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: Jun 1 2025, 06:21 PM

[Grits]

haute ecole rider: I wasn’t going to give him a shield, but he picked one up in the game. Sadly for the guy who dropped it. Still not sure if he’s going to get to keep it. Thank you for the encouraging words!

SubRosa: Yes, he would certainly have been there for the attack. It’s something he’ll have to deal with soon. Good idea for a sword name. Hmm. Thanks, SubRosa!

mALX: Thank you for the encouragement! It bugs me that in the game the camp doesn’t change after the quest, and the city stays burning.

Acadian: Thank you, Acadian! I’m glad Jerric’s thinking and character came across. He’s taken kind of a big step to get here from the brews, babes, and brawling.

Folks: I find that the Kvatch part of the game is pretty gut-wrenching, I hope I haven’t been too heavy-handed with it. Your feedback and guidance is very much appreciated!!



Chapter 7: Kvatch, Part 2

Jerric stood on the ramp inside the great tower, catching his breath. A column of flame as wide as his body roared the whole way up through the open center, and its light seemed to somehow penetrate even the narrowest adjoining spaces. The sound had covered his noisy progress through the tower’s resident daedra, but its vibration shook his bones and the underlying hiss set his teeth on edge. His long sword dripped a trail of scamp blood as he walked cautiously up to the next level. The inner ramp seemed to always lead to series of separate corridors and chambers, then back onto a higher level of the ramp. He had followed one into the next moving ever upward in the tower. Looking up he could see there were several more levels yet above him. He reached the end of this level and opened the door, ready for a fight. The narrow, sloping hallway beyond appeared to be empty, so he jogged up in the near darkness to the door at the top. It opened from the center with a sound like tearing cartilage. The scamps in the large chamber beyond turned toward the noise.

They led him on a chase around the benches and pillars in the room, but they soon ended like the rest in pools of blood on the floor. Jerric rotated his tired right shoulder, then turned toward a new sound. Booted feet. He barely had time to wonder what this enemy would be before it stalked in through the open doorway.

An armored dremora carrying a mace in its hand. Jerric had seen conjured dremora, but never this close. Its long legs ate the distance between them. That thing is huge, he thought with rising concern. I’ll have to dodge and strike at its head. Or take off its hand. He backed around a bench and threw his frost spell at its chest, looking again for a weakness in the armor.

The frost didn’t slow it down much. “On your belly!” it howled at him. Its voice sounded like metal grinding on metal. It swung its mace across its body too low for Jerric to duck. He lunged backward and yelped as he lost his footing. Pain exploded in his head, and then confusion. He looked to the side and met the dead gaze of a scamp lying next to him on the floor.

“Shatter!” said the metal voice. Jerric groggily raised his head, remembering where he was. An armored boot entered his field of vision. The pain in his head doubled and his eyes went dark.

Jerric’s scalp felt like it might part from his skull. “Join my trophies, bloodsack!” the dremora roared from above and behind him. He realized that it was dragging him by his hair. He tried to bring his sword up and discovered that his hand was empty. With a flash of horror he remembered the torn corpses hanging on the posts around the room. Not all of the cruel hooks were yet occupied.

Panic took over, and he kicked out frantically with his legs. One foot slipped wetly over the floor, but the other caught on something. For an instant it slowed the dremora. Nordic Frost surged up inside him before he realized that he had called it. His groping hand found the dremora’s wrist, and the frost boom was followed by a crash and roar from the dremora.

Years of habit more than deliberate thought made Jerric summon his skeleton, and he belatedly hoped that his foggy mind got the spell right. He sent healing light at the roaring pain in his head and rolled over to get back into the fight. It looked like Slim was chopping away with his axe at something thrashing on the floor. Jerric’s eyes were clouded and burning, and he couldn’t see well enough to tell what was happening. He heard Slim’s victory rattle and the sound of the spell releasing him. The dremora stayed down. Jerric pushed himself up to his knees, sliding a little in the scamp’s blood. He couldn’t believe that Slim had finished the dremora.

When he tasted blood he guessed why he couldn’t see. He found the scalp wound with his magicka and closed it easily, but his blood still blinded him. He started wiping with his fingers, but that hardly helped. Neither did the cursing.

Eventually a trickling noise penetrated his thoughts, and he stilled himself. He could hear running water in the room. Thirst pushed its way quickly to the front of his thoughts, and he groped his way toward the sound. His hand dipped into a fountain, and his heart soared with relief. I’ll never take another little stream for granted, he thought, as he gulped down handfuls of liquid. He splashed some onto his face to clear his eyes.

A copper taste still filled his mouth, and all he could smell was blood. His eyes had become even more fogged. As he wiped them again this time with his cleaner hand, he felt powerful healing working inside him like a potion. Finally he could see that his palm was filled with blood. Disgust drove away his wonder. He had discovered a fountain, but it did not contain water. He spit and gagged for a moment until he brought himself back under control. Somehow this blood fountain had healing properties, he could feel it. He told himself that squeamishness and curiosity were luxuries he must put aside. He just needed to stay alive. He drank from the fountain and pretended it was something else to keep it down.

The pain slowly receded from his head as he examined the dead dremora. He found the weak points in its armor, but he doubted he had the skill to exploit them. It appeared that Slim had simply hacked at its unprotected face while it was still on the floor. The mace was some distance away, the dremora must have dropped it. Jerric couldn’t believe his luck. One solid hit with the dremora’s mace and his summoned skeleton would have been in pieces. He thought about summoning his scamp next time, but he wasn’t sure if he could control it here.

This dremora was nothing like the bandits in light armor he was used to fighting outdoors. He hadn’t even thought to keep his feet out of the blood that was already on the floor. He thought of the steep ramp in the center of the tower. He needed a plan in case he encountered this enemy where it could shove him over the rail. Slim’s method was ugly but effective, he decided. He would try to knock the dremora down with shock spells and then target their heads. And not fall over the railing. He picked up his sword and headed up the next corridor, still searching for Menien.

It seemed like hours later when he reached a dead end. The doors in front of him were locked, and he couldn’t find a way around them. He hadn’t found Menien Goneld, but any one of the shredded corpses he had passed could have been him. He still had no idea how to close the Gate. The last of his hope faded with a sickening lurch in his gut, and his will to go on went with it. The walls inside the tower looked like the shell of some giant crab or insect. Even shaking with exhaustion, he couldn't bear to lean against them. He knew he was in the right place, only one tower glowed at its top with baleful yellow light. He would have to turn back and search for something that he might have missed. He had to admit that for a time he had gotten lost. Despair crept into his heart, and he knew he had to fight it.

Jerric closed his eyes and reached in his mind for anything that would keep him on his feet. He thought of his sister's children even now trapped in the burning city. He imagined Fjirsten with her naughty gap-toothed smile, Hrolgar's small hand in his, the three of them walking in his Ma's sunny garden. Right now he should be with them. Grief surged through him, and rage followed it. He had failed them, but he was still alive. Anger gave him new strength. As long as he lived, he would keep going.

He moved back up the hall and opened another door, then he staggered in surprise. Red light blazed in from the Deadlands. He had discovered a door in the outside wall. It led to a bridge high in the air over the Deadlands to another tower. Jerric swayed and caught himself against the chitinous frame. Carefully he stepped out onto the narrow bridge. Scamps and clannfears went about their alien business below him, and he felt the hot urge to kill them all. He fixed his eyes on the bridge. One step at a time, he told himself. Don't look down. Balancing was tricky with the long sword in one hand and the Kvatch shield in the other, but he crossed more easily than he expected. The air out here was hot but still, and it he welcomed the quiet after the constant rumble and whine in the big tower.

He entered the smaller tower and found himself standing on a narrow ramp with no railing. The interior was simply one tall, open space lit from above by the red sky. A human corpse hung by its feet directly in front of him, stripped of its clothing and some of its flesh. He had no time to react to the sight, an armored dremora stood to his right on the ramp just above him. The dremora recovered from its surprise more quickly than he did. "You should not be here, mortal," it growled in a voice that threatened to turn his bowels to water. "Your blood is forfeit, and your flesh is mine!"

The dremora rushed him, lifting its mace. This is a bad place for a long sword, Jerric thought. He had no time for a shock spell. He dropped his sword and grabbed the dremora’s spiky left arm, falling quickly back into a squat. The dremora’s momentum made it easy for Jerric to yank it off balance. The mace clanked onto the ramp as he sent the dremora over the edge with his feet. It roared out its fury as it fell, and Jerric scrabbled wildly on the smooth ramp to keep from following it. So much for the plan, he thought.

A man's parched voice from above broke the sudden silence. “Up here! In the cage!”

New hope washed over Jerric. “Menien?” he called. He started up the ramp toward him.

"Yes! Have you got the key? You must get the Keeper's key -- it's the only way into the Sigil Keep!"

He spun around and ran back down the ramp. A key. Jerric’s hope swelled into elation. Hold on, he thought to his family. He searched the shattered Keeper until he found the gore covered key, then he ran back up to Menien, grinning with triumph.

Menien was imprisoned in a metal cage swinging over a platform at the top of the tower. Blood and filth streaked his bare skin. Jerric immediately started searching for some kind of lock. Menien knelt in the cage and looked down at Jerric. "Quickly, quickly! There's no time!" urged Menien. "You must get to the top of the large tower. The Sigil Keep, they call it. That's what keeps the Oblivion Gate open! Find the Sigil Stone. Remove it, and the Gate will close! Hurry!"

"You need healing. How do I get you out of this?" Jerric demanded. Hope had brought back fear for his family, and a renewed sense of urgency pushed him.

"Don't worry about me, there's no time!" Menien's knuckles were white under the blood. "Get moving!"

Jerric stared at him, appalled. Menien was badly bruised and torn, and Jerric could not imagine what torment he had already endured. "Look what they’ve done to you! I won't leave you here to die!"

"You will, son." Menien placed his hand over Jerric's on the metal bar, and his gray eyes burned in his broken face. His fingers dug into Jerric’s, and he spoke with calm intensity. "You have the key. You must do this."

Jerric’s joy splintered into new grief. He couldn’t bring himself to leave this man, not after he had lost all hope and then found him. Every moment that he delayed closing the Gate allowed more daedra to attack his city. He thought of Captain Matius and the Kvatch Guard. They held the barricade, barely. How many of them would fall while he stood here, paralyzed with indecision? What had his family suffered while he was wandering lost in the dim tower? Menien's courage was a balm to Jerric, but it was also an arrow through his heart.

Jerric made the impossible decision. He would take the stone first, and if somehow he survived he would return to Menien.

He pulled the dagger from his belt and handed it to Menien through the bars. No more words passed between them.