Interregnum, 854 of the Second Era Options

[Winter Wolf]

Back again !!

Finally caught up at last. This is an absolutely insane story, the best of the best. I love the way you slowly brought Lattia back from her trance, taking us, the reader, through her 3 steps of awakening. That was some the best writing I've read yet. Wow. To hang her consciousness upon the bird's noise as the final stepping point was oh so good.

They must have raided a farm, thought Renald, but since when do goblins favor lamb?

This is such a simple line, almost a throwaway, yet underpins everything that you wanted the chapter to be. And what impact it was. A Dragon !!!!!!!!!!!!

My feeling at the time was that I already had too many viewpoint characters for one story.

This one really made me smile. The only criticism I have ever felt with your writing is that I never seem to be able to hang my hat on one protagonist. Every chapter puts us into the shoes of another awesome character and it does make it hard to read. My feelings now is that I wouldn't want it any other way. Your writing is at its best when your are spinning a tornado around us and we never know what is about to come down. More, more I say !!!

This post has been edited by Winter Wolf: Jun 10 2010, 07:18 AM

[Destri Melarg]

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.

I think you misunderstand me. ‘Serving the story’ encompasses everything, plot and character. To me the two are inseparable. What fun is it to have a great plot with characters you care nothing about? Conversely, what fun is it to have a great character who sits around looking at his/her naval lint all day?

This one really made me smile. The only criticism I have ever felt with your writing is that I never seem to be able to hang my hat on one protagonist. Every chapter puts us into the shoes of another awesome character and it does make it hard to read. My feelings now is that I wouldn't want it any other way. Your writing is at its best when your are spinning a tornado around us and we never know what is about to come down. More, more I say !!!

Thanks for catching back up. And your criticism is well-aimed. I have spent a lot of time agonizing over whether I am properly serving the needs of this story by presenting it through so many varied eyes. I have chosen to do so because Interregnum affected more than just those vying for the throne. That said, if I ever begin to lose you don’t hesitate to let me know.

Everyone - after a great deal of deliberation and an inordinate amount of fruitless re-writing I have decided to split the end of this chapter into two parts. Sorry for the length of the wait.

* * *

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


Hakan was unrepentantly and irredeemably drunk. He had found a small cushion in an out of the way corner of the room, and from there he watched the party linger on while he fell further and further into his cups. All around him the revelers continued to sing the praises of his father by marriage. Men who but a month before had been staunch enemies of the Crown now applauded the High King like sculptors seeking patronage. It was as if the stripes on their clothing no longer mattered. In the center of it all his wife played the dutiful daughter and hostess. Hakan felt the bile forming in the back of his throat. What does it say of us that our steel can be tempered by wooden swords and stage make-up? What does it say of me that I share my bed with the daughter of the man who has doomed the righteous cause of the Forebears?

The thought was too painful to absorb on his backside, so he stood. There was a slight wobble, but in his mind his rising was altogether respectable considering how much wine he had put away. Most men would have passed out in a pool of their own drool and vomit by now, but Hakan had always prided himself on his head for drink.

He lurched toward a knot of people gathered around the man of the hour. Anger coiled snake-like around his heart and began to squeeze. Someone must stand for the cause, he thought, someone must confront the devil that tore justice from this country and call him by name.

_____

Casnar had come to revise his opinion of the boy Cyrus. For the last hour the young man had regaled him with tales of working on the docks and his aspirations for future knighthood. Whereas upon first meeting him Casnar was reminded of himself as a youth, the time spent in his guileless company had caused Casnar to see before him a vision of the young Crown Prince A’Tor. He had the same strength of character, the same boundless, un-jaded, optimistic energy. His smile and laugh were infectious, and Casnar found that he was enjoying himself far more than was warranted for what was essentially a chore for the Crown.

“I have heard that it takes great skill to become a Knight of the Moon,” said Cyrus, his eyes locked on the sword on Casnar’s hip.

“You admire the sword?”

The boy actually blushed! Casnar could not help laughing. He saw the look of pain that flashed through Cyrus’ eyes.

“I was not mocking you, Cyrus,” he said, “I was laughing because you remind me so much of Prince A’Tor.”

“You know the Crown Prince?” The pain in the young man’s eyes was gone, replaced by wonder and a swell of pride that caused his chin to lift from his chest and returned the smile that lit the room more than any of the lamps.

“Yes I do. And yes, it does take skill to become a Knight. It also takes intelligence, courage, and a willingness to devote your life to the service of the Crown.”

“Could you teach me?” asked Cyrus.

Before Casnar could answer the sound of a raised voice drew his attention to the other side of the room. Hakan lurched toward Cyrus’ father, his movements made clumsy by an overabundance of wine. Casnar could almost feel the struggle that pulled at Cyrus before he brought it under control.

“G’ye!” Hakan yelled the insult so that everyone in the room could hear.

Casnar recognized the word. It meant fabricator in the old Yokudan dialect. He edged closer to the commotion, his hand found the hilt of his sword of its own accord.

“No lo igra!” deceiver. Hakan’s tone and carriage were dangerously close to treason.

A small knot of Forebears began to form behind Hakan, while an angry group of Crowns came to the side of the accused. This will not end well, Casnar thought. I am bound by the truce not to spill Forebear blood, but some insults cannot be stomached.

“Liar!”

Iszara was there, yet Casnar had not seen her among the crowd only an instant before. She stood at her husband’s side.

“Hakan, not this,” she said.

Hakan turned upon her. The sound of his slap carried throughout the room. Even the Forebears gasped. Iszara hit the floor hard. Casnar’s sword half cleared the scabbard before he caught himself. The truce, he reminded himself, must not be broken. It is all that is holding Hammerfell together. He slammed the sword back to his side and allowed himself to breathe. The red haze before his eyes subsided, returning clarity to the room. As he refocused on the commotion the breath caught in his throat for a second time. Inexplicably he looked to his side, as if he expected the boy to still be standing there. Apparently Cyrus did not share Casnar’s respect for the truce. He stood across the room between Hakan and his prone sister, fear and fury caused the naked blade in his hand to tremble.

No! Casnar thought, he is only a boy. The look on Iszara’s face mirrored his own. They both turned to the father to step in, but there was a hard stoicism in the older man’s eyes that Casnar knew would not move him to action. He locked eyes with Iszara, her plea went unspoken, but to Casnar it was louder than any voice in the room. Desire demanded that he come to her aid, but honor kept him rooted to the spot. She turned away from him then, and Casnar knew that whatever small moment of fellowship they had shared was irreparably broken.

The sound of Hakan’s blade being drawn was an explosion in Casnar’s mind. Hakan adopted the stance of one who faces an opponent whose measure has already been taken. He kept his blade pointed toward the floor, as if Cyrus was not worth the raising of it. He is well-trained, Casnar thought, but drink has made him arrogant and robbed him of balance. Against an experienced opponent he would be hard pressed for victory, but against this boy . . .

Looking at Cyrus caused Casnar to lose his train of thought. The tremors that marked his earlier stance with the blade were gone. Casnar now saw a calm self-assuredness that seemed to season the boy right before his eyes.

They began to circle one another, the sneering older Forebear whose grievance was as ancient as the Ra’Gada itself. And the resolute young Crown, innocent of any direct offence yet standing proxy for the trespasses of a line of High Kings that went back to the sailing from doomed Yokuda. The rest of the room seemed to fall away. Every eye bore witness and every heart willed strength to the arm of its impromptu champion. Casnar’s gaze fell to Iszara across the room. Alone amongst them all her face was a mask of grief, yet whether that grief was for the impending loss of a brother or a husband it was not within Casnar’s power to say.

Hakan broke the silence with a bellowed challenge and a vicious thrust of his sword. Cyrus sidestepped the charge and used his own blade to parry. The two swords met like waves crashing against rock, and battle was joined.

Casnar’s worst fear was confirmed. Hakan was indeed well-versed in the sword. Under different circumstances they might have become brothers under the Moon, but that life was only a shadow in the back of Casnar’s mind. In this life Hakan’s skill was blunted by being the worse for wine, and in his relentless assault it quickly became apparent to every eye in the room that the boy Cyrus was a prodigy.

The duel could be told on Hakan’s face. Confident swagger gave way to surprise, then shock, followed by concern which led to trepidation, and finally culminating in naked fear. Cyrus pressed him from every angle; his blade a shimmering blur that whistled through Hakan’s ever slowing guard. Casnar could see the toll that the exchange was taking on the Forebear, and the confidence that was growing in the movements of the young Crown.

Hakan redoubled his efforts. He sought to use his superior size and strength to overwhelm the boy, but Cyrus was ready for him. Instead of parrying an overhead chop Cyrus sidestepped and let Hakan’s blade fall into a shower of sparks against the stone floor. The savagery of the move and the shock of the impact threw the Forebear off balance. Cyrus’ blade darted like dragon’s tongue and drew first blood against Hakan’s exposed flank. The older man screamed with pain and frustration and directed a back-hand slash toward the young man’s neck. Cyrus ducked under the blade and rose up inside of Hakan’s guard. His blade flashed, and Hakan screamed once more.

They separated, blood poured from wounds in the Forebear’s right side and the left side of his chest. His labored breath began to rattle. For the first time Casnar saw the impact of the duel on the face of the young Crown. Uncertainty marred Cyrus’ features and caused the tip of his blade to fall toward the floor. The boy is going to offer quarter, Casnar thought, this night may yet end well for all. Across the room he saw relief flush Iszara’s tear stained cheek.

But Hakan was not undone. With the last of his remaining strength he charged the boy. He brought his sword back for a blow that was meant to separate Cyrus’ head from his neck. Iszara screamed.

Instinct took over. Cyrus’ blade lifted and sought out the Forebear’s sword hand. Hakan’s scream echoed his wife’s as his hand was nearly severed at the wrist. His blade flew back in a lazy arc and crashed into a table loaded with wine and cheese several paces behind him. Before the clatter could subside Cyrus thrust home with his blade. There was a sound not unlike a stone dropped into a deep well, and an almost gentle moan from Hakan. Then the room fell silent yet again. Hakan looked down at the blade protruding from his chest. Casnar thought he saw a smile on his face. Then Cyrus yanked the blade free and Hakan pitched forward and fell face down on the stone floor. His legs twitched in spasm as a pool of blood stained the floor beneath him.

Around him pandemonium reigned. Casnar felt the arms and shoulders that jostled him from those making haste toward the exit. He could not bring himself to move. In the center of the milling storm of people he saw a vision of Prince A’Tor, head down, trembling with bloody sword in hand. When the vision looked up Casnar saw that it was the boy Cyrus, whose guileless innocence had so charmed him earlier that very night. There were tears in the boy’s eyes, and in the eyes of his sister who approached him warily. They briefly held each others gaze, but it was Cyrus who looked away. He turned and sprinted from the room. Iszara dropped sobbing to her knees. Her tears fell and mingled with the blood on the floor.

The playwright had found his way to Casnar’s side. “I know that the Crown sent you here to appease me,” he said, his voice hoarse with feeling, “if you would do your King’s bidding then I beseech you, Sir Knight, watch after my son.” He moved past Casnar and knelt to comfort his shattered daughter.

[haute ecole rider]

Ah, this was so much better than the original (Beth) version! Far more detailed, and oh, the tension leading up to the sword fight. The sword play itself is sublimely written! Short in itself yet full of adrenaline and long on description. This takes me back to the days when I used to watch swashbucklers as a child (Errol Flynn, Burt Lancaster, Tyrone Power, et al)!

Poor Casnar, forced to stand and witness something when every nerve in his body must be screaming to jump in and help out the boy!

Oh, and thanks for fleshing out Julian's favorite hero!

[SubRosa]

A very heart-pounding, fast-paced description of the sword fight. Combine that with the dilemma presented to Iszara, lose a husband, or lose a brother. Then add in the grim specter of renewed civil war, and you have given us quite a heady potion.

My only criticism is that where the two parts break (at the dotted lines?) is jarring. At first I thought it was a shift in pov. I think you could do away with the breaking point and meld the paragraphs above and below in a rather seamless fashion without losing anything. For example:

The sound of Hakan’s blade being drawn was an explosion in Casnar’s mind. Hakan adopted the stance of one who faces an opponent whose measure has already been taken. He kept his blade pointed toward the floor, as if Cyrus was not worth the raising of it. He is well-trained, Casnar thought, but drink has made him arrogant and robbed him of balance. Against an experienced opponent he would be hard pressed for victory, but against this boy . . .

The boy Cyrus, on the other hand, stood with a noticeable tremor in his stance. It screamed not only his fear to Casnar's seasoned eye, but his inexperience as well. He was out of his depth, and it was plain for all to see.

They began to circle one another in the age-old dance, and now Casnar now saw a calm self-assuredness rise within the boy right before his eyes. Slowly they drew closer, the sneering older Forebear whose grievance was as ancient as the Ra’Gada itself. And the resolute young Crown, innocent of any direct offence yet standing proxy for the trespasses of a line of High Kings that went back to the sailing from doomed Yokuda. The rest of the room seemed to fall away. Every eye bore witness and every heart willed strength to the arm of its impromptu champion. Casnar’s gaze fell to Iszara across the room. Alone amongst them all her face was a mask of grief, yet whether that grief was for the impending loss of a brother or a husband it was not within Casnar’s power to say.

This is just a rough, first draft, but I think if you polish it up a bit it will accomplish what you are looking for.

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Jul 14 2010, 01:16 AM

[Acadian]

The palpable tension and build up to this fight was magnificently exquisite. Bravo, Destri!

The fight itself and aftermath were equally powerful. Wow!

[Olen]

That was good... very good. You caught the tension and build-up perfectly and the first part with Hakan being drunk was spot on, the thought patterns were exactly those which lead to drunken fights. The fight was excellently written and quite believeable given Hakan's drunkenness, but if anything I'd say the build-up made it. This is one of the best passages I've read in a while.

And now the aftermath, that is an exciting prospect. Especially Cyrus who you've developed rather cunningly (I didn't spot any pure character development there but he certainly developed), definitly effiecency with words. And I want to know what happens with Cyrus now.

[Winter Wolf]

I do not know what is worse. Having no Destri or no mALX? Both are a torment to the reading eyes of this old wolf. Welcome back to the forum, I see that your talent is still in full swing.

That was an epic chapter. In reality a combat scene passes in the blink of an eye, yet to a reader it can take 2000 words, a challenge for any writer. How delightful it was to read how a talented person can do it. Wow!

The pacing of the chapter and the thoughts of the characters flowed as quickly as the swordplay. Simply beautiful.

Across the room he saw relief flush Iszara’s tear stained cheek.

This line was magnificent, coming at the end of the sentence and really hitting the spot. Bravo!

[Remko]

I am not too clued up on 2nd era heroes but I do know the name Cyrus and I truly admire your interpretation on him. The "duel" between him and Hakan was epic.

You already know how I feel about your story but let me emphasize it once more: AWESOME!!

[Destri Melarg]

haute – What swashbuckler were you watching that starred Burt Lancaster? That sounds like a movie I need to see! I am so glad that you (and Julian) are enjoying my interpretation of Cyrus’ exile. You remain my touchstone for this section of the story. I know how much you (and Julian) admire Cyrus. If I am making the two of you happy then I feel like I am accomplishing my goal.

SubRosa – That’s quite a rough draft! I loved your reinterpretation of it, but the problem is that you focus on Cyrus’ fear and inexperience at the start of the battle. I had hoped to convey that it was Cyrus’ distinct lack of fear that caused Casnar to lose his train of thought and see the boy through new eyes. In my view this is the first time that Cyrus’ potential is put on display. That potential will be realized later in his life when he becomes Hoon Ding (in another story, of course).

I continue to be amazed at your powers of perception. I think that Iszara’s dilemma forms the real ‘meat’ of this chapter, yet due to my own inadequacies as a writer I barely touched upon it. It makes me so glad that you could see it as well because now I know that I wasn’t wrong.

Acadian – I truly appreciate the compliment. I am far more comfortable setting the stage than in the actual act of battle. At some point I would like to try and master the ease which you display in conveying tactical planning. Thanks to Buffy, I am learning a lot.

Olen – Thank you. After reading Firen’s story I consider your endorsement of Hakan’s behavior key! And now I present to you the answer to your questions about Cyrus.

Winter Wolf – In answer to your question, mALX’s absence is a MUCH greater torment. I was worried about this chapter because the fight itself was so brief. I hoped that it would prove worthy of the build-up. I am glad to see that, for you and a few others at least, it was.

Remko – I am glad you enjoyed the duel. I really was worried that it was too brief to justify the build-up.

Everything I know about Cyrus comes from reading this and watching this.

* * *

15th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Sentinel, Hammerfell
Pre-Dawn


Run Cyrus! The thought carried him over cobblestones made slick by the rain. Above him the banners were buffeted both by the rain and the wind coming off of Iliac Bay. On occasion the entire city was lit in a brilliant flash of lightning. It was if Kynareth herself was searching for him, and the rumble of thunder that attended these flashes voiced her frustration. Run! That same thought moved him through the alleys that the storm had turned into canals and whose narrow shadows had still not given way to the first hints of morning. His Crown solids clung to his body and were made heavy by the rain. They weighed upon him like a millstone. Run! It was what sustained him past the point that his lungs began to burn and his tears blocked any sight of a possible destination. Run!

What have I done? Iszara, I’m so sorry. Hakan . . . He closed his eyes as if denial could erase memory. His tears mingled with the rain and the filth of the city that stained his cheek. He continued his headlong rush. To where? He thought. Anywhere but here, I am dead to Hammerfell, as it is dead to me. He cursed the strength in his sword arm, gained when needed least. Were he the better man would Hakan have killed me? Or would he have spared my life and remained husband . . . and brother?

The subtle blooming of the eastern sky into a lighter shade of gray was lost on him. Shadows stirred and began their retreat against the light. Small knots of people materialized on the street. They regarded him through rain soaked faces and hooded eyes, their whispered conversation caught in fragments as Cyrus kept running,

“Forebear,”

“Killed,”

“The truce,”

“Broken,”

My doing, Cyrus thought, all my doing. Hakan had been drunk. I could have tried to reason with him. Instead I ran him through and in so doing killed a brother, and took a husband from my sister.

“There he is!”

Cyrus turned toward the voice. An old man dressed in sodden rags was pointing toward him and looking to an area to Cyrus’ left. He followed the old man’s gaze and his already labored breath caught in his throat. His overtaxed heart skipped a beat. Two Knights of the Moon were coming toward him, the rain beaded on the steel of their armor and dripped from the heads of lowered lances. At first Cyrus thought that one of them was Sir Casnar and he was flooded with a moment’s relief. But the eyes beneath those helmets held no warmth for him, and the voice that called for his surrender was colder than the night just passed. His hand sought the hilt of his sword, but there was only death to be gained there. All he had left was a single thought.

Run!

_____

15th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
The Royal Palace, Sentinel, Hammerfell
Dawn


“I told you to represent the Crown,” said Crown Prince A’Tor, “not stand idly and bear witness to the breaking of the truce!”

Casnar opened his mouth to speak, but for the first time in his life discretion defeated impulse.

The gathered members of the Council, those that could be moved to attend at so early an hour, muttered amongst themselves and gave Casnar all of the angry inattention due the unruly mutt that has just soiled the royal carpet. These were men unaccustomed to rousing themselves for business before mid-day, and Casnar could feel the resentment that dripped from them like the raindrops from their overpriced silk robes.

The floor upon which Casnar stood in the center of the council chamber was bordered by a raised platform which formed an arch around him and upon which the council members sat. Long ago the builders of the chamber had learned the elementary truth that it was not an easy thing to look up at a man with contempt, so the platform was raised. The Crown Prince sat in his customary position in the center of the arch.

“Is it your wish to exasperate the Crown, Casnar?”

“No, Your Highness,” said Casnar lowering his head, “it was only my intention to do the Crown’s bidding.”

“When did the Crown bid you to allow the truce to be broken?” said a baritone voice to Casnar’s right.

Casnar turned. The speaker was a mountain of a man clad in voluminous silk. His jowls hung like saddle bags to either side of several chins, and the sausages that served as his fingers clutched to a quill that he absently stabbed repeatedly into the tablecloth.

To save his life Casnar could not remember the man’s name. “I allowed nothing, councilman. . .”

“Inaction is acquiescence,” said another voice, a high tenor that came from behind Casnar.

The speaker was as spare as the other was ample. His bald head bore the curious shape of a warhammer, and the faded silk that draped his emaciated form looked as if it had been recently slept in, and not for the first time.

At least Casnar knew this one by name. “Councilman Borlas, the two men fought a fair and honorable duel. Tradition dictated that I not interfere.”

“What was so honorable about some young hooligan running through a drunk?” said the portly baritone. “From what I understand he was not even the offended party.”

“I believe the table has had enough, Nelvin,” said Prince A’Tor.

Nelvin, thought Casnar, that was the man’s name. He looked over at the fat councilman whose loose cheeks were flushed. His repeated forays had torn through the tablecloth and irreparably bent his quill. He threw down the ruined implement and looked at his thick fingers as if they had acted in contravention of his orders.

“I would advise you to temper your rebuke,” Prince A’Tor continued, “the ‘drunk’ you refer to was a prominent Forebear who sought an end to this council up to his last treasonous breath. And the ‘hooligan’ was the only son of an equally prominent, and loyal, Crown.”

“Be that as it may, Your Highness,” said Councilman Borlas, “this council was not convened to cast blame, but to enforce justice. We seek only to reinstate the conditions of the King’s truce.”

Discretion failed Casnar, “if that were the case, then there would be a Forebear in the room.”

Prince A’Tor placed a hand to his lowered brow and tried to massage away the ache in his temples. Around him the various councilmen buzzed with righteous indignation.

“It is as we have said, my Prince,” Councilman Nelvin’s baritone raised above the general tumult. “Treason falls far too easily from this one’s lips. Perhaps it is not the boy who should be executed.”

Executed? Casnar looked toward the Crown Prince. His eyes searched, but they were left wanting. “Your Highness?”

A’Tor would not look out from under his hand. “The High King has ordered the boy’s execution as the initial step to restoring the truce.”

“The boy is blameless, my Prince,” said Casnar. He turned so that his comments could be heard throughout the room. “He acted to protect his sister and to defend the honor of his father, a man who is responsible for the truce you now enjoy. What does it say to him that we would deprive him of his only son to appease Forebear wounded pride? What does it say of us that we would take the life of a boy who acted in such splendid accord with the very principles of being a Crown? For is it not the duty of a Crown to uphold the honor of his elders and, should the need arise, come to their defense?”

“Surprising words, coming from you,” said Councilman Nelvin.

“Enough,” said the Crown Prince, rising from his chair. He looked down at Casnar. “Your eloquence does you credit, Casnar. But the High King’s word is law and cannot be questioned. The boy shall be brought back to the Royal Palace where his sentence will be carried out. You are ordered to confine yourself to quarters until such time as the Crown can determine whether your actions last night warrant further punishment. This council is adjourned.”

The Crown Prince turned and left through a door in the back of the room. Casnar kept his gaze trained on the floor. He could feel the triumphant eyes of the councilmen upon him as they rose from their seats. He could hear their oiled voices lifted in congratulation as they contemplated a retreat to soft beds and decadent breaks of fast. He could feel the weight of the tunic that he wore. It now seemed like an anchor dragging him down, beneath the gaze of that arch. The collar seemed to tighten around his neck. Once again he was reminded how much the simple garment chafed.

He made his decision right there, as he gazed at the dry stone tiles that made up the floor. He knew that, despite his best efforts and his staunchest desire to be the knight that his Prince deserved, his last act as a Knight of the Moon would be one of defiance.

_____

15th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
The Waterfront, Sentinel, Hammerfell
Dusk


The storm clouds remained, but they had ceased to deposit their charge upon the helpless city of Sentinel. A soft, gentle scraping was now the dominant sound on the waterfront as scattered vendors used brooms made of straw to shift the offending rain toward their neighbor’s stoop. The foot traffic that they relied upon had been absent in the wake of the deluge. Those preparing to sail on the eventide were kept occupied with their ships, so the vendors swept . . . and watched.

Only those well-armed traveled through the streets, the capture of the boy Cyrus was the preoccupation of the city. In addition to the city guard and the Knights of the Moon, Zenithar’s Knights of Iron had joined in the search on behalf of the offended honor of the Forebears. Many small skirmishes between the three groups had occurred throughout the day. Steel-clad bodies bearing tunics stained Moon blue, Iron gray, or Guard red were left to rust in the gutters.

_____

It was two who toiled under the banner of the Moon who finally found him hiding in an alcove on the waterfront. The boy was soaked to the bone and gave no resistance. As he was brought forth it was clear that the trials of the day had aged him. Gone was the innocent light of youth from his eyes, replaced by the shadow of the penitent man’s knowledge that the past travels with you, like baggage that cannot be discarded. He was positioned between the two knights, his head held low in complete resignation. He tried to maintain their pace, but more often than not they had to drag him. His feet made a shallow furrow in the rain and the mud.

“Unhand the boy,” said a shadow that loomed before them. The fading light of the day made it difficult for Cyrus to see. All he could make out was the moon insignia that was identical to the one worn by his captives. He once again lowered his head.

The knight on his left spoke, “we have no time for your jests, Brother Casnar. Our orders are to conduct this boy to the palace.”

Casnar, thought Cyrus. He raised his head for a second time. The shadow continued to block their path. Why did that name sound familiar?

“I am aware of your orders,” said the shadow, in a voice that was laced with steel, “and I am telling you to unhand the boy.”

“Stand down, Casnar. Have you taken leave of your senses?” The one to Cryus’ right had spoken. He had the vague sensation of studded hands tightening around his arms.

Cyrus heard the soft scrape of steel as it leaves the scabbard. He felt the knight on his left tense, and he heard a sharp intake of breath from the knight on his right.

“You would draw your sword against a brother?”

“I would,” said the shadow. His voice held a calm that was far more disconcerting to Cyrus than the thunder that had assailed his ears all day. “This is the last time that I will say it, unhand the boy.”

“Traitor!”

Cyrus felt the knight’s hands leave him. For a brief instant he felt as if he were floating. He heard the sharp clash of steel. The air around him seemed more charged than when the lightning foiled his attempts to hide. The ground was coming toward him. It was the last thing that he saw.

_____

“Cyrus.”

The boy’s eyes fluttered. Casnar felt relief flood through him. He lifted his arm painfully to bend more water toward the boy’s lips. What Cyrus didn’t drink ran across his cheeks, breaking the pattern of vertical streaks caused by the rain, his tears, and the filth of the city. When the skin was finally empty Casnar set it upon the ground and cradled Cyrus in his left arm. He brought his right hand toward the boy’s cheek and stopped short as he noticed for the first time the blood that stained it, and the shaking that attended it. He lowered the hand and turned his attention back to Cyrus.

What trials has he seen this day? Casnar thought. How much of the boy that I remember remains?

“Sir Casnar?” Cyrus’ eyes were open and clear.

“Welcome back, young Cyrus.” Casnar helped the boy into a seated position.

Cyrus took in his surroundings. “How did you find me?”

Casnar smiled, “you spent more than an hour telling me of these docks last night. It is what you know.”

“Have you come to arrest me?”

“No. I have come to help you.”

“I must leave Hammerfell.” It was both statement and question.

“Yes. That is something we have in common.”

Cyrus nodded. His brow furrowed. He looked at Casnar and opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He nodded again.

“Do you have a place to go?” Casnar asked.

“I know a man who captains a ship here. He sails on the morning tide. I had hoped that, in exchange for my sword hand, he would hide me aboard his ship and take me from Hammerfell.”

Casnar’s eyes narrowed, “you would live as a mercenary?”

“I have nothing left.”

“That is not true. I saw the way your sister looked at you when the battle ended. That was not hatred in her eyes, it was relief. Your father implored me to watch over you.”

“I cannot face them,” Cyrus said. He buried his face in his hands. For several moments the only sound was his gentle sobbing. When he raised his head his cheeks were clear of the city’s mud. “Even if I could, the Crown will not grant me peace.”

The boy shows wisdom beyond his years. “No they will not.” Casnar shook his head. “You expressed a desire to be a knight. I am far from the best example, but if you were to come with me I would teach you all that I know.”

For a brief moment the light that Casnar had grown to love came back into the boy’s eyes. “Where would we go?”

“To Cyrodiil,” Casnar said. “I recently performed a service for a very powerful man who dwells there. Such a man could find use for a pair of knights.”

“Hakan once told me that the Cyrodiil’s will attack Hammerfell one day. If that happened it would mean raising my sword against Father . . . against Iszara. I cannot do that. Could you really raise your sword against your own, Sir Casnar?”

Casnar looked toward the Bay. “I already have.”

“I’m sorry,” said Cyrus.

“No,” said Casnar, “I am the one who is sorry, Cyrus. I should have stepped in . . . I could have spared you all of this.”

“Only by taking it upon yourself,” Cyrus slowly shook his head. Long moments of silence passed before the young man spoke again. When he did, his voice was almost reverent. “You could come with me.”

“I am a knight,” said Casnar, “an imperfect one to be sure, but a knight just the same.” He stood and held his left arm out to Cyrus. “Our destinies lie upon different paths, my young friend. I will see you safely to this ship and make sure that the man to whom you give your trust is worthy of it. What is his name?”

“Tobias,” Cyrus took Casnar’s arm and rose from the waterfront. For the first time he noticed the knight’s right arm. “You’re wounded!”

“It is not bad. Healing magic will make it right again.”

Cyrus had taken hold of the wound. “You are losing too much blood. I need to bandage this”

The boy began to look around, searching for something that could bind a wound. Casnar used his left hand to loosen the stay on his collar.

“Use this,” he said, pulling the tunic over his head.

Cyrus helped him remove the tunic and then he set to the task of tearing it into strips. As the boy bent to bind his wound Casnar smiled at the sensation he felt in his neck.

Nothing chafed.

This post has been edited by Destri Melarg: Jul 27 2010, 08:44 PM

[Zalphon]

Listen you amazing historian... Your events are way too historically accurate! Historically Accurate+Enjoyable=Does Not Compute.

Just kidding, it's really good

[Acadian]

I am in awe of your talent, Destri. Oh my, where to begin. Three magnificent Acts:

Act I

Pacing. Here your words paint a frantic race through the city. Run!

Act II

Scene painting. Simply amazing painting of the scene at the council chambers. Your characterizations of the councilmen were vividly brilliant:

He threw down the ruined implement and looked at his thick fingers as if they had acted in contravention of his orders.

I chuckled when I read this, but the elf on my shoulder squirmed, convictedly:

Casnar opened his mouth to speak, but for the first time in his life discretion defeated impulse.

Act III

This was quite simply spinechilling.

“Stand down, Casnar. Have you taken leave of your senses?” The one to Cryus’ right had spoken. He had the vague sensation of studded hands tightening around his arms.

Cyrus heard the soft scrape of steel as it leaves the scabbard. He felt the knight on his left tense, and he heard a sharp intake of breath from the knight on his right.

As with the entire episode, simply a magnificently clever end:

Nothing chafed.

[haute ecole rider]

Ahh, another chapter of our favorite Redguard hero!

First the nit:

“You are loosing too much blood. I need to bandage this.”

I see the dread loose/lose has reared its head again. The correct form in this context would be losing. Also the period before the closing quote has fled, probably because of the loosing dread!

Okay, the Burt Lancaster swashbuckler I recall is The Crimson Pirate (1952). Saw this as a teenager and went wow! at his shirtless chest!

Now on topic: I echo Acadian on this chapter - the boy's desperate flight through the thunderstorm, Casnar's rebuke by the Crown Prince and the Council, his rescue of Cyrus, and of course, the ending.

Nothing chafed. That is so symbolic of Casnar's decision to cast off his duty to the Crowns and to leave Hammerfell. After being forced to live under restrictions that went against his (better?) nature, he decided to take a path other than that dictated by his upbringing. That takes a lot of courage to do, especially since the future is now so uncertain.

You and I have read and seen the same material. I am really enjoying your interpretation of the prequel!

[Olen]

This was excellently written, very fast moving but with time for some good strong characters (the creation of whom you excell at) and very smooth flow between the breaks whioch might have upset it.

“Forebear,”

“Killed,”

“The truce,”

“Broken,”

Very good way of showing the snatches of conversation he heard while conveying the full meaning.

The scene with the council was an excellent way to show Casnar's reasons for leaving to the reader and to give him the push into doing so. I like his character and hope he lasts longer than some others have. His attitude at leaving and almost positive anticipation of going into the unknown are captured perfectly in 'nothing chafed' at the end. It fits his character so well.

Now I want more (and how many drafts this goes through to end up so smooth).

[SubRosa]

I can tell you really enjoy writing Casnar and Cyrus (would William Ray be his first and middle names?). You spent three straight segments on them, and I do not think you have done that much in row with the other characters. The inclusion of Cyrus makes me wonder how much of history you plan to encompass with Interregnum? I know that your original goal was just to portray the year the old Emperor was assassinated. But now I wonder if you are intending to take this all the way through Tiber Septim's conquest of all Tamriel, in order to incorporate the events of Redguard at the end? Or perhaps we will see Redguard as a separate tale?


They weighed upon him like a millstone.
This was a particularly good analogy.

Since you introduced him, I have been wondering how Casnar could go from being a knight of Hammerfell to a Blade. You did a marvelous job of demonstrating exactly how in this rousing segment. Casnar's final decision to defy the Crown was as inevitable as the sunset. Nicely done!


nits:
Casnar, thought Cyrus. He raised his head for a second time. The shadow continued to block their path. Why did that name sound familiar?
This sounded odd, because earlier when Cyrus saw the two moon knights, he wondered if one was Sir Casnar. So why would he wonder if he had heard the name here?


You are loosing too much blood.
I think you wanted losing there.

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Jul 29 2010, 04:29 PM

[Remko]

I might not as eloquent as some other that have commented on your story but I am no less impressed. More please Destri

[Winter Wolf]

Awesome write!! I love the way the world of politics swirls over and around your characters, and my oh my, you do love your council chambers.
Any chance I might see you running for office, one day?

Hammerfell is no different to our world. Capture, betrayal, freedom hard fought and won. The world of politics never seems to change, does it?

[Ornamental Nonsense]

I've only gotten to read the first chapter so far, but I can already tell that I'm going to love this story. Your writing has a distinct style that's very smooth, and you include just the right amount of description. I could easily picture the scene taking place, and as for the characters, I can see that they're going to grow more and more interesting with each chapter. It's going to take me a while to catch up now that the story's progressed quite a bit, but I'll get there eventually.

[Destri Melarg]

Zalphon – If you are looking for historically accurate fiction that is also immensely enjoyable I highly recommend checking out The Killer Angels by Michael Shaara. I read it for the first time almost twenty years ago, and I still try to re-read it at least once a year as a reminder of what good historic fiction can do.

Acadian – Nothing gets past you my friend! The devil is in the details and adding bits of business like the quill in Nelvin’s fat fingers not only gives the reader insight into his character, but also underscores the subtext of the scene. I am a BIG fan of subtext. It comes from being a theatre major way back in the day.

haute – Loose/lose is really starting to tick me off! Thanks to you and ‘Rosa for catching it(again), and thanks for finding my wayward period (now that just sounds wrong!). I can’t believe that I missed The Crimson Pirate! I thought I had seen every swashbuckler made during Hollywood’s golden age. Just goes to show, every time you think you know something . . .

Olen – This next segment of two posts is aimed at you. I hope that they answer some of the questions you have about Arnand. Don’t worry about Casnar, we already know how he winds up so his survival of the events in this story is pretty much a given.

There is no set number to the amount of drafts that I will go through before I post. The needs of the segment dictate the amount of re-writing that needs doing. The fewest number of drafts that I have gone through for a segment is three (Both the first scene with Renald and the boar, and the scene in Direnni Tower between Aran and Varla, discussing ways to drive a wedge between Cuhlecain and Talos). The highest number of drafts, I’m embarrassed to say, has been sixteen (Everything surrounding the Battle of Glenumbria Moors). I am glad that in reading it you think it flows smoothly. Believe me, the writing of it is anything but.

‘Rosa – Interregnum remains a story that will encompass exactly one year, culminating in the assassination of the Emperor and the founding of the Septim line. Sadly, Tiber Septim’s conquest of Tamriel and the events of Redguard will not be told during this story. But the good news is that, given my time lock, I am able to delve into a few of the characters that play a roll in those events. So far you have already seen (or heard about) Lord Amiel Richton, Dreekius, Cyrus, Iszara, and Nafaalilargus. There are a few more that I plan to incorporate into this story. As for Cyrus, his part in this tale is over (I think). In a way that’s a shame because, you’re right, I did enjoy writing about him.

Remko – There is nothing wrong with your eloquence, and your enthusiasm is always appreciated. Thank you.

Winter Wolf – I guess I do love my council chambers, but only in terms of writing fiction. As for the idea of tossing my own hat into the political arena, how can I put this delicately?

I would sooner be slathered in mashed bananas and locked in a cage with Bobo, the randy gorilla!

Ornamental Nonsense – Welcome to Interregnum! I hope you find things to your liking here. I look forward to any comments or questions you may have.

* * *

16th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
The Pelladil, Docked at Stros M’kai
Dawn


The storm passed during the night. The sun would light clear skies when it rose under the twinkling stars of the Lover hanging in the east. This was Captain Valion’s favorite time, before the new day banished the shadows of night, when the whole world was sated and still. Even the violent Abecean was calm. From where he stood on the deck of his beloved Pelladil he could see the growing glow that emanated over the horizon, fading the Lover’s shine to pleasant memory. Presently he could feel the gentle warmth that caressed his face and the light that surrounded and purified the rain-swept deck like apologies from Kyne to those who had suffered through the storm. Any other time the clear blue skies and the shimmering sunlight would be a welcome sight to Valion’s eyes. But today they served only as an insistent reminder of the obligation of his commission, and of the duty too long postponed.

With a sigh of resignation Captain Valion left the starboard rail and lifted the hatch amidships. He descended the stairs and ducked his head through the narrow hallway to knock on the door that led to his own quarters.

“Come,” said a female voice.

Valion opened the door. Lady Direnni sat at his desk, surrounded by all of his charts and maps. She wore a red velvet dress that complimented her golden skin. A large mirror was placed in front of her, an open book lay nestled face down on her lap. Her handmaiden stood behind, brushing her platinum hair with long, graceful strokes.

“Good morning, Captain,” said Lattia.

Valion bowed in the doorway. “Good morning, Milady, it is good to see you looking well.”

“Thank you, Captain, I do feel stronger. Maybe it was seeing the sun this morning after so many days of rain. Will we sail today?”

It was the question that Valion dreaded most. “I’m afraid not, Milady.”

“Oh?” Lattia tried to hide the disappointment in her voice, but failed.

Valion bowed again. “My deepest apologies, but today is Heart’s Day. Most of the crew are off-ship, partaking of the island's hospitality.”

“I see,” said Lattia. She held up two golden fingers. “That is enough, Irinde, please leave us.”

“Yes, Milady,” Irinde stopped brushing and bowed. She turned and left the room, leaving the scent of wildflowers in her wake.

Lattia waited until the door closed behind her. “I assume you know how important it is that I reach Artaeum.”

“Yes, Milady,” said Valion, “I do.”

“Yet you don’t seem to be in any hurry to get there. Your crew has spent more than enough time on the island. This is the first good weather we’ve had since we left Glenumbria. Why shouldn’t we sail today?”

“I . . .” Valion’s voice faded to silence, the only sound in the room was the surf caressing the hull of the ship.

“We are alone now, Valion,” said Lattia, “no need to stand on ceremony.”

He bit down hard on his lower lip and walked across the room. He opened the portal and stared at the whitecaps on the Aebecean Sea.

“How can I explain myself,” he began, “I am a simple sailor, Lady Direnni, it is all that I have ever strived to be. Early in my life I discovered that I am one of the few Altmer without the head for magic, so I have confined my efforts to being the best sailor that I can. I leave the pursuit of magic to those with a talent for it, like you. I look to my maps and charts, and I don’t trust what I can’t see and touch.”

“I don’t understand.”

The words tumbled out of him, “Artaeum moves, Milady. It never resides in the same place for long. For many years it disappeared entirely. That sea is treacherous, five times I have tried to reach its shore and five times I have failed.” He turned from the portal, “I would sail through the Sea of Ghosts without falter. I would traverse the Topal Sea in full view of every pirate in Senchal, but Artaeum . . .”

His voice trailed into silence. The scowl that marked his features told of his fear, and his frustration. Lattia watched him wrestle with the implication of his statements. A knowing smile spread across her lips and she held up the book in her lap. “Is this your copy of Father of the Niben?”

“It is,” said Valion, “why do you ask?”

“It is heavily annotated,” said Lattia, gently leafing through the pages, “your hand?”

Valion started to count the planks of wood in the floor. The scowl gave way to a sheepish smile. “A vestige of youth, Milady, Topal the Pilot is a personal hero.”

“Forgive me for reading it. The time that I spent indisposed would have been unbearable for want of something to occupy my mind. Your notations are very perceptive; I have learned much from reading them.”

“Thank you, Milady.”

Lattia closed the book and placed it gently on the desk. “You are anything but simple, Captain. Do you think that the Pilot felt as you do, upon that first sail from Northpoint?”

For a moment the scowl returned to mark his confusion. Then the smile on Captain Valion’s face broadened. “I imagine that he did.”

“Yet it did not dissuade him.”

“Your point is well taken, Milady. Whenever you are ready, we will sail.”

“Let your crew have the holiday, Captain. I would not think of inciting mutiny by pulling them from their cups. Perhaps I will take a turn through the town myself, and partake of the island's hospitality.”

“Then please allow me, Milady.”

Valion opened the door and called to the deck. Lattia heard the sound of scurrying feet. Seconds later two eager young Altmer ducked their heads through the doorway.

“This is Lorundil,” said Valion, “and Sinyail. Two of my best, they will serve as your escort.”

The two mer bowed and said “Milady” in unison.

_____

16th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
The Draggin Tale Inn, Stros M’Kai
Mid-Day


“We should not be here, Milady,” said Irinde, standing near the door, “this place is not appropriate.”

Lorundil nudged past the handmaiden and held the door open for Lattia. “We can protect you should the need arise, Milady.”

Sinyail stood behind her. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, impatiently. “It would be a shame to visit Stros M’Kai and not partake of the local tavern.”

Lattia suppressed a smile. Upon leaving the Pelladil they had traveled north, through the well appointed town garden to the waterfall. From there they headed east, stopping to shop in the silversmith near the bell tower. Then it was north again over sandstone bridges to the palace, where the name of Clan Direnni secured them an interminable tour. Leaving the palace they swung to the east, walking over cobblestones baked by the sun until the town wall loomed. Turning south, they stopped to browse the maps set outside by the local cartographer. Lattia wandered into the bookstore, where she bought Captain Valion a new copy of Father of the Niben. Through it all, Lorundil and Sinyail answered any questions put to them, when they weren’t preserving a respectful silence. Now they were at the door to the inn, and the eagerness of the two Altmer was the most enjoyable thing that Lattia had seen all day.

“It would be a shame, indeed”, said Lattia, “I think our escorts have earned a drink.”

She led them through the door. Inside the dim light could not hide the members of the Pelladil’s crew. Their loud voices and slobbering songs assaulted the ears while their busy hands fumbled at the pretty young girls. The girls, for their part, pretended to laugh at jokes that they had doubtlessly heard before while keeping one eye on the sailors’ purses.

Lorundil found a relatively quiet table away from the drunken toasts and yelled threats that were easily forgotten in the wake of another drunken toast, or song.

An Argonian held court behind the bar. His green scales glistened and his small sharp teeth flashed often. Goblets and tankards flew from his hands with dizzying speed. As their party sat down the Argonian produced a soiled linen cloth and wiped the spilled dregs of mead, ale, and worse from his arms and chest. He slid from behind the bar and made his way to Lattia’s table. He raised his voice to be heard.

“Lady Direnni, an unexpected pleasure, you and your companions are most welcome. My name is Dreekius, good Heart’s Day to you all. If you require accommodations I would be honored to provide them free of charge.”

“Well met, Dreekius,” said Lattia, “how do you know who I am?”

“Your crew has been kind enough to favor my establishment. They have spoken of you with great affection. That is why I have come over here.”

Lorundil stood, his hand moved toward the hilt of his cutlass. Sinyail followed, his cutlass half-clearing the scabbard.

Lattia placed her hands palms down across the table. “Peace, both of you. What is it that you want of me, Dreekius?”

Dreekius sidestepped past Lorundil and knelt at Lattia’s side. He spoke quietly, for Lattia’s ears alone. She could smell the ale on his breath.

“It is a matter of some urgency, Milady, one best discussed in private.”

Lattia hesitated.

“I know how that must sound,” said Dreekius, “rest assured that I mean you no harm. In fact, I am hoping you can help me. Bring your bodyguard with you.”

Lattia nodded, Lorundil and Sinyail stood when she did, their eyes never leaving Dreekius. Irinde gained her feet, a nervous flush coloring her cheeks. Dreekius rose and led them through the crowd to a spot on the opposite side of the bar. With all of the commotion none of the besotted crew noticed as he shifted a small rug on the floor to reveal a trapdoor. When he opened it, dim candlelight revealed a set of steep wooden stairs leading to a small room below.

“Down here,” Dreekius said as he led the way down the steps.

Lorundil placed his hand on Lattia’s arm. “Let me go first, Milady.” He drew his cutlass and followed Dreekius down the stairs.

Lattia followed with Sinyail close behind. Irinde gingerly tested each step before deigning to lean her weight on it.

A pair of worn candles lit the room. Several casks and crates were stacked against the far wall. A woven pallet lay to the side. A thin, wide-eyed Argonian with skin the color of molded bread stood in the middle of the room.

“Your crew told me that you intend to sail to Artaeum,” said Dreekius, “for that you will need someone who has been there.” He motioned to the Argonian. “This is Earns-His-Keep. He is the finest navigator I know, and he has made the trip before.”

“You have been to Artaeum?” asked Lattia.

“Yes,” said Earns-His-Keep, “long ago. I took three hatchlings there. I am willing to chart a course to the island again, if you remove me from my circumstances.”

Lattia turned to Dreekius, “What circumstances?”

“Earns-His-Keep is a fugitive,” said Dreekius. “Before he came to be here he was a guest of the Stros M’Kai jail.”

Irinde gasped and covered her mouth with both hands. “He is a criminal, Milady!”

“I am an Argonian,” said Earns-His-Keep.

“That is certain,” said Lorundil, “have you been bathing in a sewer?”

Sinyail snickered under his breath. Earns-His-Keep began to wring the bottom of his own shirt with both hands.

“Please, Milady,” said Dreekius, “take him with you. He is no criminal, strictly speaking, and he can be useful.”

“Why were you in jail?” asked Lattia.

“I tried to kill a guard,” said Earns-His-Keep, “I was not successful.”

“Not surprising,” said Lorundil, “I’ve seen spears with more weight than you.”

Sinyail suppressed the obligatory snicker. Earns-His-Keep kept twisting his shirt.

“Why did you try to kill a guard?” asked Lattia.

“He made sport of me,” said Earns-His-Keep.

Lorundil shifted his weight to his heels. Sinyail looked down and found fault with his own boots.

“I don’t think the Captain will appreciate a short-tempered Argonian on board, Milady,” said Lorundil.

Lattia ignored him, “so you escaped from the jail and sought refuge with Dreekius?”

Earns-His-Keep shifted his gaze from Lorundil’s throat. “After I was rescued from the jail I was taken to the Kynreeve.”

“What is the Kynreeve?”

“It is a pirate ship, Milady,” Dreekius offered, “they were his last employer.”

“He is a pirate!” Irinde’s hands flew back to her mouth.

“I am a navigator,” said Earns-His-Keep.

“If you were taken to the Kynreeve, how did you come to be here?” asked Lattia.

“I pay my debts,” said Earns-His-Keep.

Lattia turned to Dreekius. “What does that mean?”

“That ties into the other matter I need your help with, Milady,” said Dreekius.

This post has been edited by Destri Melarg: Aug 1 2010, 09:16 AM

[SubRosa]

I smell the corpse of a High Rock Nightblade! I have been wondering how you were going to get Arnand out of his deathly predicament. It seems none other than Lattia may be his savior.

A very fun segment. Lattia is probably my favorite Interregnum character, so I am always happy to see her. I am too tired to add any critical analysis, but I had a lot of fun reading.

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Jul 30 2010, 12:03 AM

[haute ecole rider]

Ah, one of my favorite conversations once again! How enjoyable!

“Earns-His-Keep is a fugitive,” said Dreekius. “Before he came to be here he was a guest of the Stros M’Kai jail.”

Irinde gasped and covered her mouth with both hands. “He is a criminal, Milady!”

“I am an Argonian,” said Earns-His-Keep.

“What is the Kynreeve?”

“It is a pirate ship, Milady,” Dreekius offered, “they were his last employer.”

“He is a pirate!” Irinde’s hands flew back to her mouth.

“I am a navigator,” said Earns-His-Keep.

I love the irony here! Earns-His-Keep is so pragmatic!