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> Old Habits Die Hard, Can an old dog learn new tricks?
Fiach
post Mar 19 2010, 09:21 PM
Post #21


Evoker

Joined: 9-February 10
From: Eire



wow 2 chapters already smile.gif

this is pretty damn good mate, very descriptive, it kinda makes me want to dust off my old copy of Oblivion...again xD

a very intresting character, I've only just noticed that I've actually never had a redguard character in any of my earlietr half-assed fanfictions before... I might have to remedy this biggrin.gif

great story, can't wait till chapter 3 wink.gif
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Olen
post Mar 19 2010, 11:24 PM
Post #22


Mouth
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From: most places



This one's coming fast anyway. And it's good stuff.

So it's off to Kvatch now... I wander what might happen on the way. And even more once she gets there.

I really like your character, she isn't at all the typical sort and that makes her development all the more compelling. In fact you've really nailed two unusual things, it's rare to see a female lead in fantasy almost as so for the lead to be old and broken down. Both, well that was a stroke of genius.


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Look behind you and see an ever decreasing number of ghosts. Currently about 15.
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SubRosa
post Mar 20 2010, 12:10 AM
Post #23


Ancient
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Joined: 14-March 10
From: Between The Worlds





QUOTE
“You’re not a Blade,” Jauffre responded. “So technically, I can’t order you to go. But it’s because you’re not a Blade that I’d like you to go. Sure, you don’t look like much at the moment,” again he raked me with that calculating glance, “but you’ve made an impression on the Emperor.” He emptied the wine glass. “The assassins will be watching for the Blades, but they likely won’t know you. You can pass right through them.” Setting the goblet on the table, he leaned his elbows on the table and pointed at me. “Looking at you, one would never suspect you of being on a mission to recover the Emperor’s last son and heir.”


I am not sure if I have said this before, but you have made excellent use of the decision to have a protagonist who is not the typical hero fare. Jauffre is quite right on all counts. The enemy would not have a dossier on Julian, and no one looking at her would imagine she was a secret agent. You have taken one of the weakest, thinnest parts of Oblivion's plot and somehow made it all logical and believable. Bravo! goodjob.gif


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mALX
post Mar 20 2010, 06:59 AM
Post #24


Ancient
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Joined: 14-March 10
From: Cyrodiil, the Wastelands, and BFE TN



ARGH! I lay out sick and you have filled your pages! I can never say enough how incredible it is that you can take a known story and make it so totally unique that it feels new !!!!


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Destri Melarg
post Mar 20 2010, 08:42 AM
Post #25


Mouth
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From: Rihad, Hammerfell



I hope you aren't rushing through the re-posting of this story because you think that those of us who read it before might get bored with the prospect of having to read it again. Speaking only for myself I can say that nothing could be further from the truth. I am having just as much fun reading Julian's adventures this time as I did last time. I think you might be doing a disservice to those who have not yet read the story by posting so much of it at a time (I know that you are posting a chapter at a time, but they are good sized chapters). smile.gif

That said:
QUOTE(haute ecole rider @ Mar 19 2010, 01:15 PM) *

That’s all there is to it. The Emperor called me Sun’s Companion. Or did he mean Son’s Companion? Is that what he meant, for me to make sure this Martin makes it to the throne?[/i]

This play on words still stands out to me.


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SubRosa
post Mar 20 2010, 06:29 PM
Post #26


Ancient
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From: Between The Worlds



QUOTE(Destri Melarg @ Mar 20 2010, 03:42 AM) *

I hope you aren't rushing through the re-posting of this story because you think that those of us who read it before might get bored with the prospect of having to read it again. Speaking only for myself I can say that nothing could be further from the truth. I am having just as much fun reading Julian's adventures this time as I did last time. I think you might be doing a disservice to those who have not yet read the story by posting so much of it at a time (I know that you are posting a chapter at a time, but they are good sized chapters). smile.gif


Yes, please slow down. I would like to sit back and re-read Julian's story from the beginning. The same with Rales and many others transplanted from that other forum. Not to mention I would like to get into many of the pure-bred Chorrol characters. But you are making it very hard by putting so much up at once. Also keep in mind that others here have never seen our white-haired Redguard at all, and 7-8k words at once is very intimidating for a new reader. Have pity on an old war veteran! wink.gif

You might also look at this as an opportunity to go back to these early chapters and do some fine-tuning. I am not sure how much you might like to add or change, but now is certainly the time to do it. For example, I know you said you would like to incorporate some of the ideas about how magic works from the last TF chapter on the other forum. This would be the time to go back and work that into these chapters.

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Mar 20 2010, 06:41 PM


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haute ecole rider
post Mar 23 2010, 08:42 PM
Post #27


Master
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From: The place where the Witchhorses play



@ all: Thanks for the support and encouragement. I'll slow down, though that means it'll take forever to catch up to the story on the other forum!

So, without further ado:

Chapter 3.1 Advice and Assistance

Morning came too soon, yet not soon enough. Nightmares of blood and fire had danced through my dreams all night, leaving me shaking and scared. Waking to the sounds of the Brothers moving around quietly, I lay still as they dressed and headed downstairs to start the day. Waiting until I heard them leave the Priory, I threw back the covers of the cot they had loaned me, the first clean bed I had slept in for years. On the small table next to my cot, I found a water pitcher and washbowl, with a clean towel neatly folded.

Refreshing myself, I took the time to wipe away the small amount of discharge that had accumulated on the old wound on my left hip, still festering in spite of the healing spells. Still, I could see new scar tissue filling in the unhealed gash, and the pain was now a mere twinge. Casting a couple of healing spells, I realized that I did not feel so shaky after two. Could it be? Attempting a third spell resulted in the magic fizzling from my fingers without effect. At least I’m improving. The smell of brewing klah hit my nostrils and spurred me to get dressed. Some part of me rebelled at putting on the battered leathers, but I had little else, and the red robe was now too skimpy for me to wear by itself. Especially in a priory full of monks.

Downstairs, I found the table set for the morning meal, along with a slip of paper beside one of the plates. Julian, it read, don’t wait for us. Go ahead and help yourself to some breakfast. Klah’s in the fireplace. Feeling honored, I sat down in the same chair I had used last night. Taking a piece of bread, still warm from the oven built into the side of the fireplace, I topped it with butter and honey. Eating slowly, I savored the simple food.

The apples from last night were back on the table, waiting invitingly. Having been too full after dinner to have one, I now helped myself to one of the red and green globes, sinking my teeth into the crunchy flesh. My eyes rolled involuntarily at the wonderfully sweet and tart flavor. It has been a long time since anything tasted so good. I had been so obsessed with the next drink, the next dose of skooma, that I had forgotten the simple pleasures of wholesome food.

“Good, I see you found Brother Piner’s note,” Jauffre’s voice reached me from the door. As he passed by on his way to the fireplace, I saw his smile. My mouth stuffed full of wondrous grub, I struggled to swallow it so I could be polite. Without waiting for a response from me, Jauffre took the pot of klah off its hook and brought it over, pouring it into two clay mugs. He placed one beside my plate before returning the pot to the fire. He sat down beside me, his eyes on my face. “Our food is simple,” he took a sip of the klah, “but nourishing. And you need to get some meat on those bones of yours. The last few years have obviously been hard on you, Julian.” The crows-feet at the corners of his blue eyes crinkled at my startled glance.

“Umm,” I finally managed to clear my mouth. “Thanks for breakfast, Grandmaster.” Pushing my plate away, finished with my meal, I picked up the steaming mug of klah in my hands. The heat felt good against the old fracture in my left hand, which still ached on these cool mornings. The klah was as I remembered it, strong, bitter, with a wallop that drove the last of the early-morning fuzziness out of my brain.

Jauffre rose, his mug in hand, and motioned for me to follow him, and to take my klah with as well. He led me upstairs, back to the library. Walking to a massive cabinet set against the long side wall, he unlocked the panels and swung them back.

My head swam when I saw the weapons neatly racked on the left side, and the shelves of armor, both heavy and light, on the right. “You are not going to Kvatch without some help,” Jauffre turned to me. “Blades pass through sometimes, and they need supplies. Help yourself to what you need.” He pointed to a familiar pack and weapons on the floor to the side of the cabinet. “I had Brother Piner bring up your gear. If you want to replace any of it with what we have, or lighten your load, you can leave the extras here.”

I studied the weapons. Most were iron, similar to what I carried, but there were about thirty steel-tipped arrows in a new quiver. Removing one of them, I studied the fletching, the shaft. “That’s ironwood,” Jauffre commented. “Less likely to warp in wet weather.” He tugged on the shoulder of my cuirass. “Do you like the light armor, Julian?”

“I’m not as strong as I used to be,” I shrugged. “And I’m tired of being slow.”

Jauffre humphed silently, then pointed out a large object wrapped in linen. “That’s a fine leather cuirass, it may fit you better than this old thing. There’s greaves to match, too. Try them on.”

While Jauffre set the quiver of steel-tipped arrows beside my pack, slinging the iron ones into the bottom of the cabinet, I undressed. Jauffre caught his breath, and I glanced at him, suddenly self-conscious about stripping in front of a monk. He was staring at the old wound on my left hip.

“That never healed right,” Jauffre touched the raw scar with his fingertips. Flinching at his light touch, I held my ground. The Grandmaster walked around me, cataloguing the map of old injuries on my body. His eye lingered on the knurled tissue covering the outside of my right knee. “Neither did that,” he commented. Finally, he took my left hand in his and turned my wrist so he could see the Red Dragon on my forearm.

“You served Akatosh,” it was a statement, not a question. I nodded. “Honorable discharge?” I saw again the hard stare as Jauffre raised his eyes to mine.

“Medical,” I answered. He grunted noncommittally and moved to the cabinet, pulling out a padded linen tunic.

“Put this on,” he said, handing it to me. “You’re too thin for the cuirass and greaves, they will rub you in the wrong places. You need to protect that wound,” he pointed again to my left hip. “The leather is stiff and will chafe it raw.”

I put the tunic on, and Jauffre adjusted the laces to make it fit better. Then he handed me the greaves. As he had said, I found them stiff, and they did indeed rub at the hips. Putting on the cuirass, I realized that Jauffre was right - the padded tunic did help with the fit. Even so, he snugged the buckles all the way down to the last hole.

Jauffre handed me a pack, specially shaped to sit beside the quiver on my back. It held a strap for my bow stave, with a pocket on its outer surface for the strings. Inside, I found compartments. This will help with keeping all my gear separated.

Dressed in my new leathers, I transferred my gear to the new pack. Lockpicks. Cairn bolete, wisp stalks, fly amanita, and other miscellaneous ingredients I had picked up. The mortar and pestle. The miscellaneous gems and jewelry I intended to sell. I paused, picking up the steel shortsword. Looking at Jauffre, who had been watching, I held the sword to him, hilt first. “This was Captain Renault’s backup weapon,” I said quietly. “I took it to defend myself, until I found the longsword.”

Jauffre unsheathed the shortsword, eyeing the blade and swinging it experimentally. “It’s a good weapon,” he commented. “Sure you don’t want to keep a steel blade over an iron one?”

“I’m used to the longsword,” I replied. “I like the reach of it.” Watching Jauffre place it in the weapon rack, I shrugged. “Besides, I was taught that it isn’t what you have that matters, it’s how you use it.”

Jauffre regarded me thoughtfully. “What is a soldier’s best weapon?” he asked finally.

“The brain,” I responded automatically. It was something Carius had pounded into my head time and time again. “Think before you fight.”

“Hmm,” Jauffre only said. Stepping back from the cabinet, I gathered my weapons and looked at the old Breton.

“Thanks, Grandmaster,” I said finally. “I will bring Martin back, sir.”

“I know you will,” Jauffre responded, closing and locking the cabinet. “A couple more things, Julian.” He waved for me to leave the library. As we headed down the stairs, he stopped by the dining room and picked up a wrapped package. “Here’s some food for the road,” he said, stowing the package into my bag. “But try to stop at the inns whenever you can. Eat meat at least once a day.” He looked me up and down again. “Spells and potions are fine and all,” he waggled his fingers dismissively, “but nothing beats meat for long-term health, strength and proper healing.”

Staring at Jauffre, I was reminded of the pilus prior I had had as a raw recruit. Like the old man in front of me, that grizzled veteran of border conflicts and provincial uprisings had been gruffly solicitous of his green charges, imparting as much knowledge he had gained over the years in a sometimes-futile effort to keep as many of us alive as possible. I had thanked Carius many times in the following years.

“And,” Jauffre returned my scrutiny, his eyes twinkling, “when you find Martin, consider your words carefully.” His tone turned serious. “He never knew he is Uriel Septim’s son. Be ready for disbelief when you tell him.”

“I’ll be sure to choose my words, sir,” I responded. “I’d be skeptical, too, if some skinny beggar told me I am descended from Cyrus the Redguard,” naming the hero of my mother’s homeland, and my own secret childhood hero. Jauffre smiled at the comparison as I headed to the front door.

“Before you go, speak to Brother Piner and Prior Maborel, too.” Jauffre said finally.

“Yes, Grandmaster, I will,” I turned to say farewell to him, but Jauffre was already disappearing up the stairs towards the library. I watched him go silently. Not much for good-byes, are you?

Brother Piner entered as I turned back to the door. “Good morning, Julian,” he greeted me with quiet cheerfulness. “Talos smile on you, friend.”

“And also on you,” I returned.

“Brother Jauffre told us you are leaving on a mission for him,” Piner smiled at me. “I know what it’s like to set off, not knowing what lies on the road ahead.” He walked to a bookcase near the bottom of the stairs, running his finger over the spines until he found the volume he wanted. “Here,” he placed a small book with a red leather cover into my hands. “I had this when I was training with the Blades. I no longer have need of it.”

I studied the script: The Warp in the West. A book? Why a book? Trying to hide my confusion, I met Piner’s gaze, his expression both eager and wistful. “Thank you, Brother,” I tucked the book into the pack. “I’ll be sure to read it.” When I have time. Having walked it before, I knew all too well the hard road that lay between the Imperial City and Anvil. Full of bandits and creatures, it was not for the weak.


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mALX
post Mar 23 2010, 09:08 PM
Post #28


Ancient
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Joined: 14-March 10
From: Cyrodiil, the Wastelands, and BFE TN



Your stories always make the reader feel they are there in the room! I loved this the first time I read it too!


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Destri Melarg
post Mar 23 2010, 10:04 PM
Post #29


Mouth
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Joined: 16-March 10
From: Rihad, Hammerfell



Now that I have broken my fast on bread with butter and honey and those sweet, tart apples I am ready to tackle the rest of this chapter. You really bring Jauffre alive on the page. He comes across as a combination of priest, grandmaster, and grandmother ("you're too thin, Julian").

Don't be discouraged by how long it takes for you to catch this story up. To my recollection you only started posting this the first time a few months ago. rolleyes.gif


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SubRosa
post Mar 23 2010, 10:10 PM
Post #30


Ancient
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Joined: 14-March 10
From: Between The Worlds



Ahh, nothing like a hearty breakfast to get a story going. Was that a Granny Smith apple (or would that be a Granny Septim wink.gif?) Those were always the sweetest tasting ones I remembered when I worked produce, ages ago.

QUOTE
“The brain,” I responded automatically. It was something Carius had pounded into my head time and time again. “Think before you fight.”
I know a certain ex-primus-pilus who would agree...

Hmm, first Julian strips naked in front of Jauffre, and then he starts telling her she needs to eat meat... I am trying not to read anything into that, but it is not easy. wink.gif

Do not worry about how long it takes to post it all. Julian, like a fine wine, should be savored slowly. You have the rest of your life. Remember the turtle. He is all about getting there. How quickly does not matter.

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Mar 24 2010, 05:49 PM


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D.Foxy
post Mar 24 2010, 02:43 AM
Post #31


Knower
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Ahhh I forgot to comment in this yesterday.

Wunderbar! Das gefault mir ganz gut!!!
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mALX
post Mar 24 2010, 03:36 PM
Post #32


Ancient
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Joined: 14-March 10
From: Cyrodiil, the Wastelands, and BFE TN



I hope everyone is keeping up with the updates of this story on the other site, Hauty just shook my world with the latest update! Unbelievably powerful write on your latest update on the BGSF Hauty!!!


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haute ecole rider
post Mar 25 2010, 07:33 PM
Post #33


Master
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Joined: 16-March 10
From: The place where the Witchhorses play



@mALX: Thanks for the blurb. Check back later in the week.

@Destri: Yes, I have to remind myself to post slower. I read fast (I read most of your Interregnum in about five hours on my day off) - and I frequently forget that most people don't read as fast (or type as fast) as I do. Sorry to all!

@SubRosa: Actually Granny Smiths are all green, and very very tart. I think you're thinking of Jonathans. Some of the newer hybrids coming out are absolutely wonderful. I've always been partial to G.S.'s, but I love the Fiji, which is what these probably are. And Jauffre is such a dirty-minded old Breton, isn't he? devilsmile.gif

@D.Foxy: Wilkommen bie Chorrol! Gut zu sehen Sie hier! Vielen Dank für das Lob!

I am currently many, many chapters ahead of both Chorrol.com and the Unnamed Forum threads. I have many chapters that will need rewriting before posting. There are a few chapters already posted that I will probably polish up a little, but I'm one of those where I work so much on each chapter, then I'm done and move on. Before each is posted, they are rewritten about four or five times (the latest update on the other forum took six major rewrites), so I don't plan to do major rewrites on them as I bring them over here. Some can stand some polishing, and that will happen, but most will likely remain the same. This story is running away with me and I'm currently struggling to keep up with it.

Here is Chapter 3.2: for those who are new, let me just say that I'm drawing on my equestrian experience very heavily here. I finally learned to ride just eighteen years ago as an adult, and remember it very well. I hope you enjoy sharing my experiences with Julian.

******************
Chapter 3.2 Paint

I found Prior Maborel in the stable behind the Priory, brushing out the mane of a paint gelding. I paused outside the stable, eyeing the horses. In the stall next to the paint, a chestnut stallion tossed his head, and the bay mare in the adjoining enclosure pinned her ears and stamped her foot at him, clearly rejecting his amorous advances.

“Brother Jauffre tells me you have a long and lonely road ahead,” the prior spoke, leading the paint out of the stable. “Have you ever ridden before, Julian?”

I stared at Maborel, unable to believe where this conversation was going. In my time in the Legion, I had served only in the infantry, had never learned to ride horseback, though in my younger years I had yearned after the magnificent horses of the cavalry. I had given up on the dream of becoming an equestrian so long ago I had forgotten it.

After a moment, I could only shake my head wordlessly, my eyes full of the gleaming brown and white splashed coat of the paint gelding before me. The horse blinked a great brown eye at me, then turned his head to blow softly on my chest, his nostrils fluttering.

The paint stood quietly while the prior picked up a saddle from the nearby railing and settled it over the horse’s round back. He gestured for me to come closer, and showed me how to position the saddle to the horse’s comfort, and to tighten up the girth.

Then Maborel picked up a confusing tangle of leather straps, buckles and a jointed metal bar. He identified the different parts of the bridle, and demonstrated how to put it on. I noticed that the paint opened his mouth to take the bit, lowering his head to let the prior slip the headstall over his ears.

Leading the gelding to a nearby rock, Maborel motioned for me to climb to the top of the rock. He took my shield from me and waved me to the saddle.

“Always mount from the horse’s left side,” he advised. “With that bad knee, I’d mount from a rock or something similar to make it easier on yourself.” He reached for the left stirrup, twisting it so I could put my left foot into it. “Take the pommel,” he patted the high front of the saddle, “in your left hand, your left foot in the stirrup, that’s it,” his tone became encouraging as I followed his instructions. “Now step off your right foot. Put your weight into the left stirrup and swing your right leg over the cantle,” he indicated the high back of the seat.

The horse stood motionless as I swung my right leg over the cantle and landed with a thump in the saddle, without any of the smoothness and grace I had observed in the Legion riders. The paint lifted his head momentarily, then lowered it to Maborel’s hand. As his head dropped, the gelding’s back rose alarmingly beneath me, and I grabbed the pommel with both hands. The prior smiled up at me.

“He’s gelded, so you don’t have to worry about him being around mares,” he continued. “He’s slow, but his gaits are very smooth and easy. Temperament is very kind, too. He is very smart, and he has taught me much about riding. I know he will take good care of you, too.”

He put the reins into my right hand, showing me how to guide the horse by laying the rein on the side of his neck opposite the way I wanted him to turn. “For now, just neck-rein like this. When you want him to walk on, just give him a loud kiss,” he smooched. The paint took a step forward, catching me off guard. Again I grabbed for the pommel, but the horse stopped again when Maborel laid his hand over his long nose. “If you want him to canter, just kiss again, and he will pick it right up.”

The prior handed me my shield, waiting until I had settled it on my forearm. “If you want him to slow down, just sit back in the saddle. If you want him to stop, tell him ‘whoa.’ Be ready though, because he will stop very quickly, and if you’re not ready, you’ll catch the pommel in your belly and knock the wind out of yourself.” His tone suggested Maborel spoke from personal experience.

He stepped back with a final pat on the paint’s arched neck. “I’m certain Jauffre’s mission is most urgent, but take things slow at first. Walk Paint for a while, practice stopping him, making him walk on, and turning him. Remember, keep your back straight, and your legs long but relaxed. You want to move with his movement.” He cast a look over me, walking around Paint and checking the girth. “Once you’re comfortable with the walk, try the canter on flat, level ground. I would suggest you do that on the Red Ring Road, where it’s safest.”

My head reeling, I stared at Maborel while the full meaning of his assistance sank in. “You are lending me your horse, Prior?” I whispered incredulously. “You would trust me with him?”

The haughty expression dissolved into a wide and brilliant smile. “It’s more a case of trusting him with you,” he answered. “Remember, if you feel you need to panic, just say ‘whoa.’ Don’t forget to brace yourself!” He clapped my left knee. “Safe travels, friend.”

Tentatively, I stroked the horse’s neck, tangling my fingers in his coarse, two-toned mane. “Thank you, Prior,” I whispered, feeling overwhelmed. “I will bring him back to you.”

Maborel only nodded. Paint’s back rounded beneath me again as he turned his head toward the prior, nuzzling him affectionately. I kissed at the horse, as I had been instructed, and was pleased when the horse stepped off readily. I looked up, and realized how high off the ground I rode, how different the world seemed from this higher vantage point.

Paint’s walk was gentle and slow, giving me time to feel the swaying motion of his back. His footfalls sounded quietly on the cobblestones as we passed beneath the porte-cortere towards the courtyard. As we made our way onto the Black Road, I glanced back at the Priory to see two figures watching my departure - Prior Maborel and Brother Piner. I gave them a final wave with my shield before a roadside tree hid them from my sight.

**********

We passed Fort Ash without incident, and I could see the spire of White Gold Tower ahead as the road started to wind down from the highlands. Paint tossed his head up, and his amble faltered to a halt. I looked at him, and followed his intent gaze into the woods ahead and to the left of the Road. A rustling in the underbrush warned me of some creature. Dismounting with some awkwardness, I drew my sword, dropping my shield into my left hand. Paint remained still as stone as I slowly walked toward the trembling shrub.

A low growl emanated from the leaves, sending a chill down my spine. I spotted a hint of grey fur and braced myself, lifting my shield before me. A wolf ghosted out of the bush, snarling, his yellow eyes blazing on mine. He charged me swiftly, and leaped for my face. I fended him off with my shield then slashed at him with my blade as he fell back.

The handsome predator staggered as the blade cut through his pelt. Go away. Don’t make me kill you. He shook himself and circled me, head down and hackles bristling. My sword ready, I waited, keeping my eyes on him. I held my breath as he came between me and Paint, still facing me. In the edge of my vision, I could sense Paint tense up, his head up, ears forward. Don’t bolt, Paint. Stand your ground. And you, wolf, if you so much as look funny at Paint, I’m not going to hold back. Leave, now.

The wolf stopped, staring at me, teeth bared in a silent snarl. Forcing my shaking body to hold still, I locked eyes with the animal, keeping my gaze steady. Another tense moment, and the wolf blinked first. He turned and faded back into the forest without a backward look.

Shaking, I found myself panting hard from the confrontation. What the hell just happened? Did that wolf just hear my thoughts? Soft hoofbeats on the cobblestones broke into my musings. Sheathing my sword, I turned just as Paint reached me, nudging my shoulder with his muzzle. Looking closely at him, I noticed his relaxed stance. I can not let predators get near Paint. I recalled how Fulvius had dismounted and left his horse some distance away when he rescued me from the wolves at Fort Nikel.

Slipping the shield carry-straps back onto my forearm, I led Paint to a nearby boulder. He stood quietly as I struggled, first to climb onto the rock, then to step into the saddle as Maborel had instructed me. This time, I made a more gentle landing onto his strong back. Rubbing my hand along his crest, I ruffled Paint’s mane. He turned his head slightly toward my right knee, his ears flopping sideways briefly.

“Let’s go, Paint,” I said softly to him, ending with a soft kiss.


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mALX
post Mar 25 2010, 07:43 PM
Post #34


Ancient
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From: Cyrodiil, the Wastelands, and BFE TN



I loved this one before and now. It was well worth a re-read even when you weren't posting it here!


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Olen
post Mar 25 2010, 10:53 PM
Post #35


Mouth
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Brilliant. I like the character, she has weaknesses and strengths which make her more believable and she reacts in a consistant way. You really have her pinned down as a person with believable reactions. I want to see her succeed and want to see her develop which is what I look for in a good story which this is.

Your description of the horsey stuff seemed very convincing and definitely adds something the original game lacked in terms of realism, not that I know one end from the other when it comes to horses.


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Look behind you and see an ever decreasing number of ghosts. Currently about 15.
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SubRosa
post Mar 26 2010, 12:07 AM
Post #36


Ancient
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Joined: 14-March 10
From: Between The Worlds



Hi Paint! smile.gif It is good to see one of my favorite characters in the JF. In fact, due to the depth you give your equines, I do believe that Paint is my second favorite character in Old Habits. You do such an excellent job of giving the horses depth and personalities, that they really are characters, rather than simply being cars that eat hay instead of gas.


What the hell just happened? Did that wolf just hear my thoughts?
Did he? This was something I wondered about the first time through as well...


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Destri Melarg
post Mar 26 2010, 01:11 AM
Post #37


Mouth
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Joined: 16-March 10
From: Rihad, Hammerfell



One can learn a great deal about horses and horsemanship by reading this chapter. In your hands Paint becomes a character instead of merely a mode of transportation. I never really paid attention to the stand-off with the wolf before. Do I detect a hint of foreshadowing?

One thing I forgot to ask you the first time I read this chapter. The advice that Prior Maborel gives Julian to always mount from the left side of a horse, is that true? Does it apply to all horses, or does it just apply to Paint because of Julian’s bum knee? If it does apply to all horses, why the significance of the left side? It is not something that I’ve encountered before and I would be curious to know the proper equestrian. . .etiquette, I guess.


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D.Foxy
post Mar 26 2010, 12:18 PM
Post #38


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Although I have ridden horses, donkeys, camels and (once) a buffalo, my experience is of the most limited sort for all of them. Still, I suspect that mounting instruction to Julian (snort-giggle) was knee-specific.
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Winter Wolf
post Mar 26 2010, 04:45 PM
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From: Melbourne, Australia



PAINT!!!!!

My favourite character in the whole world. Yippppeeee!!!!!

Please do not hold back with the way you write and describe him. Bring him alive, give him a larger role in your story and make him the main character. Mr Ed style.

I still have dreams of Julian riding him straight up the steps and into the Kvatch chapel, blowing horsey kisses over everybody and rescuing the inhabitants single-handedly( or is that single-hoofedly tongue.gif ).
Please??!!?

This post has been edited by Winter Wolf: Mar 26 2010, 04:47 PM


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Fallout NV/Fallout 4
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haute ecole rider
post Mar 27 2010, 05:15 PM
Post #40


Master
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From: The place where the Witchhorses play



Thanks to all who are reading this the second time.

Olen, welcome to Julian's story! I'm glad you're enjoying this so far. I wrote the horsey stuff mainly for non-horse people. There are plenty of those in my RL, so I'm used to explaining stuff. TBH, Oblivion is the first fantasy game I've encountered where the horses actually seem pretty realistic, especially in their spontaneous movements (rubbing noses on forelegs, looking off into the distance, stretching necks and shaking heads, etc). Even their gaits are realistic. However, to imbue each horse with a distinct personality remains beyond the capabilities of anything less than a supercomputer.

I noticed a couple of people are commenting on the instructions to always mount (*choke* - thanks a lot, Foxy!) from the horse's left side. This is actually tradition, and goes back at least as far as the Middle Ages, if not all the way back to Xenophon. Most people are right handed, which means warriors carried their swords on their left hips and their shields (when applicable) on their left arm. Mounting from the right side of the horse would require swinging your left leg over the horse's back, getting tangled up in the sheathed sword, and banging the poor creature on the back with the shield. Sure way to get bucked off before you even get on! Mounting from the left side of the horse keeps all your heavy metal gear against the horse's left side, less likely to mess things up. The military being the military, that has continued down to this day. Dressage was actually developed by the military, has has eventing (jumping, cross-country, and dressage/parade gaits). The only thing in the Prior's instruction that is out of consideration for Julian's bum knee is the recommendation to always mount from a point higher than the ground (i.e. a boulder or stump).

As for the stand-off with the wolf, I don't believe the wolf was reading Julian's mind, so much as he was reading her body language. IRL, there is actually a lot of communication between predators and prey - that is how predators single out the sick and weak. The wolves and big cats are smaller than the big game they hunt, and they know all too well how easily the big game can hurt them. So they evaluate the prey animals, and look at their body language. The ones that make eye contact, or assume defensive postures (or even aggressive postures, in the case of mothers protecting their young), are avoided. However, the sick and weak often will not make eye contact, are easily confused, and are slower than their herd mates. Those are the ones the predators go for. In this given situation, Julian was not acting like a sick or weak prey, she was acting like the big, strong animal that can cause some serious hurt (and she did). This particular wolf was hungry, but not starving, he wasn't about to risk it all on something that was probably going to kill him.

Oh, and W.Wolf, sorry, Paint isn't trained for combat. Julian is an infantry soldier (i.e. groundpounder) and is appalled at the idea of riding Paint into a horde of scamps with her sword swinging. She's afraid she'll bury her blade into Paint's neck! For your dream to happen, first she needs to get a combat-trained horse, then she needs to learn how to ride him (be quiet, Foxy!). Stick around long enough, and she may work up the courage to do that!

Okay, enough with the equestrian and biology lessons! Let's get on with the story! This is one of my favorite side quests, simply because the old man is such a cool character (in my mind, at least).

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Chapter 3.3 Gone Fishing

It was nearly noon before we reached the road that led east from the Red Ring Road to Weye and the Great Bridge. I slowed Paint, my left side beginning to stab me repeatedly, and turned him towards the inn. Pausing momentarily, I wondered if anyone there would recognize me as the drunken addict that had brawled with the Dunmer mercenary. The fragmented memories I had still didn’t clue me in regarding the cause of that brawl, and I cringed to think what it could have been.

But Jauffre’s advice was greater than my shame, and I decided that now would be a good time to get my daily meat ration. I stopped Paint beside the Wawnet Inn. An old Breton limped toward us, his eyes admiring Paint.

“Good day, ma’am!” he called to me. “Need your ‘orse tended?”

Glancing at the old man, seeing the tattered fishing waders and the worn sandals, I regarded him skeptically. A Watch soldier standing on the doorstep of the Inn, helm under his arm, saw my look.

“That’s Aelwin Merowald, ma’am,” he volunteered. “He’s disabled, can’t fish any more. Taking care of travelers’ horses is about all he can do, but he does it well.”

But for the grace of Akatosh go I, I mused as Merowald stopped beside Paint’s head, holding his hand out for the gelding to sniff. Paint blew softly at him, then nudged the old man’s cheek.

“Well, I was going to stop for lunch,” I mused, considering the Watch’s words. I dismounted and handed the reins to Merowald. “Yes, I would appreciate it, sir,” I told the delighted Breton.

“Ye won’t regret it, ma’am,” Merowald grinned at me. “I’ll be takin’ ‘im across to my ‘ouse - there’s good grass there ‘e can graze.” He patted Paint affectionately on his neck. “Come find me when ye are ready to leave.” As Paint docilely followed the old man across the road towards a humble cottage with a beautiful garden and a little paddock next to it, the watchman shook his head.

“I think you just made his day, ma’am,” he commented to me. “It’s all Merowald’s got to live for, the occasional traveler letting him take care of the horse. Most of them go on up to the Imperial City, and leave their horses at the Chestnut Handy Stables by the City Gate.”

“You said he was a fisherman, sir?” I asked, my eyes on the small Breton, dwarfed by the paint gelding.

“Aye,” the soldier said. “Made a good living at it, too. Apparently, he had an alchemist paying him well for slaughterfish scales. And not just any slaughterfish, mind you, but the Tamriel Barracuda. Nasty things, more teeth than anything else.” He shook his head again. “A full grown one will strip a man of his very flesh, right off his bones, in a few seconds flat.” He waved his arm toward the nearby Lake. “They’re found only here, in Lake Rumare.”

He looked at me. “It was a juvenile that got Merowald, ended his career.” He rubbed at his close-cropped blond hair. “Merowald’s always complaining that he only needed scales from just twelve more slaughterfish before he had enough saved for retirement. Now, as it is, he’s struggling to make ends meet.”

“I see.” Feeling a little sad for the old man, I knew how that felt. “Seems like you’re a little fond of him, sir,” I said to the soldier. He shrugged.

“It’s hard not to be fond of the old man,” he answered. “Merowald’s always cheerful, always glad to help or cheer one other than himself. Even when he was in pain from that bite -” his voice trailed off. The soldier squinted up at the sun, just east of the zenith. He placed his helm on his head and nodded at me. “Well, ma’am, I’d best get going, or I’ll be late for my post.”

Watching him march for the Great Bridge, I turned to look across the road at Merowald’s cottage. He had Paint loose in the small paddock, and was stripping him of his tack. Unable to shake the feeling of pity for the old man, - pity for myself? - I turned away. Walking around the inn to the lakeshore, I spotted an old dock and limped out onto it, looking at the water.

The sun shone warm on my back as I set the pack down on the wooden planks. It’s too bad the old man can’t get twelve more Barracuda for his retirement. It would be nice to live comfortably after a lifetime of hard work. There was a time when I felt that way, when my fellow pili had roasted me on the twenty-fifth anniversary of my enlistment in the Legion. After seven years of endless training cycles and whipping raw recruits into fighting soldiers, I had felt ready for inactivity. But the Goblins changed that. The pain changed that. I looked over my shoulder at the bulk of the Wawnet Inn on the bluff above. I lost everything I had. No one knew how to help me, and few wanted to help me.

Impulsively, I stripped down to my undergarments, piling my gear on the dock. Digging out a length of cord, I tied it around my waist, leaving a long end trailing free. Taking the steel dagger in my teeth, I dove off the dock into the clear water in a shallow arc. Ducking my face under the surface, I found the Lake to be surprisingly clear. Several yards away, I spotted the lean form of a large slaughterfish. Swimming toward it, I nearly swallowed water in surprise as the fish darted toward me. I caught a glimpse of a gaping mouth full of teeth before my blade swished through the water into its underbelly.

A few cuts and slices later, the fish floated on the surface, dead. Taking the cord, I attached the fish by its gills close to my body, leaving the long end free to trail behind me. Casting a healing spell, I looked around underwater again, and spotted another. In this manner, I found and killed eleven more Tamriel Barracuda, bringing them ashore after every two or three kills. They were heavy fish. The healing spell I cast kept me going in spite of the cuts and scrapes the barracuda gave me.

Returning to the shore, I gathered the tethered fish on the deck, then scraped the water off my skin before donning my leathers. Though I was tired, it felt good to be swimming again. Still, it’s not like the Abecean Sea. Gathering up all my gear, I looked at the sun again, realizing how hungry I felt. Just after noon. I trudged up the hill, the fish dangling from my pack, and entered the inn.

If anyone there recognized me as the brawling drunk that got a Dunmer mercenary killed, they showed no sign of it. The stew was hearty, and the water fresh, well worth the three drakes the Altmer innkeeper charged me for it. I ate quickly, for I wanted to get back on my way. Kvatch waited at the end of a very long and dangerous road, and I had Paint to worry about.

Stomach full, I stepped out into the brilliant afternoon light, the breeze cool on my warm cheeks. Crossing the road to Merowald’s cottage, I found him seated in his garden, puffing on a pipe and watching Paint graze. He jumped up when he saw me, setting his pipe carefully on the bench and meeting me at the garden gate.

“‘Ello, ma’am,” he greeted me courteously, opening the gate and welcoming me in among the fragrant flowers. “I rubbed ‘im down for ye, watered ‘im, and ‘e’s been grazing for the past ‘our ro so.” He picked the bridle up from the fence post and entered the adjacent paddock. Paint raised his head as Merowald approached him, and accepted the bit gracefully. Merowald stroked Paint’s face as he settled the headstall over his ears, adjusting the buckles, and making sure the bit was seated comfortably in the horse’s mouth. “Aye, ‘e’s a fine one, well mannered and kind,” Merowald remarked with a wide smile as he led Paint to the road.

Following them, I had to agree, “Aye, that he is, sir.”

The Breton held the reins out to me. I unknotted the cord holding the fish at my back and held the shimmering bodies toward him. His brows lifted in amazement at the offering. “Here, sir, take these for your trouble.”

“Stendarr bless ye!” he exclaimed, taking the cord from me. “Twelve Barracudas!” he twirled the fish on the cord, evaluating their size and weight, before staring at me. “How did ye know?”

“A friend of yours told me, sir,” I answered. Tapping my right knee, I winked at him. “Us old gimps have got to stick together, right?”

Laughing heartily, Merowald slung the cord over one thin shoulder. “Aye, we do!” he followed as I led Paint to a nearby boulder, patting the horse on the neck as I mounted from the top of the rock. “But ma’am, ye risked much to ‘elp me,” he said, as I settled myself into the saddle. “Let me give this to ye in return - I ‘ave no further need of it.” He pulled a small brass ring off his ring finger, handing it up to me. Taking it, I studied the simple yellow circle in the late afternoon light, noting the opalescent pearl setting. “It’s the Jewel of the Rumare,” he explained. “It gives ye the ability to breathe underwater.” Trying the ring on the little finger of my right hand, I found it fit perfectly.

“I appreciate you taking good care of Paint,” I smiled at him in gratitude. “My name is Julian, from Anvil, and I will try to send more business your way.”

“Ah, no need for that!” Merowald lifted the weighted cord off his shoulder in emphasis. “Ye just paid for my retirement!” His eyes turned dreamy. “Long mornings in bed, long afternoons in the stables, a fine smoke in the evenings.” He gave Paint a fond pat on the horse’s shoulder. “But ye come back, ye ‘ear. Paint’s welcome to stay with me anytime!”


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