Tales Of...Brother Tharryn., Book 1 - Mystery, Signs and Portents. 3E 431 - 433. Options

[McBadgere]

Hello!!...And welcome to my New Story™!!...Which, I hope will at some point simply be my Story™!!...

Anyways…Because I’m pretentious like that and I like the sound of my own typed word, I have a couple of things to say before I begin…

First, I’d like to dedicate this entire work to mALX…Wherever she is…Because she was always very supportive of me when I was doing the Knights of The Nine thing, and I’m pretty sure she’d be the first in line, cheering me and bouncing about with a “Woot!” for me starting this one off... …

So, *Raises glass*…To mALX…Miss ya buddy…

Secondly, and because I can, I’m also dedicating it to Treydog…He has also supported me hugely this past year…Not posting is not the same as not writing, and he’s pretty much read – and put up with – everything I’ve done in that entire time…And with his constant and unfailing enthusiasm, encouragement, warnings, threats and bribes he has managed to get me to finally share something I’m creating…Yes, it’s all his fault!!...

Nah, his – no small – efforts (he is, when all said and done, editing and Exec Producing this story) mean more to me than I can say without being looked at in a strange manner.

So, here’s to you, you Swaggy, exceptionally cool and awesome friend you…Couldn’t have done it without you… ...

And finally, no small amount of thanks to Grits, Acadian and Jack Cloudy…Who also stuck through, and encouraged no-end, the entirety of my previous efforts…Hope you come on this journey too…Ta…


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Right…To story matters…

This is not set in the Knights-verse, as I called the other place…That’s not to say it isn’t as strange and bizzare as it…It’s just not set there…But, as I’m multiverse-ing my own world now, there may be the odd character turning up that seem awfully familiar…To some of you, at least…Though they won’t be exactly the same, it being a different universe and all…

Imperial City…I’m sure most of you have a picture of your own literary version of it in your heads…But mine is based on the Rome of the game Assassin’s Creed Brotherhood…And, as such…It is massive…

Yes, I’ve put Rome on its own island…Which is vast…Thus Lake Rumare is vast…I may change it to Loch Rumare instead… …Aaaand I’ve moved stuff around, like the districts and the Waterfront/prison/Uni, so as to make more sense to me…It is all going to be described in the story…But I’m just warning you, in case you go, “Huh? That’s not right…”…No, it is right…Just not the same as the game…

There is a map of it…Just so I have a proper thing to follow as I write, but as it looks like a toddler’s nursery painting, I can’t share it with you, unfortunately…I scaaared…

The one other thing is the style of it…Magnum P.I. does this thing where he narrates over a bit of the episode, telling us some bit of information…And that’s without the knowing look at the camera thing…Anyways, this is a bit like that…There’s what’s going on from his point of view, along with Tharryn’s general narration, thoughts and opinions on stuff…Just so you know from the off… …

Oh, and some more interludes…You know how you all love them…


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Right…That’s all for now…

I hope you enjoy it…It’s been a blast starting to write it all…

*Bows*…Thanks for reading…

*Winks*…


EDIT...Because of the way the forum is now set up, I can't put the actual start of the story on a separate post...I apologise for this...I did try... ...


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Tales of...Brother Tharryn.





Book 1 - Mystery, Signs and Portents. 3E 431 - 3E 433.





Part 1 - Pilgrim’s Way/Agent of The Church/A small Bosmer girl.




“I did my best.” So read the inscription on a tomb by the side of the Pilgrim’s Way, the wide, arrow straight East-West road that led into the heart of the Temple District of Imperial City.

I continued to read the dedication; some high-idealed civic ruler who had tried to change the fortunes of those of the least standing. Sadly fallen foul of his ambition, it seems. If the word ‘Assassinated’ didn’t grab the attention, then the black-hand mark over the unfortunate’s name would likely give most readers pause.

A long sigh escaped me. Give the poor better standing, there would be less between them and those with the riches; with the power. All too often had I heard the words, “Give a man one rung of the ladder, he will soon grab your ankles and drag you down; Best to keep him off the ladder in the first place, no?”

Breathing back sudden anger, I nodded my respects to one who – briefly, at least – had been brave enough to attempt change in this, the slow beating, black heart of the Empire.

Turning my head from the tomb, I looked eastwards along the arterial road, across the valley and up the gently rising hills towards the City which ruled over countless peoples of several races.

Bloated with riches, the Capital had allowed itself to spread beyond its fortified “outer” walls. The manses and compounds of the very – though piously so – rich and powerful members of the religious elite could be distinctly seen cluttering the hills’ slopes, even from this distance; and I knew that within them, and all around this most powerful patch of land in the world, townships of all varieties were heaving with rich and poor; Demi-Gods and all-too-human monsters; living saints and habitual sinners – along with those who would facilitate them.

And then there were those they were there to protect.



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Whether by design or simply years-borne mutual acceptance, there seemed to be an order to the traversing of the road. Carts would travel along the southern side of the road, the ones leaving Imperial City nearer the middle; horses would pass each other down the centre – sometimes at speed – and finally, the foot traffic would stick to the northern edge, the slower and more infirm furthest towards the edge of the road, leaving plenty of room for the un-afflicted to walk apace without having to weave and beg pardon every few steps.

As I walked along the broad thoroughfare in the early morning hazy sunshine, my pace – even as sedate as it was – passed numerous citizens with various degrees of affliction, with complaints ranging from some infected injury to crippled limbs, blindness, some sort of mange.

Many of these struggled along in the company of others, occasionally leaning on the nearest for support; or by themselves, using a crutch; some, on the other side of the road from me were families escorting some unfortunate relative lying prone on a cart pulled by an ox.

Each of the unwell – or their escorts – were hoping that help could be had, either by a handy free miracle, charity or – judging by some of the clothes visible as I took in my fellow pilgrims – sizable donation in return for access to any of the templars’ best, or at least, most expensive healers.



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As inconspicuous as I tried to be in my hooded travel cloak, subtle and travel-worn chainmail armour and well used leather boots, it was unavoidable that I would catch someone’s eye as I passed them. Yet in that flicker of recognition as they then took in the whole of my appearance, I could see them torn between asking me if I knew anyone who would help and their making some hand sign meant to ward off evil.

Ah, the joys of recognition. Sadly, the one badge of office I am obliged to carry at all times – and that most difficult to hide, is the tiny matter of a silver long-sword.

The thing that tended to catch the eye first was the ornately worked, though strong, jewelled guard with a red ruby in the centre, which marked the end of an exquisitely leather bound grip, that itself was topped by an octagonal pommel, the counterweight that gave the sword such a balance it beggared belief.

This last detail of the counterweight was what tended to give me away as an agent of The Church; those shepherds, corallers, stewards, administrators of all the faiths of Tamriel. The great multi-faceted ecclesiastical organisation that was always so accepting of any faith or belief, so long as it can stand being subsumed and ordered until it blends in with all The Words Of The Nine.

If it cannot, then it is a moral threat; Heresy; Blasphemy.

And then, that’s where I come in.

However, with such power as The Church grants its Knights comes the responsibility to undertake any of the great or mundane tasks asked of you; such as, people begging for the laying on of hands – which is no bother to grant, really. Well, if asked nicely, of course.

Out in the wilds – the deep backwaters of Cyrodiil – there’s little real call for it, unless the situation deems it necessary. But when people have had to undertake such a journey as the one to the Imperial City in order to get help, then they’ve exhausted the knowledge of their local healers.

Though what use they think a Knight passing on the side of a road is going to be to them, I do not know.

The majority of the time, I will direct them towards the Hospitallers – a fellow knightly order, far more dedicated to the art of healing than war, and also far cheaper and more likely to be able to help in some way than one of the Churches’ or Temples’ healers – then, in order that they are more likely to have the strength to get there, I will simply put my hands to their shoulders – unless that’s the afflicted area, then I find it best to avoid it – and I will ask for all to bow their heads and pray to The Nine, and as they do this, I begin casting. First I restore their fatigue as much as I can; second, I send as much health to them as I can spare and then finally, I will rally them, companions and all, both with spell and appropriate joyous word repeated verbatim, as learned as an aspirant in my distant youth as rote from The Book.

Still, there are yet, in the world, those who would rather make signs, or spit, or mumble curses than be touched by “Dunmer scum”, “Outlanders” or “Blue Demons” as we as a race are said to be by those…Narrow minded fools who manage to think themselves far above everyone else in all ways.

I was born not far from Cheydinhal, which, when one is being insulted this way in the middle of the Imperial Heartland by someone wearing the fashions of – and sporting the accents of - Hammerfell, Summerset Isle or Elsweyr is a bit much. And who exactly is the outlander here?

Still, I’m not obliged to stop unless asked to.

So, as it happens, I do not stop over much.



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Sometime past, in an unrecorded era, the broad, grassy sides of the Pilgrim’s Way, starting at the very edge of City Isle, just over the Imperial Bridge, suddenly became the place to put your tomb. A prime location to immortalise your memory with an ostentatious – sometimes gaudy – miniature palace constructed of carved stone, to be remembered each day as the multitudes plodded their way past your name.

By turns absurd or beautiful; from new and gleaming marble ziggurats topped with an obligatory sculpture of those mythic ethereal bridgemen, the Harn’ashall; to simple affairs of weatherworn and faded grey stone. Each one had the interred’s name, some words of dedication and the names of those they left behind. Occasionally, you could tell when names had been removed from one section and added to the other as the other members of the family had subsequently joined the tomb.

Down the years I have walked this road, I will occasionally stop to read one or two of the dedications so as to mark a degree of respect, as it does seem that in placing your tomb in such august company as those along the miles that stretch between the bridge and Marcharic’s Cross – the point where the East-West running Pilgrim’s Way crosses the Septim Circle, one of the roads which circles the island from the Waterfront district around to the Nord’s Gate district in the north. – results in not so much being recognised as special, even if you were, or tried to be, it has the opposite effect; that of being treated as one of the multitude, ignored in – likely – the way a great many of these interred did the plebs that now file past in droves.



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I bit into an apple as I reached Marcharic’s Cross. I paused, looked right to see if any laden carts or Legion patrols were headed my way, then I started to turn left onto the Septim Circle and head north.

My progress came to a halt as a small hand grasped mine. I looked down into the pleading eyes of a small Bosmer girl. My brow furrowed in question and then I saw her eyes dart to the apple in my other hand, then return to mine.

“Sir?” she said in heavily accented Gnothic, and reached her hand out towards the fruit.

“Lrindi!” came the shout from a little way behind the child.

The girl turned her head slightly in recognition of the name, but otherwise kept her eyes on mine.

I tilted my head a little and then shook it minutely. Her eyes dropped first, her hand followed a moment later.

Her parents having caught up by now, tried to beg my pardon and I heard her father start on a familiar litany, “My Lord, I am so-” I put my hand up to forestall any more comment and knelt by the girl, catching her eyes again. I smiled a little and reached for a second apple from my pack.

“All yours.”

Naturally, she smiled and then burst into tears. I wondered, looking at their clothes, how long the trio had been on the road.

“My Lord,” the father tried again while the mother held her daughter to her; the girl quietly crying whilst crunching, “we apologise for our daughter. It is so long since we could afford anything except stale bread and water. I think she recognised you by your sword, my Lord Brother?…”

“Tharryn…Brother Tharryn.”



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*Author notes...



*Gnothic …The official language of Tamriel is Tamrielic…Which sounds balls to me…So I think I ripped off the Warhammer 40 000 word for Basic…English…Langua Franca…Etc…It sounds cooler, and more realistic somehow…

**Harn’ashall…If anyone’s interested, they are basically angels…In the kind of clichéd Swan Song’s (Led Zep’s music label) Icarus mould…My first use of them can be found here…In this post…

This post has been edited by McBadgere: May 18 2014, 04:56 AM

[McBadgere]

Hallooo!!...Yes, I know, it’s been a while…Apologies…It’s been…One of those years, sadly…

Aaaamywho, back now with some story for you!!...This (and the one that follows it) has been written since May and was produced at what I will laughingly refer to as “The Height Of My Powers!” BWAHAHAAA!!!...

Yeah, don’t say it… ...

Anyways, I’m doing more…Whether it’ll be as good, as I just stopped writing completely…Never even thought about it over the summer…*Shrug*…



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To your amazing comments…


Firstly, I’m so sorry I got behind on everyone else’s stories…Yes, I know I said they’re not going anywhere the other day…It doesn’t stop me feeling bad that I’m well behind on H.E.R.’s awesomeness and Darkness’ amazing Gladiatorness…

However, just because I haven’t commented, doesn’t mean I’m not reading without logging in…I’m just getting bad with the commenting now too…

And as for these responses to your comments to me I apologies if they’re obviously a little rusty…Perhaps I should have kept them to shuffling the feet and “Ta…” but you know me…In love with the sound of my own typing…

Aaaamywho…To business…



Acadian!!! - Ta!...It was one of them “Start it off and let it run” things that I absolutely loved writing…

As was coming up with the evolution of the town…It’s something I’d love them to do in an Elder Scrolls game…A step on from Hearthfire (the house building DLC thing)…Unlikely to happen, but we can dream!...

Yes, Tharryn’s been there, done that…Which gives me the excuse to go off on one here and there… ...

Cheers matey!!... ...



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Subrosa!!! - Thank you so much!...

Yeah, I am constantly awed by the advances the Templars made – and the influence they still have – to/in life today…I just love re-reading their history…Pretty awesome bunch from the get-go really…

While I wear the Templar/Hospitaller thing on my sleeve with much of this, I do divert a lot where the poor knight thing is concerned…And it’s very much deliberate as – should I manage to get there – this plays into stuff much further down the line…Tharryn and many of the other knights are rich, from rich families – as the old, non-Ordered crusaders were…Rich bored boys in need of a good fight…Oh, I have a bit that explains it all coming later… …

Glad you enjoyed the story of the Nord though…Much appreciated…Hugely so…

Thanks for reading!!...



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Haute Ecole Rider!!! - Cheers!!...

Yes, I will admit that I like to do stuff differently… …Not entirely as a conscious reaction, but I do what I feel is right [/Kenobi] for how my stories go…So jumping about with time/interludes and all that…Should they completely derail the plot, then…Pffft…*Shrug*… ...

I’m so glad that you it’s not too jarring for you…I appreciate hugely that you keep coming back…

I did love picturing the town meself…Perhaps I’ll retire there when it’s all done… …

Huge thanks H.E.R…I appreciate it…



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Treydog!!! - The narration thing comes from Magnum – as if you couldn’t guess – and yes, it breaks the fourth wall etc/yawn …But I’m really enjoying his “Telling” the story...And yes, his doubts and irritations and stuff are fun to play with…

Thank you so much for everything matey…Your continued enthusiasm and awesomeness are very much a joy to receive… ...

Huge thanks matey…I hope I continue to make it worth coming back for…



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Darkness Eternal!!! – Awright matey?!...

Cheers!!!...I’m glad you and everyone liked the whole thing with the Nord…It was different for me too…To have someone like that – seeking redemption and all…I mean, at heart, was he good or evil?...Or just “human”?...I don’t know what I would have done in Tharryn’s shoes...I know what Tharryn does, obviously, but it’s a huge question…And I’m so grateful for everyone’s compliments on this one…

Thank you so much for reading, it’s hugely appreciated… ...



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Grits!!! - Huge thanks!!!...

I am/was thoroughly enjoying writing this one…Tharryn is very much a joy to write…I hope that comes through…

I loved making the stuff up about the duties…I wanted to show that it wasn’t just stabby-stabby-kill-kill all the time…Y’know?...

Ta!!...

And again, I’m so glad that everyone loved the Non-Y-Prydferth thing…Like I said, I’m quite happy to move there, right now!!... :-D ...

Handras and his problems may be delayed a little…Ooops…Another excursion I’m afraid…It’s worth it though…

Thank you so much for reading, much appreciated!!...



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Much huge thanks to everyone who read, always appreciated…*Bows*…



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To the story!!!...



Previously on…


We met a Brother-Knight of The Church named Tharryn who, on his way back from elsewhere chanced upon a Bosmer family and stopped to chat…This, as with many other things do, led him to one of them mental diversions that we all have from time to time…

This led pretty instantly to a diversion discussing the difficult nature of and agonies thrown up from confessions…The first from a Nord, a former pirate…

And the second...Well…It might not be quite what it first appears to be…



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Part 2.3 – An Imperial Courtier/The Mistress of the Emperor/The Ambiguous and Indefinite






The second most vexing confession that I ever took involved an Imperial courtier named Darius Glent.


The man was as popular as it was possible for someone with no genuine power – other than the force of his personality – to be. A philosopher; polymath; social commentator; author of fiction, treatise, great books of learning; playwright; artist; sculptor. Entrance into his circle of friends guaranteed the ascension of your status to that of Worthy of Note; and your name and deeds being written about in the daily and weekly columns throughout the world of papered newssheets.

Guest of nobles and scholars, artisans and charlatans; favourite of kings and champion of vagabonds; his undoubted willingness to embrace all the spectrum of life through the sheer mountain of charitable works he undertook made him the darling of each and every walk of life.

Caula Voria, Empress and estranged wife of Uriel Septim was particularly fond of Glent, and many were the not-really-unfounded rumours of how close the friendship had become. His confession never mentioned the Empress one way or another though. This does not mean there was no deeper relationship, however; and given all else that he had done through his life, a little fraternisation with an estranged married woman – Empress or not – would likely rank as no sin whatsoever.

While no living saint, the man was clearly idolised by many for so many reasons within the range his life encompassed.

One would wonder, however, where he managed to get the time to also live a second life, one as a rapist and murderer of quite some note.

I will spare the gruesome details; suffice to say, as a murderer, the courtier was as thorough as he had been in his other pursuits.

My original genesis with the matter was soon after I had become a Brother-Captain, some forty years ago. Over a period of several days, women had been found locked in their houses – from the inside – within separate districts. A rune had been burnt into the door at each location, the rune for death.

Though even now, no clear record of the true extent of the killings exists, by way of my friends, acquaintances and peers throughout The Church at the time, I was able to piece together that these particularly disturbing acts of vivisection were occurring throughout the Empire.

It is now so many years later than either the killings or his confessing to them and I still find it difficult to imagine that all this horror was accomplished by one man, but the absolute cocksure certainty that Glent possessed still, even on his death bed; the relish with which he related killing after killing; picking out key details that I remember omitting from public records. There could have been no doubt that the courtier had indeed been the killer.

His fame had guaranteed that his every move would be watched by all, except when in his room alone; and the fact that he was watched so closely meant that almost nobody could have suspected him. Just one man amongst how many millions of others in this world and the brightness of his fame blinded almost all.

Of course, the one person that had pointed a finger at him – an old DaTyrk vagabond – was, unfortunately, precisely the sort of person that those in the position to do anything about the warning she brought would dismiss out of hand.

Fortune – if you could call it that, with hindsight – found our paths crossed.



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The DaTyrk was an old – though only of late so – woman; still possessing a fierce beauty with her dark hair streaked with the steel-shade of age, warm ochre coloured skin that evidenced the Elsweyr sun-drenched heritage of her race, and wide, beautiful eyes that at that moment were taking in the company we were in.

She had tracked us down – the Watch investigator I was working with at the time, one inspector Shepherd Garrick, and I – whilst we were at one of the crime scenes.

The woman, with her intense, burnt sand coloured eyes boring into mine, claimed she had seen a vision of the courtier killing the mistress of the Emperor Uriel Septim in her dreams. Sadly, everyone – bar me – had laughed out of hand. I had silenced them with a sharp rebuke, but to no use, the DaTyrk had already fled the room. As close as I had been behind her, as I exited and looked up and down the street, she had – rather predictably – vanished into thin air.

After a reminder that in a world full of magic, premonitions of the future were no more outlandish than the ability to drag creatures through from other dimensions to do peoples’ bidding, we decided to investigate further; even though that meant asking awkward questions of the most powerful man in Tamriel.

At the Imperial Palace, a young Breton lieutenant led us to an antechamber where we were to await the summons of the Emperor.



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“Gentlemen, if you would please come in.” a deep, resonant voice called through an open door to our right.

We followed the instruction and found ourselves in an open, spacious office with nothing lacking in the way of large windows, one of which was open, allowing a fresh breeze into the room.

Many filled to bursting bookcases, several strides long and ornament cabinets covered with the accumulation of many years of collecting were numerous enough to have some against the wall, and others set out into the room.

Trophies of beastly conquests hung on one wall, on another, a pair of Yokudan tapestries. And here and there, paintings – mostly landscapes, watercolour and oil based – were placed pleasingly around the room.

A large marbled fireplace, that would have dominated the room of any average person, sat diminished by the size of the mahogany panelled wall it was built into, the grate currently unused, unlit. The unburnt corners of some document still sat atop the remains of the most recent use.

Nearby, a pair of sofas sat opposite each other, a low table between them; a sign of how The Emperor relaxes with his guests perhaps.

We made our way towards the far end of the deep red carpeted room and the majesty we were here to speak to.

In a moment that was almost indescribable in its strangeness, it became instantly obvious that it was not The Emperor that sat behind an oak desk that was strewn with papers to one side, a half opened map in front of him and a pitcher and beaker at his right hand; it was ‘merely’ Uriel Septim, the man. Having only seen his majesty on ceremonial occasions – and those from a distance – in full regalia, it was a shock to see him seated behind a desk in a neatly pressed white shirt and leather waistcoat.

I suppose it is entirely logical that there would be no need of the robes of office when merely working at said office, but it was nevertheless a lurch for the mind to accept.

The man I still have trouble thinking of as merely Uriel looked up from his map and smiled, and a genuine one at that.

“Now, how can I help you fine officers today? I understand,” Septim tilted his closely cropped grey-haired head towards his assistant waiting patiently in the corner of the room, “you’re looking into these despicable murders in my city. How goes it?”

“I wish we had better news, sire.” Answered my cohort, “But so far, there’s little to determine anything concrete; the only…slightest possibility of a lead,” my friend looked over at me with a hint of a disapproving frown visible, “is one we felt necessary to follow up on; despite the somewhat…ambiguous and indefinite nature of it.”

The Emperor raised his eyebrows. “Oh?” he said simply, “This office has all the time in the world for the ambiguous and indefinite, of course. But I must ask…” Uriel paused, and a small smile tugged at the edge of his mouth, “Why was it necessary, at this particular time, to bring it to my personal attention?”



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*DaTyrk – Nomadic, Imperial/human tribe from southern Elsweyr…Basically Turkish-ish sort of thing…

Aslo to be found here…In this post from some time ago now...

This post has been edited by McBadgere: Sep 20 2014, 05:20 PM