Jerric's Story, A Nord's Adventures in Cyrodiil Options

[Grits]

Hi folks. This is my first attempt at fiction, and I welcome any criticism from the smallest nit to the most sweeping remarks on writing in general.

My version of Tamriel is a little bigger than the game’s, but I’m trying to fill in some of the blanks rather than re-imagine the place. I have taken liberties with the order of some events, but the main quest will stand. Mostly.

I feel especially weak in the lore and action sequence departments. If you should suggest a resource, I will certainly seek it out in the hope that my next effort will be less cringe-worthy!

So welcome to Jerric’s story, and thank you for joining us.

(Edit: Darnand started as Arnand, so comments may reference his old name.)

July 24, 2014: Hi again. Having learned much in the last couple of years I’m revisiting early chapters and giving them a very light edit. Regrettably there may be some inconsistencies in style as I work my way through. Sorry about that, and thank you very much for reading!

Jerric

The whole story is contained in this thread, but here are some links to the beginning of each chapter within this thread.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 Working Vacation
Chapter 2 On the Gold Road
Chapter 3 Welcome to the Imperial City
Chapter 4 All’s Well in Aleswell
Chapter 5 Unloading the Amulet
Chapter 6 Going Home
Chapter 7 Kvatch
Chapter 8 Running
Chapter 9 Anvil
Chapter 10 Septims
Chapter 11 Holidays
Chapter 12 Return to Kvatch
Interlude:Abiene’s Letters
Chapter 13 Skingrad
Chapter 14 The Imperial City
Chapter 15 Chorrol
Interlude: Abiene
Chapter 16 Valley of Hopes
Chapter 17 Bruma


The Darnandex

Appendix One: The People of Jerric’s World
Appendix Two: Jerric’s World Terms
Appendix Three: Map of Game Quests Within Jerric’s Story
Appendix Four: Geography
Appendix Five: Timeline

Chapter 1: Working Vacation

Darnand Penoit had hoped to spend the afternoon studying with the delicious Abiene, but instead he was in the hills above Anvil searching for goldenrod plants with this hulking nitwit. They were working their way through the meadow side by side so as not to miss any. Darnand straightened to ease the kink in his back. He shot a glance at his partner.

Jerric stood thigh deep in the golden grass, eyes closed and face raised to the sun. He had pulled off his shirt and tucked it into the back of his breeches where it hung down like a ridiculous tail. His head looked like a shock of wheat.

Idiot, Darnand thought. Every night he has to heal his own sunburn. Jerric held a wicked looking blade in one hand and a white seed pod in the other.

“I feel just like a loaf of bread,” Jerric said to the sky.

“Felen is waiting for these pods,” Darnand snapped. What is this lump doing in the Mages Guild, anyway? he wondered. He did not grow those arms by turning pages.

Jerric laughed. “No he’s not. He’ll have his nose in a book by now and he won’t look up until long after dark.” The Nord tucked the pod into his bag and looked down for another goldenrod plant.

“You missed one,” Darnand said. He pointed to the plant at Jerric’s feet. “If you are not going to work, why did you bother to walk this far?”

“Because this is my assignment.” Jerric nudged the plant with his boot. “I never take all of the seed pods from any plant. Where do you think the plants come from? If you take all of the pods, no more goldenrod.”

Darnand could identify most of the alchemical plants in Cyrodiil from his books, but he had given little thought to how they grow.

Jerric stepped forward and stooped, cutting pods from another plant.

“What kind of mage would bring a dagger,” said Darnand. He snapped a pod from its dry stem to make his point.

“It’s a knife.” Jerric tossed it into the air and caught the blade between his thumb and finger. “My hand just likes to hold it. Try it,” he offered, extending the hilt toward Darnand.

“A real mage is his own weapon,” Darnand sniffed.

The two worked in silence for some time. Darnand was beginning to feel unpleasantly warm under his robe, and Jerric was positively streaming. The man’s sweat smelled unpleasantly familiar.

Sharing the Mages Guild common quarters with Jerric was a trial. He was noisy, his gigantic boots were always in the way, and he treated every day like Jester’s Day. Just last night while Darnand lay in bed reading Jerric had jumped under the blanket with him. He had let loose some wind then held Darnand’s head beneath the covers. The visiting mages had laughed like a pack of teenagers. One of them had wet herself.

Worst of all, Abiene seemed to like him.

“Feh, you smell like an animal,” Darnand muttered.

Jerric straightened and turned toward Darnand, a grin on his lips. Then he froze, eyes widening. “Boar,” he said.

“Oh really,” Darnand snapped, “Well I think you are the bore, Nord!”

Darnand faced his opponent, ready to deliver his come-uppance. Jerric whipped a ball of frost at him, faster than Darnand could think. It landed behind him with a hollow boom and an enraged squeal.

Comprehension dawned. Boar! Darnand sprinted toward Jerric, readying his fire spell. He whirled some distance behind the Nord in time to see the boar charge.

Jerric switched the knife to his right hand and hit the boar with frost from his left. When he lunged to the side the boar almost missed him with its yellow tusks. Jerric tackled the boar just as Darnand let go with his fire.

The Nord, the boar, and the ball of fire disappeared into the tall grass. Dust, squeals, and a death scream rose from the thrashing mayhem. A moment later all was still.

Darnand stood in horror at what he had done. By the Nine, I have killed him! I shall certainly be expelled from the Guild.

Jerric popped up from the grass, streaked with blood and crowing in triumph. He wiped his blade on his breeches.

Darnand searched him for signs of immolation. He appeared whole, apart from a steady stream pumping out of a wound in his thigh. “Erm ...” Darnand said, pointing.

Jerric held his skin together through the tear in his breeches and sent healing light swirling down his body. He looked at Darnand, grinning. “Did you hit me with a flare, soldier?”

“Please do not tell Carahil,” Darnand blurted. He took a deep breath to steady his nerves. “Why did the spell not burn you?”

“I can thank the stars for that.”

Atronach, thought Darnand. That explains a lot.

“New plan, Breton! Grab my bag, will you? I don’t want to get blood on Felen’s flowers.” Jerric lifted the boar carcass to his shoulders with a grunt, hardly staggering. “Good thing this was a small one.”

Jerric started down the hill toward Anvil. Against his better judgment, Darnand picked up the bag and followed.

___

“But how did you know she would have seed pods to sell us?” Darnand asked. His companion had sold the boar to a butcher, then bought enough white seed pods from a woman on the street to finish filling both their bags. Jerric had taken the first offer from both merchants, like some rube. Now they were entrenched at The Flowing Bowl with just enough coin to get them into trouble.

“She sells anything she can get for free,” Jerric said. “This time of year she has to have white seed pods, and cheap.”

“But she is a beggar. She does not have anything.”

“She has what she needs,” Jerric pointed out. “Don’t you think that if she was really planning to buy shoes, she would have them by now?”

“How do you know these things?” Darnand demanded. “You do not even reside in Anvil.”

“How do you not know them? Don’t you ever talk to people?”

Darnand took sip of beer and winced at the bitter taste. He was not sure how he ended up on the waterfront in the middle of the afternoon drinking with the person he liked least in all of the Mages Guild. The person he had almost incinerated only a few hours ago. He was beginning to worry about payback for that incident.

“Are you sure you are not angry about the ...” Darnand could not bring himself to say it.

“No harm done,” said Jerric. “I’m just glad you didn’t set the grass on fire. Besides, you would have healed me, right? Abiene said you’ve nearly reached Journeyman in Restoration.”

Darnand inhaled some spit. “Abiene talks about me?” he choked.

“Yeah,” Jerric replied with a twist of his lips. “She says, ‘Oh that Darnand, how does he get his hair that way, it looks sooooo pretty.’”

Darnand gritted his teeth and stared into his beer.

Jerric thumped his arm.

“Easy with the ham fist, I am not a snow bear,” Darnand complained.

“I’m a Nord, Darnand. Get over it. Anyway I’m not even that big. You should see my Pa, he has a neck like a minotaur.”

Darnand looked at Jerric for a long moment. “Did you have a point?”

“Look over there.” Jerric gestured at a slim, dark, Imperial woman. “What do you think of her?”

“She has a face like a weasel. I think you have a good chance with her.”

“No, for you! She’s been looking over here a lot.”

Darnand was amazed. “Are you procuring women for me, now?”

Jerric shrugged. “You seem tense.”

The door opened and closed with inn traffic.

“Drink up,” Jerric said. “The sun’s going down. We have to hurry and get loaded so we can sober up before dinner.”

___

Darnand carefully ran his knife up the center of the aloe vera leaf. He opened the skin to expose its juicy pulp then slid his knife down the inside at an angle, folding the skin back as he went. After he repeated the cut on the other side, he viewed the flattened leaf with satisfaction.

A groan and thump broke his concentration. Darnand glanced across the room where Jerric sat at another work table. Bloody scraps of cloth and empty potion bottles littered the surface. The Nord’s forehead was on the table. His fingers clenched in his hair.

Darnand wiped his knife, put it down on its cloth, and picked up the wooden spatula. He slowly ran the spatula’s blade down the butterflied leaf, collecting the pulp without picking up any of the fibers that clung to the inside of the skin. He plopped his harvest into a clay storage jar, then carefully repeated the process.

“Darnand,” Jerric said.

Darnand scraped another spatula load of pulp from the leaf. He placed it in the jar.

“Darnand,” Jerric said again.

Darnand wiped the spatula and placed it on its cloth. He folded the empty leaf skin and set it aside. “I am busy.”

“It’s important.”

Darnand picked up another leaf and placed it in the ready position in front of him. He picked up the knife. “So is this.”

The knife slid down the plump leaf in a perfect line. Darnand braced himself for Jerric’s reply. Something about him squeezing his own juice, Darnand guessed.

Jerric picked up his chair and carried over to Darnand’s table. He put it down and took a seat across from Darnand. “I’m running out of time,” he said.

“I need to finish this,” replied Darnand without looking over. He makes more noise than a Billy on a wooden bridge. He scraped the leaf.

“I’ll do it for you later,” said Jerric. “I need your help.”

“You will pull up too many fibers. ‘Quick and dirty’ is not an alchemist’s motto.” He wiped his spatula and placed it on its cloth.

“Darnand,” Jerric said.

A note in his voice made Darnand look at him. Jerric’s raised face wore a solemn expression. Candlelight made his eyes look like honey. No doubt he uses that technique to lure women.

“No more tricks,” said Jerric. “I’m running out of time. I really need help.”

Darnand folded the leaf skin and placed it aside. He hooked a chair leg with his foot and sat down.

“Your healing spell?” he surmised.

“I’m just not getting it. I have the magicka but I can’t get it all into the spell. I know how it’s supposed to work. I just can’t do it.”

Darnand considered. “When you healed where the boar slashed you, you sent your spell over your whole body. Did you mean to do that?”

Jerric looked blank.

Darnand tried to explain it another way. “Do you focus your spell on a specific injury, or do you just cast the spell?”

“I just cast the spell, and then I feel better.”

“You are wasting your magicka,” Darnand said. “You will never get your spell stronger until you learn to focus. You know how to heal a wound on another person, do you not?”

“Yeah, but I’m not very good at it.”

“Think about how it feels when you cast that spell. The pain you feel from the other person that tells you where to send your magicka. It is the same thing.”

Jerric looked blank again, and miserable. His fingers twisted on the edge of the table.

Darnand was surprised. His patience with Jerric was growing, not racing away as it usually did. “Do you feel the pain from the other person, or do you just cast your spell over them?” he asked.

“I feel it, but I don’t know how to use it,” said Jerric. “Please don’t give up on me. I know I can learn this.”

Darnand decided to change his plans for the evening. “I shall render my assistance. First, show me how you heal yourself.”

Jerric picked up Darnand’s knife.

“Gaaaah!” cried Darnand, throwing out his hands. He snatched his knife back, wiped it, and placed it precisely on its cloth. “Over there,” he said, pointing at Jerric’s table. “And go get a hammer so you will bleed less. You were making a mess.”

___

Darnand entered the common living quarters and halted in surprise. A man stood at the end of the room in a steel breastplate and mail with a long sword on one hip and a short blade on the other. He was lifting a steel shield out of the open cabinet. A full pack rested at his feet. Jerric.

Darnand approached. He felt oddly distressed. “What is this?”

“My uniform,” Jerric replied with a smile. “Did you think I was a professional student? I’m a caravan guard. See?” He pointed at his chest where a shape was embossed onto the metal. “Running Wolf Postal and Freight. That’s my family’s business.” Jerric pulled on his gauntlets. “My break is over. I have to get back to work.”

“An armored guard. But what kind of a...” Darnand began. He looked at Jerric, and for the first time his own expression matched the Nord’s.

“Battlemage,” they finished with a grin.

.

This post has been edited by Grits: Jul 24 2014, 07:35 PM

[Grits]

mALX: Thank you for sharing your son’s story about the onion – I was thinking along those lines. I don’t think a starving person would look at a rat and say yuck. Thank you so much for your comments!!

SubRosa: It is a relief to get out of the sewers. I hadn’t been able to really plan much ahead until I wrote about Jerric looking at the trees, and then I knew what I wanted to do next. I have a pretty good idea how I want healing magic to work, definitely not as simple as it is in the game! Thank you so much for your comments.

In Chapter 3 Jerric escaped from prison and swam across Lake Rumare with the Amulet of Kings and little else in his possession.



Chapter 4: All’s Well in Aleswell, Part 1


Jerric crouched behind the white stone wall and watched the two people move about their camp above the ruin. The swim across the lake had been easy, as the water was calm and nothing had risen from the green depths to chew on him. Now the sun was behind him, so he was careful not to cast a long shadow. He needed water he could drink, and he suspected he would find it convenient to this camp. He did not want to receive an arrow in his back, so he had decided to learn if these were friends or bandits before he started to crash around in the bushes. The leather-clad Dunmer female was practicing her archery by shooting at heads of lettuce along the top of a crate, and her accuracy encouraged Jerric to wait until she put down her bow before he announced himself. The Khajiit wore a leather cuirass, and he was fussing with a pot that hung over their cook fire. Jerric waited as the sun dropped lower until the Dunmer finally placed her bow with her quivers on the crate and walked over to the fire.

Charging up to a stranger with his sword drawn would certainly make him the villain. He cast his Woad spell to give him some protection in case things became unfriendly, then he stood up and stepped around the wall with his shield over his arm and his sword still in its scabbard. “Hail the camp,” he called, and he held his empty hand open and out to the side.

The Dunmer went straight for her bow, and the Khajiit picked up a mace and started toward him. Jerric ran to cut off the Dunmer, and as he went he summoned a scamp between himself and the Khajiit. He hoped that the scamp would go for the right target, he did not want to get crisped by its fire spell when he closed with the archer.

The Dunmer was fast, and she reached her bow well before Jerric reached her. He had not drawn his sword yet to give himself a little extra speed, and he cast a handful of frost at her to keep her busy while he closed the distance. He could hear the scamp and the Khajiit, but his attention was on the archer. He missed with his frost attack, but her dodge had cost her the time it would have taken to bring an arrow to nock. She held her bow out in front of her and jabbed with her arrow, but his momentum behind the leather shield pushed her to the ground. He had kept his weight low and stayed on his feet, and as she flipped nimbly onto her stomach and jabbed at him again it flashed through his mind that the arrow might be poisoned. He grabbed her hair and wrenched her head back as he slammed his heel down into her neck. He dropped her and turned toward the Khajiit.

The scamp had vanished, and the Khajiit stalked toward him with smoke rising from his scorched cuirass. His ears were flattened back, and his tail lashed the air with fury. They circled for a moment, and when the Khajiit struck with his mace, Jerric dodged and pushed it aside with his shield while he slashed at the unarmored leg. Jerric suddenly remembered that his own armor was on a wagon instead of on his person, so he quickly adjusted his thinking.

They circled some more, and Jerric aimed a clumsy thrust that missed the Khajiit’s middle. He deliberately lowered his shield as he regained his balance. A moment later he repeated the strike, and as the Khajiit raised his mace for a fatal blow, Jerric angled his blade up and thrust it in under the furry chin. The mace clipped his shield again on the way back down, but it was only falling under its weight with no strike behind it.

Jerric shook his sore arm and looked through the bandits’ camp. They seemed to have two of everything, including separate tents. They were well established in their camp, and he thought it would be unlikely for anyone else to come up there that night. He decided he could stay without worrying too much about his sleeping skull meeting a heavy object.

He went to the cook pot and lifted the lid. It looked like he would be having some kind of meat stew for dinner, and he identified carrots, onions, and potatoes in the mixture. He tasted it with the nearby spoon and corrected the seasoning with the salt he also found there ready to his hand. He picked up their water pitcher and drained it in one long, rapturous guzzle. They were not boiling any water, so he was confident that he would find a stream or well nearby.

He selected one of the bedrolls by the process of smell and covered it with a gentle cloud of frost to kill any vermin that might have found refuge there. He scooped up a plate of stew and dug through their crates and barrels while he waited for it to cool. The contents were sobering. The bolts of cloth probably came from a merchant, and the assortment of garments had clearly once belonged to a number of different people. He hoped that the former owners had simply given up their goods and gotten away with their lives. He found no armor or weapons other than a few daggers and knives that anyone might carry, and he thought that these two fetchers must have specialized in the weak and unarmed.

He found their chests locked and simply walked away from them, then he realized that the bandits probably had the keys on their bodies. They did, and he took the opportunity to drag them away from the camp to prevent scavengers, ghosts, or a dreadful creeping feeling from finding him. He stripped off their leather armor for future trade. The Khajiit’s would need some cleaning first.

When he returned to camp and looked in the chests he discovered a number of silver household items, a few books, some jewelry, and the bandits’ coin purses. He picked up the first book and found that it was titled The Battle of Sancre Tor. That sounded promising, so he tucked it under his arm. The second book was enticingly titled Mace Etiquette, and he thought it might provide him with some good advice for using his new mace. He tucked it between his knees and reached for the last well worn book, a play titled The Lusty Argonian Maid. Jerric stood reading it until the orange light reminded him that the day was ending. He helped himself to the coins and books and left the rest. Looting the bandits’ bodies didn’t bother him, but when he held the jewelry all he could think about was the pain and fear someone must have felt when they gave it up.

He headed back to the clothing with the idea that he might find something of use, but the only trousers that would fit him were made for a shorter, portly man. He found a tunic that probably came from the same unfortunate person, but instead of riding out on the other man’s belly it flapped around Jerric’s middle. At least it was clean, and it covered the Amulet where he still wore it wrapped now in a linen shirt and tied around his waist. He could have carried a bedroll in the extra space in the crotch of the trousers and they were ridiculously short, but they fit over his thighs and gave him room to move. He found no replacement for his rope prison sandals, and he cursed them as he healed the sores on his feet yet again.

When he returned to his meal he found that it had cooled too much, so he added another scoop and wolfed it down appreciatively. It didn’t even touch the sides, his Ma would say. He decided that the meat was mutton, and he silently thanked whatever shepherd was scratching his head over his loss. The bandits’ tableware and cookware were heavy iron and clay, and not very portable. After his meal he wiped the plate and silverware, then laughed at himself for keeping the dead bandits’ camp tidy. He packed up the silverware and the knife and cutting board they used for cooking into one of their packs, then he picked up the pitcher and headed down a narrow path in the grass looking for the well.

He returned to camp as the fire died and the sun slipped down. He had swallowed enough well water to almost gurgle when he walked, and he had a full pitcher for the morning. He quickly went back to the chests and took out the jewelry. On his walk he had decided that he did not have the luxury of squeamishness. It was a good distance to Weynon Priory and then home, and he was not going to get the whole way on the coins he could get for a bow and two well-used leather cuirasses. As he rolled himself into what he guessed was the Dunmer’s bed he scratched his face and regretted that a woman and a Khajiit had no use for a shaving kit. He checked the Amulet with his hand and dropped immediately into sleep.

___

The pitchers of water that he had enjoyed the night before woke Jerric well before dawn. He had found no kahve, so he made a quick breakfast of cold stew directly from the pot and prepared to get on his way in the dark. These people had no kahve, no ale, nothing much to read, and separate bedrolls. He wondered what secret joys motivated them to rise every morning, and he doubted it was the love of Khajiit mutton stew.

After a stop at the Ayleid Well he had passed the day before, Jerric made his way along the lake shore in the pre-dawn, swinging the Khajiit’s mace in his hand for fun. The moons had set, but there was enough starlight to walk by. The sound that the small waves made rolling up onto the beach kept him from straying into the water. He could hear mudcrabs in time to avoid them, so he walked along waiting for the sunrise in peace. His feet found the firm place where the grass overtook the sand, and he followed it along the shoreline. The sun rose behind him and touched his bare head like a friend. It made him think of the Emperor’s words, and then of the Emperor lying on cold stone somewhere in the Imperial City. News of his death must be racing through Tamriel on fast horses, and he imagined the grief and confusion that it would bring.

Walking in silence between the city and the road he felt very alone. It had been days since he had spoken to someone he knew, or even looked at something that was familiar. He relished the adventure, but his heart tugged him toward home. He saw the sun gleam on white stone ahead to the north, and he thought he must have almost reached the place where the Silver Road split off to Bruma and the Red Ring Road rose sharply up into the hills. He couldn’t remember the name of the ruin from his map at home, but something that big had to be it. He had to decide if he would continue along the shore or head up to the road. He stood in indecision for a moment, and the Amulet felt heavy against his waist. He decided to stick to the shoreline to avoid the ruin and the Silver Road junction, then walk up over the dunes through the lower hills and pick up the Red Road before it really started climbing.

This post has been edited by Grits: Jan 2 2011, 02:27 AM