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Posted by: Captain Hammer Dec 29 2009, 06:32 AM

Author’s Note: What follows is the story based on my TES IV: Oblivion character. I decided to write this when, after reading Infernal City, I realized that my first fanfic had just been torpedoed. Additionally, I felt that yet another Morrowind fanfic would pale in the presence of some of the other, very well-written pieces on this site (Black Hand, Treydog, I’m looking at you). Any and all differences not found accessible in the vanilla game are based on too great a number of mods for me to effectively list here. Enjoy.

I was dreaming again. But this was different. A man stood alone in the dark, the sole source of light coming from the massive ruby on his chest. I had been through the legions, I knew both by sight, if not by heart. The Emperor and the Amulet. He turned, as if to face me, and words I barely heard and registered filled my head. Something about dreams and rule, reigning and sleeping and dying. The vision shifted, to what I knew to be a view of the planes of Oblivion. Daedra, angry and armed, marched towards a glowing portal, a massive machine moving behind them on insect like legs. As they approached the gate, I felt the malicious presence that guided them. Even as they began to enter the portal, the view collapsed into a storm and fog. It faded to white, and when the misty haze cleared I was looking down at the Imperial City as though I were some spirit, the massive tower of the Imperial Palace before me. I seemed to float—no, fly—in and circled around the different districts of the city. As I flew, the emperor’s voice came in again, this time clearer. He said the date, and then something I will never forget. He told me that the Third Era was ending, and that it would be the last day of his life. Almost immediately, I could hear the Imperial Fanfare swell up, the noise odd, but strangely comforting. As I flew around the city, I left on a tangent, arcing out to head in a straight line towards the window of a small cell on the island that held the Imperial Prison. My cell…

I sat up, breathing hard. For a while I had forgotten where I was, but looking around I recalled vividly the events that had brought me here, the odd images of the dream temporarily set aside. I was Awtwyr Draghoyn, Breton, Champion (ret.) of the Eighth Imperial Legion, Hammerfell and Morrowind Tours. My life story prior to this was as dull as one could imagine. I had been born in my people’s home of High Rock, to a farming family, first of four children. After me came a sister, then a brother, and then another sister. Gwen, the elder, had married off at eighteen, my younger brother Roland had chosen to continue with the family’s farm, and my youngest sister Bethany was probably just now being courted by the eligible young men from the local villages. My father had always remarked that being the eldest made me grow up the fastest, and like his elder brother, who was my favorite uncle, I decided to make something of myself in the Legions.

I spent two tours of duty in service, found out that I made a decent navigator when sailing, and managed to acquire the basic skills in both heavy and light armor, swordsmanship, blocking, blacksmithing, marksmanship, and athletic conditioning to make me generally fit for service. Those eight years had been spent hunting bandits, hunting deer for the officers’ table, and “expanding the protection of the Empire” whenever a minor noble started making enough trouble for his liege-lord to call us in. The first re-up for duty meant a nice pay increase and better choice of tasks. A second one was out of the question. I wasn’t what they called “partial to the necessities of knighthood,” which meant that even though I had fighting skills, I had little skills in the politics of the service, and they knew that too much of my leave time had been spent studying magic, a field that was always in my focus. Bretons and High Elves will always argue about who makes a better mage. But I was determined to prove, at least to myself, that a properly trained Breton would be able to not only make the best Altmer go the distance, but that in the end the Breton would win.

Once I got out, I visited home, and realizing that there was little for me by way of employment or marriage prospects (I was just shy of my twenty-fourth name-day, and all eligible women in that small town were either young or ugly), I headed off to that great bastion of all that I had fought for: the capital. When I got there, I rented a room at the King and Queen Inn, and spent a week touring the city, eyeing the baubles in the market, wagering away almost a fifth of my accumulated pay at the arena, and seeing if I could reignite some form of piety when visiting the temple district.

But all good things, it seemed, must come to an end. After a week, I had grown less satisfied with the city, and in a great way, with myself. I had been drinking progressively more and more each night, and on that fateful night, I heard somebody make a remark about my kind that I didn’t take too kindly. I wasn’t much of a brawler, but I went at him anyways, aiming my right hand straight across his jaw. He staggered back, was caught by one of his friends, and before I knew it I was facing a couple of pissed off Dunmer, with a big Nord standing next to me angry about something that one of the aforementioned Dark Elves had thrown. Based on the flecks of clay in his hair, I assumed that a mug aimed at me had gone stray from the alcohol-induced aim. I nodded to my sudden ally, and went low, he high. My target saw it coming, and rushed to meet me. But I was a trained Legion soldier, and had made friends easy enough in the unofficial boxing matches that the officers didn’t look for too carefully. As he dove at me, I smashed my knee into the ashborn’s face, hooked my right arm around him, and leveraged my body and left arm to flip him up, over, and straight into the stone floor.

I turned to try and help my ally, only to feel five strong arms pull me back and shove me to the ground. I recognized the technique, I could do it myself, and the steel behind the wrestling movement confirmed what I was dealing with. The Imperial City Guard. Despite the alcohol, I knew trouble when it hit me. I looked up to see about six men break up the remaining combatants and sit everybody down. Then a man in the silver and white finery of a captain came in, looking at us all with the strong jawline of a poster boy for the law. “I am Captain Hieronymous Lex,” he said with that voice of enforced authority. “I want to know what happened here.”

After several people came forward to identify that I had started the brawl, Lex turned to question me. I identified myself, and claimed that I was merely defending my honor. “In the Legion, somebody insulted your blood, the captain would let the men settle it themselves. I’m not a man for letting things slide.”

“Well, citizen, you’re not a soldier now, this isn’t the legion depot, and these others aren’t trained fighters. You can’t hold your drink, you should maybe look for another place to stay. Meanwhile, you’ve cost me and my men valuable time. I had information that the Grey Fox was in the city tonight, and now I’m spending my time dealing with you. Do You Have Any Idea WHAT YOU’VE COST ME?!?!?” Lex was getting himself red in the face.

I couldn’t but help the reply. “You know most people accept the fact that the Grey Fox is just a myth, right? That’s what common sense says, anyway.” That was a mistake on my part.

“I will not tolerate this type of insurrection! You show disgrace to your comrades and your colors! I’m placing you under arrest for disturbing the peace, drunk and disorderly conduct, and inciting violent mayhem. You want to come easy, or do we drag you out by your heels?" Lex looked ready, as though I had personally killed his mother. But then I realized that killing his mother might not have been as harmful to him as taking away his chance at fame.

“I’ll go quiet,” I said.

They half-escorted me, half-carried me through the city towards the prison. It wasn’t my fault, I had taken a few nasty blows, and that combined with the alcohol promised to make my steps falter. When they got me to the cells, they had trouble with the locks on a few, finally deciding to throw me into the one that seemed least used, and never once cleaned. They handed me a foul concoction, one that restored my health but left me drained of strength, shackled my arms, and left, talking about moving me out first thing in the morning to go before the Imperial Justice. Across from me was a Dark Elf, who looked to have made this his long term residence. I ignored him, climbed into my bunk, and went to sleep.

When my dream had woken me, I stood, feeling slightly better. The sun had risen and was already at midday, which meant that the guards had not taken me before the magistrate that morning. I stretched, and the Dark Elf gestured to me, asking me to move closer. I shuffled up to the bars, and he promptly launched into a stream of invectives at getting a better look at me. Something about being his sworn enemy and me staying while he would get out to enjoy the world again. I suppose now would be as good a time to describe myself as any. I was taller than many a Breton, and between that and the brownish-red hair that graced my head I knew myself to have some amount of Nord blood in me. My eyes were the bright grey-green of my father, my hair and expression that of his father, and my mother had often said that when I scowled, my entire jaw could have matched her father. Thus, I was pretty much guaranteed that my father was indeed my father, with the same holding true for my grandfathers, a true-born peasant of true-born peasants.

As the Dark Elf continued his rant, the doors at the end of the hall opened, and an Imperial male and Breton female in ornate, steel battle armor with an Akivir Katana came to my cell. Apparently, neither I, nor anybody else, was supposed to be in that cell, but there I was. I was ordered back underneath the window, and knowing a superior swordsman when I saw the Imperial's grip on his own blade, I backed off. He could have killed me if he wished it. Once I was safely back, he opened the cell door, and steeped forward to prevent me from moving. Behind him came the other armored figure, escorting an aged man in purple robes…Emperor Uriel Septim the Seventh, Ruler of all Tamriel.


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Author's Post Script: Any and all comments or recommendations are welcome. Criticisms, especially stuff missed by a spell-checker, are appreciated.

Posted by: ureniashtram Dec 30 2009, 08:03 PM

`Tis a very good opening, Capt'n. Especially when Lex's face got red when Awtwyr says the Gray Fox is but an urban legend in front of his face. Anyways, please give us an update soon, Cap'tn.

Posted by: Captain Hammer Dec 31 2009, 08:22 AM

The two members of the Blades (who else was issued Akaviri arms and armor) walked in, the Imperial carefully keeping himself between me and Emperor Septim. The female addressed him as Glenroy, which I realized was his name. She went over to the space where my stone bunk sat, and moved a hidden switch. The panel of the wall slid down, revealing a long tunnel, and the emperor came forward. As he passed, he saw me in the light of the window, and when he did, he came up to me, pushing Glenroy aside by just a few inches.

“You ... I've seen you. Let me see your face...you are the one from my dreams...then the stars were right, and this is the day. Gods give me strength,” he said.

“What’s going on?” I asked. I had heard his questions of the other two about his sons, and his resignation to their deaths. Already this man was carrying pain.

“Assassins attacked my sons, and I'm next. My Blades are leading me out of the city along a secret escape route. By chance, the entrance to that escape route leads through your cell.”

I couldn’t help but ask “Why am I in this jail-cell?”

“Perhaps the Gods have placed you here so that we may meet,” came his reply. “As for what you have done...it does not matter. That is not what you will be remembered for.”

“What should I do?” I asked. To the left of me led escape, freedom…and probably a bounty on my head so large that I would never be able to settle for long. And yet the emperor again provided me with an answer.

“You will find your own path. Take care... there will be blood and death before the end.” He then turned, and followed the female down the tunnel. Glenroy paused, but followed as well, and the Redguard, the one they had addressed as Baurus, brought up the rear.

As they entered, they discussed, and decided not to close the path. Baurus motioned me to follow, calling it my lucky day. And then, with the simple pronouncement of the words, the emperor pardoned me of ‘any crimes,’ as if undoing all that Lex had said the night before. We came to an unused section of the sewers, and as we walked, armored forms in black and red came out of nowhere, attacking the Blades that had just barely managed to intercept them. They fought, and I stayed back and out of the way. I was a soldier, trained to use armor and swords, and my disastrous exit from the King and Queen Tavern had shown me that I wasn’t made for a bare-knuckles brawl.

Baurus and Glenroy finished off the last assassin, and returned to the emperor’s side. He asked about the other, a ‘Captain Renault,’ but Baurus just shook his head, and told him that she was dead. I went over to the body, and retrieved her katana, the shortsword she had carried as a secondary weapon, and the torch she had carried. I figured that I might need them, and Baurus just gave me a cool gaze, but said nothing.

We came to another gate, and here the emperor turned to me and bade me farewell. “Here you must find your own path. But we will cross paths before the end, I am sure of it.” The guards were clearly agitated about letting me follow them further, and I waited while they went through, locking the gate behind me. But as they went forward, Uriel spoke again, softly. “This is only the beginning. Worse is yet to come.”

As I watched the light from their torches fade, I stepped back to take stock of where I was. The way back was open, but how would I look, walking back into my cell with the personal sword of a Blade at my side, her dead body in the tunnel that shouldn’t lead from my cell? The only hope was to go onward. I was, after all, now a free man. But no sooner had the thoughts flitted through my mind, then the wall to my right crumbled as rats came through, hungry, and looking directly at me.

That was their mistake. I cut the first one out of the air, and then sidestepped, allowing the second to leap past me before I turned and slashed open its midsection, its blood leaking out in two seconds. Beyond the ruined wall was a short tunnel and a door to a lost set of cavern passages. I had my escape, or at least I hoped I did. I entered, thankful for the torch, keeping the light away from me to see past the torch flames in the darkness of the caves. I had no need of ruining my vision now. Forward I went, slowly to catch the sounds of other occupants. Those rats had been hungry but not emaciated, which meant that they had been driven through the passage not because of a lack of food, but because others had claimed the territory that they were unable to stay and hunt on. I would not be the only thing in the tunnel system. And though the rocks and dirt had not the sharp imprints of an armored boot’s instep, I could see more than just the rat’s faint tracks. Unbidden, another cold thought came to mind. The assassins had been able to get to the emperor, through his supposedly own secret passage. They might have stumbled upon this path as well.

I did not have long to wait before I met more of the rats. I would cut one open when I could sneak up on it, or failing that, cast the minor flare spell at the rats that the Legions had made us learn to be able to start a fire in conditions where tinder was absent or the wind prevents a spark from catching. Not to mention that it made a useful signal. After the rats, I encountered a goblin, confirming my suspicions about bigger things down here. The goblins were probably the most troublesome of the lot, since they had a small measure of mean intelligence to back their natural ferocity. At least the undead were only reacting to whatever senseless drive had imbued them when they had been raised.

Shortly into the tunnel, I found a few pieces of armor, some of fur, some leather, and some of worn iron. I donned the iron first, the lighter pieces on after noting what was missing, and stowing the rest in a sack that was lying nearby. I found a bow as well, in generally the same condition as the armor, and a rusty iron longsword, a blade that might do if I needed it, but was significantly inferior to the katana or the shortsword. I was able to round out my foraging with arrows and a few potions. Onward I went, cutting down enemies in the name of myself, my survival, and the hopes of getting out alive.

I continued on, meeting what was probably my closest brush with death when I encountered two goblins, one of which was a rather irate shaman. Dodging the lightning spells coming from his staff was made ever more difficult by the efforts of the brawler hassling my side, until I managed to move the melee combatant into the line of fire, so to speak, taking the brunt of the damage whilst giving me a chance to run it through. Taking out the shaman was a simple matter of strafing the lightning until I got close enough to smash his staff back into his own face. As he recoiled I stepped forward with my left foot, twisting my body to drive the katana at the goblin’s unprotected shoulder. The blade glanced off bone, and another set of swift cuts tore open its throat, ending its life. I took the staff, hoping I didn’t have need of it too soon.
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As always, comments are appreciated, criticism welcomed, and jokes accepted (with witty replies forthcoming from me).

Posted by: Captain Hammer Dec 31 2009, 09:06 PM

Author's Note: I had a rather productive night of writing. Thought I'd finish it out to have the whole sewer sequence out of the way.

Beyond that, the door opened into another section of the sewers beneath the island. I crept forward slowly, hearing voices that became clear as I approached. The first was a Redguard’s, the second the aged sonorous voice of the emperor. The first words I understood came from Baurus, “…at was all of them. Let me take a look around.”

“Have you seen the prisoner?” asked the emperor, referring to me.

“Do you think he followed us? How could he?” asked Baurus.

“I know he did” was all that the emperor said.

Glenroy cut in. “Sire, we have to go now.”

“Not yet. Let me rest a moment longer.” I could hear the fatigue in the emperor’s voice. I looked around, and noted there wasn’t a chance for me to get out any other way. I was no master of the school of illusion, and the only visible means of exit would take me past the emperor and his Blades.

It seemed, however, that in looking for the exit, I had allowed Glenroy to see me. “Dammit, it's that prisoner again! Kill him, he might be working with the assassins,” he shouted at Baurus.

“No.” Uriel’s voice was quiet, but still impressively audible. He had a hand on Glenroy’s arm, restraining the over-eager guard. “He is not one of them. He can help us. He must help us.” As he spoke, he fixed me with a look of understanding. The same look he had given me in my dream.

Glenroy mumbled an “As you wish, Sire,” before stepping away.

Uriel Septim VII did nothing but beckon me towards him. “Come closer,” he said quietly. “I’d prefer not to have to shout.” I approached, conscious of the sword but not my newfound armor. “They cannot understand why I trust you. They've not seen what I've seen. How can I explain? Listen. You know the Nine? How they guide our fates with an invisible hand?” He asked me in earnest. I wish I could have replied the same way.

“I don’t know. I don’t think about it, Sire. I was a soldier, not paid to reason why.”

He fixed me with the look my grandfather had once used on me, when I had first spoke of joining the legions, filled with a fourteen-year-old’s dreams of glory and fame. “I've served the Nine all my days, and I chart my course by the cycles of the heavens.” He spoke with the voice of a teacher, as though lecturing at a school “The skies are marked with numberless sparks, each a fire, and every one a sign. I know these stars well, and I wonder... which sign marked your birth?”

This took me aback, but I responded easily. “What about me? The Mage. Not much use for a soldier, but I can no more change that the color of my eyes.”

“Today the Mage shall light your way of the paths of glory,” he said, with all the confidence of an astronomer, and the distance of the only legitimate soothsayer I had ever known.

I couldn’t help but then ask him “Can you see my fate?”

He shook his head slightly. “My dreams grant me no opinions of success. Their compass ventures not beyond the doors of death. But in your face, I behold the sun's companion. The dawn of Akatosh's bright glory may banish the coming darkness. With such hope, and with the promise of your aid, my heart must be satisfied.” He smiled ruefully, as if considering some bitter thought.

I looked around, hoping for a better sense of what was happening, what would happen. “Where are we going?” I asked.

“I go to my grave. A tongue shriller than all the music calls me. You shall follow me yet for a while, then we must part.” He spoke with such calm, such candor. He knew, on some deep level, that his death was near.

“Aren’t you afraid to die?” I asked. What would you have done? Before me stood the highest authority in Tamriel, and he spoke of his coming death in a way that even suicidal soldiers never spoke. I had seen them before. Men who volunteered for the tough assignments, accepting without bravado or question. They were the ones that always ordered men behind them, the ones always ready to stay behind. The emperor was nothing like that.

“No trophies of my triumphs precede me. But I have lived well, and my ghost shall rest easy. Men are but flesh and blood. They know their doom, but not the hour. In this I am blessed to see the hour of my death... To face my apportioned fate, then fall.” Before I could reply, Baurus came and offered me another torch to illuminate the path. I took it, but stowed it, keeping the shield in my left hand. Glenroy motioned us forward, and Uriel began walking, but half turned to face me. “Come with us,” he said, “Your destiny is bound up with mine, and with the fate of Tamriel itself.”

What could I say, and what could I do but follow? Little else enough, it turned out. I followed them forward a ways, only for another ambush of assassins to hit us out of the shadows. Baurus and Glenroy showed me just why they had become the emperor’s personal guards, and even Uriel had his sword out to strike down one of the figures covered in black and red summoned armor. I dropped two, consciously aware of the fact that I was now protecting my emperor, who expected to die anyways. After that, and seeing the broken status of my shield, I decided to carry the torch as Baurus had suggested, giving them the light to see and prevent another sneak attack from getting too close.

We finally made it to another room, but the exit was barred from the other side, and no sooner did the guards realize this then another wave of assassins attacked us. There was a small area to the side where the walls created a choke point that one or two people could defend, and the Blades pushed Uriel Septim and I towards it with instructions for me to guard the emperor while they tried to open the escape and cut down the assassins.

After I fought and killed two of the assassins, there was a lull. I could hear Baurus and Glenroy fighting more of our enemies, but for the moment the emperor and I had peace. I felt his hand grasp my shoulder, and I turned to face him. “I can go no further,” he said. “You alone must stand against the Prince of Destruction and his mortal servants. He must not have the Amulet of Kings! Take the Amulet. Give it to Jauffre. He alone knows where to find my last son. Find him, and close shut the jaws of Oblivion.”

For some reason, I dreaded my next words, but the forced themselves past lips anyway. “Your Amulet? Then this is ‘Goodbye’?” I asked.

“This is where my journey ends. For you though, the road is long and dangerous. Now, give me your hand.” I dropped the torch in my left hand, and offered it to my emperor. He brought his hand to his chest, and drew off the Amulet of Kings, placing the Red Diamond gem and fine gold chain in my hand. No sooner had he done so then a panel of wall behind him rose, and an assassin with sword at the ready lept at us. The emperor must have seen my eyes go wide. That instant will stay with me forever. I felt him close my hand over the Amulet, and push me back just a step. He half-stepped, half turned, and looked straight into the eyes of his killer as the blade went into him.

But even as Uriel Septim VII died, my hand was coming around, the katana of Captain Renault cutting at the weak point of the armor’s neck. The assassin tried to move to block it, but the blade was caught in the purple of the robes, and even as the arm was brought up, the steel of the Akaviri sword cut into the neck of my liege’s killer. I felt the body collapse, the weight tugging the blade free from my hand. Behind me I heard shouts, and an armored fighter approaching. I drew the shortsword, and turned to find Baurus, bloody, and alone.

He saw me, holding the amulet, and looked past me, horror dawning on his face as his mind tried to tell him that the emperor was dead, the assassin crumpled with a katana half buried in its throat. “The emperor…” he said, looking. Then he turned his attention back to me. “The Amulet of Kings, you hold it. Why…?” the question died on his lips.

“He gave it to me,” I replied, the sudden rush of battle dying on me. “He said find the last heir, take the Amulet to Jauffre. Who is this Jauffre?”

“Jauffre? He is the grandmaster of our order. If the emperor was referring to another heir, then Jauffre would know more about that than anyone. The emperor clearly entrusted you with this task. Go to Weynon Priory. Here,” he took out a map, new and only marked with the cities of Cyrodiil, and marked the spot where the priory stood.

“What about Glenroy?” I asked.

Baurus just shook his head. At his side hung a second katana. I reached for the one I had used, but he stopped me. “That belongs in a place of honor. Those moves of yours, though, I’ve seen similar attacks, similar postures. You’re a Scout, right?”

“No. I’m a legionnaire, trained as a Skirmisher. Though I’ve dabbled in the magical fields,” I offered by way of explanation.

Baurus nodded. “Here,” he gave me a key, old and complex, “This key will get you through the rest of the sewers. I’ll stay to guard the emperor’s body until the watch comes, they’ll be here in the morning. The emperor pardoned you, and I’ll communicate that to the magistrate. You’ll be free to get to Weynon Priory. May the Nine guide you.”

I placed the amulet in an inside pocket, tucked beneath one of the iron plates of the armor. I was able to get the shield into working quality, setting off through the sewers to deal with more rats, and a few more goblins. I soon made it to the final grate, exiting into the late day sunlight, the massive structure of the Imperial City behind me. I briefly debated going to retrieve my items in the morning, but realized the futility. Pardoned of my crimes I might be, but the retrieval of my meager belongings, likely already tallied and up for auction to pay for the expenses of jailing me, would cost more to me than twice their total worth. Instead, I opened up the map, and in the better light I was able to see my destination.

Weynon Priory. It was nestled just beneath Chorrol, likely built on the foothills south of the city. I took out the Amulet of Kings, held it, and contemplated my choices. Slowly, I realized that I had only one real choice. A choice for the man I had known for less than three hours. A choice...for the Emperor.
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Same as before, comments and criticisms are asked for, and likely to be required before this goes much further.

Posted by: ureniashtram Jan 4 2010, 07:37 PM

Very, very nice, man. I like it. Well, hope you give some of us an update, ok.

Posted by: Captain Hammer Jan 4 2010, 09:37 PM

"Some of us?" Dude, so far you're the only one that's indicated to me that they're reading it. It's akin to "giving one of us an update, ok." deal.

I have to wait to make sure I don't get so far ahead of this thing that people who might be on vacation right now come back and find an impossibly long, continuing fanfic about the good ol' Champion of Cyrodiil.

Posted by: Olen Jan 5 2010, 05:18 PM

Good stuff. I am reading now but your right, a lot of people will be afk for whatever reason over the holidays. I imagine interest will pick up though.

I like it, you're managing it well, it's very close to the cannon but you're injecting enough of the character to keep it fresh. So good stuff and you didn't linger too long on the tutorial which is also good.

My main criticism would be that there is a lack of imagery (metaphors etc) which, while not wrong, does limit you somewhat in my opinion. You might want to try a few well placed ones to enrich your description quickly and effectively. Saying that the writing is good and has a variety of sentence structures and lengths etc.

Good stuff.

Posted by: Protector152 Jan 6 2010, 01:08 AM

97 views says people are reading it, most of us just won't comment. this is because either we can't see anything that needs improving or becaus we don't consider ourselves qualifide to give feedback.

Posted by: ureniashtram Jan 6 2010, 04:19 AM

Protector152 says it all. Yes, I might be the only one commenting on your story, but that doesn't mean I'm only one enjoying it. 'Sides, the only reason I said 'some of us' is because I intended to, y'know, make the other readers comment on your wonderful story, unlike mine, however. Well, hope you update soon.

Posted by: Captain Hammer Jan 6 2010, 06:30 PM

Fine, fine, fine. Naggers. Sheesh, I try to wait to make sure I don't get accused of charging ahead before most people get back from their holiday plans, and now it's like all of the Chorrol.com forum-users have suddenly turned into a swarm of Xivilai and Valkynaz all desperate to rip my heart out play soccer with my fine, red-haired, beautiful Breton face.

Expect something later tonight/early tomorrow morning-ish.

Posted by: Protector152 Jan 7 2010, 02:18 PM

i have yet to find a good story that i stop reading just becaus i have 3 or 4 pages to catch up on.

Posted by: minque Jan 8 2010, 07:18 PM

You're right, ppl are reading it and so they should, because this is a good piece of work!

On a side-note I consider myself qualified to give feedback, even though it's not so many times...RL takes its tribute out of me...

Posted by: Captain Hammer Jan 9 2010, 03:01 AM

PLACEHOLDER!!!

Sorry 'bout the delay, guys and gals. Some days you have inspiration, and some days you wake up to find Boethiah standing above you, beating a headache into you capable of stopping Malacath. I've had the latter.

Posted by: Captain Hammer Apr 21 2010, 06:47 AM

And...I'm back. Sorry this took so long, but telling that story might actually take longer than finishing this. So you get the story, and must accept the mystery.

Having found myself outside, the sun setting and the Amulet of Kings pressing me in a most disconcerting manner, I chose the most sensible action possible for any recently released prisoner that had just looted the Imperial Sewers: I headed for the Imperial Market. Luckily, getting in through the outside gate was less of an issue than I feared, but given the quick cursory glances of the guards, I realized that I was currently only the last in a long line of adventurers in rusty armor looking to make an extra coin or two.

I managed to get to the armorers first, and after turning over a few pieces of spare armor, I managed to acquire a new iron cuirass, in much better condition than the piece of junk I had been wearing. Calling it a cuirass was a bit of a misnomer. During my tour in Morrowind which lasted till just after the Blight crisis, standard legion armor utilized separate pauldrons that were worn strapped into the cuirass itself. In the intervening years, Colovian armorers had started using a hauberk as the basis for torso protection. The concept was based off Dwemer armor found in un-touched ruins, wherein the shoulder and upper arm pieces were linked directly to the breastplate, and chain reinforcing extended into the gauntlet to protect the elbow. Now, when one wore a higher-end cuirass, the inner fit was a complete chainmail piece that extended down to the wrists, with plate extending from the upper arms to the neckline, and segmented plates over the torso extending to faulds for hip protection. So, while it was an integrated hauberk, cuirass, and set of pauldrons, the common reference was “cuirass” for most business transactions. Even the light armor and lower end materials were similarly termed, though the heavy iron was really just plates on the arms and the light stuff was either chain mesh or animal-skin. If you wanted the older model, you would have had to ask for it specifically. The newer styles had gained popularity for a reason, first and foremost being the greater protection and ease of wear.

With my iron, steel, and leather, coupled with several potions of restorative effects, I made my way out towards the old bridge that lead west over Lake Rumare. I was lost myself in the throng of people exiting the city, most headed to the various farmsteads and villages where a great deal of the crops that supported the city were grown. However, at the foot of the bridge was both an inn and a small farmhouse, and the decreasing daylight prompted me to take a room at the inn for a night. I hadn’t been a ranger, and the scouts of the Legions were a proud bunch. I spoke to the publican, Nerussa, and for 10 gold I had a bed for the night, and some modest amount of security.

I woke the next morning before the sun came up, gathered what possessions I had, and headed downstairs to acquire some food for my journey and settle my bill. Once this was finished, I headed out, noticing the slow trickle of farmers and merchants already headed in to the city proper. Nearly all were different from the ones I had seen yesterday, but that was to be expected. Growing up, my father had only gone into town on the days after bringing in a harvest to sell our surplus, or when he needed to transact business. We lived close enough for my siblings and I to take advantage of the education offered by the Temple, but other than that we spent most days on our farm.

Out on a small dock on the lake was an elderly Breton watching the water. I waved as I passed by, but he turned and came towards me, obviously wanting to talk. “Good morning, sir. Hope the day is greeting you well.” I tried to be polite as possible, as I did have a job to do but didn’t want to offend the man.

“Good morning to you too, lad. Aelwin Merowald. I was just thinking about me and the past. You know, stranger, there comes a time in every man’s life when he has to admit that he’s lost the fight. Well, I’ve fought and I’ve lost. Who did I lose to? Who is my great enemy? Well, don’t laugh... it’s a bunch of damn fish.” He smiled grimly, the face of a man who had struggled and been defeated by the circumstances of the world around him. He needed help, but damn his pride, he was loathe to ask.

Proceeding from here meant I had to tread carefully. I wanted to help the man, but I couldn’t be too eager or he’d brush me off. My voice level, I asked, directly but with the deference an apprentice shows to a master craftsmen, “Fish? I know they can get to be violent, but is there any way I can help you?”

Aelwin seemed to have lost me a moment, possibly taking my earnest for insult. “Go on and lau... Wait. Help? Well, then... I’m a fisherman. Or at least, I was. Until one of those slaughterfish damn near took my leg off. I was collecting their scales, see. I had a contract with this young alchemist. You wouldn’t believe what he was paying for those scales! Then last month, one of the bastards got a hold of my leg. Took me right out of business. But this alchemist, he needs the scales right away. The alchemist was paying so much for the scales that I’m close to having enough saved so I can retire. But now, I can’t get out there to the lake - - not with this leg. I only needed twelve more scales! Can you believe it? I was so close! I’ve picked up a few things in my travels. If you head out there and bring me back the twelve scales that I need, I can make it worth your time. Help an old fisherman out, won’t you?”

Slaughterfish? Scales? I knew they could be useful, but slaughterfish scales normally weren’t in the category of ‘high value items.’ But, the request was simple enough, so I figured I might be able to help the old fisherman. “I’d be happy to help. What do I need to do?”

“I need twelve more samples of scales from the Lake Rumare variety of slaughterfish. They’re localized in the waters under the bridge, though they spread out when feeding. Look for the golden shimmer, that’s them.” He showed me a leftover sample from a previous catch, and I could see what he was talking about. Most slaughterfish had scales that let them blend in with their aquatic environment. These were a bright gold that would stand out in the sunlight. Which probably helped explain their rarity. Predators that can’t catch prey don’t last very long.

I dove in, heedless of the extra weight of the armor, and spotted my first target. I had left the sword and archery equipment on the shore, instead using a dagger to make the quicker slashes needed to kill the swift yet frail creatures. After the first few, I had to get back to shore, regaining my breath and applying the small level healing to recover from their wounds.

“Smart, lad. Take care of yourself as soon as possible, otherwise you’ll end up like me.” Aelwin beamed down as I handed over the first four sets of scales. “Looks like I only need about eight more.” I nodded, mopping the water from my hair and working the armor off me. The weight was only slowing me down, and slaughterfish went for fingers, or one’s ears and eyes. I needed speed more than torso protection from the small fetchers. Once I had got my breath, back into the drink I went. This time I had the easier time, though I was ranging so far I might as well have circled the whole city. At least I still had my Legion training. Athleticism was important for any soldier. Horses couldn’t carry an army, the maintenance is too high. So instead, we train to run and jog and swim in armor and out, to be ready to move at a moment’s notice. Eventually, after a second trip back to rest (I hadn’t been drilling in the past months since my discharge, couldn’t be helped), I managed t haul in the last three sets of scales. I handed them over, and turned to find my armor dried and set aside for me.

Aelwin smiled as he took the last set of scales. “I'm looking forward to my retirement – long days in the stable with the horses, long mornings in bed, and best of all; no more fish! Here, have this. Hope you find it useful in your travels.” It was a ring, called ‘the Jewel of the Rumare,’ and had enchantments to boost athletics and allow me to breathe underwater. Useful effects, especially for the traveler like myself.

I got my armor and assorted gear back in place, and as I was about to take my leave of Weye, a lady on a black horse came thundering up from the bridge. “Hear ye, hear ye. Emperor and sons assassinated! Exclusive coverage in the Black Horse Courier!” She stopped briefly at the door to the inn, handed over a few copies of her stock to the gathered group, and galloped off, headed for the other cities and villages in Cyrodiil.

“The emperor, his family, dead?” Aelwin asked, looking at me, his eyes that of an old man trying to make sense of a great tragedy.

“It appears to be so,” I said, grabbing a copy and glancing over it. It told me nothing I did not know, though thankfully my name was not mentioned. If news could break this fast, I needed to move, quickly. “Farewell Aelwin, may your retirement be peaceful.”

I had spent a little over two hours harvesting Aelwin’s fish, so it was just past a quarter after eight in the morning when I once again set out on the road. Chorrol was seated in the hills of the Colovian Highlands, not so high in the mountains like Bruma, but of a higher elevation than Kvatch on its plateau. The city of the Great Oak, named for the iconic tree in the city’s main plaza, sat at the juncture of the Black Road and the Orange Road, and was my next stop.

The initial trip was uneventful. Walking, and with occasional rests, it took me five full days to arrive at Chorrol's gates. A deer along the way and some gathered herbs made for sustaining, if mediocre fare. On the late hours of the fifth day, I finally made it to the southern gates of the city. A guard was helpful enough to point out the road I’d need to get back to Weynon Priory, which I had passed, but I needed to establish myself as well. A trip to the main plaza brought me to two organizations almost synonymous with Cyrodiil’s influence on Tamriel: the Guild of Fighters and the Guild of Mages. The Arcane University in the Imperial City had restricted access recently, but the Fighters’ Guild was based here in Chorrol. It was a good as place as any to join up for both, and the best place for general outfitting. Modryn Oreyn, the Champion of the Fighters’ Guild, told me to check in at Anvil and Cheydinhal, but Teekeeus had nothing for me…yet. Oh, he signed me up, but stated that matters prevented him from dealing with me directly for the next few days.

I honestly only needed the resources, so I didn’t mind, and once that was done I headed back to Weynon Priory. Upon my arrival, I was met outside by a priest. “Welcome, good citizen,” he said, in greeting. “I am Brother Piner, and this is Weynon Priory, a monastery. Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for a man named Jauffre? Is he here?” I asked, not wanting to reveal anything I wasn’t supposed to talk about.

“Oh. Yes. He’ll be in the Priory House somewhere.” He gave me funny look, but gestured to the door. “You’ll likely find him upstairs. Prior Maborel can be found in indoors as well at this hour, and may also be of assistance if you need anything while you are here.” I nodded my thanks and went to go see the good prior first. I didn’t want to spread information supposed to be kept confidential, but as the head of the priory I hazarded that Prior Mabel would know about Jauffre’s less public functions.

I entered, and found the elder priest seated in the lobby. He rose to greet me, and came over to speak. “Welcome to Weynon Priory, a monastic retreat dedicated to Talos and the Nine Divines. I’m Prior Maborel, head of our community, and responsible for all our religious and secular affairs.”

“Talos?” I asked. “As in, the Order of Talos?” It was a religious subset of the Nine Divines, dedicated to Tiber Septim, or Talos, and popular with the Legions, though it had not had too strong a presence in Morrowind during my tour.

“Our order works to spread the teachings and worship of the divine Talos. Surely you have heard of us? If not, I invite you to spend some time in our fine library. All are welcome here.”

“Thank you, but I’m afraid my concerns lie more towards a…sensitive nature. What can you tell me about the Blades?” I didn’t want to tip my hand, but needed to understand the environment.

“The Emperor’s elite knights. They dedicate themselves to Talos above and the Septims here on earth. The loss of the Emperor must be a terrible blow to them.” Maborel’s eyes met mine, and glimmered with the spark of recognition. He knew what I was trying to get at, but wanted to test me as well.

Fair enough. “And the recent assassination? How did Weynon Priory take the news?”

His voice grew heavy, revealing the burden recent events had placed on him. “The priory is a chapterhouse of the Order of Talos. And with the last Septim emperor dead, and all his heirs...Tiber Septim is the god and patron saint of our order. And now his dynasty has come to an end. It's very painful. I was just here reading the Black Horse Courier about the assassination, and looking through 'A Short Life'. Uriel was an old man... a good man, and a good emperor. Why would anyone want to kill him? And all his sons?”

“I wish I knew. May I speak with the Grandmaster?” I had to risk the guess, but by then I was sure Maborel worked with the Blades, if he wasn’t one himself. The religious members of Cyrodiil didn’t all worship Mara exclusively, and as Talos the future emperor Tiber Septim had been a great general and warrior. His apotheosis had only ensured that while the Legion could pray to the other gods for skill, valor, cunning, and protection, soldiers throughout the Empire had an example to follow.

Prior Maborel gestured to the stairs. “You’ll find Jauffre upstairs.” And just like that, I knew Jauffre’s status was an open secret to the members of the priory.

I made my way up, and found an elderly Breton sitting at a desk, reading. “Grandmaster Jauffre?” I asked. No point in being subtle now.

Posted by: ureniashtram Apr 21 2010, 09:04 AM

THE CAPTAIN IS BAAACCKK!! It's been too long, Cap'n. The way you descibe armor is just plain fantastic. Please, continue this awesome write.

Posted by: mALX Apr 21 2010, 01:19 PM

I loved your "How I got in jail in the first place" story, really imaginative!

Posted by: Olen Apr 21 2010, 02:49 PM

Good to see you back at this, the last piece was quick moving but smooth enough and got where it was going. I liked the slightly more subtle arrival at Weynon than there is in game.

Only thing to criticise was: I dove in, heedless of the extra weight of the armor -- that struck me as a very good way to die unless you're an argonian and jarred slightly in that I doubt water does good things to iron armour and I doubt he'd float with armour on. Going on rough numbers a male needs around 5kg (depending on fat levels) for neutral bouyancy in salt water, I don't know what iron armour would wieght but I dare say it would be a few times that... Anyway it's just me being pernicity (I'm one of those people who count shots in films to see if they're keeping the right number for the mag).

Posted by: Captain Hammer Apr 21 2010, 05:23 PM

I'm actually a Renn-Faire reenactor during certain weekends, and have done the knightly bit.

So, for complete factual analysis, my defense: First, only the cuirass and greaves are iron, the rest is leather. Second, trained knights in full armor were actually able to swim. I know, I've done it. It's tiring if you're in bad condition, but well-fitted battle armor that a person is trained in using doesn't fatigue a person the way it's depicted in film. The mastery level of heavy armor not encumbering a person at all? That's actually true. I'm not one of those guys, but I do know a few, and they can run and jump and swim through a medium current fully armored in battle-steel. The stories of Emperor Frederick I Barbarossa drowning? Yeah, he did drown, but it was after stopping to make camp for the night, and he went down to take a bath when the current swept him up and submerged him. He wasn't in shape, not in armor, did not die in two feet of water, and he couldn't even swim. On the other hand, King Louis IX of France led the landing of the Seventh Crusade by jumping from his boat and swimming to shore in full battle array, his sword strapped to him so he could swim with a side-stroke.

The other thing: jousting plate is significantly heavier and bulkier than war plate. The Morrowind book "Chimervamidium" accurately depicts how armor is supposed to be used in battle: it should allow the fighter the movement he needs to handle himself, but be reinforced in key points so that he can shift his body to intercept a blow with the heavy plate sections where armor is strongest.

A fully grown man with a battle axe might be able to cut through a breast plate, provided it's a direct strike. But if the axe-head is turned, or the blow only glances the armor, it won't cut through. Forget about swords, they'd shatter if you hit the plate enough. A fighter's goal was pierce one of the joints where protection was weakest, such as the neck, armpit, elbow, or groin. Not only is there only chain or loose plates that you can punch through or by-pass, but the blood vessels can be stabbed, and with enough blood-loss you're done for.

Well, that concludes "Captain Renn-Faire's" lesson for the day. This fan-fic is going to include lots of other tid-bits and elements that I've learned from my ultra-nerdy hobbies and time in Medieval History Courses during college, so I figured I'd add that in. From here on out, though, I'll try to work it into the story itself.

Posted by: haute ecole rider Apr 21 2010, 05:37 PM

I really liked the explanation of how armor is different between the games Morrowind and Oblivion - especially the loss of pauldrons and other esoterically named pieces, when the complete set of armor looks relatively identical between the two games.

And yes, I do think it's possible to swim in a full set of armor, but only if you're incredibly fit. Marines and SEALs are expected to swim in battle gear, carrying additional equipment, and I'm sure all that gear weighs as much as the armor your character is wearing, if not more.

The rest of us mortals would just have to strip our armor off to swim.

Posted by: Captain Hammer Apr 22 2010, 03:26 AM

Author's Note: Credit to the guys at the Imperial Library and UESP for having major dialogue segments, letting me shortcut/retain accuracy, whenever I did not take some artistic licenses with the narrative.

The man looked up, and said, carefully, “I’m Brother Jauffre. What do you want?”

“The Emperor sent me to find you. I brought you the Amulet of Kings.” Hoo, boy. Great way to open, but better than nothing.

Jauffre’s eyes focused, staring straight at me. Not many people know the trick to that. Grandmasters for the Imperial spy network and bodyguards would be amongst those few. “This cannot be. No one but the Emperor is permitted to handle the Amulet. Let me see it.”

I pulled it out, letting the large diamond drop as I held the chain, in full view of Jauffre. “I was there when he died. He gave me the Amulet of Kings.”

Jauffre surprised me. He didn’t rise to his feet. He just, sat there. Not passive, not aggressive. Just assertive, the stance that the biggest dog in the room has when he knows the new pup hasn’t a chance at taking the alpha spot. “You brought me the Amulet of Kings? You better explain yourself now.”

I simply handed over the Amulet. I figured if I couldn’t trust him, we were all doomed.

“By the Nine! This IS the Amulet of Kings! Who are you? How did you get this? What do you know of the Emperor’s death?”

Well, I had some explaining to do. I detailed the important parts of my story, not really mentioning the less than exemplary behavior that had led to the bar fight, and covered Uriel’s words in detail. I figured that they were important.

When I had finished, Jauffre nodded in acceptance. “As unlikely as your story seems, I believe you. Only the strange destiny of Uriel Septim could have brought you to me carrying the Amulet of Kings.”

“If you don’t mind, Brother,” I said, using his preferred title for respect. “I have several questions, and I was hoping that you could answer them.”

Juaffre nodded, and gestured to the chair in front of his desk. “I’ll tell you what I can. You are now intrinsically part of this, and information could save your life, and the lives of others.”

Well, the first was simple enough. “Who is the Prince of Destruction?”

Jauffre seemed…upset, probably that I didn’t know such basic information. I was a soldier, not a cloistered scholar. “The Prince of Destruction he referred to is none other than Mehrunes Dagon, one of the lords of the demonic world of Oblivion. He was involved with Jagar Tharn’s plot against the empire years ago. It doesn’t surprise me to find his hand in the current calamity. The Emperor’s words – ‘Close shut the jaws of Oblivion’ – certainly suggest that he perceived some threat from Oblivion. But all the scholars agree that the mortal world is protected from the daedra of Oblivion by magical barriers.”

“Wait, ‘Close shut the jaws of Oblivion’…that’s unclear to me.”

Jauffre nodded, his eyes flicking upwards, trying to recall some thought that was important, but not coming up with anything. It was a chilling sign, since spymasters had minds more refined than a steel trap. “His meaning is unclear to me as well. The Emperor seemed to perceive some threat from the demonic world of Oblivion. The Prince of Destruction, Mehrunes Dagon, is one of the lords of Oblivion. But the mortal world is protected from the daedra of Oblivion by magical barriers.”

“How can Oblivion threaten us, then?” It was the natural progression of my thoughts, and his answer.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “Only the Emperors truly understand the meaning behind the rituals of coronation. The Amulet of Kings is ancient. Saint Alessia herself received it from the gods. It is a holy relic of great power. When an Emperor is crowned, he uses the Amulet to light the Dragonfires at the Temple of the One in the Imperial City. With the Emperor dead and no new heir crowned, the Dragonfires in the Temple will be dark, for the first time in centuries. It may be that the Dragonfires protected us from a threat that only the Emperor was aware of.”

“Could you tell me more about the Dragonfires?”

“The coronation of each new Emperor is sealed when he uses the Amulet of Kings to light the Dragonfires in the Temple of the One. The Dragonfires of Akatosh remain lit until the death of the Emperor. His successor then lights them anew upon ascending to the throne. With Emperor Uriel dead and no successor crowned, the Temple of the One will be dark for the first time in centuries.”

That, that was a sobering thought. Without a legitimate emperor, and no Dragonfires…I was worried.

“So who rules the Empire right now?”

“The Elder Council rules in the Emperor’s absence, by ancient tradition. Chancellor Ocato heads the Elder Council and is the closest thing the Empire has to a leader right now. But the Blades answer only to the Emperor, of course. We are not an arm of the government.”

“So you actually are the Grandmaster of the Blades?” The others had told me, but I needed the old fox to personally confirm it. It could have been a very elaborate ruse, set up by the past emperors and the Blades in case anything like this happened.

Jauffre smiled, finally speaking the words. “Yes, Baurus told you right. I am the Grandmaster of the Blades. We serve the Emperor and the Septim bloodline. Talos is our patron. You wonder to find me here? Discretion is our watchword. Only a few of us have the honor to serve publicly in the Imperial Guard.”

“Baurus is a good body guard.” I don’t know why it was important, but I felt it had to be said.

“And one of the youngest Blades ever to serve in the Emperor’s personal guard. I am glad to hear that he survived, but I fear he will take the Emperor’s death particularly hard.”

I recalled Baurus’s face when he saw the body of his charge. I don’t think those moments will ever leave my memory. But Emperor Uriel Septim’s words came rushing up into th front of my mind. “The Emperor asked me to find his son.”

For once, Jauffre looked to make sure nobody was around to eavesdrop. This, then, was a secret, one that had to be kept carefully, even amongst the members of the priory. “I am one of the few who know of his existence. Many years ago, I served as captain of Uriel’s bodyguards, the Blades. One night Uriel called me in his private chambers. A baby boy lay sleeping in a basket. Uriel told me to deliver him somewhere safe. He never told me anything else about the baby, but I knew it was his son. From time to time he would ask about the child’s progress. Now, it seems that this illegitimate son is the heir to the Septim Throne. If he yet lives.”

“Where can I find Uriel’s son?” A hope sprang to mind. If this man could be found, then Jauffre could have the Blades get him to a position wherein he could legitimately claim the throne.

“His name is Martin. He serves Akatosh in the Chapel in the city of Kvatch, south of here, and never knew that he was Uriel Septim’s son. You need to find him at once and bring him safely back here. You must go to Kvatch and find him immediately. If the enemy is aware of his existence, as seems likely, he is in terrible danger. And please, let me know if there’s anything you need. My resources here are limited, but I will help in any way I can.”

“...and the Amulet of Kings?” I asked. My Emperor had given me a task, I needed to follow to the best of my ability.

“It will be safest here with me. When you return with Martin, we will figure out our next move.”

He was thinking, now, and I could see it in those words. Forming plans, contingencies, even as we spoke weighing the risks and benefits. And, he was already putting them into action. Through me. Ah, I must be falling to Sheogorath, but what am I if not a former soldier? “What kind of assistance can you give me?” I asked. I could use whatever help he would offer.

“I keep a few things here in my chest to resupply traveling Blades. Help yourself to whatever you need.” He got up, and went over to a large chest, which he unlocked for me. I followed, and was able to acquire a few more restorative potions, as well as a decent pair of metal boots and a good quality shield. “Now, I think you’d best be on your way. I will tell the others that you are working for me. Prior Maborel has a horse that he rarely uses, and you may find it useful. The others may have more to say as well.” I nodded, and headed downstairs.

I found Prior Maborel in the entryway, and approached him. “Brother Jauffre asked me to speak with you. He said you could offer me assistance.”

“You are welcome to take my horse. I rarely travel, so I’m sure you will put her to better use than I.” The look on my face made him rephrase the offer. He held his hand up, stopping me before I could refuse. “I know that you are on an important mission for the Blades. Please, if you need a horse, take mine from the Priory stables. And speak with Brother Piner and Eronor. They may have more help for you.”

“Thank you,” I said, and walked out. Brother Piner was in the yard, waiting for me with a dark elf that could only be Eronor, and a paint horse.

I approached, and Brother Piner handed me the reins. “Anything else I can do for you?”

“Could you tell me more about the Blades?” I asked.

“The Blades are closely linked to the Order of Talos. We both serve Talos, of course, and many of our brothers are former Blades. I myself was training as a Blade when I received the call to serve Talos in a different way. It isn’t widely known, but many brothers of the Order of Talos are also members of the Blades. Chapterhouses of the Order, like Weynon Priory, provide safehouses for traveling Blades as well as our more public religious functions. Blades who are too old for active service often join the Order as lay brothers. We are honored to have Grandmaster Jauffre, or Brother Jauffre as he prefers, as a resident here. Anything else?”

“What assistance can you offer me? I might need all that I can get.”

Brother Piner reached into his robe and retrieved a book, showing signs of care but use. It wasn’t fancy, rather made for travel and practical use. “Here. Perhaps you will find this useful. One of the books I saved from my Blades training. You go into danger. Jauffre didn’t tell us any more than that, but know that our prayers go with you.” It was a book on blocking techniques, a useful skill in saving one’s own life.

Eronor approached me as well. “Here,” he said, handing me a repair hammer. “An extra one, to keep your armor from falling apart in battle.” I nodded my thanks, as he headed back to the pen and stables where the priory’s livestock were kept.

I mounted up, glad to have the horse. My route was overland, across the paths worn from foot travel that branched off from the main roadways and made the smaller connections between locales. The alternative to getting to Kvatch was to backtrack to Weye, follow the Red Ring Road the short distance to the Gold Road, and then travel, past Skingrad, to Kvatch. I didn’t want to waste any more time. “Hee yah!” I said to the horse, urging it on with my heels. I was off, to Kvatch.

Posted by: mALX Apr 22 2010, 05:07 PM

I'm impressed by your attention to detail in this - ex: Jauffre making sure no one is listening when he tells you about Martin - that makes huge sense, and I've never seen anyone do that before. Loved it! More More!!

Posted by: Captain Hammer Apr 23 2010, 09:20 PM

@mALX: Thanks, it's something I try to work in that I often feel only gets slightly expressed in the game itself. I know that it's mostly due to system limits, but that shouldn't be a factor in a well written story.

@haute: Yeah, my buddies and I often argue about the separation of pauldrons in Morrowind vs. their integration into the cuirass in Oblivion. Like I said, Medieval history buff, and the best suits of armor had specific joints that made the pauldrons integral pieces of upper body protection. Appreciate you reading the story.

@Olen: Despite our disagreement on armor, I too am one of those guys who likes to count shots. That's what made Heat one of my favorite action movies ever, since they take the time to show clip changes during the shoot-out.

@urienashtram: Good to be back, and thank you. Meanwhile, I'm still trying to get caught up with your work. Glad to see you're enjoying the work.

@all: Thanks for returning, the views have been increasing since I resumed writing, which means people are reading. More to come, eventually !

Posted by: Captain Hammer Aug 7 2010, 04:15 AM

I didn’t know a Night Eye spell. Or rather, I didn’t know a method that would allow me to cast Night Eye on the horse. Myself? No problem. It was a standard spell for any legionnaire that drew night patrol duties, and only the stupid chose not to figure out how to cast it. And soldiers come in three types: the smart, the dead, and the soon-to-be-dead. Thus, in order to avoid crippling my horse, I had to take it slow on the descent down to the flatter territory of County Kvatch. It was still hillier than County Skingrad, but I was able to pick up some speed.

The trip southwest took almost a good week, alternating periods of riding with walking and a few breaks to sit while the horse rested and I conditioned myself with field exercise. The horse, whose name I hadn't learned but simply referred to as "old boy," was easy enough to handle, and early in the second evening we got some rest together. He had an even temper and gentle demeanor, and seemed to manage pretty well eating his fill when presented with the opportunity. The area was like a tamer version of home, and I could see why the Colovians thought to call this their own Highlands. Towards the sixth morning, I noticed an orange glow on the horizon, but it was rapidly drowned out by the approach of false dawn. Shortly after sunrise, I emerged onto the Gold Road before it swung south to avoid the plateau that Kvatch stood upon. As I followed the road, I found myself caught up looking for bandits that prey on the unwary lone travelers. I was halfway down the bend and well into mid-morning before I looked towards the city again.

Kvatch was burning.

The smoke swept up in a dark cloud before the wind could disperse it. Small fires could be seen within the city beyond the walls, glowing dark in the early morning light. The city had been attacked, and my new emperor lived inside.

I put spurs to flanks and gave the horse its lead on the reins. It shot out, taking me down the road towards the twisting path that led to Kvatch’s gate. Dark thoughts and fears raced through my mind. Was Martin alive, or dead? Had this attack been from the same faction that had killed Emperor Uriel? Was it a natural disaster?

As I slowed to make the turn to Kvatch, a high elf came running down the hill, eyes wide and pupils constricted with fear. “Come on! Run while there’s still time! The Guard still holds the road, but it’s only a matter of time before they’re overwhelmed!” My horse reared, throwing me to the ground. I wasn’t an expert rider, and the stupid scared git had startled the beast. I got up, made harder by the Altmer holding on to me in his desperation and fear, and managed to calm the horse down.

Once the horse was calm, and tethered to one of the roadside barriers, I turned to the terrified Altmer. “Run? From what?”

“Gods’ blood, you don’t know, do you? Daedra overran Kvatch last night! There were glowing portals outside the walls! Gates to Oblivion itself! There was a huge creature…something out of a nightmare…came right over the walls…blasting fire. They swarmed around it…killing…”

Great, the worst possible situation. A bloody daedric attack. “The whole city can’t be destroyed.”

The High Elf looked at me as though I was a bloody idiot. “Go and see for yourself! Kvatch is a smoking ruin! We’re all that’s left, do you understand me? Everyone else is dead!”

“Then how did you escape?” I asked.

“It was Savlian Matius…some of the other guards…helped some of us escape…they cut their way out, right through the city gates. Savlian says they can hold the road. No…no, I don’t believe him. Nothing can stop them. If you’d seen it, you’d know…I’m getting out of here before it’s too late! They’ll be here any minute, I’m telling you. Run while you can!”

And with that, the frightened Altmer took off down the road, his shirt flapping in the wind. I turned and headed towards Kvatch. However, before long I came upon a camp full of people. They were civilians by the look of it, most in dirty clothes of various style, the kind the inhabitants of an urban center would wear.

I approached a Redguard male sitting by the side of the camp. “What do you want?” he asked me, barely even glancing up.

“I’m Awtwyr Draghoyn. What happened in Kvatch?”

“Boldon. Late at night, while we were all asleep, a door to Oblivion opened. Daedra came out and set fire to the town. Many people died, but some got out alive.”

Some were alive. Martin, maybe. May Akatosh preserve us. “Is Martin still alive?” I had to know.

“If you mean the priest, I don’t think he made it out of the city. Very few of us did. But Savlian Matius might know more. He’s in charge of the city guard that are defending the camp. You’ll find him at the barricade at the top of the road. He’s still trying to hold what’s left of the Guard together.”

I thanked him, and started to move on, but saw a female Orc with the traditional smock and calluses of a black-smith. I approached her, hoping I could get some additional gear.

“Ma’am? Are you one of the local blacksmiths?”

She shrugged her shoulders, as though it didn’t matter. “I suppose. I’m Batul gra-Sharob. Though I warn you, I don’t have much. I lost everything.”

Worse and worse. “What happened in Kvatch?”

She turned away, looking south, her back to me, and the city. “I don’t like to talk about it. I don’t remember much. I woke to screaming and fire. I ran. I was lucky. I survived. My friends…weren’t so lucky.”

I retrieved twelve septims from my purse, dropping them on the crate next to her.

“What are these for?” the smith asked.

“A repair hammer, if you have one. I might soon have need of one.”

She looked at the coins, grunted, then picked them up and pocketed them. Then Batul moved over to a small crate, and drew out a repair from within a battered collection of gear. It wasn’t a sight to get any hopes up.

“Here,” said the female Orsimer. “Your loss, I suppose.”

I thanked her, and left the blacksmith to her grief. There were others around that could probably tell me more. At least, I hoped that somebody could tell me more. Standing nearby were three women, an Argonian, a Redguard, and a Nord, who was closest and dressed in blue. Her hands were dark with the stains of alchemy, and she wore the appropriate pendant of a Mages Guild member. She saw me as I approached to speak.

“You picked a bad time to visit Kvatch. I’m Sigrid, formerly Evoker of the Mages Guild.”

“What happened in Kvatch?” I asked. Different people meant different viewpoints from the same question.

“Go look for yourself. The town is gone. And most of its people. The Daedra came out of the gate in the middle of the night. People who fought, died. People who ran…they at least had a chance. I’m sorry, there’s not much for me to tell.”

I let it go at that, and turned to approach the Redguard. “What…?” she asked, curtly.

“I’m sorry,” I said, trying not to provoke her further. “I just wanted to know, what happened in Kvatch?”

“A gate opened and daedra poured out. Everybody ran. Or they died. I don’t know how the fire started, but it burned Kvatch to the ground.” Her tone was short and to the point, and I decided not press further. The Argonian looked more welcoming, so I went to talk to her.

“We’ve been hit hard. But we’ll come back.”

“What happened in Kvatch?” I asked, yet again. It felt like it was getting old.

“It looks bad. It is bad. But we’re tough. We’ll rebuild. The guards have to clear the ruins first. That won’t be easy. But I’ll be here. This is my town. Nothing is driving me out of here.”

“Thank you,” I said to her. “I’m Awtwyr Draghoyn.” I offered my hand. “Do you know anything about Martin?”

“Weedum-Ja,” she said, wrapping her hand in mine. “And no. But you should talk to Captain Matius. He’s up the hill.”

I thanked her and moved on. As I was climbing the path to Kvatch, I saw a man in priestly robes standing by the side of the path. He was too old to be Martin, but he might know something. “Sir, can you help me?” I asked.

“No. Hope is gone. The Imperial line is dead. The Covenant is broken. The Enemy has won.”

“What Covenant?” I asked.

“The Imperial line is dead, and the gods have forsaken us. Where is our blessing? Where is our protection? Where are our gods? The Enemy triumphs, and we die alone.”

“The Enemy?” I asked, hoping that he wouldn’t repeat what Jauffre had told me.

“Lord Dagon is the Enemy. He is the Prince of Destruction, and the Daedra are his servants. The Chapel is cast down, and the faithful…my friends…all dead. The Enemy has won, and we are destroyed.”

Damnation!! Out of desperation, I grabbed his robe and brought his face up to look into mine. “What of Martin. Do you know if he lives? Tell me!”

“What use. I’m Ilav Dralgoner, former Primate of the Great Chapel of Akatosh. Martin was a priest serving under me. For all I know, he died with the rest. As will the rest of Tamriel.”

The man was broken, and of little use. It was looking more and more like this Savlian Matius would be my best hope. I climbed the switchbacks on the road to the gates of Kvatch, a single point of access that had held against attack since the time of the Camoran Usurper. Yet the Daedra had made short work of the city in the night while I had been busy travelling. I silently cursed myself. What if I had been able to push the horse faster, cast a Night Eye spell on it? At best, I would have shaved an hour or two off my time. What if I had not slept that night at Weye? Then I would have shown up, in the middle of an attack on a city by invading Daedra, tired, worn out, and probably ill prepared.

I made it to the top of the plateau to find more stakes in a defensive ring, manned by armed guards, with a glowing red-orange portal standing between myself and the city gate. Even as I approached, a thin, scowling creature with a foul stench and clawed hands materialized just outside the strange portal, and charged the two closest guards. It didn’t accomplish much, since two other guards rushed to their friends’ aid and the four soldiers worked off each other to dispatch the daedra. I wasn’t an expert on daedric summonings, but I did know that the creature was a scamp, if a small one.

Posted by: Ornamental Nonsense Aug 7 2010, 03:25 PM

I just started reading this, and let me say that the whole comment about killing Lex's mother in chapter 1 had me grinning like mad. Throwing Lex and his obsession into the mix lent humor to the situation that would have otherwise been missing. Also, the dream sequence at the beginning was quite nice, and I like that your approach to the game involves a more direct link between the the main character and more powerful forces. Sure, everyone knows that the gods were involved in the main quest, because the emperor's visions clearly show that the main character is marked for greatness, but all of that is learned from other people. In your presentation, Awtwyr is more aware of fate acting upon him as opposed to other characters that just have the emperor stumble into their cell. I like both approaches, but I haven't seen yours before.

And now onto a suggestion:

This is probably just a personal thing on my part, but I find that stories tend to be more engaging and effective if large amounts of backstory aren't dropped onto a reader all at once. I was a little put off by the whole, "My life story prior to this was as dull as one could imagine," because it was followed by a summary of Awtwyr's entire past. I prefer to learn about characters over time, as it has the ability to add layers and even totally reinvent perception as a story progresses. Of course, you're writing in a first person narrative, which makes things a bit different, so perhaps I'm approaching this from the wrong angle, but I'd say that in general, revealing too much too fast detracts from a character.

Posted by: Captain Hammer Aug 7 2010, 04:30 PM

@ Ornamental Nonsense: Thanks for joining, and your comments. I understand your concerns about my character's history, but there is a reason behind it.

Some buddies of mine are finishing up a mod for Morrowind called "Balanced Scales" available on PlanetElderscrolls.com and Awtwyr makes a guest appearance in one of the later quests. Right now it's just in it's demo stage, but I've been helping beta test it for them and the current delays in publication were...unanticipated at the time that I started this story. I was going to be touting it on the mods section of the forums, and wanted people that read my fanfic and played my buddies' awesome mod to get the connection, and the continuity lines I tried to put inside my fanfic.

At this point, going back and editing that material out would involve a heavy re-write of the first few installments. But yes, I do understand what you're talking about.

Posted by: mALX Aug 8 2010, 01:55 AM

I love what you are doing with this! Your attention to little details someone else (like me) may not notice - and giving reason for it - that is huge! About the last eight paragraphs you suddenly pick up the tension in such a way that I found myself holding my breath - in spite of the fact that I have played this out over 23 games on the 360 and three on the PC - Awesome Write!!!!

Posted by: Captain Hammer Aug 8 2010, 07:13 AM

@Destri: I know, I know, your comment is below, but I have this space so I'm going to address it here.

I used the Morrowind ranks from the Imperial Legion when choosing my character. Champion in Morrowind is the fourth rank (not counting recruit), and after it come five ranks of knight-hood. For a comparison, there are eight enlisted ranks in each branch of the U.S. Armed Services, plus the rank of Recruit, and ten officer ranks (five commissioned ranks, five flag ranks), when not including Warrant-officer ranks or the Senior Non-Com of each branch of the service.

Thus, when I say Champion (ret.), it's roughly the equivalent of making each rank in the Imperial Legion equivalent to two ranks in the U.S. Military (props to my buddies in the Navy and Air Force for helping me understand rank equivalencies across service branch), with discretion based on performance and rating. So, a Champion of the Imperial Legion is either an E-8 or an E-9, depending on seniority, performance, ability, and so on. Since Awtwyr is young, he'd be an E-8, or Master Sergeant/First Sergeant in the Army or Marine Corps., Senior Chief Petty Officer in the Navy or Coast Guard, or Senior Master Sergeant/First Sergeant of the Air Force.

But, there's no real Air Force in Tamriel's Imperial Legions, he's a land soldier, and thus appropriately of Army rank. In today's terms, it would be something like Arthur Dragovich, Master Sergeant (ret.), U.S. Army.

In essence, he's just shy of reaching the peak of the enlisted ranks, but he didn't have the connections, perceived ability, or necessary accreditation for earning a commission, or rather, gaining promotion to Knight-hood in the Imperial Legions.

As for the facial expression thing: It's rare for a child to be the spitting image of ancestor if the grandfathers and grandmothers have enough difference in appearance. What is common, though, is that often when using one facial expression, a son will look like his father or one of his grandfathers, and when using another, it will resemble another male ancestor. Same goes for daughters and mothers/grandmothers. It's less common, but still worth mentioning, that sometimes a son will look like his mother or an aunt, or a daughter will resemble her father or uncle, etc.

Basically, by drawing attention to resemblances in the family, I'm trying to say that, in an era when DNA testing isn't available, Awtwyr is a true-born child of true-born children, and that nobody in his family for the last three generations is an illegitimate child of a mighty king. He's a peasant, who became a soldier, plain and simple. There's just no real fool proof way to prove that on Nirn. In Fallout, sure. In Tamriel? No.

EDIT: http://www.militaryspot.com/resources/item/military_rank is a more detailed analysis of the U.S. Armed Services rank and pay equivalencies across all service branches. Also, Wikipedia has a pretty good layout of the system as well.

Posted by: Destri Melarg Aug 10 2010, 12:02 AM

I have only read the first chapter so far. Here are a few of my impressions. First, I love the way you opened this. You illustrate details that most overlook in the telling of your story. The way you describe the opening of Oblivion as if it is a prophetic dream of your protagonist is a fantastic idea. I wish I had thought of it.

There were a few things that nagged at me, however: when Awtwyr introduces himself he says that he is a ‘Breton, Champion (ret.) of the Eighth Imperial Legion, Hammerfell and Morrowind Tours.’ He then goes on to say that his former life was as ‘dull as one could imagine.’ Now I’m no expert, but I do have an active imagination. Nothing about being the Champion of the Eighth Legion in Hammerfell and Morrowind sounds dull. If Awtwyr’s previous life was ‘dull’ by his own standards, then that is something that we should find out by his actions over the course of the telling of events in his new life. It just had the feel of a throw away line to me, and it wasn’t needed.

Edit: Ooops, I see that Ornamint has beaten me to the punch!

Also, Awtwyr description of himself as ‘taller than many a Breton, and between that and the brownish-red hair that graced my head I knew myself to have some amount of Nord blood in me’ is very specific and very concrete, as is saying that his eyes are the ‘bright grey-green of his father’. I can see him by this description. But saying that his expression is that of his grandfather and that his scowl is like that of his maternal grandfather is vague if we are never given any indication of what they looked like.

I am enjoying what I have read so far. I will read the rest over the next few days and comment more when I have caught up.

Posted by: Captain Hammer Aug 12 2010, 12:27 AM

Author's Note: This next sequence is extremely long, and was supposed to include the previous post as well. Also, I had intended to get further in the story, but I think I might have drifted down the Golden Road, as this writing process is composed of bursts of manic creativity, followed by obsessive and demented re-writes. Have Fun, and you have been warned.

****************************************************

Even as I stood staring at the corpse of the denizen from Oblivion, a stern looking Imperial in guard armor approached me. He pointed towards the path I had just taken to arrive at the scene.

“Stand back, civilian! This is no place for you. Get back to the encampment at once!” he shouted.

“What happened here? And who are your?” I asked.

“Savlian Matius. We lost the damned city, that’s what happened! It was too much, too fast. We were overwhelmed. Couldn’t even get everyone out. There are still people trapped in there. Some made it into the Chapel, but others were just run down in the streets. The Count and his men are still holed up in the castle. And now we can’t even get back into the city to help them, with that damned Oblivion Gate blocking the way.”

“Martin? Is Martin still in Kvatch?” I had to know.

“You mean the priest? Last I saw him, he was leading a group towards the Chapel of Akatosh. If he’s lucky, he’s trapped in there with the rest of them, at least safe for the moment. If he’s not…” Savlian trailed off, shrugging his shoulders.

“What happened to Kvatch?” He might have known something important without realizing it.

“My home…my goddam home, in flames. It kills me that I can’t get in there and DO something. We couldn’t have been any less prepared for this. Seems like they came out of nowhere. There were just so many of them…If only I had a way to strike back at the enemy. But we can’t leave the barricade until that Oblivion Gate is closed.”

“Wait, what is this Oblivion Gate?” This sounded like it could have something to do with ‘the Jaws of Oblivion.’

The hopelessness came through after the rage and frustration. “Some kind of portal to Oblivion. The enemy used them to attack the city—they appeared outside the walls and daedra poured out! They’ve opened one right in front of the city gates. Until that Gate is closed, the best I can do is try to hold these barricades.” By that, Savlian indicated that nobody would be able to get in to the city with the gate in the way.

“What will you do now?”

“The only thing we can do. We’ll try to hold our ground, that’s what. If we can’t hold his barricade, those beasts could march right down and overrun the encampment. I have to try and protect the few civilians that are left. It’s all I can do now.” Even as Savlian spoke, he turned to eye the gate wearily.”

“Can I help?” I asked.

Savlian must have been surprised by the very concept of my question. “You want to help? You’re kidding, right? Hmm…if you’re serious, maybe I can put you to use. It’ll likely mean your death, though. Are you sure?” He appraised me critically.

“I’ll do whatever I can. I have experience.”

“You’ve served?” asked Savlian.

“Legion, sir. First tour in Hammerfell, then Vvardenfell, retired with honors and merit.”

“Well, maybe then.” Savlian’s gaze softened a small amount. “I don’t know how to close this Gate, but it must be possible, because the enemy closed the ones they opened during the initial attack. You can see the marks on the ground where they were, with the Great Gate right in the middle. I sent men into the Gate, to see if they could find a way to shut it. They haven’t come back. If you can get in there, find out what happened to them. If they’re alive, help them finish the job. If not, see what you can do on your own. The best I can say is, good luck. If you make it back alive, we’ll be waiting for you.”

“I understand. If I fail, send word to Weynon Priory. I have...friends there. They’ll know what to do.”

“Good luck,” said Savlian, clasping my shoulder. “It is a brave thing you’re doing.”

I checked my gear over, steeled my nerves, and headed towards the gate. It wasn’t until I got within a man’s height that I felt the sudden amounts of heat that the gate was putting out. Taking in one last deep breath, I stepped through the threshold. There was a momentary disconnect, where I could feel both the outside near Kvatch, and the strangeness of the world beyond the gate. But as soon as I focused my thoughts on that strangeness, I found myself out of the gate, beneath a red sky, in a landscape that reminded me of an active volcano.

“Stendarr protect me.” I muttered to myself as got my bearings. Or at least, I tried to, but almost immediately I heard the sounds of scamps. In front of me two of the small, runt-like creatures were patrolling around. Sighting carefully, I cast my flare spell twice in rapid succession, once at each of the monsters. The fireballs impacted, and briefly singed the daedra. Briefly, but not effectively, giving me the chance to remember that like most daedra, scamps were resilient to fire. It did serve to alert both of them to my presence, and now that they were thoroughly angry, they decided to retaliate by launching fireballs of their own at me. I dodged to the left, allowing the spell bolts to pass through the space I had just occupied. I repeated the process as another two fireballs came at me, only stepping left as I returned to my original spot. Then once more, again to the left, as a third round of fire came searing towards my armored form.

Finally showing some signs of intelligence, albeit not much, the two monsters charged me, howling as they ran. Swearing silently, I drew steel and brought my shield up, stepping to the side so that I could keep them both in front of me, and thus limit the risks of an initial two on one attack. Fighting solo against a group of enemies is much different from being in a group of allies going against a larger group of enemies. For one, everybody watches each others’ back, and if the terrain is in your favor, you can limit the numbers of the opposing force. Second, you can stack your offensive capabilities, focusing on single threats or multiple targets as the conditions dictate.

The first one to reach me received a severe bashing from my shield, and as it recoiled I gave it two quick slashes to the temporarily unprotected torso. The other came around rapidly, forcing me to parry a claw strike before I could bring my shield back to protect me. Instead, I swiped sideways, towards the right side of my body, allowing the metal edge and the mass of the shield to catch the monster and knock him aside. By then, my legion training had kicked in, muscles remembering old movements and instincts learned from prior skirmishes reentering my mind.

As the first scamp came at me again, I stepped forward and left, twisting my body with my shield held close, closing the gap to mere inches between us before punching with my shield and body mass. This sent the first scamp tumbling into his buddy, before I thrust with my blade and killed the first of the monsters.

The second rose and leaped at me, claws up to try to drag me to the ground. Instead, I shifted back, brought my shield up just above my head to catch the monster while stabbing upwards with my sword from the side. I felt the resistance against the blade as the weight came down on the shield, but I managed to throw the creature back over my body, using the momentum to make the blade slide free. As the creature rose again I twisted to face it, and swung at its unprotected back while it tried to right itself. Before it could offer any more resistance, I cut twice more at the thing, ending its existence.

Before I could catch my breath, I heard the sounds of more conflict. Just down the slope, I saw another two stunted scamps fighting with a Kvatch soldier. Taking a few deep, paced breaths through my nose, I quieted my heart just enough as I picked up my speed, entering the half run of the bull-rush. Just before I reached the scamps, I shifted my shield to use it as a battering ram, tilted slightly so that as I hit, the creature was thrown at an angle a few feet from me. Thus freed from defending against a two-on-one attack, the soldier was able to go on the offense against his remaining adversary, while I dealt with the other.

The monster rose, and cast another fireball at me, the proximity preventing me from directly dodging the attack. Fighting through the pain of the momentary blast of fire, and thanking the gods that I was a resistant Breton instead of an easily roasted Altmer, I closed with the monster, using swift blade work to hack at the creature’s limbs. Tripping it up, I smashed again with my shield, then cut it rapidly with my sword. As the corpse slumped, I turned to see the guard cut down his opponent, temporarily making the area safe for us.

Two applications of my healing spell patched my skin up and undid the effects of the fire, but I was still heavily fatigued from the mad rush in fighting three enemies at once like that. While I stepped back and slowed my breathing, the guard cast a few minor healing spells on himself as he dashed towards me.

“Thank the Nine!” he said between gasps. “I never thought I’d see another friendly face…The others…taken…they were taken to the tower!”

“It’s all right.” I said. “I’m Awtwyr Draghoyn. What’s going on?”

“I’m Ilend Vonius. Captain Matius sent us to try and close the gate. We were ambushed, trapped, and picked off. I managed to escape, but the others are strewn across that bridge. They took Menien off to the big tower. You’ve got to save him! I’m getting out of here!”

“Fine. Captain Matius needs your help. Get back to him, he’s at the barricade. Tell him what happened.”

“The Captain is still holding the barricade? I figured I was the last one left alive. Alright, I’ll try to get out of here and let the Captain know what’s going on. You saved my life. You brought me back from hell. I won’t forget it.” With that, Ilend rushed off, exiting through the same portal that I had used to enter.

Meanwhile, I worked to get my bearings in this world. Across from the gate was a huge tower of black and grey stone, a damaged bridge leading towards it but blocked off by closed gates of red and black metal. Just as Ilend Vonius had said, there were human corpses strewn over the bridge, marred and burned even after their deaths. To each side of the massive tower, there was a single smaller tower, both of which were connected to the large tower by small horizontal beams, suggesting that they were bridges.

To my left, which appeared to be West, was a path, and a fourth tower, about the size of the smaller two far ahead of me. To the right was a broken and shattered bridge. Since it appeared that the path on the left eventually made it past the lava, it was my only real option. I checked over my gear, repaired a few dings in my shield and sword, and set out through the ashen wastes. I moved slowly, not wanting to attract any more gang-ups without necessity.

I had not taken notice before, but the landscape seemed to support various plant forms. Extremely abundant was a red, grassy plant that grew in tufts of thick shoots. I harvested some, noting that it could be used for a chameleon potion, and collected several samples of the stuff. If it came down to it, I could always chew some up to try and escape if I became overwhelmed by the opposition in this wasteland. However, I lost awareness of my surroundings while I was harvesting the red plant, when I suddenly felt the sharp pains of what seemed like a scourge or barbed whip hit me in the back. Staggering away from the pain, I turned just to see a thick growth of dark, spike-covered vines settle into a rested position.

Stepping carefully, I slowly approached the odd plant, trying to see what had disturbed it. Only when I was just at the plant’s reach did it move, striking towards me in a rapid and aggressive fashion, forcing me to back pedal rapidly away from the seemingly predatory plant. Now aware that some of the local flora was actually eager to kill me, I stepped around the plant to approach the unguarded portion where the stems plunged into the ground. Carefully, I brushed aside the loose ash around the base of the stems until I unearthed a single root progressing upwards, probably an offshoot growing into a new plant from its parent. Tugging the root from the ground, and mindful of the damaging properties it probably had, I stowed it with the samples of the grassy plant I had harvested and moved on, casting the minor healing spell to regenerate from the plant’s attack.

Progress towards the closest tower was interrupted by the occasional lone scamp. Ilend had been clear that I was, for all intents and purposes, alone in this hostile word, so I was careful about only engaging one of the monsters at a time. I quickly picked up the basic pattern: Get the attention of the monster, dodge a few fireballs to make it discharge its magicka reserve, then close for melee. Use shield and sword both for defense and offense, since brute directionalized force from a shield bash can stagger an enemy, and a parry with a sword can over-extend or incapacitate a limb, opening up enemy for attack. Meet probing attacks with shield-work, cut fast and hard with sword, and check corpses for loot.

The first real surprise came when I heard the clanking of armor.. Moving cautiously forward, I soon saw the source, a heavily armored figure about my height, maybe shorter, and outfitted all in red and black armor. It didn’t fit well, though the spikes on the upper arms looked fierce enough, and he was outfitted with a wicked looking mace. However, he lacked a shield, and was marching about in a patch of odd looking flowers. When his back was turned, I moved up, only to hear the flowers hiss as I brushed past them, a foul and poisonous gas being released in a low, dense cloud.

My enemy became aware of me much sooner than I had hoped, since I was still in the middle of my approach when he suddenly turned and hefted his mace, shouting a war challenge in a tongue I didn’t fully understand. Rushing through the rest of the poison-spewing sick flowers, I managed to get my shield up and deflect his first blow as I tried to stab at him with my sword.

It did not work nearly as well as dealing with the scamps had been. Despite what the bardic stories might say, it’s rather tough for a swordsman to deliver a single killing blow against an opponent wearing heavy plate that knows what to do with it. In addition, the stunted scamps were, for lack of a better word, stupid. Sure, they had some measure of mean instinct, but that was far different from the abstract and conscious thought of a humanoid with intelligence. My blade slid to the side, as I turned and readied for the next exchange of blows. The Dremora had spun with the attack, twisting his arm for the reverse swing on the mace that I would have greater difficulty blocking with my shield.

Instead, I caught his backswing with the flat of my blade, hooking it just below the striking points and redirecting the arc to stay well away from my face, his own momentum and follow through taking his arm down across the length of the sword. As he untwisted his wrist for the upswing, I lashed out with my sword, targeting his unprotected neck and head. He shifted back at the last moment, then rocked his weight forward to bring down a power attack at me before I had a chance to move out of the way. Instead, I brought my shield up and turned, angling my body to force the blow to glance off instead of taking the full force head on.

As the Dremora’s attack over-extended him, I struck at the unarmored wrist, just beyond where the chain of the cuirass’s under-protection ended. Blood stained the longsword, but my opponenet retained his weapon, clawing at me with his off-hand. I was forced back a step, nearly back into the range of the damned poison spewing flowers, before catching myself just long enough to duck another cross swing of the mace.

Surging upwards, I stabbed at the face of the armored Daedric warrior, catching him on the underside of the chin and driving the point through the right side of his neck. Before he could recover, I kicked out his left knee, the one closer to me, and as he staggered to the ground I brought the sword down to cut across the left side of his neck, the cut opening his windpipe when I stepped back and yanked my blade free. He slumped to the ground, the animus abandoning the empty shell of the body that lay before me.

Searching the body, I realized that the armor he wore was of truly shoddy material, and was actually worse than my own steel, iron, and leather. He did, however, have a potion of magicka restoration, which I was glad to confiscate for future use. With a few moments recovery, and a few applications of restoration magic, I investigated the odd, pale-looking flowers, careful to not accidentally make contact and trigger another release of the poisonous gas.

It turned out that my caution was still insufficient. Much like the lashing vines, they seemed to detect when anything from Mundus was in close proximity. After dodging the poisonous cloud, I waited for it to dissipate, before quickly moving in and grabbing a handful of stalks and popping off the flower heads. Of the handful, three looked usable, and went into my pack. The rest I dropped on the ground next to the dead Dremora.

As I approached the tower, however, I realized that it too was located behind a set of massive war gates, and that the way ahead involved a further detour to the west, which headed across a bridge before it seemed to curve around in the far distance. Between myself and that goal, however, more denizens of this realm patrolled.

Posted by: Destri Melarg Aug 13 2010, 12:34 AM

Okay, I am all caught up. I took some notes on each chapter as I read it. Please forgive the length of this post:

Chapter 1: For the Emperor

It was a subtle thing, but the look that you have Baurus give Awtwyr when he takes Renault’s katana spoke volumes. It always bothered me that the Blades would let you take the katana then, and be so dead set against you keeping it later.

I also loved Awtwyr’s reasoning for the attack of the rats. It added a sense of foreboding to those darkened tunnels while also providing a justification for the otherwise inexplicable fact that you would encounter a zombie in the Imperial subterranean.

Another detail that I really enjoyed was when the assassin’s blade caught in the Emperor’s robe, preventing him from blocking the blow that resulted in his own death. The way you wrote that gave me the impression that Uriel sacrificed himself to save Awtwyr. That is an interesting way to motivate Awtwyr to fulfill the Emperor’s last wish. I imagine that he would have done it anyway, being a retired soldier. Still, this just gives it a personal touch that gives urgency to his quest. I also thought that you cleverly used the information about Jauffre to allay Baurus’ suspicions. I don’t imagine that there was ever a time when a Blade came upon the body of his dead Emperor with an escaped prisoner holding the Amulet of Kings standing over him that the Blade would aid in that prisoner’s escape!

Now for a few nits:

This should be ‘here’.

Was this supposed to be ‘the wall to my right’?

For The Grandmaster:

The explanation for the change in armor styles was excellent. You ability to find and focus on a single detail to add layers of realism to the world that you create is impressive.

I also liked the way that you handled what, for me, is the single biggest pain-in-the-you-know-what quest in the game . . . Go Fish. I particularly enjoyed the idea of Merowald standing on the shore giving commentary while Awtwyr was getting eaten by the slaughterfish!

I am not quite sure about the way that Awtwyr handled himself at Weynon. It seemed as if he were trying to remain discreet, yet he still let it slip that he knew that Weynon was a base for the Blades and that Jauffre was the Grandmaster without any prompting whatsoever by Prior Maborel. Wouldn’t it have been easier to just walk in and say that he needed to speak to Jauffre?

For Brother Jauffre:

This was a pretty straight forward transitional chapter. I could hear the Jauffre from the game in the way that you portrayed him. I did notice the repetition of the word ‘that’ in one sentence:

Also, I must express a slight bit of disappointment that Awtwyr didn’t ask Jauffre the most pertinent question of all. Why send me?

For a Night’s Journey:

The first thing that struck me was the ominous image of Kvatch burning in the mid-morning light as seen from the Gold Road. That is a detail that the game should have had!


This is an awkward sentence. I’m not sure if you want to add an ‘a’ before the word camp or not. What I am sure of is that you don’t need the second comma.

Was Awtwyr so sick with worry over Martin’s fate that he forgot to add a ‘p’ at the end of cam, or was the use of the word cam intended?

I liked Awtwyr’s justification for asking the same question of the harried survivors of Kvatch. You also manage to use the in-game dialogue while still making each answer slightly different. That was just great.

For Kvatch (Part 1):


I think you should do away with the commas and make this two sentences instead of one:

Even as I stood staring at the corpse of the denizen from Oblivion a stern looking Imperial in guard armor approached me. He pointed towards the path I had just taken to arrive at the scene.

*BTW let me know if it bothers you when I try to re-write your sentences. Speaking for myself I get a little irritated with people who think that they can adjust my prose after a simple read through (which is, of course, why I try to do it with you ). I find that there are only a few people, like SubRosa and Acadian, who do it well.*

Such a simple statement from Awtwyr, yet it says so much. Another brilliant detail!

The battle against the scamps was fantastic! And I am glad that you chose to portray Vonius in all of his cowardly glory.

One can almost see the twin plumes of smoke that attend his mad dash for the exit!

Finally I have to compliment you on the way that you handled the harvesting of alchemy ingredients in Oblivion. The description of flora that Awtwyr can’t identify goes a long way toward underscoring the alien nature of this world in which he must complete his mission.

Posted by: Captain Hammer Aug 13 2010, 02:43 AM

@Destri: Don't worry. I'm typing on a laptop, and so if you see any further punctuation or grammatical issues like missing letters, commas, etc., let me know.

As for the rest, most are mistakes that I intend to correct. However, Awtwyr's failed attempt to be discreet was intentional: he's a soldier, not a spy, and so he's bound to screw up his first attempt at handling such discreet matters.

The whole "That, that was a sobering thought" sentence was intentional, trying to emphasize the sudden realization that comes with Jauffre's information. I tried it a number of ways, and that worked the best for me, so it stays.

Posted by: treydog Aug 13 2010, 03:53 PM

Good introduction to the character of Awtwyr. The addition of Lex to the prologue was a nice touch.

Awtwyr has a distinctive “voice,” an important trait for first-person narrative.

You keep the necessary “tutorial” section fresh by adding the main character’s reactions and thoughts; even though we all go through the same intro dungeon, this keeps it from being generic.

A nice interlude with Aelwin; and good operational security at Weynon. I also like the fact that, being a veteran, Awtwyr established a base before going to see Jauffre.

I am going to do a long block quote here, but I think I need it to illustrate my suggestion (this is from the conversation with Jauffre):

Well, the first was simple enough. “Who is the Prince of Destruction?”

Jauffre seemed…upset, probably that I didn’t know such basic information. I was a soldier, not a cloistered scholar. “The Prince of Destruction he referred to is none other than Mehrunes Dagon, one of the lords of the demonic world of Oblivion. He was involved with Jagar Tharn’s plot against the empire years ago. It doesn’t surprise me to find his hand in the current calamity. The Emperor’s words – ‘Close shut the jaws of Oblivion’ – certainly suggest that he perceived some threat from Oblivion. But all the scholars agree that the mortal world is protected from the daedra of Oblivion by magical barriers.”

“Wait, ‘Close shut the jaws of Oblivion’…that’s unclear to me.”

Jauffre nodded, his eyes flicking upwards, trying to recall some thought that was important, but not coming up with anything. It was a chilling sign, since spymasters had minds more refined than a steel trap. “His meaning is unclear to me as well. The Emperor seemed to perceive some threat from the demonic world of Oblivion. The Prince of Destruction, Mehrunes Dagon, is one of the lords of Oblivion. But the mortal world is protected from the daedra of Oblivion by magical barriers.”

[end quoted materil]

I realize that both of Jauffre’s paragraphs are direct in-game dialogue in response to different questions. However, the word-for-word repetition of phrases and sentences, especially so close together, is jarring for what is supposed to be a conversation. I would recommend dividing Jauffre’s responses to each question into the parts that have a direct bearing on the specific thing being asked. For example:

“Who is Mehrunes Dagon?” [Leave your lead-in as is; it provides excellent “flavor.”]

“The Prince of Destruction he referred to is none other than Mehrunes Dagon, one of the lords of the demonic world of Oblivion. He was involved with Jagar Tharn’s plot against the empire years ago. It doesn’t surprise me to find his hand in the current calamity.”

This still was far above my head, but I wanted to show I was paying attention, so I said, “Ahh.” As I recalled the Emperor’s words, another question surfaced: “He told me to ‘Close shut the jaws of Oblivion’…that’s unclear to me.”

Jauffre nodded, his eyes flicking upwards, trying to recall some thought that was important, but not coming up with anything. It was a chilling sign, since spymasters had minds more refined than a steel trap. “His meaning is unclear to me as well. The Emperor seemed to perceive some threat from the demonic world of Oblivion. But the mortal world is protected from the daedra of Oblivion by magical barriers.”

That's just one way of avoiding the repetition- there are others- just food for thought.

Prior Maborel’s offer of Paint-

“The look on his face made him rephrase the offer.”

I think you mean, “The look on my face…”

“Kvatch was burning.”

Bam! Now that is a perfect sentence.

Each author must make choices about how much to include- it is what gives each story its own style. I am a bit uneasy with your decision to include the Q&A for every refugee from Kvatch. You migh t be able to accomplish the goal of showing that Awtwyr is a thorough investigator by providing a couple of the conversations verbatim, and then wrapping up with: “I queried the others scattered around the makeshift camp and heard more of the same- surprise attack, Oblivion gates, daedra raining destruction down on the city.”

Then you can pick up with Ilav and his despair.

Good fight scenes in the Deadlands.

Posted by: mALX Aug 20 2010, 07:24 PM

Your fight scenes are great!

Posted by: Captain Hammer Oct 24 2010, 08:11 PM

@ mALX: Thanks for reading, and your compliments. I use Deadly Reflex as a mod, since the realism of combat is important to my RPG experiences. Hope you enjoy.

@ Treydog: You've got a point about the scene at Kvatch, but what can I say? I'm a dialogue lover. That's one of the things I liked more about Morrowind than Oblivion, even if all the dialogue was voiced in Oblivion. Thanks for reading, and I hope you continue to enjoy the fights as well.

@ all: Thanks for staying with me, the view counter shows that this story is at least getting attention. For your reading pleasure, I bring the next installment. As always, comments and grammatical nitpicks are welcome.


**********************

The bridge in front of me was slightly tilted, a reflection of the broken nature of the landscape. To my right the drop off was straight into boiling lava, and to the left rocks loomed menacingly. On the bridge was another dremora, accompanied by another small scamp. This presented a major problem. The beasts were mindless on their own, but if the Dremora used it as a distraction he would have a significant tactical advantage over me. I stayed behind the cover of rocks while I considered my options. Peeking out, I noticed something about the piled stones to one side of the bridge: they were unstable.

It should be appropriate to note at this point that Flare has multiple uses. One that is rarely applied for good benefit is that the heat release causes air to expand rapidly, throwing a small force outwards. I once saw a Telvanni mage use the effect, on a massive scale, to level a group of mercenaries hired by an in-house rival. While the flame damage itself was pretty mild, the sudden blast managed to knock most of the archers and opposing spellcasters down, leaving him free to shock the remaining melee specialists to within an inch of their lives. It was brutal, inhumane, and unbelievably effective.

Once again deciding to apply my great level of Breton Intellect to the battle, I charged towards the enemies, a war cry drawing their attention, and their response. The Dremora allowed the scamp about five feet of lead, expecting to force me to commit to the beast while giving him a chance to engage me before I could recover. Instead, as I approached the rocks, I shot my flare into the side of the piles, aiming for one of the tall ones sandwiched in place by the weight of the stones above it. To my immense satisfaction, and unobserved by either enemy, the shift resulted in a massive destabilizing of the entire pile. I stopped myself short as massive and not so massive stones came tumbling and rolling down across the tilted bridge. The Dremora tried to dodge, but found himself caught in the middle of a minor rockslide, and was quickly tripped up, before being smashed clear off the bridge and into the lava below.

The scamp made it through with considerably more luck, forced by the changes of direction to try coming at my side. Instead, I simply stepped past the creature, turning and slashing, circling around to put it between me and the lava. Instead of giving it a chance to try its own magic, I kept the thing off balance with forward moving sword strikes, forcing it backwards towards the edge. Sensing the drop and the hazard, it steadied itself and prepared to counter-attack. Instead, I simply brought my shield up and threw my weight at it in a short burst. I knocked the thing back about three feet, directly beyond the reach of anything solid. As the beast fell and screamed as it hit the lava, I stepped back and continued my progress in this hellish-wasteland.

By the time that I had killed the third of the Dremora I encountered, I realized that I could do with some form of back-up weapon in the event my sword became unusable or knocked from my grip. Though I was armored, I was still unprepared to fight with only my gauntleted fists, a skill that soldiers considered the only appropriate combat skill for the bar. A drunk man with a sword was dangerous, to himself and those around him. Since I wasn’t out drinking with friends, or alone as I had been when I got started in this mess, I decided that it would be better to take an enemy’s mace, even though it was of comparably poor quality. Even if it broke on me, I would have ample chance to acquire a replacement from the next weapon holder I ran across.

At the point of having decided to take the weapon, as well as usable material off a dead Dremora, I had come to a fork in the path. One led back towards the tower closest to the entry point, and the other would keep me close to the three towers I was suddenly at in a rather uncomfortable way. However, both choices did seem to branch, giving me some choice of options, as well as indicating the possibility of multiple points of ambush.

Whatever the logical or tactically optimal choice of the time, I decided to go with my gut, and took the path that wound through the three main towers. However, instead of going under one of the spindly bridges connecting the largest of the three with the closer of the two secondary towers, I took a branch that led behind the entire complex, only to see yet another, albeit exceptionally tiny, tower previously hidden by the chief tower of this island in a sea of lava. I took my time going forward, hoping that a less protected back way might present itself.

It’s a little-acknowledged fact that thieves make the best guards, and guards make the best thieves. You realize this fact late at night, while watching as a sentry or performing rounds if you’ve got sentinel duty. The mind needs to be kept busy to be kept alert, and so whenever you have guard duty, you start to plan against yourself. What’s the best way in? “Why, through that gate on the east side, closest by that stand of trees.” Approach through the complex? “Jerome’s blind in his left eye, wait for him to turn. Yggor’s a drunk, cut by him when he’s distracted. And the watch fire ruins the night vision of sentries closest to it, so their field of vision won’t catch till you’re on top of them.” Hells, we had even been used to discussing such things with thieves enjoying a brief stay with us, since good information often meant semi-edible bread in return. It was no wonder that things never really seemed to change.

My scouting around revealed no discernable back entrance into the primary tower, nor any entry for the small tower behind it. But I did find a cave system with minimal resistance that led me to a buried entrance to that small tower. It may have possibly been used as a retreat, or storeroom, since I found a few nice potions and scrolls, a repair hammer, and a couple flawed gems, for whatever its original purpose was. Mostly, though, I found myself a quick spot to make some repairs to my armor, and fix my sword before it broke on me. And it gave me time to think. I realized that I couldn’t storm the central tower without clearing the area around me. I didn’t know what was out there, and even if I cleared the tower I wouldn’t know what was waiting for me as I came down. And I still needed a way to close that damn gate, preferably sending me back to Kvatch in the process.

After getting my gear back into workable condition, I decided that my first prerogative would be to tackle the landscape, and then take the tower closest to the portal back to Kvatch. I needed to minimize surprises, and its proximity to the portal meant that the forward tower possibly held the control to close the gate. Instinctively, I started to recall the words that had been imparted to me by that crazy Nord Tjyrfoll the Silent. You’re not a trooper, so don’t try to be one. The ranks are the hurricane, we’re the lightning. Know where you’ll strike. Find the path of least resistance. And for Tiber’s sake, don’t get surrounded! Good words for any soldier in specialized operations.

I started with the exteriors. I soon realized that this place was like one large plain, with rock formations and stone walls breaking up the field into a type of maze, albeit one that didn’t feature repeated dead-ends where an ambush could lie in wait. In fact, it was quite the opposite, and I realized that these were more akin to defensive redoubts that allowed for troop movement without sacrificing cover. More importantly, a few key passages could be guarded, requiring a far greater use of manpower to assault this place than it would take to defend it. But I was alone, hoping to accomplish by intelligence that which had failed by strength. Or was it trickery? Either way, I had been using “ungentlemanly” tactics. Damn it Awtwyr, even as you try to reach salvation from Molag Bal, you turn to Mephala and Boetheia instead. I stopped the self-chiding. Now was no time to worry about my soul, when my death would leave me with an eternity in Dagon’s grasp. The important part was to finish the mission.

Clearing out the landscape yielded little more by way of intelligence, although I did manage to knock a few more notches into my sword and harvest more of the local flora. Now that I was on the other side of those imposing black and red metal gates, I at least had a basic idea of direct distance between me and the gate in. However, my current goal was the forward tower, the one that had the war gates on the main bridge to one side, and another set of gates close to the path that I had used for progress. I entered, finding it occupied with yet another scamp and a set of spikes in the center. The scamp’s fire was becoming less bothersome, if no less damaging, possibly damaging the nerves in my skin from repeated exposure. After another corpse was added to my tally, and healing spells applied, I took a closer look at the spikes. There seemed to be some sort of platform, with holes in it to accommodate each pointed stake, resting on the floor. I stepped on it gingerly, heard a click, and immediately jumped off and onto the ground, covering my head and back with my arms and shield.

Fortunately, it didn’t seem to be any type of explosive. Instead, I heard the ratcheted clanking of machinery, and as I turned I saw the platform rise up, attached to the larger center stake that sat on the tip of a grooved pillar. An elevation device. And deadly, too. It came to a stop at the level above me, forming a complete floor with holes about half the size of a Bosmer marking where the spikes would slide through. On the wall, a crank handle had lowered just as the platform reached the top. Moving to it, I slowly reset it, and was rewarded to hear the return of the ratcheting pattern as the platform lowered itself.

My second time boarding was immensely more successful. I avoided impaling myself, and rose to the second level of this tower. As I stepped off I noted that there was another set of crank-switches on this level. Leaving the platform where it was, I began making my way up the spiral ramp towards the top. Halfway up I saw a Dremora on the top level, and he saw me. He charged down the ramp, intending to slam me off. Instead, I backpedalled, meeting the charge about a quarter way down the ramp. Even as the force of the attack came, I dove and twisted, trying to minimize the difference in our speeds and shunting the mass of armor and fighter to one side. It was mostly successful, and we both ended up on flat second level, though I was now closer to the ramp.

In our next exchange of blows, a wide shot knocked the switch, sending the platform slowly down, while I gave ground as I backed up the ramp. However, at the second landing, I stopped, refusing to give another foot. As we battled for inches, the Dremora over-extended with a forward blow, giving me a chance to get him away from the wall and use my shield to push him over the edge. As he fell, he roared in fury, only to be silenced when two large stakes impaled his gut and shoulder. Even as he died my anger and frustration washed over me. I leaned over and spit upon his corpse from my perch before resuming my assent.

At the top, I found a set of gears, and a switch of massive scale compared to the ones that controlled the platform. I pulled it, and the gears began to spin, grindingly slow at first, but then more quickly. The tower itself rumbled from further unseen machinery, and in my panic I ran to the window to see if the portal was closing. Instead, I saw the massive war gates that had blocked my earlier progress across the main bridge open. Further inspection of the tower yielded no other indication of closing the portal that led to Kvatch, just some more potions and a lock-pick. I repaired my sword, checked the Dremora’s body for useful items and was rewarded with a petty soul gem. My next target was the main tower.

As I made my approach, Ilend’s words came back to me. They took Menien off to the big tower. You’ve got to save him! Menien sounded like another soldier, one that had been taken alive instead of being killed. Which probably meant interrogation and torture, if the attack had failed to kill Martin by now. I had spare weapons and potions that I could give him, provided I could mount an effective rescue. For all I knew, this Menien was already dead. Having already realized that there was no back entrance to the main tower, I checked for entrances to either side tower, only to meet failure. They were clearly support structures for the main building, and as such access seemed restricted to the bridges leading from the central spire. The only way I’d be getting in was through the main door, labeled ‘Blood Feast’ in Daedric runes.

Inside, I found a large circular room with a lava pool in the center, and an intense beam of fire shooting straight up the oddly hollow looking inside. Before I had time to see how far up the high-energy beam went, I had to deal with attacks by the ground floor occupants. For the first time, I had to deal with two mace wielding Dremora working together, and very nearly lost my life. As it was, I had to deal with two fighters while not getting myself flanked, pushed myself past my limits in trying to fend off two attacks at once. A blow to the chest knocked me onto my back, but they didn’t capitalize by trying to kick me into submission. Instead, I managed to stab up at one underneath the faulds of his armor. It was dirty, and extremely offensive, and based on his reaction I had cut through muscle and the equivalent of a femoral artery. As he hobbled back and my sword dropped from my hand, I swung my feet out to bring the other Dremora onto the ground, using the momentum to swing myself on top of him.

I pressed my weight onto his right side with my shield, pinning the weapon arm. I had managed to draw a steel dagger that I raised and plunged straight into his eye, feeling the pop as I punctured bone and hit brain. I twisted as the last resistance gave way and the rattle of his dying breath escaped his body. Well, maybe not dead, just banished. It still left one opponent, who was staggering up to me, trying to beat me in before I could turn. Rather than allow that, I kicked at the knee on the good leg, sending him off balance and away from me. It gave me the chance to retrieve my sword, and then use the reach to back him towards the lava. He staggered, and in that instant I moved forward with a severe attack that left a large cut in his neck, ending his current incarnation as dark blood bubbled through a severed windpipe.

I searched the bodies, and decided to do some experimentation. After taking what I could use from the two, I hoisted their bodies over and into the lava pit, dropping in a beat up mace, but allowing me to toss the other through the intense beam shooting up. As it made contact it jumped upwards half a foot without losing any forward momentum, but the head and the handle flew away from each other. The beam had melted the mace clean through with barely a second of contact. A wrong touch on that would be lethal.

Taking a long swig of a restore fatigue potion, I had a chance to see that this tower, like the others, featured tiered platforms and a number of ramps, but nothing that led to the first floor. There were alcoves and doorways, and given the layout inside compared to that outside, it suggested that there were other hallways with ramps connecting everything. Sure enough, on the ground floor was a doorway leading to the ‘Rending Halls.’ Swallowing my apprehension, I entered.

The progress up was met only with another scamp, quickly dispatched now that I was recognizing their tactics. Upon reaching the balcony, I found two possible choices: one led outside, the other to the ‘Corridors of Dark Salvation.’ I figured that these would probably lead to more ramping halls and upward progress, so I took the indoor option. Unfortunately, after clearing out that set of corridors I found my way blocked by doors with locks not even the best security master could pick. I would need a key, or another way up.

I back tracked and exited the tower, finding myself on a bridge connecting me to one of the two support towers. I plodded forward, careful about my step in the winds as I moved down the narrow walkway. Inside, I found myself in another tower with a spiraled ramp leading to the top, and a pit with the same elevation-mechanism on a bed of spikes. Above, I could hear voices, the guttural tones of a Dremora, and the surprisingly clear defiance of a Colovian Imperial. Menien! He’s alive! I crept upwards, and through the odd floor saw a man in a cage being questioned by a Dremora.

The timing was critical, since I wasn’t a naturally good sneak. Still, I waited until his back was turned before taking the rapid final few steps up the ramp and lunging at him. I didn’t achieve surprise, but I did have the jump on him and got a solid swing in that cut at the opening beneath the elbow. My foe turned, mace now in hand, and spoke in deep tones like that of a volcano’s screams. “You should not be here, Mortal. Your blood is forfeit, and your flesh is mine.”

“Take it if you can,” I retorted. Not the best of lines, but in the heat of battle I didn’t have the time to come up with a proper one-liner. We closed, and a few short and brutal strikes later I was standing over his body, blood running down my side from at least two cracked ribs. I staggered to lean myself against a wall, casting my healing spell in rapid succession until it no longer felt as though there was a knife in my lung.

“Quickly, quickly!” the man was shouting at me. “There's no time! You must get to the top of the large tower. The Sigil Keep, they call it. That's what keeps the Oblivion Gate open! Find the Sigil Stone. Remove it, and the Gate will close! Hurry! The Keeper has the key-- you must get the key!”

“Menien?” I asked, picking myself up to a slightly more upright position. “You are Menien Goneld?”

“Yes, I am, Now, take the key. Get to the Sigil Keep, and find the Sigil Stone. It's the only way.”

Following his instructions, I searched the body and recovered a potion of healing, a potion of sorcery, as well as a single twisted looking key and a scroll. “There’s only one key,” I said. “How do I get you out?”

“You don’t. The cage was sealed with a spell, and only the correct counter-spell will open it. Just go. Don’t worry about me; there’s no time! Get moving!”

I took another look at the cage, and I could see his point. There was no mechanism that would open the cage, no lock where a key would go or a pick would force. As it stood, there was no way for me to save him. Looking down, I realized that I could at least do one thing. I unstrapped the steel dagger, still in its sheath, and passed it through the bars to the soldier. “Take it. I have less need than you. If you get a chance, escape. If you must, take one down with you. If not…” I let it trail off.

“A soldier’s mercy?” he asked, his voice clear. “What is your name?”

“Aye, a soldier’s mercy. I am called Awtwyr Draghoyn.”

“Thank you. May Stendarr keep you, Awtwyr. Akatosh-speed, soldier.” Menien pocketed the dagger in his pants, from which I noted he could pull it with ease. I saluted him, fist to chest and then out, before turning and leaving with a final swallow of my regret. My chances of forcing a Dremora to release him were abysmal, and we both knew it.

My anger fueled me for much of the rest of the way. I cleared out the other small tower, finding useful gear to augment my possessions but nothing that would let me free Goneld. My progress was aided by strange things called blood fountains, which healed me entirely, and magicka essence fonts that revitalized my spell-casting abilities. Scamps and Dremora fell, many of whose bodies I would search before tossing them into the fire pillar before they fell into the lava below. Finally, I came to the top of the tower. The pillar of energy shot upwards through a red dome, while two doors led to the ‘Sigilum Sanguinis.’

Goneld had mentioned the ‘Sigil Stone,’ which meant this was my last stop. Taking the time to slow my breathing some, I entered the farther doorway, to find myself in a tunnel leading up. At the top of that tunnel, it joined with a mirror passage that led to the other door, with a large opening into the vast room whose floor was the same red dome I had seen earlier. I heard the sounds of both scamps and Dremora, three total by the sound of it.

To either side of the floor were two sets of large spikes that spiraled upwards like stairs, leading to a circular walkway that ringed the room. Above that was a balcony of some red leathery material, with ramps leading down either side and a projection that came to a metal ring. The ring itself was held up with chains, and it encircled the fire pillar with some glowing, humming stone sitting at the top of the pillar. The Sigil Stone! Now, how to deal with those in my way? Looking at my armor, it came to me. I was Breton. In addition to the innate magic resilience, my race was blessed with a useful once-a-day power called the Dragon Skin. Hopefully, it would last long enough to finish the job.

I charged up the left ramp, shouting and bringing the attention of everything else in the room. The closer scamp tried a fireball, but I sidestepped with my shield up and invoked the power of my blood. Feeling the resilience that I associated with the shielding effect, I allowed the scamp to claw at me while I moved. It paid off, as the fireball from the other scamp hit the first and gave me a chance to nearly hack his head off. One down, two to go. I circled around the far side, hearing the charging metal of the Dremora has he descended the ramp to pursue me. The scamp’s aim was off, its fireballs missing me entirely as I moved around the circular platform. With the Dremora on my heels I met the scamp head on, going for impalement and running the thing through. It died on my sword, but the weight dragged my blade out of my hands as I continued my progress up one of the red leather ramps. Two down, and now just a Dremora left.

The distance had been closed before I made it to the stone. I felt the impact drive me forward and to the wall, as I reached for the backup mace I carried. I turned to engage the Dremora, only to be forced back against the wall in the exchange of blows. Pinned to the wall by the mass of muscle and armor of my enemy, I took advantage of my helmeted nature against his bared head and drove my forehead into his face. He reeled back, but when I tried to strike he knocked the mace out of my hands, leaving me weaponless. I smashed with my shield, repeatedly bashing his arm sideways until he too was weaponless, before sending him sprawling back and towards the pillar of fire.

I dropped my shield and closed to grappling range. With my hands around his throat we struggled ever closer to the pillar, before I finally grounded him as he tried to punch his way out. The position of my arms prevented him from jabbing at my face, forcing him to attack my sides. Thankfully he didn’t have gauntlets, and my Dragon Skin had yet to give out. I used his struggles to get up against him, progressing until the heat of the fire pillar all but consumed us.

“You cannot stop us!” he roared in a voice like the other. “Our Lord’s progress is inevitable!”

“Yeah, tell him that personally.” A final shove and his head entered the fire pillar, carving out a burnt whole in his skull as he died. Panting with exhaustion, I sat back, before retrieving my gear. Once fully re-equipped, with some more potions and a new, backup shortsword strapped to the inside of my shield, I reached for the glowing sphere of stone. As I touched it, trepidation flowing through me for fear that it would burn my hand, I felt swirling spells dance across my fingertips. When it shocked me briefly I yanked it out, and suddenly had it cradled in my shield arm with my sword hand over it.

The pillar of fire, now unbound, shot up to the open sky of this place. I felt a deep, growing rumble, and I backed away to try to run out, but before I could do so fire erupted up as the metal ring and walls started collapse. In that moment, I felt heat without pain and momentary weightlessness, before hitting ground again.

Posted by: treydog Oct 25 2010, 02:32 PM

Excellent fights. I also loved the internal dialogue regarding how best to scout and infiltrate. And giving Menien the dagger was inspired. He is a brave man and deserves the option.

Posted by: Destri Melarg Oct 25 2010, 09:45 PM

Like trey, I loved the fights and Awtwyr’s infiltration of the Deadlands.

You have transformed flare from a simple spell that it seems every child in Tamriel knows into an effective weapon to use in any engagement. That is quite a feat considering how weak a spell it is. Keeping that weakness while showing an extremely useful application of the spell is brilliant.

I also love the explanation about why there is no freeing Menien. That is something that always bothered me in the game. Here you make his sacrifice as noble as I imagine the game intended, and you give Awtwyr something meaningful to do by offering ‘a soldier’s mercy’.

It's good to have you back at this, Hammer!

Posted by: Captain Hammer Oct 26 2010, 03:20 AM

@ Trey, Destri: Thanks guys. Dealing with Menien was the hardest part I had when playing through the game, and eventually I ended up just dropping a steel dagger in the cage with him out of frustration (and encumbrance). That, and watching "Gladiator" made me go back and add the dialogue in for the story.

Posted by: mALX Oct 26 2010, 06:37 AM

Oh, you are one of those writers like Olen that makes us jump out of our chairs at the last few paragraphs so we will be hungry for the next chapter !!!! Great Write !!!

Posted by: Ginner Oct 27 2010, 12:39 AM

I enjoyed reading this,its the main questline from a different perspective from the one which I feel.

Posted by: Captain Hammer Oct 27 2010, 06:33 AM

All: I've gone back and re-written some of the material. Specifically, I've extended the travel times to and from Chorrol, so that Awtwyr arrives at Kvatch about two weeks after the death of the Emperor (instead of just the third day). I realized that I needed more time in the story for the immersion aspect.

Posted by: Captain Hammer Jan 25 2011, 07:25 AM

The smell hit first. It was fresh air, mixed with the tannic scent of smoke from burnt wood as opposed to the acrid smoke from the hellish landscape of Oblivion. The realization that it was raining came second, though with it came the realization of just how sweaty I was. My eyes finally focused after the blinding flash from the explosion in Oblivion, and I realized that I was back where I started. Kvatch. Tamriel. Nirn. Mundus. I was crouched down, my right knee in the moistening earth with my arms gripping the glowing ball of Daedric magic-infused rock to my chest. I could still the low, steady hum that the stone made.

Then came the shouting. “Water! Bring water, quickly!” It took me a moment to recognize the voice of Savlian Matius, suddenly standing at my back and helping me up. A water skin was held to my lips, though I spilt more than I drank as I tried to hold the skin in my shield hand, my right arm still clutched around the humming stone. As I emptied the water skin and handed it back to Savlian, he forced two vials into my hand. “Here, drink,” he commanded, the same voice any Legionary captain would use when getting a man with a minor injury to take care of himself. I waved them away.

“I’m fine, took restoratives before I came out. According to Goneld, this,” I gestured, raising the sigil stone slightly, “was what kept the gate open.”

“You closed the Gate?” Relief spread over Savlian’s voice at the first indication of some end to his nightmare. “I knew you could do it! This is our chance to launch a counterattack! I need you to come with us. You’ve got far more combat experience than these men. Are you able to join us now? I can wait, but not for long. We’ve got to move quickly, before they have a chance to barricade the city gate.”

“Of course,” I agreed, but then realized that I could not follow him in with a Daedric sigil stone tucked under my arm. “Is there anybody from the Mages’ Guild in the camp? I need somebody to take care of this.”

Savlian nodded, and turned to one of the younger faces. “Go fetch Sigrid.” He turned back to face me. “She’s a Nord, alchemist by trade. She’s the only one of the Kvatch Mages’ Guild in the camp.” The statement made me swallow hard. I was hoping for an expert in enchanting and Daedric Conjuration. I was lucky to have anything at all. “What of Goneld? You mentioned him, where is he?”

It was then that I finally had a chance to look around carefully. Vonius was there, apparently in position with his fellows, but no sign of Menien Goneld. “Last I saw, he was trapped in some Daedric cage. He has only Arkay now.”

Savlian muttered a silent, solemn curse at the Daedra under his breath. “Vonius briefed us. I don’t know what you were able to see there, but I…” Savlian was cut off by the approach of the young guard and a tall, blonde Nord in a blue dress.

“Greetings,” said the alchemist. Some small part of my mind registered that even though she was of typical height for a Nord, my own ancestry of Nord and Elf put my eyes just above hers, allowing me to avoid what might be a difficult conversation had I been level with another set of her impressive attributes. An even smaller part of my mind noted that the dress concealed barely more than decency when it came to a man of my height or greater, but that small thought was quickly stampeded by more important things. Namely, I still had a glowing, humming piece of Oblivion clutched tightly to me, and I didn’t know what to do with it. “I’m Sigrid, Evoker of the Mages’ Guild.”

“I greet thee in turn, and wish we were better met. Awtwyr, Associate of the Guild, as of three nights ago. Can you help me with this?”

Sigrid took the stone from me, delicately holding it as if prepared to drop it and run in the same instant. I had similar ideas, but forced myself to stand my ground. “I’ve heard of these, but never seen one up close. It’s a Daedric Sigil Stone, though it looks like this one has attenuated to lightning.”

“Lightning? Attenuated? I’m sorry, but my study of magic has been more for habit than any thorough study.”

“These things are composed of a magically energized core, drawing power from Aetherius, with the outer layers allowing it to function in Oblivion. When brought to Nirn, or exposed to a Nirn-based influence, the outermost layer solidifies, with the middle layers settling on an interpretation, translating raw Aetherial energy into a set form that can operate both in Oblivion and on Nirn. Here, give me your sword.”

Wordlessly, I drew the longsword and handed it to her. “Thank you,” she said, before turning the blade so as to strike the object with the pommel. “If I can just crack the shell, the disturbance should cause the Aetherial and Oblivion energies to cancel out…” As she struck, there was a sound of rushing air and fire, while the blade flashed red and the scent of electrified air briefly touched my nose. “Oh, well that’s strange.”

“What happened?” asked Savlian, daring to step closer to the two of us, and cutting off my own question along similar lines.”

Sigrid wiped the ashen remnants of the sigil stone from the fingers of her left hand. “I believe I transferred the magical energy to the blade. I hope I haven’t upset you, but it looks like your sword now has a lightning enchantment on it.” She handed the blade back to me, allowing me to feel the pulse within that I knew to be indicative of enchanted energy. I hadn’t been able to obtain an enchanted weapon of my own before, but I was familiar with the sensation when I had dealt with the more tricky assignments that required the use of the Legion’s enchanted gear. Those items, however, were always carefully maintained, returned after every assignment, and kept under lock and key.

“Well, if that will be all? Said Sigrid, and Savlian gave her his thanks before she left. I didn’t remember my own manners in time, so enamored was I with the enchanted steel in my hand.

“Well, are you ready?” asked Matius, the rest of the guard now assembling in battle formation. By the looks, there was probably only about a century and a half’s worth of manpower, when each city was entitled to the use of up to two cohorts' strength in regular guards, and the same number of militia troops for emergencies. With this paltry number, Savlian Matius intended to retake a city.

“I’m ready,” I said, nodding. “Let’s go.”

“Good, you’re with me. Guards! Tight and firm! Keep the archers protected from melee, and keep your wits about you! On Me!” Savlian turned, facing the gates of the city itself. “FOR KVATCH!!!” As the others echoed his battle cry, we charged the gates of Kvatch.

True to Savlian’s word, our rapid attack had interrupted an attempt to blockade the gates. There were a number of Dremora busy reaching for maces when we hit them like a tidal wave. We were arranged in staggered ranks, so that there was space between each of us to the left and the right, but that space was occupied by the rank behind, evoking images of a ludus board so that we had the room to use our longswords.

The daedra fell faster to me inside Kvatch than they had in Oblivion. I thought it attributable to the separation from their plane of existence, but a nagging thought told me that wasn’t the reason. I couldn’t concentrate on that line of thought, lest I find myself dead. I was used to squad based tactics or solo operations, not line of battle, and certainly not the chaos of urban warfare. We may have started in formation, but it quickly devolved into smaller actions as we cleared the plaza. The alleys and thoroughfares had to be swept clear or we could face attack from the rear, and the damaged buildings provided too many places to hide. Fortunately, the rubble and ruin ended up forming effective barriers that isolated the front part of the city to the great chapel.

Once the denizens of Oblivion were dispatched, and stripped of usable materials, Savlian and a few others went to the unblocked doors of the chapel, knocking on the massive oak doors in a pre-arranged signal. It was answered, and then opened. The wreckage of the steeple had put rubble up against the main entrance, and in fact looked to make the chapel the only effective portal between the cleared part of the city and the rest of Kvatch. But for now, I had to know if our hopes would go any further.

Inside the chapel, I was stunned to find it barely filled to a quarter of its capacity. Savlian was gripping the side of a pew as he looked, seemingly supporting his weight on his right arm. I understood immediately. Chapels such as this generally held multiple services over the course of the week, at varying times, and were incapable of holding the entire city’s populace at a single time. Savlian had expected a crowded structure, the assembled portion that was lucky enough to survive the onslaught. And I knew, as the other soldiers did, that the people we were to rescue were gathered here. So little to salvage, and so much destroyed.

One of the soldiers approached Savlian and saluted, banging fist to chest before extending her arm. “Report, soldier,” said Matius, forcing the words out.

“Sir, we’re all that’s left. Berich Inian, myself, our men, and these civilians.” The female Redguard spoke in careful, reserved tones.

“That’s it? There’s no one else?” I saw a small shift in Matius’s arm, as he tightened the grip he had on his only solid piece of support. The man was about to do one of two things. Either he would collapse, or he would erupt. I hoped for the latter.

“There were others, sir. But they refused to stay put. We tried to convince them it was dangerous, but they left anyway. I guess they didn’t make it.”

“Very well. Thank you, Tierra. The area outside the Chapel has been cleared, and these people need to be taken to safety. Escort them to the camp south of here at once.”

“But sir! I want to help fight!” she protested, but to little avail. Savlian merely shook his head at Tierra’s request.

“You will, soldier. Once they’re secure, get back here immediately. We’ll need every available blade, and there’ll be plenty of fighting to go around.”

“Sir, yes sir!” came her response. She saluted, and then turned towards the gathered throng. “Civilians, it’s time to move out! Let’s go!”

As they assembled to move out, a brown-haired man in priest’s robes caught my eye. It wasn’t an exact match, but close enough for there to exist a familial relationship. Before I could approach him, however, Matius closed the distance with me, grabbing my shoulders with both hands, even with his shield still strapped to his left. I could see the fire grow in his eyes again.

“We’ve done it! I can’t believe it – I didn’t really think this would work.” He paused, trying to catch his breath. “Maybe we do have a fighting chance. Oh, yes. We’re not done. Not even close. This was only the first step. If this town is to be ours again, we’ll need to get inside the castle. You’ve come this far with us: will you go further? If we’re truly going to succeed, I’ll need much more of your help. I warn you, though, what we’ve seen so far is nothing compared to the battle that likely awaits us. Take a few moments to catch your breath and think it over. When you’re ready, let me know, and we’ll get underway.”

I didn’t respond immediately. On one hand, Savlian Matius was clearly prepared to fight to the finish now that the momentum was in our favor. On the other, I had an obligation to get Martin to Jauffre, to protect the emperor, though uncrowned. Instead, I drifted toward the main altar, kneeling in front of it and baring my head to rest it on the cool, cloth-draped stone. I felt the surge of energy as it healed my wounds, mostly fresh from the most recent fight. I raised my head, as my eyes took in the image of Akatosh, miraculously still preserved in the stained glass window ahead of me. Flanking him were the images of Stendarr and Talos. I didn’t take it as a sign from the gods themselves about what I should do. But it did remind me of the teachings of the priests. There was a time and a place for everything. Now, it was time for Fury.

The others had by now emulated my example and healed themselves at the chapel altar, Savlian going last. Once the blessings had taken effect, men would move aside for the next, and began assembling at the door that opened to the uncleared part of Kvatch. I joined them.

“Are you ready to go? We need your help getting to the castle, but we need to move soon,” said Savlian, joining us but addressing me.”

“Yes,” I said. “Let’s go.”

“Ha ha, I knew you’d be up to it!” It wasn’t bravado filling Captain Matius’s voice. It was enthusiasm. He had genuine anticipation for what was coming. “Our goal is the Castle gate. We should be able to use this door to get out to the plaza in front of the Castle gatehouse. You know the drill. Stick close, and keep your eyes open. Let’s move out! For Kvatch!”

“FOR KVATCH!!”

True to word, we were able to use the door to get around the rubble and into the rest of the city. Unlike the first charge to the chapel, this was a slow, methodical progression. We had not lost any men when we cleared the gates, a fate more attributable to fortune and luck than any particular skill on our part. The same was not true as we cleared the way towards the castle. At one point, two of our men ran ahead, breaking away from support and running smack into a tight group of scamps and two Dremora. Another was lost trying to go to their aid, rushing forwards when he heard the screams of our comrades. The rest of us were kept in line by Savlian, even as he tried to help the doomed. His rage was terrible to see against the daedra, but it didn’t stop there.

“Why didn’t you listen to me, you stupid son of a dog?! If you’d listened to me, you would still be f*cking alive right now, stupid f*ck! Now you’re Dead, and you’ve killed two other good men with You! The least you could have done was go quietly so as to give them the chance to live!” Savlian paused for a moment, surveying the scene around him, and I finally realized why the face of the man Savlian was yelling at looked familiar. It was Ilend. “Come,” said Matius, shaking me and others out of our momentary stupor. “We’ve got to make it to the castle. Onward.”

It became a daze after that, clearing the through the rest of the city as we tried to get to the castle’s gate. It was only when we got past the statue of Antus Pinder (the famous captain whose final stand had delayed the Camoran Usurper by two days while most of the city was evacuated) that we came under arrow fire. Dremora had taken the castle’s outer walls.

“Chelonia!” roared Matius. We hastened to obey. Unlike the more static Testudo formation, the Chelonian shieldwall was designed to allow for quick movement to a covered position, which in this case meant the archway for the castle gates. I would have had my reservations, but upon reaching the cover I realized that the castle’s inner defenses, while including a moat and inner walls, lacked the murder holes common for defense against siege warfare. Generally, such architecture reflected either poor design, or a healthy respect and appreciation for the people and the guard. It was clear that this was probably an instance of the latter.

“Dammit!” swore Matius, kicking furiously at the unmoving gates. “This is no good! The gates are locked, and the only way to open them is from within the gatehouse.”

“Is there any way to get at them from another route?” I asked. Nobles were paranoid creatures, and you never knew when you might be stuck on the outside of your own castle, trying to get in.

“We can’t open that gate from out here,” he said, before the gears started turning inside his mind. “The only mechanism for raising it is inside the gatehouse. And the only way to get into the gatehouse now would be through the passage at the North Guard House. But that’s always kept locked. Hurry and find Berich Inian. He should be back in the Chapel, and should still have the key to the Guard House. Once you’ve got it, get to the Guard House, find the passage, and open that gate. Then we can get inside the castle and secure it.”

“Aye,” I responded, and then I was off, back towards the chapel.

I arrived to find Berich Inian cooling his heels, having seen the last of the civilians out of the city. Empty, the damage to the chapel now struck me with sharp focus. The feeling of unease rising from my stomach did little to help, and the whisper of the wind from outside turned to a discomforting whine as it passed through the holes in the chapel’s structure. I shook the feelings a little, reminding myself why I was here.

Inian saw me, and came over. “Do you have orders? I’m just waiting for Captain Matius to give the order.” I nodded, and his eyes took on a hard glint of anticipation. “Finally, a chance to fight back!” The man wanted revenge.

“Do you have the Guard House Key?” I simply asked.

“Yes, I have it. Why?”

“I need it to get into the castle.”

Realization dawned on his face. “That’s right! They managed to close the castle gates just before we were forced in here. I’m afraid you’re in for a tough time, friend. The city’s in bad shape, and it will be difficult to make it to the Guard House by yourself. I’d better go with you. We’ll have to go through the Chapel Undercroft, and then through what’s left of the city. If…If I don’t make it, take the key and carry on without me. You need to reach the tower at the north wall of the city.”

Before we could depart, the doors opened and in marched the heavily armored forms of twelve men in legion patrol gear. “We saw the smoke from the Gold Road while out on patrol. How can we help?”

“Fall in. Our goal is to open the castle gate. Follow him,” I said, gesturing to Inian. It was coming back. As a Legionary Champion, I was expected to lead small groups in individual assignments and larger actions. While my experience with the latter was minimal, I had experienced a certain amount of the former.

We encountered small resistance in the Undercroft of the chapel, but Berich led us steadfastly through to a passage that led outside, depositing us behind the chapel. From there it was another struggle through the city streets, this time taking us past the ruins of the Kvatch Arena. My previous venture with Savlian and the better part of the city guard had cleared most of the daedra, drawing them in as we had made bloody progress. Some were left, which Berich demanded we mop up lest they rally and strike Savlian from behind. My authority in the matter was tenuous at best, and so we deferred to Inian.

Eventually, though, we made it to a concealed tunnel, but another two men fell in the combat to wounds nobody could treat in time. At the edge of the trapdoor, Berich motioned for us to circle around while he knelt at the ground. “This is it. The entrance to the passage is right here. I’ll unlock it for you. Best of luck.”

Once the door was open, he stood, pausing to barely say “Go, I’ll meet up with Captain Matius” and a brief “Protect Hero-Boy here,” to the guards before hustling off. I nodded to the men with me, then descended into the tunnel. The one two spots behind me lit a torch, barely casting enough light for me to see ahead but still better than nothing. The passage was narrow, so I switched to the shorter blade I had acquired during my sojourn in Oblivion, but we encountered no foes. They hadn’t entered this part yet, and might not have even known about it.

Just below the entrance to the gatehouse, I gathered the soldiers. “Alright, we need to go fast. There’s some Daedra still in the courtyard, but our objective is to open the gates and clear the walls. I’ll handle the gates. Split into two groups, one for the south wall, the other to take the north. Don’t give them the chance to throw you from the walls. Once the walls are ours, descend and clear the staircases. Regroup in the courtyard.”

The rest was a fast paced strike. The gates were well balanced, and once set in motion raised with little effort on my part, allowing me to rejoin Captain Matius. The legionnaires performed admirably, and we cleared the courtyard.

As soon as it was done, though, Matius was ordering us on. “This area’s clear. We’ve got to get inside and find the Count before it’s too late. Move out!”

Entering into the castle, however, found us facing interior destruction greater than I imagined. More Dremora and scamps were encountered, and another man was lost to a well-placed mace blow to the chest. Savlian gestured me over, surveying the scene with heavy eyes. “All right, this is it! We’ll hold this area. You head to the back of the castle, and find the Count. Don’t come back here without him!”

I nodded and moved on, the legion soldiers following on my tail. We fought our way through the next, horribly burned passage, but upon reaching the count’s quarters we encountered the source of all the structural damage. Two flaming women stood over a body. Flame Atronachs, they were. They raised their hands and emitted more fire at us, but it wasn’t the strong inferno they could muster at full strength. Screaming through the pain, I stabbed at the one on my right while my comrades took the one on the left. I thrust, bashed her face in again and again with my shield, and hacked at her until her form collapsed onto the warm stones. I gulped down the last two of my healing potions, and then cast my heal spell until my magicka ran dry. Only then did I turn towards the body.

There, lying in a pool of blood long since dried by the heat of his attackers, and scorched beyond recognition, was the Count of Kvatch. I knew it only by the gleaming ring on his hand, somehow less damaged than the rest of him. Suppressing an urge to vomit, I bent down and removed the ring from his swollen finger, to hand it over to Savlian.

Matius stared as I returned, only the other soldiers as my company. “Where is the Count? Why is he not with you?”

“I’m sorry,” I choked out, throat still raw. “He didn’t make it.”


“We...we were too late? If only we’d gotten here sooner!”

“No,” I said. “He’d been killed much earlier.”

“This is indeed a dark day for all of us left. But I thank you for risking your own life to help us. Did you find the Count’s ring, by any chance?”

“Yes,” and I extended my hand, “Here it is.”

“At least this is safe. Thank you: I shall make sure it is protected, for the time when a new Count is crowned. Here, take this. I have no use for it; I’m tired of fighting.” Matius undid the buckles on his cuirass, sliding the weight of chain and surcoat and shoulder guards off before folding it and putting it in my arms. “It may serve you well in the days to come.”

I looked around, at the nearly destroyed Great Hall, realizing that this was what Uriel had foreseen. And with grim suspicion, I thought that the real target may yet be in harm’s way.

I made my way out, past the chapel and through the gates, passing the spot where I had entered Oblivion and descending to the camp where the survivors gathered. I asked for, and was directed to, Martin, with words about the fact that his actions had helped save many of the survivors that took shelter in the chapel.

I found him, alone and staring, seeing and not seeing the destroyed city in front of him. When I approached, he did not seem to notice, but turned when I got close. He eyed the chain cuirass over my shoulder, and my unfamiliar face. Now that I was close, I could see that he did have a resemblance to Uriel Septim VII. “I heard about how you helped the Guard drive the daedra back,” he said. “Well done.”

“Sir, I need you to come with me. You’re in danger.”

He scoffed at my remark. “Danger, you say? You came here to tell me this? Explain yourself or leave me alone. There are many others here who actually need your help.”

“You’re Martin, right? The priest?”

“Yes, I’m a priest,” said my emperor, rage and sorrow in his voice. “Do you need a priest? I don’t think I’ll be much help to you. I’m having trouble understanding the gods right now. If all this is part of a divine plan, I’m not sure I want to have anything to do with it.”

“There is a plan,” I said, trying to sound convincing. “We’re part of it.” In truth, I didn’t think I had myself convinced.

“What plan? What are you talking about?” He turned and stalked, but I followed, and he continued to speak. “I prayed to Akatosh all through that terrible night, but no help came. Only more daedra.” He stopped, and turned to face me. We were now truly alone, save for the fact that the Prior’s Paint horse stood watching, accompanied now by branded Legion steeds. “What can you possibly know that would help me make sense of this?”

I needed a different tactic. I set the Kvatch Cuirass down carefully. Then, I took off my open faced helmet, holding it in the crook of my left arm. I drew my longsword, the glow on the blade pale from the use of its charge. I set the point lightly into the hard packed earth, then went to one knee, and bowed my head.

“Ave, Ave, Dragonborn.” I intoned the words I had learned in the Legion, words I had only ever said before a standard of a man, a man who I had met once a week ago, only to see him die to save me. Now, though, I said them to his last living son. “Hail, Emperor of Tamriel.”

Posted by: mALX Jan 25 2011, 11:35 PM

WOO HOO !!! You did it again !!! Powerful ending to this chapter - I got chills reading the last paragraphs !!!

Posted by: Acadian Feb 11 2011, 03:19 AM

Finally caught up with you!

I loved, in the prologue how you unmistakably used the intro to the game, voice, music, words that evoked the full cinematics, all of it. It felt just like firing up the game for the first time!

Nice job with the tutorial, accounting fully for Awtwryr's Legion background.

I enjoyed the brief pause to 'go fishing.'

To his credit, Awtwyr was too disciplined to be distracted by Jauffre's rather unfriendly interrogation.

Inside the gate, I (as did wise Destri) very much liked that you portrayed the dangerous plant life there.

I'll limit myself to one quote from the entire story:
'And I still needed a way to close that damn gate, preferably sending me back to Kvatch in the process.'
Awtwyr assumes that in closing the gate, his life may be forfeit inside. A stunning reminder of the courage required to make the attempt.

I enjoyed what you did with the sigil stone and Awtwyr's thoughts on how the Legion used enchanted gear.

And lastly, I thoroughly agree with our wonderful mALX that this most recent episode was very powerful. Fine and stirring combat, and the fitting recognition that Martin is the next Emperor.

Well done!

On the subject of dialogue. I too have a fondness for some of the in game dialogue. Almost everything Uriel says, Jauffre's interrogation, and oh my goodness - Savlian Matius' opening rant! All these memorable words are magnificent and I never tire of them. I think Master treydoggie nailed it however, in suggesting (for the future) that some of the more mundane game dialogue may be better summarized or even 'enhanced' with some license. Just my two septims.

Posted by: Grits Feb 11 2011, 05:00 AM

Captain Hammer, I have read your story up to date in one sitting. From the dream sequence at the very beginning I was hooked! Your fight scenes are very exciting. I love the specific details you use in your descriptions. The armor and plants in the Deadlands really stand out.

I’m glad I’m not alone in dropping a weapon by Menien’s cage in the game. That was a rough moment. It took me a long time to finally leave him.

I especially enjoyed the tactics in the battle for the castle. You make sense out of what seems to me like a bunch of running around in the game. And wow, the way Awtwyr handled Martin’s tantrum… *shiver*

Posted by: TheOtherRick Feb 13 2011, 06:21 PM

I have added this one to my list of readings. Nicely done so far. Great battle scenes. And the acknowledgement of Martin as Emperor there at the end was a real nice touch. Everyone that has been following this already commented on the same items that I would have, so I won't get repetitious.

One nit - The length of this last post. Over 4600 words was a big chunk. Someone much wiser than I suggested to me that I keep my installments to between 1500 and 2000 words, so I will pass that same advice to you

Other than that, Good job and looking forward to more!

Posted by: Captain Hammer Feb 26 2011, 06:29 AM

@mALX: Thank you. Your responses have always been prompt and encouraging, and well-appreciated. May you find this ending to your standards.

@Acadian: Welcome! Glad you could join early to the party, or at least, fashionably on time. Upon reflection, I realized "You know what? I can write better dialogue. Some of the game's stuff is good, but not necessarily all of it." May future chapters (not this one) show your advice taken to heart.

@Grits: High praise indeed. As with Acadian, Welcome (To. The. FANFIC!) Sorry, couldn't resist throwing the Wes Johnson shout-out in there. I must admit to admiring Jerric, and would wonder: What happens when a Kvatch native, Son of Skyrim Battlemage Born under the Atronach goes drinking with a Shornhelm Highlander of Reachmen Descent that was Born under the Mage and grows into a Spellsword (haphazardly)?

@TheOtherRick: Do I want to know what happened to the Original Rick? Thank you for your support, and I hope your hopes are not dashed. Additionally, I pray that you find this post of a more manageable length, hmm? You are correct (as was wise Acadian in your case) and so I hope you find a 50% reduction appropriate.

@All: Feel free to notice and point out those nits. Never can be too careful. As for the story:

We pick up where we left off, our heroes having met properly for the first time...

--------------------------------------------------------

Martin just stood and stared at me. I didn’t know what was going through his head. Probably worries that I was some emissary of Sheogorath. Given the fact that I had just bowed and called him emperor in the middle of a clearing with horses nearby, I didn’t think I could blame him. It was not the traditional way by which an emperor was proclaimed.

“What is going on?” asked Martin, finally breaking the long silence.

“I am sorry, Sire. But according to Jauffre, a…trusted source, you are the last surviving son of Uriel Septim.”

“Emperor Uriel Septim? You think the emperor was my father?” He looked at me with unfettered incredulity. “No, you must have the wrong man. I am a priest of Akatosh. My father was a farmer. And get up,” he added, beckoning me to rise. I did so, but did not don my helmet again.

“If that were true,” I began, searching for the words, “then I would not be here. I would not…,” Jauffre’s words came back to haunt me. “If the enemy is aware of his existence, as seems likely, he is in terrible danger.” I realized now what Jauffre meant. It was apparent enough that this was Dagon’s doing. It seemed he had means of finding the potential threats to his plan. “The daedra came here for you. The emperor knew you were in danger. Jauffre knew as well. It is his place to explain these things, not mine. What I can say, though, is this: the enemy knows that as long as you live, their victory is not assured.”

I could tell that Martin wasn’t convinced. The disbelief in his face had not yet vanished entirely. But he was at least considering the idea, no matter how distasteful it seemed. “You spoke to the Emperor before he died? And he told you to find me?” He stared off, looking over my shoulder at the dark grey clouds that still hung over Kvatch. “An entire city destroyed to get at me? Why?...Because I’m the emperor’s son?”

“Because as the emperor’s son, you are the only one that may potentially stop this.” Was it the idea that bothered him, or just me? Maybe if I can convince him of my own sincerity, he’ll be more willing to accept me as a reliable source. “Consider the following. You and I stand alone, here where nobody else can get to us in any hurry. My horse is just over there. I am armed and armored, and yet I have not made any move to harm you, even when I have my best opportunity. I did not need to clear the castle to do my duty. I did not need to risk myself repeatedly when I could have accomplished my goal. And I didn’t just speak to the emperor before he died. I was the one that killed his assassin. And had it not been for his own action, I might have died there with him, had he not given me the chance to survive. So tell me: Why would I lie to you?”

“I don’t know. It’s strange…I think you might actually be telling the truth,” he said, holding my gaze. “What does this mean? What do you want from me?”

“Come with me to Weynon Priory. Speak to Jauffre. He can answer your questions.”

“You destroyed the Oblivion Gate, they say.” My emperor half turned, taking one slow step, then another. “You gave them hope.” He started pacing. “You helped them drive the daedra back.” He stopped, and looked straight at me. “Yes, I’ll come with you to Weynon Priory and hear what Jauffre has to say. Lead on.”

Thank the Nine! I thought to myself. “Do you have a horse?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “The Chapel had two that we would use if our duties carried us to a nearby village or farmstead, but none have survived.”

I nodded, thinking to myself and eyeing the other horses nearby. Martin noticed my glance, and stopped those thoughts immediately. “I shall not take a horse from an Imperial Legion soldier. I am not yet certain if I am the rightful emperor, nor would I find it appropriate to exercise that right even in these circumstances.”

“Alright,” I said. “But I warn you, it was six days and nights of hard riding for me over the rough terrain from Chorrol to here, inter-spaced with dismounting and walking. If we walk, we can look forward to a minimum of ten days travel, more likely to be two weeks by the time we get to the Priory. See if you can get something better suited for the road. Priest’s robes will ruin, and if the need should arise we may need to escape a danger too great for the both of us. I’ll see about the appropriate supplies. Do you know anything by way of magic?”

“Yes,” said Martin. “Before I became a priest, I studied at the Mages’ Guild. I had a…an experience that changed my path. I have camped before, and I know spells useful for the wilderness.”

He was avoiding something, but then so was I. Even Emperors are able to keep their secrets. Must I really know what haunts his past? Must he know mine? Morrowind was a lifetime ago. It has nothing important about the matter before me. “Very well. See what you can get.”

I picked up the Kvatch cuirass from where I had placed it on the ground, and turned to head back towards the camp. Hopefully, I could exchange some the extraneous equipment for the necessities of travel. I went to the smith first. Batul smiled as she greeted me, motioning me over. Her small make-shift forge had a number of battered pieces of armor and weapons, with the identifying inscriptions that marked them as Guard property. “I heard about your actions inside the Gate, and in the city,” she said, looking up from a metal plate she was repairing. It was one of the bowled out pieces that sat on the shoulder, not a true pauldron but rather a piece of a spaulder. “And now I see you truly do have Captain Matius’s cuirass. If you have some time, I can see about fitting it for you.”

I had enough inches on Matius in the shoulder and in height for there to be a difference, but not enough time to justify waiting. “Can you measure me and keep it? I came to Kvatch for a reason, and now I need to go. I don’t know when I’ll be back for it, but I can’t wait around. Besides, it’s light armor, and I’m more used to wearing heavy plate.”

Batul looked a little remorseful as she took the finely wrought cuirass, but she accepted it and carefully stowed it away. “It will be sad that the Hero of Kvatch will not wear the Wolf. Still, I will keep it for you. And you do not need to pay for this!” she ordered, stopping me as my hand went to my fetch some coins. “You have the thanks of an entire city. If we can not look after the Hero of Kvatch, what can we do? Come, let me measure you.”

Hero of Kvatch? She means me? I unbuckled the straps holding my heavy armor on, the Orsimer smith helping. “Batul, why do you keep calling me that?”

“Hero of Kvatch? Because that is what you are. We know you closed the Gate. One of the legion soldiers said you were like his old pilus, claimed you led them into battle personally, and opened the castle for the City Guard.” She took out a strip of carefully maintained leather, marked with dyed hash-marks at regular intervals, and began the process of measuring my torso height, chest, shoulders, waist, neck, and reach, recording each tally. “You saved our city, or what was left of it. Some say that because of you, we may yet rebuild.”

All this for living where others died? All this for sending some Daedra back into Oblivion? I shook my head at the thought, trying to find the right words. “Batul, I was lucky. Lucky that I came when I did, instead of in the midst of the battle and the fall of the city. Lucky that I faced a small force in that gate, without facing an organized opposition to me. Lucky that I was not the foremost man when we cleared the city, for those men died in the streets. I was Lucky Menian Goneld figured out how to close the gate, though he did not make it back. For Mara’s sake, I’d murdered when I was still in the Legion! All because I didn’t know what I had gotten myself into, and because what I’d been told to do didn’t agree with what I actually did. And now you call me a Hero?”

Batul gra-Sharob sat on a small stool and looked at me, calmly. “I do not know what you did in your past. I know only what you did for us here? Is that not something? Can you not see the good you have done here?”

It’s true, came a voice in my head. Here nobody knows about the dead Argonians. Vedam’s reach does not extend so far. And Hammerfell lies between you and Morrowind. Make a fresh start, bask in the acclaim.

And what happens when Martin becomes Emperor? There’s still the vengeance upon those that killed his father and brothers. What will become of me? I cannot become Count Kvatch, I know nothing of rule, and have no blood claim. And if I seek their acclaim, how long until some enemy, some worshipper of Dagon, decides to seek consolation in my blood? The road is not yet finished. The enemies on any side still wait with daggers drawn. And others are more deserving.

“No,” I said to Batul. “You are right, but you are also wrong. When travellers ask, name Menian Goneld the Hero of Kvatch. Name Berich Inian that Hero of Kvatch. Name Savlian Matius the Hero of Kvatch. Name the City Guard the Heroes of Kvatch. They deserve the title more than I.” And Stendarr forgive me, for I may yet doom another to death for one seeking vengeance against me. But I cannot fail now, not when victory is close.

“Very well,” said the Orc woman. “I will do as you request. I will ask others to do the same. But Awtwyr,” she said, holding my gaze carefully, “I am also known for my business sense. And no matter how hard we try, the truth eventually comes out. Your actions here, your very presence will be known eventually. And when that time comes, these ghosts that haunt you must be faced. You have undergone trial by fire. You are stronger than you realize.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Hopefully, when I return, it will be under better conditions.”

Batul stood and wiped her hands on a seemingly conjured clean rag. “Wait here. I can get you supplies for your journey. What do you need?”

“Only what a man needs for two weeks of survival away from settlements. Spares would be nice, though I have enough field experience and rudimentary magic skills to make do. I don’t have time to hunt, though. Travel rations are most important, but not what could be to the survivors’ detriment.”

“Pssh. We can hunt, we have wells, we have crops outside the city that are safe enough to make us through winter, both stored and in the field. Sit and rest.”

I did, and when she came back Weedum-Ja accompanied her. “Batul told me that you musst leave uss,” hissed the Argonian. “I have prepared rationss and suppliess for your journey. May Akatossh one day guide your return.”

“Thank you,” I said. “What will you do?”

“Rebuild. I will not be driven from my home.” I could hear the fire in her voice.

“Come,” said Batul, somehow appearing behind me with my equipment. “Best get you ready to go.” She helped me into my armor, and when she handed me my shield I noticed that my makeshift fastenings for the shortsword I picked up in the Deadlands was now properly secured for the quick-draw if I had my shield-arm raised. It left space for the now-enchanted longsword on my left hip, and a mace on my right. “Fair travels, Awtwyr.”

“Farewell ladies. Thank you for everything.”

I returned to the bottom of the path, and the Prior’s paint horse, to find Martin dressed in more utilitarian garments, trading the robe for hunstmen’s pants and shirt, over which he wore a travel cloak. That was when I noticed that his robe had been co-opted for use as a pack, and a dagger rode at his hip. I placed our supplies on the horse, took up the reins, and Martin and I set off, taking the road east towards Skingrad. Only when we were alone did I begin speaking about travel plans.

“We’ll take the Gold Road northeast until the hook towards Skingrad. There’s terrain and brush, which makes it easy to slip on and off without keeping a tail. After that, it’s across the Imperial Reserve and the Colovian Highlands. We’ll come across a few settlements, but we can’t risk your recognition, so we definitively camp out in the nights till we get to County Chorrol. Can you travel as such, Sire?”

“Yes,” said Martin. “If what you say is true, then security is important. I only pray Akatosh and Talos guide us, and to Stendarr, that you have not deceived me.”

“I pray to Stendarr as well, Sire. Though for other reasons.”

----------------------------------------

EDIT: Fixed a Nit.

Posted by: Cardboard Box Feb 26 2011, 10:32 AM

Should be Fair.

This is a damn good write, apart from that nit. Martin's confusion and acceptance didn't feel forced, and Awtwyr's rejection of the Hero label rings true.

Posted by: haute ecole rider Feb 26 2011, 07:30 PM

Good write here - I liked how the hero Awtwyr gave due credit to the real heroes of Kvatch - those of the Guard who sacrificed and risked themselves at the barricades and in the city. I also like how he struggled with his guilt of his past misdeeds, and how Batul told him those don't matter any more, what he did for the people of Kvatch are the deeds that count now.

Good work!

Posted by: Grits Feb 26 2011, 10:23 PM

Well, Jerric could easily have been the big Nord standing next to me angry about something that one of the aforementioned Dark Elves had thrown. After all, that night out did end in prison.

Awtwyr’s argument to Martin was very convincing. I like how Awtwyr shared the hero acclaim. His inner conflict gives him a dark (interesting) edge.

I was happy to see the indomitable Weedum-Ja. She embodies the spirit of Kvatch for me. And Martin shows his practical side, using his old robe for a pack. I’ll say again how much I enjoy the details like how Awtwyr manages two swords and a mace. You blend them in so smoothly, and they bring richness to the story.

Very enjoyable, Captain (Tight Pants) Hammer!!

Posted by: Acadian Feb 27 2011, 01:16 AM

A wonderful blend of quest with your character. Only better, for you address the 'why' in a head on fashion. In this episode particularly, I note quite a nobility in Awtwyr's word and deed. It is evident in all his interactions here. Quite stirring to read. Well done!

Posted by: mALX Feb 28 2011, 04:48 PM

Your last line is a gem! Awesome Write!!

Posted by: TheOtherRick Mar 7 2011, 05:29 AM

I will echo the sentiments of the other comments. The exchange with Martin and Awtwyr's humility are both very well done. Awesome write!

Posted by: Captain Hammer May 17 2011, 10:42 AM

@Cardboard Box: Thanks for noticing, the nit has been picked. Well, more like carefully pierced with a white-hot needle, but still.

I always felt the game tried to do a decent job with Martin. One day, he's a priest doing his work in the temple, the next, Daedra have attacked, the city had been captured and then re-taken, and then the guy/gal that saved the city comes up and says "Hey, buddy, guess what? You're emperor!" The voice acting by Sean Bean is good about getting it across, but the player's own dialogue options are rather...limited. Glad that you think I could change that.

@Mistress of the Horse: High praise coming from Julian's own personal scribe. Though to be fair, I think my young wipper-snapper Breton's just a little bit less altruistic than our favorite Anvil-bred veteran. The more people that claim the title 'Hero of Kvatch,' the less time the assassins have to hunt him down.

Batul was always one of my favorite characters. For as much practical aid she can be before heading into battle, the game does a great job of making her a person you can connect with. She remains one of my top five favorite smiths in the game. She's also my favorite she-orsimer of Oblivion.

@Grits: As above, so again, though it's tough to compare wanting to ditch assassins with losing one's entire family. As for the equipment arrangement, I have Roman re-enactors to thank for that. Spare weapons could be carried on the inside of a Roman scutum, so if you lost one weapon in the heat of battle, you had a serviceable replacement or three to continue on with the killing until Mars was satisfied for another day.

And yes, Weebum-Ja is indomitable. I often wonder if the scales in her hide contain unusually high concentrations of metal.

@ the Old Paladin: Thank you. It's high praise indeed to have one such as yourself state that Awtwyr has "quiet nobility."

Now, about that bet on dragons eating the undesirable count and countess...?

@ Malx: Thank you again for your dedication, both here, and on the rest of the forum. And hey, it's easy to make the last line a gem. You just find a point in the story, take an axe, and then sand and polish the edge to a brilliant luster.

@ The-Rick-Who-Is-Not-This-Rick: Thanks again for your advice. I must admit, I find it much easier to keep the flow going if I break the posts down. Your advice on length has helped me stop writing research papers as narratives, and hopefully cut down on mistakes wriggling in.

@ Omnes (That's Latin for 'All'): As always, nit-finding appreciated. I can barely be trusted to my own mind, so the help is definitely appreciated.

We last found that Martin was willing to at least believe that Awtwyr wasn't an emissary of Sheogorath. We now spend some time...thinking.

---------------------------------------------------------

I tried to convince Martin to take the horse first, but he wouldn’t have it. “I’ve healed a fair number of people coming to the Chapel with injuries,” he had said with only minor annoyance. “You’re tired, exhausted were it not for the stamina restoratives you’ve consumed, but that can only mitigate the need for sleep for so long. At some point, the body requires rest. If we must cover ground until after dark, we’ll get farther with you on the horse.”

What bothered me most was the fact that I knew he was right before he tried to convince me. I had been on marches, fought some skirmishes, and taken the night watches that were every soldier’s due. I knew how far my body could go, how far it would go, and I would reach that limit before Martin did. No. Emperor. Emperor Martin Septim. Must remember that. Must remember to think of him as emperor. I was slouched forward in the saddle, as Martin walked beside the horse on the road. The Gold Road was one of the main arteries of commerce, well maintained and heavily traveled. As such, it was kept paved and generally free of the holes or breaks that could cripple a horse or ruin a wagon-wheel. For now, it meant I could trust more to Emperor Martin to guide the horse while I tried to rest in the saddle. I couldn’t sleep or nap riding, but I felt some of the fatigue ease out of me as I rode. Martin did a fine job of keeping pace, his stride surprisingly long and confidant for a priest recently told he was emperor.

We reached the point to turn off shortly before sunset, and I dismounted to walk beside Martin while leading the horse. Thankfully, we had not run into any bandits, probably due as much to luck as to the fact that the burning of Kvatch had made the area less favorable to outlaw bands. They would have retreated to their camps and hidden refuges to wait out the inevitable increase in Legion activity or avoid whatever evil force had visited the land. Either way, once the conflict was less likely to catch them in the crossfire and the fear of destroyed city glazed over by passing days, the outlaws would re-emerge. Until then, it was prudent to press the advantage of solitude and avoid contact. Any person we met on the road could as easily be an outlaw, a refugee, or a waiting assassin.

Some two hours after leaving the road, we stopped to camp for the night. The spot afforded us good views of the area without leaving us terribly exposed. We built a very low fire, and then Martin cooked a travel soup while I tended the Prior’s loaned horse. It had occurred to me that I never bothered to learn the name of the paint horse, but worrying over a detail struck me as absurd in that moment. After seeing to the animal’s needs, I joined Martin by the fire for our meal.

“Does it strike you as strange to be here?” Martin asked, staring at the stars.

“Honestly, Sire, it does not. This past week, I met Emperor Uriel Septim the Seventh, a man that had been my emperor since before I was born, I man I had served for years during my time in the Legion. Only, I met him in a prison cell, by chance, due to being arrested for a bar brawl I shouldn’t have started. From there, it only got more interesting. This pales by comparison.”

“And since? Are you certain that this week hasn’t all been one long dream, maybe for the both of us?”

“Who can say? If it is, it’s the most vivid and convoluted dream I’ve ever had. And the worst nightmare I’ve had.” I took the skin of water, drained some, then passed it to Martin. “You seem to be taking it well.”

“It’s not a matter of taking it well or poorly. In a few days’ time, I’ve learned of the death of the emperor, seen my home mostly destroyed by daedra, witnessed the reclamation of an entire city, and been told that Emperor Uriel was my father. I guess I’m still trying to piece everything together.” Martin shook his head, than turned to look at me. “You should get some rest. You’re far more tired than I, and I could use the opportunity to think. I’ll wake you for second watch, but for now, you need sleep.”

I nodded, taking the travel blanket and turning in for rest. The last thing I heard before the darkness of sleep was a low chant to Akatosh and Kynareth, one often used by travelers for speed on a journey and safety from storms.

I awoke slightly past my allotted time, Martin still up and staring into the night. My rising caught his attention, and I spent a moment thankful that he had kept himself alert through his contemplations. I moved to sit next to him, then made a show of studying the position of Masser and Secunda.

“Looks as though it’s about my time for the watch, Sire,” I finally said. “Seems I should have woken earlier."

“Yes, but I had some thinking to do, and you had a need for the sleep. And please, I think you should stop calling me ‘Sire.’ For one, I must still speak with Jauffre.”

“My apologies, but what you are, you are. A thought or desire alone does not necessarily change that.”

“Then, consider that by using any honorific, you mark me out for my enemies. Are you not supposed to be keeping me alive?”

I opened my mouth to respond, but paused for a moment as his words sunk home. I had waited until we were alone before saluting him as Emperor of Tamriel. “I concede the point, Martin,” adding emphasis to the address. “Might I ask what you were thinking on?”

“What is the greatest trouble of your soul?” he asked, looking out to the surroundings.

“Do you mean that rhetorically, or are you truly asking me?” I replied.

Martin turned towards me, raised an eyebrow, and simply said “Yes,” accompanied by a small nod.

“I am not yet ready to say mine. If that troubles you, take the pack horse and continue, I will not try to bar your passage. The guilt I feel now is the struggle, and I have not yet fed that to the fire.”

“You would feed your guilt to a fire?” Martin asked, the barest hint of the question on his voice.

“Pardon. It’s something that I was taught by a Redguard Swordmaster who thought I was too distracted by what was around me. He called it ‘Feeding the Fire in the Vacuum.’ It’s a way to get past the shortcomings of ourselves and to better understand the true nature of reality. For a philosopher, he was incredibly easy to understand.”

“Ah,” replied Martin. “I know of what you speak. Priests of Akatosh will, before they are raised, be taken to the Temple of the One for a night of meditation before the Dragonfires. We are not told anything beforehand, but are asked questions later. Some question us about the thoughts we had during the night. Some question us about our brethren, society and its ills. Some ask us about the true nature of totality. The responses determine much about where we are sent, and how we serve.”

“So,” I said, “Is that what allows your order to separate itself from the other Eight?”

“Actually, no,” said Martin. “Priests of Zenithar will follow a similar ritual, and some few of each order will also undergo the others’ ritual in preparation for theological debates between the acolytes of our two patrons. Additionally, the Psijic Order makes use of another, closely related process for similar purposes.”

“But why? Do you each simply want to be able to test yourselves differently from each other, to evaluate the initiates of your own order?” Something about the way he said it made sense to me. And something else did not.

“Yes, and no. It is impossible to fully answer without some basic preparation. But I will say this, the answer lies in Anuiel.”

“Do you know any man, mer, or beastfolk that have grasped the answer?”

“A few. Some to a greater degree than others. There are far more individuals that are capable of doing so than they themselves realize. Frequently, the only outward indication is a degree of exceptionalism that does not seem probable.”

“Does that include yourself?” I asked. Perhaps if I could not convince, he could convince himself, thinking that he was convincing me.

“Perhaps,” said Martin, giving a tiny half-laugh and turning the corners of his mouth up in the faintest smile. “Perhaps.”

We sat for a few more moments, neither of us looking directly at each other, both surveying the landscape. Finally, Martin got up, dusted off his clothes, and turned towards the bedrolls. “I think I have found some of my answers tonight. I will acquiesce to your wishes and rest, though I ask you wake me in the morning. I fear I may not be the most eager of people to rise with the sun. Please, try not to kick me awake.”

“I’ll do my best,” I replied. Martin settled in, and I settled down for the watch. His words had given me food for thought. It brought me back to what Nelthan had taught me.

Once you spill seawater onto a tree, you cannot force the roots to give up what they have drunk. Rinse your mistake with clean water, if you can. If not, then wait. The tree may live, or it may die. Do not wallow in your grief, for your misery comes from a desire for that tree. If it lives, it lives, and nothing more need be said. If it dies, it dies. Cut it down, split its branches, feed the logs to the fire. It may yet provide you warmth, cook your food, drive away the darkness. What has passed is in the past. Leave it there.

The trouble was following through on that advice. Nelthan had warned me that I would take it too quickly. I had tried before, feeding everything to the fire, but it hadn’t been consumed. I stood, pacing in circles to watch every approach, and trying once again to kindle the Fire that burned in the Void.

------------------------------

EDIT: Nit fixed.

Posted by: haute ecole rider May 17 2011, 06:38 PM

Let's get the nit out of the way first:

Seems to me the closing quote got fed to the fire!

Speaking of feeding the fire, it's a great analogy for dealing with guilt. I came across a similar method for dealing with fear - write "fear" in the palm of your hand, then 'eat' it. Continue until your fear is all 'eaten.' Not suitable for combat, but great for dealing with the anticipation of a nightmare waiting to happen. I'll have to find a place to use it in my fiction.

And already Martin is dispensing sage wisdom beyond his years! As a priest, he should be unable to resist giving helpful advice to our (relatively) young Breton warrior.

And how appropriate that Martin should point out that calling him "Sire" before they are safe only makes him a target for assassins.

Posted by: Acadian May 18 2011, 12:49 AM

I enjoyed the logic in deciding who rode the horse. I also liked Awtwyr's reasoning as to why they did not encounter bandits.

I'm with Rider in thinking Martin was wise to have Awtwyr knock of the Sire honorific until they were safer.

'Some two hours after leaving the road, we stopped to camp for the night. The spot afforded us good views of the area without leaving us terribly exposed. We built a very low fire, and then Martin cooked a travel soup while I tended the Prior’s loaned horse.'
This, along with establishing a 'watch schedule' shows a solid and prudent awareness of the danger they are in as well as a fine awareness of their surroundings and how to survive.

Posted by: Captain Hammer May 24 2011, 08:56 AM

@ Acadian: I figured I should have added an in-game justification to the ease with which one may fast-travel to Weynon Priory. And yes, Awtwyr has a very developed situational awareness and assessment ability. He once failed in that regard, something we begin to touch upon in this next part of our story. The lesson has stayed with him, forcing him to think about every factor to avoid getting caught up in a terrible situation again.

@Hawt E.coli Ryder: Thanks, Nit picked. Glad you picked up on Martin's inability to stop being a priest, as well as his more practical side and desire not to be called 'Sire.' And now I'm going to be looking for the "Eat the Fear" sequence in Julian's story. Should I assume it's an old habit making its use known again after such a long time?

For those who are wondering, the actual technique of "Fire in the Void" is an almost direct parallel to Robert Jordan's "Flame in the Void" used in the Wheel of Time series. The process itself is actually based on Zen Buddhist meditation techniques, some of which I picked up from a Buddhist Philosophy professor/adviser/confidant at my school. I actually learned the practice before ever picking up that first book, and recognized it almost immediately. Other issues with the series aside, it is one of the things that translates accurately, and I felt that priests of Akatosh (or Auri-El, the Soul of Anuiel, the Soul of Aurbis in the Void) would use the "Dragonfires in the Night" for similar reasons in seeking to understand themselves and the nature of reality.

Just as they call it the "Temple of the One," so too is it a place where a manifestation of "Oneness" may exist on Mundus.

@ all: Thanks go out to those that continue to stay with Awtwyr on his journey. I know update progress has been slow and highly irregular. Illa Vita Est (That's Life!). Your continued support has meant a lot to me as I find motivation to pick up with a soon-to-be out of date story (though if Athlain is any indication, I've got a few years' grace period after November to wrap up everything. Thanks for the example, Trey!).

As always, finding those pesky nits is appreciated. Let's not blame the Forum this time. Instead, we'll blame bad Copy-Paste execution on my browser (Shh!, it's just a joke, 'Zilla. I'd never abandon you for IE.)

In this next installment, we learn a bit about Awtwyr's upbringing, the topography and meaning of 'home,' and two men with intertwined destinies find out what the dark spot is on the other's soul.

-------------------------------------------------

Martin and I spent the next days walking and riding, with a majority of the time spent on foot. I became suitably impressed with my new emperor’s ability to travel on his own feet, though his remarks about visiting outlying areas for his priestly duties explained a great deal. While he couldn’t force us to split time on the horse equally, if he had spent time in the Legion he would have had an easier time of it than the average recruit.

By the third evening we were properly into the region called the Colovian Highlands. A casual remark by Martin, and a half-muttered reply from me, jump-started the seemingly inevitable conversation about our personal histories.

“Well, we’re in the Highlands now, Awtwyr. Rough travels from here on. Hill and mountain country till we reach Chorrol,” said Martin as he prepared the low fire.

“Ach, these be wee bonny hills where I’m from,” I said, a bit louder than intended and not in proper Tamriellic.

“‘Bonny hills?’ I’ve heard that expression twice before, and a heavier form of that accent. You’re from Shornhelm, aren’t you?”

“Aye. I grew up in a small village in the north, west and a little south of the City of Old Gate. We’re located in one of the valleys that sit between the mountain shoulders, wide enough for passage but still in sight of permanently frozen peaks.”

“I take it you’re comfortable with high places, then,” said Martin.

I nodded. “Shornhelm’s portion of the Wrothgarian Mountains contains the highest peaks in High Rock. Orsinium and Evermore have peaks with steeper climbs and a greater difference of vertical height for individual mountains. But the valleys and dales in Shornhelm all sit higher, and we don’t have a large number of ravines or canyons. Beyond us, to the west and north, are the foothills that slope down to the coast, but most of that is still higher than what we’ll see till we get closer to Chorrol. The closest approximation I can give is that there are mountains of middling size, all sitting on a single large plateau that drops out to the forested coastal lowlands. It’s not an alpine region like some parts of Skyrim or the Reach, and the climate’s moderated by oceanic currents.”

“You surprise me,” said Martin. “And until now, I didn’t think you had an unusual accent. You drop it well.”

“Habit, actually, though now it’s even more natural to speak without it than with it. Eight years in the Legion will do that to you. Otherwise lives would be lost,” I replied. Martin raised an eyebrow, and made a small gesture to continue. “Accents, idioms, and figures of speech that vary too greatly can disrupt communication. It’s why the Legions will recruit from the province they’re stationed in before they rotate to their next province. Enlistment training isn’t just about teaching new fish how to fight. It’s about breaking down the barriers that will keep soldiers from working together properly, turning them into members of a community that share a mission and a way of life. If there’s something that’ll interfere with that, the pilii priorum will catch it before it becomes a problem. They can be pretty inventive about it.”

“You speak as one from experience,” said Martin, inviting but not accusing. If he could deal with the Elder Council in the same way, he’d make a truly remarkable emperor. If we could get him crowned. If he believed Jauffre after getting to Weynon Priory. Plenty of “If’s”.

“Pretty inevitable when you’re talking about recruits from the Wrothgarians. Bretons and Orcs thrown together in a mix, and this was a mere nine years ago. It’s only been 16 years since the Warp occurred, and there’s still a lot of deep seated bias in the area.”

“Yes, I can see that there would still be problems of that sort. Is it still like that? Have you been to High Rock recently?”

“I visited home after my discharge came through, but didn’t stay. Met my new nephews, and realized that my brother Roland was better suited to the family land than I. So I came to the Imperial City for the first time right after. Spent a week there. Got drunk, got thrown in prison for upsetting the wrong watch captain, got put in the wrong cell on the wrong night. Or, alternatively, I was guided to being placed in the right cell at the right time. Depending on your interpretation of events.”

“What happened?” asked Martin.

“That was the day the emperor died. And it was he who sent me off on this mission to see his heir crowned,” I said.

“You were there? Were you with him when he died? What happened?” Martin was suddenly sitting upright, more alert and more focused than before. Mentally, I imagined the feeling of a hammer dropping towards me, straight for my stomach and myself without armor. Tell him. He needs to know the type of man his father was, not just the sort of emperor he was.

So, I told him. I explained, from the point where I woke up just before the Blades came to my cell, all the way through my escape from the sewer tunnels. I told him about the assassins that had infiltrated the escape route; I told Martin what little I knew of the Blades, advising that he ask Grandmaster Jauffre for their biographies. I talked about the side tunnels I used to escape, meeting up again with Emperor Uriel Septim VII, and I told him, in detail, the final minutes of his father’s life. I tried to hold back some, but his few pointed questions and inquisitive expression made the story flow like a river from my lips. I told Martin about the deaths of the Blades that had sworn to guard his father’s life. I told him about the rage and misery written across Baurus’s face when he found me. I recounted the most vivid moment of my entire life, when my emperor threw away the precious last minutes of his life to ensure the survival of mine.

By the time I was done, I was exhausted. Not physically, but emotionally. Martin demanded the first watch again, though I had taken it without trouble the night before. “Please. There are prayers I must offer. Whether I am truly Uriel’s son or not, the man was still my emperor, and he was still the anointed of the Nine. Your tale must be intoned, the actions of the emperor sung to the spirits.”

“Then shouldn’t I be the one to pray?” I asked.

“In your own time, yes. But for now, I am still a priest of Akatosh. In some ways, the emperor is the chief priest of our order. Either way, I have a duty that I must fulfill to him.”

I noticed the brief look of…was it regret?…that flashed across Martin’s face. Whether it was for the father he never met, or the emperor he had lost, I didn’t know. I left him to his thoughts and prayers, and turned in for the night.



We continued the next day, after having properly split the night’s watch schedule, and as we traveled on towards Chorrol I found myself telling Martin more about my childhood. I talked about the games I played with my friends, many of whom had gone off on their own, about half returning with wives, betrothals, or even families.

“Too many sons,” I explained. “And that’s mostly unique to my village. Half the lads in a generation will go out, marry some merchant’s heiress or farmer’s daughter and only come back once every few years to see family. Those that return will have helped deal with the surplus of daughters from elsewhere, only for the cycle to repeat again with their children.”

“Hence your height and build?” asked Martin, sitting on the horse.

“Hence my height and build,” I replied. “I can thank healthy infusions from Skyrim and the Western Reach. I’m tall for my village, but not by much. Most of us don’t have much trouble swinging around the larger one-handed and two-handed swords.”

“As so ably demonstrated by your actions back in Kvatch. It seems your decision to enlist in the Legion was fortuitous not only for myself, but for the rest of the survivors.”

I was silent for a moment. “You know,” I said, shooting him a glance from my position beside the horse, “You still haven’t told me anything about yourself. Or am I to imagine that you’ve never had an interesting experience?”

“Changing the topic on me, are we?” asked Martin.

“No. Just pointing out the large discrepancy between how much I know about you, and how much you know about me. Of course, if we were something other than just two men on a journey together, I’d not be in a position to ask such questions…” I trailed off, mouthing the word ‘Majesty’ silently.

“No, you are correct. I was not always what I am. At one time, I was training as a Sorcerer in the Mages Guild.”

“Well, as my powers of observation and assessment have told me, that clearly changed.”

“It changed on account of my own weakness,” said Martin. “There were boundaries that I pushed and broke, prices I paid. Would it surprise you to know that I once acted the role of a conjurer?”

That did surprise me, and I looked up at Martin intently, almost tripping over a large, sunken boulder in the process. Martin continued with his narrative, as though it was not a great admission of guilt. “I and my friends grew reckless. And in our hubris, others died for me. Including my own friends. What of you? You carry some burden with you, else you would not be one who claims the need of Stendarr’s mercy.”

I mulled his words heavily inside my mind. I had once confessed that deed, a few years ago, to the same man that taught me to ignite Fire in the Void. The Redguard had listened to my words, considered my explanations, then rapped me over the head for what he called “Bloody arrogant idiocy, coming from the mouth of a petulant, greedy child.” Much of my guilt had gone, but there was still the seed of its origin hiding in the back of my mind. Keeping it in the dark hadn’t helped. And if Martin wanted to run, then at this point I would have a decent chance of tying him up for the rest of the way back to Jauffre.

“During my tour in Morrowind, on the second half of the cycle, I led a group of legionaries on a mission for the Duke. We successfully murdered escaped slaves and pacifist abolitionists that were part of a movement called the ‘Twin Lamps.’ And we didn’t know.”

Martin drew rein even before I finished talking. “You did what?” he asked, open shock on his face for the first time.

“Like I said, murder,” I replied, calmly. “Slaughter, really, based on what happened. We thought we were clearing out a violent, outlaw anti-slavery ring. At least, that was what I had figured we were supposed to do. It wasn’t until after the fact that I realized what had really happened. I’d been deceived, myself and the men under my command, for a political goal of dubious morality.”

“Then how did it happen? How come nobody ever heard of it?” Martin looked concerned, probably weighing whether to bolt with the horse now. If he did, I didn’t know if I could catch him.

“It was in Morrowind, Vvardenfell after that whole Nerevarine business wrapped up. In truth, it was just a little after the collapse of the Tribunal. The place was mostly wilderness and native culture with only a few solid footholds of the Empire, the Great Houses still engaged in their land-grab. I’ll explain tonight, the entire story. My actions were the result of a tangled mess of machinations that formed a verifiable vortex for those trying to make any progress in their respective fields.”

“Tonight, then,” said Martin. “And please, excuse my outburst. I’m a Priest of Akatosh, I’ve heard legionaries’ stories before. My anger is that things like this shouldn’t happen, especially if it involved Legion officers and magistrates. I have some knowledge of the chaos of the time in that locale.”

“Tonight, then. We trade stories of failure and death.” Martin sat for a moment, then nodded. After a few more moments of walking, I couldn’t help but add, “You know, I’m actually not dreading the prospect of telling you.”

“Tell me Awtwyr, should I laugh, or weep?” asked Martin.

“I don’t know. You’re the one that’s supposed to understand that sort of thing. Being a priest and all.”

EDIT: Multiple nits fixed. Small admission: the difficulty of actually mulling through this sequence (basically an info-drop used as a means of developing the dynamic between two characters without making it too boring) required the assistance of unearthly powers. Specifically, Sanguine. Several bottles of well-brewed liquid bravely perished to bring you this installment. Honor their brave but inevitable guzzling.

Posted by: haute ecole rider May 24 2011, 03:11 PM

Let's start by saying I really enjoyed this chapter - a nice easy walk, a bit of male bonding, and quite a bit of background for us clueless readers.

Now I want to get the few nits out of my way. First:

You have our own feet and his own feet rather close together. It's a bit disruptive to the flow. I would suggest changing the first incidence to on foot.

Next is a change in verb tense in the middle of the paragraph: I'd use slope here.

Your choice of words technically is okay, but I found it a bit startling again. I'd use sunken instead.


And last nit: The proper form here is rein. The King gets the reign, while the horse gets just a mere rein. That's what I'd do to remember which is which!

Now on to better things.

Ah, yes, Julian knows too well what Awytwyr speaks of here. It is the source of her open mindedness when it comes to the different races (though her years in a polyglot town like Anvil didn't hurt). She is judgmental only on the basis of behavior. Unfortunately it doesn't always work that way --

I really appreciated this mildly insolent dig at Martin's insistence to drop the 'Sire.' Awtwyr isn't so subtle in his reminder that Martin is still the Emperor to be.

Do I detect a reference to a certain great fan fic? Well done! Thanks for reminding me of that story.

I couldn't help but chuckle at this bit of dry humor at the end. It shows how well these two men, mere strangers just a few days ago, have grown closer together.

Overall, a really good chapter. I'm still enjoying this story, and plan to continue riding/walking alongside with these two guys. -Majesty-

Posted by: Acadian May 25 2011, 12:27 AM

This is a really interesting journey. It's nice to see the time being taken for this journey being portrayed as both realistic and used for these two men to become friends. I'm betting that friendship will strengthen over time.

'Mentally, I imagined the feeling of a hammer dropping towards me, straight for my stomach and myself without armor. Tell him. He needs to know the type of man his father was, not just the sort of emperor he was.'
Very effective, this.


Nit? “Yes, I can see that there would still be problems of that sort. Is it still like that. Have you been to High Rock recently?”
Do you perhaps want a question mark instead of a period after the second sentence?

Posted by: Thomas Kaira May 25 2011, 01:47 AM

I am reading, and for death, for glory, for Chorrol, and for bludgeoning objects across the world, I WILL catch up!

Something that stuck out to me, though:

This is not necessary at all. Horses already have excellent dark vision (at the cost of not being able to see the color red). Not only that, but they have a very keen sense of smell, and are quite apt at navigating in the dark. These are animals that only need three hours of REM sleep a week, after all, nighttime operation is paramount to their survival.

Not a nit, as this observation was made by the character who probably doesn't know that, I just thought i'd point that out.

Posted by: Grits May 28 2011, 04:33 PM

My concern with the November happening is that people will lose interest in their own Oblivion stories and stop writing them. I’ll still be eagerly reading!!

And if Martin wanted to run, then at this point I would have a decent chance of tying him up for the rest of the way back to Jauffre.

There’s that tactical planning.

I loved listening to Awtwyr fill in some blanks for Martin. There’s so much I’d like to know about our Shornhelm Spellsword. Their little humorous jabs at each other show their friendship growing. Both of them having a tale of failure and death to tell certainly provides some common ground. And the atmosphere of a roadtrip encourages the telling.

Maybe they can risk a campfire tonight, and tell some tales.

Posted by: Thomas Kaira May 28 2011, 05:47 PM

Don't worry, most of the people here are straight-up Oblivion fans who won't be continuing on to Skyrim (at least not for a while).

I know I will be getting Skyrim, but if you think that is going to cause problems for my work here, think again.

Posted by: haute ecole rider May 28 2011, 06:03 PM

I might get Skyrim, but definitely not right away. Maybe three years post-release when the price falls.

So no worries. I'm still planning on writing more Oblivion fiction!

Posted by: mALX May 29 2011, 07:03 AM

ROFL !!! Sanguine's assistance, lol. I just noticed you had updated, (twice). A great two chapters !!

Posted by: Captain Hammer Dec 18 2011, 10:46 AM

Well, I'm back. I've left appropriate updates in a bunch of threads, and some messages to others. Can't say much more, it is what it is.

@ Malx: My thanks, and my hopes that you find this installment free of such demonic-liquid influence. Your encouragements are a cheer to the heart.

@ Jockey in Fancy Pants: Glad to hear you still plan on keeping up with your Oblivion stuff (even better than I have), and hoping you find the fortitude to wait. Being in the process of re-gifting my 360 edition of Skyrim to my brother for Christmas so I can wait for a reduced-glitch PC version, I am now doing the same. The next game of giant-ball can wait another 18 months, for all I care.

@ Thomas the Kook: Not mentioning any more Skyrim, so that brings us to...Awtwyr's horsemanship. Aye, he knows little of the fine equestrian arts, and will find other means of transport in Cyrodiil more to his liking. Shame he can't get himself a dragon at his beck and call, though...

@ Grits: As we can see, November has come and gone, and it is only now that I go back to the computer. Maybe I'll finish by the time Elder Scrolls VI comes out, yeah? Well, I hope that this teaches you some more of our Shornhelm native, though he's not a technical Spellsword. More like a soldier that's picked up enough skills to perform as a Spellsword in fact, if not in name. But hey, all things must adapt and change, or must die. Who know?

@ Adadian: And how, I wonder, would Buffy deal with Martin? Guess it's a good think Savlian's fallen for her, and she for him, lest I find myself without an emperor to talk to simply because Martin's been enchanted by a Boderi-trained Bravilian Bowgirl. Mostly, though, I think that having Sean Bean as Martin is a lot like being able to talk to Ned Stark and come away with some great lordly advice. But man does Mr. Bean never get the luck. Which brings us to...

@ Destri "Still faster than GRRM" Melarg: Serve returned, and you've had time to take the center for superior court position.

@ All: Awtwyr and Martin have told each other that they are responsible for the deaths of others. Now we have a chance to explore the question of morality, forgiveness, guilt, responsibility, the divines, and philosophy.


*****************************************************

Martin had made the fire somewhat larger than our usual small affair. We had been lucky, finding a site near a pine tree where several large rocks blocked the light from most directions. Careful rigging of the heavy cloth used for sleeping finished our preparations, with the prior’s paint horse given a wide tether to feed, and with some luck, alert us to approaching threats.

“Do not worry,” remarked Martin. “I am well versed with the use of detect life. I should be able to sense life-signs even if the fire upsets my night-vision.”

“A useful spell. I never had the chance to learn it.”

“Are you unskilled with Mysticism?” asked Martin.

“No. I have used soul trap frequently enough to recharge enchanted weapons when issued for a particular task, and countless times I have cast Dispel. I simply did not have the gold to buy the spell, and became practiced at going without the technique.”

“When we are done,” said Martin, “We can see about correcting that oversight. Now, though, we ought to begin.”

Martin sent a small stream of energy into the fire, causing the flames to grow larger and hotter. Weakness to fire. It strengthens the effect of flame. The emperor and I sat like that for a moment, facing each other with the fire between us, the flames growing to consume our vision. Soon the twisting yellow light was all that I was focused on. I began to sweat, beads of perspiration forming on my face, my arms, and across my bared chest.

“When you are ready, we will begin,” said Martin, his voice distant.

I closed my eyes, and opened them again. I saw the parchment with my name and the signature that had started it all. Viguri. Even now, the name stirred feelings of betrayal, disgust, wrath, and shame. I nodded.

“In the Void, there is Light.” Martin intoned the words carefully, dropping his voice to pronounce each syllable. “We feed our distractions to the fire, burning the waste that Light may illuminate our minds. We seek the Void, emptying ourselves of distraction lest the Light cast a shadow, allowing the full Truth we seek to hide.

“Awtwyr, Son of the Clan of Draghoyn, you come now to the Light in the Void. To the Void, we will dispose of the useless weight upon thy soul. To the Light, we shall burn that which is not yours to have. From the Void, we shall find Serenity, pure and real. From the Light, we shall seek Enlightenment, the True Freedom of the Mind.

“Your vision in the Fire is clouded. What do you see?” asked Martin, prompting me to begin.

“It is the letter from Viguri. It is the piece of parchment that opened the path down which I took myself, blind to my conscious and to the warning given to me by my father. The letter asks that I help stop an abolitionist cell associated with the radical side of the Twin Lamps. It’s not an official request, but it might as well be one. Viguri was my training officer and direct superior for a time. He mustered out of the regular service to go work for a group with connections to Duke Vedam Dren. When he was a legionary, he handled situations that could not be seen to have any official hand. I accepted the idea that this was a similar situation, and that Viguri was asking for my help.

“The assignment was supposed to be simplicity itself. An agent working for Viguri would be accompanied by myself and a squadron of the duke’s chosen men. We would head inland to the island to a cave that could be used for smuggling. That was the target. Inside, we were supposed to encounter Argonian radicals, and to kill or capture them. The agent was specific about that. Capture would only be used if an immediate and total surrender was offered by the enemy. We would claim to be a patrol sent with a knowledgeable guide to clear out smugglers and bandits, and that would be that. A friend of mine trusted in such matters brought us a few confiscated weapons from the surplus used for such things. No trail, no worry over deep inquiry, just another job.

“Slavery was such an issue at the time that there were brawls occurring every few weeks. Opinion about government action was extreme, but extreme to both ends and showing little chance of finding a common consensus. Memories of the slave uprising that started the Arnesian War were still recent for the Dark Elves. The Empire’s representative was Duke Vedam Dren. The man was previously Grandmaster of House Hlaalu, brother to a slavery-defending crime lord, and father to the public face of the abolitionist movement. To be seen favoring one side would provoke the other. But by walking his middle path, Dren allowed resentment to build amongst all. For that, though, there was still some semblance of peace, and the threat of Dagoth Ur and the Blight pre-occupied most. The Nerevarine’s triumph brought the slavery question back to the political fore.”

Martin made a gesture with his hands, causing me to look from the fire to him. “I can hear it in your voice, in what you say, and in what you do not say. You blame the system as well, yet you do not hold yourself guiltless. I give, or rather I used to give, counsel to congregants on a regular basis. You don’t approach this the way people usually do. Why?”

“After, I buried myself in philosophy. I felt that the faith of my youth was misplaced. Turning back to religion seemed both hypocritical and wasteful.” I spoke with a careful nonchalance. I had had this debate with priests before. But I had not done so with an emperor. “In doing what I thought was the Nine’s Will, I found myself down a path that ended with the violation of my own morals. Either the gods were not what the priests had said, or the priests of my youth had not perfectly followed the teachings they fed to us. That, or I was simply too cursed to be able to count on their intercession.”

Martin nodded, then spoke slowly. “Tell me, is morality determined by the gods? That is to say, do you believe an act is good or evil because of what a member of the Nine advocates as a moral act?”

“Or do I believe that morality is absolute, that a divine entity does not determine morality but rather is the thing most determined by morality? I’ve been asked this question before. And to answer: Both. Nirn would not be what it is without the Earthbones formed from the sacrifice that occurred in the beginning of the Dawn Era. Yet change comes as a result of the Padomaic forces, and upon us in particular through our connection to Lorkhan and the influence of the Daedra. Witness both the situation in which we find ourselves, you as the last living Septim, and the circumstances that surrounded the death of your great ancestor, for now we worship Talos as a god.”

Martin grunted, but soon started chuckling. “You have been down this road for a decently long time. Clearly, I’m not the first man you’ve told about all this.”

“One of the weapons-masters during my second tour, in Hammerfell. Parts of the local religious customs include a greater prevalence of warrior-monks, where combat training and philosophical discussions are more entwined with each other than romantic ballads and climbing into a paramour’s bedroom window.”

“And this weapons-master?” asked Martin.

“He helped me realize that as much as the Legion and Duke Dren had put me into the position that led me to the actions on that day, I was one of the supporters that blindly bought into the system and kept it working. I threw myself into it, and for that, I may have damned myself.”

“As you have said before. You cut down innocents defenseless against your attacks. You and your men raided an outpost helping escaped slaves, doing so under the cover of rooting out a radical abolitionist group so as to avoid the civil strife and internal violence seen during the Simulacram. Do I have the gist of it?”

“Yes,” I said. “And no. I didn’t realize what I had done, until after I had already done so. It’s always just a little harder to understand an enemy not of your race, and with Argonians, the lines between skinny scrapper and underfed slave are closer than what you see in a Nord or Orc. They resisted, aye, but they resisted because they wanted to live, or to save their brethren, and our purpose for being there was not important to them. We were there, and if they surrendered they would have either been killed or returned to their previous owners. But to us, they were what we thought them to be: bandits and raiders dedicated to a fight that could destroy a province. It wasn’t until after, when we examined their camp that we realized we had been misled.”

“Duke Dren lied,” said Martin. “I am sorry. Does he still govern?”

“Aye, he governs,” I replied, “But I do not know if he lied. I do know Viguri lied. He had been part of a group dedicated to hunting down and exterminating Argonians in Vvardenfell, and may have disguised his motives when dealing with the duke’s office. Then again, Dren might have known all along. His own brother was plotting the duke’s death, but Vedam showed less surprise than disappointment about the plot.”

“And Viguri?”

“Dead. The man he sent to help us turned and killed Viguri, and Viguri’s organization. He deserved no better.” I stared into the fire, feeling no loss or rage about my old optio’s death. That much, at least, I was at peace about.

“Awtwyr,” said Martin, causing me to look up at him. “I’ve listened to men that have served for as long as I’ve been a priest. Some have done worse. All have professed varying degrees of guilt and shame. You have clearly been thinking this through for some time, and as you’ve already pointed out, have had significant guidance to bring you to where you are. I know what you would have done differently. But you were in battle, and from my own brief experiences of the terror that can cause, I cannot fault you for allowing your basic survival instincts to take control of you. So, instead, answer me this: what will you do to prevent it from ever happening again?”

“Treason,” I responded, slowly. “I would, by all accounts of the law, be willing to engage in an act of treason. And based on this past month, I would engage in an act of blasphemy and self-destruction that would doom us all. And I refuse to do that. So instead, I must do the best I can, hope it is enough, and trust that when I allow myself to be used as the sword standing between you and Dagon, I do not commit the same crime twice.”

“And what would be treason?” asked Martin. “You clearly intend to see me safely to Jauffre, despite my initial protestations. As you said when we first met, you could kill me, and nobody would know. Has this attack been so jarring?”

“Not quite. I don’t believe in arbitrarily killing anybody, especially for who their parents are. It comes down to a simple idea, but one profound in the ramifications. A single word I found in a book. Republic.”

“The concept of absolute non-hereditary rule? I can understand that. And I understand why contemporary evidence would argue for the contrary. But you feel guilty about wanting to try an answer to a problem that, by any reasonable approximation, must be addressed. Should we succeed, I think you and I should address this on another day. But as for the matter of your conscious, consider this piece of advice I found on my own path to redemption. You were once wrong in the past, and now have considered much to avoid repeating the same mistake. In doing so, you consider a concept so foreign that most would castigate you for even giving it some time. They may be wrong. You may be right. And unless you accept that, your conscious will always be susceptible to tearing itself apart.” Martin brought the fire down, and looked up at the stars. “It is late. I think I should sleep. The spellwork has been a little taxing on my body.”

I nodded. “Aye, that’s a good idea. Good night, Martin, and thank you. I believe I have some pondering to do.”

***************************************************

Personal Note:

For those interested in being the agent Viguri sends (and getting a chance to meet Awtwyr in Morrowind, whilst simultaneously proving the supremacy of the shoe-wearers in that game), I direct you to the long-time work of my friends, who are responsible for creating the story that allows this to occur. The mod is called "Balanced Scales," is available at the Planet ElderScrolls site.

http://planetelderscrolls.gamespy.com/View.php?view=Mods.Detail&id=9285

Posted by: mALX Dec 18 2011, 03:57 PM

GAAAAH! I haven't installed Morrowind yet! Nice mod, really love that the mod inspired the story! Great Write!

Posted by: Acadian Dec 19 2011, 01:58 AM

’Martin sent a small stream of energy into the fire, causing the flames to grow larger and hotter. Weakness to fire. It strengthens the effect of flame. The emperor and I sat like that for a moment, facing each other with the fire between us, the flames growing to consume our vision. Soon the twisting yellow light was all that I was focused on.’
I love the evocative image this creates!

A warm campfire, some male bonding and touching on the subject of non-hereditary rule with a man bound to be Emperor because his father was Uriel Septim. Provocative and neat!

Nit: “Duke Dren lied,” said Martin. “I am sorry. Doe he still govern?”
Oops, missed an ‘s’ here.

Posted by: Grits Dec 28 2011, 01:09 AM

Wrapping up the fireside talk with the concept of a republic was an interesting surprise. Martin and Awtwyr covered a lot of ground, and there is more to discuss later, as Martin said. The journey to Weynon Priory is so important, I'm glad you're showing us the relationship between Martin and Awtwyr as it develops.

Posted by: McBadgere Dec 28 2011, 04:35 AM

...

*Tries desperately to say something that covers what he just read...*...

Er...

Wow...

...

Posted by: Captain Hammer Aug 22 2012, 06:15 AM

All: Eight months. Too long. Time to fix that.

Malx: Bit of the reverse. I started this same time as the mod was underway, and knew IXth Crusade personally. B read my first draft, and asked to use Awtwyr in the Mod. I said yes. Never realized how important it'd be.

Acadian: Well, I've said what I can say after a long absence from your work, so that's for that. But yeah, the juxtaposition of the idea of the Republic with an Emperor's Heir-Apparent has a Zen quality you can't pass up. If you can't bring up 'Republic' with a future emperor, then how can you believe it's worth your life?

Grits: From somebody whose trip to Weynon was one of the best I've ever seen (Standing Stones, lice control, lessons on the proper consistency of Jerric's Juice), that means a lot to me. Thanks.

McBadgere: Breathe in, breathe out. Glad to see you're still hard at work, even if I have more catching up to do for you than you do for me. Story of my life.

All: We find ourselves, after unreasonable delays, returning to the off-road 'Road to Weynon Priory.' I can't emphasize how much it means to be able to pick this up again, to write again. As always, nit-finding for my picking is appreciated, and errant nits will be dealt with using the most extreme prejudice.

**************************************

“It’s actually not all that problematic. The ceremonial duties of an emperor include being the chief priest of Akatosh. All we do is make that the primary role of the emperor, and given my own past and the current situation, there shouldn’t be too many complaints if I spend more time focusing on the maintenance of the Dragonfires than my…predecessor.”

I finished chewing on a piece of venison, courtesy of a young buck and some combination of animal misfortune and benevolent interdiction by Kynareth. I finished chewing and swallowed, before turning to look at Martin over ‘Slevin,’ as Martin had decided to call the horse. “Look, I get the whole ‘chief-priest of Akatosh’ thing, but what we’re doing runs against the principals of creating a republic. The system relies on the fact that there is no single point of weakness to bring it down. And yet, now, I am trying to save the one man absolutely necessary to save the empire. And all of Tamriel while we’re at it.”

“The necessity of the Dragonfires remains. It’s a matter of political power. The one who lights the Dragonfires doesn’t have to be the one to lead the army, appoint rulers, set taxes, all the rest. But there’s still the matter of determining those things. Who sets the taxes? Who appoints the counts? Who do the generals and admirals acknowledge as their superior? Even appointment to the Elder Council still requires the emperor’s consent. Do we allow them to choose their own number? Tyranny by committee is tyranny without productivity.” He spoke of the emperor in the third person. Referred to previous emperors and empresses as predecessors. The unspoken agreement that had developed between us had grown. All this was hypothetical, to him.

“Members of the Elder Council are appointed to represent the provinces, aye? A portion is chosen for their expertise, but the majority is sent from across the empire, ‘to give voice to all the provinces,’ or so we’re told. We simply make that true.” I smiled at him, inviting.

“That’s still the kings, dukes, counts and whatever lords have enough sway to determine who gets sent to the Imperial City. Oligarchy, and enough unofficial power in the right councilor, or wrong councilor, and the problem returns. Jagar Tharn returned, and the heroic use of the Staff of Chaos doesn’t stop him.” Martin’s eyebrows were raised, his face partially turned towards me as he spoke, glancing out of the corner of his eyes.

“It goes from the bottom, upwards.” It had taken a few days to get back to this topic. A few for him to bring it up, a few more for me to accept talking about it. Or rather, it had taken those few days for me to accept that I wouldn’t necessarily be executed the minute Martin was on the throne just for talking about this with him. I hoped. He seemed to take it in good stride, but such flippant radicalism could get a man noticed. Speaking out in a tavern, drunk, was one thing. Not bothering itself with it was part of how the empire solved it. An authority that could not allow for such freedoms of speaking would explode from the built up pressure. But this was different.

I kicked a rock out of my path before I continued. “The emperor, in his vast wisdom, decrees that any village or town over a certain size elect an official council. Most already have a body, one that settles petty disputes between bad neighbors. If they don’t already have it, these councils become responsible for managing common resources. The amount of cattle that public pastures can support. Damming rivers for mills. Choosing land plots for tanners’ shops. They continue, and are expected to exist with more uniformity.”

“Fine, but that still leaves the matter of the counties and the provinces.”

“No, it doesn’t,” I said quickly. “It extends upwards. In my home, the village council is elected every year, but the mayor is elected every other year. The mayors from mine and the four closest villages, along with the first chair of each council, meet to handle matters that extend beyond one village. How a larger river is to be dammed, and what the flow has to be. Limits on hunting out the deer in the common forests. Bridge and road maintenance. But they also nominate the magistrates. King Malcolm of House Lariat appoints our magistrates, but all that means is he chooses the preferred names from the list he gets, and then makes sure taxes get paid, thieves get punished, and murderers go to the headsman.”

“I think I’m beginning to understand,” said Martin. “What you’re talking about is a tiered system of representative democracy. I don’t know how you could expand that, though, beyond the village councils and mayors’ council you describe. And it wouldn’t receive wide acceptance amongst the nobility. It won’t work, Awtwyr.”

“It can work, if the emperor decides he wants more accountability from top to bottom, and demands councils be made that one day gain the full formal power that some of them already exercise. Village councilors serve one year terms. Larger assemblies can serve two or three year terms. In Morrowind they have a Grand Council, a smaller version of the Elder Council that oversees the whole province. Mandate one for each province, but require that each seat be filled by direct election.” I stepped over another rock sticking up, and then continued. “The kings and queens won’t like it. The dukes won’t like it. Neither will the counts, or the lords and ladies. It won’t matter. Eventually, they will be replaced, their offices exercised by elected individuals. Members of the Elder Council are elected indirectly, by provincial assemblies before being sent to the Imperial City. Provincial governors can be nominated, to exercise executive authority. But in this way, every citizen of the empire becomes responsible for their government. And no idiot with a violent mind becomes ruler of a land simply because their parents ruled the land.”

“And how long do you think this would take?” asked Martin. “These are not reforms that could happen overnight. And if the process is too rapid, strongmen and warlords are more likely to come of it than any other outcome.”

“Which is why it will take years. Maybe two decades. Think in terms of the entirety of the reign of a young emperor, one who comes to the throne shy of his fortieth year. It may have to be left to that man’s child, but the inertia of such a movement would be unstoppable.”

“I see,” said Martin. “Tell me, what will you do?”

“What I was going to do. I’ve completed two tours as a legionary. I didn’t have what it took for knighthood. But I do have what I need to become a combat duty battlemage.” I surprised myself, saying that. But I had been whispering to myself about this more and more the closer we got to Weynon Priory. Inside another week, and Martin would be Emperor of Tamriel. And hopefully, I could abandon Kvatch and the Imperial Sewers to be washed in the tides of time.

“If that is what you wish. For what you have done, fame could be yours in great amounts, Awtwyr.”

“No. I couldn’t get the politics of the legion when I was a soldier. I wouldn’t last a month maneuvering in Court. I go where I can do the most, where I have the best chance at paying off the blood in my book. I’m able to live with what I’ve done. Doesn’t mean I have to skip out on the penance I still owe.”

“Then serve in your own fashion. But I do not think the empire is done with you, Awtwyr mac’Thairrom mac’Ragnall O’Cinnidh Draghoyn. Nor are you done with it.”

“Only a few hours to Weynon,” I paused, “Sir.”

It was silence for much of the rest of the way. The last of the venison was consumed, a water bag emptied, Slevin allowed to graze a bit. I was determined not to get myself into anything deeper. Take Martin to Jauffre. Allow the old spymaster to convince the priest to become emperor. The trip back to the Imperial City, depending if Jauffre wanted me along. The re-lighting of the Dragonfires, and once it was all finished, I would be done as well. Battlemage training beckoned, and with it, a new start.

***************************************

Night was falling, and in the distance, I could make out the top of the belfry of the chapel house. We had gotten on the road, turned around a bend, continued until I spotted the grey stone, and then I saw the Dunmer shepherd, what was his name…Erthor, come running towards us. “Help! You must help! They're killing everyone at Weynon Priory!”

“Erthor, slow down, what’s going on?!”

“I don't know! I think they're right behind me! Prior Maborel is dead!”

Oh, I thought. Oh no. “They!” I barked. “Who’s ‘they’?!”

“I was in the sheepfold when they attacked. I heard the Prior talking to someone. Looked around the corner to see who it was. They looked like travelers, ordinary. Suddenly weapons appeared in their hands and they cut the Prior down before he could move! They saw me watching and I ran.”

Oh hells! “Jauffre?!” I asked. I was already moving. The reins of the horse were in Martin’s hands, and I moved around to force him to the horse. Why? Why now?!

“I don't know. In the Chapel praying, I think. You must help us!” cried the short Dark Elf.

“Martin, on the horse. If you see them, or I shout ‘Doom,’ you flee. Back the way we came, go past the bend in the road, then turn off, use the contours of the hills for concealment, and ride this horse to death.” Mara grant us Mercy, for this is truly going nits up!

“But I,” began Martin.

“NO! Take the horse, and ready to run! Say it!” I was barely cognizant of it, but I could not let Martin think this an argument.

“Take the horse, ready to run,” said Martin. He put his foot in Slevin’s stirrup and hoisted himself up as I turned and ran towards the priory. My shield came down from my shoulder, my left arm through the enarmes to grip the handle, fingers briefly outstretched to allow me to tighten the cords that wrapped through the handle’s loop, then around the palm before being gripped to prevent loss of control.

The doorway was open, an armored figure with a mace in its hand turning from something inside to face me. My longsword was out, my shield forward as I advanced. The first swing went wild. Amateur, but motivated. Likely to take risks. I deflected two blows off my shield, stepping and pivoting to let the motion glance off at angles, then probed once, and touched him with my blade, the magicka of the shock spell doing more than a light tap of metal on metal.

He reacted well. My next two strikes missed entirely as he danced backwards, but on the third, he pivoted forcefully, bringing the mace around heavily, striking the blade before I could pull it back. The sword went tumbling from my outstretched hand, the mace came back for a return strike, and my shield came in as the blow hit hard. It hurt, and I could tell the shield had probably been compromised. Still useable, but another blow like that would crack it too heavily for use.

My right hand came to my hip as I stepped back, dodged once, blocked lightly again, and came up with the mace I had pulled from a dead Dremora in the Oblivion Gate. I stepped forward and stabbed with the head of the mace, knocking my enemy in the chin, and he went backwards a pace, surprised. I took another step forward, caught his mace with my own, locked our arms up, and brought my knee up into the fork between his legs. The armor on my legs met no resistance, and he crumpled. No codpiece. Good for me. As he tried to stand, my mace came across his temples. He collapsed, tried to rise again, and once again my mace came down on his helmet, hard. Metal crunched. The man collapsed. There was a swirl of magic. The armor and mace on him vanished. I could see where I had crushed the skull.

I stepped into the doorway of the chapel, and paused, forgetting myself. Jauffre was battling two of them. Handling, in a better sense. A long, two handed blade, slightly larger than the one I had seen on the Blades with the emperor, seemed to dance in his hands. The support pillars jutting from the wall made an alcove that limited paths of attack. One came in, only to be turned into the path of the other. The other swung, and received a cut that put more scarlet on Jauffre’s sword. He saw me, flicked his eyes to the closer of the two, and squinted at me again.

I moved. When the one had indicated attacked again, it was blocked, driven down, and then the sword twisted through the legs, causing the attacker to stumble. The other seized the opportunity, but Jauffre was already coming up inside the second one’s reach. Jauffre caught the assailant’s upper arm against his chest, wrapped it with left, swept his right foot around the enemy, grabbed across the torso, and threw him down across a bench. Or at least, that’s what I thought he did. The old monk clearly knew how to fight without weapons. He wasn’t a brawler, or an artist. Just quick, simple efficiency, as though it were nothing more than cutting meat for the cook fire. The first assailant, my target, was stepping up when I slammed into him, the shield forward and bodily shoving him against a wall.

His arm came up, to meet the simple expedient of my mace colliding with his elbow. The other hand, a frost spell discharging, came forward. I smacked with my shield edge, and it grazed my side. Needles of pain and cold discomfort caught me, surprising me, stealing my momentum. The left hand, another spell of frost ready, came forward again. Only a bare hand in a brown sleeve caught it. Jauffre stood, gripping the arm, and then tensed his body. I heard the sharp clap of the spell, and my enemy fell, twitching as the armor evaporated in a puff of reddish mist, leaving behind a middle-aged brown haired man, Colovian by the look. Behind Jauffre, the third attacker was still, a woman similarly absent of armor, a tall, dark skinned Redguard.

“You're back. Thank Talos! They attacked without warning. I was praying in the Chapel when I heard Prior Maborel shout. I had just time to arm myself.”

“I saw Erthor. The others?” I asked, catching my breath. Jauffre was retrieving his sword.

“Just Piner. Come!” he said, starting for the entry way. I followed, out past the man I killed and towards the priory house. I heard more ringing of steel. When Jauffre and I rounded past a large oak tree, we saw two more of the armored figures facing a tonsured man in a brown robe, a slightly curved sword sweeping aside attacks in his right hand. And to the left, a rider on a paint horse in traveling garments, approaching the fight and then turning the horse. Martin. Bloody ashes curse that man’s obstinacy. Martin stopped the horse, raised his left arm, and a swirl of magicka flowed down his arm, the air in front of his hand fogging and surging towards the combatants.

It impacted on the ground, enveloping the two in armor and just touching Piner. A look of concentration on his face, he continued without pause, stabbing at the one on his right while stepping sideways to minimize the target available to two assailants. He needn’t have worried. Jauffre had charged forward, letting out a sharp yell that caused the second to turn away from Piner…and Martin. This one had a short blade, and swung at Jauffre’s head. The frost covering the armor slowed the strike, but Jauffre simply blocked with his fore-arms…which glowed suddenly and sharply as the assailant’s sword was pushed back. Shield effect. Dragonskin. Only very highly developed. Have to look into that.

The enemy was more surprised, failing to move as Jauffre’s blade cut and sliced, first the hamstring, then the left elbow, then the right, and then the neck. Piner’s opponent dropped to meet him, the younger monk planting a foot to draw his blade out of the man’s armpit. Red mist and dissolving armor accompanied both deaths.

I looked at Jauffre, but before I could ask, his eyebrows shot up as he turned to stare at the priory house entrance. “The Amulet of Kings! I fear that was the target of this attack. I kept it in a secret room in Weynon House. We need to go see if it is safe.”

“I can go,” I began, but was cut off.

“We'll go together. But I fear the worst.” I followed him in, hearing a man getting off a horse as I overtook Jauffre on the stairs. I went to his office, and there one of the bookshelves had swung forward, revealing a bare, concealed room behind. Inside was a chest, much like the one’s publicly visible, but open, and empty. Jauffre joined me, looked into the chest, and dropped his head in despair. “They've taken it! The Amulet of Kings is gone! The enemy has defeated us at every turn!”

“Not every turn,” I said. Martin appeared in the doorway to the office. “Grandmaster, may I present Martin Septim.”

“So it has not all gone against us. Thank Talos for that! We gained Uriel's heir, and lost the Amulet of Kings. My lord, forgive me for my failure.”

“I…I cannot say if there is anything for me to forgive. Though this defeat cannot bode well,” said Martin.

“Nonetheless, we cannot stay here. We have driven them off, but they will be back once they learn of Martin’s survival. Which they will.”

“You know of somewhere secure?” I asked.

“Nowhere is truly safe against the power arrayed against us. But we must play for time, at least... Cloud Ruler Temple, I think. The hidden fortress of the Blades, in the mountains near Bruma. A few men can hold it against an army. We should leave at once.”

“The bodies?” I asked. “What about the bodies?”

“Brother Piner is a priest, though it seems his path to Weynon was necessary after all. He can take care of those matters.” He paused, sniffing at the two of us. “On second thought, a brief stop is not completely out of the question. You both must wash. Sickness can kill an emperor as easily as a blade.”

“I don’t think we have time for a bath,” I said. I had smelled worse. Though I hadn’t felt my best from it.

“How good is your skill at Restoration?” he asked.

“Expert,” said Martin. “Mages guild training when I was younger.”

“Yes, I know,” said Jauffre. “And you, Awtwyr? I understand you have some skill?”

How did he…? No, he’s a spymaster. Don’t worry about that right now. “Journeyman,” I responded. Jauffre raised a single eyebrow. “Patch yourself up enough times and you start to understand a lot about your own body.”

Jauffre nodded. “Follow,” he said, leading us both to the far side of the office, where more books were stacked on shelves. He snatched one out, opened it in the middle, flipped three pages back, and set it on the desk. “Memorize this. Go out, pour buckets of water on yourselves, and cast it. It will clean you.”

I looked over it. Simple enough, it touched slightly on Alteration and Mysticism, with a slight construct that seemed to speed drying by way of Destruction’s Weakness to Fire effect. “What is it?” I asked. Simple, but useful for one that could cast it.

“Hygiene spell. Simplified version of a beauty spell called ‘Bloom’ that noble ladies, dandies, and courtesans use. This is slightly more efficient. Unless you want to smell like Lavender,” he trailed off.

“This will be fine,” said Martin. “Awtwyr and I shall wash. Do we have mounts?”

“I’ll see to that,” said Jauffre. “Go, clean yourselves, eat, and pack for a cold journey. And don’t shave.” That last was said with a stern, demanding look. My now respectable beard would grow more respectable.

I followed Martin out back, where a flume for irrigating the garden and several buckets worth of water succeeded in drenching us both. The spell in Jauffre’s tome dried us once cast and, I was pleasantly surprised to note, left us smelling like civilized men. It wasn’t a steam bath and a dunk, but it was effective. My armor was clean as well, a very pleasant surprise that would save time each night.

We went back inside to pack, grabbing gloves, woolens and cloaks for snow. We met Jauffre out front, where Slevin was waiting with a dark mare, while Jauffre was saddling a reddish stallion. “Awtwyr, take Prior Maborel’s horse. Martin, take the mare.

Piner came out to us as we were finishing. “Brother Jauffre, friends, the Prior is prepared. Will you join me?” Jauffre looked to us, then nodded briefly. “This way, please,” said Piner, gesturing to the rear of the chapel.

I expected a graveyard. Instead, it was an open space, and then a stone pyre, Maborel upon it, the scent of oils and spirits about him. Piner went to Maborel’s head, Jauffre his feet, and Martin to the right side. They waited, and glanced at the vacant left side, not saying anything until I realized I was supposed to occupy the remaining space.

“Can you sustain fire?” asked Piner.

“Aye,” I said. Cremation was the standard practice for dead bodies in High Rock. After so much time in the Legion, I had simply not expected to see it as the standard method of funeral rights, but the lack of headstones here spoke otherwise.

“Arkay, Guide of the Dead, Maborel of Weynon Priory passes into your care.” Piner intoned with solemn resolve, though I could see tears in his eyes. “We commend his spirit to you, and ask that you look with favor upon him, for he was a true servant of the Nine, an honorable and good man, devoted to the Order of Talos, for whom he has given his life. In the name of Talos, and of Akatosh, we seek and invoke your blessing upon his soul, to be freed from this body and to pass safely under your mantle. By the flame, and the power, and the knowledge you have given to Men, Arkay, we invoke your Law upon the body of Prior Maborel, conferred by the Path of Fire, Forever Free from the reach of the Dark Arts. In your name, and in the names of the Nine, and present to all powers that observe, we invoke you Arkay, and pass our brother into your care.” Piner paused, and breathed heavily. “Make ready your flames,” he said to us. I concentrated on the sigil of flare, and opened my hand as fire sprouted from my fingers. Jauffre, Martin and Piner matched me with their flames. “Immolate him.” Fire leapt out from us, in towards Prior Maborel, caught, and spread, consuming his body in seconds. We stepped back to watch the flames rise, then fall back, turning the once living flesh to ash.

Jauffre motioned, and we left, each of us shaking Piner’s hand as we departed, he standing vigil as the pyre continued to burn. We got to the horses, and mounted. “We ride on the Black Road,” said Jauffre, and set off. “To Cloud Ruler Temple.”

Posted by: Colonel Mustard Aug 22 2012, 10:41 AM

Just read through from start to finish this morning, and damn was that a good read. The start was a little shaky, I'll admit (I had a gripe with the combat there simply being 'then I killed this Mythic Dawn guy, then this one, and fought and defeated another') but you really hit your stride by the time you reached Kvatch. Awtwyr is an interesting character whose backstory, now that it's coming to light, is particularly interesting and gives him a great deal of depth, and there have been some real gems in here too; his dismissal of the title of the Hero of Kvatch was an interesting move, the cremation of Prior Marobel, and the recent discussions that he and Martin are having over the subject of building a republic out of the Empire are an inspired touch indeed. It's well detailed, engaging and exciting, and I'm looking forward to more sometime within the next six months!

Posted by: Acadian Aug 23 2012, 12:06 AM

Interesting discussion about the Empire’s future political direction. I see Awtwyr disagrees with the idea that democracy is simply two wolves and a sheep passing a vote to have mutton for dinner. Or that such a government can survive politicians courting votes based upon the promise of ‘free stuff’. One hopes the representative republic that Awtwyr urges can withstand such foibles. Yikes! I hope the population of Cyrodiil never grows large enough to require deer hunting licenses!

I loved the adaptation of SubRosa’s personal hygiene spell into ‘Bloom for Men’.

A well-rendered and intense bit of dueling with the MD agents at Weynon. It was neat that you took the time to detail Maborel’s funeral ceremony afterwards.

And it is off to what we hope is the safety of Cloud Ruler Temple until that pesky amulet can be located. Alas, battlemage training for heroes must wait it seems.

Posted by: Grits Aug 25 2012, 03:47 PM

I’m so glad to see some more story.

I like how Martin calls Uriel his “predecessor,” and Awtwyr’s thoughts about it.

“And how long do you think this would take?” asked Martin. “These are not reforms that could happen overnight. And if the process is too rapid, strongmen and warlords are more likely to come of it than any other outcome.”

An interesting prediction from Martin. The return to Weynon Priory had a great end-of-journey feeling, with the emptied water bag and plans for the future. That made the familiar scene at the Priory as fresh for me as it was for Awtwyr and Martin.

I love every bit of the fight, especially Jauffre’s calm badassery. I was not surprised to see Martin step in, despite what he had been told! “If you see them” indeed.

The “Bloom for Men” (Bud?) spell was a great touch, as was the funeral. I could imagine the pyre still burning as they headed down the road. A satisfying sendoff for the prior as well as for Martin and his escort.

Posted by: Captain Hammer Aug 2 2013, 05:10 AM

Well, it's been forever and a half since I've gotten to this. There are reasons. Not good ones. Valid, aye, but not good. I'm leaving it at that for now.

Mustard: Well, it wasn't six months, but hey, I figure better late than never. Glad you enjoyed it, hopefully you'll have to wait less from here on out.

Acadian: Empires and Emperors have fallen to the same issue. Honestly, one of my favorite authors was Robert Heinlein, and his idea of meritorious citizenship open to all. Not necessarily military service, but his later remarks about adding national service like the Peace Corps or the programs like City Year. Few things are as limitless as the drive and motivation of idealist young adults. And here in our world, hunting restrictions have existed for almost as long as there have been governments. There's a reason they call it the King's Forest.

Grits: Yeah, Jauffre's a font of endless badassery. I have a feeling that if he were to go looking for the Amulet with full gear and a good lead, the Oblivion Crisis would have been called the 'Late Oblivion Complaint,' with all the understated humor a Brit could muster. Pay attention in later chapters. I've got plans for him.

Lastly, all, the spell. I thought long and hard about this. I wanted to call it "The-Man-Your-Man-Shall-Smell-Like" spell or the "Cologne of the Lumberjack" spell, but those take too long to type. I'm going with 'Cleanse,' and it leaves a man smelling of pine trees, good tobacco and Bourbon. Since that's what my grandfather's hunting cabin smells like. It's awesome.

*****************************

It wasn’t until the third night of travel that I began to truly appreciate my hirsute nature. I had been far too young to grow a respectable beard when I had joined the Legion, and hadn’t wanted to invite the ridicule of being a scraggly-cheeked sapling. By the time I had gained a critically dense follicle count, I had been shaving daily out of habit and had already decided on taking a second term which would put me in Hammerfell. Keeping a beard in the dry climes of that province was a fool’s errand, and I was wary of taking on another foolish act after leaving Morrowind behind.

All this, it transpired, meant that for the first time in my life a small brush was becoming necessary below my ears. When we entered the colder air of the mountains, I began to appreciate the warmth it offered my face. It was during the fifth night of our travels, when I was grooming the growth of hair on my face, that Jauffre approached me from across the fire. Martin was praying to the side, and Jauffre held a bucket out for me to take. “Come with me,” he remarked, “There is water to be had.”

This put me on edge. Understand that there are certain phrases soldiers learn during their legionary service that have specific meanings. Orders that include “keep bright the Empire’s name” are used if the public backlash for a botched job is a concern. If volunteers were requested for “Seeing to Arkay’s duties,” it meant that an execution detail was needed and we’d have a priest of that god with us. “Come with me, there is something to be had,” was the phrase you used when you needed to talk with a subordinate, alone and out of earshot. Jauffre was asking me to go with him and talk, in a place where we wouldn’t be bothered. The unwritten rule stipulated that it would be poor form to refuse.

I stood, took the bucket and said “As you desire,” with a slight nod. He headed off towards a stream, Jauffre in front, in silence. Determining a sufficient distance from the campfire, and thus Martin, was left to Jauffre. Once we reached that point, he gestured for me to walk up next to him so that he would not have to turn to speak.

“I understand that you’ve been speaking to Martin about political governance,” he said. “Illuminating conversations, to be precise. I ask because I have to know whether we’ll have a chance to crown a new emperor. Should I be worried?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “You’re asking the wrong man.”

“Oh?” asked Jauffre, pausing as we came to the stream. “How so?”

“If Martin does not wish to be ruler over an empire, no power of Nirn can force him. Talos and Akatosh, perhaps, but no mortal power is capable of making him want to be emperor. If he wishes to rule, he will find a way to rule, and bring prosperity or poverty as he is able. If he does not, then your loyalty to his throne and the Empire will require you to let him disassemble the monarchy. Ask Martin where his thoughts lie. Those are the thoughts that matter.”

“And how do your thoughts lie? Do you sleep well at night?” asked the old spymaster.

“Well enough. Certainly less disruption has come from philosophy than other parts of my life.”

“Morrowind and Viguri?” asked Jauffre. The man was a master of swordsmanship. His mastery apparently extended to debate. An icy bolt of surprise and dread claimed me. Jauffre clearly knew about my history. I suppose he had done some digging. “Your reasons for disliking the games of nobility are understandable. But I ask you, do you allow your tragedy to color your outlook? Do you consider how your rage may blind you?”

It was the softness in Jauffre’s voice that surprised me. My father had used that voice on me twice in my life. The first time, I had lied about finishing the weeding while my mother was in bed from the birth of my youngest sister. When the herbs that we grew for reducing inflammation were nearly choked out, my father had waited until after he had spent two nights out harvesting before asking me to explain myself. The second time, I had allowed my brother to break his arm in a fight which I had avoided. This time, I was ready.

“I have already told Martin that story. Its prejudices and its merits are for him to decide, as they would be for all to hear, were I not sworn to still uphold the secrecy on the matter.” I bent to the stream and filled my bucket.

Jauffre stood unmoving in his brown robes, empty bucket still in hand. “Did you not violate that oath already?” he asked.

“No,” I said, standing, bucket now heavy with the cold mountain water. “I have told the events only to three people. My superior, to ensure that Duke Dren was properly informed of the Fetch-Up, a retired Redguard legionary and philosopher-priest of Zeht, whose function allows for such things, and Martin. As emperor, he is, by Elder Law, to be answered and informed of any matter he wishes, should it have involved the well-being of his subjects, or the involvement of any official, legionary, sailor, or agent of the Imperial Will. Is there anything else, Grandmaster?”

“One item,” said Jauffre. “How stand you with the Crown of Shornhelm?”

“In good faith and legal loyalty,” I said. “At least as much as the Lariat family stands in loyalty to the Septim Dynasty. I could care less about their claim to the Ruby Throne, but not by much. You should look into my name.”

“Draighoeinn,” said Jauffre, pronouncing my name with the proper native fluency. “The ‘Dragon’s Own,’ in Old Highland Brettic.”

“Some of Tiber Septim’s support came from a few Breton clans seeking to settle old scores or end their feuds in blood. Including us. My uncles and forefathers have been serving under the Dragon’s Banner for five centuries. So have I. I swore an oath to protect Empire and Emperor once before. You shall not be the one to make me question it now.”

Jauffre did not move for a whole minute, simply looking at me. Then, he nodded, and bent to fill his bucket. He stood, put his left hand to the bottom of the small wooden pail and dumped it over the bottom of his robe and boots. Then he kicked my bucket, knocking it from my hand.

“What in Stendarr’s Name was that for?” I asked, grabbing the now empty pail by the rim and shifting my feet. I didn’t raise the pail to strike, but I wouldn’t let him kick it again, either.

“To see how you act,” said Jauffre, returning to fill his bucket again. “Also, to explain why we took so long. Old men are more likely to lose their footing and require assistance.” I filled my bucket from a few feet away, and was careful to follow him on the way back, casting the Cleanse spell while I fumed.

Martin looked up when we returned, still seated from where we had left him. “What took so long?”

“I soaked myself and Awtwyr dropped his bucket,” said Jauffre, only now casting the Cleanse spell to dry his soaked garments. “Entirely my fault.”

“His footing was rather slippery,” I added. “If you need to tread our path, have a care.” I added my water to the kettle and set it near the fire. In the morning, it would be hung directly over the flame to boil more quickly.

“Indeed,” said Jauffre, adding the water in his bucket to the skins. "You two should sleep. I'll take first watch."

Posted by: Colonel Mustard Aug 3 2013, 01:11 PM

Hey, I remember this. It was a story, which had...events. And...characters. And things...

OK, it's been ages, and it's probably a good idea if I reread this after posting this comment, but I did enjoy this last chapter; I'm really liking the way you're characterising Jauffre in this as a sort of badass mentor figure, and I enjoyed the dialogue between the two, especially with some of the untangling of Awtwyr's motivations here.

An excellent read, and I look forward to August 2014 for the next part

Posted by: Grits Aug 4 2013, 12:28 AM

It was the softness in Jauffre’s voice that surprised me.

This suits him so well. I went back and read to remember who Viguri is so I would understand Awtwyr’s dread. It was chilling to realize Jauffre had been riding along with that knowledge the whole time. He’s the guy who makes you lean forward to listen when he speaks softly.

It's great to hear some more from Awtwyr!

Posted by: Acadian Aug 7 2013, 03:14 PM

Welcome back to you and this story. This was a thoughtful and intriguing episode of possible futures and loyalties.

I like the game NPC Jauffre because he can be spun in differing ways. As you may recall, his initial rudeness permanently soured Buffy on him and he was assassinated before she could ever more fully evaluate or appreciate his character. I do expect, however, that he didn’t get to be Grandmaster by being a fool, or based upon his good looks. He takes well to the role of quiet mentor.

Posted by: Captain Hammer Aug 10 2013, 10:52 AM

Grits, Colonel, Acadian: You've all pretty much identified the same theme in this last chapter. Jauffre is a total Bad@ss, with the M.F.B.A. degree (Mother-Frakking-Bad-A$$!!!!) from Awesome University.

There's a reason. I like Jauffre. He reminds me of my grandfather.

Which brings me to my extended absences. My grandfather died before the 2011 holidays and it hit my mom pretty hard. She said all the things about knowing that it was his time but really, it hurt her because my grandfather raised my mom and aunt alone from middle school through college.

While I could get past that, the subsequent death of a much younger member of my family early this year was not something to "get past." I found myself in a position of wanting to simply destroy stuff at the injustice and in an absolute zero-percentage inclination to create something.

I don't want sympathy. I don't want condolences, public or private. Such gods as they exist are officially on my Sh!t-List, and if I die in the next year then paradise, for me, is finding the supernatural entity responsible and bashing his or her face into the hardest object I can find each morning in a Prometheus-level indictment of His, Her, or Their judgement. If you have something to say about the divine, say it elsewhere.

I can and will return to this more as I am able. With things starting to settle down again, I find the keyboard a D@mn decent form of therapy.

Awtwyr's story, such as it is, will be preserved as best I can. It's not that what happened won't affect me, it's that plodding on is part of my Giant-Middle-Finger-To-The-Universe-And-Whatever-Gods-May-Be project that I've started in the immediate aftermath of this cacat-filled tragedy.

So, no more mentions. No more words of sympathy, or empathy. Curse out the divine? Be my guest. Contemplate whether the rejection of existing morality and becoming the Ubermensch, fulfilling for yourself the concept that "God is Dead" is a worthwhile life goal? I'm behind you all the way.

But that's it. It's out now, It's done. I remain exceptionally grateful to the cadre of readers that have returned time after time for me to start moving again and it was your faith in me that made me realize I need to keep going.

So I shall.

********************************************

Previously: Jauffre revealed that he knew about Awtwyr's past during an evening talk by the riverside. To wit: Awtwyr, while working on a 'paperless mission' under the authority of Duke Dren during his legion's posting in Morrowind, participated in a raid against abolitionists at the behest of a former legionary and mentor-figure named Viguri. Awtwyr and a few other legionaries wiped out a hideout of Argonian refugee slaves, thinking that they were taking out a "Twin Lamps but with Plenty o' Violence" cell in Vvardenfell. As a result, when talking with Martin during the trip from Kvatch to Weynon Priory, Awtwyr revealed that he supports a Democratic Republic form of government to Martin, the next hereditary monarch of the Empire. Jauffre asked Awtwyr about this and his past, before finally drenching them both in water.

The next day, night, and most of the following day were spent in the grey cloud and fog that was the high road of the Jerall Mountains. Jauffre had seemingly spent more and more time in silence as we progressed, until he finally pulled his mount to a stop and turned it to face us, midway up a valley wall with the opposite bank close against the sky. “We are here, and shall enter by nightfall. My lord, I ask that you understand my next question is for your safety, and that you not object.” When Martin nodded his assent, Jauffre turned his gaze towards me. “Awtwyr, what you see next is a secret known to few and carefully guarded. Your actions have earned you a great deal of trust, and your discretion is something that may be relied upon. But I would first test your honor. Are you willing to proceed under the oath of secrecy, that you bind yourself before we take another step, to see that Martin Septim is crowned Emperor of Tamriel?”

“Aye. Not much choice when survival is on the line.”

Surprise barely registered on Jauffre’s face, merely a slight tilt as if considering my words. “Then would you bind yourself knowing that a single misplaced word from you, and I would kill you myself in the most demonstrative manner available?”

“Jauffre, enough. He has been on my side since you sent him to rescue me.” Agitation played out across Martin’s face. “If you can’t trust him now then you might as well…”

“Yes!” I said loudly. “If it means the lives of my family and every other family of parents and children on Nirn, then yes.” I looked to Martin, and nodded. “Don’t think I’ll just sell my life cheaply, but I can understand that, yes, you may find it necessary to try to have me killed if it threatens your purpose. Though it may require that you personally come for me, since I doubt you’ll detach your strongest from protecting Martin until this is finished.”

Jauffre nodded, and then sat straighter in his saddle. “Good, that will suffice for now. Watch closely.” He raised his left arm, magical energy swirling into a Light spell that was cast at the opposite side of the valley, in a cleft of rock hard to see and seemingly hidden from the valley mouth. It wasn’t one ball of light that went out, but three, two in quick succession before a pause, and then the third. “Now, look above us, and tell me what you see.”

The trick, I knew, was to let my gaze absorb without focus. Otherwise, concentration on the wrong area would produce phantom images while my mind ignored what was really there. And then I saw it. Blazing against the rim of the valley wall, three lights came into existence, almost as stars from the position we were in, but in a distinct sequence: left, right, center. Closer to the valley floor and we probably wouldn’t see it. This high up, they barely differed from the stars. One would need to be higher to see it properly, but with the steep walls and icy build-up you’d be lucky to see it without breaking your neck.

“The lights,” said Martin.

“At the valley’s top,” came my follow-up.

“They know we are here and wait for us,” said Jauffre. “Memorize this place. What we do next must be done with care.” Jauffre turned his horse up towards a stand of shrubs and pine trees that had found a foothold in one of the few flat plots not trampled by travelers. His horse picked its way up next to it, went to the side, and then slowly behind the stand as we followed. Instead of coming around the other side, we found the beginnings of a goat track, which led deeper into the valley, climbing up and then bending around at the shoe-end of the valley and proceeding along the opposite bank. Before us now was a more defined path that was concealed from below by the rock formation. I stopped with Martin and observed the switchback ahead that seemed to run back around the valley’s shoe above us, leading to the source of the lights that was now clearly visible.

There, illuminated with fires, it sat upon the western shoulder of the valley like an anvil sunk into a boulder. It was grey, seemingly of dense granite stone with a distinct prow shape that contoured to the land and an overhanging roof with eaves of strange design. It exuded at once both a sense of stolid immobility and proud arrogance as though it had chosen its position as the only place suitable for its purposes, daring any and all to find a reason why it shouldn’t be where it sat.

“Cloud Ruler Temple,” said Jauffre, sending another signal towards that rock cleft that, I realized, was all but invisible to others but easy to observe from the structure. What must have been a man or mer on the walls responded with a signal in kind, and Jauffre motioned us forward once more. “They are expecting us.”

We proceeded, silent. Jauffre sat his horse exuding confidence and relief, a faint smile on him visible now and then as the light allowed. Martin didn't say anything, nor did I. Reality has a way of doing that to you, informing you of some important truth while waiting patiently for your mind to work its way up to the basic understanding of what was said. No, sorry, this isn’t some hypothetical. It’s not a thought-experiment of philosophers. It’s real, it’s here, get used to it, because there’s more and I really need you to at least demonstrate a grasp of the basics since there’s more coming.

After crossing beneath it and taking one final switchback, a part of the design that simply screamed with redundancy but made it painfully obvious that you would be seen approaching this place long before you saw it, the horses plodding through the packed snow, two torches emerged from the gloom to frame large, ornate, and distinctly massive doors. They were slightly open, an armored figure standing in front with his sword held in his left hand, point down with the right hand cupping the hilt. He stepped forward, allowing the light to dance off the plates and scales that bore the enamel-work indicative of a member of the Blades.

We dismounted and approached, slightly out of file, Jauffre, then Martin, and finally me. The Blade looked at the three of us, his mouth dropping open for moment before his resolve returned and he found his voice. “Grandmaster Jauffre, is this, I mean to say, have you brought…?”

“Yes, Cyrus,” said the grandmaster, gesturing to Martin. “This is the Emperor's son, Martin Septim.”

“My Lord!” said Cyrus, bowing deep. “Welcome to Cloud Ruler Temple! We have not had the honor of an Emperor's visit in many years!”

“Ah, well, thank you,” said Martin. He hesitated before adding, “The honor is mine.”

“Come, Sire,” said Jauffre. “Your Blades are waiting to greet you.”

Jauffre led us inside, and Cyrus even graced me with a nod of the head as I passed him. What is going on here? A pair of grooms took our horses, one for Martin, the other for Jauffre and myself, leading them to stables set near enough to the gates, which closed without any creak but with a distinct CLACK! as they were brought together. Jauffre led Martin up sets of stone stairs towards the great roofed building, constructed in a style I had never seen before. Now it was my turn to hesitate, but Cyrus put a hand to my back and gestured with his sword-handle that I should follow. When I had climbed the stairs I could see that walls of the fortress, for it was surely a strong and well-built redoubt, made a distinct open parade square in front of the entrance to the building. Filling it were at least fifty or so Blades, parted in two groups to allow Jauffre and Martin to pass. As they did, the assembled Blades beat their right fists to chest, the loud thumps of the armor progressing to one beat. Cyrus pushed me through as well, stopping at the front of the gathered members of this brotherhood but pointing for me to go on. “Next to the fire bowl,” he said, “And facing the Dragonblood.”

I went forward as indicated, Cyrus joining in the first rank of the Blades as they filled in the aisle to stand in formation, their continued chest-beating ending in one final beat. Jauffre stood before them with his left hand lowering itself, Martin next to him and myself off to the side. “Blades!,” He said, his voice carrying with clarity. “Dark times are upon us. The Emperor and his sons were slain on our watch. The Empire is in chaos. But there is yet hope.” Jauffre stepped aside and turned, allowing Martin to take a half-step forward. “Here is Martin Septim, true son of Uriel Septim!”

As one, the Blades drew their eponymous weapons, raising them in salute along with their voices. “Hail, Dragonborn! Hail, Martin Septim! Hail, hail, Emperor of Tamriel!” Then, as one, they sheathed their weapons, brought their left hands into fists to their chests, right hands overlayed, and bowed deeply for all of nine seconds before straightening.

"Sire," said Jauffre, "The Blades are at your command."

“Jauffre. All of you.” Martin seemed at a loss for words, then resumed. “I know you all expect me to be Emperor. I'll do my best. But this is all new to me. I'm not used to giving speeches. But I wanted you to know that I appreciate your welcome here. I hope I prove myself worthy of your loyalty in the coming days. That's it. Thank you.”

“Well, then. Thank you, Martin.” Jauffre addressed one of the Blades in the front rank, the one next to Cyrus, that had been standing in the center position during the homage. “We'd all best get back to our duties, eh, Captain?”

“Aye, sir.” He took two paces forward, bowed slightly this time, then turned to face the Blades. “Blades. Assembly of Honor, Dismissed. Attend to your duties.” And with those simple words, the assembled members of the Empire’s elite dispersed to usual obligations.

With little else to do, and still kicking myself for what felt like continued intrusion, I approached Martin and Jauffre. Well, Martin, really. Jauffre saw me, nodded, then simply walked over to the Blades captain in what looked to be a private conversation. Martin smiled with a rueful regret as I approached. “Not much of a speech, was it? Didn't seem to bother them, though. The Blades saluting me and hailing me as Martin Septim.” He sighed, his eyes seeking the stars that had now come out in their splendor, Masser and Secunda moving in their strange patterns. “I don't mean to sound ungrateful. I know I would be dead by now if it weren't for you. Thank you. But everyone expects me to suddenly know what to do. How to behave. They want an Emperor to tell them what to do. And I haven't the faintest idea...”

“Well,” I said, “We’ll probably have to start with getting the Amulet back.”

“Of course. The Amulet of Kings. So we...” he stopped, as if catching himself. “So I...can take it to the Temple of the One and light the Dragonfires. And stop the Oblivion invasion.”

“And become Emperor. With all that we talked about. “

“The Emperor... that's still an idea that will take some getting used to.”

“I’m sorry, Sire.” Martin looked up at me, sharply. It was the first time I had used that form of address since the conversation where I had agreed to avoid using it. But my end had been fulfilled, and now Martin seemed to accept that he was going to become the Emperor. “I’m sorry for any doubts I may have caused. These men and women believe in you. I didn’t want to cause you additional stress. But if you wish me to depart, say it and I will go.”

“No, you spoke only Truth and outlined why it seemed acceptable to you. Emperor I may be, but the Empire still defends freedom of one’s speech. I don’t want you to go. In any case, we need the Amulet first. Maybe Jauffre will know where to start. Until then, I’m going to get myself some food, and then rest.” Martin clasped me on the shoulder as he headed indoors.

I watched him go, then turned to find both Jauffre and the Blades Captain before me. They moved surprisingly well for an old man and an armored warrior. “Awtwyr, this is Captain Steffan. He is my Second here, and commands in my stead whenever I am away.”

“An honor, Captain,” I said, trying to work up a smile. Trying, and failing.

“The honor is mine. Jauffre tells me you went into an Oblivion gate, closed it, rescued Martin from the ruins of Kvatch, and then saved the Grandmaster’s life at Weynon Priory. I hope you find our hospitality a welcome respite.”

“That would be nice. I have not slept in a bed or had a proper bath in a month.”

“The Main Hall contains our primary dining area. Due to the nature of the watches, we serve meals at almost all hours of the day. The East Wing contains an alchemy lab, leatherworking and tailoring workbenches, a small library, a set-aside dining table for quick meals, a sparring area, and other necessary resources for daily duties,” said Captain Steffan, gesturing as he did so. “The West Wing contains sleeping quarters. Ours are downstairs, Emperor Martin’s and the Grandmaster’s just above us. They are separated by sex, you enter the female quarters at your own peril. There is a lower entrance in each section to the basements. Under the Grand Hall is our cisterns and store rooms. Under the East Wing is our forge and a spell practice room. Beneath the West Wing you will find the commodes, sinks and bathing facilities for your ablutions. Again, there are separated areas, but there is one large bath that has set-aside hours for each sex in mornings and evenings. Otherwise, it is a communal facility, and we expect and give each other a decorum of respect during those times.”

“Am I being put upon for the leering Legionary stereotype?” I asked the two.

“No,” said Jauffre. “We are simply warning you about what to expect. If you find a Knight Sister in there when you go to bathe, remember she is a Knight of the Blades first and foremost. As our guest, she is expected to offer you the same.”

“Understood,” I said. “And now I think I will have that bath. Grandmaster, Captain,” I said, turning and heading towards the west entrance.

“Oh, and Awtwyr,” called Jauffre.

“Yes?” I turned and replied, waiting for what he wanted.

“No razor to your face or head. Retain your hair till tomorrow, please. I assure you it is important.”

“Stendarr help me,” I swore under my own breath. “Aye, sir. One more day of hirsute savagery.”

Posted by: Grits Aug 10 2013, 02:45 PM

The arrival at Cloud Ruler Temple is such a landmark event in the game, and you’ve done it great justice here. I enjoyed the way you handled the issue of how a huge, ancient fortress can be a secret.

A bath but no shave. I guess we’ll see what Jauffre has in mind in the morning.

Posted by: Colonel Mustard Aug 11 2013, 02:33 AM

I absolutely loved this little bit of description, and I really liked some of the ideas you had on how Cloud Ruler Temple is a hidden fortress that is actually, y'know, hidden. The entire sequence up to the temple was a great read, and was damn evocative as well, and you made one of the key sequences of the game even more memorable and portentious than Oblivion did.

Now I wonder what Jauffre wants Awtwyr's hair for...

Posted by: Acadian Aug 11 2013, 04:44 PM

I love the details involved in hiding Cloud Ruler Temple from prying eyes. Stone, steel, fog, secrecy and a bit of magic work powerfully together to comprise a mighty fortress.

So, a long and perilous journey culminates with a powerful and touching arrival that sparks fond memories from the game. Your own rich details were most welcome here, particularly some of the very real but mundane considerations relating to bathing and such. These details help really bring CRT to life. I confess I love the in game ‘feel’ of the place.

So, Jauffre wants a furry Awtywr for the next day. What an intriguing ending here!

Nits?
- ‘Martin did {didn’t?} say anything, nor did I.’
- ‘...an armored figure standing in front with his sword held {in?} his left hand,’