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> Blood on the Moon, A Journey of Discovery
Avego
post Jun 19 2007, 04:08 PM
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Heh!

I love you Treydog!

I've been a silent sentinel reading your stories for a while, its a great inspiration, and gets me all fired up to pen something of my own. Alas, I am crap at keeping a coherent story, and have yet to discover my own style. Maybe one day, if you've got the time you could tell me how you started, and developed your own methods as a writer.

Keep up the writing trey, its truly great stuff.

This post has been edited by Avego: Jun 19 2007, 04:08 PM
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minque
post Jun 19 2007, 07:08 PM
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Ahhh Athlain, I wonder whos eyes are watching you? It just can´t be our common everyday-assassin, right? Of course you just had to add a cliffie right at the end...hmmm...

And mom´s influence led him right into the arms of the Mages, well that´s good!

Great work, I can´t wait for the next part.


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treydog
post Jun 20 2007, 02:19 PM
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QUOTE(Avego @ Jun 19 2007, 03:08 PM) *

Heh!

I love you Treydog!

I've been a silent sentinel reading your stories for a while, its a great inspiration, and gets me all fired up to pen something of my own. Alas, I am crap at keeping a coherent story, and have yet to discover my own style. Maybe one day, if you've got the time you could tell me how you started, and developed your own methods as a writer.

Keep up the writing trey, its truly great stuff.

Well, many thanks for the kind words. I am always pleased to "meet" my readers.... As to the how of the writing, you might check out this thread:

http://chorrol.com/forums/index.php?showtopic=1924

which describes my process. The short version is: read. Pay attention to the work of those writers that you like and try to figure out what it is that they do. To be a writer, you have to write. If you can't sustain a long piece, write short pieces that tell a complete story. If you have a concept of what you expect to happen, write down everything you want in the story, without worrying about the order of events. You can fix that later. Make sure your characters have personalities. Give them quirks, phobias, prejudices, and failings- as well as strengths. Above all, enjoy what you are doing.


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Avego
post Jul 7 2007, 07:00 PM
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Thank you, it means alot to have a helping hand from someone I have come to respect merely from the power of their writing. Are you sure you're not a best selling Author in disguise? At any rate, thanks again for the link and advice.
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treydog
post Jul 9 2007, 01:09 AM
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Sorry for the long delay- I could plead RL complications, but the fact is, it was mostly writer's block- not knowing what to do with my newest creation.... Anyway, here he is- and I hope you enjoy his (mis)adventures.

The Balmora Mage’s Guild was a pleasant diversion. They provided everything I needed to live- food, a bed, even stimulating classes in the schools of magic. I was able to pay my way by trading simple potions for lessons. It was odd- the mages could mix potions as easily as I, but they hated to take the time away from their “important research” -research that never seemed to actually yield any tangible results. But, since their intellectual snobbery was to my benefit, I made no complaint. And yet… it was just a diversion, a side path from the direction I wished to go. At the end of two weeks, I was ready to move on, to take the first decisive step in achieving my goal. Thus it was that, on a rainy Fredas morning, I walked out the south gate and up the hill to Fort Moonmoth.

Legion troops were much in evidence, and I felt stirrings of both pride and jealousy at the sight of their Imperial uniforms.

“Soon,” I promised myself, “soon….”

The first officer I located explained that the only garrison that was recruiting was the Death’s Head Legion at Fort Darius in Gnisis. He also mumbled something about “…smelly Orcs,” but I was too anxious to embark on my new career to worry about that. Without delay, I boarded the silt-strider and reached the small outpost on the Samsi River in the early afternoon.

The crab-shell buildings of the town caused an unexpected twinge of homesickness- they reminded me strongly of Ald’ruhn and my home. But I ruthlessly suppressed the traitorous melancholy and examined the other structures. Besides the strider-port, there was a Dunmer Temple, a few homes and businesses, and the Velothi tower of Baladas Demnevanni. I had heard many stories of that rogue Telvanni, and vowed to stay far away from him. Although he had no reason to bear me or my family any ill will, the Telvanni rarely needed reasons for their actions. If anyone had the temerity to ask a Telvanni why he or she had done something, the only explanation likely to be forthcoming was,

“Because I felt like it.”

Of course, that assumed that the response was not the even more probable fireball.

When I asked the strider driver about joining the Legion, he grunted and pointed toward the Madach Tradehouse. Then he elaborated in a rude tone,

“The General prefers to keep to himself, rather than mix with the troops. And he prefers to stay close to his ‘supplies,’ as well.”

That last was accompanied by a crude gesture of someone swilling liquor. I thought to lecture the fellow on showing proper respect for his Imperial protectors, but decided that some folk were too ignorant to be educated. I satisfied myself with giving him the bare minimum gratuity for his services and gathered my belongings. I did not find it all that surprising that the commander of the Legion garrison would take quarters outside the barracks- after all, most high-ranking officers were nobles, and thus accustomed to better accommodations. And the “fort” was actually little more than a customs and inspection point for traffic along the road. It was somewhat disappointing not to be able to go to the Imperial City itself, but I supposed my career had to start somewhere.

The proprietor of the tradehouse directed me to the private rooms on the lower floor, and I was pleased to note that he did so without any slurs upon the commander’s character. When I reached the basement, I was a bit startled to encounter an Orc in Legion garb, but I drew myself up into what I imagined was the posture called “attention” and spoke:

“Sir, I would like to join the Imperial Legion and be of service to the Emperor.”

The Orc gave me a disinterested look and growled,

“Yeah? And what’s that to me, sonny? Does yer mother know yer out this late?”

I flushed red and began to stammer an explanation, which was cut short by a quiet voice from an interior room.

“Enough, Nash. There’s no need to be rude to potential recruits.”

I turned at the sound of the voice and beheld a man who was unmistakably a Legion officer. It was as much a matter of his bearing and steely gaze as the gold-washed armor that he wore. When I imagined a knight of the Imperial Legion, this man was just what I had pictured, right down to the graying hair at his temples. While I was examining him, he was doing the same to me. If he was favorably impressed, he concealed the fact without effort. His expression gave nothing away. Then, just as the silence was becoming uncomfortable, he asked,

“And what skills do you bring to the Legion? What are your talents?”

I desperately wanted to impress the general, but I knew better than to exaggerate. Therefore I admitted that my martial skills were limited, and that I was more conversant with magic than with weapons. Summoning all of my persuasiveness, I added,

“But I can learn, sir. Give me a chance and you won’t be disappointed.”

He continued his silent scrutiny of me and then spoke the words I had hoped to hear-

“Very well. I am General Darius, commander of this garrison. The Legion selects for endurance, the soldierly virtue, and personality, the citizen's virtue, for service in the Legion is the model for the duties of Imperial citizenship. As a trooper or knight, you must master the long blade, spear, and blunt weapons. You must block whatever blows you can, and take unblocked blows upon your heavy armor. The Legion recruit must also be athletic to evade, maneuver, and charge on the field of battle. You have potential that we should be able to develop.”
He scribbled a note and handed it to me.

“Take this draft to the barracks to be sworn in and to draw your gear. After that, locate Senior Trooper Carbo. He will see to your training. Dismissed.”

At last, I had achieved my dream. I was a member of the Imperial Legion.


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The Metal Mallet
post Jul 9 2007, 04:26 AM
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Hmm, I wonder how long Athlain will still view the Legion in such awe when he's drilled to death out of his element under the training of the Legion.


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jack cloudy
post Jul 9 2007, 09:17 PM
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Well, I hope he won't get the rough treatment from the Orcs. Unlike them, he lived a sheltered life for the most part. I wouldn't be surprised if they saw him as 'the spoiled, weak brat' and treated him as such.


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Soulseeker3.0
post Jul 12 2007, 10:41 PM
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Call me a pessimist but i keep thinking that something will happen to Athlain.... causing Trey to come out of his, for lack of a better word, "hiding" and do the adventuring thing again.

never the less, your switch in point of views is intriguing and i can't wait to read more of Athlain's adventures (Hey, maybe if it all turns out well he'll have stories to tell like his old man)


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This was pretty unusual, because most children at his age wanted to become great warriors, known all through time as saviors of, well, anything - Toroabok
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treydog
post Jul 14 2007, 11:39 PM
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Interlude the Second

Contents of a note delivered from an undisclosed location in Vvardenfell to the city of Mournhold:

The fledgling has left the nest. Resided in Balmora and now Gnisis. Awaiting further instructions.

Contents of a letter delivered to the Dark Brotherhood:

You and your subordinates will do NOTHING in regards to a certain recent Imperial Legion recruit. If this order is unclear, I will gladly direct my operatives to explain it to you- or your replacement.

H.


From the rolls of the Imperial Legion Garrison at Gnisis, Vvardenfell District:

Enrolled on this Sixth day of Sun’s Height in the Death’s Head Legion, Knight Protector Darius commanding- Athlain ap Baria Treyson.


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treydog
post Jul 15 2007, 07:29 PM
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Chapter 2


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

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

When I reached for the quill, he snickered,

“It’s yer funeral, Bub.”

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

Athlain ap Baria Treyson

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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The dreams down here aren't broken, nah, they're walkin' with a limp...

The best-dressed newt in Mournhold.
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jack cloudy
post Jul 15 2007, 09:03 PM
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Welcome to the army, kid. biggrin.gif


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The Metal Mallet
post Jul 15 2007, 11:54 PM
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Oh boy! I always love hard-nosed sergeants that ride against their recruits. Excellent depiction of such a character, trey!


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I am currently a Writer in The Order of Schola.
Official Fan Fiction Forum "Commentasaurus"

"This body, holding me makes me feel eternal. All this pain is an illusion" - Parabola (Tool)
"This here ain't called boasting, it's called truthin' " - Mango Kid (Danko Jones)
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Soulseeker3.0
post Jul 17 2007, 09:29 PM
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Very nice Character there Trey, gotta love that attitude in a sergeant biggrin.gif Athlain better have a lot of guts if he's gonna pull through this.


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This was pretty unusual, because most children at his age wanted to become great warriors, known all through time as saviors of, well, anything - Toroabok
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minque
post Jul 17 2007, 11:32 PM
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Imperial Legion huh? Didn´t his dad tell him stories from the past about how those legionnaires treated women? tongue.gif

Anyway I´m sure Athlain can handle things, after all his name is....Treyson, right? That means something..hmmm


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Burnt Sierra
post Jul 21 2007, 03:32 PM
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This is shaping up to be as much as a classic as The Story Of Trey. smile.gif

Being English I do start feeling guilty when I read this though. Pleasure is something to be carefully rationed, and this is such delightfully sinful pleasure that I should really go for a three mile run in the rain after reading it. Or I could get a cuppa and read it again wink.gif

Wonder which I'll choose to do....

Keep it up, I'm loving every second of this.


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minque
post Jul 21 2007, 03:54 PM
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QUOTE(burntsierra @ Jul 21 2007, 04:32 PM) *

This is shaping up to be as much as a classic as The Story Of Trey. smile.gif

Being English I do start feeling guilty when I read this though. Pleasure is something to be carefully rationed, and this is such delightfully sinful pleasure that I should really go for a three mile run in the rain after reading it. Or I could get a cuppa and read it again wink.gif

Wonder which I'll choose to do....

Keep it up, I'm loving every second of this.

If i were you Burnt....I´d go for the cuppa! Because that´s what I do when I feel like having a good time....f ex reading trey-stories


Oh I wonder when I finally get over my...."block"? huh.gif


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The Metal Mallet
post Jul 21 2007, 04:05 PM
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Yes indeed minque, it would be awesome for you to get past the dreadful obstacle called the writer's block. I'm quite sure there's plenty of people silently urging you on. I'm included in that bunch because I love following your story and for other reasons that will eventually be revealed.... emot-ninja1.gif

Oh yes, and Trey has been absolutely solid so far with this story. Even this early into the story, the reader has a good idea on how Athlain thinks and acts.


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I am currently a Writer in The Order of Schola.
Official Fan Fiction Forum "Commentasaurus"

"This body, holding me makes me feel eternal. All this pain is an illusion" - Parabola (Tool)
"This here ain't called boasting, it's called truthin' " - Mango Kid (Danko Jones)
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canis216
post Jul 22 2007, 06:51 AM
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Maybe now Athlain is seeing why his father (who is that again?) has such great distaste for the Empire--let us hope the young man can muddle through.


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treydog
post Jul 28 2007, 03:20 AM
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Once we got outside the barracks, the angry Legionnaire continued to shout at me. As I juggled helmet, cuirass, greaves, and so on, he paced back and forth bellowing.

“Let’s start out easy. Pull the chain mail cuirass over your head and put one arm through each arm hole. Try not to get lost inside of the armor. Now, put the helmet on your head. You can do that, I hope?”

When I managed that feat, he adopted a mockingly prayerful attitude and intoned,

“Oh, thank you, great Talos, for sending me a recruit who can locate his own head without needing both hands and a torch. I am truly grateful. Strap the greaves onto your legs and place your feet inside the boots.”

Once the armor was secured to his satisfaction, he had me stand straight, with my chin tucked into my chest while he walked slowly around me. At last he gave a heavy sigh and said,

“Well, you don’t look completely like a sack of dung, so I guess that’ll do. If you have not guessed yet, I am Trooper Carbo. The General, in his infinite wisdom, has placed you in my tender care. You will call me ‘Trooper Carbo.’ I will call you whatever it pleases me to call you.”

He picked up the long iron spear and slapped it into my hands. He then resumed his pacing, shouting all the while:

“If you are fortunate, and manage not to do yourself a grievous injury in the following weeks, you may achieve the rank of Spearman. As you are a lowly recruit, and therefore too stupid to pour water out of a bucket with the instructions printed on the bottom, I will explain what that means. It means you will learn to use that spear. You will learn to love that spear. You will sleep with that spear, eat with that spear, and take it to the latrine with you. If I ever catch you without that spear, you will discover depths of misery you have never imagined. Do I make myself clear?”

I was so shocked that I just stood there, hands white-knuckled on the haft of the weapon.

Trooper Carbo leaned into my face and shouted,

“What, recruit? Are you mute? Or just stupid? I asked you a question- do I make myself clear?”

I squeaked, “Yes, Trooper Carbo,” and he stepped back with another heavy sigh.

“According to the General, you have never worn armor, never used a spear or sword, and never been in a fight. I can see why the Legion was so anxious to acquire your talents. This is apparently a test of my ability to train someone who is completely useless. But perhaps it is barely possible that you can run. We are about to find out. You will step out on your left foot- you do know which one is the left? You will step out on your left foot and begin running up to the eggmine. I will count cadence. Don’t worry- you will be able to hear me, because I will be running with you.”

I had considered myself moderately strong, even though I had inherited my father’s slender build. But once I was strapped into the fifty pounds of rusted, smelly ironmongery, I was unsure if I could walk, let alone run. But I had a feeling that if I did not try, Trooper Carbo would surely find a way to make me sorry. Therefore I began a lumbering waddle, being certain to start with my left foot. Between the tremendous weight, the chafing of the straps, and the helmet that kept slipping down to bang against the bridge of my nose, I thought that my misery was complete. But that was before we reached the uphill section of the path that led to the mine. Even worse was the fact that a man who was twice my weight and at least twice my age was able to carry the same armor and run backwards- all the while hurling terrible abuse at me. I decided that, if there were any gods, they were sadists of remarkable depravity.

After we had run for what seemed like hours, Carbo called a halt and took up a spear that leaned against the barracks wall. He waited impatiently for me to stop gasping for breath and then stepped back several paces. Holding his spear in a guard position, he continued his lecture:

“You have some experience with a staff and that will help. It’s barely possible that you will manage to learn enough to keep from getting yourself killed.”

With that, he demonstrated a series of basic thrusts, parries, and blocks, counting out the sequence as he went. Then he drilled me on those same moves, adjusting my grip and stance occasionally. At last, as still more sweat poured off of me, he called a halt and said,

“It’s all about footwork, recruit. That’s true of the spear, the sword, the axe, and even the bow. You have to have a solid base to use any weapon properly. If you overbalance or trip over your own feet, all the fancy swings in the world won’t save you.”

He sponged off with a wet towel and then put his helmet back on, and allowed me to do the same. Then he brought his spear back to the guard position and challenged me:

“Very well, recruit. You know the moves. Now try to stick that spear in old Carbo.”

When I hesitated, he sneered at me.

“What’s the matter? Scared to use a real weapon? Or would you rather sneak up on your opponent from behind- like a thief? Like your precious daddy?”

He saw from my reaction that that last barb had struck home and continued,

“Oh yeah, I know all about the great thief of Vvardenfell. Supposed to have bumped off Dagoth Ur in a fair fight, when whole armies had tried and failed. Only thing is, nobody else was there. So maybe Dagoth Ur is dead, and maybe he isn’t. And maybe that fight- if there was a fight- didn’t go exactly the way your sneaking Breton daddy says it did.”

Goaded to unreasoning fury by his taunts, I lowered the point of my spear and launched myself at the smirking Legionnaire. And then a number of things seemed to happen all at the same time and I found myself sailing through the air. My flight came to a sudden and painful stop against a stone wall and darkness closed over me.

This post has been edited by treydog: Apr 18 2008, 04:17 PM


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Black Hand
post Jul 28 2007, 07:05 AM
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Nice!
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