Blood on the Moon, A Journey of Discovery Options

[hazmick]

Drama, action, passion, nords, imperials, skooma, werewolves, snow! What a story! Treydog- you are truly blessed by the divines with such a magical talent for writing! oooooh. phew!

[treydog]

@D. Foxy- No fear of that; fortunately we have a bounty of talented humor writers here now. The song was fun- and I have a plan for it in future- the FAR distant future of the story.

@mALX- You (and Olen) caught one of the most important indicators of Athlain’s nature- how much he values the uniform- and all it symbolizes. Though he does not yet realize it, that commitment to honor and duty is something his father understands quite well.

Well, if his real name causes trouble, you can always work in a Maximus Rattus reference.

@haute- If I have driven you to verse, I humbly apologize. Athlain just needs a (younger, stronger) Julian to show up at Fort Frosmoth to whip him into shape. Hmmm- that actually has possibilities- considering that she spent time in Skyrim… and Frostmoth certainly needs strong leadership. Hmmmm.

@Acadian- Yup. The original door-slamming and exchange of “fines” is based on direct observation. Best to say no more about that….

Even though my Nords have Scottish accents (instead of Swedish or Norwegian), somehow that just became a TES fan-fic convention and none of us ever questioned it. But they are fun to write and Brynjolfr is more fun than most- I like having craftsmen (and women) talk about their craft. There is a joy and passion that comes through so clearly… And I am pleased that Athlain has grown to be “real” to my readers. Doubly so that one of them is the creator of the wonderfully-alive Buffy.

@Black Hand- You hit upon an essential point- despite their experiences, they are still largely innocent. And that is a fact that will come into play later. And as to the “tomb-raider” issue, that came to me after I had Athlain mis-remember the directions and decide to ask at Thirsk.

@SubRosa- The drinking song was such fun to write- and again, one of those things that came to me as I was transcribing the scene from my notebook. In fact, the entirety of my notes is: “Circled the lake and saw nothing. Disgusted, went to Thirsk and asked Skjoldr.” Hooray for writing and revising! And Athlain has ended up being far less of a snobbish prig than I originally envisioned him- there were too many other people and events that forced him to grow. The “claws and teeth” line may be a steal from this story or one of my others. But it is so fitting for FRPGs…

Nit agreed and fixed.

@Olen- You are insightful again- connecting this episode with his uniform to his early days at Gnisis and the decision to abandon it in Gandrung Caverns. As to the stumbling block in his plan, please share! I honestly have only the vaguest outline in my head beyond certain events that HAVE to happen… so I am more than happy to steal… um, incorporate ideas from others.

I agree- Solstheim is hard, but it isn’t gloomy. And how better to know that you’ve been accepted by a bunch of Nords than for them to make up a song to insult you!

@hazmick- Welcome to my latest “story-that-would-not-die.” The blessings I have received are many- mostly the games themselves, and best of all, loyal and patient readers who keep me going.

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The question was a serious one. The Nords venerated their ancestors no less than the Dunmer, and did not appreciate random looting. I recalled the words Einar had spoken regarding the religious significance of the items that were interred with the dead. But, because I had never entered a tomb or barrow with “treasure” in mind, I had not thought about how a son of Skyrim might react to my question. In fact, so intent had I been on completing the Ritual of the Gifts that I had not even imagined that anyone would wonder about my purpose in seeking Glenschul’s Tomb. When Tharsten and Korst had discussed the Ritual with me, neither had indicated that it was to be kept secret. I had not told Skjoldr simply because I had spent so much time alone of late that I had lost the habit of sharing my plans with anyone. With a shrug I answered truthfully:

“I am performing the Ritual of the Gifts for the village Skaal, in hopes that Tharsten will tell me what he knows of the attack on Fort Frostmoth. The Greedy Man’s bag is supposed to be inside Glenschul’s Tomb, which is supposed to be near Lake Fjalding.”

I shook my head in disgust and added, “I went all the way around the lake and never saw any tomb.”

Skjoldr’s expression cleared a bit and he replied, “Aye, and ye wouldn’t. That barrow isna all that close to the lake. It lies that way.” Raising his arm, he pointed toward the eastern sea-coast, before asking, “Do ye recall the exact words ye were given?”

After the incident at Hrothmund’s Barrow when I could not recall the password, I had taken to writing things down word for word. So, in response to the chieftain’s question, I paged through my journal and read in a testy voice:

Travel south and east of the lake of ice to Glenschul’s Tomb…

My voice trailed off as I flushed with embarrassment and clapped a hand to my forehead. There in my own hand it said “OF the lake of ice,” not “TO.” As in “beyond” Lake Fjalding. Truth be told, prepositions had given me trouble in school, too. They were slippery little two- and three-letter words that had no business changing the meanings of sentences so drastically.

Still chagrined by my foolish error, I muttered my thanks to Skjoldr and added that I would head out for the tomb as soon as my armor was repaired. As I started to turn away, the Skaal hunter raised a hand to stop me, saying:

“Wait ye just a bit, if ye will. There is not a one here that has not made a mistake, myself included. There’s no shame in that. But it would be unfortunate if ye let yer anger lead ye into another. If I offer ye some words, will ye heed them?”

This man had held my very life in his hands when I had slain Erich, and had judged me fairly. Besides that, one could never have an overabundance of wisdom. Therefore I nodded and said,

“Wise counsel is a gift beyond price. Please, Skjoldr, speak your words and I will listen.”

He looked around the hall and rubbed his hands on the intricately carved arms of his throne before he began.

“One of our hunters chanced to be near Glenschul’s Tomb only a few days past. He tells as how a group of riekling boar-riders was close by, and appear to be settled in. So, if ye must go to yon barrow, have a care.”

That particular warning was one I did not need to hear twice. My previous encounter with the diminutive blue demon spawn and their cursed mounts was fresh in my mind- and marked upon my body. And Skjoldr’s words were a reminder that Solstheim was a dangerous place, where it did not do to simply charge off in all directions with no thought or preparation.

Meanwhile, the chieftain was continuing, his face a study of conflicting emotions as he explained:

“This next, I do not quite know how to say. Ye know that we here at Thirsk split from the village Skaal long ago?”

At my nod, he went on: “It happened because they take their worship of Nature too much to heart. They believe there be more to life than hunting and drinking and fighting.” He grinned and added: “Tis hard to credit that there be Nords who would think such as that, but there it is.”

He paused to take a healthy swallow of mead before continuing, “And now they have ye tangled up in their rituals and mystic folderol. All I will say is- be ye wary. Heart-Fang knows more than he says. Mayhap I’m just turnin’ into an old woman, but I’ve an itch at the back of my neck like somethin’ is on my trail. There’s many an uncanny thing on this island, and some of what’s in the old barrows is better left alone.”

He fell silent and looked into his mug with brooding eyes.

Although the rest of the hunters and warriors continued to sing and laugh, Skjoldr’s dark mood had infected me, and I went upstairs to the guest rooms. The one Athynae had used was empty, but I passed it by. I do not know what I feared more- that some hint of her presence still lingered in the air- or that it did not. My mind had been fogged ever since I began the Ritual of the Gifts. No, it had been fogged by skooma even before that. I paused on the threshold of my room and wondered- was this all simply a skooma dream, brought on by the snow and the howls of wolves? Had I truly found the airship, and had Athynae truly found me there? Or was it all just smoke and desire?

I closed the door and crossed to the bed to lie in the darkness, dwelling on Skjoldr’s words of warning, slipping in and out of restless sleep. When I gave up at last and rose, only fragments of my troubled dreams remained. In all of them, I was beset by enemies: rieklings, wolves, draugr, and worse. No matter how hard I fought, no matter how many I slew, there were always more. And throughout the battles, looming in the background was a great, shadowy figure with branched horns upon its head.

I could not sleep and I did not want to join in the hunters’ never-ending revelry, so I had plenty of time to brood about the situation with Athynae. Assuming that the meeting at the airship had not just been a fever dream or hallucination brought on by wounds and deprivation, I wondered if I had erred in sending her to Mother. And, even if that had been the best plan, what would happen next? How long could she reasonably claim sanctuary at Indarys Manor? How long would she be willing to stay there? She was young and vibrant and had escaped her role as “dutiful Redoran daughter” for a time. I knew too well what a powerful drug the taste of freedom could be- I had joined the Legion for much the same reason- excepting that I was not a daughter… nor especially dutiful when it came to it.

The worst of it was, each time she saved me, each time I had sent her away again- it had been more difficult. I could feel the touch of her hand, taste her lips on mine, hear her laughter…. It was no good. I could not simply leave her to languish in my family home, where she would be as much a prisoner as if she had agreed to a political marriage. And even if she could remain there indefinitely, even if she would- that would bring us no closer to each other. Or rather, it would bring us too close and yet too far; honor would keep us apart. It would be exquisite torture- to be in one another’s presence day after day, but unable to touch; to have only words and looks and gestures to sustain us down the long years. It could not be borne; there had to be a way that satisfied both honor and passion. And I vowed that I would find it.

[mALX]

Athlain is growing up. The hard things he has been through have shaped him - are still shaping him. - and maybe it is good Athynae went away for a time, so she can see the differences when she returns. He is vastly different than he was when that man called him a thief and fought him...what was that, a year ago? ...vastly different.

Awesome write Treydog, I feel like I am watching a miniseries on the Hallmark channel - picturing Highland brogues for the accents on the Nords - it is so easy to immerse myself in this story !!!!

[SubRosa]

Truth be told, prepositions had given me trouble in school, too. They were slippery little two- and three-letter words that had no business changing the meanings of sentences so drastically.
I think the author's personal opinions have seeped into his character!

Here I was going to ask a question about whether the members of the mead hall were also Skaal, and you went and answered it before I could! It always stuck me as odd that the hall is sitting out there by its lonesome in the wilderness.

and some of what’s in the old barrows is better left alone.
...and there are things that Man Was Not Meant To Know...

looming in the background was a great, shadowy figure with branched horns upon its head.
And unfortunately for Athlain, it is not Herne the Hunter. Seriously, I really liked the nightmares. They are the first sight of the daedric hand behind the scenes that is shaping events on the island.

Finally, we have Athlain musing on his future with Athynae, or the grim spectre of his non-future with her. I see a resolve building within him. He may be busy putting the smack down in Solsthiem, but here we clearly see that he will be Scouring The Shire when he returns from his foreign adventure.

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Aug 26 2010, 10:55 PM

[hazmick]

Poor Athlain, Grammar is a fickle mistress who will not think twice about bringing a knee to the groin of the best scholars. More of those blue, boar-riding bast...bad guys? Oh dear. Our hero is also suffering from the separation with Athynae, hopefully he will come out stronger. (No innuendo intended)

I have an uncle who sounds just like one of your Nords, it's amazing.

Keep up the good work.

[haute ecole rider]

This is a great pause in the events of the story, and a fantastic piece of self-reflection.

The conversation between Athlain and Skjoldr was well-crafted and felt very natural, as if I was a fly on the wall there.

mALX and SubRosa have already commented on the bits that stood out to me. The Horned Man, if I recall correctly, is an archetypal God-figure common to many hunter cultures. Including him here just brings home the concept that man is but a small part of the power that we call nature. He adds power and depth to Athlain's nightmares, and emphasizes the harshness of the land that is Solstheim.

[D.Foxy]

Our hero is also suffering from the separation with Athynae, hopefully he will come out stronger. (No innuendo intended)


My experience is that after you come and go out you do NOT get stronger.

[Acadian]

I have mentioned enjoying the accent you bring to your Nords. It was while reading this chapter that it hit me - I realize now that I have stolen your accent for my Bosmer who runs the Arcane University stables in the Vally of Horses. Aye, there ye be! I shall hopefully trust that you will take this theft as a compliment, rather than kicking me from your guild hall.

Athlain is a wonderfully alive, breathing, hurting, dreaming, loving character.

there had to be a way that satisfied both honor and passion. And I vowed that I would find it.

Aye, lad - ye truly be onta somthin there. Do na let er go, for she be worth it!

[Black Hand]

Honestly.....


lets get somes werewolves ins heres!!

But, that being said, I liked the wisdom of the Chieftain awfully introspective of the King of Mead.

[Olen]

A good bit of background snuck in there, as well as a bit more foreshadowing of what's coming. It's all getting darker and you've got a growing feeling of something being wrong. I suspect Athlain will fnid out exactly what those dreams were about soon enough.

and some of what’s in the old barrows is better left alone.

Very Lovecraftian. I'm almost expecting a large cuttlefish headed monster.

As far as accents go it is odd that Nords get a scottish accent but I suppose in some ways it makes sense on Solstheim in some ways.

[treydog]

@mALX- Yes, he is a wiser man than he was when he slipped away from home. He still has some growing to do, though. Thank you so much; your words always cheer me.

@SubRosa- Mostly, I had trouble with split infinitives. “Man was not meant to know”- which is why we have Teresa and Ada and Maxical. I think the brief dream sequences are important to indicate that there is something orchestrating events…

@hazmick- Glad the accent sounds “authentic.” And thank you for reading and commenting.

@haute- Thank you- I want the “quiet” moments to be at least as strong as the “action.” I think we learn more about the characters in those times than any others.

@Acadian- no worries (hee)- the accent is community property; I likely swiped it from someone else. Knowing that Athlain comes to life for you is very encouraging.

@Black Hand- I am dragging that revelation out- but the lycanthropes will eventually raise their furry heads.

@Olen- There will be some more background (from Athlain’s life). The Skaal separation and building of Thirsk is from Thirsk, A History. I think Nords “sound” Scottish because none of us knew how to represent a Scandinavian accent. (I mean how do you write the Swedish Chef?)

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With the next morning came several realizations-

(1) trying to keep up with Nords in a drinking contest is never a good idea; (2) mead was invented to remind people of (1); (3) there had to be some sort of extra-dimensional explanation for how my head could hurt so much and feel so inflated and still fit through a normal-sized doorway; and (4) whoever came up with the idea of the steam-bath was a saint- no, a god. Addendum- and aforesaid god had probably invented the sauna shortly after failing to heed (1). When I finally reached a point where the falling snow-flakes no longer sounded like an avalanche and the individual hairs on my head did not hurt, I went to find Brynjolfr.

The smith had clearly worked through the night; all of my gear was in better condition than I had ever seen it. He watched as I ran my hand over the silver and bronze horses on the breastplate and tested the mail that protected the armholes while still providing flexibility. The greaves and pauldrons had also been reinforced with new metal- not steel, but the alloy whose composition was a close-guarded secret among the Nords. But even with all the improvements, it was undeniably Imperial Legion armor.

“This is magnificent,” I breathed. Then I shook my head and moved to more practical matters.

“I can’t pay you- not in coin, anyway. I can give you Legion scrip, but I don’t know if that’s any use to you.”

The burly Nord folded his bare arms and blew a breath through his whiskers, expressing his annoyance without words.

“There was no talk of payment,” he rumbled. “If I’d wanted any, I’d ha’ set a price afore I took the job. And look ye- the lass asked me long ago ta do what I could ta keep ye safe, and I gave ma word. If ye want ta return the favor, then stay alive and whole. I have no wish ta be explainin’ ta herself as ta why ye got yerself killed.”

He paused and then brought his great hands down upon my shoulders and shook me gently.

“There’s one other boon I would ask- when this business is all done, and yer time is yer own, bring that sweet girl back here with ye and we’ll all watch the sun set over the lake. That is all the pay I’ll take.”

He released me and turned back to the forge, growling over his shoulder:

“Now be off wi’ ye! How can I miss ye, if ye willna go away?”

While I strapped myself into my armor, I considered how best to obey Brynjolfr’s directive to stay alive. If the rieklings still lurked around Glenschul’s Tomb, I needed to avoid them. That was especially true as there was no way of knowing what dangers the barrow itself might hold. I was supposed to be an officer of the Imperial Legion- and that was supposed to mean something besides a shiny uniform. So I sat down on a bench outside the mead hall and did some thinking.

Rather than trying to solve the immediate problem, I just let my mind wander where it would. I thought about Athynae- about cooking- about rieklings -and about home. And from those scattered thoughts there came an idea. So I borrowed a cauldron from Svenja, and did a bit of cooking myself, if you could call it that. Afterwards, I stood up and cast a spell, gathered the things I would need, and headed south and east, toward the coast and Glenschul’s Tomb.

I surveyed the situation from behind a screen of trees on a low ridge. The distinctively-marked stones of a Nord barrow were below me, along the west side of a gully that ran north and south. Fortune favored me to the extent that the barrow had been excavated into the hillside, with the large stones making a flat-roofed entry. From my vantage, I saw a number of rieklings riding their boars, calling to each other with noises that barely qualified as speech. I shuddered as I watched them; I could still remember the fetid breath of the bristlebacks and the feel of the rieklings’ sharp teeth rending my flesh. Unbidden, an earlier memory came to me, a scene from my childhood:

A picture book was on the table in front of me, a child’s bestiary that had come all the way from Cyrodiil. The printer had decided to focus on the more innocuous creatures of Tamriel- horses and cows and chickens. All of them were drawn to seem friendly and good-natured, including the smiling pink pig lying in a puddle, surrounded by several equally vapid-looking ducks. None of those familiar denizens of the farm could thrive on Vvardenfell, so they were as exotic to me as if they lived on Masser or Secunda.

Curious about these unknown animals, I asked my father what pigs ate. He never patronized me, but always tried to answer my questions honestly. “Pretty much whatever they can get,” he said. I considered that and persisted, “But what? Berries? Kwama eggs? Salt rice?” He glanced at the picture and then away and responded: “Yes- a pig will eat just about anything.” I could tell there was more, but he left the room before I could frame another question. And I had forgotten about it- until I had seen the boars of Solstheim-and what they would eat. “Just about anything.”

I closed the book of memory gently; childhood was long past. The time had come to see if my thinking, planning- and cooking- had been worthwhile, or simply a different sort of fantasy.

A few more minutes of observation confirmed my fear that the rieklings had no intention of going elsewhere. I wondered if their presence near the tomb was coincidence, or a sign of some malign force working in opposition to me. There was no one I could ask, and I did not have the luxury to consider philosophical or spiritual questions. That sort of exercise always seemed to end with dark depression and a hangover, anyway- so best to let it go.

With a resigned shrug, I slid my pack from my shoulders and removed the object I had spent the morning preparing. With an easy underhand throw, I tossed it into the midst of the boars and their masters. The result was all I had hoped for, as the entire mob chased after the large kwama egg rolling across the frozen ground. The ensuing melee was of such violence and ferocity that I almost forgot why I had needed a diversion in the first place.

The exterior of a kwama egg is, by nature, leathery and tough. Since the queen simply drops them on the floor of the burrow, they are often stepped on and knocked about by the warriors until a worker can collect and bury them. Just to be sure, I had spent the morning boiling an egg and then cooling it in a snowdrift outside the mead hall. After such treatment, it was not just leathery- it was well nigh indestructible. But, to the sensitive snouts of the bristlebacks, it still smelled like food.

Disregarding the angry shouts of the riders and the thumping of heels against ribs, the boars became a whirling, grunting, slashing mass of tusks and hooves as they fought for possession of the prize. Almost immediately, a tusk grazed a flank, and the scent of fresh blood turned them against each other. Riders that fell or were knocked off had no chance- they were trampled and ripped to pieces- sometimes not in that order. The same thing happened to boars that were injured- and all the while the kwama egg rolled and bounded amongst them, goading them to still greater fury.

At last, I tore myself away from the spectacle and put my mind firmly back on my task. Quietly, though I needn’t have bothered with stealth, I slid down the side of the tomb’s entry and pushed on the rune-marked door stone. When it slid aside, I stepped into the darkness and shut the door behind me. The air within smelled of draugr- and of something else, something foul. As I fumbled in a belt pouch for a night-eye potion, a quavering howl broke the stillness. It sounded like the call of a hunting wolf, but there was something different- wrong- about the timbre. I swallowed the potion and slid my shield into place.

[D.Foxy]

And I thought ROSA was clever at scheming...


... Athlain seems to have become infected!!!

I would never have thought to use THAT....

FRICKING BRILLIANT!!!

Trey, I suspect you have seen the food-greed of swine in real life. I have, and I can tell the readers that is EXACTLY how they behave - especially if they are a couple of hours away from their last meal...

[Acadian]

Ah, an ode to Nordic mead. Like the morning after an elven night of too much Tamika's.

...bring that sweet girl back here with ye and we’ll all watch the sun set over the lake.

“Now be off wi’ ye! How can I miss ye, if ye willna go away?”

Ahhh, *happy sigh* Superb examples of why I want to write like treydog when I grow up.

Disregarding the angry shouts of the riders and the thumping of heels against ribs, the boars became a whirling, grunting, slashing mass of tusks and hooves as they fought for possession of the prize.

This is very vivid. So vivid in fact my mind went to a faraway place. What occurred to me, oddly enough, was a horde of mongol horsemen playing polo with the head of one of their foes. Seriously though, I'm with Foxy - this was incredibly clever of Athlain.

Wonderful, as always, trey!

This post has been edited by Acadian: Aug 28 2010, 03:47 PM

[mALX]

Athlain, you surprise me once again
For now you are using your brain, Athlain!!

Eh, too early in the morning for poetry, lol. Awesome Write !!!!!!

[hazmick]

what is a story if not the set up for a great cliff hanger. and this story shall be known as ''the time when a large group of savage pigs and blue gnomes were defeated by a lone kwama egg''

[Black Hand]

Brynjolfr sounds JUST like my EMT teacher, she even had that sign around her desk (How can I miss you, if you don't go away.) amongst others of that nature. (Im not hard of hearing, Im trying hard not to hear you.)

Anyways, sounds like he's about to encounter the wimpy bonewolf...wimpy compared to the rest of the Solsthiem's bestiary anyways...

The following contains spoilers in the MQ of Bloodmoon, if you don't want to know, don't click, its not that juicy anyways...

[haute ecole rider]

Trey, I suspect you have seen the food-greed of swine in real life. I have, and I can tell the readers that is EXACTLY how they behave - especially if they are a couple of hours away from their last meal...

Agreed.

Getting between a sow and her feed trough is like stepping in front of a freight locomotive. Not. A. Good. Idea.

I loved how Athlain used his 'officer's head' to solve the dilemma of the rieklings. It's a great strategy. Now let's hope they're not outside waiting for him when he steps outside the barrow!

[hazmick]

"Getting between a sow and her feed trough is like stepping in front of a freight locomotive."


correction, a freight locomotive with a nasty bite.

This post has been edited by hazmick: Aug 28 2010, 06:09 PM

[haute ecole rider]

Ah, but a freight locomotive doesn't need to bite to kill you, does it? The end result is the same - death by sharp tusks or death by 18 tons of steel.

[mALX]

Ah, but a freight locomotive doesn't need to bite to kill you, does it? The end result is the same - death by sharp tusks or death by 18 tons of steel.

Wait, sows don't have tusks!