Interregnum, 854 of the Second Era Options

[haute ecole rider]

I have loved seeing Hoag Merkiller yet again, in all his oversized glory!

And I have said it before, I'll say it again: Don't dis the Elf!

The emotions during the Council feel very real; the aftermath of the battle in the middle just as devastating. It reminds me of one of the Scottish battles (I can't remember which, maybe the Battle of Glenumbria Moor?), where an entire clan was decimated, and the course of history for Scotland and England changed forever.

And Lattia returning to herself under a huge burden of exhaustion and pain is likewise devastating, albeit on a more personal level.

This chapter is even more enjoyable the second time through!

[SubRosa]

A solid conclusion to what you set up last post. The council was very well portrayed, showing the very common suspicion and open antagonism that exists between allies of necessity rather than preference. Many times IRL history such alliances fell apart due to the in-fighting between its members.

I also noticed that you conspicuously avoided showing us the battle itself. Obviously this is to keep Aran's secret magic weapon, well... a secret. That is not a complaint, rather I think it is a good idea to reserve the specific knowledge of that for when it is actually put into use.

It does make me wonder what sort of magic it might be that would win a battle though. When you look at the magic presented in the games none of it seems truly powerful enough to have a battle-winning power. You have area effect destruction spells, but those tend to do little actual damage and cost a lot of magicka. Of course the other side would have the same weapons in its arsenal as well too. One would need a huge amount of highly skilled spellcasters for that to really pay off. Sort of like having an entire army of Navy Seals today.

I would imagine that something more like training every soldier in an army to use a few novice level spells, like a healing spell and a shield spell, would actually be worth more in the long run. Especially if you combine it with the practice of rotating soldiers to and from the front of the battle line. So they fight for maybe five or ten minutes, then go to the back of the file and recast their heal minor wounds over and over until it is their turn to step up to the front of the line again. Then they cast their 5% shield and go at it. That however would require a very professional, permanent army, that only a society with a lot of money could afford to maintain.

Another thought is to have your magicians stand at the back of your army, and cast convalescence spells on the soldiers who come back wounded. Then they can go back into the battle. That would give an army an incredible amount of staying power (staying power was the secret of the Roman's success in battle, they rarely used brilliant tactics). Again, it would require a very professional army to pull it off.

So my thoughts are that whatever magic won the battle of Glenumbria Moors was something not regularly available to our characters in the games. Like the Thu'um power. Maybe something created in a lengthy ritual performed by expert magicians (like the Psijics...), or from some lost ancient Daedric/Aedra artifact (remembers Lattia making a pact with Clavicus Vile...). I cannot wait to see what you pull out of your helmet!

This post has been edited by SubRosa: May 29 2010, 01:14 AM

[Olen]

It reminds me of one of the Scottish battles (I can't remember which, maybe the Battle of Glenumbria Moor?), where an entire clan was decimated, and the course of history for Scotland and England changed forever.

I'm confused by this... The vision was of Glenumbria Moor which was in High Rock not Scotland (though it might not always appear so we are not totally fictional). But I agree it put me in mind of reconstructions I've seen of battles, most firmly (possibly the one you meant) being Flodden Field which had a similar end.

[mALX]

I love how detailed you made her return from the spell that carried them back in time - that was so much more realistic than if she had not experienced jet-lag type symptoms - AWESOME WRITE!!!

[Destri Melarg]

Olen – Like you I believe that if history teaches us anything it is that the larger/better equipped/more disciplined army doesn’t always win the battle.

To answer your question; right now I am just finishing the month of First Seed, which places me about a month and a half ahead of where you are in the story.

haute – Revisiting Hoag is still kind of bittersweet for me because I know that he has to die at the Battle of Glenumbria Moors, which I hate. I would love to do something with him and Rislav. According to Rislav the Righteous both were in attendance at the coronation of the Emperor Goerius on the 23rd of Sun’s Dawn, 1E 461. Rislav was 13, the fifth and forgotten child of the King of Skingrad, Mhorus. Hoag was about the same age following his father Kjoric the White, King of Skyrim. Also in attendance that day were Indoril Nerevar (presumably with his wife, Almalexia) and Dumac Dwarfking representing Resdayn. And a young mer in the service of the royal court of High Rock named Ryan Direnni. To me the idea of all those different personalities mingling with each other against the backdrop of White Gold Tower is just ripe with possibility!!

SubRosa – I think that anytime you take a group of people who are all used to calling the shots within their own sphere of influence and put them into a room together they are going to butt heads. It almost makes you wonder how anything ever gets done in politics (until, of course, you realize that nothing ever gets done).

I confess that my reason for keeping the action of the battle offstage had nothing whatsoever to do with some secret weapon of Aran’s. It had more to do with the fact that I had just shown a full scale engagement in the month of Morning Star and I didn’t want to repeat myself. Showing the actual battle of Glenumbria Moors contributes nothing to move the story forward. It is the aftermath of the battle that is important because it puts both Aran and Lattia on paths that they would not have otherwise taken.

If I am not mistaken, you description of rotating soldiers exactly mirrors the historic workings of the Spartan phalanx (without the healing spells, of course). I have no idea what kind of magic would be employed to win a battle. I imagine it would be something along the lines of what the Psijic Order did during the War of the Isle:

The War of the Isle, in 3E 110, twelve years after Antiochus assumed the throne, nearly took the province of Summurset Isle away from Tamriel. The united alliance of the kings of Summerset and Antiochus only managed to defeat King Orgnum of the island-kingdom of Pyandonea due to a freak storm. Legend credits the Psijic Order of the Isle of Artaeum with the sorcery behind the tempest.

As for what I’m going to pull out of my helmet, well . . . that would be telling! I will only say that this story is not going to go the way that you think.

mALX – I am glad that you, haute, and Olen all commented on the price of magic. It is something that I don’t think is adequately explored either in the games or in the lore. A spell along the lines of the one cast by Lattia would require an immense amount of magicka to perform. I see it as a far more powerful variation of the Mark/Recall spells from Morrowind. The difference here though is that, since the caster is seeking to travel through time, he/she must give themselves over to beings not bound by space and time. Beings like the followers of Magnus who are trapped in Aetherius, or the denizens of Oblivion who are allowed free rein on this plane because there are no Dragonfires to keep them at bay.

At least that’s how I see it.

* * *

9th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Abandoned Cave, Somewhere in the Valus Mountains
Morning


For a month they were trapped in the cave. They huddled together at first to preserve what heat their cold blood could provide. Their only contact with the outside world came in the form of gusts of icy wind that blasted through the cave entrance as the mountain was buffeted by a series of blizzards. After the first week the drifts covered the entrance. Darkness claimed their hold on each other, for though they had enough air they did not want to waste it to fuel a torch. They grew weak from the endless days without feeding. Tongues froze inside their mouths, which stopped conversation. The only sound was their shivering and the muffled shrill howl of the wind.

While his syffim drifted into hibernation, the Chevalier Renald kept the watch even in darkness. He remained those long weeks alone with his thoughts, listening until he could identify each of them by the sound of their breathing. Eesham-Sha’s breath was quick, shallow, clamoring for more than his share of the air that remained in the cave. For every one breath of the others, Eesham claimed two. For Chirasch-Xun breathing was a duty that he performed as dispassionately as any other. Each exhale sent a low rumble through the cave that fought with the sound of the outside wind for dominance. Xarsien-Ves did not breathe at regular intervals. When he did the sound often escaped Renald. When he could be heard the breath was cautious, deliberate. Have I doomed them to a fool’s errand? Renald thought in the darkness, I will not let them die here. They will not suffer like Akal. When we leave this mountain my syffim will still be four.

On the thirty-second day a tenuous shaft of light entered the cave. Renald nearly wept at the sight. The sun melted a small hole in the drift that plugged the entrance. Weak as they were it took a full day to cut the hole large enough to breathe the cold, thin air. There was no need to persuade them to leave the cave. Each had seen his fill of snow. They followed Renald down the mountain.

_____

11th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Shadowgate Pass, West of Kragenmoor
Dusk


“Goblins,” Eesham whispered, his forked tongue tasting the air.

Renald’s tongue caught the scent, it came from over the tree-lined ridge in the distance. With the setting sun in their eyes conditions were not ideal for a hunt. The relative warmth of the lowlands had returned a semblance of their former strength, and feeding was a distant memory for all of them. Goblins were mana from Nirn.

“We shall take them,” said Renald, unsheathing his katana.

Eesham grinned and twin katanas leaped from the crossed scabbards on his back. Chirasch reached for his dai-katana. Xarsien stood armed with katana and shield. Without a word being spoken they spread into battle formation and slithered on their bellies up the ridge.

The goblins were three in number, barely visible in the shade of the trees behind them. They led four tethered sheep slowly north through the pass. Xarsien’s head bent to the side, his questioning eyes found Renald.

They must have raided a farm, thought Renald, but since when do goblins favor lamb? He shook his head to Xarsien. Using hand signals, he ordered his syffim to follow them. Chirasch and Xarsien slid down the ridge silently and crossed the path behind the goblins. On the opposite side they took to the trees. Renald led Eesham up into the trees on their side of the path. They hemmed in the goblins and followed them from the boughs above.

The path began to climb back into the mountain. The fading light made the goblins harder to see. Daylight would soon be spent, thought Renald, if they were going to feed, it would be better while there was still light to see.

The lead goblin stopped and tested the air with his nose. Renald tensed, but the wind was still right. There was no way that his syffim was compromised. The lead goblin turned and walked up a dirt rise toward a low overhang of rock directly beneath Renald’s perch. His companions stayed with the sheep on the path below. Now is the time, Renald thought. He used his hands to give his orders, and his syffim moved as one.

Eesham used his tail to push off into space. From across the path Chirasch and Xarsien followed. For a brief instant all three Tsaesci hung suspended in the air over the hapless goblins. Each found his target simultaneously, knocking all three goblins to the ground. Their screams pierced the still air. The startled sheep felt the hold on the tether give way, and bolted back down the path. Each of his syffim used their arms and tails to engulf and pin a goblin. Their necks bent as one, and sharp fangs broke the skin on the goblins’ throats. The green bodies twitched in the folds of the Tseasci tails as their lifeblood was drained from them. The shrill screams faded with the last dregs of sunlight as the pass was plunged into darkness.

Renald left his perch and slithered down the trunk of the tree. He could hear the almost gentle sucking as his syffim fed. Xarsien lifted his head from the still twitching goblin. His eyes showed red in the light of the new moon. Blood stained his fangs and dripped from the side of his mouth.

“My lord,” he said, “you must feed.”

“I shall, but not yet. Gather your strength.” Renald pulled a branch from the tree. He pulled a piece of cloth from the goblin under Eesham and fashioned a makeshift torch. Eesham produced a flint from a pouch worn around his neck and returned to his feed. Renald lit the torch and amber light fell on what lay below the overhang.

A rusted mine car lay on its side, next to a weathered wooden door which led into the side of the mountain. The trees and the overhang made the door nearly impossible to see from the trail. Goblin tracks marked the soil leading both to and from the door.

Xarsien appeared at his side, and then Chirasch. Eesham finished draining the goblin and uncoiled his tail from the limp corpse.

“This makes a fine lair,” said Xarsien.

“Look to those tracks,” said Chirasch, “more goblins dwell inside, and you have not yet fed, my lord.”

“I could stand another goblin myself,” said Eesham.

“As could we all,” said Xarsien, “there should be campfires inside. To be warm, fed, and away from the elements . . .”

The decision wasn’t difficult, “Fashion torches,” said Renald.

_____

They coiled around a fire built near the entrance to the mine. More than a dozen goblin corpses lay strewn haphazardly around them. Renald savored the warmth flooding through him, as his blood was quickened by the feeding. For the first time in months, since before they left for Black Marsh, he felt his former strength returned. Around him his syffim laughed quietly and joked with each other. Renald’s thoughts strayed to Akal, and his irrepressible optimism. These last months would have been easier had he survived, he thought.

“My lord?” Xarsien stoked the fire with a rusted iron shortsword.

“Speak,” said Renald.

Xarsien hesitated. “This woman you saw at the ravine. . .”

Renald nodded. “I know it is a difficult thing to understand, but I trust her word.”

“As I trust yours, my lord,” said Xarsien. “What I mean to say is, what happens when we reach the Imperial City?”

The other members of his syffim looked to him for an answer.

“We seek out the new Emperor. We honor our oaths.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Xarsien, “but which Emperor do we seek. The one who holds the throne, or the one with the blood of the dragon?”

There was a faint hint of a new scent in the air. Renald’s tongue captured it, and his insides turned to liquid. A wave of fear gripped him like nothing he had felt since his youth in Akavir. Instantly his tail propelled him erect, his katana held in trembling hand. His syffim reacted to him, rising with their weapons drawn. The scent hit their tongues, fear and confusion shaped the contours of their faces.

“It cannot be,” Xarsien whispered.

“It is,” said Renald, “the scent comes from deep within the mine.”

“How is that possible?” Xarsien held his shield close to his chest, as if to ward off the scent.

Eesham’s voice was a panicked hiss, “I do not recognize the scent, yet it causes me fear. Why is that?”

“You were little more than a hatchling when we left home,” said Chirasch, “you are too young to remember.”

Xarsien shook his head. “We should leave this place and never return.”

“No,” said Renald, “it is an omen, one which we must face. I will not order this of you. Each of you must search within yourself for the will to continue.”

“You are Captain, my lord,” said Chirasch, “my life is yours.”

Eesham studied the dark tunnel leading into the pit of the mine. “I follow you, my lord, to the death and beyond, if needs be.”

Xarsien lowered his head. “I followed you to this land because it was my duty. I follow you now because it is my desire. Lead on, my lord.”

Renald felt a rush of pride in his chest that armed him against his fear. He lit a torch from the fire, his syffim followed suit. Single file, Renald led them deeper into the mine.

The tunnel led into the bowels of the mountain. The air grew warm and close. The torches began to dim, barely lighting the stone walls of the shaft. Renald felt the weight of his decision with every undulation of his tail. Its presence here must be more than coincidence, he thought. Have I made the right choice, or am I leading us only to our deaths?

One by one they lost the torches. Burned out clubs would be of no use so they dropped them on the warm stone. Renald used his off-hand to feel his way through the darkness. The others used their off-hands to hold the tail of the one in front of them. They made their way down the empty mine shaft in the dark.

A distant light filled Renald with equal parts fear and dread. By the time they reached its source the oppressive heat in the tunnel had sapped most of their new won strength. A dimly lit cavern opened in front of them. The ceiling and walls were lost in the darkness. The only clue to the size of the chamber was the echoed scrapes of their tails.

Piles of bones littered the ground, high enough to be lost in the darkness of the chambers upper region, and spread out in every direction that they could see. Xarsien lifted one and examined it, “sheep,” he said. He lifted another, “bear,” and a third, “goblin.”

The scent was overpowering. Renald’s hand signal spread them into battle formation. “We know you are here,” he said, “show yourself!”

In answer a plume of fire forty feet high lit the cavern in the distance. It was followed by the sound of mighty wings. A gust of hot wind knocked them all slightly off balance. His syffim recovered quickly, their grip on their weapons tightened. Deep hot breaths came from something large just outside the range of their vision.

A voice from the darkness spread more hot air over them. “What is it that you seek here, Tsaesci?”

Renald moved forward. “I would speak with you, wise one.”

“You have slain my goblins,” said the voice, “now you wish to speak with me. Say your peace, then I will destroy you.”

“You are familiar with our race,” said Renald, “you know that we do not fear your kind.”

The cavern shook with each step forward the creature made, the heavy claws on its feet scraped against the ground. Its head poked into view, larger than Renald, red-scaled, spiked, and glistening. The mouth opened revealing a row of sharp teeth longer than a man’s arm. It sniffed Renald from the top of his head to the tip of his tail. His syffim stood poised, their weapons ready should their Captain give the order. It had been centuries since any of them had seen one, but even in the dim light of the cavern there was no mistaking a dragon.

“Your words betray you, snake,” said the Dragon, “I can smell your fear. I know all too well of your race, what words could you have for me that I would trust?”

The heat from the Dragon’s breath hinted at the inferno to come should Renald’s answer prove false. Renald laid his katana at the Dragon’s feet.

“I made a vow to protect the blood of dragons,” said Renald, “not to spill it.”

His syffim followed his lead and placed their weapons on the ground. The Dragon’s head cocked to the side, its bifurcated tail played around the edge of Renald’s katana.

“You four swore oaths to the Dragon Emperor?”

“We did many years ago,” said Renald, “him and his heirs.”

“That line is dead,” said the Dragon, “your oaths are useless now.”

“It was dead, it has been reborn. We travel to the Imperial City to honor our oaths. It occurs to me that one such as you would be better served as a loyal subject of the new Empire than scratching out an existence enslaving goblins.”

Flames played about the Dragon’s nose. “I will not live as an object of curiosity.”

“Nor should you,” said Renald, “I cannot speak for the new Emperor. If I bring back those who can, will you speak with them?”

There was a moment when Renald thought that his words had fallen on deaf ears. We are too close, he thought, in the first blast of the Dragon’s breath we will all be returned to the Dreamsleeve. I have doomed us all.

“I shall,” the Dragon said, regarding Renald with a look that might have been respect, “It appears we have an accord.”

“Good.” The sigh that escaped Renald then was as filled with relief as it was lacking in dignity. “I am the Chevalier Renald, and this is my syffim. How are you called?”

The Dragon raised itself to its full height. Its voice echoed through the cavern. “I have had many names, but you may call me Nafaalilargus.”

This post has been edited by Destri Melarg: Jun 6 2010, 09:16 AM

[Remko]

I marvel at your skill in making a story and of getting into your char's head. Renald's awesome. Possible my favourite character in Interregnum.

[haute ecole rider]

The fact that you introduce us to such a powerful, larger-than-life character like Hoag Mer-Killer on the eve of his death makes the following battle all the more tragic. That is real storytelling!

I have enjoyed reading the Chevalier Renald and his syffim yet again.

You have the ability to take some very strange and alien characters and making them into something I can empathize with. These snake-beings, the Tsaesci, are not cardboard demons to be hated, they are living, breathing creatures who feel pain and suffering, and have a sense of honor that rivals that of the best samurai, soldiers, cops, etc.

I am still enjoying this second read through.

One nit:

They hemmed in the goblins and followed them from the bows above.

I believe boughs would be the better word, as it refers to tree branches, not the weapons or the gestures of courtesy and respect usually seen at court.

[mALX]

I too love the Chevalier Renald, I see him - can you believe the first time I read this I had to look up Tsaesci? It's true! He is one of the huge characters you have developed that brings Interregnum to life in the mind of the reader.

Making your own torches was a touch that adds realism - and their suffering the elements

- and immediately upon reading this the first time I dug in Lore to find out everything I could about Nafaalilargus!

The pieces are all starting to fall into place now, but when you will see this:

"WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT !!!!!!!!!!!!!"

I Love this story!!!!!!!

This post has been edited by mALX: May 31 2010, 04:14 PM

[SubRosa]

To quote Voltaire: "God is on the side not of the heavy battalions, but of the best shots."

As h.e.r. said, you do an excellent job of portraying the Tsaesci as being people, in spite of how alien they are to we, your readers.

I loved your description of the Tsaesci in the cave, and how differences in their breath emphasized the differences in their character.

“Yes, my lord,” said Xarsien, “but which Emperor do we seek. The one who holds the throne, or the one with the blood of the dragon?”
Now there is the question a lot of people will be asking.

An actual dragon! W00T! You are right I was not expecting that! Very cool to see one still around.

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Jun 2 2010, 04:44 PM

[Olen]

Well that was unexpected... A dragon

I can only agree with SubRosa, very cool. Any story which involves dragons is automatically excellent, and this one already was so its just got even better.

Good characterisation of the Tsaesci, even after so short a part I have a good feeling for their characters and want to read more about them. You have a way of doing that...

One nit:
We shall take them,” said Renald, unsheathing his katana.

Eesham grinned and twin katanas leaped from the crossed scabbards on his back. Chirasch reached for his dai-katana. Xarsien stood armed with katana and shield. -- fairly heavy use of the word 'katana' there but its just a minor detail, the overall part was excellent.

[Acadian]

There are two super magic indelible moments in your story overall for me that will stay with me. Moments I will forever remember with fondness or awe.

1. The little sweet roll in the negotiation tent that developed its own personna from quite a few chapters back.

2. And this:

Its head poked into view, larger than Renald, red-scaled, spiked, and glistening. The mouth opened revealing a row of sharp teeth longer than a man’s arm. It sniffed Renald from the top of his head to the tip of his tail.

This part still makes the elf on my shoulder almost wet her greaves. It was so wonderful to read it again!

[Destri Melarg]

Remko – That makes two of us, Renald is my favorite character as well.

haute – It sounds as if someone may have watched When the Last Sword is Drawn one too many times. I went out of my way to portray the Tsaesci with a code and a value system that mirrors the samurai (or at least my idealized version of the samurai).

Thank you for the correction of boughs, it has been addressed.

And you asked for it, so here is your chapter.

mALX – Two spoiler warnings this time?! I could get accustomed to this! Nafaalilargus has a key role to play in the months to come. So don’t worry, you will be seeing more of him.

SubRosa – I was a little worried about that paragraph in the cave. I didn’t want to lay it on too thick, but I did want to give you a sense of who each member of the syffim is without using dialogue to do it. I’m glad that it worked for you.

The good thing about working in the second era is that there is still at least one dragon alive in Tamriel. I thought it would be almost sacrilegious to do this story without including him.

Olen – I see where you’re coming from with the nit involving ‘katana’. At the moment I can’t think of anything better. ‘Sword’ just doesn’t seem right, somehow. I will continue to think it over.

Acadian – I consider it quite telling that the two most memorable moments for you involve the smallest piece of business in the story, and the largest (so far).

This time Buffy ‘almost’ wet her greaves. She is definitely improving!!

A note on this chapter:

I originally wrote this chapter for Interregnum as posted late last year on the other forum. I removed it from that story because it was to serve as the introduction of yet another viewpoint character. My feeling at the time was that I already had too many viewpoint characters for one story. In this incarnation of Interregnum the viewpoint character in question has already been introduced, so I thought it only fair to reintegrate this chapter (heavily re-written) into the story. I hope you enjoy it.

* * *

14th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Royal Theatre, Sentinel, Hammerfell
Evening


Crown Prince A’Tor rose from his seat in the royal box and scanned the crowd below him with a discerning eye. Father will be pleased, he thought to himself, even after nearly a dozen performances the crowds still come in droves. All were dressed in their finest silk, Crown solids mingled easily with Forebear stripes. They shared anecdotes and compliments, jokes and complaints without subterfuge and without animosity. A’Tor smiled, who would have thought that something as simple as a play could unite the people so.

His eye was drawn by a hint of the distinctive blue tunic of the Knights of the Moon. The wearer stood to the side of the crowd. A’Tor could not see his face through the forest of people that stood between them, but he knew that the knight stood vigilant, his eyes watchful and wary. With this new peace they can turn those eyes toward protecting us from foreign threats, instead of guarding us from our own.

The crowd parted and the knight’s face came into view. A’Tor’s smile faded. Damn him! He turned to the small contingent of Crown nobles that shared the royal box with him and made his excuse. As he left the box and made his way down the stairs two more Knights of the Moon, wearing the same blue tunics, fell into a flanking step alongside him.

_____

The tunic chafes, Casnar thought to himself, but it has always chafed. He pulled at the neck until it was less likely to strangle him and watched the crowd milling about the theater floor. He paid special attention to the eyes and the hands. Most of the patrons got a cursory glance. Anyone who seemed wrong got an intense stare that lingered until he or she was ruled out as a threat. Not that he was overly worried; the High King had yet to arrive. No assassin worth his poison would tip his hand before the target had even shown himself. A’Tor is in attendance, he reminded himself, I had best remain on guard for his sake.

“Why are you here?” said a familiar voice to his left.

Casnar turned. So intent had he been on watching the crowd that he had not even noticed the Crown Prince’s approach. Now A’Tor stood before him, flanked by a pair of his brother knights, and the look on their faces left no room for levity.

“I am doing my duty for the Crown, my prince,” said Casnar, his eyes seeking the floor.

“Your duty . . . ,” A’Tor stopped himself. His hands clenched and he exhaled slowly through the nose.

Casnar noticed the press of the crowd around them. He saw Crown solids and Forebear stripes, the smell of women’s perfume and men’s oiled leather hung in the air. All of them were too close. All of them wanted a glimpse or a chance to touch the Crown Prince.

“Follow me,” said A’Tor.

He moved past Casnar towards the foot of the stage. The two Knights of the Moon led the way, pushing through the crush of sycophants and well-wishers. Casnar followed behind the Crown Prince. He kept his hand near the hilt of his dagger in case he needed a weapon for use in close quarters.

They gained the stage and moved behind the curtain, away from prying eyes. Casnar followed them down a short hall to a small, dim anteroom in back of the theater. The Crown Prince waved away his bodyguard. The two knights removed themselves to a discreet distance in the hall, and even as they turned their backs Casnar knew that they remained poised and ready.

“Your duty to the Crown is to follow orders,” said A’Tor, “I told you to stay away.”

“I could not bear the thought of something happening to you or your father in my absence,” Casnar replied, “I tried to remain inconspicuous.”

“It didn’t work. Look around you, Casnar. For the first time in my memory Crowns and Forebears are allied. But this alliance is as fragile as gossamer wings. Your presence threatens to upset everything.”

Casnar shook his head, “but I am innocent.”

A’Tor placed a hand on Casnar’s shoulder. “I believe you, old friend. But mine is one small voice in a very large room. Father’s suspicions are easily inflamed. The fact that you were seen in a Forebear tavern conspiring with representatives of High Rock and Skyrim is enough to condemn you in the eyes of many on the council.”

“Alain and Valdemar represent naught but themselves.”

“So you have said. It does not matter, they are not here to give testimony on your behalf. There are those on the council who seek to draw closer to the throne by pointing out the treachery that surrounds it. They have poisoned your name to my father’s ears.”

“So I am accused without proof, condemned without trial? Is justice a casualty of our conflict with the Forebears?”

“Spare me your righteous indignation Casnar!” said the Crown Prince, removing his hand from Casnar’s shoulder. “There was a time not long ago when even a royal summons was not sufficient to produce you. You came and went of your own accord without so much as a ‘by your leave’. Our friendship conferred upon you a favor that none of your knight brothers enjoyed.”

“I regret my former actions, my prince. I had hoped to make amends by my attentiveness of late.”

“You chose to make amends by remaining conspicuously underfoot?” A’Tor began to laugh. “You have many gifts, my friend, but timing is not one of them. Can’t you see that your actions of late only serve to provide those false prophets on the council with ammunition?”

Casnar remained silent.

“I can persuade my father to stay his hand against you, but only for as long as your actions don’t give the council further reason to condemn you.”

There was a surge in the noise of the crowd on the other side of the curtain. A’Tor turned at the sound; his bodyguard roused themselves to stiff attention. A horn’s blare and the beat of a drum heralded the arrival of the High King of Hammerfell.

“You wish to make amends?” asked the Crown Prince.

“I do,” said Casnar.

“Then do this for me. Leave here, stay out of my father’s sight. After the performance the playwright is hosting a celebration at his home. It would be unseemly for the High King to appear at this celebration personally. Besides, there are few creatures in the Mundas that my father hates more than writers. Go to this playwright’s home. Express the admiration of the Crown. Use that charm you possess in the service of something other than yourself for once.”

Casnar bowed in acquiescence. “Yes, my prince.”

A’Tor adjusted the fit of his robe and swept from the room, accompanied by his bodyguard. A second surge in the crowd announced his arrival on the floor. Casnar stood alone in the dim light of the anteroom with the cream of Hammerfell society just beyond the closed curtain.

_____

14th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Theatre District, Sentinel, Hammerfell
Evening


The playwright’s home stood on an outcrop overlooking ragged cliffs which dropped into the foaming surf of the Iliac Bay. Inside the furnishings ran to the modest and the austere. Casnar noticed that he was once again surrounded by members of both parties. They were held together in mutual celebration, and all basked in the glow emanating from their celebrated host.

The man himself scurried to greet Casnar the moment he set foot through the door. He was a tall man and still in fighting trim despite his advanced age. His short woolen hair was shot through with gray, as were his eyebrows and the thin beard that lent wisdom to his features. He wore a broad smile and his ceremonial bow to Casnar was as heartfelt as it was theatrical.

“Welcome, Sir Knight,” he said, “it is a pleasure to have a representative of the Crown in my home.”

Casnar returned the bow. “Many thanks. I come at the High King’s request. He regrets that he can’t be here to express his admiration in person.”

“His regrets are unnecessary. Government takes precedence over entertainment, especially in times such as these. Allow me to introduce you to the rest of my family.” He began to look about the room until his eyes rested on a tall man of an age with Casnar. “Ah, my newest son,” he said. He raised his voice to be heard across the room, “Hakan.”

The man turned, Casnar saw something familiar in his face. He also saw a flash of what looked like irritation cloud his features before he mastered himself and walked over.

“This is my daughter’s husband,” said the playwright, “Hakan, this is Sir . . . forgive me, Sir Knight.”

“Casnar.”

“This is Sir Casnar of the Knights of the Moon.”

“Sir Knight,” said Hakan.

“Hakan,” said Casnar, “how long since the wedding?”

“Not quite a year now,” the playwright answered for him. “Hakan, I want your wife and my son to meet Sir Casnar, would you keep him entertained while I find them?”

Casnar saw something sharper than irritation in Hakan’s eyes.

“Of course . . . father,” said Hakan.

The playwright nodded, turned, and blended into his guests. Casnar studied the face of the man before him.

“I know you,” he said.

Hakan shook his head, “I can’t imagine from where.”

Casnar’s eyes grew cold. “Yes you can. I am tasked with keeping track of the Forebear militias. I take a special interest in the more vocal members. I imagine you were not in favor of the truce; else you would be up in the hills with Baron Volag like your fellows. Or is it the playwright’s daughter that keeps you here?”

Hakan's face remained impassive. His eyes were filled with both fear, and hate.

“No,” said Casnar, “you did not bat an eye both times her father mentioned her. That is unusual for a couple married less than a year. There is strife in the marriage. She knows where your allegiance lies, and she keeps this knowledge from her father.”

Hakan’s silence was more eloquent than words.

“As someone opposed to the truce,” Casnar continued, “it should gall you now to benefit from it. Honor keeps me from betraying your secret, and it prevents my running you through right here and now. But I will remain watchful, woe betide you should any harm befall this family.”

The guests parted and the playwright re-emerged with two young people in tow. The girl was beautiful, and of an age with Casnar and Hakan.

“Sir Casnar," said the playwright, "may I present my daughter, Iszara.”

She stepped forward and lowered herself into a courtly bow that would have been the envy of half the nobles in Hammerfell.

“We are honored by your presence here, Sir Knight,” she said.

“It is I who am honored, milady.”

“My family is of little account, Sir Knight,” said Iszara, “I am afraid that honorific doesn’t suit me.”

“You father has done more for Hammerfell with his quill than a score of nobles with their money and petty squabbles,” said Casnar. “To me, that lifts your family into the ranks of nobility. And I have met few women in the entire kingdom more deserving of the honorific than you.”

The playwright laughed. “Be careful, Hakan, you may find yourself absent a wife. Sir Casnar, this is my son. He is a great admirer of anything involving swords and the men who use them.”

Casnar reluctantly looked past Iszara to the boy fidgeting behind her. He was a tall, well-built lad with his father’s face and his sister’s bearing. Casnar was immediately reminded of himself as a youth. The boy stepped forward, extending his arm in greeting. His eyes danced with eagerness.

“My name is Cyrus,” the boy said.

[haute ecole rider]

Yay Cyrus!

At the risk of sounding like a prissy Bosmer, oh, thank you! thank you!

I recognize this as the prelude to Redguard the game - I've read the storyline and watched a playthrough on YouTube. It would have been one of my favorite games of the time!

Again, I thank you for introducing us to Julian's childhood hero, and his sister.

Your presentation of Hammerfell politics on the eve of the uprising against Tiber Septim feels so real, so immediate, I was immersed in it. Casnar was well written, and the conversation between him and Crown Prince A'tor makes me wonder why one of my favorite ghosts was in such big trouble back home, and was that the reason he joined Talos Stormcrown's Blades?

[Olen]

I really love this piece, it spans my favourite genres almost completly, there's swords, battles, a bit of magic and polictical intregue. What more could I want? The politics is well portrayed, you show a country on the verge of explosion from internal pressures and imminently going to burst in some direction... and with your skills that bursting should be quite spectacular.

Casnar is a strong character and it's good to see more of him but even with the few lines you had you've roughed out the shape of Hakan well, I already have somewhat of a feel of how he ticks.

And then Cyrus! I might just explod- *bang*

[mALX]

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT !!! CYRUS and his SISTER? AAAAAARRRRGGGGHHH !!!!! How could you leave this chapter out of the original? The increased depth it gives Casnar - ARGH !!!!! I feel...cheated that I didn't get to read this for a second time just now, having held it in my memory from reading the original - ARGH !!!!!!!!!

I FORBID you to edit out ANY MORE chapters !!!!!!!!!!!!!! ARGH !!!!!


I LOVE this chapter !!!!!! Awesome Write, that goes without saying. Awesome chapter - and ARGH for removing it before !!!

[SubRosa]

I am glad you put this in, because it really does tell us quite a bit about Casnar. I can already imagine where this is leading, and how it will end with him leaving Hammerfell to become a Blade. That was before meeting Hakan. Now that we have seen him and know who he is, it only adds more gunpowder to the explosive mix.

I love this line:
Use that charm you possess in the service of something other than yourself for once.
I hate to admit that it makes me think of Casnar's inevitable response:
"But can't I at least use it to get laid!"

The only nit I can think to add is the playwright's name. I do not believe we ever learned it, which seems odd.

Oh, and about the use of the word katana. You might try saying 'curved sword' or 'Akaviri blade' instead.

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Jun 4 2010, 07:57 PM

[Destri Melarg]

Sorry everyone, no new chapter this time, but I did want to respond to the wonderful comments left after the last chapter.

haute – You can sound like a prissy Bosmer anytime you want to! I think I saw the same youtube walkthrough that you did (there is only one, right?); it’s where I got the description of Stros M’Kai and Nafaalilargus, in addition to a few other things that are yet to surface. As for your speculation of Casnar’s motives for leaving Sentinel, well, that would be jumping the gun, wouldn’t it?

Olen – This is the first time that I have written anything set in a fantasy setting, so your comments really help validate my efforts. Swords rarely make an appearance in most things I write. I have written a few battle sequences, but nothing on the scale that I am attempting here. Political intrigue is a continuously bountiful well of conflict and drama that I find myself dipping into often. Magic thus far has been hinted at in Interregnum; I assure you that it will take center stage soon.

mALX – “Murder your Darlings” was a phrase coined by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch (or was it Fitzgerald, or Nabokov?). The central theory is that, no matter how good a piece of writing is, and no matter how proud you are of a piece of writing, if it doesn’t serve the story it must be edited out.

In the last version of this story I intended this chapter to introduce Casnar, but without a feel for the character you as the reader would have felt no connection with him (and thus no connection to his world or circumstance). Remember, Alain and Valdemar weren’t introduced until First Seed in the last version of Interregnum, so Casnar would have jumped at you seemingly from nowhere. Since I decided in this version to introduce Alain and Valdemar earlier, and since I decided to make that introduction in a tavern in Sentinel so that you could get a feel for Casnar and the political situation that exists there, I felt confident that I could reinsert this chapter back into the story. I promise that I won’t edit out any future chapters without informing you via PM.

*Those are definitely not Destri's fingers crossed behind his back!*

SubRosa – “But can’t I at least use it to get laid!” sounds exactly like something Casnar would have said!

Once again you see the strings on the puppets that I am trying to manipulate into life. I hope that your speculation about Casnar’s future finds adequate answer in the next chapter. And your well-observed nit is, as always, correct. We never hear the playwright’s name because the lore doesn’t provide us with one. I didn’t want to assign an arbitrary name to him so I decided that his actual name would be something that just never comes up. I hope that it isn’t a distraction.

On the subject of the repetition of ‘katana’: ‘Akaviri blade' sounds okay, but ‘curved sword’ sounds to me like a writer trying not to use the word ‘katana.’

[mALX]

mALX – “Murder your Darlings” was a phrase coined by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch (or was it Fitzgerald, or Nabokov?). The central theory is that, no matter how good a piece of writing is, and no matter how proud you are of a piece of writing, if it doesn’t serve the story it must be edited out.

Er...is this a hint? ROFL !!!!!

[Winter Wolf]

*wolf jumps up and down in frustration*
Damn it, I missed my favourite part in the story, Arnand hiring his passage on the ship and getting stabbed for his troubles. My mind is spinning in relation to the KOW and what impact he will have in your epic story.

I have been reading for the last 2 hours and I am still not caught up. Everytime I read your writing I keep shaking my head in amazement and go back to re-read it again. Not to mention the fact I want to throw all my writing in the bin after comparing it to what you do.

More, more, oh king of prose.

[Acadian]

Wonderfully rich, courtly writing, as is the hallmark of your style. You do much to develop the character of Casnar - this must be done through actions and dialogue with such men and you did a great job.

“Murder your Darlings” was a phrase coined by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch (or was it Fitzgerald, or Nabokov?). The central theory is that, no matter how good a piece of writing is, and no matter how proud you are of a piece of writing, if it doesn’t serve the story it must be edited out.

Oh my! I'm afraid I ascribe to a different philosophy: 'The story exists only to serve the characters.' I care not about the plot as long as I love the characters. Although you are a 'plot man', you do a great job of endearing your characters to us as well, my friend.

As always, your skill is amazing.

Sorry for a nit here:

“You father has done more for Hammerfell with his quill than a score of nobles with their money and petty squabbles,” said Casnar.

I'm sure you mean 'Your' to be the first word of this sentence.

This post has been edited by Acadian: Jun 9 2010, 06:33 PM