Interregnum, 854 of the Second Era Options

[Captain Hammer]

Oh, bloody excellent!

I particularly liked all the pompous fanfare that accompanied Cuhlecain. Despite all that, he's still not wearing the Amulet of Kings, and it looks like he knows it.

Of course, you leave it on a cliff hanger, but what can we do about that. Excellent work.

That said, my nitpick: The Red Diamond is the Chim-el Adabal, the central large gem in the Amulet of Kings.

Hence, the War of the Red Diamond was the war between Septims for the Amulet of Kings, and the obvious associations with Red Diamond Jewelry indicates that in-game, it's probably a marketing ploy by the proprietor.

What little hair he had was shot with grey and served to help prop the Red Diamond Crown that sat upon his pointed head.

Thus, it strikes me as odd, that Cuhlecain, who does not have the Amulet of Kings, would possess something like the Red Diamond Crown. It just calls attention to the fact that the genuine article is possessed by his general.

Granted, the apocryphal tales state that Reman Cyrodiil I wore the Red Diamond upon his brow, but that was as an infant when newly given to the world as the founder of the Second Empire.

But what appears to be the common thread throughout the lore-books, as well as the game experience in Oblivion, that it is in fact the Amulet of Kings which is considered to be the equivalent of Tamriel's Crown Jewel, and that the amulet is the sign of the Emperor and the Imperial line.

Granted, it is a minor issue, and honestly it's the only thing that stood out as contradicting other material.

[SubRosa]

Cuhlecain was an interesting one. I was not sure what to expect of him (given the name, I was half-wondering if he would be a tattooed Celt riding a chariot!) I suspect his choice of herald's was not simply based upon the merit's of the man's voice, but also of his stature.

This was an interesting scene. Once more, it reminds me very heavily of the final days of the Roman Republic, when the Senate and Pompey ordered Caesar to report to Rome to stand trial for war crimes against the Celts. While the Council Chamber was not quite the Rubicon, Talos crossed a very dramatic line before the eyes of the leaders of the Empire, from which there is no turning back. He may as well have thrown down his glove before Cuhlecain and called him out! (but I think he plans to have Arctus slip some dog meat into Cuhlecain's dinner first... )

“You can take your Eight Divines and shove them up your robe, woman! I swear to Shor and the Gods of men!”
This gave me quite a grin!

Then Varla returns. And shows that she still has quite the stones:
Varla straightened to her full height and allowed the smile to light up her face, “High Rock,” she said.


nits:
No one paid any attention to the envoy from Bravil because he was not a man of great wealth or importance and he was, after all, from Bravil.
This seems to run on a bit repetitively. Perhaps breaking it into two sentences?
No one paid any attention to the envoy from Bravil, as he was not a man of great wealth or importance. He was, after all, from Bravil.


“the militia was camped in the Jerall Mountains. We were requested to hold the privates of the Cyrodiil Legion in some skirmish near the border with Elsweyr.”
This left me confused. It sounds like the Nords were imprisoning the footsoldiers of the Cyrodiil Legion. Or fighting a battle against them. But the Nords were camped in the Jerall Mtns, which are at the north side of Cyrodiil, and the legionaries they were holding at the other end of the province. So how could the Nords hold them?

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Aug 11 2010, 02:55 AM

[haute ecole rider]

Now we have one of my favorite courtroom dramas ever! I enjoyed the verbal sparring here.

One thing:

We were requested to hold the privates of the Cyrodiil Legion in some skirmish near the border with Elsweyr.

While I agree with Sage Rosa about the geographic confusion here, I also had a smile thinking of "holding the privates . . ." Were the Cyrodiil Legion so inept that the soldiers of Skyrim had to hold their privates during a battle? I'm sure Foxy sees it the same way I do!

[Captain Hammer]

Now we have one of my favorite courtroom dramas ever! I enjoyed the verbal sparring here.

One thing:

We were requested to hold the privates of the Cyrodiil Legion in some skirmish near the border with Elsweyr.

While I agree with Sage Rosa about the geographic confusion here, I also had a smile thinking of "holding the privates . . ." Were the Cyrodiil Legion so inept that the soldiers of Skyrim had to hold their privates during a battle? I'm sure Foxy sees it the same way I do!

Get your mind Out of the Gutter!

[Acadian]

You are undoubtedly the master of courtroom drama.

The following passage is just one of countless examples where you so perfectly immerse us:

Farenenre leaned back in his chair. He absently stroked the side of his face with the feather from his quill. “What is your name and occupation?”

Interregnum contains several scenes that are indelibly etched in my memory. The errant sweet roll making its rounds in the tent. The Argonian bartender slinging ales. And who could ever forget being sniffed by a DRAGON? Well, here is another that I remember well from your first telling. Neither time nor retelling have lessoned its impact:

“I have spent the better part of the afternoon listening to you and your allies question my judgment, second guess my decisions, and impugn my honor,” said General Talos, leveling his gaze at Synnius Carbo and Prior Sanne, “That is not something that I am likely to forget. I have a question for the Throne, and unless one of you honorable gentlemen wishes to unsheathe a sword to stop me, I intend to ask it.”

As always, simply, wow!

[Destri Melarg]

That said, my nitpick: The Red Diamond is the Chim-el Adabal, the central large gem in the Amulet of Kings.

Hence, the War of the Red Diamond was the war between Septims for the Amulet of Kings, and the obvious associations with Red Diamond Jewelry indicates that in-game, it's probably a marketing ploy by the proprietor.

Thus, it strikes me as odd, that Cuhlecain, who does not have the Amulet of Kings, would possess something like the Red Diamond Crown. It just calls attention to the fact that the genuine article is possessed by his general.

Granted, the apocryphal tales state that Reman Cyrodiil I wore the Red Diamond upon his brow, but that was as an infant when newly given to the world as the founder of the Second Empire.

But what appears to be the common thread throughout the lore-books, as well as the game experience in Oblivion, that it is in fact the Amulet of Kings which is considered to be the equivalent of Tamriel's Crown Jewel, and that the amulet is the sign of the Emperor and the Imperial line.

Granted, it is a minor issue, and honestly it's the only thing that stood out as contradicting other material.

Captain – But Cuhlecain does have the Amulet of Kings (or Chim-el Adabal if you prefer). It was recovered by his forces under the command of Talos at Sancre Tor two years before the events in this story. You can blame me for artistic license, but I just don’t see Cuhlecain keeping Talos around if he refused to give up the Amulet. You have to remember that at this time Talos was just one of Cuhlecain’s generals, any thoughts of his place as rightful heir to the Empire were the province of vague prophecy laid forth by the Greybeards of High Hrothgar, and in whispered rumor amongst the Nords who had witnessed his thu’um at Sancre Tor. Either way it was not a widely held opinion of the average citizen of Cyrodiil.

The problem that Cuhlecain has is that, because he is not of dragon blood, he cannot wear the Amulet. To compensate for this he wears the Red Diamond Crown of the Cyrodiils that the Pocket Guide to the Empire says that he possessed. In my opinion this symbol of monarchy would have been more concrete to the citizenry of the time because the Amulet had been lost for centuries, and no one (human) alive at that time had ever even seen it outside of a representation within the pages of an old book.

nits:
“the militia was camped in the Jerall Mountains. We were requested to hold the privates of the Cyrodiil Legion in some skirmish near the border with Elsweyr.”
This left me confused. It sounds like the Nords were imprisoning the footsoldiers of the Cyrodiil Legion. Or fighting a battle against them. But the Nords were camped in the Jerall Mtns, which are at the north side of Cyrodiil, and the legionaries they were holding at the other end of the province. So how could the Nords hold them?

While I agree with Sage Rosa about the geographic confusion here, I also had a smile thinking of "holding the privates . . ." Were the Cyrodiil Legion so inept that the soldiers of Skyrim had to hold their privates during a battle? I'm sure Foxy sees it the same way I do!

'Rosa & haute - That is exactly how Hjolfr meant it! I see him as somewhat disdainful of the military arm of this supposed Cyrodiilic Empire. Hence he refers to the Battle of Fort Black Boot as 'some skirmish near the border with Elsweyr'. His loyalty is to the tenuous alliance that his countrymen have entered into with General Talos. If given his druthers, I imagine that he would just as soon invade Tamriel and put all of those Elf-God worshiping fishwives to the sword.

This post has been edited by Destri Melarg: Aug 11 2010, 09:56 AM

[Olen]

Echoing the above: "wow!". A fine courtroom drama well woven into the fantasy setting, most enjoyable verbal sparring and convincing too. I agree that it put me in mind of the end of the Roman republic (or perhaps a couple of decades prior) in therrms of political manouvering. It also reminded me (somewhat) of some of Colleen McCullough's writings (her books dramatise the last few decades of the republic in great detail).

Farenenre played his part well.

Now there was a twist, I knew he wasn't really with the emperor but is there a side he's not playing? And he played it very well after the courtroom thing. I suspect we'll be seeing more of hm hedging his bets.

The look on the Prior’s face would have been the same had the Nord told him that Mehrunes Dagon was relieving himself in the fountain of the wayshrine of Akatosh.

Brilliant.

Nit:
You misspelt Chorrol as Chorral near the beginning (at least I assume it was accidental).

I was also slightly confised at the Skyrim milita holding the privates of Cyrodiil (while I did think of it as you meant I assumed it was meant to be something else, possibly holding a bunch of raw privates (as in the rank) out the way or something.

This post has been edited by Olen: Aug 11 2010, 11:49 AM

[SubRosa]

'Rosa & haute - That is exactly how Hjolfr meant it! I see him as somewhat disdainful of the military arm of this supposed Cyrodiilic Empire. Hence he refers to the Battle of Fort Black Boot as 'some skirmish near the border with Elsweyr'. His loyalty is to the tenuous alliance that his countrymen have entered into with General Talos. If given his druthers, I imagine that he would just as soon invade Tamriel and put all of those Elf-God worshiping fishwives to the sword.

So then Hjolfr was not imprisoning Cyrodiilic soldiers in the Jerall mountains, but was making a statement about holding their testicles because he saw them as cowards? You might want to reword that. The way you use modern rank names like captain, it makes one think that private means a individual, grunt soldier, rather than genitalia.

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Aug 13 2010, 08:34 PM

[hazmick]

let's put the genitalia aside for a moment as I say, Hello!. I've spent all day reading through this story and I am not disappointed. There are many characters which at first glance appear to be completely separate from one another but as the story has progressed, the characters stories are becoming interwoven. Bravo!. I also wish to congratulate you on the ability to make a courtroom feel as exciting as a battle field. more please.

[Destri Melarg]

Acadian – I’m happy to hear that you enjoyed Talos’ scene during the hearing. The passage that you quoted was the one that gave me the most trouble in the writing. I wanted Talos’ appearance ‘on the stand’ to be brief, yet unequivocal. In the initial draft his testimony, which included questioning by both Farenenre and Zurin Arctus, covered three full pages. In the end I decided that a man like Talos wouldn’t tolerate being second guessed by those he viewed as subordinate.

Olen – I have always looked upon Talos as Tamriel’s version of Caesar. His part in this story is heavily influenced by the relationship and eventual conflict between Caesar and Pompey. I am glad that you can see the parallel.

Faranenre is interested in only one thing, his own prosperity. It is the only thing worthy of the application of his superior intellect. He will enter into an alliance with anyone that he feels can be used to further his own ends. You will most definitely be seeing more of him.

Thank you for spotting the nit with Chorrol (Chorral?). It has been fixed.

SubRosa – I agree that I should reword Hjolfr’s statement about the Imperial Legion. I am actually glad that you brought it up because I never liked the word ‘privates’ coming from Hjolfr. It struck me as too respectful from a man who has no respect whatsoever for the Empire. The problem is that I want to do it in a way that fits the speaker. Hjolfr is not a man to mince words, but I don’t want to get smacked by the forum’s swear filter. No honored users or Belgian boats for me, thanks! I toyed with the idea of saying ‘private parts’, but that just doesn’t sound right to me. And ‘hold their hands’ doesn’t give you a sense of Hjolfr’s vulgarity in the setting of an Imperial council chamber. I notice that testicles passed the swear filter, but that doesn’t sound like something that Hjolfr would say. I will continue to think about it, any ideas that you may have would be appreciated.

hazmick -

let's put the genitalia aside for a moment as I say, Hello!.

Welcome to Interregnum! Thank you very much for the kind words. I am particularly glad that the courtroom felt like a battle field to you, that is exactly what I was going for. I hope that I haven’t overwhelmed you with all the different characters. Trust me; they all have a part to play in the events ahead.

[Destri Melarg]

Book Three: First Seed


2nd First Seed, 2E 854
The Reachman’s Tavern, Jehanna, High Rock
Evening


The young man’s lineage could not be told easily at first glance. On his face was writ the history of the Western Reach. He had a Nord’s height to be sure, but his lean silhouette and pointed ears told of his Aldmeri heritage. His pale skin and small, close-set blue eyes were framed by an unruly shock of blond hair that further marked him for a Breton. He sat with his legs akimbo, well into his cups, and listened with drunken fascination at the venom spilling from the stranger who shared a table and a tankard with him.

“I was at Sancre Tor,” said the stranger. He was a short, choleric Breton gone to fat who waved his tankard to emphasize his point, spilling half his mead on the tavern’s stone floor. “It wasn’t the ‘genius’ of your General Talos that won the battle.”

The young man’s head had drooped during the diatribe, but at the invocation of the name ‘Talos’ he roused himself and focused on the stranger through squinted eyes. “What are you saying?”

“What am I saying?” the Breton lowered his voice. His darting eyes searched through the tavern. Most of the patrons were Reachmen who were too far, or too drunk to hear their conversation. A small group of armed mer, Altmer from the look of them, drank at a nearby table. They were as out of place as he was along the Reach but the Breton relaxed. He had nothing to fear from the Elves.

He turned his attention back to the young man, who sat with his legs splayed and his eyes indignant. The Breton savored the moment; there was a perverse thrill to be had in destroying the delusions of youth.

“Refill my cup and I shall tell you,” he said.

The young man raised two fingers and swayed from an excess of mead. An attentive wench brought two bottles that she placed on the table. The young man pressed some gold coins into her hand and the two exchanged a private smile. Then he turned his attention back to the Breton.

“Now,” he said, “what were you saying?”

“I’m saying that your precious Early-Beard. . .” whatever was to follow became caught in the Breton’s throat. The door to the tavern was flung open and a sudden lightning flash lit the armor of the two figures framed in the doorway. Conversation stopped as they entered the tavern, dripping rain onto the stone floor. Their eyes began to move through the tavern and, as they scanned the faces within, the Breton just knew.

The young man paid no mind to his drinking companion. His eyes were agog and trained on the two armored men whose presence filled the tavern. The first was as tall as any Nord the young man had ever seen. Though soiled and battered, his steel armor still glistened in the lamp light. He bore a heavy tower shield that was slung to his back and a weathered silver mace hung from his hip. The second man was smaller though in no way slight. He was encased in light mail, and his worn green tunic clung to his chest and dripped into a puddle between his boots. He carried a light iron shield comfortably in his left hand, and when he shifted his stance the young man saw the pommel of a silver longsword on his left hip.

The smaller man’s scan of the tavern stopped at the table where the young man drank with the stranger. He threw an elbow into his companion and the Nord’s gaze followed. The young man shifted uder their scrutiny.

Thunder broke the silence in the tavern and shook the empty tankards gathered on the bar. The tall Nord shut the door behind him, muffling the sound of the falling rain, and joined his companion near the young man’s table. They stood to both sides, blocking the exit and the stairs behind the bar. They ignored the young man and glared down at the Breton, who kept his eyes on the table in front of him.

“Sancre Tor,” said the tall Nord, through a voice made hoarse with rage. “I am Valdemar of Skyrim.”

“And I am Alain of Wayrest,” said the smaller man, through a set jaw in a face flushed crimson.

Valdemar kept his eyes on the Breton, but made his comments to the tavern. “Being the craven braggart that this man is, doubtless by now he has made it known that two years ago he stood in stout fellowship with the Nord/Breton host at Sancre Tor. He probably filled his cup at your expense telling you how he fought valiantly in the face of certain death and that, when the fortress was taken, fate or divine providence alone allowed him to escape the kiss of the axe that claimed the heads of so many of his poor lamented brethren.”

“Lamented brethren,” said Alain.

“We were at Sancre Tor,” continued Valdemar, “and what he didn’t tell you through all those tankards of mead is that by his own hand he condemned to death all those whose only crime was calling him ally. What he didn’t tell you is that he alone removed the wards that allowed the invaders to take the high command unawares, and that his reward for this treachery was the right to walk free of that valley when so many others did not. Not to mention enough gold in his purse to buy his own damn mead, and the tavern that it was served in.”

Alain shifted impatiently. Valdemar’s eyes shone with unshed tears, a sight more frightening than the scowl that he wore.

“Two years we have spent on the chase,” said Valdemar, “the wheel stops spinning here.”

“Stand and draw your sword,” said Alain, “or die a coward’s death, whimpering into your cup!”

The young man rose so suddenly that his chair flew back against the hearth. He backed away from the table with his eyes as white and wide as mother pearls. The Breton kept his eyes on the table, but his hands eased down to his lap.

“You’ll be keeping your hands where we can see them,” said Valdemar.

“This is a mistake,” the Breton said, eyes still firmly on the table.

“The mistake was yours,” said Alain.

“So I am to face two knights?” the Breton looked into Alain’s face, he held his hands out to the side. “I am alone, and unarmed. What odds are those?”

“The odds are as fair as those you gave when you opened Sancre Tor to the invaders,” said Valdemar.

Alain drew his sword, the blade whined as it cleared the sheath. He placed the point near the Breton’s throat and held it with a steady hand.

“Have no fear,” he said, “it was the Breton host that you condemned to slavery and death, and it will be a Breton alone who exacts retribution. Now get on your feet.”

The Breton slowly rose from his chair. The point of Alain’s sword rose with him. Without taking his eyes off of his adversary, Alain raised his voice to be heard by all in the tavern.

“Someone give this man a sword,” he said, “I’ll not have it known that I slew an unarmed man.”

The tavern was silent; the only sound was the muffled rain tapping on the roof. From behind Valdemar one of the Altmer men-at-arms pushed past his fellows. Valdemar spun at the sound, his hand seeking the hilt of his mace. The Altmer froze; he raised both hands and shook his head once. The big Nord relaxed and motioned the Altmer forward. The Altmer drew his elven longsword and offered it hilt first to the Breton.

“Take up the sword,” said Alain.

The Breton hesitated. Alain placed the tip of his sword against the Breton’s throat and pushed forward enough to draw blood.

“Take it up,” he repeated.

The Breton took the sword in hand. Alain lowered his sword to the floor and handed his shield to Valdemar. He faced the Breton, both men on their guard.

“If I am victorious?” asked the Breton.

“Then I shall mourn my friend,” said Valdemar, “and after I have finished mourning I shall have one more death for which to hunt you down.”

The Breton roared and lunged forward. Alain shifted his weight to meet the attack, but it was a feint. The Breton changed his position and aimed his slash towards Alain’s exposed flank, but the knight was younger and quicker. The two blades met with the clang of silver on steel, and then the duel began in earnest.

_____

The young man stood near the hearth transfixed. For several moments the flight of the two swords shimmered and trailed in the lamplight. Silver rang on steel, with the occasional flash of lightning framing the combatants. Great rumbles of thunder shook the tavern and momentarily drowned out their curses.

And they were both cursing. The knight was the best swordsman that the young man had ever seen. But the older man was canny beyond reason, well versed in sword-craft, and possessed of that diabolical luck that graces evil men. Thrice he had been left open, his weakness so apparent that even the young man could see it, and thrice he had been rescued from the killing blow by some unseen agent that moved him to the one spot whereby he could re-gather himself and duel on.

The curses grew louder. To the young man it seemed that the knight’s sword was slowing, while the sword of the other man grew swifter, bolder. He had taken the knight’s measure and found him wanting. He began to drive the knight back. With each grudging scrape of the knight’s boots the sneer across the Breton’s face grew.

With a bellowed curse the knight went down, his boots sliding on the rain wet stone. The young man’s breath caught in his throat. The Breton’s sneer grew into a smile with no hint of warmth. With the elven sword raised high above his head he rushed in for the killing blow. The young man turned his head from the duel as a flash of lightning exploded against his closed eyelids.

_____

Alain lay dazed on the floor where he had fallen. My sword! He thought. And there it was, still firmly gripped in his hand. He saw his opponent coming forward, sword upraised, framed in the flash of a lightning strike. Instinctively he raised the nicked silver blade but, even as he did so, the thought slammed down on him like a hammer, No time!

The older man’s momentum carried him forward. His blade whistled downward in a blow meant to sever flesh and bone. Alain rolled to his right. For the space of a heartbeat the world in front of his eyes exploded with the sparks from the sword’s impact with the stone. There was a stab of pain across his cheek, and for a brief instant he imagined that the blow had landed. Then through his hazy vision he saw the exposed left knee of his enemy. Alain lifted his boot and kicked out with everything he had left in him.

There was a distinct crack, like the breaking of dry timber that caused everyone in the tavern to gasp, but to Alain the sound was sweeter than all the music in Tamriel. His boot had broken the other man’s knee at the joint and pushed the stressed bones to an impossible angle. The Breton went down with a groan as Alain struggled back to his feet.

In the same way that his code would not allow him to attack an unarmed man, he could not attack a man who was down. So Alain circled his opponent, waiting. The Breton began to push himself backward with his sword held in front of him. His left leg remained straight, but his left foot dragged along the floor on its side. He reached the hearth and slowly struggled to his feet. All of his weight rested on his right leg. His sword was held weakly in his left hand. Alain lowered his sword.

“Yield,” said Alain, “and submit to the King’s justice.”

“What King would that be?” asked the Breton, the sneer returning to his face, “the one in want of a head, or the one bowing to the Ruby Throne? I should have made sure that you were both put to the axe before I left.”

Alain charged with all thoughts of mercy forgotten. The Breton made no move to escape, nor did he raise his sword to defend himself. He stood there in defiant resignation waiting for the killing blow to fall. Alain began his thrust, the momentum of his charge and his bodyweight behind it.

The Breton moved. His right arm shot out to the side, locking onto the wrist of the young man who had shared his table. He yanked hard to his left; the young man lost his footing and stumbled into the path of Alain’s oncoming sword. Alain could not check his thrust.

There was a sound like a faint hiccup, the young man’s breath smelled like honey and mead. This close, Alain could see past the wide eyed shock to the first sense of recognition on the young man’s face, and the draining of the light from his eyes. Alain drew back as if he had touched a blacksmith’s forge. His sword was buried to the hilt in the young man’s chest. A tavern wench screamed, and the young man fell to the stone floor.

Alain stood rooted to the spot. All of his anger and all of his pride had been spent in the young man lying at his feet. The Breton faded to a dim memory beyond the edge of hearing. He stared down at the body of the young man and at the hilt of his sword which comically protruded from the chest.

The Breton raised his sword and set his one good leg for a final swing. Alain did not even react. With a turn of the hip and a roll of the shoulders the elven sword cut through the air. . .and was repelled by the tower shield that seemed to materialize in front of Alain’s neck.

The impact caused the Breton to loose his balance. He went down in front of the hearth. He looked up in time to see the head of a weathered mace coming toward him, held by a giant Nord with murder in his eyes.

This post has been edited by Destri Melarg: Aug 17 2010, 08:42 PM

[haute ecole rider]

I remember how this chapter kept me on the edge of my seat, and I'm pleased to find that on the second read-through it still does!

Ah, Alain and Valdemar! Two of my Sancre Tor heroes! These two, along with Caspar in Hammerfell, have really come to life here, as opposed to their appearance in Oblivion. I really appreciate how you have really made their ultimate sacrifice (as witnessed by the NPC during the MQ) so much more tragic by giving these men voices of their own. Rielus will make an appearance later, as well, if I recall correctly.

The tragedy of the young man's death really brings home the risks of dueling in close quarters with an audience. It amplifies the craven nature of the fat Breton, and adds to the sense of tragedy haunting Alain. First his Breton comrades-in-arms, then an innocent bystander. Valdemar's reaction, as exemplified by this line:

He looked up in time to see the head of a weathered mace coming toward him, held by a giant Nord with murder in his eyes.

only serves to highlight the kind of ruthless, unforgiving honor that drives many a seasoned warrior.

This chapter can stand alone as a short story in itself - so much is said in so few words, and it is so complete in and of itself. The fact that it slots so seamlessly into the rest of Interregnum is a testament to your skill in the writer's craft.

[Acadian]

I recall this one vividly.

Descriptions, dialogue, pacing, the storm, the twists. . .

Simply magnificent Destri. I don't know how better to put it.

[SubRosa]

About Hjolfr's holding, why not just go with balls?

Ahh, this blood-pounding battle is what I remember best of Interregnum 1.0! Action, suspense, and treachery! I loved the Breton as much as I did the first time. That guy really is a good villain.

At the same time this segment also gives us some background on Alain and Voldemort Valdemar. I might be wrong, but I think this was the first mention of them being at Sancre Tor. I wonder how it is that they escaped? Either death in the battle, or a life of slavery after being captured. Most of all I keep wondering how these two might end up serving the same man who slaughtered so many of their comrades and sold the rest into slavery. I cannot wait to see it all!


nits:
You have some heads being hopped:
The Breton savored the moment; there was a perverse thrill to be had in destroying the delusions of youth.
This makes it seem like we are in the pov of the fat Breton.

The young man felt the saliva vacate his mouth and skitter down the back of his throat.
Now we are clearly in the young man's pov.



The tall Nord shut the door behind him, muffling the sound of the falling rain, and joined his companion near the young man’s table.
This long sentence needs either a pair of commas where I inserted them, or hyphens (I find I am using the latter more and more in these situations).


The Breton made no move to escape, nor did he raise his sword to defend himself.
This also needs a comma.


I think you ought to give a name to "the young man". It gets repetitive after while, and seeing that some parts are told from his pov, he ought to have one and be a full character rather than just be a stand-in. Also giving him a name makes him seem more real, like a person. This will add more weight to the tragedy of his death. Just have someone say it early in the story. Perhaps the Breton could ask it? Likewise, all the same can be said for "the Breton".

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Aug 14 2010, 05:47 PM

[hazmick]

Another great chapter, I particularly enjoyed the character of the Breton. Your description of the tavern really set the atmosphere for the mysterious Breton and the fight scene was fast paced and energetic A good chapter all round.

This post has been edited by hazmick: Aug 14 2010, 09:43 PM

[Olen]

That was an interesting part which would almost stand alone. Opening with the young man (I agree a name might have been wise, though equally not giving him one prevents the reader trying to file away another) as the pov character was a good idea and worked well to make it matter that the breton then had him killed. I wonder if it will bother Alain in the long run...

Well written action throughout, very exciting and sustained.

there was a perverse thrill to be had in destroying the delusions of youth

The rather astute things like this really add a lot to this story. They really sit well with the people involved (and with reality).

Nits:

the chest of the young man lying at his feet. The Breton faded to a dim memory beyond the edge of hearing. He stared down at the body of the young man and at the hilt of his sword which comically protruded from the chest. -- 'the chest' jarred the second time, possibly something like 'the potruding sword' would flow better.

“it was the Breton host that you condemned to slavery and death, and it will be a Breton alone who exacts retribution. Now get on your feet.”
The Breton slowly rose from his chair. The point of Alain’s sword rose with him. Without taking his eyes off the Breton, -- the first three were fine because they were different Bretons but the final one somehow jarred them all. Giving the breton a name would sort this. And yes I do seem obsessed with repetitions.

of his poor lamented brethren.”
“Lamented brethren,” said Alain. -- I don't quite see why he said that, it seemed like he was correcting but he said the same.

[Winter Wolf]

Your characters are a great blast to read. Lattia, Earns-his-keep, Dreekius, Arnand, they all just sing off the screen. Epic writing brother!!

“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?”

That is what I love about Lattia. She is always straight to the point. Lookout guys!

"It would be a shame to visit Stros M’Kai and not partake of the local tavern.”

I really enjoyed your take on Stros M’Kai. Each time I read the way you describe the city it always reminds me of Lut Gholein, from Diablo II. Awesome!! The sandstone, the sun looming across the walls, ahhh, the good old days of gaming.

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

The way you write a dream sequence is a delight to read. You have wonderfully mastered the ‘steps of consciousness’ that a person goes through as they try to collate their thoughts. As always you underpin it by the rational thoughts that are going on outside the dream. Epic!!

Your courtroom drama is building to a crescendo. Though how you keep all the storylines straight is a mystery to me.

[Remko]

However you did it, you found a way to improve upon the part in the bar with Valdemar and Alain and the fat Breton and the poor young man getting the sharp end of the stick (literally)
Loved it Destri!

SubRosa, has a point, changing privates for balls gets the message through and it seems to me, Hjolfir would way balls. That; or nuts.

[mALX]

Still catching up, ARGH !!!!! But LOVING it !!!!

[Destri Melarg]

About Hjolfr's holding, why not just go with balls?

SubRosa, has a point, changing privates for balls gets the message through and it seems to me, Hjolfir would way balls. That; or nuts.

SubRosa and Remko – With apologies to our younger readers (who probably avoid this thread anyway), here is the problem with using the word balls:

I don’t have to explain this to Remko, but for 'Rosa’s benefit a (straight) man only lays hands on another man’s, well, balls when he is looking to intimidate, degrade, or otherwise coerce compliance from said individual. It ties into an old joke:

What do you do when an eight hundred pound gorilla has you by the balls?
You listen!

In the situation that I have presented Hjolfr is complaining about having to nursemaid the Cyrodiil Legion, something that a (straight) man does by holding the Johnson of another man. Again tying into an old joke:

Do you want me to hold it for you?

In the situation presented balls simply doesn’t work for what Hjolfr is trying to say. But I must say that this discussion is even more fun than the speculation of whether or not Argonians sweat!