Blood on the Moon, A Journey of Discovery Options

[treydog]

It was a kind of "place-holder" update, after a too-long absence.... Just had to do some stuff to move the story forward. I think the next one will be more satisfying... at last I hope so.

[mplantinga]

"Place-holder" or not, I really enjoyed this update. It was nice to see Althain interacting with Saenus; I really appreciated the detail you put into that trooper's personality. I especially enjoyed the quote from Carbo; for some reason, it made me laugh.

[treydog]

Saenus and I split up, forcing the rogue Legionnaire to make a choice as to which of us he would face. The fight was difficult- it quickly became clear that our opponent was more experienced than either of us. But he still had only one axe and one shield. I discovered that the axe was enchanted with a paralysis charm, fortunately one with a short duration. I took a few painful wounds, but in the end, the enchantment worked against him- he managed to strike me a glancing blow and turned to face Saenus, who was menacing him from the right. As his concentration left me, the magic holding me frozen wore off. Rather than try to strike a decisive blow myself, I bashed the axe aside, leaving Saenus with the opportunity to put his sword through a gap in the smuggler’s armor. He fell with a gasp and lay still. Saenus flipped the fallen man’s helm off with the tip of his sword and contemplated the corpse.

“Well, well. Mus Roscius. I always knew you would come to a bad end. And if you’re here, that probably means….”

He stopped for a moment and then said, “I shouldn’t speculate- after all, I could be wrong.”

We treated our wounds and waited to see if the sounds of fighting had attracted any attention. No one approached us, so we moved deeper into the cavern. Eventually, we found a stone ramp leading down, guarded by a few more rats of the four-footed variety. At the end of a side passage was a small chamber with a roughly-built wooden platform. Based on the barrels and chests, it appeared to be a minor storage area. The containers held some provisions and an assortment of armor, but nothing of any real significance. Remembering the feeling of helplessness that had overcome me when I was paralyzed during our most recent fight, I sorted out some willow anther and shared it with Saenus.

“Try to swallow the powder before we get into close quarters,” I said. “It’s not as good as a potion, but if we aren’t up against a paralysis enchantment, it won’t hurt. And if we are, it might keep us alive.”

I had just closed the last chest of stolen goods when a voice shouted,

“You have found your grave.”

I turned to see a Redguard clad all in shining steel armor, except for his peculiar helm. It looked rather as if a skeletal bear was trying to swallow his head. Although the man was clearly a warrior of some skill, he did not immediately attack, but spoke the words of a spell. His fluency and speed showed that he was no stranger to the use of magic. As a sputtering ball of electricity sped toward us, Saenus and I finally shook off our surprise and dove to opposite sides of the chamber. Even though we avoided the worst effects of the spell, it brushed both of us, and I felt my muscles spasm in reaction. The warrior did not hesitate, but spoke another enchantment. A clannfear appeared at his command; however, it was behind him in the narrow passage and could not get past. I used the moment to struggle to my feet and wave Saenus back as I charged, hoping to reach the battlemage before he could invoke another spell. I knew that trying to fight an accomplished caster at long range was a formula for certain defeat, unless one had magical protection or immunity. The only hope was to keep him off balance so he could not concentrate well enough to complete the words and gestures needed for his spells. Those thoughts on fighting against magic-wielders prompted another idea, and I stopped to swallow a potion along with the willow anther powder. And then I was within reach of the axe my enemy handled with obvious dexterity.

He struck the first blow, and I felt the bite of the blade- along with a peculiar sensation as if something had struck me and rebounded. Which indeed it had. The potion I had imbibed gave me a temporary chance to reflect hostile magic back upon the caster. So it was the Redguard who stood paralyzed, victim of the enchantment on his own weapon. I wasted no time, but smashed him repeatedly with my mace. I ignored the clannfear- the Daedra reptile could not easily reach past its summoner, and I knew that killing the Redguard would dispel the creature. By the time the self-inflicted paralysis wore off, Saenus was at my side. Together we kept the mage from casting any more spells, and were also able to block most of his attacks. When he collapsed at last, the clannfear disappeared with an unhappy squawk- returned to its native Oblivion. Saenus identified the dead Redguard as a man named Sorian, and confirmed that he was a battlemage.

“I recognize that trollbone helm. He hung around the fort for a while, playing dice and drinking with Mus… and some others. Then, when the booze ran out, he disappeared. From what I could tell, he was a mercenary- for sale to the highest bidder and not too delicate about the nature of the work.”

The next two smugglers we met were Orcs- the first I had seen on Solstheim. I had learned a great deal about the green-skinned, warlike race while I was at Fort Darius- or so I thought. The difference between an Orc who is your comrade and one who has gone rogue is the difference between a big puppy and a rabid dire-wolf. They have superficial similarities, but the important facts are these: the rogue Orc wants nothing so much as to kill you… and he is superbly equipped to attain that desire. It was fortunate that we came upon them one at a time, else our survival would have been doubtful. The sword-wielding natives of Orsinium again had weapons imbued with paralysis charms; worse yet, their strength and skill meant the wounds we took were more severe than those dealt by Mus and Sorian.

Nevertheless, in each case, the fact that Saenus and I could support one another, could provide crucial seconds for recovery, kept us alive. When the second Orc had fallen, we leaned wearily against the cavern wall, breathing deeply and giving the restorative potions we swallowed time to work. When I had recovered enough to speak, I panted,

“Still...glad…I picked you…’stead of Gaea Artoria?”

Saenus just flicked his sword to one side to clear it of blood and grinned at me.

“Wouldn’t have missed it for anything. If we live, I might get a promotion. Better yet, I’ll probably never have to pay for another drink on the strength of this story. Two Orcs defeated by the valor of Legion arms- and the talents of Saenus Lusius!”

His grin grew wider.

“Of course, I will try to mention that you provided a bit of help, here and there.”

I would treasure that moment of light-heartedness- it was the last I would experience for some time.
After taking a few more minutes to recover, we explored further, coming at last to a chamber piled high with crates. Seated on one of the crates was a large Imperial wearing Legion armor and holding an axe casually across his knees. His brown hair was speckled with gray, and his nose showed the broken blood vessels of a heavy drinker. When I went into a defensive stance, he heaved himself to his feet with a sigh and said,

“Wait. There’s no need for that. My name is Gualtierus Spurius, and I don’t want any trouble. I see you’re working with Saenus, and everyone at the fort knows he’s a reasonable fellow. Maybe we can make a deal.”

When I did not respond, he licked his lips and continued,

“It’s like this- I’m in this racket for the money. Since my little operation here is a bust, I’ll just get off the island and leave all the weapons behind. You let me go peacefully and don’t cause any trouble with Carius, and I’m gone. I’ll even give you this nice axe as a little bonus for keeping my name out of it. Carius will never miss me and I’ll just disappear. Ask Saenus- he’ll give you good advice.”

I risked a glance at Saenus, whose normally cheerful face was an expressionless mask. Suddenly, I was very tired. Tired of so-called “adventure,” tired of fighting, tired of deceit, tired of Carnius Magius and his damnable “tea.” Most of all, I was tired of myself. I had just waded through a sea of blood, dealt death to people who wore the same uniform as I did, been grievously wounded…. And now this sorry excuse for a soldier wanted to offer me a bribe- a “nice shiny axe,” so I would let him go. And what if I did? What did it matter, that a few moments go, he would have cheerfully buried that self-same axe in my head? If I let him go, it would save me having to kill him, free me of the burden of another death. And, if he was true to his word, Gualtierus would leave Solstheim- and set up shop somewhere else, where some other wet-behind-the-ears Legion officer would have to deal with him. I glanced once more at Saenus’ youthful face, still wearing that wooden expression, and I made up my mind. I spoke none of my thoughts, simply turned back to the smuggler and said,

“No, I don’t think so.”

And then I hit him as hard as I could.

The fight was short and brutal and did not make me feel any better. I doubted that anything ever would.

When it was over, as I bound my wounds, I spoke to Saenus:

“You disagree?”

He looked uncomfortable, then finally said,

“It’s not the way I would have handled it, but the job’s done, right?”

“Yes, but it’s more than that. I suppose I could have let him go- what’s one more smuggler? After all, Vvardenfell is infested with them. So maybe it doesn’t matter. But there are those dead men, Mus and those others. They should matter, to me if to no one else. And someone has to take responsibility for them. You can argue that they knew the risks and took their chances, but Gualtierus was their leader. He was responsible- just like I would be responsible if you got killed. It’s not enough to call yourself the boss and give orders; a leader has to hold himself accountable. Or someone has to do it for him.”
I stopped and waved a vague hand,

“Don’t worry about it. I just make speeches when I’m tired. Look, I’ll clean up here. Please go back to the fort and let Captain Carius know of our success.”

Saenus may have seen something on my face, because he looked at me closely and said,

“Very well- if you’re sure….”

I sent him on his way and gathered the stolen weapons, after which I stripped the smugglers of their Legion gear. They had dishonored their uniforms, and I would not have them wearing them when they were buried. And what of me? Was I not also dishonoring my uniform with my addiction? I knew the answer, and so I carefully removed that which I had fought so hard to earn. As I shed each piece, I remembered the day it had been issued. Tears fell from my eyes as I quietly recited the litany- “Greaves, steel, left and right, one each…” Finally, I stood in my own clothes, holding the scarf Athynae had given me. I moved to place it with the armor, but I could not. She had given it to me, to Athlain, not to Agent Treyson of the Legion. I wrapped the token carefully about my neck, at once comforted and bereft by the faint scent of perfume that still clung to it.

Solstheim was a dangerous place, though, and it would not do to go unprepared into the wilderness. Therefore, I put together whatever bits and pieces of the smugglers’ loot would fit me and picked up the enchanted mace I had brought from Bal Isra. Saenus seemed to be in no hurry to return, so I took a moment to write a note to Captain Carius and another for Athynae. These I placed atop my uniform, and then I left the cavern, pausing at the entry only long enough to pick up the rest of my equipment. Shouldering the burden, I turned my back on Fort Frostmoth and walked north and east, into the forest.

This post has been edited by treydog: May 10 2009, 02:20 AM

[canis216]

Oh, wow. Rather rash of him... but then he seems to have thought about this a lot, hasn't he?

[Olen]

Ooooh, I didn't see that coming. Certainly not, but equally it's completly believable and in character, in fact now it's happened it's not a surprise. Genius.

A most enjoyable part, as ever, and the story moves on... I like this, a lot. Great to see it fully revived.

[Colonel Mustard]

Well that was unexpected, but as Olen said, in keeping with Athlain.

A good part here Trey, and a realistic description of the fighting, but this part rankled me slightly.

I wasted no time, but smashed him repeatedly with my mace.

A mace is a big spiky ball with metal bits on it. It is heavy. It is extremely hurty. One blow to face would surely be enough to simply smash that Redguard's brains out through his skull, and even with armour chances are his ribs would shatter. The fact that he survived even a few blows doesn't seem realistic, and 'repeatedly' strikes me as more than one or two. Mace+person=dead.



This post has been edited by Colonel Mustard: May 10 2009, 01:53 PM

[treydog]

Well that was unexpected, but as Olen said, in keeping with Athlain.

A good part here Trey, and a realistic description of the fighting, but this part rankled me slightly.

I wasted no time, but smashed him repeatedly with my mace.

A mace is a big spiky ball with metal bits on it. It is heavy. It is extremely hurty. One blow to face would surely be enough to simply smash that Redguard's brains out through his skull, and even with armour chances are his ribs would shatter. The fact that he survived even a few blows doesn't seem realistic, and 'repeatedly' strikes me as more than one or two. Mace+person=dead.

First, thank you for reading and commenting. As to the fight, I tend to agree with your analysis. What happened was, Athlain was really underpowered for that mission, and I had to struggle to keep him and Saenus alive. In game mechanics, paralysis really does "freeze" the player character or NPC for some duration. In "reality" one could then simply cut the paralyzed victim's throat = end of fight. I may consider fiddling with the paralysis effect in my story and make it more like a major "slow" spell- reactions and movement are impeded, but not completely locked.... In any event, it is certainly a place where my desire for realistic portrayal of combat and the game's magic system are in conflict- and I did not even notice.

[Colonel Mustard]

The paralysis worked fine for me on that front, after all Mus would have been too distracted by Saenus to finish off our hero, but it was just the bit with the redguard surviving multiple mace blows.

[treydog]

Interlude 7

A note addressed to Captain Falx Carius, Fort Frostmoth, Solstheim (undelivered):

Sir:

At this time, I wish find it necessary to resign my commission as an officer of the Imperial Legion. I am aware that this is highly irregular, and I apologize. Nonetheless, circumstances make it impossible for me to carry out my duties in a professional and exemplary fashion. Please inform Champion Severia Gratius that I will do all in my power to discharge my orders from her as regards the moon sugar poisonings.

Respectfully,

Athlain ap Baria Treyson


A note addressed to Athynae Sarethi, Sarethi Manor, Ald’ruhn, Vvardenfell (undelivered):

Athynae:

You have been a friend and more than a friend to me, and it pains me to write this letter. I had hoped that we might… illegible…

…not the person I should be, nor a fit person for you to know. So it is that I bid you a fond farewell and ask that you remember me as I was, not as I have become. Find…illegible… you happy.

Illegible….

Athlain

Report on the Attack at Fort Frostmoth, Solstheim, Vvardenfell District, Morrowind (a portion):

Appendix D: Casualty Report

Killed: None
Wounded: Champion Severia Gratius, Guard Nathan Linnaeus
Missing: Captain Falx Carius, Agent Athlain Treyson

[minque]

OMG....Now you really done it, my Canine friend....that entire post is a cliffie! How do you expect your readers to have the patience and wait for the continuation?

If Athynae finds out Athlain is missing she'd go bezerk, I promise. She'd immediately set out for >Solstheim trying to find him oh dear oh dear .....

So now I sit here, nope I wont get a good nights sleep until you tell me what's going to happen...

[Black Hand]

Nice, been playing a bit of catch-up here. Must say, I am rather enjoying it! Keep it up!

[treydog]

Chapter 7

My choice of direction was not based on impulse, nor did it originate from any sense of foreknowledge. The simple fact was that both Fort Frostmoth and Gandrung Cavern were on the southern coast and Raven Rock was to the west. My strongest desire was to avoid places where I might encounter anyone who knew me- I wanted to lose myself in the interior of the island. I also wanted to find the source of the moon-sugar used in the poisonings, because I had agreed to do so… and for other reasons. And it seemed that a person in a white Colovian helm, singing a silly song would have generated some interest at the fort or the colony. No one besides the priest had mentioned such an individual. I felt the loss of my Legion armor acutely, and kept shrugging and twitching as I tried to adjust the fit of the cast-offs I wore in its place. Yet, despite my discomfort, I also felt a sense of relief as I passed into the tall trees. I had performed my duties to the best of my ability and had not left any unfinished business behind me. Except for, perhaps my informal and unacknowledged resignation… and Carnius Magius… and… Athynae. I loosed a sigh fit to match the wind that slid amongst the needles of the trees and wondered when my life had grown so complex.

Before long, I came to a river that flowed down from the north. If my sketchy map of the island were to be believed, this was the Iggnir, and had its origin at Lake Fjalding. The river was icy, and I decided to follow it upstream in hopes of finding…. Well, I was not sure what I hoped to find. A place to cross? The moon-sugar poisoner? Some clue to Louis Beauchamp’s airship? A solution to my problems? Perhaps I mostly stayed beside the river because the fast-flowing water reminded me of the slower and warmer Odai and Samsi back on Vvardenfell. However much Father and I disagreed, on one point we were alike- nothing calmed the mind like being in the presence of moving water. Whenever I was deeply troubled, I would find my way to a quiet spot on the riverbank and consider the paradox- the river was constantly changing, yet always the same- and always perfect. The petty problems of people- love, war, self doubt-- none of those made any difference. The water flowed into the sea, providing life to the plants and animals along its course. I should have perhaps paid closer attention to that last part- and to the fact that I was on Solstheim, rather than Vvardenfell.

If you ever find yourself in a place that is home to large predators, it would serve you well to consider exactly how those predators are able to become so large. A carnivore requires a reliable source of protein, preferably protein that can be obtained with only minimal effort. One of the best such sources of protein is fish. And a great source of fish is… that’s right, a river. Some people like to compare bears to big, shaggy dogs. I wouldn’t know- I have never seen a dog outside of illustrations in books. However, if they are anything like the mountainous, smelly mass of fur, claws, and teeth that erupted from amongst a nest of boulders and tried to eat me- I can’t imagine why anyone would keep such a creature in the house. The quick way Mistress Alfena had finished the bear we encountered on our walk to Raven Rock must have been an anomaly- I had almost as great a struggle with this one as with the Daedroth back on Vvardenfell. I blocked a swipe of the right paw only to be buffeted from my feet by the left. Fortunately, I fell on my back and was able to interpose my shield between the fetid jaws and my throat. Frustrated, the bear again rose up on its hind legs, perhaps to contemplate how to remove this tasty crustacean from its shell, or perhaps intent on crushing me with its massive weight. I rolled to one side, reaching my mace out to strike a rather weak blow to one leg. Then I kept rolling, closely followed by the hot breath of my attacker. When I fetched up against a rock, I knew that was where I would have to make my stand. In the event, it was more of a kneel than a stand; I was able to come to my knees, where I crouched beneath my shield rather like a tortoise. Unlike a tortoise, however, I had the reach and weaponry to do more than passively defend myself. It was no doubt undignified, but I really did not care- the point of a fight was to win, not to look good while losing.

When the bear at last collapsed, I dragged myself to the chill water of the river and bathed my wounds, then drank deeply. A healing spell took care of my aching head and stopped the flow of blood; the claw- and tooth-marks on my armor would have to be remedied at some later time. Although I felt refreshed, I moved a prudent distance from the river, just keeping it in sight as I continued north. My care was soon rewarded- I espied a person wandering among the trees in a rather addled fashion. As I approached, I could see that it was a Nord woman, a woman who was barely dressed in animal hides and seemed to be arguing with someone only she could see. I called out softly, asking,

“Mistress? Are you well? Has someone or some creature attacked you and left you in this state?”

Her response was to pull a huge, rusted hammer from beneath a tree and attempt to brain me with it, shouting:

“You call this fighting?”

I had no clever response, nor did I think any reply, clever or not, would have mattered. My attacker was apparently bereft of her senses. She swung the hammer wildly, spinning herself around with the force of her blows. To my benefit, the strength of her attacks was not matched by her skill. And, even though I was fighting a woman, reflex took over, and I slew her as I would any other wild beast. Only when it was over did my conscious thought catch up with the reality of what I had done, and I trembled as I stared at the broken body.

The bear I had left lying, confident that scavengers would soon dispose of the flesh. But what was I to do here? This corpse had been a person, regardless of the fact that she had attacked me. I could not just leave her out here to be squabbled over by wolves and worse. Then too, there was the problem of necromancy. A body left unburied and unhallowed could very well be reanimated and become a greater danger than when it had lived. I had only to consider the Draugrs that had beset the shipwreck to know that the possibility was all too real. I knew that the Nords sometimes sent the dead off to the afterlife in blazing ships, launched out into the sea. But I had neither the skill nor the time to build a boat for this unknown woman. Another option was interment in a barrow, an earthen mound raised over the fallen warrior. But that was generally the work of a clan or crew, not of one person. I had a disturbing vision of myself, doomed to forever drag the corpse along with me, a symbol of my bad judgment. That solution might feel like justice, but it would also have a… quelling… effect on anyone I met.

Soon enough, I reached the conclusion that I already carried a sufficient metaphorical burden of shame and guilt, and that adding a physical component was a trifle excessive. There was a crevice among the boulders that would serve as a grave, and enough loose stones lying about to cover it over. Knowing something of Nord custom, I enclosed her meager possessions with her, so that she would not go into the next life empty-handed. When I was done, I considered what sort of eulogy to give someone whose name I did not know; about whom, in fact, I knew nothing; except that she had tried to murder me. Noting the aching bruises where her hammer had gotten through my defenses, I spoke clearly:

“She was a warrior.”

That should be postscript enough for anyone, especially a Nord who ran around wearing animal hides and attacking strangers in the wilderness.

[treydog]

It was becoming clearer with every passing moment why some folk on Vvardenfell had referred to Solstheim as a “terrible place.” Besides the usual run of smugglers and deadly fauna, the northern island had the added attraction of battle-crazed warriors and freezing cold. I had not realized how sheltered I had been while residing at Fort Frostmoth; my use of magical transport had also protected me more than I knew. But now I was truly adrift in the wilderness, with only the thin reed of my own wits and strength to keep me alive. Nevertheless, I had made my decision and must see it through. As one path seemed no safer than another, I returned to the bank of the river and followed it north. If nothing else, I would eventually see Lake Fjalding, said to be covered with ice. I was not sure if that story was true, or if it was just a tale to fool the unwary, but it was worth finding out. And I suddenly seemed to have a great deal of free time- until events changed again.

I was passing a low mound on the river bank, a snow-covered lump that appeared no different than any of a thousand other massive boulders, except that I could hear the sound of a woman weeping- and it seemed to come from inside the mound. My first impulse was to discover what was wrong, and whether I could render assistance. A second thought followed quickly on the heels of that impulse- a reminder that my most recent dealings with women had not turned out well. I spent some minutes torn by indecision, but at last considered how this episode of my narrative would look on the page:

And so, frightened by his previous experiences, the bold adventurer ignored the heart-rending sobs, and bravely slunk (slinked? slank?) off into the wilderness.

Since I had already proved that I was not wise, I would have to settle for being courageous. After all, I knew of many brave warriors who had rather face the hordes of Oblivion than the tears of a woman. Unfortunately, the sagas were notably silent on how one accomplished such a daring feat. With no precedent to guide me and unable to delay any longer, I plunged into the dark entry.

What I had taken to be a mound was actually an ice-cavern- a narrow tunnel dug into the frozen ground. The tunnel carried me to a chamber lit by a fire and a single candle. A wood platform had been raised in one corner and held a few simple furnishings. In the midst of the primitive dwelling was a slender, red-haired woman, facing the fire. When I cleared my throat to announce my presence and she turned a tear-streaked face toward me, I realized that she was hardly more than a girl- certainly not much older than I. Despite her youth and the bizarre locale, she seemed to have some desire to act the proper hostess, for she apologized, saying,

“Forgive me. You have arrived at a bad time. Please warm yourself before the fire and I will make tea.”

My relief at the fact that she did not attack me on sight was such that I did as she asked, moving silently to stand nearer the fire pit. An uncomfortable silence stretched as she busied herself with the kettle, and I finally blurted out a question about the woman who I had killed in the forest. As soon as the words had left my lips, I cursed myself for a fool, thinking that this poor woman would now fear that I was a murderous brigand. However, she showed no surprise at my tale, but nodded seriously and asked a question of her own-

“Did you by chance find alcohol among her possessions?”

I responded that I had, for there had been a bottle of sujamma beneath the tree where the warrior had stood. My hostess shook her head with a sad frown and explained-

“She was what we call a ‘berserker.’ They’ve been driven mad by the cold and the long darkness and roam the wilderness in a drunken state looking for someone to kill. Drink is the curse of my people. It is what caused the death of my Gustav.”

She trailed off and then seemed to recall her manners again, handing me a cup of tea and identifying herself as Kolfinna. I nearly gave my true name, as well, but realized that if “Athlain of the Legion” were to disappear successfully, he shouldn’t go around introducing himself. Therefore, I invented a false name and replied,

“Thank you for your hospitality. I am… Videlectus Peregrinus, a… free adventurer.”

Anxious to move the conversation away from myself, I took a sip of tea and asked,

“Gustav was your husband? Did he die in an accident?”

I pictured a drunken sprawl on the ice, an attack by wild animals, or some similar misadventure. She shook her head and said fiercely,

“It was no accident- he was murdered, struck down in cold blood by Sigvatr the Strong, in a foolish argument. He was my husband's friend. Sigvatr and Gustav were drinking, and Sigvatr...he...he slew my husband where he stood! There were witnesses! I demand wergild, the traditional retribution of my people. It is my right.”

Though I knew a bit about Nord customs, this was new to me, and I had an unfortunate curiosity regarding new words and concepts. Thus I asked,

“Wergild? What is that?”

Kolfinna’s face took on a determined look.

“Wergild is the traditional Nord rite of retribution. When a life is taken, that life must be accounted for. My Gustav is irreplaceable, but there must be compensation for his murder. I do not wish Sigvatr dead. I only want his family heirloom, the gem Pinetear. Pinetear is rather small, and not very valuable, but it means much to Sigvatr. If I were to gain possession of Pinetear, it would serve as fitting payment for Gustav's death.”

She paused then and surveyed my well-used arms and armor, clearly weighing me in some mental balance. Making a decision, she spoke persuasively,

“As you have enjoyed guest-right in my home, I will ask of you a boon. Will you help me extract wergild from Sigvatr the Strong?”

What had been an academic exercise suddenly took on an unwelcome reality as I stared at her wan, hopeful expression. But what had I really expected when I followed my conscience and investigated the sound of Kolfinna’s weeping? In part it was my natural inquisitiveness, but it was more than that. What I truly sought was redemption, to make payment for the death of the berserker and for my failure in the Legion. It seemed that the farther I tried to run from responsibility, the faster it caught up with me. I did not understand at the time, but it was far easier to give a false name than to be false to my own essential nature. My answer was far less equivocal than my thoughts-

“Yes, Mistress Kolfinna, I will gladly help you.”

For the first time, a smile lit the woman’s tired face. It was small and still tinged with sadness, but it transformed her harsh expression into one more appropriate to such a pretty girl.

“May Mara smile upon you. Sigvatr is hunting near the standing stones called the Altar of Thrond. It is northwest of here, on the far bank of the Harstrad. Again, I do not desire Sigvatr’s death, and would rather you find some other way. But be careful, for he wields the mighty hammer Rammekald. It can freeze a foe where he stands. He… he used it to murder my Gustav. Please, bring Pinetear to me, that I may have peace.”

There was nothing left to say, and so I took leave of her and turned north once more. I was pleased that she did not want me to kill Sigvatr, but I wondered how he would feel about giving up his heirloom. From the sound of things, he had a quick temper and no compunction about murder, not even when his victim was a supposed friend. I only hoped my persuasiveness would be enough to avoid a fight. As events transpired, my fears were well-founded, yet at the same time misplaced.

[treydog]

I continued my journey north along the river, considering how to approach Sigvatr. Offering a drink was usually a good opening gambit with a Nord, but it appeared that this particular Nord became decidedly unpleasant under the influence of alcohol. That reminded me of something Father had said regarding the effects of strong drink-

You will hear people say, “Oh, it’s just the matze that makes him act that way.” Don’t believe it. Alcohol doesn’t put anything inside a person that wasn’t there to begin with. All it does is release their inhibitions and allow them to act as they would like to act all the time. So a “mean drunk” or “melancholy drunk” is just being himself. He simply hides it better when he’s sober.

Just at that moment, I would not have minded a drink, myself, regardless of whatever inner truths it might reveal. But I did not want it so badly that I was willing to unpack my equipage to get to it. And I also knew that alcohol was not what I truly craved.

That introspection had carried me a few miles up the river, when my thoughts were disturbed by the sound of voices carried on the wind that blew out of the north. I soon saw a band of Nords spread out along the bank, and surmised that they must be a hunting party. Thinking that they perhaps had word of Sigvatr and his whereabouts, I raised a hand in greeting and called out. For response, one of them nocked an arrow and sent it flying past my head! A closer look showed that I had been right in my guess and wrong in my conclusion- they were indeed a hunting party, but their quarry did not go about on four feet. They were reavers, Nord raiders who preyed on other men. And I had just delivered myself into their ungentle hands. All that saved me was that the first reaver had reacted too quickly, perhaps assuming that I had recognized them for what they were and that my greeting was a challenge. Or perhaps Fortune simply smiled on me, and a stray gust pushed the arrow off its course. What was certain was that I could not face so many enemies alone. My only choice was to flee.

There are so many things the stories of combat don’t tell you about- the sounds of cursing, of weapons striking flesh, the peculiar snap of an arrow that passes close by. And, in their dry language about retreats and routs and defeats, they don’t mention how your breath rasps in your throat as you run for your life. They don’t talk about the fear that turns your legs to lead and your bowels to water; the absolute certainty that, this time, you are going to die. Most of all, they never describe how it feels to turn and run from a fight, all thoughts of glory and reputation so many ashes in your soul. In my headlong flight, I cast aside every bit of excess weight that I could. The shield went first- I wouldn’t be using it. Next was the pack that carried my provisions and my precious alchemy apparatus. I let it fall like so much trash behind me. And still, I knew, knew that an arrow was about to find my back, a sword or axe bite into my neck. I had only one thought- to stay alive. And one more- I could not lead these human wolves to Kolfinna. A lonely house with only a widow inside was just the sort of place the reavers sought. Thus, I drove myself north and west, deeper into a wilderness of which I had no knowledge. At the back of my mind was the thought- this is just like the dream.

After what seemed like hours, I heard no more sounds of pursuit. They had either tired of the chase, or decided to be satisfied with the trail of possessions I had left behind me. After all, though they were certainly murderous, they were in it for the profit- and I had given them plenty. To some, it would have been a fair bargain- I had taken no physical hurt and my reputation was no longer worth defending, anyway. But there was a problem, a problem that became clearer with every moment as the adrenaline finally left my body. The exertion had burned through the skooma fog in which I normally wandered- and I was going to need more of the drug, very soon. And my flask of damnable, wonderful, necessary “tea” was now in the hands of the reavers. I could hope they would not drink the potion- their taste tended more toward known alcoholic beverages, which my gear also contained. There was nothing else for it- I would have to go back. I would have to confront the reavers and take from them either my drug or my death. But there was more than one way to do what was necessary, and I was still no better able to face half-a-dozen armed men than I had been. But I was no longer a Legionnaire, no longer had any illusions of myself as a knight. Therefore I would not approach the problem as a knight or a Legionnaire, but as someone who planned to win- and to survive. The first step was to remove all my armor. And then I checked the dagger that hung in a sheath down my back inside my shirt.

Since I had been a child, I had possessed some abilities that my family never discussed. They were no doubt inherited from my father and reflected those parts of his past he most wished to forget. For one, I could walk close enough to a wild guar to touch its flank without it ever knowing I was there. And for another, although I had no ability with swords, that did not mean I could not use a blade. Daggers seemed to rest in my hands as if they belonged there; I could instantly find the balance and make an accurate throw with either hand. But a short blade was the weapon of an assassin or a thief, of one who lurked in shadows and struck his opponent unaware. So I never used them, never admitted that I had any such skill, tried to never even think about it. But I always kept one dagger with me, because it had been a gift, and because Sethyas had told me to.

It was not magical, except in the way that any superbly crafted item is magical, such that it performs its designed function seemingly without effort on the part of the wielder. And the function of a dagger is to kill- quietly and with great economy. That description is also a fair summation of Sethyas Velas, yet another of the heroic figures who populated my childhood. I will say little more about him for a variety of reasons- first, he is capable of speaking for himself; second, his story is told elsewhere; and finally, because he frightens me. When I was entangled in the physically and emotionally awkward period of my teens…

I was outside of Ald Skar, being bullied by a group of visiting Imperial nobles who were only a little older than myself. I had approached them, hoping to talk of Cyrodiil and the Imperial City, but they laughed at my accent and mocked my clothes. The verbal confrontation had just become physical when Sethyas appeared in their midst and spoke a single quiet syllable-

“Leave.”

They took one look at the tall Dunmer with a black hand tattooed on his face and scattered. I rose shakily to my feet and turned to go when his raspy voice stopped me.

“Not you. Not yet. I have a gift for you, but first you must listen to my words. I will not interfere with your father, whether I agree with him or not. He is your father and must do as he believes is right. And you must obey him, for a while longer, at least. But you are now of an age where what passes here is between you and me. There will come a time in your life when you will have to kill. Words will not save you, nor cleverness, nor honor. Your salvation will lie in the strength of your arm and the sharpness of your steel.”

He reached under his tunic and handed me a dagger. The hilt was wrapped with wire for a sure grip and the sheath was plain black leather. He locked my gaze with his red eyes and said,

“Keep it with you always, but tell no one. When it is time to use it, you will know.”

And then he vanished into a sudden swirl of ash.

I had kept the dagger with me, but had never used it- until now.

[minque]

What a beginning of the new chapter! I'm utterly impressed, the plot really tightens up very quickly...OMG.

Now that letter...to Thyna, will naturally cause some immediate actions, I promise, she just won't let go of it...

And the appearance of my favourite assassin...was just wonderful...so well fitting...oh aye I like it very much..but as I mentioned, something will ...let me put it like this: happen!

[Black Hand]

I am truly honored and impressed with this latest update, dear Trey.

Your third statement reminds me of a discussion I had on chat, the jist of it was that I had Children of Morrowind Mod, but despite enjoying it, I uninstalled it. When asked why, I told them that I usually play darker characters and a sweet innocent child coming up to me and asking what I do for a living slightly unnerved me.

"I exchange blood for gold, have a teddy bear!"

[canis216]

Excellent work as ever. It looks like Athlain is well rid of all the glorious illusions of knighthood. That's the wilderness for you; that's Solstheim. Also love the Sethyas Velas cameo, of course. And Black Hand, that last sentence of yours was born to be a signature. Golden, says I.

[kementari]

Just wanted to pop in to say - Ten thousand views exactly, congratulations Trey.

[treydog]

What is there to say about the reavers? If you are reading this, you must know that I prevailed. That being the case, are the details so important? I suppose they are- after all, I have written of other things here which are not pleasant to recall and I must continue as I began. Free of encumbrances and armor, save for a pair of fur boots, I became as a shadow on the snow, a breeze that lightly brushed the trees and moved on. As I carefully followed my back trail, I effortlessly avoided bears and wolves, feeling as one with my surroundings. I was perfectly adapted to this silent movement, to gliding from one bit of concealment to the next. And I hated it. I hated the way the dagger fit perfectly in my hand, its sharpened steel blackened to prevent any telltale glint. I hated the quiet that marked my passage in place of the former creak of leather straps and rattle of metal armor. When I had worn the uniform of the Legion, I was a part of something, an avatar of order and justice- and I had been a visible representative of the Empire. Without that uniform, I was just another shadow. If I was glad of my innate skill, it was only because I did not wish to be seen skulking beneath the trees and hiding amongst the rocks.

All too soon, the scent of a cook fire and the sound of rough voices raised in argument and song told me that I was near the reaver camp. I found a spot beneath a tree and settled myself to wait for night and darkness. Even after night had fallen I waited, listening as the songs gave way to sodden snores. The reavers had posted no guards, believing themselves to be the most dangerous predators in the forest. That overconfidence was fatal- to them. I took the first when he stumbled away from the fire to relieve himself. A second died in the chill waters of the river where he had gone for a drink. With two of the party removed, the time for stealth was past and it became a matter of controlled speed and fury. A stone pitched into the fire scattered sparks and hot coals among the sleeping men, blinding them as I stepped out of the darkness. They leapt up, only to fall again as my dagger did its bloody work. I slashed the side of a neck, the back of a knee, a throat. As they fell, I danced away, letting the shouts and thrashing of the wounded and dying further confuse the survivors. The confusion soon gave way to silence and all was still, except for the crackle of the fire. I built it back up and searched the bodies, taking only those things that had been mine. The rest I left, including the bodies. When I was done, I opened the flask of tea and downed half of it at a gulp before putting the stopper back. I needed its warm, blurry haze as much to stop the chill that had settled into my soul as to quiet the craving that sang in my blood.

I had no desire to remain in the company of dead men, especially not those I had killed, so I turned west, seeking the Harstrad River and the Altar of Thrond. The walk through forest and snow gave me more time to consider how I might persuade Sigvatr- I was heartily sick of killing, and wanted no more blood on my hands if I could avoid it. No brilliant ideas came to mind, and I finally shrugged and determined that my approach would simply depend on the man himself, assuming I could even find him. What I mostly found were wolves and bears in great numbers, along with a particularly vicious type of wild pig. I was forced to revise my opinion as to which were predators and which prey after I observed a battle between boar and wolf from a safe distance. Several times I thought I saw small, man-shaped figures, only a few feet high- and once I even imagined I saw one riding the back of a large boar. But I concluded that such visions were a result of blowing snow, a lack of sleep, and an excess of skooma-laced tea.

At least I had Kolfinna’s description of Sigvatr to help me in my search. My encounters with the berserker and the reavers had taught me caution when approaching anyone in this wilderness. On Vvardenfell, frontier though it was, most travelers you met did not wish to murder you on sight. That was definitely not the case here. Still, while it was possible that Sigvatr might deal with me as he had with Gustav, he would perhaps be willing to talk first. Shortly after I crossed the river, I sighted a lone figure striding through the snow. A moment’s observation convinced me that this was indeed the man I sought. He was dressed in thick fur armor and had a war hammer in his hands. My trained eye detected an unmistakable aura of ancient and powerful magic around the weapon. I stepped into the open and spoke clearly,

“Hail and well-met. If you are Sigvatr the Strong, I would speak with you.”

I showed my empty hands to indicate my peaceful intent, and was pleased to see him rest the hammer against his shoulder. He did not approach me immediately, but scanned the area where I stood, making sure I wasn’t the bait for an ambush. Still not moving, he called back to me,

“I am Sigvatr, called the Strong. Why do you spoil my hunting? And what speech would you have with me, Imperial, that brings you so far from home? Best you go back to your mother before you are missed. Perhaps she will give you a bowl if warm milk to ward off the chill of Solstheim.”

I knew something of Nord ways and customs, and so did not take the insults seriously. They were as routine as an Imperial greeting of “good day.” On the other hand, I must respond in kind, or Sigvatr would not respect me, nor listen to my request for wergild. Therefore I made a broad gesture of holding my nose and said,

“Sigvatr the Strong, indeed. Rarely have I encountered so strong a stench. You have no need of weapons to hunt- your odor must knock beasts to the ground for miles around. But you might want to clean those furs before a bear mistakes you for his mate and makes improper advances.”

My reply apparently met with the hunter’s approval; although he did not laugh outright, I detected a grin beneath his luxuriant beard. At a gesture, I walked up to him, opening a jug as I did so. To show that it wasn’t poisoned, I took a mouthful of the raw sujamma and swallowed. It was either that or spit it out- I had never developed a taste for the vile liquor and had no desire to try. I offered the jug to Sigvatr, who sniffed it suspiciously, saying,

“This isn’t any a’ that thin brew you Imperials suppose passes for a real drink, is it?”

I indicated with a gesture that he should try it for himself, not trusting that I could speak just yet. The Nord took a good pull at the jug and swirled it around in his mouth for a few seconds before swallowing.

“Not bad,” he allowed, then surprised me by corking the jug.

“Right then. We’ve insulted each other and shared a drink. The forms of hospitality are met. So what is it you want, that you come traipsing all this way after me?”

He folded massive arms across his barrel chest and waited impatiently. This was not what I had expected, and I tried to rapidly revise the speech I had planned. But it was no good- I just could not come up with a plausible story that didn’t sound completely contrived. Sigvatr’s countenance became more clouded with each passing second, and I finally blurted out,

“I… it’s… Kolfinna sent me. She wants….”

I looked on in dismay as the huge man lifted the hammer from his shoulder and asked in a dangerously quiet voice,

“Yes? Kolfinna wants- what?”

He swung the hammer idly at his side, the massive weapon making an unpleasant sound with each pass.

[Black Hand]

Wuh-oh.