Old Habits Die Hard Part Five, New habits? Or just old ones recycled? Options

[haute ecole rider]

It's now time to start a new thread for Julian of Anvil. Now that she returns to her hometown, it's rather appropriate to start a new thread to celebrate!

Thanks to all who have read and posted input on Julian's story.

For those coming in late, if you've got the time, here are links to the previous threads:

Chapters One through Seven
Chapters Eight through Thirteen
Chapters Fourteen through Eighteen
Chapters Nineteen through Twenty-two

I hope you continue to enjoy this story as Julian works toward the inevitable conclusion!

[haute ecole rider]

@Grits: That phrase you quoted was a momentary flash of inspiration. I’m glad you noticed it!

@SubRosa: I figured Pollus would not notice how well Caminalda moved after seeing her creak and stoop her way around the inn for at least a couple of days. When I played this quest prior to writing it, Caminalda used something that wasn’t Frost Damage. My PC dodged it, but it left me wondering what the heck that was. So I thought why not have Caminalda use something other than Frost Damage, especially after she hears Julian recite the Frost Shield spell? She was the perfect opportunity to demonstrate the unpredictability of mages.

@ghastley: I’m glad you liked how I fixed this quest, and how I made sense out of the things that confused you before.

@Olen: You’ve been lucky! Actually, it only happens if you have the MQ advanced far enough for the dead horse and that OG to show up (after the Dagon Shrine quest, I think). It’s one of the regular Gates that always open, like the ones outside each town. I’ve done the MG questline before advancing the MQ that far, and no, the legionary isn’t there when you do the Anvil MG recommendation. If I recall correctly, you’re one of those folks who usually don’t play the MQ, so it makes sense that you don’t have that problem. And yes, Julian’s restoration skills have advanced a great deal since the early days. She can now cast convalescence twice in a row? Boy, I remember when just once left her depleted of enough magicka for anything more than a simple flare spell!

@Acadian: Thanks Acadian for telling us how Jurard came up with that short sword! You can tell that Julian and I are still stuck in melee fighter mode.

@TK: Thanks for bringing up the spell. It was something I thought up as the most effective way for Caminalda to neutralize Julian without killing her outright (as befits a sadist). I couldn’t remember what color the burden spells are, so I imagined green. But you are likely right, and I’ve fixed the spell color to make it more accurate. Still, I appreciate the discussion you and ghastley had about the spell. I had envisioned a simple Burden spell, and the weight of Julian’s sword dragging her down. Now granted she was traveling light, but I wanted something dramatic. It is likely that Caminalda has the skill and the experience to come up with the kind of custom spell ghastley described. However, Julian (and I) are not well-versed enough in the ways of magic to be able to analyze a spell beyond its immediate effects. So I’d say both of you are right. Thanks for educating me (and Julian) on that spell!

The Anvil recommendation successfully completed, Julian is on her way back to the Mages Guild. But she has a stop to make first.

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Chapter 23.10: A Promise Kept

This time when I returned to the Horse Whisperer, the courtyard was empty. Only Ernest was visible, raking the packed dirt clean of droppings. He looked up when I stopped by the fence. “Hullo, Julian,” he greeted me. “Looking for Clesa?”

“Actually, I was going to keep the promise I made Blanco,” I answered.

“Clesa’s riding him down on the shoreline,” he leaned on his pitchfork. “Head straight west from here, you’ll see them. She’s been working him almost every day there.”

That explains the sand I saw on the two of them yesterday, I thought. “Thanks, Ernest.”

He grunted as he bent back to his task. “Don’t get why you’re so interested in that horse, Julian.”

“Because he’s not ripe, stiff and silent,” I teased him before turning for the sea. Ernest only growled at me as I walked along the fence. Past the stables, I struck my way across the rolling hills of amber seagrass that waved down to the seashore. It’s still warm here, I mused to myself. Not cool like it is in the highlands. Winter will likely be mild along the coast. I missed these warm winters, a welcome relief from the baking summers typical of the Gold Coast.

I squinted up at the mid-afternoon sun as I walked along. I’ll give Blanco the apple I promised him, then get my gear from Morvayn’s, pay him what I owe for the repairs. I’ll head up to the farm after I report to Carahil, just to see what needs to be done. Again the walnut of grief closed off my throat, again I swallowed it down. I must get it over with. Anticipation is always worse than the reality.

Reaching the top of the last hill before the sea, I paused to look along the waterline. The strip of white sand separating the seagrass from the blue water shimmered brilliantly in the sunshine. Now why am I looking for Blanco? Why did I make him that promise in the first place? It’s not like I want another horse! But I do - the realization hit me. I miss Paint. I miss having his company on the road. And Blanco seems to have the same kind of personality as Paint. But he’s a stallion. Stallions can be hard to manage, especially around mares.

I recalled how Red constantly jibbed at Jauffre’s hands during the ride from Weynon Priory to Cloud Ruler Temple, how he quickly wore himself out prancing instead of walking sedately along like Paint and Jasmine. But Jauffre didn’t seem to mind riding him. In fact, I think he rather enjoyed it. But the prancing can’t be comfortable to sit! I remembered how Paint had nearly lost me the few times he decided to bounce instead of ambling along. I thought back to all the war-mounts I had seen through my years in the Legion. They were mostly geldings, though some of the legates also had stallions they rode in parade review. But in combat, they used geldings. How can I sit a stallion during combat?

I shook myself. Enough daydreaming about a white stallion, Julian. Find yourself another sturdy paint nimble-footed enough to climb the mountains with you.

But Blanco is from High Rock, and that’s mountain country, too. But he’s probably too much horse for me.

Below, the sun shimmered off a white form gliding along the sand. I recognized Clesa’s slim form on the horse’s back. I took a few moments to watch Blanco move. He had a long-striding trot that covered a lot of ground between footfalls. It was so graceful he seemed to float just above the sand. He held his head vertically, his beautiful neck arching high out of his shoulders. His back was so short the saddle seemed to be sitting on his rump. His tail swayed behind him, resembling the breakers chasing him along the sand.

I realized I had been standing frozen to the spot when Blanco slowed to a stop, apparently of his own volition, and Clesa looked up in my direction. She waved, her teeth flashing brilliantly in her dark face. His ears up, Blanco turned off the sand and began walking loosely through the seagrass toward me.

I dug into my belt purse for the apple as they drew near. “Hello Julian!” Clesa called as soon as they were within earshot. “Come to see Blanco again?”

“Yes, and I brought him an apple, if that’s okay with you.”

“Of course!” Clesa exclaimed as Blanco stopped before me. His lips quivered and his nostrils fluttered as he eyed the fruit in my hand. Clesa released the reins, flung her right leg over his neck and slid to the ground. Almost immediately Blanco lowered his muzzle to my hand, but he didn’t take the apple just yet.

“You have to give him permission first,” Clesa said to me.

“I’ll bite it into smaller pieces, then,” I proceeded to do so. He took the first bite from my hand with as much delicacy as Sparky did with his tiny hands.

“He really likes you, Julian,” Clesa sounded pleased as Blanco waited for his next bite, happily crunching the hard flesh.

“You mean he’s not like this with everyone?” I asked.

“No, he’s normally very reserved with strangers,” Clesa answered. “It took him a while to warm up to me, and here he’s cottoning to you more than he has with me.”

“What about Ernest?” I glanced at the ostler. “Seems to me that they get along well.”

Clesa chuckled. “Blanco loves to tease Ernest. I keep telling Ernest to stop being so cranky, it only makes Blanco pick on him more. He just doesn’t get it.”

“You said he’s from High Rock?” I asked Clesa as we worked slowly through the apple. “Why did you import a horse so far?”

“Horses from High Rock are much like the Wildeye Paints of Bruma,” Clesa answered. “Tough, sound, easy keeping horses with a lot of sensibility and a great deal of endurance. They are ideal for long distance riding over rough terrain. I like their intelligence and their spirit.” She ran her dark hand along his near foreleg, wrapping her fingers around his lower leg. I noticed her long fingers didn’t quite meet her thumb. “They’ve got a lot more bone than my own bloodlines, which makes for sounder horses that can take a lot of hard use.”

“And he doesn’t stare dumbly at you, either.” I recalled what I had said to Ernest yesterday.

Again Clesa laughed. “And that drives Ernest crazy!” She slapped Blanco fondly on his arched neck.

“Isn’t he hard to handle when you ride him?” I noticed that Clesa wore no spurs, nor did she carry a whip, as I had often seen with Legion officers.

“Not at all,” Clesa shook her head. “He’s very highly trained, he knows how to behave himself. Blanco’s so sensitive he knows what I’m thinking before I figure it out!”

“How old is he?”

“Eleven this past spring,” Clesa watched as I gave Blanco the last piece of apple.

“That’s past his prime, isn’t it?” I thought of seventeen-year-old Paint.

“No, he’s just hitting his stride now,” Clesa answered. “That’s the other thing about Renoir’s bloodlines. They mature slowly, and live a long time. Thirty years is not unusual for these animals. By comparison, the Black Waterside horses are aged by the time they turn fifteen.”

“So you brought him to cross with your mares?” I asked, holding my empty palms up for Blanco to nuzzle.

“Yes, and six of my girls are in foal to him, so hopefully I’ll have a nice crop come spring.” Clesa smiled when Blanco licked his lips in disappointment. “Want to try riding him?”

“What?” I stared at the Redguard ostler, then looked down at my linen skirt. “But I’m not dressed for it!”

“Oh, come on, Julian,” Clesa plucked at the loose folds of the garment. “That’s loose enough. Blanco won’t mind at all!”

I took my heart in my hands and nodded. Clesa took Blanco’s reins and moved to his head while I took my place at his left side. Hiking up my skirt, I placed my left foot in the stirrup as Prior Maborel had taught me and swung up into the saddle. Blanco waited patiently as I picked up the opposite stirrup and settled myself into the seat.

“Remember, keep your heels down, keep your legs long and loose,” Clesa spoke quietly, releasing the reins. “When you’re ready, take up the reins and kiss at him. Don’t squeeze your legs!”

“Won’t taking up the reins make him stop?” I asked Clesa. She shook her head.

“He’s trained differently from what you’re obviously used to. When you establish light contact with the reins, that’s his signal to move forward. The kiss is the signal to walk, while the double kiss is asking for the trot. Clucking makes him canter. Squeezing with your legs will make him bouncier in his movement.”

“Contact?” I wasn’t quite certain what she meant.

In response, Clesa tugged the reins until they hung in a loose arc from my hands to Blanco’s mouth. “Hold on to your end. Your hands are now the horse’s mouth. I’m going to take up contact, and show you how that feels to the horse.” She took the slack out of the reins until I felt the lightest pressure on my fingers. “That’s all the pressure you put on his mouth. You can see it won’t stop him at all. But by keeping light contact like this, you are able to signal very subtle changes,” she squeezed her fingers, and I felt the slightest tug on my hands. “If you must, you can close your hands into fists, or even use your wrists.” She demonstrated the different levels of contact. “Most of the time you will find that you only need the slightest finger pressure on him.”

“How do I turn him?” I asked.

“By doing this,” Clesa held contact on one side while squeezing her fingers on the other. I could feel the difference in pressure. “He’ll turn toward the side with the greater pressure, since you’re flexing him that way. The tighter you must make the turn, the further back on the outside hip you must sit. He’ll move away from the pressure. Don’t lean to the inside, though!”

“Outside? Inside?” I repeated.

“Outside and inside refers to the direction of the turn,” Clesa explained. “If you turn right, you are describing an arc, and outside the arc is your left side, while your right side follows the inside of that arc. It’s useful to think of the turn as a part of a circle.”

“Yes, I understand,” I nodded to myself. “And how do I ask him to stop?”

“Sit down in the saddle, keep the contact on the mouth symmetrical and light. He doesn’t need more than a squeeze of your fingers to get the message.” Now Clesa released the reins. “Ready?”

My heart pounding, I nodded nervously. As Clesa had demonstrated, I took the slack out of the reins until I just felt Blanco’s mouth. Instantly, he alerted, his neck and shoulders rising slightly in front of me. I could feel his back rounding beneath me, and yet Blanco hadn’t moved. Keep my legs long and relaxed. Keep my hands still. I smooched at him.

Carefully the stallion stepped forward, moving quietly through the seagrass. He kept his head up, his ears constantly switching forward and backward. After a few strides, I felt myself relaxing into the easy movement of his back. He’s like Paint in some ways, but different.

To my surprise, Blanco walked quietly without bouncing the entire way back to the stables. Clesa walked alongside us, making small corrections in my riding technique. When we entered the courtyard, I followed her instructions and sat down in the saddle instead of following the movement of his back. She was right, he didn’t need much more than that to come to a quiet halt in the center of the area.

“One last thing, Julian,” she said to me. “When you’re ready to dismount, drop the reins onto his neck. That’s his signal to stand quietly in place. As long as you maintain contact, he’ll be ready to move off. He will do that if you don’t release the contact and shift your weight to dismount. You do not want your horse to disappear from beneath you while your leg is up in the air!”

By Akatosh, she’s right! I dropped the reins, and Blanco immediately relaxed into that quiet stance, his head and neck dropping a little.

Once I was on the ground, I patted Blanco on his neck and handed the reins back to Clesa. “Thank you, ma’am. It was enjoyable!”

“I see that Wildeye paint taught you well,” Clesa responded. “But it’s time for you to move on. You should consider buying Blanco for yourself, especially if the paint is on loan to you.”

I stared at Clesa. Buy Blanco? “I can’t afford a fancy-trained imported horse like this,” I began, but Clesa shook her head firmly.

“I sell my horses at reasonable prices, as you know. My own home-breds go for about forty septims each. But you did us all a great favor, closing the Oblivion Gates and re-opening the Gold Road to travel.” She clapped the horse affectionately. “And you’ve still got a lot of traveling to do, I know. He’ll get you to where you’re going. I’ll sell him to you for forty-five septims, on one condition.”

“What’s that?” I still couldn’t believe it.

“You bring him back here every spring so he can breed my mares,” Clesa answered. “Without that condition, he’s not for sale at all.”

No. He’s just too much horse. But I couldn’t take my eyes off of Blanco. He turned his head and nudged my shoulder, as if to say C’mon, take the deal! We can have sooo much fun together!

I took a deep breath. “Let me think about it, Clesa.”