Interregnum, 854 of the Second Era Options

[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!

[Olen]

This next segment of two posts is aimed at you.

Ooooh, that's quite an honour in a piece of thios quality.

Wow, I might just have to go over that chapter carefully and see how you managed to produce so many strong characters in such a short section without breaking the flow. Earns-his-keep was great, it's good to see him again and his development, I second Haute's comment on his pragmatism, "I am an argonian" made me laugh aloud.

Now I sense that this could get rather exciting, certainly the previous death of a certain nightblade is coming to fruition, one who wanted to get to Artaeum as I recall...

Irinde was spot on too

This post has been edited by Olen: Jul 30 2010, 11:16 AM

[Remko]

I love Earns-His-Keeps. I can really relate to his pragmatism
I also love how you gave Lattia bodyguards. Like Rales so justly stated, a knife in the throat is just as effective against mages as a silence spell

[Acadian]

What a joy to read! Everyone comes to life. Wonderful to see Lattia again. I find myself reading twice. Once to enjoy, then again to study your magic with prose. I could quote most of your story, but let me limit it to one passage that I recalled struck me with equal vividness the first time I read it during your original telling. Dare I say, almost as memorable as being sniffed by a dragon or following a wandering sweet roll?

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.

Nit, or perhaps just a question. I would have used 'island's hospitality' in both cases below. Would I be wrong?

Most of the crew are off-ship, partaking of the islands hospitality.

Perhaps I will take a turn through the town myself, and partake of the islands hospitality.”

[Destri Melarg]

SubRosa –

“I smell the corpse of a High Rock Nightblade!”

Isn’t it funny how things work out? I always knew that Lattia would be a major character in this story, but in the telling she has emerged as something of a catalyst. She is perhaps the most proactive character in the story, which is ironic considering her personality. Perhaps that is what makes her resonate; I have a blast every time I write one of her chapters.

haute – Earns-His-Keep continues to surprise me. Once he opened his mouth it became very hard not to give him more to say. Most of my work of late has been concerned with giving him a larger roll in the story. You will be seeing more of his pragmatism, I assure you.

Olen – Your memory serves you well. We have not heard the last of Arnand’s mission to Artaeum. Irinde is a homage, I wanted her to come across as a younger (though who can tell with the Altmer) version of the nurse/handmaiden/lady-in-waiting character that the wonderful Una O’Connor did so well in films like The Adventures of Robin Hood.

Remko – I would submit that a knife in the throat is more effective. A silence spell eventually wears off. See my comments to Acadian below because they are addressed to you as well.

Acadian – You can thank Remko for the effectiveness of the passage that you quoted. I had to change it because in the first version I had Dreekius glistening with sweat. Remko astutely pointed out that, being Argonian and therefore cold-blooded, Dreekius probably wouldn’t sweat. The resulting debate was a great deal of fun to read. At the time I gave some half-baked justification for why, alone among reptiles, Argonians would have sweat glands. haute backed me on it with an argument far superior to my own. But in the back of my mind I knew he was right, I was just too lazy to change it. Bringing the story over to Chorrol gave me the chance to remedy that.

As for your nit:
You are correct, as usual. That (along with loose/lose) is a mistake that I always make. In fact, I think I made it the last time I posted this chapter. You called me on it then too. I seem to have a hard time reconciling the possessive form to an inanimate object. I don’t know why, but to me the apostrophe doesn’t fit, even though it is grammatically correct. Thanks for spotting it . . . again, it has been changed.

* * *

The Not-So-Distant Past
High in the Kurallian Mountains
Morning


“Today we shall discuss the properties of poison,” said Sage Vardengroet.

He was a boy again walking beside his master, his head even with the gold belt around the old man’s indigo robe. They were on a path, high in the Kurallian Mountains. The morning sun had yet to burn off the mist, so the trees all around them had an ethereal quality. Behind him the tall stone walls of the fortress cast lengthening shadows that preceded them. The air smelled of frost and pine.

The sudden sting of the old man’s staff across his shoulders brought his attention back into the moment.

“Arnand,” said the Sage, “stop daydreaming, lad! Pay attention!”

“Yes Master.” Arnand lowered his head to hide the tears welling in his eyes. He heard the crunch of their sandals on the path.

Sage Vardengroet cleared his throat. Arnand looked up, past the flowing white beard and under the tall pointed hat to the smile that played in his master’s eyes.

“You remind me of my youth,” said the Sage, “under Grundingler’s care. I also was a daydreamer, and had no patience for talks of poison.”

“Are they not . . . cowardly, Master?” asked Arnand.

The old man stopped walking and looked off into the distance. Arnand waited, scuffing his sandals in the dirt and kicking free the small pebbles that became trapped under his feet.

“Perspective, lad,” said the Sage. “Imagine there are ogres near your land, and all you have available is a bow with some arrows, a mortar and pestle, and your knowledge of poison, would you be a coward to use it?”

Arnand’s face compressed in concentration, “Ogres have a weakness to poison.”

“Precisely,” said the Sage, smiling, “in the example I gave, that knowledge could save your life or the lives of others. You would not then be hailed a coward, would you?”

“No Master.”

“No weapon or technique is heroic or cowardly, Arnand, only the heart of the one who wields it. Do you understand?”

“Yes Master.”

“Good.” The old man began to walk again. Arnand ran to keep up. “Now, if you are ever poisoned the first thing you must remember is not to panic. No matter how powerful, the effects are temporary and can be reversed. The Dreamsleeve is filled with mages who forgot that simple truth.”

Arnand listened, but his master’s voice grew harder to hear. The mists began to close in on him, the mountains and the fortress faded from view. He was alone, walking as if through a cloud. His footing gave way and he felt himself falling through space.

_____

He lay on the warm sand, his head nestled in Elissa’s lap. Slowly her delicate fingers combed through his hair. He felt the cool surf kiss the bottom of his feet before retreating back into the bay. A trace of heather made the air smell fresh, like a new dawn after a cold, rainy night. He didn’t want to open his eyes.

“Breton?”

The voice was coarse linen drawn across his ears, the interruption of a perfect moment in time. As far as he was concerned his world was held in Elissa’s soft hand. He sighed in peace and consigned everything else to Oblivion.

“He cannot hear me.”

But he could hear. He just chose to ignore. Elissa’s hand wandered down his face. This was where he belonged; with her on their farm, riding together to Alcaire for a meal or a drink in the tavern.

“Perhaps I should try.”

Another voice, one that could have been Elissa’s, but no, she was here with him. He felt her hands on the side of his neck, warm, caressing, massaging.

Memory played familiar scenes before his closed eyes. He saw her on the day when he claimed her for his own. She wore a borrowed silver dress with a waist that rode high and barely served to cover her knees. The wreath of morning glory in her hair could not hide her elven ears. Her green eyes seemed to shine with a light made for him alone, and the smile that lit her face still caused his heart to jump at the recollection.

“I will need a mortar and pestle.”

The voice that could have been Elissa again, faint on a breeze turned cold. Why had it become so hard to breathe? Her hands were still there, cold, squeezing, choking.

He could not open his eyes. The scenes in his mind darkened. He watched himself as a man in a fugue, searching for days and nights until the villagers closed their doors against the madness that burned in his eyes. He searched until he saw his Elissa through the cold driving rain. She lay broken in the tall grass like something discarded. He held her, his tears washed clean by the rain. The twin marks that defiled her neck told of her abduction. He placed his fingers over the wounds, cursing himself for his inattention when the old Sage tried to teach him spells to cure disease. He flooded her body with every restoration spell he knew as if he could erase the damage through magicka alone.

He opened his eyes. He lay on burning black sand that cut into his skin like broken glass. The sky above was on fire. Elissa pinned him to the ground, her long bony fingers clawed at the skin around his neck. Her skin was as pale and thin as parchment, lust and hunger lit her blood red eyes. He was too weak to hold her off. The last thing he felt was her fangs scrape the skin of his throat.

_____

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


Pain was the first sensation that Arnand felt. It centered in his chest and lower back and played down the nerves in his legs. His eyelids fluttered, and opened. They slowly focused on a familiar room.

“He is awake,” a voice called out, “get Dreekius.”

Hurried footsteps faded from the room. Dreekius, thought Arnand, I’m back in the Draggin Tale? He heard the sound of a cart being dragged over the cobblestones on the street below. The room smelled of sweat and crushed aloe vera. A dark ample bosom appeared before his eyes, and a cool damp cloth was gently placed on his forehead.

“Can you hear me?” came from the soft voice of a young girl.

Arnand recognized the pretty young Redguard. She had been entertaining the sailors before he first left for Saintsport. “How . . .” his voice was a whispered croak. He felt the girl’s weight leave the bed. For a moment Arnand worried that he had scared her away, but she returned with a stone cup cradled in her hand.

“Let me help you,” she said. She placed her off-hand behind his neck and lifted.

The pain in his back made Arnand wince. She held the cup to his lips and poured the cool water into him. He drank until the cup was empty. She smiled and turned to refill it. Arnand heard footsteps coming up the stairs.

A second girl entered the room trailed by Dreekius and another Argonian who looked vaguely familiar.

“You are awake,” said Dreekius, “we thought that you had been lost to us.”

The girl returned with more water, she lifted his head and he drank. She lowered his head to the pillow. The croak was gone when he spoke, but his voice was still a whisper. “The ship?”

“Gone,” said Dreekius, “you were betrayed. Were it not for Earns-His-Keep you would have died on the dock.” Dreekius stepped to the side, the second Argonian stepped forward.

Earns-His-Keep, thought Arnand, and then it all came back to him, the jail, the wagon, the dock, Ansu Shin-Ilu and her silver cutlass.

“You were gone,” said Arnand, looking toward his savior, “how did you?”

“He boarded the ship,” said Dreekius, “and, when no one was looking, dove off the other side. He waited underwater until the ship was out of sight and then he came back to the dock.”

“You were slumped over a dead horse,” said Earns-His-Keep.

Arnand remembered being stabbed in the back. He remembered being silenced, the feel of the poison bubbling in his veins. He remembered Delron’s fetid breath and the look of unabashed joy on Shin-Ilu’s face when she ran him through with her sword. He remembered watching their footsteps rise up on the gangplank, and crawling hand over hand toward the wagon where a swaybacked horse looked down on him with such contempt. He remembered that his veins stopped burning, and that he formed an absorb health spell in his hand.

“But why?” asked Arnand.

“I was in your debt,” said Earns-His-Keep, “I told you I would not forget it.” He placed a hand on Arnand’s shoulder, “I pay my debts.”

Arnand smiled as best he could. He placed his hand over the Argonian’s. “And you earn your keep.”

“Rest now,” said Earns-His-Keep, “we sail on the morning tide.”

Arnand’s brow furrowed, he looked to Dreekius.

“The horse sustained you,” said Dreekius, “but it did not heal you, nor did we. Were it not for Lady Direnni and her potions you would not have survived. She has a ship bound for the Isle of Artaeum. She has agreed to take the two of you along. I assume that is where you still wish to go.”

_____

17th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
The Pelladil, At Sea
Mid-Day


There was a knock at the door to the Captain’s quarters.

“Come,” called Lattia.

The door opened and the Breton passenger walked gingerly into the room.

“Lady Direnni,” Arnand said bowing, “it is an honor to make your acquaintance. I understand that I have you to thank for the speed of my recovery.”

Lattia looked up from the open copy of Father of the Niben in her lap. “I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced.”

“Forgive me,” said Arnand, “I am Arnand Desele.”

Lattia thought she saw the light of recognition in his eyes. As if the sound of her voice had triggered some memory within him.

“A pleasure to meet you,” she said, “I am Lattia Direnni. No thanks are necessary, it was the least I could do for a fellow member of the Order.”

“I . . .” Arnand stopped. Words failed him.

Lattia smiled, “Dreekius told me that you were bound for Artaeum. I assume, like me, you go to join the Order.”

“I see,” said Arnand, “in any event, I thank you for your hospitality.” He turned to go.

“I have grown weary of winter,” said Lattia. She looked through the portal to a point far away.

“Excuse me?”

Lattia eyes refocused on him. “You should thank Captain Valion and Dreekius. They reminded me that yesterday was Heart’s Day. If such kindness had been given the Lovers, it would always be springtime in the world.”

[Acadian]

I enjoyed Arnand's flashback to his poison training. I do recall his quest relating to his wife-turned-vampire. That was nicely reviewed here. I find Lattia endearing, so it is always a pleasure to read scenes with her in them.

It's fun to read and just let your images toy with my mind as beautiful mysterious pieces of a puzzle. As always, your evocative descriptions are brilliant and far too numerous to quote more than just this one:

He felt the cool surf kiss the bottom of his feet before retreating back into the bay.

[SubRosa]

I do not believe that it says anywhere that Argonians are cold-blooded or not. I am not even sure it says they are reptiles or not. Although even if they are reptiles, that does not mean they have to be cold-blooded either. There is a strong belief that dinosaurs were warm-blooded, and pterosaurs were definitely so. So really, Argonians - who the lore says were descended from trees - could go either way.

Now, onto the actual segment.

No weapon or technique is heroic or cowardly, Arnand, only the heart of the one who wields it.
Well said. I like how you described Voldemort Vardengroet as a Sage, rather that a Master as well. For a race that was enslaved by elves for thousands of years, I suspect that Bretons would not be thrilled with the latter term.


A trace of heather made the air smell fresh, like a new dawn after a cold, rainy night.
This was a lovely description. The entire flashback with Arnand and Elissa (who is an elf!) was wonderful.


Excellent way of worming out of Arnand's death! It reminds me of the old cliffhanger serials in the old days. Did you have it planned out when you wrote Arnand's betrayal? Or is is something you came up with afterward?

Finally, excellent way of working in a bit of lore with Lattia's reference to Heart's Day. One of the problems I have the TF is trying to work in Tamriel holidays.


nits:
A dark, ample bosom
An enticing prospect. But I think you want a comma in there where I inserted it.

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Aug 2 2010, 05:48 PM

[haute ecole rider]

OMG, Una O'Connor! I had forgotten about her! Now that you mention her, it all comes flooding back, and Irinde is now even more alive thanks to my fond memories of the flighty but loyal servant. Thanks!

I have my own favorite passage to quote:

“I was in your debt,” said Earns-His-Keep, “I told you I would not forget it.” He placed a hand on Arnand’s shoulder, “I pay my debts.”

Arnand smiled as best he could. He placed his hand over the Argonian’s. “And you earn your keep.”

I love this interplay between Argonian and Breton. It is good to see Arnand alive again, though his memories are so bittersweet, especially of his wife. The growing friendship between the two men is clear to see in this simple exchange.

I still enjoy reading this, both the 'old' stuff and the new scenes you have added here and there. It is a story that holds up well to re-reading, which I consider a sign of quality writing. My hat's off to you, yet again!

By any chance, did you grow up watching WGN's Saturday matinee? It seems you and I have watched the same old films as kids!

[Ornamental Nonsense]

I've only gotten to the part where Talos is introduced as a character, and I simply had to stop and express my appreciation for this story yet again. I'm anxiously waiting to see how you tie all of these different characters together, and I found myself pondering this time and again when each chapter switched between various personalities. I personally find Lattia the most interesting character thus far, but all of them are compelling in their own right, especially your killer with his vampire wife. It's nice to see such a wide array of personalities that are fleshed out.

I admit that I'm a bit rusty on certain parts of Elderscrolls' lore, and so I had to check references on certain things that you mentioned. As a result, I've learned quite a bit. I wonder how much time you put forth in ensuring that lore details are nicely incorporated into your story. I imagine quite a bit, and the results show through in the quality of this story.

I also found your comment on expanding the world and travel time quite interesting. I've read many stories where it only takes a day or so to get somewhere, which is fine if the story focuses on remaining close to the game's size, but making the world larger is definitely a better fit for your story. I found that I had to do the same thing in 'Slipping into Shadow', because the cities do seem rather small, don't they? I mean, the Imperial City is supposed to be the center of a massive empire. Well, anyway, I've got to get back to reading now so that I can catch up.

[Olen]

Well Arnand survived... that i hadn't seen so an unexpected twist there. The dream (if that's the word) sequence had the right sort of feel and was a cunning way of working in backstory without forcing it. I especially enjoyed how it suddenly darkened as he came towards wakefulness, an observation I'd say was accurite to RL.

I enjoyed Arnand's flashback to his poison training. I do recall his quest relating to his wife-turned-vampire.

This has me stumped. Which game was Arnand from?

As ever you have a full cast of strong characters who interact well. In fact they're so effective as to be giving me a bit of a pause for thought... I like strong characters and tend to go for first person but maybe I should give third a try...

I caught a distinct alchemical motif there, I wonder if we'll be seeing more of that.

[Acadian]

I enjoyed Arnand's flashback to his poison training. I do recall his quest relating to his wife-turned-vampire.

This has me stumped. Which game was Arnand from?

Olen, I think my words may have been confusing. I meant that I recalled from earlier in Destri's story that Arnand has set himself to a task related to the fact that his wife had been turned to vampirism. I did not mean to imply that a quest from MW or OB was involved. Forgive my poor choice of words.

This post has been edited by Acadian: Aug 3 2010, 03:02 PM