A Champion's Journey, The Imperial Simulacrum Options

[Zalphon]

An elder bosmer named Bragor. Bragor New-Shoes from Morrowind. Nice work, Verlox.

[SubRosa]

Ernand is quite the likeable character. He is not uber, and in spite of his new position, comes across as a very regular person. That makes him very easy to relate to. It also makes him very fun to read. Especially during the feast!

[Verlox]

Chapter Seven: Culture Clash Part II

Despite the fact that Bragor made him welcome, Gerrilgor had a hard time trusting the Breton that had suddenly come into their midst. Whilst he spoke of the hunt with others, his eyes would occasionally find themselves watching the human that towered over his people. When he saw Ernand indulging in his kill, he was close to muscling his way to him and slapping the meat from his hand. However, when the Breton began to toss his cookies, Gerrilgor alerted his friends and laughed.

“Seems the Breton isn’t as well as he thought,” he guffawed, “Can’t even hold down a cut of flesh!”

Elphiron frowned, "He has spent a week bed-ridden and with a high fever. It surprises me little."

When Ernand finally reached them, Gerrilgor couldn't help but prod, "A weak stomach, eh, Breton?" When the councilor did not respond, instead turning a very hostile gaze on him, Gerrilgor said, "What? Is it rotten or something"

Concerned, Bragor stretched out his hand and laid it on Ernand's shoulder. "Is something wrong, my friend? You look a little grey. Are you not as well as you though you were?"

"Do not touch me." Shaking the elder's hand off, Ernand took a step backwards, "Savages, the lot of you. What possible reason could you have for eating your own people?" Coming from the modern, imperialized province of High Rock, Ernand had a hard time thinking of reasons why a people would eat its own kind. That was something he expected of the base Kothringi, or the barbaric Orcs that dwelt in the Wrothgarian Mountains. And though the Bosmeri culture wasn't as civilized as their more cosmopolitan neighbors, Valenwood ranked near the bottom of the list of where cannibalism might be active. The Wood Elves that had brought him back from the brink of death obviously didn't see it that way, and only stared in astonishment as an outsider admonished them.

"Ernand," Bragor sought to placate the enraged Breton, "It is tradition."

"It is also one of your traditions to not consume plant matter," Ernand shot back, "But your collective does so anyway!" By now, their voices were rising, and soon they were attracting attention from the gathered Bosmeri. Oblivious, for once, to public opinion, Ernand continued his tirade. "If you reject one custom, why do you also not reject another? Ernand continued on in the same vein for a few more minutes, attracting more and more people away from the feast. It wasn't long until the Breton realized he had no chance to persuade Bragor, or the others. However, Ernand wasn't as quick to notice the large group of now-hostile Bosmer that had crowded around him.

The powder keg of distrust could have exploded into a conflagration if not for a timely interruption by a lone Wood Elf that came running down the gorge, frantically screaming, "Gold-Skins! Gold-Skins!" The cultural situation defused, Ernand found himself ignored as the once pleasant chaos of a feast became tense. In fear, the elves began to scatter about, some fleeing back to their dwellings, and even a few disappearing up the gorge and into the forest. The majority of the collective, however, numbly waited as Bragor interrogated the sentry.

"Where? How close are they?"

"An hour or two away at most, Elder. I counted seven gold-skins, numerous Bosmer trackers, and a large collection of goblin slaves armed to the teeth."

"Are you sure they were heading this way?"

"As sure as I can be."

Whirling around to face Gerrilgor, Bragor asked, "Are you sure none of these you happened upon got away?"

The elf nodded. "Our arrows flew true. None escaped. Although," Gerrilgor brought his hand to his chin and stroked it, "We did meet a lone hunter while we were out scouting...Do you think..." Horror dawned on the Bosmer then. The hunter must have followed them and saw them slaughter the group from Longvale. If that was true, he could have headed to the town to inform the leaders there. A native hunter of Valenwood knew the land like the back of his hand, and could easily lead someone to the gorge. "By Y'ffre...We've been caught out!"

"No," Bragor raised his hand to forestall the inevitable chaos that remark could create, "They are still an hour or two away. Arm yourselves, and get anyone who can't fight to the forest. We need to protect this place. Now go, find your weapons and don your armour. We will make them pay for coming into our domain." Despite Bragor stirring words, unease still lingered until the assembled Bosmeri departed to find their gear. Gerrilgor, Faldan, and Elphiron had also dissapeared to arm themselves. Only Bragor and Ernand remained in the clearing. "I did not honestly expect anything of this sort to happen. Tonight was supposed to be a time for rejoicing and happiness. My people are not ready for a battle. Half of them are drunk, and the other half are too full to fight."

"The situation does not look good," Ernand agreed, "But you have the advantage of terrain. Unless your enemies are willing to fight in a natural fortress, you may be able to beat them back."

"I am grateful for your assurances. But I cannot be so sanguine about this. Here," from his robes, Bragor produced an object wrapped in hide, "Elphiron found this on you when they discovered you out in the forest." Taking the object, Ernand quickly unwrapped it to reveal the glimmering Ruby Key that he had received from Ria Silmane not a week ago. "It is a most exquisite object, and you will likely need it wherever you are going."

Ernand head came up sharply. "You do not wish for me to fight with you?"

"No. Why? I was told to not keep you here any longer than was needed."

"Who told you this?"

"It was from my dreams. A great spirit appeared to me, and told me you were her champion, and that you were needed elsewhere. I put great stock in the portents of dreams, and was planning to send you on your way the day after tomorrow. But now it seems you must leave earlier."

"But I can't just leave you here to die!"

"You must, my friend," Bragor reached out and took Ernand's shoulder, "Whatever quest you are on is obviously for the good of all Tamriel. I cannot, in good conscience, keep you from it. Come, there are some other things I want to give you.” Turning away, Bragor led the Breton up the gorge until they came to the mouth of a lone cavern where numerous other Bosmer were scuffling about. “This is the armory.”

“What is it you wanted to give me?”

Leading Ernand further in, Bragor stopped before a rack of weapons and armor. From it, he took a glittering vest of silver scale mail, a set of polished vambraces, a well-honed elven sword, a bow of Bosmer construction, and a quiver of arrows. These he gave to Ernand. “I have the feeling you will need these in your journey.” With dispatch, Bragor aided the councilor into getting the vest on. “A fine suit this is, and it fits you well.”

Slinging the bow and quiver onto his back, Ernand took the sheathed sword and buckled it to his waist. Finally, he latched the vambraces onto his forearms. With these, Ernand felt better. “These are princely gifts, elder, and I thank you for them.”

Bragor chuckled and shook his head, “In the interest of protecting Tamriel, I would give you much more. But this is all we have. Now,” Bragor took Ernand out of the cave and to the entrance to the gorge, beyond which lay the open forest, “Go. Find your destiny as you trod the heart of Nirn under your feet.”


This post has been edited by Verlox: Jun 2 2010, 03:59 AM

[Destri Melarg]

This was an interesting chapter. I wonder what would have happened to Ernand without the timely intervention of the 'gold-skins'. That is a classic example of leaping before you look.

I have only one small nit to pick. In this passage you forgot to close the quote.

"If you reject one custom, why do you also not reject another?" Ernand continued on in the same vein for a few more minutes, attracting more and more people away from the feast.

[mALX]

Son: But Mom, I hate my sister's guts!

Mom: Shut up and keep eating!



EW!!!

[SubRosa]

Moving along well. It was nice to see Ernand pointing out the obvious, in that the Bosmer were picking and choosing which customs to abide by and which to ignore.

However, I noticed you were head-hopping. The post begins from the point of view of Gerrilgor, seeing his thoughts and feelings. Then it shifts to Ernand, and later bounces back to Gerrilgor, and finally back to Ernand.

It may help to think of pov as visualizing your writing as a movie. Except you only have one camera, and one microphone. Both are in the head of the pov character. So we only see what they see, hear what they hear, and know what they are thinking and feeling.

There is nothing wrong with changing the pov to that of a different character. Sometimes it is best to tell a scene from the pov of someone other than your main character. But you have to end the scene before you do it, and then begin the next scene from the pov of the new character. Shifting in the middle of a scene is confusing.

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Mar 23 2010, 06:45 PM

[Verlox]

Chapter Eight: Into the Night

What started off as a gentle march north turned into a hurried flight when Ernand caught a glimpse of torches through the trees. Consumed with terror at being discovered by this war band from Longvale, the Breton upped his pace and sped north as fast as he could without killing himself. But in Valenwood, a simple march is never easy. The canopy of the forest blocked all but a few stray beams of moons light, and the stars were obscured from view. Because of this, Ernand found himself having to take many precautions to avoid tumbling down a cliff or tripping over a fallen tree. With the amount of detours he had to make, it would not have surprised him to discover he had only come two miles in a single hour.

Hearing the hoot of an owl, Ernand froze in fright. Despite his brain telling him it was just a bird, he couldn't help it. With a moment of hesitation, Ernand reached down and drew the curved Bosmeri sword from its scabbard. Just to be on the safe side, he thought as he brandished the blade. Casting a glance over his shoulder to be sure he was not being followed, Ernand continued on his way. Straining his eyes, the councilor picked his way through the undergrowth. He didn't move far, however, until his foot was caught on a root and he went crashing to the ground with a loud thud. "By Kynareth," he muttered, "How these damn elves move in this land amazes me!" With an exasperated sigh, he rolled over onto his back and then into a sitting position.

"That's it. I've had enough!" Flicking his sword out in front of him, Ernand brought up his other hand and put it to the blade. Drawing from his magicka, the councilor whispered, "Toukokuu kynttilä hohde," His hand began to shine. After a few seconds, the shine transferred from his hand to blade until he was holding a shimmering sword. With a satisfied smirk, Ernand thought, Light is truly the most useful spell of all time. Brandishing the shining weapon like a torch, he was now able to clearly make out the area around him. What he saw didn't surprise him at all. Numerous fallen trees were scattered about, making a straight path hard to come by. The ground was strewn with dead leaves, which gave a loud crunching noise whenever they were stepped upon.

Ernand continued on for what seemed like hours until he finally had to halt at the base of a towering tree. He had had to recast the Light spell numerous times on his march, and his magicka reserves were starting to get a bit shallow. However, he was no longer in fear of being rundown by angry elves, so he was grateful for the chance to rest. Flopping down, Ernand leaned back against the tree and shut his eyes in the attempt to find sleep. After what seemed like mere minutes, the traveler was roused from his sleep by the snapping of twigs and leaves. Blinking a few times and rubbing his eyes to chase drowsiness away, Ernand raised his head. He thought he was having a nightmare, because in front of his were three pairs of beady red eyes. Goblins.

The cowards they were, the green-skins didn't immediately try to strike at the Breton. Instead, they stalked around him, flanking him on both sides, and cutting off his only route of escape. In their grubby hands they carried crude weapons caked with blood and grime. In their other hand, they held flaming branches that passed for torches among goblin-kind. Drool seeped from their gaping maws as they snarled and chittered at Ernand and at each other. Ernand, meanwhile, had risen to his feet and readied himself for whatever was coming. Luckily, he had had the foresight to sleep with his sword unsheathed, and it was already gleaming in the firelight.

As the goblins then began to advance of him, Ernand took his left hand and pointed it at the creature on that side. "Ampua Keihästää, hehkuttaa," he whispered, and a bolt of flame erupted from his hand, engulfing the goblin in fire. Terrified, the pitiful green-skin fell to the ground and began rolling in an attempt to extinguish the flames. At the sight of their writhing companion, the other two goblins flung themselves at Ernand. With a new path opened, Ernand rolled to his left, narrowly dodging the weapon of the goblin that was in front of him. Deciding to go on the attack, he stepped forward once and lashed out with his blade, the blow connecting with meaty goblin face. Howling in pain and rage, the goblin flung itself and Ernand, only to be skewered on the Breton's weapon.

Wrenching his sword from the dead goblin, Ernand failed to see the blow that connected with his head. He was fortunate that goblins weren't known for their great strength, or else his skull could have caved in. He was lucky to escape contact with the creature's weapon with only a welt, headache, and a slight ringing in his ear. Goblins are never ones for waiting, and it quickly pressed its attack, landing blows all along the councilor's body. Stumbling backwards under the assault, Ernand spread his legs out and let his enemy hit him one more time. Absorbing the blow along his armored torso, he struck with the pommel of his sword onto the goblin's head. The shock was enough to make the goblin hesitate, and in that moment Ernand ended its life with a cross-slash at the base of its neck.

Thinking the battle won, Ernand lowered his sword and surveyed the scene. This proved a mistake when he was jumped from behind. Rolling over, Ernand came face to face with the goblin he had set on fire. Its charred skin oozed blood, but it was still very much alive, and very angry. The pair kicked and snarled at each other until Ernand was able to get a hand free. Latching onto the creature's face, Ernand yelled, "Palava antaa, hehkuttaa!" Ernand's hand erupted it flames, engulfing the goblin's face in fire. Its squeals of pain were cut off when Ernand increased the intensity of the spell, burning away goblin-flesh to expose the bone underneath. Dead, the green-skin fell, and the Breton stood, victorious.

*

Scooping up his fallen sword, Ernand took the chance to investigate his dead adversaries. Kneeling before one, he raised its arms. Spindly. Hardly any muscle on this thing. Wild, perhaps? Taking up its fallen weapon, he looked it over. It was nothing more than a femur of some animal. While he knew that all goblins were savage, he did expect High Elves to at least outfit their slaves with acceptable weaponry. Question is, what are these goblins doing out in the middle of the forest at night? Hunting? No, goblins are day-dwellers. Fleeing, maybe? A large band of elves comes into my territory and I would certainly turn-tale and run.

"Hmph, guess they saw me as an easy meal." Dropping the bone weapon, and kicking the goblin's corpse to make sure it was dead, Ernand sheathed his weapon. Putting his hand to his head, he muttered, "korjaus," and a wave of Restoration magick soothed his aching head. It managed to stop the pain, but the ringing in his ears still persisted. "I'm gonna have to find a healer eventually." Kicking a goblin one more time, Ernand decided not to stick around and was quickly on his way again.

Hours passed, and soon small beams of light were shooting through the canopy above. Day was on its way. Ernand breathed optimism as surely as fished breathed water. Taking the light as a good sign, Ernand began to ascend up a hill. The forest grew thinner as he neared the peak, and when he got their, he was able to look with an unobstructed view of the area. He was heartened, then, by the sight of civilization. Below him, maybe five miles, were a collection of numerous tents and small buildings. Smoke rose towards the sky from these, indicating this was habited.

Let’s see. If Longvale is to the south this must be.... Ernand scratched his head a few times, wincing when he crossed over the bump on his head. "Black Park," he whispered. Thanking Julianos for his tutors’ lessons in geography, he began his descent of the hill, and the short march to the hamlet of Black Park.


This post has been edited by Verlox: Jun 2 2010, 04:00 AM

[haute ecole rider]

Sorry I haven't been keeping up the comments.

Great chapters. The battle with the Goblins in the most recent one was well written, and quite descriptive of their fighting style (all enthusiasm and little finesse).

A few nits, mostly typos:

A large band of elves comes into my territory and I would certainly turn-tale and run.

I think you mean turn tail (two words).

The forest grew thinner as he neared the peak, and when he got their, he was able to look with an unobstructed view of the area.

I think you meant there.

Smoke rose towards the sky from these, indicating this was habited.

It's inhabited.

Looks like your eyes got tired of proofreading towards the end of your chapter, since I didn't notice any glaring ones earlier. I have the same problem, myself!

I liked how you kept Ernand honest and "human" in the sense that he felt frustration at running through an impenetrable forest at night (hence the light spell on his sword), and his optimism returning with the dawn. I also liked how he struggled to remember the name of the village he encountered.

Keep writing this, do. I want to see what happens next.

[Olen]

Wooo! A continuation

I like this piece, especially seeing as the arena (it is base on arena right?) storyline is new to me. I like the character too, he's interesting and has sufficent flaws to be convincing. I want to know more

Good fight scene, are the words you use for the magic made up or based on something?

Haute picked up on all the only typo I saw and otherwise all was good.

More?

[mALX]

Great details and storyline - great write!

[SubRosa]

Yaay! the chap is back! I have been wondering where you have gotten off to Verlox.

What stood out for me here was Ernand's frustration at his clumsy flight through the forest. Being a city boy, it makes perfect sense that he would be out of his depth in a forest at night. His wondering how the elves manage to move around was an especially good touch. As h.e.r. noted, it keeps him very down-to-nirn and believable as a character.

[Verlox]

Chapter Nine: In the Money

The town of Black Park was not a true town. Sitting on the major trade route between the powerful city-states of Falinesti and Silvenar, Black Park resembled a perpetual Merchant’s Fair. Many powerful traders made this place their home, and along with the shop tents, there were numerous small manors.

Having just left the wilds of Valenwood, being amongst civilized people was comforting for the exiled Breton. It had taken him a little over an hour to reach the town, and as he passed over the guarded defensive ditch, the sun was high in the sky. With Magnus giving warmth to the clearing, many people were out and about, bartering their wares, and proclaiming the quality of their goods. Shouts of “hot meat pies” and “good ale” echoed in the air, and Ernand almost felt as if he were in the Market District of Cyrodiil.

But now is not the time for regrets and memories, he thought, Now is the time for action .

Ernand reached into his pocket and fondled the Ruby Key. He was confident that there was at least a single jeweler or collector in Black Park, and with an item so well made as the key, the Breton could have a full money pouch by noon. “Now what was it,” Ernand mused, “Arnulf always said about trading?”

Play your cards right, and you can get a man to sell his own family. Play them wrong, and you’ll be left with nothing, came one of his old tutors voice. Luckily, Ernand had no intention of buying a family; only wanted some money to get him started on wherever he was going. Noon came and went quickly as he went about Black Park's merchant booths, presenting the key. Each trader had been in awe of the thing, eager to get their hands on it. However, they each made it clear that they lacked the money for so fine an object.

Disappointed at not finding a buyer, Ernand decided to take a break from his search. Tromping through the market place, he was eventually attracted to a sweet aroma emanating from a nearby tent across the lane. Making his way to it, he ducked under the flap. The smell of roasting meat assaulted his nostrils, and Ernand eagerly sought out a free table. Picking one near the center of the tent, he weaved through the crowd of people and took a seat. Seconds passed before a waitress materialized at his table.

"What’ll it be?"

"Whatever I smell." The girl giggled, and went off to find the Breton his food. Time passed, and other customers came and went. One that caught Ernand’s eye was quite possibly the most corpulent Bosmer he had ever seen. His great girth, alongside his fine clothing, jewels, and burly Nord bodyguards marked this man as one of wealth. Reaching into his pocket once again to fiddle with the Ruby Key, Ernand got it into his mind that this rich elf may have the money to make a buy. When the waitress returned with his food, he thanked her politely. Plate in had, the councilor weaved over to the table where the fat man sat.

“Get outta here, Breton.” One of the Nords pushed him as he approached, “Lord Ethredor don’t want no company!” Being some inches shorter than the Nord, Ernand was prudent enough to not deal with him. Instead, he called out to Ethredor.

“My lord, please. You look like a man who adores his fineries, and I have something you may wish to see.” Ethredor continued to consume plates of food, as if not hearing the Breton.

The other Nord now began to pressure Ernand. “Didn’t you hear my brother? Lord Ethredor don’t talk to nobody when he’s eating.”

Reaching into his pocket, Ernand withdrew the dazzling treasure. “A man of your stature must see this, my lord. Please, look.” Ethredor’s eyes left his plates of food to see what all the fuss was about. When they locked onto the key, they widened in sheer awe.

“Boys! Boys,” came Ethredor’s squeaky voice, “Let the man by. Don’t you see he has business to discuss.” Inviting the Breton to sit down, something that displeased the Nord brothers greatly, but they let him by. “So,” Ethredor put his hand on the table and leaned in, “Where did you come by such a marvelous treasure?”

Taking his seat, Ernand responded, “An inheritance from my late mother. But I’ve come down on hard times and this is all I have to sell that could fetch me a decent sum.”

“A decent sum, indeed,” Ethredor agreed. “I’ve never seen a ruby cut into this shape before. It’s perfect!” His eyes narrowed then, “But one has to wonder if it’s real.”

“I’ve been seeking a jeweler all day to have it appraised. Unfortunately,” Ernand shrugged, “It has been difficult to find one.”

Clapping his hands together, Ethredor proclaimed, “Well it just so happens I know a man in the market that could appraise this for you. I could take you to him,” then after a pause, “After supper of course. Please, won’t you join me?”

“It would be an honor, my lord.”

The Breton and Bosmer enjoyed the meal set before them. Unlike the elves from the collective, who cared only for their own troubles, Ethredor knew about what was plaguing the Empire. He lamented the fact that the roads weren’t as safe as they used to be; bandits attacking caravans from Arenthia to Haven. He also related to Ernand the rumor that Falinesti and Silvenar’s rivalry was reaching critical proportions.

“And if fighting does break out, Black Park will be the main battleground. Let’s hope it does not come to that.” Wiping his hands on the tablecloth, Ethredor hefted himself from his seat. “Come now, my boy. Let us go and see the man about getting a price for that jewel.”

*

“Good Gods! This thing is a solid ruby!”

Ernand rolled his eyes. Was it so hard to believe that? Did it take a professional jeweler to deduce it? I mean, I can understand being suspicious of a foreigner, but damn. The squat little man continued to extol the virtues of the Ruby Key. Ernand had stopped truly listening minutes ago, and only turned his attention back to the jeweler when he began to talk about money.

“This thing could easily act as a real key,” Ernand laughed a little inside, “The workmanship is topnotch…No, this goes beyond that. It’s like Zenithar himself constructed this masterpiece. I know men who would kill for something like this.” Ernand’s interest was total now.

“So what’s the price tag on this thing?”

“I’d say around 6000 drakes.” The Jeweler turned to Ethredor, “If I were you, I’d buy it for about 4000. The workmanship is just that good.”

Ethredor took the key from his friend, and looked at Ernand. “Well, Breton, does 4000 Imperial Septims strike your fancy? Or do we have to go through the annoying game of haggle?”

Grinning, Ernand shook his head. “I think 4000 sounds fine. I was honestly expecting it to be worth a little less, so this is good news for me. That money ought to serve me well where I’m going.”

Reaching his hand out to take Ernand, Ethredor gave it a good shake, and asked, “Why don’t you stick around for a little while. There is a fair tomorrow, and Black Park is known for having all sorts of interesting merchandise passing through it. You might see something that strikes your fancy. Stay, as my honored guest.”

Ernand would have preferred to leave immediately, and though Ethredor’s request was completely benign, he was nervous around the stout elf’s henchman, eyeing him up and down as they were.

“Well, I might as well stay a little while; get ready for the road and catch some sleep.”


This post has been edited by Verlox: Jun 2 2010, 04:00 AM

[haute ecole rider]

I loved the scene between Ernand and the Nord bodyguards! Especially at the end when they were eyeballing him. Makes me wonder if they are going to toss him for the gold and return it to their master. Yikes!

One nit - likely a result of some editing:

But now is not the time for regrets and memories, he thought, Now is the time for action .

Looks like an extra space snuck in between action and the following period.

Well done! I'm delighted to see this story continue!

[Verlox]

.

This post has been edited by Verlox: Jun 2 2010, 04:02 AM

[SubRosa]

Whew, you surprised me with that quick second post. Good to see Ernand forging ahead. But like Haute, I have the sneaking suspicion that a couple of Nords are going to try to murder him during the night to get that 4,000 back...

[Verlox]

Chapter Ten: Spite Part I

Day dawned over Black Park, and all but the poor were still shut up in the homes. A storm had rolled in late the day before, and rain was still coming down. Merchants had taken their goods indoors, leaving empty booths scattered about the muddy square.

Locked up within Ethredor’s manor house, Ernand sat with the giant Bosmer as the elf droned on about the recent happenings within Tamriel. As a merchant, he could not be indifferent to news coming in from the other provinces, and he regaled his Breton guest with a tale from up north.

“And the Count of Bravil was executed for conspiracy to assassinate the Emperor,” Ethredor said after he drained another glass of Valenwood brew. “The executioner was ill, I heard, so the authorities had simply thrown Bravil into the lake to be devoured by slaughterfish. Nasty business that.”

Ernand grimaced at Ethredor’s story. While he wouldn’t put it past the count to conspire against the Imperial Crown, knowing that Tharn was impersonating the Emperor made him regret that the count was no tsuccessful. If Bravil had been, Ernand thought, he wouldn’t be sitting with a greedy little Bosmer, sharing a drink.

“Something wrong, Ernand?”

The Breton was jogged from his thoughts when Ethredor spoke.

“What? Oh, sorry. No, nothings wrong. You’re right, nasty business about Bravil. Do you think he was really planning to assassinate the Emperor?”

“Honestly?” Ethredor smirked a little between gulping down more of the brew, “No. It was a political execution. The Count of Bravil was a malcontent with a large Nibenean following. It makes sense to me that an Emperor can’t let a man like that live. I don’t understand why he didn’t do it sooner.”

I do. Emperor Uriel would have never condoned such an act, Ernand thought, he would have found another way. Chugging down his brew, Ernand grimaced at the taste. “I have ask, Ethredor, what is this? It tastes a lot like Nordic mead, but we’re too far south to find any of that.”

“Ah, this is a special Valenwood brew. Tree sap, some fruits, a touch of moon sugar, and then fermented under intense pressure and heat.”

“Isn’t moon sugar illegal?”

“Yes,” Ethredor grinned, “But who is going to stop us? If you hadn’t noticed Imperial garrisons now days are hardly anything to worry about.”

Ernand leaned forward in his seat, tilting his head to one side, “And that doesn’t strike you as odd? Not three months ago all the garrisons were at full-strength and cracking down on crime. What do you think made that change?”

Ethredor hummed and thought to himself for a minute before snapping his chubby fingers together, “That war up north, of course! Nasty business that.”

The Breton and the Bosmer passed a few more hours in discussion with each other before the rains finally let up around Noon. Instantly, Black Park seemed to spring to life as merchants and workers burst from their homes and began to set up tents and restock their booths. Ethredor had excused himself to go look in on his shop, leaving Ernand alone to pursue his own interest until the Merchant Fair started that night.

Getting up from his chair, Ernand left the den, stepping out into a hallway. Taking a right, he proceeded down until he reached Ethredor’s Foyer. There, the Breton stopped, and even took a slight step back. The large oaken door was flanked by the two Nord brothers who were Ethredor’s bodyguards. They regarded the smaller Breton with smirks on their faces. Neither of them carried their weapons, unlike Ernand who was armed, but they weren’t at all diminished by the lack.

Swallowing, Ernand stepped forward, and boldly said, “Excuse me, gentlemen. Business to attend to outside.” They didn’t move, and the older of the two brothers challenged Ernand.

“Did Lord Ethredor give you permission to leave, witchman?”

“No,” Ernand dropped his hand to rest on the pommel of his sword, “Unlike you and your oaf of a brother, I am not a servant of his. I may come and go as I please!” Ernand’s brash statement enflamed both Nords and they stopped lounging by the door and stepped towards him.

“You better apologize for that, Breton. If you do, maybe we won’t break all your bones!”

“Sure that’s a good idea?” Ernand asked contemptuously, “I don’t think Ethredor would be very pleased to find his honored guest mangled. He might even turn you two over to the authorities, and I’m sure the Bosmer would love to get their hands on a couple of Nords.”

The threat of an ancient hatred seemed to get through to the Nord brothers, and they slowly backed down from confrontation. As Ernand scornfully brushed by them and out the door, he heard one of the brothers call out, “You watch your back, Breton! Tonight I’ll have your head!”

Ernand frowned.

*

Tromping down the muddy lane the cut through Black Park, Ernand made his way from the manors of the rich merchants and into the settlement’s square. All around him was hustle-and-bustle as the merchants and workers labored to get ready in time for that night’s fair. The mud gushed under him as he continued on until he reached the town’s stables.

Ernand brushed the mud from his boots before stepping into the dimly lit building. The smell of horses was quite strong, and Ernand wrinkled his nose at it. The front of the stables shop was rather sparse; more of a sitting room than anything else, but the Breton knew that business would be conducted in the stable-proper. What he did notice was a long bell-rope dangling from above. Moving over to it, he pulled three times, the bell above clanging in tandem with his pulls, and then he waited.

Only a few minutes passed by before a wild-eyed Bosmer came bursting from a backdoor. “Well, hey-hi-howdy, sir! Sorry that took so long, was just getting finished shooing a big ol’ hoss. What can I help you with?”

“Ah, yes. I need a horse. Nothing special.”

The little Bosmer regarded the Breton with astonishment. “Sir,” he began, “You are the first person in this entire town to ask for something simple. Rich merchants are always here buying expensive, well-bred horses, so I stock quite a few of those. But since that’s not what you want, you and I may have to go do some looking. Follow me.” The Bosmer led Ernand out the backdoor and into the stables, where the smell of horse was most powerful.

Ernand spent the next hour with the Bosmer looking over numerous steeds. The Breton learned his name was Malgoth, but everyone just called him Moth because he could flit from one subject to another quickly. “Most people don’t care to look at the horse before they buy it. They trust me enough to do all the checking for them. Why do you think they’re like that?”

“Well,” Ernand brushed the back of his neck, removing some hay left over from having to dive into a hay pile to avoid a horse-kick, “They’re merchants. Fat merchants. They don’t want to leave the comfort of their homes to buy a horse.”

Moth laughed with Ernand. “I see you’ve met Lord Ethredor. I didn’t know we Bosmer were able to get that large.”

“I’m actually staying with that man until tomorrow. I’ve seen what he eats, and it doesn’t surprise he’s as fat as he is.” Ernand stepped in to another stall after Moth, this one containing a massive draught horse. “Now this is what Ethredor probably needs to get around, but it may also suit my purpose.”

“You going to be doing some hauling?” Moth asked.

“No, it’s for riding. But I need something that has endurance and strength.”

“Well, this creature may be just what you need.” Moth began by measuring the animal, the creature topping out at eighteen hands high at the withers. The speckled gray coat was healthy, and the well-muscled limbs showed off the steed’s great power. “So shall I start estimating a price, sir?”

Ernand stroked his chin, looking the animal up and down. After a few moments, he muttered, “Yeah. This is what I’m looking for. How much?”

“Well, demand for something like this is pretty low around here. And…Well, you seem like a pretty good person; a better person than a lot of the other Bosmer around here. And you seem to know your horses!” Moth grinned shyly as Ernand smirked. “So I think I can let it go for about nine-hundred, with an additional hundred for a day of stabling and feed. So a thousand total. Quite a deal if I do say so myself.”

“It’s acceptable.” Ernand reached down and took five pouches from his belt. “Each sack contains two-hundred septims.” Moth took the hefty pouches, holding them under his arms. He noticed that the Breton seemed to stand a little taller with that money gone. “So do you think business if going to be good for you during the fair?”

“Oh yes! All those merchants will needs new horses and wagons to transfer all their goods. There’s no better time for me, actually.” Ernand and Moth left the stables and back into the main room. The Bosmer noticed two his stable hands lounging in a couple of chairs, and he ordered, “Why don’t you two go take the horse to stall thirteen to the overnight stables. I want it fed and brushed down by tonight.”

After the stable hands left, Moth flopped down in a chair near the door. He motioned for Ernand to do the same, then asked, “So what brings a Breton down into Valenwood?”

Ernand shifted in his seat, “You know, just passing through.” His thoughts then jumped back to the trouble between Bragor’s Collective and Longvale. “I was employed down in Longvale. Things were getting nasty so I left.”

“I guess that would explain the elven armor,” Moth pointed out, “You don’t see that kind of stuff on many Bretons.”

“Indeed,” Ernand said slowly, “Altmer want their mercenaries to be well armed.”

Ernand and Moth passed a few more hours in conversation until a bell resounded loudly some distance away. Moth flicked his head up, and a grin crossed his face. “And that would be the bell calling us all to mass, I suppose?” Ernand joked.

“Nah; Merchant Fair. A lot like mass in Black Park, though.” Standing from their seats, Moth bade farewell to Ernand. Leaving the smelly stables, Ernand noticed that people were all over the place, drinks in the hands, and other haggling for wares. While they did not know it, the people of Black Park had sprung to life to pay homage to Zenithar.

Ernand’s mood swelled as he regarded the scene before him, and he soon was swept up into a passing crowd, propelling him to Black Park’s square where the main festivities were going on. There, numerous merchants were hawking their wares, straining their voices over the din of the crowd. While he was interested in their goods, Ernand forbore to take part in the economic side of the fair. Instead, he gravitated over towards the eastern quarter of the square where a small arena had been set up.

The Breton remember going to the Imperial Arena in Cyrodiil. The grandeur, and the pomp and ceremony, had always been his main draw. Safe within his balcony seat, the former councilor was well away from the blood, dirt, and sweat of the combatants. This was not so in Black Park. Here he had a front-row seat to the real violence of an arena. The grunts and howls of the fighters, coupled with a close-up view of savage beatings, actually made Ernand’s stomach turn. He was about to leave the scene when he felt a large hand clamp down on his shoulder. Turning his head, he winced when he saw Ethredor’s Nord guards.

“Good, you’re here. I was afraid we were gonna have to kill you in a alley or something,” the elder brother, a giant with a shaggy black mane and piercing blue eyes. Ernand tried to pull away, but the Nord’s greater strength held the Breton in place. “As soon as this fight’s done, me and you are gonna step into the ring.”

“You and I,” Ernand said dryly to cover up the hint of fear, “It’s not ‘me and you’, it’s ‘you and I’.” Seeing the Nord’s confusion, Ernand couldn’t help but dig further. “I suppose it makes sense that a savage like yourself—“ He was cut off when the Nord swung him around, pulled back his fist, and slammed it right into the Breton’s midsection, sending Ernand to his knees.

The crowd around the crude arena silenced, even the combatants stopped their fight when they saw another one brewing. The only sound that could be heard was the distant ruckus from the merchants, the wheezing sound of the Breton breathing.

“Teach you to make fun of me,” the Nord gloated as his brother guffawed, “And that’s just a taste of what’s coming.” Brushing past the toppled Breton, the Nord brothers began to threaten the Bosmer fighters in the arena to finish up quickly.

Meanwhile, Ernand was taking in shallow bits of air to get his breath back. The Nord’s punch had not only sent him to the ground, but knocked the wind out of him. He could hear the Nords making threats, and being a general nuisance. Unsteadily, Ernand got to his feet and turned to face the barbarians, whose back were turned to him as they harangued the Bosmeri fighters in the ring. The brothers were given a great deal of space by the other fair-goers, and a great space surrounded them. In that moment, Ernand knew what he had to do.

Raising his mailed hand, he outstretched his pointer finger. Focusing his magicka, he began to mutter to himself. Bosmeri eyes were on him now; their sight centered on the small, glowing orb that was shimmering at the tip of his finger. Slowly, it grew brighter and brighter until it was hard to look at directly. Finally, Ernand said, not loudly but forcefully, “Palava Rausku!” The orb seemed to convulse, becoming flat and elongated. The Breton’s magicka then sent the burning bolt soaring towards the Nords.

The Bosmeri mass cheered when the Breton’s spell connected with the elder Nord’s rear-end. The savage yelped, swatting at his butt in an attempt to put out the fire that was growing. His brother, panicking, did nothing. The fire was quenched before it could become any larger, but the spell had served the purpose of igniting another flame. One of anger. Twisting to face the Breton, who was grinning unrepentantly, the Nord’s fury spewed forth in a burst of profanity colorful enough to widen Ernand’s eyes.

“You sorry sack of guar dung!” the Nord howled, “I’ll get you for that. Sven!” He looked at his brother, “Clear those misbegotten elves from the arena. I’m tired of waiting to crush this witchman’s skull.” Sven complied with his brother’s command, wading into the arena to separate the Bosmeri fighters. The elder Nord them vaulted over the fence, calling out to Ernand, “We’re settling this now. You and me, Breton!”

With his wind back, Ernand drew his curved elven blade. The crowd was hushed as the councilor moved through them and into the arena. Sven had disappeared for a few moments, quickly materializing at his brother’s side with a hefty hammer.

Ernand knew he could expect no mercy from the enraged Nord. If he lost, he would die. Spreading his legs, Ernand lowered himself closer to the ground and raised his sword overhead, the blade shimmering in the sun that had burst through the clouds. His armor seemed gilded in light as Magnus’s rays shone upon it, and the Bosmer crowd was hard-pressed to look directly at the Breton.

The battle in the forest against the goblins was different than this, Ernand thought; it had been a surprise attack. But it was also carried out by significantly weaker opponents. This was different. The Nord was in peak physical condition, and he hefted his heavy weapon as if it was a small building hammer. In a toe-to-toe fight, Ernand knew there was no way he could win; if the Nord got a hold of him, his life was over. Magick, the Breton knew, would be the key to this battle.

Lets just hope Ria’s lessons are enough.


This post has been edited by Verlox: Jun 2 2010, 04:02 AM

[haute ecole rider]

Talk about a cliffhanger! Yeow!

How long will that big grey horse have to wait for Ernand now?

More. Please.

[SubRosa]

Good bit of keeping us up to date on what Jagar Tharn is doing through Ernand's conversation with Ethredor. It all flows out very naturally, without feeling like an info-dump.

When Ethredor mentioned the special Valenwood brew, I was half-expecting it to have elven/human blood in it!

More fun with the Nords I see! As I expected. I thought you wrote the confrontation in the arena stands well, Enand's nettling them over their grammar, the punch in the gut and its effects, and especially the Flare to the butt! All very well done. Now a cliffhanger!


nits:

that the count was no tsuccessful
Looks like your "t" was conspiring to secede from the rest of "not".


Taking a right, he proceeded down until he reached Ethredor’s Foyer
foyer ought to be in small caps here.


All those merchants will needs new horses and wagons to transfer all their goods.
I am thinking you wanted need here? (but since it is dialogue, I am not sure).


The Breton remember going to the Imperial Arena in Cyrodiil.
That should be remembered there.


whose back were turned to him as they harangued the Bosmeri fighters in the ring.
that is backs.


The brothers were given a great deal of space by the other fair-goers, and a great space surrounded them.
You have the word space twice in the same sentence here, and the entire second half of the sentence seems unnecessary. I think you can just delete everything after the comma.

[mALX]

Now there is some Arena action done by a pro!!!!! Great Write!

[Verlox]

Chapter Eleven: Spite Part II and Fang Lair Revealed

Terror. That feeling of overwhelming fear that strikes at the worst of times. When one’s flight or fight system chooses flight, but is unable to run. Chills go down the spine, and focus is impossible. The feeling when a hammer wielding savage, intent on crushing your skull, is charging at you with a blood-curdling yell.

Ernand had known fear before. The revelation that Jagar Tharn had killed Ria and was impersonating the Emperor, and he the only current one able to do anything about it, hadn’t exactly filled him with positive thoughts. But that was a far-off goal, one that could be accepted during the passage of time. An angry Nord wanting to kill him, though, made the Breton’s legs quiver.

Helm, as Sven had called his older brother, had no finesse. But what he lacked their, he made up in sheer ferocity. Due to the weight of the hammer, and Helm’s lack of skill, Ernand didn’t find it incredibly difficult to dodge a swing aimed at his head. Ducking to avoid the blow, the Breton struck with the hilt of his sword at the Nord’s left knee. Howling in pain, Helm wavered for a moment. Time bought, Ernand danced away to the opposite end of the small arena.

Distance achieved, Ernand extended his finger, muttering, “Palava Puhkaista,” and a dart of faint flame shot from it, striking Helm at the small of his back. Ernand winced when he noticed the spell only served to enrage the Nord further.

Excellent, Ernand thought, I’ve turned a angry Nord into a maddened killing machine. No sooner as the thought entered his mind that Helm was on him again. Unable to get away, the Breton was forced to accept the blow. Luckily, in his enraged state, Helm was targeting the Breton’s torso. The Nord’s hammer crashing against the elven mithril made all sorts of noises, but the crunching of bones was not among them.

Recovering from the beating, Ernand flicked his sword out, slashing along the Nord’s unprotected torso. Reeling back, Helm clutched at his chest, blood welling up in his fingers. Not willing to endure the fight anymore, Ernand raised his sword again.

The sun flashed on the blade as it went down, blinding those following it. The next thing the spectators heard was an animalistic roar, and the clunk of a heavy object falling onto the ground. The crowd of Bosmeri fair-goers had fallen silent as they gazed at the sight before them. Helm had collapsed to his knees; his bloody hand that was once at his chest was now clutching the bleeding stump where his right hand had once been. The Breton victor was slouched, the tip of his sword resting on the ground. His breaths were coming in heavy gasps, and he seemed on the verge of falling down. His once glistening armor was dull, covered in the blood of his defeated foe, and the dust kicked up during combat.

Sven, seeing his defeated brother, roared and bounded over the arena fence. The crowd screamed when it seemed that the other Nord was going to tackle the Breton. In the short time Ernand had to respond, he managed to raise his blade. But he never got the chance to do anything.

“Kantamus!” The cry came from behind the crowd. A bolt of blue energy flew towards Sven, striking him fully. He screamed as he crashed to the ground, sending dust into the air. “Alright, everyone shows over. Go somewhere else.” The edge of authority was within the voice of this newcomer, and the people grudgingly left the scene of the brawl, muttering in discontent. When the crowd had dispersed, the three fighters all stared in shock at the remaining man, the fat merchant Ethredor.

“So, Ernand, I leave you alone for a few hours and this is how you amuse yourself. Maiming one of my employees.”

“Ethredor? How did you—what is going on?”

The merchant laughed shrilly, his chin-fat jiggling as he did. “Did you think I wouldn’t hear about this?” Ethredor saw Ernand’s face drop, “Black Park isn’t very big, and there is little that happens here that I don’t know about. Actually,” the merchant raised his plump fingers to his chubby chin, “It was Malgoth, the Stable Master, who alerted me to this ruckus. Are you hurt bad?”

Ernand shook his head. “I don’t think so. I might be severely bruised, but I think I’ll live.”

“Good!” Ethredor nodded. “Why don’t you head back to the manor; get yourself cleaned up. I’ll deal with these two ruffians.” Ernand nodded in agreement and silently left the scene. He hadn’t bothered to sheathe his sword, and it dragged on the ground as the Breton stumbled up the lane back towards the manor quarter.

Ethredor’s eyes followed the receding form the Ernand until the Breton at last disappeared as he rounded a corner. Nodding, he casted his eyes about, assuring himself no one was about. When this was done he turned blazing eyes back towards Helm and Sven. “Idiots,” he growled, “What were you fools doing challenging that Breton? I thought I made it clear to you both that you weren’t to pick fights anymore!”

Sven, still be crushed into the ground by Ethredor’s burden spell, squeaked, “He insulted us! Called us fools!”

“You are fools!” Ethredor put his fingers to his temples and rubbed slightly. “Do you two even understand the possible consequences of what you’ve done? This could very well lead to an investigation!”

“But,” Helm gasped in pain as he tried to speak, “Didn’t the Master say—say that we would not be looked into?”

“There’s always one amongst the guards who is an idealist,” the Bosmer scoffed, “And though guards love gold, they love fame even more.” Ethredor’s eyes then locked onto Helm’s severed hand. “For Dagon’s sake, pick it up and go see if a healer can reattach it.”

“Of course, Lord Asuul—,” Helm’s words were cut off when he too was crushed into the ground when Ethredor cast a burden spell on him.

“Idiot oaf! King of Fools! I ordered you to never address me by that name in public!” A white orb began to form in Ethredor’s hand, and soon a swirling ball of electrical energy was trembling there. “You will never call me that again, whelp!” The orb flew from Ethredor’s hand and struck Helm’s prone body. Screams of intense pain erupted from the Nord’s mouth, and then were suddenly silenced. When the electricity stopped bouncing over his body, smoke began to rise from Helm.

“You—you killed him….” Sven turned his head from his brother to Ethredor with much difficulty, and he gazed at the fat Bosmer in total alarm, “You slew my brother. Why?”

“I do not suffer fools gladly. Nay, I do suffer them at all!” Ethredor waddled over to the smoking corpse of Helm and kicked it a few times with a stubby foot. He then glared at Sven, “Be sure you—,”

“What’s going on?”

Ethredor’s sight snapped to the location of the new voice. Up the lane which Ernand had taken stood the small form of Bosmer Stable Master, Malgoth. “Master Ethredor?”

“Ah, Mr. Malgoth…Uh, ahem…Well this is an odd situation isn’t it?” Ethredor smiled at the Bosmer, whose eyes were now locked on the smoking corpse of Helm. “Oh, no need to stare at this,” Ethredor said as he stepped between Moth and the body, “The man wouldn’t see reason, you see. I had to put him down.”

“You murdered my brother!” Sven sobbed into the dirt, “Murderer!”

“I’m—I’m going to go get the watch.” Moth took a few steps away from the now frowning merchant, then turned on his heel and attempted to flee. He only got a few feet before he heard “panna vankilaan,” and he felt something hit his back. Instantly, his body lost function, and his paralyzed body keeled over backwards, his eyes staring up into the sky.

“You know, you could have avoided this.” Moth could hear the merchant’s heavy footfall next to his ear. “You could have just accepted my story, and cared no more for the matter. So a Nord died. Personally, I think that would have pleased an elf like you.” Slowly, Moth’s body rose back to standing, completely still as if he was a statue. “But you wouldn’t accept that.”

“Yo—you—you aren’t Ethredor,” Moth managed to croak.

“Well, there was never an Ethredor to begin with.” Gradually, Moth could see the fat merchant’s visage chance. He started to grow taller and the fat disappeared from his body. The jolly Bosmer face was replaced with one almost skeletal in appearance, and the merchant’s fine clothes were replaced with extravagant green robes. The face grinned at Moth, revealing sharp pointed teeth. “There is no Ethredor,” it growled, “There is only Pergan Asuul!”

No scream ever escaped Malgoth’s mouth.

*

“Ahhh; oh yeah. This feels good.” Submerged in the steaming water, Ernand moaned in contentment. The soothing water eased the pains of his body, just recently battered by a Nord’s hammer.

The bathroom was quenched of all but a few candles. It was dark and serene, and Ernand would have had it no other way. Moments of peace had been rare for the Breton the last weeks, and he seized the chance to forget his troubles. Forget Tharn. Forget the Emperor. Forget Ria—Ernand snapped his head up, his brow creasing and a disturbed look on his face.

No, I must not forget, he thought, Ria is dead. Emperor Uriel, imprisoned. And that apostate, Tharn, sits on the throne. I must not forget.

These revelations sapped much of the enjoyment Ernand was getting out of his bath. The water was still warm and comforting, but his thoughts were clouded with foreboding. Cursing silently to himself, Ernand reached under the water, his hand scraping along the well-sanded floor of the tub for the drain plug. The bath had gone on long enough, and Ernand saw no more point in continuing.

Popping the plug, the Breton stood from the rapidly draining tub. Stepping out, he searched for a towel. The bathroom wasn’t very big, and he had little trouble spotting the leaf-green cloth, even in the scant light. Patting himself dry, he wrapped the towel around his naked waist then moved over to the door.

Opening it slightly, Ernand peeked his head out. The bathroom door opened out into a long hallway. Unlike the bathroom, the hallway boasted large windows at both ends, filling it with light. He could hear the bustle of Ethredor’s servants, but there were none about the hall. Stepping lightly, Ernand left the bathroom and proceeded to the chamber that had been put aside for him.

He was almost there when the towel around his waist slipped. “Damnation,” he swore as he scooped down to pick the object up. As he latched onto the towel, he heard the shutting of a door then a loud intake of breath. Craning his neck from his bent over position, he spotted one of Ethredor’s servants, a pretty Bosmer girl. “Oh jeez…Um, hi there,” the servant just stared at the naked Ernand, “I’m just—uh—just heading back to my chamber. Um, y’know, just going—going…um---excuse me!” Hastily wrapping the towel around his waist again, the Breton fled from the paralyzed Bosmer.

Flinging the door to his chamber open, Ernand stomped in, fuming. “Idiot,” he growled to himself, “How hard can it be to secure a damned towel!” Ernand sighed as he sat down on the feather bed. Turning his head to look at the inviting pillow, he realized how tired he really was. “Yeah…Sleep is probably what I need right now. A short nap ought to do me some good.” Stripping off the towel and throwing it to the floor, he crawled under the sheets of the bed. Resting his head on the pillow, he shut his eyes and was soon asleep.

*

A swirling mist surrounded the Breton, making it difficult to make out his surroundings. To Ernand, it felt as if he were floating. As he swam through the fog, he was soon stopped by an unseen force. The mist began to thicken, and began to form itself into a shape. Afraid, Ernand sought to swim away, but turning to flee only accomplished him running into another invisible wall.

Do not be afraid, Lochlainn. It is I, your friend, Ria. I see you have managed to get into trouble since your escape from Tharn’s grasp. I congratulate you on that. But now is not the time for praise. From out of the mist, Ria stepped forth. She looked no different than the time he appeared to him in prison and Ernand stopped trying to flee. Raising her hand, she began to swirl the vapor around her until it coalesced into the form of a great fortress high among the clouds.

This is the Fang Lair, once the home of the Rourken dwarves. Here, Tharn has hidden a piece of the Staff of Chaos. I do not know the ruin’s exact location, I only know that it sits high above a great desert. I am sorry I can’t tell you more.

Ernand awoke with a great gasp. Cold sweat was dripping off him, and his breathing was light and fast. The chamber lay under a blanket of shadows, and the Breton deduced his short nap had gone on much longer than he had anticipated.

“Fang Lair,” he whispered. The words brought back his dream of Ria to crystal clarity, her words being burnt into his mind. “It seems I must make for Hammerfell.” Ernand sighed and flopped back onto his pillow. “Why couldn’t Ria find a staff piece a little closer?”


This post has been edited by Verlox: Jun 2 2010, 04:03 AM