Old Habits Die Hard Part Four, old habits really do die hard Options

[haute ecole rider]

In Thread Four we continue Julian’s adventures with Chapter 19. Brace yourself!

For those joining the party late, here are links to the previous three threads:

Chapters 1 through 7
Chapters 8 through 13
Chapters 14 through 18

******************
Chapter 19.1 Leyawiin Mages Guild

Jenseric would have found out by now that his name is cleared with the Watch. My mind returned to my interview with Hieronymus Lex. After I returned to the Imperial City with Seridur’s armor and claymore, I had reported the situation to Lex. He had agreed to send a messenger to Jenseric’s cabin to let the man know the outcome. Then I had sought healing from Jeelius in case I had contracted porphyric hemophilia.

That had been yesterday. I did not linger long, but instead returned to Paint and the Yellow Road south from the east coast of Lake Rumare. We had spent the night at the Imperial Bridge Inn before resuming our travel along the east side of the Niben Bay.

Paint threw his head up, his hooves clattering to a halt on the cobblestones. I looked down the twisting Yellow Road. The rain reduced visibility to less than a couple hundred meters. I dismounted when Paint remained tense, his ears flicking back and forth, his nostrils fluttering. What is it? Wolf? Troll? Spriggan? His reaction suggested it was something he had never seen before. I stepped forward, my katana ready.

A sizzling sound reached my ears, then a swirl of sparks coalesced in mid-air between me and Paint. The gelding tossed his head and stepped back as the will o’wisp solidified into its visible form. Cacat! Reflexively my katana leaped toward its glow, passing through it without any visible effect.

Paint whinnied and reared as a crackling bolt of orange lightning joined the will o’wisp to him. Flame-colored reflections sparked off the hilt of Daedra Slayer, attached to the cantle. I sheathed the katana and called on Domina Incendia to try and distract the insubstantial creature. As the will o’wisp slowly rotated in response to the flame atronach’s fireballs, I ran past it to Paint, who backed away, trembling violently. I laid a soothing hand on his shoulder and reached for my enchanted katana. Sliding it out of its scabbard, I turned around in time to see Domina Incendia dissolve from the will o’wisp’s counterattack.

Fortunately, Daedra Slayer proved as effective against the flame-shaped monster as it did against the vicious Dremora I had faced in the Deadlands. A few swings of its fiery blade dissipated the last energy of this foe, leaving behind softly glowing embers on the cobblestones.

A groan behind me spun me around. I watched horrified as Paint slowly crumpled to the slick surface of the road, his labored breaths loud in the pouring rain. “No!” As I ran to him, his head lowered to the stones, and his respiration slowed. Falling to my knees, I dropped Daedra Slayer at my side and laid my hands on his arched neck, tangling my fingers in his mane. I felt the overpowering weakness in his body as I called on my remaining magicka. The convalescence spell drained the last of my energy, and all I accomplished was a mild improvement in his stertorous breathing.

Frantically I searched in the saddle bags for the vials of magicka restoration I had purchased in the Imperial City. Finding them, I fumbled one out and hastily drank it down. Feeling the surge of energy in my core, I forced myself to calm, laying my hands on Paint’s still trembling form. I leaned my cheek on his smooth coat. “Paint, stay with me,” I whispered, concentrating on another convalescence spell. His breathing smoothed out, but the tremoring and weakness persisted.

It took all my willpower to fight back the terror I felt when I realized I might lose my traveling companion. Don’t die, Paint. You have to get up. You have to walk with me to Leyawiin. We can’t stay here in the wilderness. I drank another potion and cast another spell to help him recover.

Six vials, my entire supply of restore magicka potions, lay empty on the cobblestones, and I was shaking with the repeated spell-casting before Paint attempted to rise. His first attempt was unsuccessful, and left him blowing hard. The second try was better, and he swayed on his feet, muscles tremoring as if from a hard gallop over a long distance. Paint was too weak to lift his chiseled head, and his round brown eyes were half-closed and sunken into his skull. I rose to my feet, my hands on his shoulder as if trying to hold him up. When I was certain he wouldn’t collapse again, I gathered the empty vials, stowing them into the saddlebags. I strapped my plain katana to my back, and removed the scabbard for Daedra Slayer, attaching it to my belt at my left hip. My plain steel bow was traded for Akatosh’s Fury, which I strung and made ready in case of more of these dangerous creatures.

I led Paint off the road down to the river bank. The mud crabs clattered away from us as I gathered wood. Paint drank from the Niben, then stood motionless, his head low, while I made a rough hearth and built a fire. I watched him anxiously as I added wood to the flames. I have some restore health potions in the pack, but how to get him to drink them? How many potions would be effective for a horse his size? I could feel my magicka slowly replenishing. As Paint did not seem to worsen, I decided to wait until my energy was fully returned and try another convalescence spell again.

The night passed with agonizing slowness as I sat with Paint. Every time my magicka replenished to its full strength, I would cast a convalescence spell on him. I dozed fitfully in between, torn between the need to reach Leyawiin as quickly as possible and my promise to the deceased Prior who had so generously given me such a wonderful traveling companion. The rain soaked me to the skin, but I paid it no mind.

By the time the overcast sky lightened with the dawn, Paint was no longer trembling, and was able to walk, albeit slowly. His head remained low, and his eyes did not sparkle with his usual humor. He showed little interest in the grass at his feet, and did not snatch at the edible forage as we slowly walked back to the road.

Though I cast convalescence on him whenever my magicka replenished, I could not restore Paint’s vigor or strength. To spare him, I walked down the Yellow Road, leading him behind me and stopping often to let him rest.

The shadows of Leyawiin appeared through the rain a few hours later as we trudged along the Yellow Road. The city, built on the west bank of the southern Niben, seemed to disappear within its surroundings of black oaks and bald cypresses draped with tillandsia - better known as hangman’s moss, according to the Guide to Cyrodiilic Flora. The stuff was everywhere, giving the trees a sinister appearance in the rain.

As I approached this newest city in Cyrodiil, I caught my breath in dismay to find - not one, but two - Oblivion Gates crackling ominously on the eastern banks of the Niben, across from Leyawiin. I was reluctant to bring my horse down to the eastern city gate, not with daedra swarming the road nearby.

After we backtracked up the river to a bridge, I brought Paint around to the far side of the city, where I found a stable. The Khajiit Atahba assured me that she would do the best she could for my weakened horse. She purred soothingly to the gelding as she led him within the shed. The knot of worry in my chest remained as I reluctantly put him out of my mind and focused on my mission.

When I entered the city, I decided to head to the Mages Guild first, and get a feel for the situation. I had never been to Leyawiin before, and knew next to nothing about its Count, Marius Caro.

Entering the Guild chapter house, I was glad to find it dry and not too warm. A young Nord, somewhat taller than me, turned around from the library table set in the center of the hall. After he laid the broadsheet down, he greeted me, putting his hands together and giving me a half-bow. “Greetings, ma’am. Kalthar, mage journeyman. How may I help you?”

I eyed him warily. Though his greeting seemed friendly enough, I thought I saw discontentment in his black eyes and beetling brows. “I’m Julian from Anvil,” speaking slowly, I watched him. This anger of his is not directed at me. “I’ve just joined the Guild, and am gathering recommendations to gain admission to the University.” Aha, there it is.

Kalthar’s gaze turned even darker as his brows drew together into a furry caterpillar. “Oh, boy, good luck getting that,” he muttered. “You’d need to talk to Dagail about that. Only thing is, do you even want to?”

Schooling my face to remain bland, I frowned inwardly at his attitude. What’s with this Mages Guild? Open hostility and overt disrespect for one’s superiors? This would never last ten seconds in the Legion! “Where can I find her, sir?”

He pointed up to a flying passage above the main floor, connecting the two wings at the second level. “She’s up there, pretending to read.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said to him, seeing the scowl ease on his face. Moving to the staircase at the back of the hall, I climbed slowly up the steps. When I reached the landing, I looked around. An aged Bosmer woman sat quietly, book open in her lap, her gaze on some distant horizon visible only to her.

After I set my pack on the floor some distance away, I walked quietly to the bench and sat down next to the old woman. “Dagail, ma’am?”

“Hmm?” she turned her head to me, her ancient gaze still remote. “You seek wisdom from me, child?”

“I’m Julian, from Anvil,” I began, uncomfortable with the way she seemed to stare through me. “I’m looking for the chapter head, Dagail.”

“No, you seek words,” the old mer spoke, her voice as faraway as her gaze. “Words are . . . difficult. I hear so many voices, so loud I can not hear the words they say.” Now her faded eyes seemed to focus on me. “Will you lift your hands to help another? Will you help me find the word?”

Puzzled, I considered my answer. A seer? “Yes, I’ll help,” I said finally.

She smiled at me. “Then speak to Agata, child. She will see the path, and set you upon it.”

“Hello?” a more grounded voice reached me. I looked up at a plain Nord woman, her worn face showing a concern that I felt was not for me. I introduced myself and explained my purpose. She waved for me to follow her into the north wing. After retrieving my pack, I followed her through a heavy paneled door. As she closed the door behind us, she gestured for me to proceed ahead of her into a small room containing two beds. “Put your things there for now,” she said. “I’m Agata,” she continued. “I help Dagail with the administrative tasks. You may have noticed that she’s -” her eyes shifted uneasily, “- not well.”

“She mentioned voices, and trouble finding the word,” I said. “She did tell me to talk to you about it.”

Agata sighed and sat on the other bed, motioning for me to do the same. “She has visions, you see,” she looked down at her roughened hands. “They’ve been helpful in the past, but now they have become problematic. She had an amulet,” her fingers touched her breast, where such a piece of jewelry would lie, “a family heirloom that helped her focus these visions. Without it, all she sees and hears is chaos.”

“And she has lost it?” I asked quietly, fingering the Jewel of the Rumare on my little finger. It had become such a part of me, I never thought to remove it. It allowed me to swim long distances underwater without surfacing, and had served me well in Cheydinhal. It also reminded me of my good friend, who loved Paint as much as I did. Sadness at the thought of his condition choked my throat, and I forced it away with a swallow. Looking up in time to see Agata’s nod, I considered the situation. “Have you spoken to the other mages about it?”

“I’ve tried to keep it from them, for fear they would be less - accepting of her.”

“Of Dagail, or of her authority?” I asked, thinking of Kalthar.

Agata considered my words. “Both,” she said finally. “Dagail had a good reputation within the guild, and was valuable to the Council of Mages. But as she became older, she became less coherent. The Council sent her here.” She rose and paced to the leaded window, looking out at the rainy day outside. “There are some here who resent her presence, and wish she’d disappear.” She shot me a fierce glance. “I do not. I am proud to help her with her daily tasks.”

“Well,” I said after a moment, “I promised Dagail that I would help her.” I rose to my feet and started pulling out my civilian clothing. Fortunately the bag had kept everything dry. “Let me change, and I can get started.” I glanced at Agata, already unbuckling the cuirass. “There are a couple of things I need to do in town,” I paused to shrug the armor off with a soft susurrus of mail. “But I keep my promises.”

“Talk to the other mages, see if they know anything about the Seer’s Stone,” Agata moved away from the window. “That’s what Dagail calls her amulet.”

This post has been edited by haute ecole rider: Oct 13 2010, 03:17 PM

[haute ecole rider]

@SubRosa: Will Julian pass on her tact to Mazoga? She’ll try, but we’ll see whether or not it takes . . .

@Acadian: Julian has learned the hard way to monitor her own body language. The Sunbird Dance has been especially helpful in that sense. We were both thinking of Buffy when I wrote that sentence!

@mALX: Rat has got to taste better than Maulhand’s stew! And besides, it’s the other red meat!

@treydog: Loved the vignette from Terry Prachett! I read one of his books a long time ago (think twenty-plus years) - I can’t remember the name of it or what it was about, but I do remember thinking how hysterically funny it was! One of these days I’ll have to go through the whole series. And yes, Julian is as indomitable in her own quiet way as Mazoga.

Here Julian finally learns why Mazoga came to Leyawiin. The Orsimer may be lacking in social graces, but she is a hell of a fighter.

**************
Chapter 19.8 Fisherman’s Rock

Mazoga didn’t speak as we walked along the east bank of the Niben, avoiding the occasional mud crab. I could hear her armor clanking along behind me, but didn’t say anything to her. I wasn’t certain what to make of the big Orsimer. Part of me liked her self-confidence and her courage. Yet her brusqueness, pronounced even for Orcs, rubbed my nerves raw. At least she’s that way with everyone, not just me. If what she says is true, and she has no parents, then she grew up without ever learning any social graces. Graces! As if an Orsimer was ever graceful in polite society. Still - Naspia Cosima thought well enough of Mazoga to train her.

The sunny morning gave way to an overcast afternoon. The air became heavy and still, the temperature oppressive. Ahead, the heat shimmer from a bonfire became visible just past a rise in the land. My steps slowed as I scanned the surrounding area. Bandit camp. Have to approach with caution. Mazoga stepped to my side with a soft clatter. “Is that Fisherman’s Rock?”

“I think so,” I answered. “Weebam-na said it’s a bandit camp.” Now I met her gaze. "I’ve led you here. Perhaps you can tell me why you want to go to a bandit camp.”

“Julian, wait,” she spoke quietly, likewise evaluating our surroundings. “Listen, there’s a guy I need to talk to that camps there,” she returned her gaze to mine. “Name’s Mogens Wind-shifter. I want to talk to him, then we’ll see what happens.”

“You want me to go with you?” I lifted my brows at her. Somberly Mazoga nodded.

“He’s not likely to be alone, and I’d be more comfortable with someone watching my back.” She waited as I glanced around again, searching the understory of the surrounding forest for enemies. “Please?”

“All right, then,” I nodded, loosening my katana in its sheath. “Let’s go.”

“Wait a moment,” Mazoga blocked me with a massive green paw. “I just want to make one thing clear, Julian. I need to talk to Mogens. That means no smashing his teeth in or chopping his head off until I’m done talking to him.”

At least that will give me a chance to size up the situation. “I understand,” I replied.

“Thanks,” Mazoga turned and started up the slope toward the heat shimmer. I fell in just beyond her left shoulder. We crested the rise to see a small clearing. The bonfire crackled merrily, a bright spot in the gathering overcast. Three figures lounging around it leaped to their feet as we approached, hands reaching for weapons. They watched us warily as we drew near the fire. One of them called to the tents behind them. A Nord, muscular chest bare above brown pants and leather boots, flung back a flap and stepped out of one of the tents. Mazoga strode toward him while I stopped near the fire, my gaze on the three bandits.

That male Khajiit has just a mace, but he’s wearing Elven armor. The female Khajiit is not as well armored, just a leather cuirass, but she has the big axe. The Dunmer is likely to be trouble - she has a bow and arrows as well as a shortsword. In a matter of seconds, I had sized up the three and made a plan of attack. If they jump us, I’ll take out that Dunmer woman first. Domina Incendia will be useful here, as well as my fireball spell. As I watched, the Dunmer sidled away from the fire, bringing her strung bow around and readying an arrow. I drew my katana, but held it low, away from the others.

“Mogens Wind-shifter?” Mazoga asked the tall Nord as she stopped in front of him. “Remember me?”

“No,” the Nord shook his head. “Should I know you?”

“Yes, I’m Sir Mazoga,” the Orsimer growled. “You killed my best friend Ra’vindra. Now I’m here to kill you!” Mazoga raised her shield with a sharp crack! to his jaw that sent him reeling. Her Dwemer longsword sang as it cleared the ornate scabbard at her left hip.

With a growl, Wind-shifter staggered back, drawing his own short sword. He braced for Mazoga’s assault, while I shot my left hand up and called Domina Incendia. As my flame atronach whirled into being, I leaped sideways to run around the fire, flinging my flare into the archer’s face before she could draw her bow to full tension.

While Domina Incendia sent fireballs toward the two Khajiiti, I leaped toward the Dunmer. Though she was resistant to the effects of fire, my flare served its purpose and spoiled her aim. As her arrow flew wide, I swung at her with the katana before she could back away. She blocked reflexively with the bow stave. My blade, its edge keen from Tun-zeeus’s diligent sharpening, neatly snapped it into two, the string twanging uselessly. The Dunmer’s left hand shot up, a green light swirling around her wrist, then she reached for the shortsword at her waist.

A shock spell slammed into me, spinning me to the ground. I caught a glimpse of a wraith hovering nearby. Damn! Dunmer Ancestor Spirit! Ignoring the tingling along every nerve in my body, I rolled back into a crouched position and raised my sword in time to deflect the shortsword. The hairs on the back of my neck rose again, and I grabbed the Dunmer by the arm and yanked her down beside me, placing her body between myself and the Ancestor. She yelped as the wraith’s shock spell struck her full-on. I reversed my grip on the katana and stabbed it into her shoulder, just beneath the Elven pauldron. Red blood spurted over my hand as the wraith beyond shimmered into thin air. I looked up in time to see the female Khajiit run at me, axe held high for the killing blow.

The deadly blade fell toward me, but I had already rolled away from the archer, the movement freeing my katana. The axe slammed into the ground beside me, and I raised my sword to swing it into the Khajiit’s throat above me. My bloodied hand slipped along the hilt on impact. The sharp blade slid through the bandit’s throat, bringing more blood cascading on me. I kept rolling in the direction of the katana’s arc, surging to my feet and spinning to face the Khajiit, but she had slumped over the handle of her axe. There was no sign of Domina Incendia.

Beyond, Mogens Wind-shifter lay dead, bowels exposed through a tremendous gash in his abdomen. The other Khajiit had charged Mazoga, his mace slamming into the Orc’s round shield. As strong as his blow was, it barely staggered Mazoga. She shrugged him off, and with deceptive speed her sword slammed against his Elven cuirass. The impact sent him reeling back, and she followed after him, her blade rising and falling in a chopping motion. He roared in pain as the dwarven longsword bit into his right elbow, neatly disarticulating the joint and leaving his hand dangling uselessly at his side by a strip of flesh. The mace fell to the ground at his feet.

The three of us glanced at the mace, then the Khajiit stooped, reaching for it with his left hand. Mazoga’s weapon flashed again in the dull overcast, reflecting the firelight as she drove the edge through the Khajiit’s exposed neck. I heard the Dwemer metal crunch into bone as he fell face-down. With a savage twist of her wrist Mazoga freed the blade and looked up from the still form at her feet.

We locked gazes, then she glanced around. Satisfied that no more enemies remained alive, she wiped her blade on the Khajiit’s fur and sheathed it. I cast Carandial’s refresh spell to remove the blood from my hand, and noted that it also removed the blood from the katana’s hilt as well. So it has some small area of effect on touch. Hmm. I knelt beside the Dunmer archer, removing the sash wrapped around her waist and using it to wipe my blade clean before I slid it home in its scabbard.

Mazoga joined me beside the fire. “Thanks, Julian,” she said.

“What was that about?” I asked. “Revenge?”

Her eyes dark, Mazoga nodded. “Ra’vindra was my best friend,” she turned her gaze to the fire. “We grew up together on the streets of Corinthe,” she named a city in Elsweyr. “She saw Mogens Wind-shifter attacking a merchant caravan. She told the Corinthe city guard, and they broke up his band, but he escaped. He killed Ra’vindra before he disappeared.” Her voice cracked, and she stopped.

“I’m sorry, Mazoga,” I turned my eyes away from the tears glimmering in hers. “I know how it is to lose good friends.” As we watched the flames snapping before us, the sky opened up, sluicing us with a sudden downpour.

“That’s when I became a free knight.” Her voice was barely audible above the rain. “I swore to hunt Mogens down. It took me a long time, but I finally tracked him here.”

“Now that you’ve avenged Ra’vindra’s death,” I glanced at Mazoga, “what will you do now?”

The Orsimer’s broad shoulders shrugged beneath the dark bronze cuirass. “I don’t know. Go back to Leyawiin for a couple of days, then take ship back to Torval.” Her head turned, her gaze meeting mine. “Would you guide me back to Leyawiin, please?”

The bonfire died down to a stutter as I stared at her. The walk up had been fairly easy - just follow the riverbank. Mazoga shifted her gaze away from me. I could swear she practically blushed with embarrassment.

“I’m not good at finding my way,” she muttered. “I can’t tell north from south.”

“Let’s go, then,” I didn’t say anything else, only started down to the riverbank from the guttering fire. We stopped long enough to drink from the Niben, then trudged south through the pouring rain.