. Cursing, spitting, and screaming? No problem. Fighting’s fine with me, too, only the Guard objects. They’ll fine you or lock you up.” She shrugged. “Not my call. But I’m glad Drusus put in a good word. You’d think he’d prefer the other place, being Imperial and all.”

“He said you’re a good value for the price,” I answered. “I think the other place would have a problem with me walking in covered with blood.”

“None of it’s yours, I hope,” Romalen commented as she watched me eat. I shook my head, my mouth full of food. A shout from the other room caused her to scowl. “Give me a moment,” she said to me. She filled a large clay pitcher with mead from the huge cask behind her and headed out into the front room. Those Orsimeri called for refills. Romalen returned with an empty pitcher after a moment. “I have a bed available upstairs,” she continued, returning behind the bar. “It’s ten drakes for the night.”

Pulling out a ten-drake piece, I laid three single drakes next to it. “I’ll take the bed, and this is for the food. It was quite delicious, muthsera.” I finished the last of it for emphasis.

“Thanks,” Romalen smiled at me as she collected the gold. “Sleep well tonight, then. Hopefully that hip will be better in the morning. The room is upstairs, first door on the left.”

“Good night, muthsera,” I said, picking up my pack and shield. Stiffly, I regained my feet and limped toward the stairs in the front room. One of the Orsimeri rose to his feet and stood before me, his bulk effectively blocking my way. I met his black gaze, watchful for trouble. He was quite a few inches taller than me, and easily twice my weight. Be careful. Your hip and knee will only slow you down. I said nothing, but waited, aware of the other Orcs watching me.

“Gro-Gharz!” Romalen’s voice cracked from the back room. “Better stand aside and let her be!”

“I thought she didn’t mind fighting,” I heard myself say quietly to this green mountain of a mer. He chuckled at my comment and stepped back to let me by.

“Nah,” he replied, amusement in his voice. “But she minds the Guard busting in here.”

“Good night, then,” I nodded at him, extending the courtesy to the rest of his group. They grumbled a chorus in reply as I headed for the stairs.

Going up the stairs hurt, really hurt. Straining not to wince from the pain, I made myself climb the wooden steps. Aware of the Orsimeri’s continued regard of me, I couldn’t convince myself that they wouldn’t take advantage of me if I showed any weakness. Something about these Orcs bothered me, something lacking from other Orsimeri I had met in the past.

The room Romalen had assigned me was plain, but roomy, with a wide bed and a dresser. It didn’t take me long to strip down to my undergarments. After I cleaned my cuirass and greaves, I mended the small tears here and there. A study of the Kvatch Wolf, revealed numerous dents in its painted surface and the crimping around the edge where I had used it to deliver blows. Too late to use the hammer - I’ll have to do this in the morning. I felt too full from dinner to lay down, so I pulled out Brother Piner’s book.

I read the second chapter, which summarized the apparently catastrophic events that led to the formation of the western provinces, including Sentinel. The struggle to make out the words made me even more tired. The text too blurry to continue reading, I put the book back in my pack. After a couple of healing spells, I scooted beneath the covers, pulled the blanket over my shoulder, and closed my eyes.

Bright sunlight poured in through the small window above my bed and roused me. As I pulled on my leathers, I noted that my hip didn’t hurt at all today, and my knee felt just a little achy. Every day, it throbbed after hours of walking and standing on it, but fortunately the pain subsided every night with some rest. Wishing it would subside all the way into nothing, I reminded myself that at least it was not getting worse.

Downstairs in the back room, Romalen was already up and cooking. She set a cup of klah in front of me. From my pack, I drew out my map and the little purple books, looking for more clues. Much of it did not make sense, speaking of places and beings I did not recognize, strange combinations of words, odd syntax. Red-drink. Blood? King Maztiak. Someone who had his carcass dragged through the streets? Mnemoli. Traitors? Traitors to what? Lord Dagon? That could mean most of us mortals. I found the words somewhat disturbing in their denseness.

Toward the end of the third book, a phrase jumped out at me: Starlight is your mantle, brother. Wear it to see by and add its light to Paradise. It was about the only thing in the entire series that made some sort of rudimentary sense to me. Starlight. Where I need to go, it will be dark, and I must go humbly. Only then can I draw near the heart of the matter - the Amulet of Kings.

As I considered the implications of my thoughts, I sighed to myself. Leaving my weapons behind rubbed against my grain as a soldier - just having them on me made me feel less vulnerable. That is the whole point of entering as a novitiate, I thought to myself. Stripping myself of all worldly possessions, going to meet my Divine - or in this case, my Daedric Lord, as naked as the day I was born, for this is a form of rebirth.

Can’t I just fight my way in and find the Amulet? I wondered, studying the map again. I could see the shoreline of a small lake near the location of the shrine.

The Amulet is buried deep. They will hear my coming, and hide it, or take it beyond my reach, I answered myself. Best to approach as one of them, get near the Amulet, before I reveal my true intentions.

“Traveling again, muthsera?” Romalen asked as she set the plate of eggs and ham before me, refilling my cup with more of the strong, black liquid.

Why would anyone visit a lake? I wondered to myself. “I thought I would go to this lake,” I indicated it on my map. “I’m thinking it might be a good place for a little fishing.” Kind of a weak story, isn’t it?

“That’s Lake Arrius,” Romalen said, looking at the markings on my chart. “There’s a Heaven stone north of it, and a cavern system to the west of it. The caverns are uninhabited as far as I know - nothing worth looting.”

“It’s cold up there,” she added, taking a seat behind the bar and sipping at her mug. “You’re not likely to find slaughterfish there, if it’s the scales you’re after. However, I believe there are some mountain trout, those make good eating. If you can catch enough of them.”

Given the situation, I decided to leave my pack behind and travel light. Placing another ten-drake piece on the counter, I looked up at Romalen. “I think I’ll be back tonight,” I said quietly. “I’d like to leave my pack here, if that’s fine with you.”

“No problem,” Romalen said, taking the coin. “Keep the key.”

This post has been edited by haute ecole rider: May 30 2010, 04:43 PM