Old Habits Die Hard Part Four, old habits really do die hard Options

[haute ecole rider]

@SubRosa: I always felt that Hassildor can’t be like your typical self-serving vampire and survive as long as he did as Count of Skingrad. The people regard him with too much respect for the typical Vlad image to fit him. And though he revealed his secret to Julian, he continues to treat her as an almost equal, out of respect for her lifetime of service in the Legion, and her selflessness when it comes to Oblivion Gates.

@Olen: The name Pell Fortran just popped into my head. I thought it sounded Colovian enough to use here, with just the right amount of masculinity. I do know it’s a computer language, but who cares? The sound of it is just too cool! You know, I struggled with that sentence you pointed out, and I appreciate your input. I’ve gone back and fixed it.

@Acadian: Ever been outside during a lightning storm? I had one break almost right overhead. Luckily I was under cover, but boy, that was close! I just imagined the opening of an OG as being like hit by lightning, only a thousand times more powerful and redder!

@mALX: Thanks! The avatar is actually Schrödinger’s cat, the quantum physics paradox that I love so much.

@Foxy: Of course, I know whut you mean!

In game, this gate was actually quite mundane (and Julian actually says so). But she feels better leaving Skingrad in the hands of a capable person like Pell Fortran. And this is the last segment of the Skingrad chapter.

Chapter 22.8 Ending One Task, Beginning Another

The sound of heavy, cold rain replaced the screaming of the sigil keep. My hand on his shoulder kept Pell Fortran from collapsing to his knees. He groaned at the sudden translocation and gagged momentarily. Crouched over the sigil stone in his hand, the tall Breton met my gaze.

“By Akatosh!” His voice croaked beneath the hissing of the rain on our heated armor. “Is it always like that?”

“Disorienting?” My own voice mirrored his. “Yes, though you can get used to it after a couple of times.”

We looked around ourselves. A crater filled the center of the graveyard where the Gate once stood, surrounded by broken grave markers and shattered coffins. The smell of decaying flesh mingled with the characteristic sulfurous odor of scorched earth. The bulk of Skingrad’s walls towered through the gloom to our right.

Once we clambered out of the crater, we could see the guardsmen approaching us cautiously through the remnants of the cemetery. “Hail, the Guard!” Fortran waved his left arm at them. Their weapons lowered and several of the younger men ran up to us.

“You did it!” “You closed it!” “Hurrah for Fortran and Julian!” Their voices surrounded us before the men did. Fortran shot me a glance as we were buffeted by hearty claps on our backs and shoulders.

“Back off!” Dion’s stentorian bellow drove the guardsmen away before we were overwhelmed. They gave way to their Captain as the slight figure strode up to us. “Welcome back, Fortran, Julian,” he greeted us, meeting our gazes. “I know you’re exhausted, so let’s head back to town and get out of this rain!” He turned and led us out of the cemetery toward the Low Gate. The rest of the young men fell in behind us as we followed.

When we reached the road, Fortran turned to me and held out the buzzing stone. “Here, you take this. I don’t want to hold it anymore!” I accepted it and slipped it into my belt pouch with a smile. “I wouldn’t know what to do with it, either,” Fortran added. “I’m not much for daedric magic.”

“Neither am I,” I answered. “But they have their uses. I’ll leave it with the Skingrad Mages Guild chapter. Maybe it’ll keep them out of trouble while they study it.”

Fortran guffawed. Apparently the mages of Skingrad have a certain reputation for finding trouble. “You would hope!”

“Listen,” Dion spoke over his shoulder as we passed through the Low Gate. “I know both of you are tired, but I’d like you to brief the Guard on your time in the Deadlands. Julian has to leave as soon as she is rested, and all of the Guard is on alert in the barracks, so now’s as good a time as any.” He turned and walked backwards a few steps, meeting our gazes. “I’ll make certain you get food and drink.”

“Make it water for me,” I advised. “And one of Salmo’s sweet rolls would be good.”

Dion glanced at the sky behind us before turning forward again. “He’ll be starting his baking just about now, so I’ll make sure to send a sentry along with some as soon as the first batch is done.”

“What time is it?” Fortran asked.

“Just past three bells in the morning,” Dion answered. “You’ve been in there twenty hours.” He glanced at the older guard over his shoulder yet again. “I don’t have to tell you that you get a couple days off after your briefing.”

“Yes sir!” Fortran managed to put some energy into his parched voice.

Less than an hour later, we were seated in front of the fireplace at the Guard barracks. Fortran took a long drink of his hot spiced Surilie wine and set the goblet down with a sigh. “Ahh, that hits the spot!” he exclaimed.

“Certain that water is fine for you, Julian?” Dion asked. “I can get you something hot.”

“The fireplace is hot enough,” I answered. “No, the water is perfect.” Just then, one of the sentries entered, a shallow linen-covered basket in his hands. The cinnamon aroma gave away the contents of the basket as the sentry set it down on the table, already groaning with hot soups, crusty day-old bread slices, sliced roast mutton, soft sheep’s cheese and butter.

It took another fifteen minutes before the gathered guardsmen filled their plates. One of his comrades brought a heavily laden plate to Fortran, but Dion served me himself. Once everyone had settled down and the sound of smacking lips and chewing filled the common room, Dion glanced at us, then rose to his feet, wiping his mouth.

“Listen up, everyone!” his voice, though quiet, carried well through the large space. “Some of you will be leaving for Bruma in twenty-four hours, while the rest of you will remain behind. But there’s no question, each of us will have a chance to go into the Deadlands. We all know what happened at Kvatch, and what nearly happened at Cheydinhal. Is it agreed that 'tis better we know what lies ahead of us, rather than going in blind?”

“Agreed!” The chorus rippled around the room.

“Now, Julian of Anvil here has closed -“ he turned to me and bent forward conspiratorially, “- how many, fifteen Gates?” I nodded silently. “Fifteen Gates,” Dion turned back to the room. “There’s no question who in this room has the most experience, is there?”

“No!” Again the voices spoke nearly simultaneously.

“And now Pell Fortran has been in there, as well.” Dion was in full stride now. “Obviously he’ll be staying here in Skingrad, in case more Gates open around here. Those of you heading up to Bruma will have the benefit of the experience of Burd’s men, but I want you to know what you’re getting into before you head out.” He turned to me. “Julian?”

“Like the Captain said,” I leaned back in the chair and stretched my legs in front of me, “I’ve closed several Gates. While it’s still pretty scary in there, the Deadlands are becoming mundane to me. So I’ll have Fortran tell you about it, since everything is still new to him. If he misses something important, I’ll fill in. But you’ll more than likely get a more comprehensive overview from him.”

The Breton slid a sideways glance at me. He knows what I’m doing - making him do all the work. Ah well, seniority does have its perks. He sighed melodramatically. “I’m certain all of you know that you’ve got to touch the damned thing to get through to the Deadlands -“

I listened to his narrative, as I had at Bruma. Again, as I had done with Bor and Soren, I interjected details or clarified details occasionally. When Fortran finished with our return to the cemetery, the guardsmen were silent for several moments, half-finished food mostly forgotten on their plates.

I cast my gaze around the gathered men. Mostly Imperials and Bretons, it seems. “Any Nords here?” A couple of hands rose tentatively into the air. I recalled Burd’s experience. “If you grew up on Skyrim tales of Aetherius and Oblivion, you may find the place cold, rather than hot.” I caught the flicker of interest among the men. “It seems each of us bring our own Oblivion into the Deadlands.” I nodded at Fortran. “For both of us, it was hot, and we risked burning and scalding. But for Captain Burd and one of his Nord guardsmen, Bor, it was freezing cold. They suffered frostbite, in spite of their innate resistance to frost.”

“So we’ll want to bundle up, then?” The Nord accent marked one of the few upraised hands. “Hopefully we’ll be done with this business before summer comes ‘round again. I’d hate to wear winter gear on the barricades!”

***********************
After dropping my weapons and armor off at Agnete’s for repair, I dug out the strange plant I had found in the countryside on my way to the Aetherius Stone. Time to see this Sinderion as Ardaline suggested. Let’s see what this plant does. Then I’ll come back to the chapterhouse and get some sleep.

I entered the West Weald Inn and paused a moment to shake the drizzle from my skirt. Already at this hour of the morning there were quite a few patrons. A sour-faced Bosmer in full iron plate stood at the bar, tankard in hand, holding forth to a bored-seeming Nord woman. A nattily dressed Orsimer, brown hair neatly parted to one side, shared a table with another Bosmer, this one outfitted in plain homespun.

A blonde Imperial woman, quite attractive with her upswept hair and elegant green silks in spite of the fine lines that belied her age, met my gaze from behind the bar. “Hello!” she greeted me warmly. “I’m Erina Jeranus, proprietor of the West Weald Inn. How may I help you on this fine morning?”

At her words, the Nord woman turned away from the filibustering Bosmer and stared at me. She did not move, however, but glared at me as I approached Jeranus.

“Don’t mind Else God-hater,” the older woman assured me. “She’s got a chip on her shoulder about the Nine Divines. Don’t bring up the church with her, or she’ll use her sword on you!”

I glanced at the taller woman, taking in her steel shortsword. “Thanks for the warning, ma’am,” I turned my attention back to Jeranus. “I’m actually looking for Sinderion. I’m told he lives here?”

“Yes, in the basement,” Jeranus pointed out the heavy wooden door off to the side. “Just head down the stairs and you’ll find him among my wines.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” I responded with a nod. Warily I skirted Else God-Hater and moved to the door. Once I was on the stairs with the heavy panel closed behind me, I sighed. Something about that Nord really sets off my alarm bells. For some reason I have the feeling that she’ll stab me in the back if she thought she could get away with it. I made a silent resolution to always carry one of my katanas with me whenever I spent time in Skingrad. At least there are plenty of other people here, she won’t try anything. I think . . .

At the bottom of the stairs, a grey-haired Altmer stood next to a wine barrel, tapping its side with a wooden mallet and listening. I realized he was determining the level of the liquid inside when he marked the front with a piece of chalk. He glanced up as I drew near.

“Hello, what can I do for you, ma’am?” His eyes crinkled above a wide smile.

“I’m looking for Sinderion,” I answered. “Are you him by any chance, sir?”

“Yes, I am, indeed!” Sinderion bowed low with a flourish of his left arm. “And who might you be?”

“I’m Julian of Anvil,” I answered. “Ardaline at the Bravil Mages chapter suggested I see you about a strange plant I found.” I pulled the object from my belt purse and held it out to him. He took it and examined it with growing delight.

“Ah! A nirnroot!” His voice brightened even further. “Quite a good quality sample, in fact. Say, this gives me an idea. Since you already know what they look like, are you interested in obtaining more samples for me?”

“More nirnroot?” I felt my brows rise at his words. “I haven’t seen too many of them around. But I’ll keep my eyes open. I have a few more samples at home in the Imperial City, I’ll bring them sometime.”

“Excellent!” Sinderion clapped his hands enthusiastically. “You’re going to need to learn a bit more about nirnroot, though. Otherwise you’ll be wasting a lot of your time.” He paused. “A few years ago, I was able to obtain a musty old tome containing alchemical formulae. Most of them were worthless, of course, but one of the moldy pages contained a recipe for something called the elixir of exploration.” He rubbed his hands. “Apparently it’s a sort of ultimate dungeon delver’s brew. It looked sound, but it required an extremely rare ingredient -“ his voice trailed off as his eyes regarded me with anticipation.

“Nirnroot?” My guess was rewarded by another of his warm smiles.

“Exactly!” He shook his finger in the air. “But unfortunately, I had a lot of delicate experiments going on at the time that required all of my attention. I had to put the book aside since I haven’t had time to go plant hunting. So if you bring me ten samples of nirnroot, I’ll be able to make the weakest magnitude of the elixir.” He moved to a tall shelving unit tucked in a corner of the cellar. “Hmm, where did I put it?” he scanned its contents, which ranged from books to piles of paper to various alchemical equipment. “Ah, here it is! I wrote a missive about nirnroot and the elixir of exploration for the Imperial Alchemy Institute,” he drew out a thin bound sheaf of parchment and handed it to me. “It contains everything I’ve been able to find out about nirnroot. It should be useful in your search. Good luck!”

[Olen]

I liked the contrast between Julian's experience and Fortran's greenness to the deadlands, it goes further to show how Julian's developed and also how her experience has made her almost confortable with the deadland compared to Fortran's shock. Having him recount it is very Julian, she's still got a lot of the legion in her even if she's more freelance now.

And then Sinderion, one of my favourite characters. I liked how you showed him, definately a bit of the mad professior there but also likeable enough and not totally up in the clouds. The 'Imperial Alchemy Institude' cracked me up too, it stands to reason they'd have journals...

[SubRosa]

Maybe it’ll keep them out of trouble while they study it.
I would not count on it!

Once again you serve a fine board. Mulled wine, mutton, cheese, and cinnamon rolls. Does any character eat better than Julian?

He knows what I’m doing - making him do all the work. Ah well, seniority does have its perks.
The voice of experience!

“Just head down the stairs and you’ll find him among my wines.”
Now I see why he works down there! Good thing it is Sinderion, and not Reynald Jemane!

[Acadian]

Yet again, you present another Oblivion Gate closing in a unique and interesting manner! I love how you handled this by starting as they finished, then back filling us - in this case, not by rumination, but by dialogue and actions. And of course, over another wonderful meal from Iron Chef Oblivion, our own Haute Cuisine Rider!

A wonderful description of the familiar faces in the inn. A treat for us who know them well and could readily identify those you did not name.

I could feel Julian's spider sense tingling over Else God-Hater. Good instincts, girl!

And dear Sinderian. I just loved how you portrayed him, for I see him the same way! Gallant but awkward. Brilliant but absent-minded. Buffy was quite taken by his charm.

[haute ecole rider]

Thanks to everyone who has been reading this looong story. It has now become quite the epic.

For Julian's return to her hometown of Anvil, please find Thread Five.