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]

@SubRosa: Of course a mountain lion can tear apart an atronach! They're quick, agile, and very bad-tempered, not to mention those powerful jaw and those nasty sharp claws. If a domestic house cat can flay the skin from his owner's arm with his dull back claws (something I've actually witnessed! ) then imagine the damage a cougar can do. Yikes! While Paint likes Wildeye Paint Stables, he likes Roliand at Cloud Ruler Temple more!

@Olen: As for Schrödinger's equation, there's always the Cat Who Walks Through Walls. Hey, that'll be a cool avatar for a science geek like me! Bruma is a place of contradictions for me - cold enough to see your breath, but cozy and warm at heart. Oh, and didn't you know that rumor travels faster than the speed of light? Of course, there's nicer, kinder, gentler agents than benzene (talk about the smell of death - benzene is worse). But I chose the ouroboros because it represents the Eureka! moment so well for me.

@ureniashtram: Thanks for the kudos! As for O.C., that was what Cornellians called it when I was there about twenty five years ago. Both science majors and non-science majors referred it to as orgasmic chem because of the block plan. We had to take a semester's worth of work in three and a half weeks. The final was on you before you had a chance to recover from the brutal mid-terms. Nine blocks through the school year. Oh, and it's not Cornell University in Ithaca, New York, it's Cornell College in Mt. Vernon, Iowa.

@D.Foxy: I think U beat you this time!

@Destri: I think you got it right - Julian is finding the cloak and dagger business pretty challenging. I guess that's why Jauffre had her go to Bruma - it's a fairly benign town to be learning that stuff in, compared to - say, Leyawiin, or Chorrol. As for Bravil, don't get me started! As for scenes edited out of Chapter 10.1, a lot has been removed, due to length. You're pretty good at picking up on that.

@Remko: Hey, good to see you again! I'm glad you're still enjoying this!

Next, Julian discovers my favorite place in all of Bruma - Olav's. Ahh, the hours I've spent in there, enjoying the drink and especially the company. I hope Julian enjoys it as much as I have (except for the drink, of course).

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Chapter 10.3 Local Gossip

Senarel showed me where the smithy lay, just east of the North Gate. He waited while I dickered with Fjotreid about the cost of sharpening my blade. Back outside, the lieutenant led me to Olav’s Tap and Tack before returning to his rounds.

Stepping inside the small inn, I found myself in a dimly lighted, smoky room. A few Nords looked me over, but their expressions lacked hostility. One of the men, still tall and unbent despite his advanced age, greeted me warmly. “Greetings Redguard,” he lowered the clay pipe from his mouth. “Ongar the World-Weary, they call me hereabouts. I’ve been everywhere, and done everything. Now I’m settled down for a good, long rest.”

“Here in Bruma, sir?” I asked, thinking of warmer climes for retirement.

“Aye,” Ongar tipped his head back, his blue eyes twinkling in the smoky air. “Bruma is the perfect town for a Nord man of leisure. Bracing mountain air, good food and drink, and lively Nord fellowship.” He gestured for me to sit across the table from him.

“I have to admit you make it sound appealing, sir,” I remarked, taking the indicated seat and lowering my pack to the floor. “But I prefer Anvil, myself. I’m Julian.”

Ongar pointed the stem of the pipe at me. “And yet here you are,” he said acerbically. I laughed quietly.

“You have a point, sir,” I said. “I’m new to Bruma, but not to Nord ways.”

“Really?” Ongar’s grey brows rose. “How so?”

“I spent some time in Skyrim,” I answered. “Pretty country, but a little cold for my taste.”

“Well, then this will be more your taste,” Ongar chuckled at me. “You’ve come a long way, traveler. I’m sure you are hungry and weary.”

“Hungry, certainly, sir,” I responded as my stomach growled softly.

“Olav!” Ongar shouted at another man near the fire. The innkeeper turned at the sound of his name. Handsome in a rugged way, he shot Ongar a glare. “Some hot food and spiced ale for my new friend Julian of Anvil!” Ongar ignored the other’s look.

The glare disappeared as Olav transferred his steady gaze to me. He moved to bring me a pitcher, but I held up a hand. “Water, or klah, if you have it, please,” I said.

“Of course, Julian,” Olav poured a mug from the klah pitcher hanging from a hook in the fireplace. “Food?”

“Whatever’s hot,” I said, reaching into my pouch. Olav set the mug in front of me, then returned to the fireplace. He glanced at me as he ladled some soup into a bowl.

“Cheese and potato dumpling soup,” he said proudly. Hmm, sounds good. Smells better.

“How much?” I asked.

“Three drakes,” Olav answered in a matter-of-fact manner. I laid three coins on the table. Setting the bowl before me, he picked up the coins and waited for me to take my first taste.

“Hmm, this is delicious,” I exclaimed. “Never had anything like this.”

“Not even in Anvil?” he asked. I shook my head.

“Too warm for soups and stews,” I answered. “Mostly roast meat, fish and vegetables.” I looked up in surprise as Olav set a chunk of bread next to my elbow.

The remaining Nord in the place, a beautiful woman with long blond hair framing her oval face, looked over at me from the adjacent table. “Hello,” she greeted me. “What news do you bring, Julian of Anvil?”

I thought fast. “The Dark Brotherhood isn’t responsible for the Emperor’s assassination,” I remarked. “At least, that’s what a Legion rider told me.”

“Really?” the woman commented.

“That’s Alga, bard and speechcraft trainer,” Ongar introduced her. “Honmund’s her partner.” His gaze on me was crafty. As I returned his gaze, I nearly missed Alga’s scowl.

“No offense,” she said to me, shooting Ongar a glare, “but I don’t want to hear about any ‘Mara Mother Mild’ and Chapel family business. Honmund and I live together in the old Nord way. Good enough for my Fa and Ma, good enough for me.”

I realized that she had heard enough from southerners about living with a man without the advantage of a Chapel wedding. Recalling that marriages in Skyrim were more a private agreement between the involved parties, I met Alga’s gaze squarely.

“If it’s good enough for you,” I said quietly, “it’s good enough for me.”

Alga nudged Ongar’s shoulder, making him scoot over on the bench a little. She sat down across from me, next to the old man. “You’re not like the others,” she remarked, her smile touching her brilliant blue eyes.

“What others?” I responded, spooning up more of the wonderful soup. The woman regarded me thoughtfully for several moments.

“Bruma’s a funny place,” she said finally, as I sopped up the last of the soup with the bread. “Half Cyrodiil, and half Skyrim.” She placed her left elbow on the table and propped her chin in her left palm. “Some of the southerners disapprove of us Nords,” she continued after a moment. “And some of the Nords think southerners are weaklings.”

“Hmm,” I responded, taking a sip of my klah. “And what do you think, Alga?”

“Honestly?” Alga held my gaze. “I’m not as confident in my thinking as I used to be. Take Cirroc, for example.”

“Cirroc?” I repeated.

“The chapel healer,” Ongar said, his eyes twinkling. “Redguard, like you. Only you’d think he was a Nord, the way he acts.”

“How does he act?” I smiled at Ongar.

“Like a Nord,” Ongar returned, his chuckles making me laugh in response.

“Have you traveled far today?” Alga asked me, her gaze open and curious.

“Not as far as I did yesterday,” I responded. “But I’m glad to be here for the noon meal.” My gaze on Olav’s rugged face, I popped the last of the cooling bread into my mouth. “The food is absolutely delicious.” He grinned in pleasure at my compliment.

“And you’ll be moving on soon, I suppose,” Alga remarked casually. Sensing some deeper purpose in her comments, I met her gaze.

“Not right away, I don’t think,” I indicated the pack on the bench next to me. “I’ve picked up a few things in my travels, and would like to sell them. I prefer to travel light.”

“Well, Fjotreid at the Hammer and Axe, and Olfand at Nord Winds will buy and sell weapons and armor, and Skjorta, Olfand’s woman, will buy and sell clothes.” Alga paused, waiting for a response from me. Keeping my face neutral, I waited. “And Suurootan in Novaroma will barter everything else.”

“Is that all?” I responded when she did not continue further. “Just the three shops?”

“Bruma isn’t Imperial City, that’s for certain,” Alga’s gaze turned cool.

“Hmm, could have fooled me,” I answered, finishing the last of the klah. “It’s a pretty good sized city, and the only one for kilometers around.” I met Alga’s eyes again. “You must get a lot of strangers passing through here.”

“Hmm, not lately, right Olav?” Alga turned to look at the innkeeper over her shoulder.

“No, not many since the assassination.” Olav responded, swirling the ladle in the soup kettle.

“And now with these Oblivion Gates opening up all over the place,” Alga added, “people are staying home more.”

“Except for Jearl,” Ongar pointed out. “She just got back from a trip south. Didn’t have much to say, but seemed a little smug.” He met my gaze. “She’s a Redguard, but not like you. Or Cirroc.”

“How so?” I asked, tipping my head at him. “She doesn’t act like a Nord?”

“Ach, she acts like she’s better than every one else in Bruma,” Ongar’s eyes turned cold at the thought. “Doesn’t give the time of the day to anyone. Walks around in those raggedy clothes of hers as if they’re velvet.”

“She keeps to herself, mostly,” Alga added. “Though she works in the castle, cleaning the Great Hall, she doesn’t seem to do much else.”

“She’s been going out the North Gate in the late afternoon lately, though,” Ongar glanced sidelong at Alga. “Ever since she got back.” He rubbed his chin. “Stays out until the chapel bells strike ten, then comes back home. Don’t know what she does out there.”

Hanging around that runestone at the base of Cloud Ruler Mountain? “Is that odd behavior for anyone?” I asked.

“Well, my Honmund goes out in the mountains for days at a time,” Alga responded. “But he does prospecting. Jearl isn’t out long enough to do anything productive, if you ask me.”

“Then there’s that face in the window,” Ongar added, taking a sip of his ale.

“Face in the window?” Alga repeated, shooting a glance at him. The old man nodded.

“Yes, every day I see someone looking out the window of Jearl’s cabin. I know it isn’t her, because she’s at the castle working.” Ongar looked at me with that sly look again. There’s more to him than a retired old man enjoying the life of leisure. He sees more than he lets on. So much for the dumb Nord act. I always knew that was bullcrap.

“Hmm, maybe that’s the reason she’s been smug lately,” I remarked softly. Alga and Ongar stared at me, then the old Nord began guffawing heartily.

[SubRosa]

@SubRosa:then imagine the damage a cougar can do.

That will be another six or seven chapters further in the TF, when Teresa meets Nerussa again...

Probably too big to shrink down to avatar size, but I thought you would like it.

I sort of figured you left out a scene with Julian and Martin. But I was just assuming it was so incredibly X-Rated that none of it would pass the board's censor filter...

A few Nords looked me over, but their expressions lacked hostility.
Somehow this sort of felt like a letdown. Must be because of the last inn that Julian visited!

I liked the idea of the klah pitcher hanging over the fireplace. Since you added klah to Tamriel, have you ever thought of where it comes from? Black Marsh perhaps? Or maybe southern Elsewyr? The reason I bring it up is because IRL coffee beans are one of the most traded items on the planet. You might be able to do something with their value as a commodity in either OHDH, or a future storyline, even as a minor side note. Such as Julian encountering a klah caravan, or a person who got rich on trading klah, or maybe running illegal klah shipments (if it is taxed, then somebody's got to be smuggling it), etc...

Finally, well done with the conversation between Julian, Ongar, and Alga. You wove the in game dialogue into new material quite well. Most importantly you brought us to Julian, our international woman of mystery, getting a lead on a possible Mythic Dawn agent in a way that flowed very naturally from the talk.

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Jun 16 2010, 03:47 AM