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> Blood on the Moon, A Journey of Discovery
treydog
post May 25 2007, 12:15 AM
Post #21


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From: The Smoky Mountains



The several days I spent on the trail to Seyda Neen were remarkably pleasant. I could have made the journey in a single day without difficulty, but I savored the solitude. I also spent the time productively, gathering various plants and preparing potions. Even though the activities and odors of alchemy reminded me of Father, the memories were calming rather than annoying. He had always encouraged my efforts with remarkable patience and never raised his voice, even when I accidentally brewed concoctions whose noxious vapors drove us all out of the house. But my work on the trip to the coast had a more serious purpose than mere nostalgia- I wanted to earn some money- for myself…and for other reasons. I tried to focus my efforts on those potions that would find a ready market in a fishing village , so I prepared water-walking mixtures, along with some that restored fatigue. The time alone seemed all too short, but I knew that Vvardenfell was not so large that I could afford to loiter in one place for very long. Civilization, or at least Seyda Neen, called to me, with the prospect of a fresh start and the possibility of making a name for myself through my own efforts.

Seyda Neen may seem a peculiar choice for someone who hoped to lose himself, but I knew that it was still the main port of entry to Vvardenfell. Unlike most of the other coast towns, it was controlled by the Empire, rather than by a Great House. That being so, one more anonymously cloaked Imperial seeking information and supplies would not cause any comment. I hoped. What I most needed to know about was Solstheim and how to get there. If possible, I hoped to have some sort of employment or sponsorship before I reached the northern island, as that would provide official standing and a source of income. And income was going to be a major issue for me sooner rather than later. Upon reaching the fishing village, I realized that there was another reason for haste, one I had not counted on- if I did not leave soon, the fetid stench of the place would likely bring me to my knees. Thus the cloth I held to my nose was as much to protect me from the fishy air as to conceal my features.

But another odor, that of potent Dunmer beverages (and the sound of enthusiastic if off-key singing), led me to the tradehouse, the most promising source of information. The bartender was an Argonian, who showed his pointed teeth in a most unnerving smile. His voice was a pleasant rumble though, as he inquired,

“How may I help, Cyrodiil?”

I laid one of my few coins on the bar and ordered a mug of matze. When he placed the drink before me and reached for the gold piece, I added a second and asked,

“What have you heard about Solstheim?”

He paused for a long moment, giving me a peculiar sidelong stare from his reptilian eyes. It was almost as if he recognized me- or planned to be sure he could do so in the future. But then he responded to my question and I focused my concentration on his answer and put my paranoia aside.

“It is a cold place, with water that never melts. How can one swim in water that never melts? I prefer the Bitter Coast, with its wonderful heat and humidity.”

He blinked slowly, then continued,

“There are two ways to make money there- well, two legal ways. Young sir could join the East Empire Company- if he has influence with the Duke….?

When I made no response, he shrugged elaborately and concluded,

“There is always the Legion. They constantly seek recruits and do not ask too many questions. Fort Darius is the place to go; at least so one hears.”

He pushed forward a broadsheet that had obviously been used as a place mat- but I could still make out phrases regarding “good pay” and “free equipment.” This was an opportunity that merited some serious thought. I could not help but recall another of Father’s “lessons in reality.” I had made the mistake of speaking admiringly of group of free adventurers who had stopped in at Ald’ruhn for a brief visit. Father shook his head and assumed his “explaining this for your own good” tone.

He said, “The problem with the life of a ‘free adventurer’ is that you soon discover there is very little about it that is truly free. I know you have heard and read a great many stories, but let me warn you: once you separate out the wildly impossible, the highly unlikely, and the graphically obscene; what it boils down to is this- adventuring costs money. To make a go of it out in the wilderness requires food, armor, and weapons- not to mention the potions for the times when the armor and weapons aren’t enough….”

He went on for some time in that vein, and I nodded every so often, just as if I was really paying attention.

Supposing that there was some truth to what he was saying, and that it wasn’t all purposely skewed to “keep little Athlain safe at home,” joining the Legion would neatly counter all of those arguments. They provided armor and weapons. Better still, they would train me in the use of those things. And then there was the added bonus of Father’s reaction when he heard that I had joined the Legion. It would almost be worth going home to tell him myself….


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The Metal Mallet
post May 25 2007, 01:00 AM
Post #22


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Hehehe. That's one way to get in a potshot at one's father. Join a cause that he whole heartenly hates.

I have a feeling that living the life of a Legionaire isn't all that it's cracked up to be.


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minque
post May 25 2007, 06:16 PM
Post #23


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Joining the Legion are we huh? Well well....Dad won´t be pleased, that´s for sure! Anyway being Trey´s son he´d be ok in most cases, but of course the Legion is pretty unpredictable. Now he´s a man and that´ll help...Someone would know that.

What I wonder is moms reaction when she finds out, after all she´s an Imperial!


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Chomh fada agus a bhionn daoine ah creiduint in aif�iseach, leanfaidh said na n-aingniomhi a choireamh (Voltaire)

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treydog
post May 27 2007, 03:41 AM
Post #24


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From: The Smoky Mountains



One of my purposes in the town had been accomplished- I had learned that the most likely route to Solstheim was through enlistment in the Imperial Legion. The prospect of service in the Empire’s military was attractive to me; despite my father’s prejudice, I had known at least one person who had risen to high rank in the Legion. I could envision myself in the silver cuirass and red cape of an officer- and surely I would be able to achieve that status fairly quickly. But before I took that first step, I needed to make some preparations. Louis Beauchamp had almost certainly received my note by now, and I would have to follow up soon. The fact that he had been desperate enough to risk Father’s anger told me that the Breton speculator was hard-pressed indeed. Therefore, I made my way down the steps of the tradehouse to see what I could get for my potions.

My ability to make friends easily and my knowledge of the value of trade goods served me well- I was able to amass a reasonable stack of coins with little effort. They made a pleasant sight on the counter, but I knew that the money was only a means to an end. I left them standing while I looked over the stock. The only swords available were iron, and rusty iron at that- the salty coastal air was not kind to that particular material. Even my untrained eye could tell that those weapons were little better than scrap- more suited to bludgeoning an opponent than actual fencing. I lingered longer over the chitin armor, but again let it pass. Though I rather liked the look of the smooth, cream-colored material, I knew that a relatively complete set would have considerable weight, not to mention the cost. I had almost given up when a dull gleam amongst the rusty relics caught my eye. I reached in with a hand that almost shook with anticipation, not daring to believe my good fortune. But when my fingers grasped the richly engraved surface, I knew that I had been right. What I drew out of the trash was a silver quarter staff, marked with runes of protection and abjuration. The weapon did not have any magical properties beyond those inherent in the silver plating, but that was enough. To my delight, the head of the staff was cast into the likeness of a dragon, symbol of the Septim dynasty and the Empire. I took that as a sign that at least someone looked upon my endeavors with favor.

After some intense negotiations, I turned over most of my earnings from alchemy and walked out with the silver staff. The weapon was a necessity if I was going to implement the next part of my plan. I still needed to amass a substantial amount of money, and alchemy was too slow and uncertain a way to do that. Instead, I was going to enter some of the numerous caves and tombs scattered all along the Bitter Coast. I would do my best to avoid the smugglers and bandits themselves, but I would appropriate their loot and turn it in for whatever bounty I could command. In a way, I would be working for the Legion before I even enlisted, at least as far as the outlaw dens were concerned. The part of my scheme that required the silver staff, the tombs, was a bit more problematic. I had mixed feelings about entering the ancient burial places, but not because of any superstitious fear of the dead. My problem was a moral one. I knew that people often left valuable items in tombs- as offerings, as memorials, and sometimes simply to take advantage of the protection offered by the eldritch guardians. And if I took something from a tomb, it seemed as if I would be robbing the dead- a dishonorable act and not the sort of behavior a true knight would engage in. On the other hand, the ghosts and skeleton guardians that infested the tombs were products of necromancy, a foul practice that was surely an even more serious trespass against the dead than merely taking items from the graves. In fact, I would be doing the tormented spirits a favor by releasing them from their unnatural bonds of servitude and allowing them to rest at last. And, even though grave dust and bonemeal had alchemical properties, I would be sure not to disturb the remains of those interred in the tombs. At that point in my reverie, a crescendo in the singing from the tavern above, followed by a gust of laughter, broke my train of thought and sent my mind down another path. The laughter reminded me of a happier time, a time when I knew that my father was a giant who strode the Mundus.

It was a party. My party. It was my birthday and I was seven years old. A number of my friends were there, some who were elf children and others who were not. We made no distinctions based on race, but divided more along lines of gender. When you are a seven-year-old boy, you are certain that girls are from an alien species and probably carry horrible diseases. A great many adults had come too- my “aunts and uncles” as we called them, even though none were blood relations. But these were people whose ties were closer than family, for they had all come through the dark times of Dagoth Ur and the Blight. Children in Vvardenfell were still a miracle, and a birthday party was a first-rate excuse to get together and celebrate. Athyn Sarethi, for whom I had been named, was there, as was Serene. Other Redoran councilors and House members also made courtesy calls. Others came, too, from farther away. Most startling were the Urshilaku, wearing feathered capes and bone necklaces. They were a solemn people who spoke little, but bowed low to my father and looked long upon me and the other children. But I paid little attention to the adults, not really knowing the difference between a Councilor and a steward, and caring even less.

Somehow, Father had managed to find a small, tame guar and had crafted a saddle and bridle for it. With a grin he picked me up and said,

“If we can’t have horses here, we’ll just make our own. Give him a go, son.”

Despite Mother’s doubtful look, he placed me carefully in the saddle and stepped back. The guar took no notice of my additional weight, but instead munched contentedly on the branches of a scathecraw growing in the yard. That was a tricky business, as the plant was more thorns than anything else. The young guar suddenly discovered that fact, as one of the wicked barbs pierced his sensitive purple tongue. With a bellow of surprise, he began to leap about, shaking his head violently in an attempt to dislodge the thorn. Considering that I had never ridden anything more lively than a silt-strider, I managed to hold on for an impressive few seconds. However, the beast gave a sideways jump, followed by an attempt to duck his head between his hind legs which sent me sailing. I knew that a bad fall onto the hard ground was coming. But then, two strong hands plucked me out of the air and held me close. Somehow, my father had seen what was happening and stayed close enough to catch me. He hugged me to his chest and murmured,

“It’s all right, Athlain. I’ve got you.”

He then let go with one hand and laid it on the guar, calming it instantly. I felt a flow of healing magic jump from him to the creature, which made a happy sound and butted him playfully. In that moment, I knew that my father could do anything.


This post has been edited by treydog: May 28 2007, 04:51 PM


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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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Black Hand
post May 28 2007, 07:06 AM
Post #25


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From: Where the sun shines everyday in hell.



Wow.
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minque
post May 29 2007, 10:39 PM
Post #26


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Joined: 11-February 05
From: Where I can watch you!!



Ahhh, a glimpse from his hildhood! with all aunts and uncles visiting! yay! Simply amazing treydog! It´s always so good to learn more about his background and stuff...you sort of get "under his skin"

Now Athlain my boy....go ahead and make your dad proud of you! Or??? ohmy.gif


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Chomh fada agus a bhionn daoine ah creiduint in aif�iseach, leanfaidh said na n-aingniomhi a choireamh (Voltaire)

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treydog
post Jun 3 2007, 01:12 AM
Post #27


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Joined: 13-February 05
From: The Smoky Mountains



Yes, my father could do anything- or so it seemed. But as I grew older, doubt began to creep in. It appeared that he actually did… nothing. Other parents were warriors or priests, explorers or councilors. They sailed the seas or traveled to distant lands. My father mostly stayed at home, only venturing as far as Ald’ruhn or perhaps Balmora. When each of my sisters was born, he disappeared for several days, gone to Tel Fyr, so my mother said. When I was small, it was a blessing that he was always there to read to me or to call for my assistance with his alchemy. But he didn’t seem to do anything, except read books or scratch away in his journal. Even the alchemy became tiresome after a time, for he simply gave the resultant potions away- often to visiting Ashlanders. We had many visitors, who greeted Father with respect and often affection. Many of them were clearly warriors or perhaps even rogues- their faces were maps of adventure. They would stay for an hour or a day and then disappear back into the wider world, leaving me with a colored stone or a carving or a mechanical toy of a sort never seen before in Vvardenfell. And Father would wish them well and return to his books. Although we had many visitors, strangers were not welcome at Indarys Manor. In fact, on more than one occasion, I saw my father’s hand reach for a sword that no longer hung at his side. He never said anything to me about those moments, but would go into a dark silence that might last for days at a time. He would look off toward the southeast at something only he could see. Mother’s quiet words generally brought him around, but sometimes it took a visit from Serene or Uncle Athyn to restore Father’s good humor.

As fascinating as those memories were, they brought me no closer to my purpose. Therefore, I cleared my head of those melancholy thoughts and made my way out of Seyda Neen, going north along the coast. Not far from town, I came upon a curious sight, one that made me wonder. A monument in the Imperial style had been erected on a lonely spit of land that was otherwise indistinguishable from the rest of the Bitter Coast. Unfortunately, it had been vandalized to the point that it was impossible to tell what hero or event it commemorated. I could only make out the words “Processus” and “…gave his life….” The monument and even the vandalism appeared to be at least ten or a dozen years old; but it was clear that at least one person still cared- fresh coda flowers adorned the stone.

The neglected memorial preoccupied me, but not so much that I passed up the opportunity to bash a few mudcrabs and extract the meat. When raw, it has an unpleasant taste, but it can be cooked with draggle-tail or bittergreen to make a tasty stew. I took care to stay out of the water, for I frequently saw the razor-sharp fins and sinuous bodies of slaughter fish in the shallows. Fortunately, no larger beasts appeared, and I soon saw the shape of a Velothi arch that indicated the presence of a tomb. Part of my schooling had included a study of Aldmeris, and so I was able to determine that this was the Samarys burial. The name itself meant nothing to me- if the family had once been prominent, they had since disappeared into the mists of time. And, to be honest, I was indifferent to their status. What interested me was a chance to test my skills against the guardian spirits and perhaps acquire some saleable items. I did take note that there were no footprints of either men or elves in the mud around the entry, and that was encouraging. Although I was willing to confront smugglers or other outlaws, I would prefer to avoid them, at least until I had better training and equipment.
I looked at the tomb entry uncertainly. Beyond the mudcrabs and a few kwama foragers, I had never actually fought anything before. Certainly not anything that had real potential to harm me. I dried my damp palms on my shirt and grasped the staff firmly, then opened the door. All I saw was a hallway sloping downward to a second, dimly-lighted door. I drew a shaky breath and moved down the passage. As I neared the door, I seemed to hear the sound of bone scraping across the stone floor and perhaps some sort of labored breathing. That was silly- undead creatures had no lungs, nor any need to breathe. The asthmatic wheezing sound was probably just the movement of air around an ill-fitting door. Probably. The hair on the back of my neck bristled and I suddenly wished that my birth sign had been the Ritual instead of the Lady. Having the power to drive undead away would have been rather... comforting. But that would probably have required something else I lacked- faith in the gods. Better far to trust in my wits, my weapons, and the strength of my muscles than the chancy attention of indifferent deities. With my scorn for the gods as a shield, I pushed open the door.

A spectral figure appeared at the far end of the burial chamber, bearing the aspect of a skeletal being in tattered funeral vestments. At the same moment that it sensed my presence, I recognized it as an ancestor ghost. I was glad of the silver staff I held, for ordinary weapons would have passed harmlessly through the insubstantial ghost. A quick thrust, followed by a backward step, blunted the spirit’s initial rush, and I braced for the counter attack. Clawed hands reached for my throat and I swatted away one- but not the other. A terrible chill wracked my body as the claws scored my neck. I swept the staff back and forth in front of me as if I was batting away spider webs. The resultant blows were weak, but the silver seemed to burn the ghost and it recoiled. After a few more thrusts and overhand smashes, the ghost dissolved into a pile of dust. As I rested from the fight, I surveyed the chamber. A few burial urns stood on funeral plinths, and a scroll that glittered with enchantment lay upon the floor. The only other items of interest were a few alchemy ingredients. I collected those and the scroll, which I decided to examine later, in safer surroundings. The passage made a turn, leading to another small chamber, complete with a shrine to St. Veloth, more urns and a second magical scroll. There was also a door leading deeper into the tomb.

Despite my worries, no more ghosts waited beyond the door. I did find a rather weak Fortify Health potion and more urns, including one that actually carried an inscription. The markings indicated that the remains were those of one “Lord Brinne,” but, true to my values, I left them undisturbed. That decision was made somewhat easier by the fact that I detected a magical trap on the container. Of more interest to me was a rough wooden chest, which bore similar markings to the urn. The fact that the chest was locked further convinced me that it probably contained the valuable goods of the deceased lord. I had no qualms about looting the chest, but I also had no hope of being able to force the lock. However, I had anticipated such a need and had therefore purchased a scroll with Ondusi’s Unhinging from the tradehouse in Seyda Neen. The scroll worked as advertised- the lock opened with a satisfying “click” and I opened the lid to find- dust and cobwebs. My frustration quite overcame any pleasure I had taken in defeating the ghost- I had spent nearly 80 septims on that scroll and had nothing to show for it. So far, my money-making scheme was not going well at all. I had used one scroll in order to gain two, plus a cheap potion that I could have concocted myself. As I left the tomb in a foul humor, I seemed to hear an all-too-familiar voice going on and on about the “realities of being a free adventurer.”


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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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minque
post Jun 3 2007, 06:42 AM
Post #28


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From: Where I can watch you!!



Haha! Awesome! So Trey is kinda moody and lazy nowadays? Well well quite understanable, but maybe not so to a young man who´s life lies ahead of him. I´m happy Serene still can cheer Trey up!

Now dear Athlain....impatient are we? Want to make a fortune on his first tomb-raid huh? Well that didn´t happen, right!

So he found the Processus-Vitellius-monument? That was a sweet twist, I´m sure Thavere Vedrano was the one who put the flowers there! So sweet!

As usual you manage to catch your readers interest by your very special way of calmly and detailled describe the moves of the young man...

Oh how I wish I was at least half as good a writer as you are!


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Chomh fada agus a bhionn daoine ah creiduint in aif�iseach, leanfaidh said na n-aingniomhi a choireamh (Voltaire)

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Black Hand
post Jun 3 2007, 06:05 PM
Post #29


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"True to his values"? Oh man, the value of his ring finger would have gone up to 8 Grand! Not to mention the Mentors Ring is great for the starting Magician!
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treydog
post Jun 3 2007, 07:09 PM
Post #30


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From: The Smoky Mountains



@ minque- Of course you are far more than simply "half as good"- I am constantly awed by your insight and ability, esp. as you write in a non-native language. The fact that we have different styles does not change the quality of your work...

@ Blackhand- Yup. I purposely had him obliviously pass up the Mentor's Ring- just as Trey did with the Amulet of Shadows. It is fun to throw in those "insider jokes" for folks who really know the game...


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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 Jun 3 2007, 07:43 PM
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From: In a cold place.



It took him quite a while to deal with that ghost. I guess our friend has a lot of training to do before he can seek out fame and glory.

And I'm with Black Hand, Mentor's ring is a great treasure to find early on. (Ignoring the fact for a moment that I didn't come to that tomb till level 7 or so which isn't exactly early.) Still, I have to agree that it adds to the enjoyment of those who are in the know. And because it brings up his sense of right and wrong, it's even better.


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The Metal Mallet
post Jun 3 2007, 07:46 PM
Post #32


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From: Kitchener, ON, Canada



Very tricky, trey, nice little addition about Athlain missing the Mentor's Ring. The memorial for Processus was a nice addition to, it really gives the impression that indeed time has passed since Trey defeated Almalexia and Dagoth Ur.

I look forward to the next update.


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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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Dire Cheesecake
post Jun 3 2007, 10:33 PM
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Hm, I haven't played Morrowind in years, and I don't have it anymore, so I didn't get the reference. I always remember that smuggler cave near Seyda Neen for some reason though. Speaking of which, I wonder how Athlain will deal with his first fight against another person. Trey seemed to get used to killing people rather quickly, but he didn't really strike me as the sheltered type. Then again, Athlain doesn't use pointy weapons so he may end up not killing his opponent anyway.

This post has been edited by Dire Cheesecake: Jun 3 2007, 10:33 PM
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canis216
post Jun 3 2007, 10:49 PM
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Mentor's ring is indeed nice. And it was funny to have Athlain so near his "free" adventurer's fortune, yet so far. And because of self-imposed restrictions! Such a role-player, that Athlain. Such scruples may be difficult to hold to, should he ever find his way to Solstheim.


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Read about Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun, a Blades assassin, in Killing in the Emperor's Name and The Dark Operation. And elsewhere.
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Wolfie
post Jun 7 2007, 06:02 PM
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Hehehe... I figured you weren't gonna let him find the Mentor's Ring... woulda been too easy lol.
Reading these stories always makes me wish I had the time and inspiration to go back to writing The Tale of Jonacin, but alas, I don't. Oh well, such is life.


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treydog
post Jun 17 2007, 11:25 PM
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A short one this time, without much action. This story has been harder to write...I am still learning who Athlain is.

Frustration at my lack of success propelled me out of the tomb- propelled me a little too quickly, in fact. I had forgotten that the sea was just outside the entry, and splashed into it up to my knees. My ignominious dive was immediately remarked by a couple of slaughterfish, which greeted me with painful bites. As I flailed at the piscine vermin, I heard an ugly “crack” and my treasured silver staff broke in two. No wonder the trader had let it go so cheaply- it had probably been held together by no more than spit and spider webs. Clutching the pieces, I dashed back onto dry land with the fish snapping at my heels. I was in an ugly state of mind as I returned to Seyda Neen. The tiny fishing village was like quicksand- I seemed unable to break free from its grip. At first, I was determined to tear into the trader, but by the time I reached the tradehouse, better sense had prevailed. I knew it be unwise to berate the only trader in the town- if I annoyed him sufficiently, he would refuse to deal with me. And there was no one else. Also, I had examined the pieces of the staff and realized that it was not a matter of sharp dealing, but rather the nature of the staff itself. To save weight (and expense), it was not solid silver, but rather a thin layer of the metal laid over a wooden shaft. It really wasn’t designed for being slammed repeatedly into things with wild abandon. Besides all that, I did not want to make a scene that might cause me to be noticed.

When I inquired about the possibility of repairs, I received more bad news. The trader folded his hands into the sleeves of his robe and said,

“I am sorry, young sir, but there is no one in Seyda Neen who can craft or repair arms and armor. The nearest smith is in Pelegiad. Or you might take the silt strider to Balmora….”

The meeting with the trader was not completely fruitless, however. I persuaded him to sell me an iron mace and to teach me a fireball spell for a small amount of gold. The mace was an ugly thing, but it had the virtue of being extremely durable. And even though destructive magic was not my greatest proficiency, having the fire spell available would allow me to strike from a distance.

When I left the tradehouse, I did not immediately rush off to another tomb or cave. Instead, I sat on the dock and studied the waves as if they might have the answers I needed. Although I had a couple of goals in mind, so far I had simply been darting about in the brainless manner of a young cliff-racer. It was past time that I put my supposedly superior intelligence to work and made some definite plans. First, Seyda Neen was not a satisfactory base. Beyond the fact that it stank of fish, the village was so isolated that there were no real services. It was the sort of place that most people simply passed through on the way to anywhere else. Reluctantly, I decided that I must return to Balmora. That city had several advantages, including the fact that it was the seat of Hlaalu power. While I had no intention of asking for anything as dubious as Hlaalu protection, the tensions between that House and Redoran would prevent anything as overt as Father sending some Redoran guards to “escort” me home. Better still, Balmora had a Mages Guild house. At Mother’s urging, I had joined the Mages Guild some years previously- my greatest skills were in the schools of magic. That being so, it was odd that my heart’s desire was to be a swordsman rather than a battlemage. But, when I thought of the future, I imagined myself in the silvered armor of a Legion knight rather than the robes of a mage. Regardless of logic, regardless of my father’s wishes, that was what I wanted. But in the interim, the Mages could provide me with supplies and even training. Another advantage was that most of the guild members would be too deeply involved in their own research to even notice me. Therefore, it was unlikely that they would report my presence back to Indarys Manor. As long as I did not use the Guild Guides for transport, things would probably be fine.

Rather than walk back to Balmora, I rode in comfort on the silt strider. It was a luxury, but one I could afford- at least for now. Upon arrival, I went immediately to Meldor the armorer. I had heard that the Bosmer craftsman knew more about repairing wood than anyone else. What I hoped was that he would do more than simply repair the silver staff- I hoped that he would show me the way of it. Perhaps a true knight would have a squire to maintain his equipment, but for now, all I had was myself. When I presented the broken weapon and explained my need, the wood elf was doubtful.

“I don’t know, Cyrodiil. Patching a staff is a tricky business. There will always be some weakness at the point of the repair. I suppose we could strip the silver off the original wood and plate a new staff…?”

I shook my head.

“No, Meldor. If we do that, the power of the staff over undead and summoned creatures will be ruined. If you can show me how to keep the staff from breaking again, I would rather put it back together.”

The Bosmer sighed and admitted that I was correct about the undead. He then produced a number of strips of wood, which he wound around the staff. Then he took me to the back of his shop, where a cauldron of peculiar liquid bubbled over a low fire. He looked at me closely and then said,

“This is the real secret of chitin and bonemold armor. I make a resin from certain plants and animals, which I than apply to the armor. It makes it strong but flexible. We are going to coat the wood strips of the staff with this same resin. It will take several days to dry, but the result should be all you ask for. I will also sell you some jars of resin you can use to maintain the repair. Actually, once the resin soaks in, the mended wood will be stronger than the rest.”

I paid the smith and walked down the street to the Mages Guild. Although I did not know it at the time, a pair of very interested eyes followed my progress.


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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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canis216
post Jun 18 2007, 01:05 AM
Post #37


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From: Desert canyons without end.



I wonder who is watching. I imagine that the son of Trey (hears shouting from afar), oh, sorry, Athlain might draw interest from both the friends and enemies of his father. Especially some enemies who hang around a certain club...


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Read about Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun, a Blades assassin, in Killing in the Emperor's Name and The Dark Operation. And elsewhere.
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The Metal Mallet
post Jun 18 2007, 02:47 AM
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Hmm, yes, can't forget about those guys. I can imagine they're the type who don't let go of a grudge easily either. But I have a feeling we'll find out who is doing the observing next update.

Great work as usual, 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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mplantinga
post Jun 18 2007, 08:42 PM
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I was very excited to find a brand new story by Treydog. Writing it about Trey's son seems like a really great idea, and has already provided some very interesting and thought provoking incidents. I am looking forward following him on his journey and watching the ever-present effects of his "noble" parentage.

I find it very interesting that Trey has refused to talk with his son about his "former life." I assume that his reasoning would be that he didn't want to give his son the idea that adventuring is an exciting lifestyle, hoping that his son would take a cue from his attitude and lead a simpler, safer life. It is intriguing, therefore, that this has had the opposite effect, actually driving Athlain toward a life of adventure and excitement. I'm curious to see how his choice will affect his relationship with his father (and, perhaps, the rest of House Redoran as well).
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jack cloudy
post Jun 18 2007, 08:50 PM
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From: In a cold place.



I liked the bit about the repairs. With the glue and all, it actually felt real. Much better than just whacking it with a hammer a few times.

And I feel rather sorry about the Camonna Tong. Come on guys, there are a few polite ones around. Why must we all assume that they're the bad guys just because they've got different beliefs?
,,But you slaughtered Hla Oad because of them!"

Ehh, nevermind. I never said anything. laugh.gif

Carry on please, oh great master.


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Fabulous hairneedle attack! I'm gonna be bald before I hit twenty.
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