Interregnum, 854 of the Second Era Options

[Destri Melarg]

If you really do want to weigh more heavily on the realness side, then I would put yourself in the shoes of all the characters, and ask yourself "what would I do?" Then ask yourself "Ok, is this person really that smart/professional/experienced?" The more you think critically, the stronger your characters will come across. Some people really are stupid, and will not do the obvious thing (I work with many of them!). Some are just inexperienced (look at Teresa in many aspects). Some can be just plain arrogant, which makes them sloppy (there are plenty examples of that in military history).

Thank you for the advice, I really appreciate the feedback . I do see Nolquinn as being an arrogant character who somehow thinks that he is above the tasks being given. I was hoping that his attitude toward Lorian showed that. Given what happens to the two of them, I didn't want to be too heavy in how realistically I portrayed them. The explanation of Arnand's footsteps in the snow is something that I plan to address as soon as I figure out how best to do it.

You could add a comment or thought from Arnard when he couches over the dead bodies, but it really isn't needed.

Interesting suggestion, Wolf. I can definitely see a thought, but would his comment be addressed to one of the dead bodies lying in the snow?

Hey, what happened to Aradroth btw?

Wow this story is amazing

Lettia seems like a great character to start with, if a little ambitious

You also gave a great representation of Clavicus Vile, although I'm sure he'll get the better end of this deal

Arnand sounds like a classic rogue, I can't wait to read what happens next

Thank you, Fiach! And welcome to Interregnum. I hope you continue to enjoy reading it.

mALX - Isn't the King of Worms one of the coolest characters in the entire Elder Scrolls universe? I took his real name out of this last version of the chapter because in researching the events in Daggerfall I discovered that his name wasn't widely known. Because this story takes place some 400+ years before Daggerfall it stands to reason that most know him simply as the KOW.

_____

3rd Morning Star, 2E 854
Amber Forest, East of Mournhold
Dawn


The Chevalier Renald poked the fire with a stick that he held in his gold-scaled hand. Sparks rose as the flames seemed to jump up to meet him. He felt the warmth flooding through his arms into his chest and down through his tail. Around him his syffim, four strong now with the death of Akal, coiled under their thick blankets to ward off the cold. The night’s chill was fading; the tops of the trees were visible in the half-light. The leaves falling into the clearing took on the hue for which the forest was named.

I won’t wake them, he thought, not yet. They have journeyed far and deserve their rest. He was enjoying the quiet, the time with his own thoughts. We should reach Necrom by midday; the people there are more accustomed to seeing Tsaesci. We should not be denied a ship as we were in Tear. If all goes well, we could sail on the eventide. Renald’s golden tail uncoiled and stretched him to his full height. He finished the stretch with his arms. From there he looked down on his syffim. I have kept them too long protecting a land not their own. Their loyalty all these years honors me. I will get them home.

Home to Akavir. For centuries the name had been naught but a faded memory for him. Now to be so close, to have the end of his mission decided only by want of a ship . . .

A scent in the air caught his attention. His forked tongue poked through his mouth to capture it. Wild boar, he thought and smiled. They had not fed in weeks. There were no Goblins in Black Marsh and his syffim quickly grew tired of Argonians. Boar was a poor substitute, but its flesh was close to that of man. It would provide them with the strength for the journey to Necrom.

“My Lord?” Eesham’s head poked out from under his blanket. His syffim began to stir.

“Prepare to leave,” said Renald as he pulled on his dagger and katana, “I will return shortly.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Renald slithered into the trees. The scent was faint, but it did not take Renald long to recapture it. He swung into the lower branches. Using his tail and his arms he undulated through the upper terraces silently, with a speed that even birds would envy. A part of him relished this. He loved his syffim; they were his brothers, and his sons. But there was no denying the thrill of a solitary hunt. The pride that attended the silent stalking of his prey. The blood-rush that came at the moment of the kill.

Save that this prey was proving elusive. Twice Renald felt that he had brought the boar to bay, and twice he had lost the scent, only to regain it further into the forest. Stupid pig, thought Renald, you’re proving to be more trouble than you’re worth.

Finally the boar entered a clearing. Half an acre of dried grass, brown with the season, separated it from the tree line. Renald watched from his perch high above. The squat legs propelled the boar forward with purpose, as if driven by the whip of some unseen master. I have to end this, thought Renald as the boar neared the halfway mark, if he reaches the trees I may lose him.

Renald coiled his tail against the trunk of the tree. With a sound that was half grunt and half hiss he pushed off, his tail propelling him through space. For a brief moment he was weightless, the only sound the wind as it rushed past him. His tail slowly waved back and forth, acting as a rudder to steer his descent.

On impact he curled into himself and rolled. His tail coiled and bit into the hard brown grass. He pushed off and was airborne again, less than twenty paces from the startled boar. The smell of fear on his tongue was sweet and he smiled. He drew his katana in mid-air and brought it down in a slash that carried the momentum of his body behind it. The boar screamed in agony as it was nearly vivisected along its flank.

Yet the boar was not dead, nor did it try to defend itself. Renald lifted his katana for the killing blow, and stopped. He watched as the boar labored on its two forelegs, dragging its hindquarters, leaving a trail of blood and entrails that flattened and stained the brown grass. One halting step at a time it pulled itself toward the tree line.

What drives this beast? Renald sheathed his katana. The scent of blood was strong in the air. He couldn’t lose the boar now if he tried. He decided to follow it, keeping a careful distance. He was curious to see what was worth its last measure of strength to reach.

Step by agonizing step the boar continued for the better part of an hour. Renald was filled with admiration. I’ve known knights with less courage than this creature, he thought. They reached the edge of a shallow ravine. As the boar took its first weary step down the slope its legs gave way and it tumbled, rolling to a stop in the shallow water.

Renald eased down the slope. The boar lay on its side. Each labored exhalation caused ripples in the water that was already filling with its blood. With a profound sense of pity Renald unsheathed his katana and prepared to put the great beast out of its misery.

For the second time he stopped. The smell of death was in the air, but it didn’t come from the boar. Renald automatically assumed a guard stance.

“Peace, great warrior.” A female voice heavy with the weight of age and memory said.

Renald spun. How could I have been so reckless? The source of the voice was behind him. An old woman, tall, frail, and cloaked stood on the edge of the ravine. Even under her hood Renald could see that she had no eyes. He could sense the aura of magic that surrounded her.

“You drove this boar,” said Renald.

The old woman chuckled, “I helped.”

“Reach magic!” Renald spat the words. He remained on his guard.

“You are not one to judge, slayer of dragons.”

Renald bristled at the rebuke, “Who are you?”

“My name is unimportant, but if it will ease your mind you may call me Erinwe. I am a humble messenger, great Vershu, come to offer council.”

Vershu? Renald’s tail propelled him out of the ravine. He landed near the Crone. He laid his katana on the side of her neck. “How do you know that name?”

“I know many things, snake-captain. Vershu was the name you wore when you made your vow to Reman I, was it not? It is the name you discarded when the Potentate’s heir was slain.”

Renald removed his sword. “That name is dead.”

“Perhaps,” said Erinwe, “or perhaps it is time to regain your name . . . and your vow.”

“My vow died when the black dart found the neck of Reman III. It was dust when the Dark Brotherhood slew Savirien-Chorak.”

“Then why did you stay? If your oath was void there was nothing to keep you and your syffim here, yet here you remain. Four hundred years driven by duty . . .”

“What do you know of duty, woman?” Renald placed his katana back against her neck. “Here safe in your forest? When we arrived from Akavir my syffim was twelve strong! Now, we are four. My duty is to them!”

“I too know of duty, snake-captain,” said Erinwe. “My duty is to the truth, and the truth is that the wheels of prophecy have begun to turn, but in this you are blinder than I.”

Renald sheathed his sword, “I have no time for prophecy woman, and I must see my syffim home.”

Erinwe placed a hand on his shoulder. “And the Chim-el Adabal?”

The Amulet of Kings, thought Renald. He could still see it on Reman’s neck. “Lost. What of it?”

Erinwe smiled. “News reaches you slowly, my friend. It has been recovered. At Sancre Tor, a dragon blood waits near the throne.”

Renald lowered his head. Could this be true? “I have heard that a man called Cuhlecain styles himself Emperor. He has the Amulet?”

“Yes,” said Erinwe, “and no. The Greybeards of High Hrothgar have set the wheels in motion. Do not trust my word, snake-captain. Let the truth be judged by your own eyes. Go to the White Gold Tower. Seek out the one called Stormcrown; only in him can your oath be fulfilled. I will say no more.”

Renald watched her walk away. Her figure shimmered, and then seemed to dissolve into the trees. He was alone at the edge of the ravine. He looked down at the boar lying dead in the shallow water, its body beginning to swell in the midday sun. I should head back, he thought.

Instead he drew his dagger and went into the ravine. He cut the heart from the boar. Tonight, when they made camp he would burn the heart and set the brave creatures soul free. He would tell his syffim that Akavir would have to wait.

He would not tell them that their fate was chosen by the will of a pig.

[haute ecole rider]

Even though this is the second time I'm reading this, I find myself fascinated by the POV of a Tsaesci. The hunt through the forest, the determination of the boar to keep going, even after his mortal wound, the conversation with the crone - all of it is wonderful. The thoughts going through Renald/Vershu's mind are revealing, not only of his mood, but also of the state of the world he inhabits.

This chapter is very complete in its own way. It was good to read it again.

[mALX]

I have to come back to read this, no time now - but KOW may be tied with Jagar Tharn IMO - then you can't leave Dagoth-Ur out of the conversation, he has to at least be an honorable mention for making himself a God then coming back to life after the fight with Vivec - plus his laugh, which is addictive to listen to. There is a Youtube music vid that has been remixed with Dagoth-Ur laughing, and it was viral in its day, lol.

I'll read and comment when I get back!

This post has been edited by mALX: Mar 27 2010, 03:45 PM

[SubRosa]

What is reach magic? I do not see it in a search of the wiki or Imperial Library. Is that the result of the forum's swear filter?

I always liked this scene, because of the Witch. Nice portrayal of her. She certainly makes a dramatic entrance and exit! I especially liked how she left, dissolving into the trees. Very reminiscent of High Plains Drifter.

[Winter Wolf]

Man I love this chapter.

Each of your chapters are stories in their own right and they all read so smoothly.
With your story a snap shot on the past history of TES, it makes sense to introduce many different characters into that magnificent story that you weave. Bravo.

I especially love the way that you use the boar to tie all the players together here.
Wow, that is talent!!

[Fiach]

Renald is quite an intresting character, not onloy by his race. He seems to want to seem dutybound but I couldn't help but see some doubts crop up in the Akaviri's mind. it makes me want to try to expand Haeil more as a character

Awesome write, and I can't wait for more.

[mALX]

I see so many places there is foreshadowing in this that I want to read it 100 times to make sure I have seen all the clues - then sneak over the the BGSF and follow them through!!! AWESOME WRITE !!!!!!!

[Destri Melarg]

What is reach magic? I do not see it in a search of the wiki or Imperial Library. Is that the result of the forum's swear filter?

My source on everything Tamrielic is the Pocket Guide to the Empire, 1st Edition, which was published a mere ten years after the events of this story. In speaking of the inhabitants of the Western Reach:

In later years, they traded and exchanged customs with the Orcish villages that shared their mountains, and eventually learned much of the beastfolk’s magic. Reach-magic is still widely studied, although it is banned by the Mages Guild (who fear it as dangerous and wild hedge-wizardry), the Reachmen are referred to as the “Witchmen of High Rock.”

I must confess that the effect of reach-magic described (a far more powerful and potent command creature spell) is my own invention, but it seems to fit.

_____

Thank you all for your comments. Renald is my favorite character in this whole story to write. All of you seem to be wondering about his motivations and the boar. To answer that, let me re-print chapter two of Remanada:

Chapter 2: The Chevalier Renald, Blade of the Pig

And in the days of interregnum, the Chim-El Adabal was lost again amid the petty wars of gone heathen kings. West and east knew no union then and all the lands outside of them saw Cyrodiil as a nest of snakemen and snakes. And for four more hundreds of years did the seat of Reman stay sundered, with only the machinations of a group of loyal knights keeping all its borders from throwing wide.

These loyal knights did go by no name then, but were known by their eastern swords and painted eyes, and it was whispered that they were descended from the bodyguard of old Reman. One of their number, called the Chevalier Renald, discovered the prowess of Cuhlecain and supported him towards the throne. Only later would it be revealed that Renald did this thing to come closer to Talos, anon Stormcrown, the glorious yet-emperor Tiber Septim; only later still, that he was under instruction by a pig.

Long glory was wife to all the knights of the dragon-banner, who knew no other and were brothers before beyond many seas and now were brothers under the law named the blade-surrender of Pale Pass. And having vampire blood these brother-knights lived for ages through and past Reman and then kept guard over his ward, the coiled-king, Versidue-Shaie. The snake-captain Vershu became Renald became the protector of the northern west when the black dart was hooked into Savirien-Chorak.

haute and Winter Wolf – Writing Renald is so much fun because Remanada gives you insight into his motivation and the depth of his loyalty, but the rest can be filled in as I see fit. Because SubRosa is right and I do tend toward the realistic in my writing, I knew that I didn’t want a talking pig in the scene. My solution turned out to be the wild boar that leads Renald to a mysterious oracle that puts him on the road towards his destiny.

Fiach – Imagine Tamriel from Renald’s point of view; he and his syffim have spent centuries protecting Reman’s former kingdom, keeping their vows and maintaining their honor. Yet interregnum continues with no end in sight. By the time we meet him in this story he has lost two thirds of those he left Akavir with and his resolve has begun to fade. He sees getting the survivors home as his only remaining duty.

And I like the way that you have developed Haeil to this point. It is always nice to read someone who shares my fascination with the Tsaesci.

How’s that for foreshadowing, mALX?

This post has been edited by Destri Melarg: Mar 28 2010, 07:25 PM

[SubRosa]

I read that part of the Remanada last night, when I was looking for Reach Magic. It seemed odd that a Tsaesci would have a Breton name and title, so I looked him up too.

I never thought of the Western Reach! *doh* I love that description of "the Witchmen of High Rock". It conjures up a very dramatic image.

[Destri Melarg]

It seemed odd that a Tsaesci would have a Breton name and title, so I looked him up too.

I had the same reaction when I first read about Renald, but everything about him leads to the conclusion that he is, indeed, Tsaesci (or at least can be interpreted as one). That was good news to me, because I really wanted to write a portion of this story from the point of view of a Tsaesci.

_____

3rd Morning Star
Direnni Tower, Isle of Balfiera
Dusk


Word of her arrival came with the morning tide and caused an explosion of activity throughout the Tower. Maids dusted and then re-dusted the furniture. Cooks raided the larder; anything not of the finest quality was bundled for the servants to eat . . . or the dogs. Stewards found the best wines from the cellar. Grooms brushed and re-brushed the horses. The usually hushed voices were alive with joy and anticipation. The Lady Varla was coming home.

The High King dispatched a galleon to ferry her sister across the Iliac Bay. Lattia was not surprised. She retrieved Mallari from the stables and rode down to the dock with the porters. One of the grooms rode Varla’s White, Rielle. A day’s trip from Sentinel aboard a warship and surrounded by sailors. . . Varla’s dream come true, Lattia thought.

She reached the dock with the sun setting in front of her. The ship was still out in the Bay. The evening chill had begun. It was a comfort to Lattia and reminded her that she was no longer in Oblivion. You ask too much Aran, she thought. She cursed Clavicus Vile for the price he had extracted from her, and she cursed herself for agreeing to it.

The ship docked and taciturn Emero, Varla’s bodyguard, emerged and walked down the gangplank holding a green silk cloak. He wore a flowing blue velvet robe. His stiff mane was whiter than Lattia remembered, and his pointed ears sagged under the weight of heavy gold earrings. Seeing him brought back the memories of countless lessons under that stern gaze of his before he chose to leave with Varla. The old sorcerer still looks formidable. Lattia dismounted, Mallari walked over to where Rielle stood near the docks. The two horses nipped playfully at each other.

Varla Direnni wore a green silk brocaded dress that clung to her in the twilight. She is still so beautiful, Lattia thought. She felt a fleeting moment of jealousy toward her sister. The Captain of the ship escorted Varla to the gangplank. His head barely came up to her breast. As he kissed her hand she said something that made him laugh. She sashayed down to the dock, maintaining her elegant posture despite the swaying of the ship. Emero draped the cloak over her golden shoulders. She whispered something to him, he nodded and bowed. She turned her attention to Lattia.

“Little sister. . .” she walked over and took Lattia’s hands in hers. She smelled of Lavender. She held Lattia’s arms out to the side so as better to inspect her, “still pining for the Daedra?”

“Older sister. . .” said Lattia, “still conducting business from your bedroom?”

Neither of them could hold the stare for long. Varla was the first to laugh. Lattia pulled her sister close and held her, laughing.

“It hurts that you think I would lie so far beneath me,” said Varla, “besides, on a ship they call it a stateroom.”

“I’m sure you lie in accordance with your station.” They parted, this time it was Lattia’s turn to hold her sister’s arms out to the side. “You look wonderful.”

“You’re too kind. All night aboard that rat-infested tub I’m surprised I don’t look like one of the sailors.” She frowned and touched Lattia’s face. “You look pale, what has he had you doing?”

Lattia ignored the question. “What were you telling Emero just now?”

“I told him to keep his eye on the crew. Some of the things they say would make Sanguine blush. The fool’s are likely to go through my undergarments while I’m gone.”

Lattia looked at the porters still milling around the dock, conspicuous in their inactivity. “You’re not staying?”

“I’m afraid not. I’m bound for Wayrest, then on to the Imperial City. I just stopped in to see you . . . and Aran. Where is he by the way?”

“Waiting in the Tower, I brought your horse.” Lattia pointed to the two horses waiting near the dock.

Varla grinned and for a moment Lattia saw the little girl who stood up for her when Aran’s teasing became too rough. “Rielle! Oh, sister, you think of everything.”

Emero appeared at Varla’s side, his face as inscrutable as ever. Lattia had not seen him move from the docks. He bowed before he spoke.

“Begging pardons, Mistress,” he said, “the Captain wishes to know how long we plan to stay.”

“Where are your manners, Emero? Say hello to my sister.”

Emero bowed even lower. “My apologies,” he turned to Lattia, “greetings, Milady. You are as beautiful as I remember.”

“Greetings Emero,” said Lattia, “it is good to see you again.”

“I have heard that you are quite the mage. I congratulate you.”

“Your teaching had much to do with it.”

Varla was bored. “Tell the Captain we plan to stay until my business here is complete.” She winked at Lattia. “Tell him that the ship was placed at my disposal and that it will come and go at my choosing. If he has a problem with that tell him to take it up with his Majesty.”

“Very good, Mistress.” Emero’s smile was so brief that it could hardly have been counted as one, but Lattia knew that he relished passing on the message. He turned on his heel and made his way back to the ship. Varla locked onto Lattia’s arm and steered her toward the waiting horses.

“You deflected my question earlier,” Varla said, “I asked why you were so pale.”

They mounted the horses. Lattia reached forward and stroked Mallari’s neck. “I guess I’m just tired.”

“We both know better than that, but I’m too happy to push it. Keep your secret for now, but you will tell me before I leave. Now, let me tell you about the Court of Hammerfell.”

Lattia didn’t care much for gossip, but she was glad for the change of subject. The two rode toward the stables, their silhouettes fading into the shadow of the black stone tower.

_____

The three of them sat at the large table in the middle of the tower and dined on lettuce and leek salad topped with a pungent red wine vinaigrette. A savory venison stew with carrots and onions followed. For the main course there was braised lamb, roasted potatoes brushed with garlic, and topped with diced tomatoes that had dried in the afternoon sun. Desert was a large covered pot made of ice that when opened produced a bounty of fresh strawberries, grapes and sliced apples coated with a thin brush of orange juice and moon sugar. Conversation was light, and laughter was abundant. Lattia couldn’t remember a dinner more enjoyable.

When they had eaten their fill they repaired to the solar in the tower’s upper level. Aran poured the wine. “So, what news?” he asked.

Varla lounged in her chair, twirling her cup of wine between thumb and forefinger. “High King Thassad sends his regards.”

Aran snorted, “He can keep his regards. It’s his troops that I’m interested in, will they stand with us?”

“Thassad has problems of his own, dear brother. Even if he wanted to support us I doubt that he could raise half of his country for battle. This business of Crowns and Forebears will lead to civil war. It just shows what happens when you build your seat of power in the stronghold of your enemies. I know Emero must be glad we’ve put the place behind us. He was getting tired of tasting my food.”

“I care nothing for Hammerfell’s petty squabbles or your servant's weak stomach, we need his troops,” said Aran, “did you tell him that I can deliver High Rock?”

“Can you?”

Lattia took a long drink from her cup. Aran stood, scowling.

“You doubt me?”

Varla remained silent. She returned Aran’s stare with one of her own. She truly fears nothing, thought Lattia with admiration. Aran’s temper was a thing to behold but, as usual with Varla, he was the first to blink.

“Cuhlecain played into our hands at Sancre Tor,” he said, returning to his seat. “When the snow-men turned cloak, they united the whole of High Rock against him. I hear even now that the Witchmen are plotting their revenge. With Hammerfell and High Rock we could meet them on the field and squash the Alessian resurgence forever.”

“You would need a host of twice that to contend with Cuhlecain’s forces.” Said Varla. She turned to Lattia and started to laugh. “Meridia’s summoning day is soon; perhaps Lattia can pull an army of Aurorans from the basement to help you.”

Lattia blushed and remained silent. Aran rose so swiftly that half of his wine spilled on the floor.

“Do not mock me, Varla!”

Varla put on the smile that Lattia had seen her wear for the ship’s Captain.

“I’m sorry, Aran,” she said, “It was not my intention.” She rose from her chair and gracefully crossed the room. She laid her arm across her brother’s shoulder and gently guided him back into his chair. Her gaze found Lattia’s, and she winked.

“Cuhlecain is nothing but an up-jumped hedge knight from Falkreath,” she said in soothing tones. “Consider this: If the rumors are correct and they recovered the Amulet of Kings from Sancre Tor, why does he not wear it?”

She rose and returned to her seat. “Because he can not,” she said. “The Nords believe that the hero of Sancre Tor, this General Talos, is of dragon blood . . . he is the threat.”

“Dragon blood? Ridiculous.” Said Aran.

“Whether he is or not is irrelevant. What matters is that the Nords believe that he is. I tell you, brother, right now you can do more with a simple push in the proper place than with all the armies of Tamriel.”

Aran reflected on his sisters words. Varla took a sip of her wine and laid her head back in her chair. Through half-closed eyes she watched her brother intently. Lattia was grateful for the silence, and she was grateful for not having been asked to contribute to the discussion.

Aran broke the silence. “Where would you push?”

Varla opened her eyes. “There are many places one could. For me, I would concentrate on this General Talos. He is aided by a battlemage, a very good one if the rumors are correct.” She smiled, “I think I can move him.”

“Then you should leave on the morning tide.” Aran said.

“That was my intention.” Varla replied.

“It was good to see you again, Varla.”

“And you, Aran.”

He got up and walked to the door. He stopped. “This battlemage, what is his name?” He asked.

“Zurin Arctus.” Varla said.

This post has been edited by Destri Melarg: Mar 31 2010, 04:35 PM

[haute ecole rider]

I have really enjoyed re-reading this story, and this chapter just adds to the pleasure.

Lady Varla is a fascinating character, but I remain partial to Lattia. I'm not sure why.

And it is very interesting to listen to their discussion of Cuhlecain and Stormcrown, especially given Stormcrown's dominance in Cyrodiil history.

Is it just me, or do others think of the Irish hero Cuchulainn every time we read Cuhlecain?

[SubRosa]

Ahh, Lattia again. She is probably my favorite character of this play. Her sister Varla is something else as well. Named after her stones no doubt...




nits:
He turned on his heal
I am thinking you wanted heel instead.

[mALX]

I have to go with Hauty on this. This chapter has always been a testament to your ability to develop characters in a short setting and weave strong visual images.

[Winter Wolf]

The powerful images you create in this chapter feel like a movie to me. Epic.
I keep looking over my shoulder in case I get hit by the boom guy.

Emero’s smile was so brief that it could hardly have been counted as one, but Lattia knew that he relished passing on the message.

This is beautifully written and says so much in just the span of a few words. Bravo.

[Olen]

More or less as has been said above. That was strong chapter and introduced a lot in a very short space of words, and introduced it well. I'm greatly enjoying this.

One thing I saw:

"When they had eaten their fill they repaired to the solar.." - did you mean repaired?

Good piece, I look forward to the next part.

[Destri Melarg]

Is it just me, or do others think of the Irish hero Cuchulainn every time we read Cuhlecain?

I have written Cuchulainn when I meant Cuhlecain at least five times, but the Hero of Ulster bears very little resemblance to the would-be Emperor of Tamriel.

On a side note: Cuchulainn is what I named my dog in Dragon Age: Origins.

Ahh, Lattia again. She is probably my favorite character of this play. Her sister Varla is something else as well. Named after her stones no doubt...

nits:
He turned on his heal
I am thinking you wanted heel instead.

Thanks to the book, Harvest End, we know that the Direnni’s gained their fortune by trafficking with daedra, just as the Ayleids did. Because of that, all of the Direnni elves in this story carry Ayleidic names:

Aran – King
Varla – Star
Lattia – Light

Thank you for exposing another nit, it has been addressed.

I have to go with Hauty on this. This chapter has always been a testament to your ability to develop characters in a short setting and weave strong visual images.

High praise, coming from the creator of both Maxical and Shivani!

The powerful images you create in this chapter feel like a movie to me. Epic.
I keep looking over my shoulder in case I get hit by the boom guy.

Thank you, Wolf. And don’t worry, the AD will yell at you to move long before the Boom guy gets too close.

More or less as has been said above. That was strong chapter and introduced a lot in a very short space of words, and introduced it well. I'm greatly enjoying this.

One thing I saw:

"When they had eaten their fill they repaired to the solar.." - did you mean repaired?

Good piece, I look forward to the next part.

Thank you Olen!

In this case I am using repaired in its verb form:

Repair - To betake oneself; go, as to a place: He repaired in haste to Washington.

And stay tuned, things get a bit. . .interesting from here.

[Olen]

Nice... I didn't know that meaning and it wasn't in my smaller dictionary (I did check before suggesting it was out of place). The bigger one had it though. I like words and that's a whole new way to use one I had thought dull.

Awsome.

[Remko]

Well, you know how I feel about this story!
Are you going to change things as well or is it the same as I read before?
Okay, I know, I know, I should just read it.

[Destri Melarg]

Well, you know how I feel about this story!
Are you going to change things as well or is it the same as I read before?
Okay, I know, I know, I should just read it.

Most of the chapters are being re-written, but the rewrites are subtle. Just things that I noticed that perhaps no one else ever will. But there will be at least two, maybe more, chapters that never made it into the original. Be on the lookout for the first of Sun's Dawn, that's all I am going to say.

_____

12th Morning Star, 2E 854
Fort Black Boot, Near Cyrodiil’s Border with Elsweyr
Mid-day


For the sixth consecutive day the garrison dug trenches. The sound of picks and shovels reverberated through the valley, broken only by hastily yelled warnings as another felled tree hit Nirn. Several of the reinforcements, on horseback, hauled the dying wood to clear the land for more trenches, and to give the armorers more material for stakes.

Zurin Arctus stood on top of the watchtower and gazed to the south. From his vantage point he could see where the tree tops ended and the arid plains of Elsweyr began. Beyond the border he saw the lines of Khajiit tents before the walls of Riverhold. But that was not what drew his attention. He was more concerned with the storm clouds on the horizon, and the wind that had just shifted to the east.

Beside him Captain Itinius cradled his battered helmet and studied the Khajiit position. “That’s quite a host, Sir,” he said, “ten, maybe fifteen thousand strong, I think. It’s hard to tell at this distance, and organized. Even with the reinforcements we’ll be heavily outnumbered. Has there been any word from our Skyrim reserve?”

“Assume we’re on our own, Captain,” said Arctus, turning his attention to the Khajiit tents. “Make sure your men are ready, the attack will come tonight.”

Itinius hesitated. “Sir?”

“Speak freely, Captain.”

“Not meaning to tell the Battlemage his business, sir, but they look pretty much bivouacked to me. I’m sure their spies have told them of our situation. A night attack seems like an unnecessary risk. If what they’re doing is a feint, well, it’s a lot of trouble to go through considering how badly they outnumber us.”

“Khajiit see in the dark, Captain.”

Itinius nodded and smiled at his own stupidity. “Yes sir,” he said, “that they do.”

Movement to the west caught Arctus’ attention. A lone trooper reined his horse at the fortifications. He spoke briefly with the guard who pointed to the watchtower. The trooper nodded his thanks, dismounted, and disappeared into the fort.

Arctus heard the rapid footsteps on the tower stairs and turned away from the coming storm. The trooper emerged through the door. He saluted Captain Itinius with a clenched fist over his heart, and struggled to regain his breath.

“General Talos sends his compliments, sir,” he said to Arctus, haltingly. He looked sideways at Itinius as he tried to remain at attention, but his ride and the steps were causing him trouble.

He was a boy, no more than six and ten. Each year they get younger, Arctus thought, and we get older.

“Do you have a message, lad, or is the Battlemage expected to guess?” Itinius barked.

The boy flushed and held himself erect. “Yes sir! Sorry, sir.” Then to Arctus, “the General requests your company, sir.”

“Very well,” said Arctus, “I shall attend him. Get something to eat and water your horse, then report back to the General’s camp.”

“Yes sir.” The young trooper saluted, then turned and entered the tower.

“Have my horse prepared,” Arctus said.

“Will you require a bodyguard, Master Arctus?”

“No thank you, Captain. Keep the men occupied with their work. The less they know about tonight the better.”

“Yes sir.” Itinius nodded and performed a salute that thumped on his well-worn cuirass. He turned with practiced efficiency.

“Are you a man of faith, Captain?” Arctus asked, staring into the eye of the storm.

Itinius stopped. “Yes sir. I don’t spend much time in the Temple, but I believe in the Eight.”

“In that case you might say a prayer to Kynareth for a favorable wind.”

Itinius nodded and repeated his salute. He lingered momentarily, trying to see what the Battlemage saw, but to him the wind felt fine.

_____

Arctus rode through the gate and turned to the west. Past the trenches and the garrison he mounted a gentle slope and stopped at the edge of a deep grove. The wind picked up and shifted to the north. He closed his eyes as the first gusts hit the right side of his cheek, then he turned in his saddle to view the storm clouds. They’re getting closer, he thought; perhaps the Captain is a man of faith after all. He spurred his horse into the grove. The trees formed a canopy of gold and brown above him. They began to climb, the grade steep enough that he had to lean forward to maintain his balance. The curtain of trees parted, and the catapults came into view. Forty of them at the top of the hill, all aimed toward Fort Black Boot. As he came upon them, his horse neighed in protest as the smell hit her nostrils. Seconds later he shared her discomfort.

The carcasses were lined up near the catapults, in numbers too great to count. Most were once wolves of every size and variety, but there were dogs mixed in as well. The smell alone should give the Khajiit pause, Arctus thought.

Past the catapults Arctus looked down into the General’s camp. There were no fires burning. More than two hundred tents were huddled together in the valley, as if proximity could ward off the cold. Five centuries of a hundred men each milled through the tent lines. Some drilled in formation; others sat in small groups shivering under their blankets. Whatever activity they were engaged in they maintained a strict silence so as not to betray their position.

Arctus rode down into the camp. He rode through a sea of faces, sullen, ruddy with the cold, and eager to meet the enemy. Some stood and gave a hasty salute to mark his passing. The General’s tent was erected in the center, the hub that held the other tents together. As he dismounted a trooper appeared beside him and took the bridle of his horse. Arctus lowered his head and entered the General’s tent.

Inside candles provided the only illumination. Incense burned in a brazier set to the right of the entrance. The smoke hung oppressively in the air. To the left there was a bed with golden silk sheets. Red and gold carpets lined the floor.

An officer in gleaming silver armor was delivering his report:

“. . . from Lord Richton. He says the fleet has arrived at the mouth of the Xylo. He also says that the Bosmer have been curious, but no one objects to their presence. He wishes to know if he has leave to sack Torval.”

General Talos sat in the center of the tent in a high-backed chair of gold that looked suspiciously like a throne. “Send Lord Richton my compliments. Tell him to remain where he is, do not sail into Torval.” He spotted Arctus. “Arctus. Good of you to join us.” He turned back to the officer. “Thank you Captain Alorius, you are dismissed.”

“Sir.” Alorius saluted and left the tent.

“Forgive the incense,” said Talos, “It’s the only way to keep the smell at bay. Of course, after a while it starts to smell worse in here than outside.”

Arctus performed a salute. “General. The wind shifted as I rode in. With any luck the storm should hit us by nightfall.”

Talos laughed and pointed behind him. “Luck has nothing to do with it.”

Arctus had not seen the great Nord at the back of the tent. Ysmir sat with his legs crossed on cushions that were piled high around him. In his right hand he held a large hooka from which he suckled like a newborn. A thick plume of smoke escaped through the folds of his great shaggy beard and wafted in the air around him.

“This entire campaign is folly,” he said, “better we should invade Vvardenfell than waste our time swatting kittens.”

“Your hatred of the Tribunal has been noted,” said Talos, “you’ll have your revenge soon enough. Our priority now is to secure our southern border. I’ll not lose Cyrodiil on some fool’s errand to Morrowind.”

“Fool’s errand?” Ysmir stood and spat on the floor. The candles caused his shadow to fill the tent. “You try my patience, Stormcrown.” He pushed past Arctus and left the tent.

Talos exhaled. “At some point I’m going to have to show that man his place.”

“We still need him, General,” said Arctus, “his thu’um alone . . .”

Talos raised his hand, “I know, I know. He has his uses.”

The tent flap opened and Captain Alorius reentered the tent. The candle-light ran streaks through his silver armor.

“Begging pardons General, the harriers have returned.” He said.

Arctus took up position to the General’s right.

“Show them in, Captain.” Said Talos

Alorius saluted and left the tent, returning seconds later leading a group of four: A Bosmer wearing a fur cuirass and boots with a battered steel bow over his shoulder, a long-haired Colovian in leather armor with an iron mace hanging at his hip, and two Khajiit. The first was a slight male who wore braids that hung down to his shoulders and pulled at the skin of his scalp, giving his eyes a sleepy, half-focused quality. The second was a small child, wide-eyed and barefoot, clinging to the pant leg of his elder.

Alorius cleared his throat. “General may I present Ondereos, Flavius Livia, and Dar’Zhan.”

“Gentlemen,” said Talos, “I trust you’ve accomplished your missions.”

The Bosmer, Ondereos, stepped forward and lowered his head.

“General,” he said, “my men and I have scoured every sewer in the Imperial City. If there was a rat crawling we caught it.”

“Good.” Talos turned toward the Colovian.

“The tunnels were there just as Dar’Zhan said, sir,” said Flavius Livia. “We released the rats into the Khajiit camp without them ever seeing us.”

Dar’Zhan stepped forward. “Riverhold has closed their gates against the vermin. My clan-mates slew all of the livestock in the camp. The attack must be tonight, for they will not be able to resupply.”

“Excellent,” said Talos, “Captain, make sure you pay these men what was promised.”

“Yes Sir.” Alorius started to steer the group out of the tent.

“Who is the child?” asked Arctus.

“This is my son,” said Dar’Zhan, “he spread the rumors of the vermin in Riverhold.” He looked down at his son. “Come K’Sharra, it is time for us to go.”

This post has been edited by Destri Melarg: Apr 6 2010, 09:15 PM

[mALX]

two, maybe more, chapters that never made it into the original. Be on the lookout for the first of Sun's Dawn, that's all I am going to say.

ARGH!!! A TEASER !!!!!!! ARGH!

I loved this chapter before and still do - the beginnings of the K'Sharra Prophecy !!! You ROCK !!!

This post has been edited by mALX: Apr 2 2010, 10:45 PM