Interregnum, 854 of the Second Era Options

[Ornamental Nonsense]

I've only gotten to read the first chapter so far, but I can already tell that I'm going to love this story. Your writing has a distinct style that's very smooth, and you include just the right amount of description. I could easily picture the scene taking place, and as for the characters, I can see that they're going to grow more and more interesting with each chapter. It's going to take me a while to catch up now that the story's progressed quite a bit, but I'll get there eventually.

[Destri Melarg]

Zalphon – If you are looking for historically accurate fiction that is also immensely enjoyable I highly recommend checking out The Killer Angels by Michael Shaara. I read it for the first time almost twenty years ago, and I still try to re-read it at least once a year as a reminder of what good historic fiction can do.

Acadian – Nothing gets past you my friend! The devil is in the details and adding bits of business like the quill in Nelvin’s fat fingers not only gives the reader insight into his character, but also underscores the subtext of the scene. I am a BIG fan of subtext. It comes from being a theatre major way back in the day.

haute – Loose/lose is really starting to tick me off! Thanks to you and ‘Rosa for catching it(again), and thanks for finding my wayward period (now that just sounds wrong!). I can’t believe that I missed The Crimson Pirate! I thought I had seen every swashbuckler made during Hollywood’s golden age. Just goes to show, every time you think you know something . . .

Olen – This next segment of two posts is aimed at you. I hope that they answer some of the questions you have about Arnand. Don’t worry about Casnar, we already know how he winds up so his survival of the events in this story is pretty much a given.

There is no set number to the amount of drafts that I will go through before I post. The needs of the segment dictate the amount of re-writing that needs doing. The fewest number of drafts that I have gone through for a segment is three (Both the first scene with Renald and the boar, and the scene in Direnni Tower between Aran and Varla, discussing ways to drive a wedge between Cuhlecain and Talos). The highest number of drafts, I’m embarrassed to say, has been sixteen (Everything surrounding the Battle of Glenumbria Moors). I am glad that in reading it you think it flows smoothly. Believe me, the writing of it is anything but.

‘Rosa – Interregnum remains a story that will encompass exactly one year, culminating in the assassination of the Emperor and the founding of the Septim line. Sadly, Tiber Septim’s conquest of Tamriel and the events of Redguard will not be told during this story. But the good news is that, given my time lock, I am able to delve into a few of the characters that play a roll in those events. So far you have already seen (or heard about) Lord Amiel Richton, Dreekius, Cyrus, Iszara, and Nafaalilargus. There are a few more that I plan to incorporate into this story. As for Cyrus, his part in this tale is over (I think). In a way that’s a shame because, you’re right, I did enjoy writing about him.

Remko – There is nothing wrong with your eloquence, and your enthusiasm is always appreciated. Thank you.

Winter Wolf – I guess I do love my council chambers, but only in terms of writing fiction. As for the idea of tossing my own hat into the political arena, how can I put this delicately?

I would sooner be slathered in mashed bananas and locked in a cage with Bobo, the randy gorilla!

Ornamental Nonsense – Welcome to Interregnum! I hope you find things to your liking here. I look forward to any comments or questions you may have.

* * *

16th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
The Pelladil, Docked at Stros M’kai
Dawn


The storm passed during the night. The sun would light clear skies when it rose under the twinkling stars of the Lover hanging in the east. This was Captain Valion’s favorite time, before the new day banished the shadows of night, when the whole world was sated and still. Even the violent Abecean was calm. From where he stood on the deck of his beloved Pelladil he could see the growing glow that emanated over the horizon, fading the Lover’s shine to pleasant memory. Presently he could feel the gentle warmth that caressed his face and the light that surrounded and purified the rain-swept deck like apologies from Kyne to those who had suffered through the storm. Any other time the clear blue skies and the shimmering sunlight would be a welcome sight to Valion’s eyes. But today they served only as an insistent reminder of the obligation of his commission, and of the duty too long postponed.

With a sigh of resignation Captain Valion left the starboard rail and lifted the hatch amidships. He descended the stairs and ducked his head through the narrow hallway to knock on the door that led to his own quarters.

“Come,” said a female voice.

Valion opened the door. Lady Direnni sat at his desk, surrounded by all of his charts and maps. She wore a red velvet dress that complimented her golden skin. A large mirror was placed in front of her, an open book lay nestled face down on her lap. Her handmaiden stood behind, brushing her platinum hair with long, graceful strokes.

“Good morning, Captain,” said Lattia.

Valion bowed in the doorway. “Good morning, Milady, it is good to see you looking well.”

“Thank you, Captain, I do feel stronger. Maybe it was seeing the sun this morning after so many days of rain. Will we sail today?”

It was the question that Valion dreaded most. “I’m afraid not, Milady.”

“Oh?” Lattia tried to hide the disappointment in her voice, but failed.

Valion bowed again. “My deepest apologies, but today is Heart’s Day. Most of the crew are off-ship, partaking of the island's hospitality.”

“I see,” said Lattia. She held up two golden fingers. “That is enough, Irinde, please leave us.”

“Yes, Milady,” Irinde stopped brushing and bowed. She turned and left the room, leaving the scent of wildflowers in her wake.

Lattia waited until the door closed behind her. “I assume you know how important it is that I reach Artaeum.”

“Yes, Milady,” said Valion, “I do.”

“Yet you don’t seem to be in any hurry to get there. Your crew has spent more than enough time on the island. This is the first good weather we’ve had since we left Glenumbria. Why shouldn’t we sail today?”

“I . . .” Valion’s voice faded to silence, the only sound in the room was the surf caressing the hull of the ship.

“We are alone now, Valion,” said Lattia, “no need to stand on ceremony.”

He bit down hard on his lower lip and walked across the room. He opened the portal and stared at the whitecaps on the Aebecean Sea.

“How can I explain myself,” he began, “I am a simple sailor, Lady Direnni, it is all that I have ever strived to be. Early in my life I discovered that I am one of the few Altmer without the head for magic, so I have confined my efforts to being the best sailor that I can. I leave the pursuit of magic to those with a talent for it, like you. I look to my maps and charts, and I don’t trust what I can’t see and touch.”

“I don’t understand.”

The words tumbled out of him, “Artaeum moves, Milady. It never resides in the same place for long. For many years it disappeared entirely. That sea is treacherous, five times I have tried to reach its shore and five times I have failed.” He turned from the portal, “I would sail through the Sea of Ghosts without falter. I would traverse the Topal Sea in full view of every pirate in Senchal, but Artaeum . . .”

His voice trailed into silence. The scowl that marked his features told of his fear, and his frustration. Lattia watched him wrestle with the implication of his statements. A knowing smile spread across her lips and she held up the book in her lap. “Is this your copy of Father of the Niben?”

“It is,” said Valion, “why do you ask?”

“It is heavily annotated,” said Lattia, gently leafing through the pages, “your hand?”

Valion started to count the planks of wood in the floor. The scowl gave way to a sheepish smile. “A vestige of youth, Milady, Topal the Pilot is a personal hero.”

“Forgive me for reading it. The time that I spent indisposed would have been unbearable for want of something to occupy my mind. Your notations are very perceptive; I have learned much from reading them.”

“Thank you, Milady.”

Lattia closed the book and placed it gently on the desk. “You are anything but simple, Captain. Do you think that the Pilot felt as you do, upon that first sail from Northpoint?”

For a moment the scowl returned to mark his confusion. Then the smile on Captain Valion’s face broadened. “I imagine that he did.”

“Yet it did not dissuade him.”

“Your point is well taken, Milady. Whenever you are ready, we will sail.”

“Let your crew have the holiday, Captain. I would not think of inciting mutiny by pulling them from their cups. Perhaps I will take a turn through the town myself, and partake of the island's hospitality.”

“Then please allow me, Milady.”

Valion opened the door and called to the deck. Lattia heard the sound of scurrying feet. Seconds later two eager young Altmer ducked their heads through the doorway.

“This is Lorundil,” said Valion, “and Sinyail. Two of my best, they will serve as your escort.”

The two mer bowed and said “Milady” in unison.

_____

16th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
The Draggin Tale Inn, Stros M’Kai
Mid-Day


“We should not be here, Milady,” said Irinde, standing near the door, “this place is not appropriate.”

Lorundil nudged past the handmaiden and held the door open for Lattia. “We can protect you should the need arise, Milady.”

Sinyail stood behind her. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, impatiently. “It would be a shame to visit Stros M’Kai and not partake of the local tavern.”

Lattia suppressed a smile. Upon leaving the Pelladil they had traveled north, through the well appointed town garden to the waterfall. From there they headed east, stopping to shop in the silversmith near the bell tower. Then it was north again over sandstone bridges to the palace, where the name of Clan Direnni secured them an interminable tour. Leaving the palace they swung to the east, walking over cobblestones baked by the sun until the town wall loomed. Turning south, they stopped to browse the maps set outside by the local cartographer. Lattia wandered into the bookstore, where she bought Captain Valion a new copy of Father of the Niben. Through it all, Lorundil and Sinyail answered any questions put to them, when they weren’t preserving a respectful silence. Now they were at the door to the inn, and the eagerness of the two Altmer was the most enjoyable thing that Lattia had seen all day.

“It would be a shame, indeed”, said Lattia, “I think our escorts have earned a drink.”

She led them through the door. Inside the dim light could not hide the members of the Pelladil’s crew. Their loud voices and slobbering songs assaulted the ears while their busy hands fumbled at the pretty young girls. The girls, for their part, pretended to laugh at jokes that they had doubtlessly heard before while keeping one eye on the sailors’ purses.

Lorundil found a relatively quiet table away from the drunken toasts and yelled threats that were easily forgotten in the wake of another drunken toast, or song.

An Argonian held court behind the bar. His green scales glistened and his small sharp teeth flashed often. Goblets and tankards flew from his hands with dizzying speed. As their party sat down the Argonian produced a soiled linen cloth and wiped the spilled dregs of mead, ale, and worse from his arms and chest. He slid from behind the bar and made his way to Lattia’s table. He raised his voice to be heard.

“Lady Direnni, an unexpected pleasure, you and your companions are most welcome. My name is Dreekius, good Heart’s Day to you all. If you require accommodations I would be honored to provide them free of charge.”

“Well met, Dreekius,” said Lattia, “how do you know who I am?”

“Your crew has been kind enough to favor my establishment. They have spoken of you with great affection. That is why I have come over here.”

Lorundil stood, his hand moved toward the hilt of his cutlass. Sinyail followed, his cutlass half-clearing the scabbard.

Lattia placed her hands palms down across the table. “Peace, both of you. What is it that you want of me, Dreekius?”

Dreekius sidestepped past Lorundil and knelt at Lattia’s side. He spoke quietly, for Lattia’s ears alone. She could smell the ale on his breath.

“It is a matter of some urgency, Milady, one best discussed in private.”

Lattia hesitated.

“I know how that must sound,” said Dreekius, “rest assured that I mean you no harm. In fact, I am hoping you can help me. Bring your bodyguard with you.”

Lattia nodded, Lorundil and Sinyail stood when she did, their eyes never leaving Dreekius. Irinde gained her feet, a nervous flush coloring her cheeks. Dreekius rose and led them through the crowd to a spot on the opposite side of the bar. With all of the commotion none of the besotted crew noticed as he shifted a small rug on the floor to reveal a trapdoor. When he opened it, dim candlelight revealed a set of steep wooden stairs leading to a small room below.

“Down here,” Dreekius said as he led the way down the steps.

Lorundil placed his hand on Lattia’s arm. “Let me go first, Milady.” He drew his cutlass and followed Dreekius down the stairs.

Lattia followed with Sinyail close behind. Irinde gingerly tested each step before deigning to lean her weight on it.

A pair of worn candles lit the room. Several casks and crates were stacked against the far wall. A woven pallet lay to the side. A thin, wide-eyed Argonian with skin the color of molded bread stood in the middle of the room.

“Your crew told me that you intend to sail to Artaeum,” said Dreekius, “for that you will need someone who has been there.” He motioned to the Argonian. “This is Earns-His-Keep. He is the finest navigator I know, and he has made the trip before.”

“You have been to Artaeum?” asked Lattia.

“Yes,” said Earns-His-Keep, “long ago. I took three hatchlings there. I am willing to chart a course to the island again, if you remove me from my circumstances.”

Lattia turned to Dreekius, “What circumstances?”

“Earns-His-Keep is a fugitive,” said Dreekius. “Before he came to be here he was a guest of the Stros M’Kai jail.”

Irinde gasped and covered her mouth with both hands. “He is a criminal, Milady!”

“I am an Argonian,” said Earns-His-Keep.

“That is certain,” said Lorundil, “have you been bathing in a sewer?”

Sinyail snickered under his breath. Earns-His-Keep began to wring the bottom of his own shirt with both hands.

“Please, Milady,” said Dreekius, “take him with you. He is no criminal, strictly speaking, and he can be useful.”

“Why were you in jail?” asked Lattia.

“I tried to kill a guard,” said Earns-His-Keep, “I was not successful.”

“Not surprising,” said Lorundil, “I’ve seen spears with more weight than you.”

Sinyail suppressed the obligatory snicker. Earns-His-Keep kept twisting his shirt.

“Why did you try to kill a guard?” asked Lattia.

“He made sport of me,” said Earns-His-Keep.

Lorundil shifted his weight to his heels. Sinyail looked down and found fault with his own boots.

“I don’t think the Captain will appreciate a short-tempered Argonian on board, Milady,” said Lorundil.

Lattia ignored him, “so you escaped from the jail and sought refuge with Dreekius?”

Earns-His-Keep shifted his gaze from Lorundil’s throat. “After I was rescued from the jail I was taken to the Kynreeve.”

“What is the Kynreeve?”

“It is a pirate ship, Milady,” Dreekius offered, “they were his last employer.”

“He is a pirate!” Irinde’s hands flew back to her mouth.

“I am a navigator,” said Earns-His-Keep.

“If you were taken to the Kynreeve, how did you come to be here?” asked Lattia.

“I pay my debts,” said Earns-His-Keep.

Lattia turned to Dreekius. “What does that mean?”

“That ties into the other matter I need your help with, Milady,” said Dreekius.

This post has been edited by Destri Melarg: Aug 1 2010, 09:16 AM

[SubRosa]

I smell the corpse of a High Rock Nightblade! I have been wondering how you were going to get Arnand out of his deathly predicament. It seems none other than Lattia may be his savior.

A very fun segment. Lattia is probably my favorite Interregnum character, so I am always happy to see her. I am too tired to add any critical analysis, but I had a lot of fun reading.

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Jul 30 2010, 12:03 AM

[haute ecole rider]

Ah, one of my favorite conversations once again! How enjoyable!

“Earns-His-Keep is a fugitive,” said Dreekius. “Before he came to be here he was a guest of the Stros M’Kai jail.”

Irinde gasped and covered her mouth with both hands. “He is a criminal, Milady!”

“I am an Argonian,” said Earns-His-Keep.

“What is the Kynreeve?”

“It is a pirate ship, Milady,” Dreekius offered, “they were his last employer.”

“He is a pirate!” Irinde’s hands flew back to her mouth.

“I am a navigator,” said Earns-His-Keep.

I love the irony here! Earns-His-Keep is so pragmatic!

[Olen]

This next segment of two posts is aimed at you.

Ooooh, that's quite an honour in a piece of thios quality.

Wow, I might just have to go over that chapter carefully and see how you managed to produce so many strong characters in such a short section without breaking the flow. Earns-his-keep was great, it's good to see him again and his development, I second Haute's comment on his pragmatism, "I am an argonian" made me laugh aloud.

Now I sense that this could get rather exciting, certainly the previous death of a certain nightblade is coming to fruition, one who wanted to get to Artaeum as I recall...

Irinde was spot on too

This post has been edited by Olen: Jul 30 2010, 11:16 AM

[Remko]

I love Earns-His-Keeps. I can really relate to his pragmatism
I also love how you gave Lattia bodyguards. Like Rales so justly stated, a knife in the throat is just as effective against mages as a silence spell

[Acadian]

What a joy to read! Everyone comes to life. Wonderful to see Lattia again. I find myself reading twice. Once to enjoy, then again to study your magic with prose. I could quote most of your story, but let me limit it to one passage that I recalled struck me with equal vividness the first time I read it during your original telling. Dare I say, almost as memorable as being sniffed by a dragon or following a wandering sweet roll?

An Argonian held court behind the bar. His green scales glistened and his small sharp teeth flashed often. Goblets and tankards flew from his hands with dizzying speed. As their party sat down the Argonian produced a soiled linen cloth and wiped the spilled dregs of mead, ale, and worse from his arms and chest. He slid from behind the bar and made his way to Lattia’s table. He raised his voice to be heard.

Nit, or perhaps just a question. I would have used 'island's hospitality' in both cases below. Would I be wrong?

Most of the crew are off-ship, partaking of the islands hospitality.

Perhaps I will take a turn through the town myself, and partake of the islands hospitality.”

[Destri Melarg]

SubRosa –

“I smell the corpse of a High Rock Nightblade!”

Isn’t it funny how things work out? I always knew that Lattia would be a major character in this story, but in the telling she has emerged as something of a catalyst. She is perhaps the most proactive character in the story, which is ironic considering her personality. Perhaps that is what makes her resonate; I have a blast every time I write one of her chapters.

haute – Earns-His-Keep continues to surprise me. Once he opened his mouth it became very hard not to give him more to say. Most of my work of late has been concerned with giving him a larger roll in the story. You will be seeing more of his pragmatism, I assure you.

Olen – Your memory serves you well. We have not heard the last of Arnand’s mission to Artaeum. Irinde is a homage, I wanted her to come across as a younger (though who can tell with the Altmer) version of the nurse/handmaiden/lady-in-waiting character that the wonderful Una O’Connor did so well in films like The Adventures of Robin Hood.

Remko – I would submit that a knife in the throat is more effective. A silence spell eventually wears off. See my comments to Acadian below because they are addressed to you as well.

Acadian – You can thank Remko for the effectiveness of the passage that you quoted. I had to change it because in the first version I had Dreekius glistening with sweat. Remko astutely pointed out that, being Argonian and therefore cold-blooded, Dreekius probably wouldn’t sweat. The resulting debate was a great deal of fun to read. At the time I gave some half-baked justification for why, alone among reptiles, Argonians would have sweat glands. haute backed me on it with an argument far superior to my own. But in the back of my mind I knew he was right, I was just too lazy to change it. Bringing the story over to Chorrol gave me the chance to remedy that.

As for your nit:
You are correct, as usual. That (along with loose/lose) is a mistake that I always make. In fact, I think I made it the last time I posted this chapter. You called me on it then too. I seem to have a hard time reconciling the possessive form to an inanimate object. I don’t know why, but to me the apostrophe doesn’t fit, even though it is grammatically correct. Thanks for spotting it . . . again, it has been changed.

* * *

The Not-So-Distant Past
High in the Kurallian Mountains
Morning


“Today we shall discuss the properties of poison,” said Sage Vardengroet.

He was a boy again walking beside his master, his head even with the gold belt around the old man’s indigo robe. They were on a path, high in the Kurallian Mountains. The morning sun had yet to burn off the mist, so the trees all around them had an ethereal quality. Behind him the tall stone walls of the fortress cast lengthening shadows that preceded them. The air smelled of frost and pine.

The sudden sting of the old man’s staff across his shoulders brought his attention back into the moment.

“Arnand,” said the Sage, “stop daydreaming, lad! Pay attention!”

“Yes Master.” Arnand lowered his head to hide the tears welling in his eyes. He heard the crunch of their sandals on the path.

Sage Vardengroet cleared his throat. Arnand looked up, past the flowing white beard and under the tall pointed hat to the smile that played in his master’s eyes.

“You remind me of my youth,” said the Sage, “under Grundingler’s care. I also was a daydreamer, and had no patience for talks of poison.”

“Are they not . . . cowardly, Master?” asked Arnand.

The old man stopped walking and looked off into the distance. Arnand waited, scuffing his sandals in the dirt and kicking free the small pebbles that became trapped under his feet.

“Perspective, lad,” said the Sage. “Imagine there are ogres near your land, and all you have available is a bow with some arrows, a mortar and pestle, and your knowledge of poison, would you be a coward to use it?”

Arnand’s face compressed in concentration, “Ogres have a weakness to poison.”

“Precisely,” said the Sage, smiling, “in the example I gave, that knowledge could save your life or the lives of others. You would not then be hailed a coward, would you?”

“No Master.”

“No weapon or technique is heroic or cowardly, Arnand, only the heart of the one who wields it. Do you understand?”

“Yes Master.”

“Good.” The old man began to walk again. Arnand ran to keep up. “Now, if you are ever poisoned the first thing you must remember is not to panic. No matter how powerful, the effects are temporary and can be reversed. The Dreamsleeve is filled with mages who forgot that simple truth.”

Arnand listened, but his master’s voice grew harder to hear. The mists began to close in on him, the mountains and the fortress faded from view. He was alone, walking as if through a cloud. His footing gave way and he felt himself falling through space.

_____

He lay on the warm sand, his head nestled in Elissa’s lap. Slowly her delicate fingers combed through his hair. He felt the cool surf kiss the bottom of his feet before retreating back into the bay. A trace of heather made the air smell fresh, like a new dawn after a cold, rainy night. He didn’t want to open his eyes.

“Breton?”

The voice was coarse linen drawn across his ears, the interruption of a perfect moment in time. As far as he was concerned his world was held in Elissa’s soft hand. He sighed in peace and consigned everything else to Oblivion.

“He cannot hear me.”

But he could hear. He just chose to ignore. Elissa’s hand wandered down his face. This was where he belonged; with her on their farm, riding together to Alcaire for a meal or a drink in the tavern.

“Perhaps I should try.”

Another voice, one that could have been Elissa’s, but no, she was here with him. He felt her hands on the side of his neck, warm, caressing, massaging.

Memory played familiar scenes before his closed eyes. He saw her on the day when he claimed her for his own. She wore a borrowed silver dress with a waist that rode high and barely served to cover her knees. The wreath of morning glory in her hair could not hide her elven ears. Her green eyes seemed to shine with a light made for him alone, and the smile that lit her face still caused his heart to jump at the recollection.

“I will need a mortar and pestle.”

The voice that could have been Elissa again, faint on a breeze turned cold. Why had it become so hard to breathe? Her hands were still there, cold, squeezing, choking.

He could not open his eyes. The scenes in his mind darkened. He watched himself as a man in a fugue, searching for days and nights until the villagers closed their doors against the madness that burned in his eyes. He searched until he saw his Elissa through the cold driving rain. She lay broken in the tall grass like something discarded. He held her, his tears washed clean by the rain. The twin marks that defiled her neck told of her abduction. He placed his fingers over the wounds, cursing himself for his inattention when the old Sage tried to teach him spells to cure disease. He flooded her body with every restoration spell he knew as if he could erase the damage through magicka alone.

He opened his eyes. He lay on burning black sand that cut into his skin like broken glass. The sky above was on fire. Elissa pinned him to the ground, her long bony fingers clawed at the skin around his neck. Her skin was as pale and thin as parchment, lust and hunger lit her blood red eyes. He was too weak to hold her off. The last thing he felt was her fangs scrape the skin of his throat.

_____

16th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
The Draggin Tale Inn, Stros M’Kai
Evening


Pain was the first sensation that Arnand felt. It centered in his chest and lower back and played down the nerves in his legs. His eyelids fluttered, and opened. They slowly focused on a familiar room.

“He is awake,” a voice called out, “get Dreekius.”

Hurried footsteps faded from the room. Dreekius, thought Arnand, I’m back in the Draggin Tale? He heard the sound of a cart being dragged over the cobblestones on the street below. The room smelled of sweat and crushed aloe vera. A dark ample bosom appeared before his eyes, and a cool damp cloth was gently placed on his forehead.

“Can you hear me?” came from the soft voice of a young girl.

Arnand recognized the pretty young Redguard. She had been entertaining the sailors before he first left for Saintsport. “How . . .” his voice was a whispered croak. He felt the girl’s weight leave the bed. For a moment Arnand worried that he had scared her away, but she returned with a stone cup cradled in her hand.

“Let me help you,” she said. She placed her off-hand behind his neck and lifted.

The pain in his back made Arnand wince. She held the cup to his lips and poured the cool water into him. He drank until the cup was empty. She smiled and turned to refill it. Arnand heard footsteps coming up the stairs.

A second girl entered the room trailed by Dreekius and another Argonian who looked vaguely familiar.

“You are awake,” said Dreekius, “we thought that you had been lost to us.”

The girl returned with more water, she lifted his head and he drank. She lowered his head to the pillow. The croak was gone when he spoke, but his voice was still a whisper. “The ship?”

“Gone,” said Dreekius, “you were betrayed. Were it not for Earns-His-Keep you would have died on the dock.” Dreekius stepped to the side, the second Argonian stepped forward.

Earns-His-Keep, thought Arnand, and then it all came back to him, the jail, the wagon, the dock, Ansu Shin-Ilu and her silver cutlass.

“You were gone,” said Arnand, looking toward his savior, “how did you?”

“He boarded the ship,” said Dreekius, “and, when no one was looking, dove off the other side. He waited underwater until the ship was out of sight and then he came back to the dock.”

“You were slumped over a dead horse,” said Earns-His-Keep.

Arnand remembered being stabbed in the back. He remembered being silenced, the feel of the poison bubbling in his veins. He remembered Delron’s fetid breath and the look of unabashed joy on Shin-Ilu’s face when she ran him through with her sword. He remembered watching their footsteps rise up on the gangplank, and crawling hand over hand toward the wagon where a swaybacked horse looked down on him with such contempt. He remembered that his veins stopped burning, and that he formed an absorb health spell in his hand.

“But why?” asked Arnand.

“I was in your debt,” said Earns-His-Keep, “I told you I would not forget it.” He placed a hand on Arnand’s shoulder, “I pay my debts.”

Arnand smiled as best he could. He placed his hand over the Argonian’s. “And you earn your keep.”

“Rest now,” said Earns-His-Keep, “we sail on the morning tide.”

Arnand’s brow furrowed, he looked to Dreekius.

“The horse sustained you,” said Dreekius, “but it did not heal you, nor did we. Were it not for Lady Direnni and her potions you would not have survived. She has a ship bound for the Isle of Artaeum. She has agreed to take the two of you along. I assume that is where you still wish to go.”

_____

17th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
The Pelladil, At Sea
Mid-Day


There was a knock at the door to the Captain’s quarters.

“Come,” called Lattia.

The door opened and the Breton passenger walked gingerly into the room.

“Lady Direnni,” Arnand said bowing, “it is an honor to make your acquaintance. I understand that I have you to thank for the speed of my recovery.”

Lattia looked up from the open copy of Father of the Niben in her lap. “I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced.”

“Forgive me,” said Arnand, “I am Arnand Desele.”

Lattia thought she saw the light of recognition in his eyes. As if the sound of her voice had triggered some memory within him.

“A pleasure to meet you,” she said, “I am Lattia Direnni. No thanks are necessary, it was the least I could do for a fellow member of the Order.”

“I . . .” Arnand stopped. Words failed him.

Lattia smiled, “Dreekius told me that you were bound for Artaeum. I assume, like me, you go to join the Order.”

“I see,” said Arnand, “in any event, I thank you for your hospitality.” He turned to go.

“I have grown weary of winter,” said Lattia. She looked through the portal to a point far away.

“Excuse me?”

Lattia eyes refocused on him. “You should thank Captain Valion and Dreekius. They reminded me that yesterday was Heart’s Day. If such kindness had been given the Lovers, it would always be springtime in the world.”

[Acadian]

I enjoyed Arnand's flashback to his poison training. I do recall his quest relating to his wife-turned-vampire. That was nicely reviewed here. I find Lattia endearing, so it is always a pleasure to read scenes with her in them.

It's fun to read and just let your images toy with my mind as beautiful mysterious pieces of a puzzle. As always, your evocative descriptions are brilliant and far too numerous to quote more than just this one:

He felt the cool surf kiss the bottom of his feet before retreating back into the bay.

[SubRosa]

I do not believe that it says anywhere that Argonians are cold-blooded or not. I am not even sure it says they are reptiles or not. Although even if they are reptiles, that does not mean they have to be cold-blooded either. There is a strong belief that dinosaurs were warm-blooded, and pterosaurs were definitely so. So really, Argonians - who the lore says were descended from trees - could go either way.

Now, onto the actual segment.

No weapon or technique is heroic or cowardly, Arnand, only the heart of the one who wields it.
Well said. I like how you described Voldemort Vardengroet as a Sage, rather that a Master as well. For a race that was enslaved by elves for thousands of years, I suspect that Bretons would not be thrilled with the latter term.


A trace of heather made the air smell fresh, like a new dawn after a cold, rainy night.
This was a lovely description. The entire flashback with Arnand and Elissa (who is an elf!) was wonderful.


Excellent way of worming out of Arnand's death! It reminds me of the old cliffhanger serials in the old days. Did you have it planned out when you wrote Arnand's betrayal? Or is is something you came up with afterward?

Finally, excellent way of working in a bit of lore with Lattia's reference to Heart's Day. One of the problems I have the TF is trying to work in Tamriel holidays.


nits:
A dark, ample bosom
An enticing prospect. But I think you want a comma in there where I inserted it.

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Aug 2 2010, 05:48 PM

[haute ecole rider]

OMG, Una O'Connor! I had forgotten about her! Now that you mention her, it all comes flooding back, and Irinde is now even more alive thanks to my fond memories of the flighty but loyal servant. Thanks!

I have my own favorite passage to quote:

“I was in your debt,” said Earns-His-Keep, “I told you I would not forget it.” He placed a hand on Arnand’s shoulder, “I pay my debts.”

Arnand smiled as best he could. He placed his hand over the Argonian’s. “And you earn your keep.”

I love this interplay between Argonian and Breton. It is good to see Arnand alive again, though his memories are so bittersweet, especially of his wife. The growing friendship between the two men is clear to see in this simple exchange.

I still enjoy reading this, both the 'old' stuff and the new scenes you have added here and there. It is a story that holds up well to re-reading, which I consider a sign of quality writing. My hat's off to you, yet again!

By any chance, did you grow up watching WGN's Saturday matinee? It seems you and I have watched the same old films as kids!

[Ornamental Nonsense]

I've only gotten to the part where Talos is introduced as a character, and I simply had to stop and express my appreciation for this story yet again. I'm anxiously waiting to see how you tie all of these different characters together, and I found myself pondering this time and again when each chapter switched between various personalities. I personally find Lattia the most interesting character thus far, but all of them are compelling in their own right, especially your killer with his vampire wife. It's nice to see such a wide array of personalities that are fleshed out.

I admit that I'm a bit rusty on certain parts of Elderscrolls' lore, and so I had to check references on certain things that you mentioned. As a result, I've learned quite a bit. I wonder how much time you put forth in ensuring that lore details are nicely incorporated into your story. I imagine quite a bit, and the results show through in the quality of this story.

I also found your comment on expanding the world and travel time quite interesting. I've read many stories where it only takes a day or so to get somewhere, which is fine if the story focuses on remaining close to the game's size, but making the world larger is definitely a better fit for your story. I found that I had to do the same thing in 'Slipping into Shadow', because the cities do seem rather small, don't they? I mean, the Imperial City is supposed to be the center of a massive empire. Well, anyway, I've got to get back to reading now so that I can catch up.

[Olen]

Well Arnand survived... that i hadn't seen so an unexpected twist there. The dream (if that's the word) sequence had the right sort of feel and was a cunning way of working in backstory without forcing it. I especially enjoyed how it suddenly darkened as he came towards wakefulness, an observation I'd say was accurite to RL.

I enjoyed Arnand's flashback to his poison training. I do recall his quest relating to his wife-turned-vampire.

This has me stumped. Which game was Arnand from?

As ever you have a full cast of strong characters who interact well. In fact they're so effective as to be giving me a bit of a pause for thought... I like strong characters and tend to go for first person but maybe I should give third a try...

I caught a distinct alchemical motif there, I wonder if we'll be seeing more of that.

[Acadian]

I enjoyed Arnand's flashback to his poison training. I do recall his quest relating to his wife-turned-vampire.

This has me stumped. Which game was Arnand from?

Olen, I think my words may have been confusing. I meant that I recalled from earlier in Destri's story that Arnand has set himself to a task related to the fact that his wife had been turned to vampirism. I did not mean to imply that a quest from MW or OB was involved. Forgive my poor choice of words.

This post has been edited by Acadian: Aug 3 2010, 03:02 PM

[Remko]

The last thing he felt was her fangs scrape the skin of his throat.

I just can't help but wondering.... You haven't made any hints at Arnand being a vampire but still...

[Ornamental Nonsense]

Regarding: 12th Morning Star, 2E 854
Fort Black Boot, Near Cyrodiil’s Border with Elsweyr
Dusk. a.k.a the epic battle

The throwing of wolves reminded me of ancient battles where diseased bodies were thrown into enemy cities in order to spread pestilence and whatnot. Of course, the corpses here weren't being thrown at cities, and they weren't diseased, but still, I liked your use of them. The entire scene was very well written, and the tactics extremely realistic given the Elderscrolls world. By that I mean realistic in terms of magic being included alongside melee combat. The scene with Talos emerging from his cover to charge reminded me of the early battles described in Livy's first book of Roman history. In fact, your Talos reminds me of Tullus Hostilius in this scene due to his manner and plans. Of course, your writing isn't nearly as dry as Livy's. Funny that Tullus also came to power following an interregnum...

If you haven't read them, I highly recommend Steven Saylor's novels based in ancient Rome. In particular 'Catilina's Riddle'. From what I've seen of your own writing and your interests in historically inclined topics, I think that you'll love the book. That's just a random thought on my part though.

Oh, and for some reason, I imagine that the perfect theme song for your Talos would be 'Under the Dark Span' by Jeremy Soule. Yeah, random, but the idea just came to me when I was thinking about how much I love your portrayal of the man.

[Destri Melarg]

Acadian – The thing that constantly worries me about this story is that I will lose people while trying to juggle so many characters. I never intended to tell a story this big. I just wanted to present the rise of Tiber Septim, but in the telling all of these other characters came forward and demanded that their part in the events be explored. Maybe that’s why I like to write Lattia’s chapters so much. She just sits quietly in the corner and waits patiently for me to get to her. Valdemar, on the other hand, is ticked at me because he and Alain are still slogging through the snow toward the Western Reach, and Renald has stopped speaking to me entirely because I left him and his syffim in a cave with a dragon while I explored events in Hammerfell.

SubRosa – As much as I would love to take the credit, Sage Vardengroet is lifted from this book. I never thought about how his title might be offensive to the people of High Rock, but now that you’ve raised the point I feel like I should try to incorporate that into the story somehow.

I made a few allusions to Elissa’s race in Arnand’s previous chapters, but this was the first time that she was identified as an elf. As for Arnand’s ‘death’, that was planned out ahead of time. I wanted him to accompany Lattia to Artaeum aboard the Pelladil so I had to make sure that he didn’t set sale aboard the Kynreeve.

Finally, in respect to the lore about Heart’s Day: I was hoping to find a telling of the story of the lovers, Polydor and Eloisa, but there isn’t one in any of the sources I checked. (SLIGHT SPOILER ALERT) Because of what I have planned for Lattia and Arnand, their meeting on this day is particularly auspicious.

haute – I grew up in Ohio so I saw more than my fair share of WGN (mostly to watch the Cubs lose . . . sorry). I didn’t watch a lot of the Saturday matinee because there was a movie house (not a theatre, we were very specific about that) down the street and the man who owned it screened nothing but old movies every Saturday and Sunday. I started working there on the weekends sweeping popcorn when I was ten years old (actually I did more eating popcorn than sweeping it). My weekends were filled with Errol Flynn, Cary Grant, Humphrey Bogart, Gary Cooper, Flash Gordon (the originals with Buster Crabbe which I still love, dated as they are) and Rin Tin Tin.

Olen – I think you should give third person a try, especially if you are going to explore multiple characters. As much as I love first person narrative it can be a bit too restraining for my taste. If you are going to use multiple characters I would caution you to be careful to be consistent with your viewpoint within a chapter. Third person can make the narrator omnipotent, and there is a tendency to head-hop because of it. Don’t worry though, if you do it in your own story SubRosa will be the first one to tell you.

Remko – Arnand as a vampire presents some tantalizing possibilities. The whole dream sequence was meant to be symbolic on the one hand while also being the means by which I could explore Arnand and Elissa’s past. Her fangs on his neck represents Arnand’s greatest fear.

Nonsense – Thank you for your comments, I will definitely check out the books you recommended. I just finished listening to your song choice to represent Talos. I loved it! It certainly has an Elder Scrolls feel to it (not surprising). For anyone who has not heard it you can find it here. The clip is only about ninety seconds or so. Thank you again for that, Nonsense (we really do need to give you a nickname).

My obsession with the lore prompted the writing of this story. To me the people over at Bethesda are wasting their time giving us the Oblivion Crisis when they have the makings of so many more interesting stories (and games) in the timeline that they have created.

Everyone – The next few segments are slightly longer than my usual. At long last we reach the Imperial City!

* * *

22nd Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Arena District, Imperial City
Dawn


“Do you believe the legend, Emero?”

“Pardon, Milady?” Emero pulled his eyes away from the gate leading to Green Emperor Road. Already there were too many people coming through to count. Soon the lines to get into the Arena would make movement through the district difficult. Security concerns were foremost in his mind, but he dismissed his trepidation and focused on his mistress.

Varla stood framed in the morning mist, amidst the grass and rocks of the garden. She was gazing at the giant statue of St. Alessia. More specifically, she was staring at the stone shackles encircling the statue’s ankles. “The Amulet of Kings,” she said, “do you believe the legend?”

“I believe it is an artifact of great power.”

“Yes, but one gifted by the Gods? That seems unlikely.” She left the statue and joined Emero against the low wall. Behind and below them a pair of wayward urchins swam with the sacred lotus blossoms. “The Amulet supposedly protects us from the hordes of Oblivion, yet for centuries it was lost and we were not overrun with daedra.”

Emero brushed a stray leaf from Varla’s shoulder. “It must be a condition of mortality that we believe our plane so desirable that daedra sit in wait for that moment when the barriers fade. The span of all the ages of mer means the same to them as the lifespan of the leaf I just brushed from your shoulder. Remember, your sister was permitted to enter a realm of Oblivion. That would not have happened if the Dragonfires still burned.”

Mention of Lattia pulled Varla’s eyes away from the statue’s bare feet. “I fear for her, Emero. Aran won’t hesitate to sacrifice her to get what he wants. His ambition knows neither bounds nor propriety. Lattia has never had the strength to defy him.”

“Have faith, Milady. There is more strength in your sister than she shows.” Emero looked into the marble eyes of St. Alessia, “As for the Amulet of Kings, we acknowledge that the daedra exist. Why should we shrink from the thought that the Eight Divines do as well?”

His words barely reached Varla’s ears. He could see that she was lost in the same rush of anger that she had spent the entire voyage from Balfiera suppressing. “If the Dragonfires were relit,” she said to the statue, “then the daedra would not be able to act on this plane.”

“True,” said Emero, eyeing his mistress. The folded letter in his robe seemed to gain weight. And it may have been his imagination, but it seemed as if the clouds picked that moment to obscure the rising sun. “But for that to happen, Alessia’s heir must sit the Ruby Throne. You would defy your brother to save your sister?”

Varla looked to her left, past the gate to where the giant statue of Morihaus stood armed with a sword in one hand and stone shackles in the other. “I would,” she whispered.

Emero thought upon how this could impact their plans. His eyes wandered back toward the gate. He stiffened. “Then prepare yourself, our contact has arrived.”

Varla turned toward the gate. An Altmer, resplendent in a red silk robe and heavy with gold jewelry, emerged from the gate leading to Green Emperor Road. He flinched and twisted his way through the rabble until he found a quiet corner of the steps. From there he looked around the garden as if he expected a servant to attend him. When none was forthcoming, he dragged himself across the cobblestones to where Varla and Emero waited.

“Emero,” he said, extending a limp-wrist, “it has been too long.”

Emero straightened and grasped the offered hand. He bowed before the newcomer. “Lord Farenenre, allow me to present the Lady Varla Direnni. Lord Farenenre is the Emperor’s Chief Advisor, Milady.”

Lord Farenenre reclaimed his hand and regarded Varla as one would regard an especially rare flower. “Lady Direnni,” he bowed, “I am a great admirer of your family.”

“You are too kind, My Lord.” This advises an Emperor? Varla extended her hand. Farenenre took it and held it captive in his crossed arms. He led her away from the wall. Varla noted that they wore the same scent.

“Emero tells me that you wish an audience with His Majesty.”

Varla emphasized the innocence in her voice. “We have been here for weeks without an introduction, My Lord.”

“Yes,” said Farenenre stroking her hand with his own, “the Castellan’s sister should have been presented at court. I must apologize for that, my dear. The Emperor has been indisposed these last weeks.”

Indisposed as in hiding? “Oh,” Varla covered her mouth with the fingers of her free hand, “I hope he is well?”

“Of course,” said Farenenre, “do not be troubled, Milady. His Majesty has been dealing with important matters of the Empire. You have my word, as soon as we are able, you will be presented to the court.”

Simpering fop! Varla looked around the garden. Satisfied that they were away from any prying ears she dropped all pretense of innocence. “I’m afraid ‘as soon as we are able’ is not good enough, My Lord.”

Varla raised her free hand and Emero appeared at her side. He pulled the folded letter from his robe and held it before the startled Lord. Varla took note as the look on Farenenre’s face shifted from indignation, to irritation, and finally to calculation as the light of recognition came into his eyes.

“Good,” said Varla, “you recognize the letter. I don’t think your Emperor would be happy to learn that his Chief Advisor makes routine reports to the Aldmeri Council. Cuhlecain does not seem the type who would take such news in his stride.”

Farenenre blanched and seemed to shrink by half. His voice was a whispered croak. “Where did you get that?”

Varla’s smile did not touch her eyes. “Nothing is impossible to one with wealth and patience. I have had ample opportunity to exercise both while you’ve left us waiting. I think the question that should concern you is ‘what do I plan to do with it?’”

“But you are a fellow Altmer.”

Varla laughed out loud at that. “My clan left Summerset centuries ago. We have never been welcomed back. Truthfully, I hold more allegiance to Daggerfall than I do to Alinor.”

“Please, you must not . . .”

Varla’s eyes narrowed. “Do not presume to tell me what I must and must not do, Farenenre.”

She nodded to Emero. He returned the letter to the folds of his robe and returned to his place along the wall. She turned her attention back to Farenenre.

“The Emperor is mad with suspicion,” said Farenenre, “he sees enemies all around him. That is why he remains hidden in the tower. If this letter were to reach his eyes my life would be forfeit. I beseech you, Milady.”

“We shall keep your secret,” said Varla, “and in return you shall favor us. I wish an audience with the Emperor. Today.”

_____

22nd Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Reman Plaza, Imperial City
Morning


The Dragon statue of Akatosh bore mute witness to the crowds that formed as dawn brightened into morning. Servants appeared outside the more expensive manors and walked with purpose to execute their master’s bidding. The beggars were out in force, regaling any who would listen with tragic stories of starving children, or serving in far away wars long forgotten.

A palace guard in gleaming silver armor entered through the gate to Green Emperor Road. A rolled parchment peeked from his closed left gauntlet. He fought his way through the traffic before stopping at the heavy door to the manor on the southwest corner of the plaza. At his knock the door opened, and the smell of burning skooma assailed his nostrils and caused his eyes to water. The figure who answered the door was bedecked in identical armor, complete with the addition of rank. His eyes were blinking furiously at the sunlight, and the look on his face was not one to question.

“Captain Alorius, sir,” said the Guard, holding up the parchment, “I bear a message from the Emperor.”

Alorius loomed in the doorway. Smoke wafted around him as if he stood in the fog. Behind him the room was dark and silent. He snatched the parchment and identified the Emperor’s seal.

“Dismissed,” said Alorius. The Guard sent another glance into the dark room beyond the door. He opened his mouth to speak, but the look from Alorius made him think better of it. He turned on his heel and faded into traffic. Alorius glared into the plaza for any other curious eyes, then he re-entered the manor and shut the door.

Alorius stood near the door and allowed his eyes to readjust to the darkness. Already he felt giddy from the fumes in the air. He turned his attention to the far corner of the room, and the hulking shadow that had claimed it. He mustered all the authority he could into his voice before he spoke.

“Must you continue that?”

In response he saw the tiny embers in the pipe flare anew. A low, rumbling chuckle escaped from the mass in the corner.

Filthy Nord! Alorius thought, why does the General tolerate him? He crossed the room and found the stairs by tripping over them in the dark. He righted himself with all the dignity a career soldier could muster and climbed to the second floor.

The skooma stench could not break the incense that hung in the air. Alorius’s giddiness faded as he walked, his boots silent on the thick carpet. He reached the tall oak door at the end of the hall and knocked.

“Enter,” called a voice from within.

Alorius opened the door and entered an opulent bedchamber. The smell of incense was weaker, but still noticeable. General Talos stood at the far end of the room with his back to the door, adjusting the fall of his sleeve through the arms of a black silk brocaded coat.

“Sir,” Alorius announced himself with a salute, “a message from the Emperor.”

General Talos continued to adjust his sleeves. The sound of the crackling fire in the hearth was the only thing that kept the room from silence. Alorius waited, knowing that the General had heard him, but also knowing that the General was not a man to leave any task half done.

Satisfied with his sleeve, General Talos held out his hand. Alorius crossed the room and delivered the parchment. The General unrolled the message and read.

“At last,” said General Talos, “have my uniform prepared, Captain. I’ve been summoned.”

_____

22nd Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Arcane University, Imperial City
Morning


“When planning a campaign,” said Zurin Arctus, “whether it’s against a single opponent or an army, always maintain a balance between the arcane and the mundane. Remember, a weight lifted by one hand is heavier than two weights lifted by both hands. Are there any questions?”

None of the apprentices raised a hand. The garden lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Arctus saw past the confused, eager young faces to the Palace Guard lingering near the stairs, and the rolled parchment in the Guard’s hand.

“Master Arctus,” said a small voice from the benches, “regarding the Battle of Fort Black Boot, how was there a balance maintained?”

From where he stood Arctus could not identify which apprentice had spoken, only that the voice was decidedly female. He saw the palace guard looking over the apprentices for the source of the voice. Damn the child for her timing, he thought to himself. He addressed his answer to all of them.

“Fort Black Boot has not yet been approved for study. When it is I will tell you how the balance was maintained and how it contributed to an Imperial victory. That is enough for today. I advise you all to reflect on what you have learned. Your recollection may prove vital in our next session.” Better to keep them afraid than questioning.

He stepped from the podium into the soft grass of the garden. The apprentices rose around him and moved on to other pursuits. The palace guard stepped forward.

“Master Arctus,” he said, “a message from the Emperor.” He placed the rolled parchment in Arctus’ hand, then turned on his heel and left the garden. Arctus turned the parchment in his hand and ran his finger over the Emperor’s seal. I suppose his silence couldn’t last forever. He broke the seal and read the message.

“Master?”

This time Arctus recognized the voice of the apprentice who had spoken out of turn. He turned and regarded her with a critical eye. She was small, wide-eyed, swimming in her robes, and irredeemably Breton.

“What do you wish to know, apprentice?”

“Fort Black Boot, Master,” she said, “I do not understand how you were able to balance the arcane and the mundane when the numbers were so vastly against you.”

“You forget the first disposition of war,” said Arctus. A flare spell ignited the parchment in his hand. He allowed the wind to sweep away the embers. “The moment to prepare your offense is the moment the enemy becomes vulnerable to attack.”

_____

22nd Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Palace District, Imperial City
Mid-Day


The high perched sun had burned off the morning mist and cut the shadow from White Gold Tower. Those citizens visiting the graves along Green Emperor Road were able to remove a layer of clothing in the welcome heat that hinted at winter’s end. Among the honored headstones a team of artisans bent hammer to chisel. Their labors tamed the cold marble slabs and produced from them the likenesses of past faces who had sat the Ruby Throne.

At the entrance to the Tower a harried pair of guards stood proxy for the Emperor, absorbing the threats and spittle of the sullen, pushing, murmuring crowd that gathered at the stairs.

Varla watched the crowd from a bench near the entrance. “Cuhlecain plays at a dangerous game,” she said, “each day he remains in hiding they grow angrier, and larger.”

“Even when we are summoned it will not be easy to pass through those doors in full view of the crowd,” said Emero. “We may be forced to make other arrangements.”

Varla nodded her agreement. Her eyes wandered to the artisans reproducing the face of Reman II. “He goes to great lengths to associate himself with the line of Dragon Emperors, when he could remove all doubt by simply donning the Amulet of Kings.”

“I do not believe that there is anything simple about donning that particular piece of jewelry.”

“Perhaps not,” said Varla, “but even an inept ruler would know enough to create a fake that he could wear in public to sate the superstitious masses. It would quell any rumors about Talos and his claim of dragon blood.”

“Would this be the same Talos that you now plan on aiding?”

Varla’s look would have given a Minotaur pause. “You forget yourself, old man. I am no longer your student.”

“No, Milady,” said Emero, “you long ago surpassed my teachings.”

He returned his attention to the crowd. Frustration with and proximity to the seat of power within the new Empire was causing the volume of their shouts to rise with the day’s heat.

Varla’s patience gave way; her voice was punctuated by the ring of an artisan’s hammer. “Speak your mind, Emero. Do not punish me with silence.”

“Very well, Milady,” said Emero, “I was wondering how this new course of action affects our impending audience with the Emperor.”

“It doesn’t,” said Varla, “I came here for the purpose of removing Cuhlecain from the Ruby Throne. That has not changed. It is simply a matter of deciding who should replace him.”

“Does that mean that I should turn my investigations from the Battlemage to the General?”

Varla’s brow furrowed, she absently bit down on her lower lip. “No,” she said, “continue looking into the Battlemage’s affairs. Whichever direction this goes, I will need his loyalty.”

“The Battlemage is crafty, and his network of spies is impressive. Cuhlecain is not the only one who plays at a dangerous game, Milady.”

Before Varla could answer, a surge in the crowd announced the emergence of a retinue of palace guards from the Tower. Their drawn weapons caused the throng to retreat from the stairs and reform into two smaller groups on opposite sides of the entrance. The captain of the guard marched down the stairs and past the angry mob, now held in check by the threat of his naked blade. He stopped at the bench before Varla and Emero. He sheathed his weapon and held himself erect before he spoke.

“The Emperor will see you now,” he said.

This post has been edited by Destri Melarg: Aug 10 2010, 11:16 PM

[Captain Hammer]

An excellent installment. I take note of two particular parts of the story that I find most enjoyable.

First, Varla's decision to aid Talos against her brother's plots, so as to save her sister.

Secondly, and more impressively, the dynamic that is embodied by none other than Talos himself, his ambition, Zurin Arctus, and the role that Ysmir Wulfarth plays in the rise of Tiber Septim. You take the premise of the Arcturian Heresy, and flesh it out into a great piece of writing.

[SubRosa]

What is the story of Polydor and Eloisa? All I have ever been able to find is a tiny blurb in the Daggerfall holidays.


yet for centuries it was lost and we were not overrun with daedra.
I have always wondered about that. I suppose it is because Bethesda only pulled it out of their english ship when they did Oblivion, and not surprisingly ignored all the history they had put down before.


past the gate to where the giant statue of Morihaus stood armed with a sword in one hand and stone shackles in the other.
That is Morihaus? I thought he was a cosmic bull?


An excellent installment. I have always liked political thrillers, and this is most certainly that. Especially exciting is Varla's intention of betraying her brother Aran for the sake of her sister. The visceral side of me says "you go girl!", while the writer in me finally sees elements of plot coming into shape. Varla offing Ryan (or otherwise neutralizing him) and backing Talos. That explains why the timeline mentions High Rock offering no serious resistance to Talos' conquests (only Hammerfell), which Ryan clearly intends to make.

Most delicious is at the end we see Talos, Zurin Arctus, and Varla all converging upon the Imperial Palace (and to a chance meeting?) all due to none other than Cuchelian himself. How ironic!

btw. I have my eyes peeled for an unopened bottle of flin...

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Aug 7 2010, 09:46 PM

[Acadian]

What a rich morning in the Imperial City! Lots of intrigue here. As always, your description and dialogue are simply amazing.


POV question for you. You seem to be writing with a consistent POV within each scene of this episode, yet it seems to perhaps change within your first scene. Your writing is so darn good, that I like to study it. I suspect my confusion stems from my inablility to understand something. On one hand, it seems the scene is from Emero's POV, as evidenced by these examples:

Security concerns were foremost in his mind, but he dismissed his trepidation and focused on his mistress.

The folded letter in his robe seemed to gain weight. And it may have been his imagination, but it seemed as if the clouds picked that moment to obscure the rising sun.

Emero thought upon how this could impact their plans. His eyes wandered back toward the gate. He stiffened. “Then prepare yourself, our contact has arrived.”

But, I'm not quite sure because of these passages seem to reflect Varla's perspective. . . or does Emero just know her so well that he can pick up on her likely thoughts by her actions?

Thoughts of Lattia pulled Varla’s eyes away from the statue’s bare feet.

His words barely reached Varla’s ears. She was lost in the same rush of anger that she had spent the entire voyage from Balfiera suppressing.