Blood on the Moon, A Journey of Discovery Options

[treydog]

Here is the link to: Treydog's Other Stories

Prologue

“But sir, if you would only give me a little more time, I am certain you would be interested in my proposition.”

“The answer is still ‘No’, Mr. Beauchamp. I have no desire to listen to anything you have to say. You may leave now.”

“If I gave offense by my earlier remarks, I apologize. It is simply that one sometimes hears things…. I know that financial remuneration is not important to you, but I thought that perhaps the spirit of adventure might be enough to entice you.”

“Mr. Beauchamp, I have everything I need right here. My family is here, my home is here, my life is here. I have no interest in the ‘spirit of adventure’. I have found that ‘adventure’ is simply another way of saying ‘a desperate attempt to survive the situation in which one has stupidly placed oneself’. You will leave now. That is not a request.”

I heard the front door open and close with a finality that punctuated those last words. Then another voice spoke up:

“Weren’t you perhaps a bit hard on him, dear?”

The response was a growl:

“You heard what he said as well as I did- ‘…your well-known talent for getting into and out of tight places….’ He called me a thief, is what he did.”

“Well, yes, but after all, you were a thief, you know. And he did come to you directly, not lurking behind some intermediary.”

“Perhaps I used to be a thief, but I hoped I had put all that behind me. And besides, he came to me arrogantly and rudely, just as if he were a bloody Imperial, instead of a fellow Breton."


“ ’A bloody Imperial?’ ” I could envision the raised eyebrow that accompanied that innocent question.

The voices moved away to another part of the house, and I could not make out the muttered words that I was sure were an apology. But that wasn’t important; I had already heard everything I needed to know. I had a name now and a goal. Louis Beauchamp- and Solstheim!

Leaving home is rarely easy, or at least so I have heard. But I felt as if I had to, as if I was slowly smothering. If I was going to do the things I wanted to do, I must get away. There were places I wanted to explore- places he had never been. How typical of him to disparage the idea of adventure- after he had lived the kind of life others only dreamed of! And then to just…stop. As if he could pretend that none of it had ever happened if he did not speak of it. But others spoke of it- oh yes. Louis Beauchamp certainly had that right- one did “hear things”. It was easy enough to tell others that the meat was no good when you had eaten your fill. But I had tasted nothing but the scraps of someone else’s greatness for my whole life and I could stand it no longer. I would leave that very night- but not for Solstheim, at least not yet. It would not do to arrive in that far place as a penniless beggar. Although we were comfortable, and never wanted for the necessities, money was not given to me in any quantity. And though I knew the location of the family treasury well enough, I would not steal. I would not be named a thief, no matter who my father was.

Once the house had quieted, I gathered a small pack of clothing, the few coins that were my own, and a well-worn quarterstaff. How I longed for a bright blade to hang at my side! How could a ready fellow such as I set off on a grand adventure without a trusty sword? But of course I had never been trained in the use of swords, and I recalled the answer when I asked:

“Violence is the result of a mistake. If you avoid mistakes, you can avoid fights. A good walking stick will serve you better. Anything that cannot be dealt with by a sharp rap on the snout is best avoided.”

As if I had never seen the scars that marked his body, never heard the stories that everyone knew by heart, never gazed at the virtual armory hidden throughout the house.
Most of the hidden weapons appeared to be no more than well-used examples of the crafter’s art…. But some of them seemed to… whisper among themselves and to move of their own volition. I know it sounds foolish, the overheated imagining of a child, but I swear it is true. He had never gotten those swords or those scars sitting in front of the fire, reading books. And yet, when he went to the corner club for a solitary drink, and the other men related their exploits, he said nothing. Instead, he simply sat in the shadows with a glass of wine. Even so, if ever a stranger came through and became too loud or boastful, someone would nod toward the quiet figure in the corner and whisper a few words. And then the braggart would fall silent, perhaps even turn a bit pale.

All of these thoughts and more tumbled through my head as I waited in the pre-dawn darkness for the silt-strider to arrive. Perhaps it was foolish to use such a public means of transport, but I wanted distance. And going to Balmora first would help throw off any pursuit. In any event, I doubted that there would be much concern, at least not for several days. When the strider driver saw me waiting, he grinned and said,

“Going on a trip are ye, young sir? I’ll have you in Balmora before you know it. Just sit back and relax.”

He waved away my offered fare with a jovial snort.

“Oh, no charge for you, young sir. Get yourself on up and we’ll be on our way.”

I took his generosity with bad grace, because I knew that it was not for my own sake that I did not have to pay my passage. I was nobody, nothing- just another who stood in the great man’s shadow. He was the hero of the age- everyone said so. Books and ballads had been written about him. And why not? After all, he was Trey of High Rock, Nerevar Reborn, savior of Vvardenfell. And I was his son.

This post has been edited by Burnt Sierra: Jan 4 2009, 07:10 PM

[treydog]

Chapter 2

Although I had given my oath to General Darius, I would not formally become a recruit of the Imperial Legion until I had signed the roll. I hastened to the barracks to complete the process- and found that all was not as I had imagined. There was a huge contrast between the general and the trooper who enrolled me. He was a scruffy, unshaven individual, who constantly worked a wad of hackle-lo leaf from one jaw to the other. Some of the juice had dribbled into the whiskers on his chin. When I saluted, he waved a vague hand at me and then proffered the Legion register with a mumbled,

“Make yer mark, kid. ‘Less yer havin’ second thoughts?”

When I reached for the quill, he snickered,

“It’s yer funeral, Bub.”

Amongst the illegible scrawls and shaky “X’s” I wrote my full name:

Athlain ap Baria Treyson

The trooper stared at the neat writing with bemusement and then called over another rumpled Legionnaire. He pointed a grimy finger at my signature and said,

“Looka here, Troop. We got us officer material here. Look how pretty he writes! Is that right, boy? You figger yer officer material?”

This last was addressed to me, but I knew better than to respond. I could have told the lout that the Legion register was an official Imperial document and that it required my full name. I could have explained that I was named for Athyn Sarethi, for my mother and for my father. And I could have pointed out that the explosion of births following the passing of the Blight had necessitated schools- schools that my artist mother and writer/scholar/ warrior father had insisted I attend. But I did not. Some battles cannot be won- only endured. So I said nothing until they tired of their sport and directed me to the quartermaster to be outfitted.

That worthy proved to be a heavyset Breton with a face that had seen it all and liked none of it. He sized me up with a practiced eye and began pulling equipment from various racks and bins, all the while with a running commentary:

“Cuirass, chain mail, medium, slightly used, one each. Bloodstains will come out when you polish it. Greaves, steel, right and left, one each. Those go on your legs, right greave on the right leg, left greave on the left. Helmet, steel, one each. That’s to preserve what few brains you may have left. Boots, steel, right and left, one each. You’ll figure out which is which eventually. Spear, iron, one each. The pointy end goes toward the enemy; try not to put your eye out. Have a nice day.”

I staggered to my bunk under the weight of the assorted iron and steel, feeling uncomfortably like an overloaded tinker’s wagon. I consoled myself with the thought that the weight would feel less once I put everything on. Probably. I laid out all the rusty metal, noting that it bore little resemblance to the shining uniform of a Knight of the Legion. I poked a finger into the rents in the chain cuirass, rents that looked uncommonly like the marks of large, sharp teeth. Before I could pursue that line of thought further, a voice bellowed from behind me:

“Is the sun down, recruit? Did anyone tell you to go to bed? Did they tell you to put all this worthless junk on one of my nice, clean bunks? Well, did they?”

I whipped around to see a red-faced Imperial trooper glaring at me. As I tried to decide which question to answer first, he rolled his eyes skyward and intoned, as if to an uncaring god:

“Why do I always get the idiots? What have I done to get on General Darius’ list?”

He brought his eyes back to focus on me. With a couple of quick movements, he dumped the armor and spear onto the floor. Then he glared at me again. In a low growl, he said,

“That is the bunk of an Imperial trooper. You are NOT an Imperial trooper. You are a recruit. You are lower than the stuff I wipe off my boots after walking in the guar pen. You have not earned a bunk. You will be an Imperial trooper when I decide that you are ready, however doubtful that outcome may be. Now grab that pile of junk and follow me, recruit.”