Interregnum, 854 of the Second Era Options

[mALX]

Then there is the discussion of Rod vs batton...

[SubRosa]

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.

Oh, so you want to say hold on to the penii (the forum turns the exact work I am trying to use into something else) rather than the testicles. Why not go with pricks?

Although it seems to be that if a man is holding another man's penii, that is hardly a declaration of his being straight! Sounds a lot more like Alexander and Hephaestion to me! Mutual masturbation is the most common form of sex between gay men in fact.

Something else that comes to mind is that in Dark Age Scandinavia (i.e. the Viking Era, which the game seems to portray the Nords as being in). Male homosexuality was only frowned upon on the part of a man receiving anal intercourse from another man, as that was seen as being 'womanly'. There was no stigma associated with the man who was 'driving'. In fact, male on male rape was a quite common way of humiliating defeated enemies.

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Aug 17 2010, 02:42 PM

[Destri Melarg]

haute – You nailed it. I think that all four of their stories are tragic, but with Alain I wanted there to be something more behind his actions. It took me a long time to figure out how to portray each of these four men. In the end I remembered the Nord/Breton alliance at Sancre Tor, and I thought it would be interesting if Alain and Valdemar were a part of that force.

Acadian – Right up until the moment I posted this part of the story I debated whether I should include the storm. I didn’t want to lay things on too thick, but I liked the atmosphere that the storm creates inside the tavern. In the end I decided to go with it. I am so glad that it worked for you.

SubRosa – If I had known that the Breton was going to come across as strongly as he did I would have found a way to use him more. The genesis of the character comes from reading about the Battle of Sancre Tor:

Leaving a weak force in the lowlands to draw out the defenders, General Talos approached the citadel of Sancre Tor from the rear, descending the supposedly unscalable heights behind the citadel, and sneaking into the supposedly magically concealed entrance to the inner citadel. This remarkable feat is attributed to the agency of a single unnamed traitor (bold & italics mine), by tradition a Breton turncloak sorcerer, who revealed both the existence of an obscure mountain trail down the heights behind the citadel and the secret of the citadel entrance concealed beneath its illusory lake surface.

Kind of reminds you of Ephialtes, who led Xerxes forces down a small path behind the Greek lines at Thermopylae, doesn’t it?

As far as the head-hopping and commas are concerned you are absolutely right on both counts. The beginning of the scene is told from the Breton’s POV, but I liked the saliva line so much that I thought I could risk leaving it in. Just goes to show what happens when you don’t edit something that you know you should! The lack of commas stems from my tendency to write the way I speak. I generally talk fast, and I don’t take the time to take breaths as much as I should (believe me when I say that I have heard this complaint before). Both issues have been addressed.

hazmick – Thank you again. Please read my comments above for insight into my thinking of the Breton, and for the atmosphere that I tried to represent within the tavern. I don’t do fight scenes as well as some (Acadian, haute, Olen, I am looking at you), I am glad that this one worked for you.

Olen – This next chapter will answer some of your questions over whether the boy’s death stays with Alain. And I am grateful for your obsession with repetitions, though I admit that re-reading them after you have pointed them out is a slightly painful experience . I have addressed both of the examples you cited.

On the subject of ‘lamented brethren’: Alain repeated that statement of Valdemar’s to 1) underscore the fact that the men who died at Sancre Tor really are lamented (by him and, to a somewhat lesser extent, by Valdemar), and 2) to comment on the irony that the Breton would be falsely mourning the deaths of those he condemned. I had hoped to convey a bitter tone in his comment that I thought would be apparent, given the context.

Winter Wolf – Welcome back! And I see that you have updated Aradroth’s story. I have never played Diablo II, but now I feel like I should. Just the name, Lut Gholein, sounds interesting! Your comments are, as always, a treasured source of confidence that I draw upon in the continuation of this story. Thank you once again!

Remko – Another welcome back! How are Rales and Zerina doing in Mournhold? I have always wondered, do you use a companion mod for Zerina, or is she strictly made from imagination? I hope you saw my comment above answering yours and SubRosa’s suggestion.

mALX – Take your time, this story isn’t going anywhere. Oh yeah, what’s a batton? Is it a baton that is so large that it needs two t’s to hold it (like Kurdan’s axe in hautee’s story)?

SubRosa and Olen – The young man is given a name in the chapter that follows. The Breton will remain as history remembers him, nameless.

* * *

3rd First Seed, 2E 854
The Fortress of At-Stuhn, North of Jehanna
Dawn


At-Stuhn, called ‘Old Stuhn’ in Jehanna, clung to a peak of ice and stone that commanded views for miles throughout the Western Reach. It was built in the First Era by the Nords under King Vrage, and named for their deity who fought the Aldmeri pantheon. An appropriate name considering that the fortress was used as a staging point for the liberation of High Rock from the Elves.

Later, during the War of Succession, the fortress changed hands so many times legend holds that the stone walls still bleed. In Jehanna they say that Old Stuhn is haunted by vengeful ghosts in Nordic mail, and that the howling wind from the mountain is testament to their continued suffering. It is a legend that is upheld by the stronghold’s current tenants, the mysterious Witchmen of High Rock.

At the base of the pass leading to the fortress gates Hecerilar waited with his band of mer. This high up their breath froze on the thin air before falling to the snow at their feet. Conversation was scarce, the mer still half-drunk. The horses threw their heads and dug into the snowy trail, their eyes wide in the unnatural stillness.

Hecerilar ran a whetstone over his blade, or what was left of it. For the seventh time since leaving the tavern he questioned his decision to lend it to that foul Breton. Dishonor now clung to the sword like a stain; as soon as they reached home he would exchange it in the armory.

While he entertained thoughts of home with the scrape of the whetstone in his ears, the gate to the fortress opened. The pitched whine unhinged the skittish horses and it was all they could do to calm them. A hooded figure emerged through the gate, his cloak flapping like a banner in the wind. Hecerilar returned the whetstone to his pouch, where it scraped against the heavy bronze amulet he now carried. Those still mounted climbed from their horses and joined with their fellows on bended knee as the cloaked figure drew closer. Hecerilar sheathed his ruined blade and knelt in the snow.

“Get off your knees and fetch my mount,” said the voice inside the hood.

“Yes, my lord,” said Hecerilar.

He rose and signaled the others to follow suit. One of the mer led a white stallion forward and the cloaked figure mounted. As he adjusted his weight in the saddle the hood fell from his head revealing the features of Aran Direnni.

Hecerilar climbed into the saddle. “Back to Jehanna, my lord?”

“South,” growled Aran, “and quickly.”

“Yes, my lord.” Hecerilar held his tongue. Since leaving Glenumbria he had noticed a change in the Castellan. Whereas before the Direnni patriarch had barely acknowledged his presence, in their journey across the Wrothgarians he had been downright chatty. Whatever the Witchmen had said to him inside that fortress had produced a cloud that it was not Hecerilar’s place to try and remove. He would be there to provide his sword or his counsel if the Castellan required. Otherwise he would perform his duties in silence.

They retraced their path down the mountain. The falling snow had erased the evidence of their ascent, so it seemed as if they marked the trail for the first time. Hecerilar’s hand sought out his pouch, and the heavy bronze amulet within. Running his fingers along the raised surface was a habit recently acquired and still too new to question. As an Altmer, he could feel the pulse of magic within the bronze, and he recognized that the raised symbols on the surface held some significance. But neither his skill nor learning was such that he could define its purpose. If he felt any regret for lifting it from the Breton’s mangled corpse he had not found reason to address it.

“You were sharpening your blade when I approached,” said the Castellan, “did you have trouble in the tavern?”

“No, my lord,” said Hecerilar. He closed his hand around the amulet. For a brief instant he calculated his options; he could retain his treasure, or he could seek the Castellan’s favor. The decision was not an easy one.

“Two Bretons fought a duel in the tavern,” he said, “I lent my sword to the vanquished. When I went to retrieve it,” he pulled the amulet from his pouch and held it up by the chain, it rocked like a pendulum with each step of his horse, “I found this on the body.”

Aran held out his hand. Hecerilar hesitated before presenting the bronze to his master. He prayed that the Castellan didn’t notice. Aran held the amulet up to the light, rubbing his fingers along the raised symbols. His eyebrows lifted and a smile spread across his face.

“Where did you find this?” he asked.

“On the body of a dead Breton in the tavern, my lord, I could feel the magicka pulsing through it, and I presume those symbols are lettering of some kind.”

“The man who wore this is dead, you say?”

“Yes, my lord, killed by the mace of a very large Nord.”

“A Nord?” said Aran, “I thought you said it was two Bretons dueling.”

“It was, my lord, the Nord was seconded to the other Breton.”

Aran regarded Hecerilar with a bemused expression. For a moment the only sound was the crunch of hooves into new snow. Aran turned his eyes back to the amulet.

“This first Breton,” he said, “the one who wore this amulet, did he have a second?”

“No, my lord, when we arrived at the tavern he was drinking with a young Reachman. But, alas, that lad is dead now.”

“This sounds like some duel,” said Aran.

“That it was, my lord.”

“Take me to this tavern.”

“Yes, my lord.”

They rode in silence for a time, winding down the trail from the mountain. Aran continued to study the amulet. The sun shone bright in the eastern sky and reflected off the snow all around them. Last night’s storm had drifted north to fall on the Sea of Ghosts, and as the dazzling white trail gradually faded into mud curiosity got the best of Hecerilar.

“Can you determine what the charm does, my lord?” he asked.

He knew that he had overstepped, and the look that the Castellan gave him confirmed it. He was about to apologize when the Castellan spoke.

“It has a fortify luck enchantment,” he said, “very powerful if I’m not mistaken, curious that this Breton was slain while wearing it.”

Hecerilar could have left it at that, but he couldn’t help himself. “And those symbols, my lord, are they letters?”

“Daedric letters,” said Aran.

Hecerilar relaxed, downright chatty, he thought to himself. He nodded to the Castellan but he needn’t have bothered. Though his eyes were on Hecerilar, his gaze was someplace else.

“They spell out the name of Clavicus Vile,” he said.

_____

3rd First Seed, 2E 854
Castle Dungeon, Jehanna, High Rock
Morning


Behind cold, damp iron bars Valdemar chafed in sack cloth clothing.

“Ho guard,” he called out to the sullen Reachman who passed in front of his cell.

The guard turned. He had sagging jowls, a lazy bottom lip, and both of his filmy eyes drooped. His hand caressed the handle of a truncheon that he carried in a loop on his belt.

“What do you want?” asked the guard.

“My friend and I,” said Valdemar, “what are we charged with?”

“Take me for a magistrate, do you? How the ‘blivion should I know? I just watch the prisoners.”

“Then we’d like to speak to the magistrate.”

“Oh sure,” said the guard, “I’ll just go fetch him for you, wait here.”

The guard chuckled at what he perceived was a good joke and disappeared down the corridor. Valdemar waited until he heard the heavy door close and lock.

“Alain,” he called loud enough to be heard in Northpoint, “are you awake?”

There was no answer from the cell across from him. Valdemar pressed and pulled against the iron until bits of rust stained his palms, yet still the bars remained firm. The candles in the hall cast scant illumination to the cells. Beyond the iron bars of the cell across from him was a space as dark as a cloudless night. And in that space he knew that his friend rested with heavy heart.

“Alain!”

“I hear you,” a hoarse voice answered from the darkness.

“Well, thank Tsun for that. I was starting to think that you hanged yourself with these prison issues, of course, that would alleviate the smell.”

No answer came from the shrouded depths of Alain’s cell. Keep him talking, Valdemar thought to himself.

“When do you think they’ll let us out of here?”

There was no answer from the darkness. Somewhere inside the walls, a restless rat skittered.

“Alain!”

“I don’t know,” said Alain, irritation straining his voice, “maybe never.”

“What do you mean never?”

“They don’t usually let murderers go.”

“Who’s a murderer?” asked Valdemar. “Not I, or you either. That Breton dog got what he was owed.”

“I murdered that boy,” said Alain.

“No!” said Valdemar, “no. He murdered that boy, not you. He put that boy in front of the sword, not you. If you allow this to be your end, then he will have murdered two people in that tavern, not one.”

“I know that,” said Alain, “I’ve been telling myself that very thing all night. But it was my sword, Valdemar, my hand. It was my eyes that watched the light leave his, and it is my soul that has to carry this weight.”

“Then carry it with honor. That boy was a Reachman, not some wine-swilling poet! If it is meant to be, his soul will find its own way to Sovngarde. All that you can do is live on, fight well, and keep to your honor. Otherwise, what did he die for?”

There was a soft scrape in the darkness, and Alain appeared at the bars of his cell. “You are a good friend, Valdemar.”

“I know this,” said Valdemar, “I also know that I saved your life last night, so now it belongs to me. I will not have it wallowing.”

Alain almost smiled, but then the door down the hall opened and voices filled the corridor. The guard appeared and stopped in front of Alain’s cell. He fumbled for the proper key. Behind him stood the Altmer that both knights recognized from the tavern the night before.

“Your lucky day, your release has been secured,” said the guard. “The Castellan of Balfiera wishes a word with you.”

The lock clicked, and the door opened with a whine along its hinges. The guard turned and tried to simultaneously watch Valdemar while making a futile attempt to fit the right key into the lock of his cell. Alain stepped into the corridor and bowed before the Altmer.

“Lord Castellan,” he said, “you have our gratitude.”

The Altmer’s laugh nearly drowned out the sound of Valdemar’s cell door opening. The big Nord stepped into the corridor. The guard backed away wide-eyed, and his hand moved toward the handle of his truncheon.

“That mail they issue you is not very thick in the rear,” Valdemar said. His eyes bored into the guard, “if you pull that stick I will make you regret it.”

The Altmer laughed again, then turned and faced Alain.

“Save your gratitude,” he said, “I am Hecerilar, Captain of the Castellan’s bodyguard. He awaits us in the tavern. Let us retrieve your things and be off.”

He turned toward the exit, the two knights followed. The guard remained where he was, watching the three of them fade down the corridor while a steaming puddle spread around his boots.

_____

3rd First Seed, 2E 854
The Reachman’s Tavern, Jehanna, High Rock
Morning


Scrubbing blood stains from the floor was definitely not what Sosile had signed on for. As she leaned into her brush she cursed her lot in life yet again and wondered how she had come to this place. It wasn’t her fault that men found her pretty, or that they tended to be more generous with their coin when she was around. She had not asked for an agile mind or a good memory, and she had not honed those two attributes learning her letters so that she could wipe blood from the floor of a tavern along the Reach.

She felt the eyes of the Altmer lord upon her and she shuddered. He had the eyes of a wolf eyeing the sheepfold. It was Sosile’s experience that eyes like that were always dangerous, because no matter how much they took in, they always yearned for more. She kept her eyes on the floor.

I will make Gaston pay for this, she thought; his little thing will shrivel and fall off before I share his bed again! She had been at it for hours, using steaming water heated in the hearth, and copious amounts of sload soap. Yet even now, with her arms raw with fatigue, the foam on the floor was still pink. Thetrick’s blood, she thought, all that is left of him is being scrubbed away with sload soap. The tears reformed in her eyes at the thought. She looked at the second stain near the hearth. The sneering Breton’s stain had not been touched, nor would it be as long as Sosile held the brush. If not for him Thetrick would still be alive. I hope he rots in Oblivion! I hope the skin is flayed from his bones, and I hope the daedra use his little seeds for dice!

The Altmer lord was still watching her. Sosile could feel his eyes from across the room. She risked a glance in his direction; his cup held the finest vintage in the house, yet it remained untouched. He was handsome by any measure, but the hunger in his eyes made Sosile’s skin crawl. His bodyguard was scattered throughout the tavern, bored mer feigning alertness. They would react quickly enough to any threat to their lord’s person, yet they would not presume to share his table. Sosile leaned into her scrubbing.

To keep from thinking about what she was doing, she allowed her mind to wander upstairs to her room above the hearth. Her birds would be active now, longing to spread their wings. They were not so different from the goats she once tended, the goats she wished she were tending still. The birds were no substitute, but they helped fend off the loneliness. She would see to them when her work was finished.

The door to the tavern opened and the captain of the Altmer bodyguard entered. Sosile recognized in him what she knew all guard captains possessed; hard eyes, rough hands, and a face that was cold and humorless. Sosile saw the glint of light off the soiled steel armor behind him and her heart jumped into her throat. The guard captain preceded the two knights whose handiwork, even now, Sosile addressed.

The smaller of the two, the Breton, still had the haunted look to his face that Sosile had seen the night before, when his blade had impaled Thetrick. Her heart went out to him for that. In her mind she knew that Thetrick’s death wasn’t his fault, and she could see how much he suffered for it. But that did not make her fear him less, and it did not assuage her grief.

Of the giant Nord Sosile could not say. He was standing right next to the Breton. Sosile knew that his head rested high up on those broad shoulders, but like everyone else in the tavern she could not tear her eyes from the mace that he wore at his hip. She had seen first hand what he could do with that cold, battered piece of silver. The stain near the hearth was a grisly reminder.

The two knights were brought before the Altmer lord. Sosile pulled her eyes back to her brush and the faded remnant of the stain on the floor, but she craned her ears to hear every word.

“My lord,” said the Captain of the bodyguard, “these are the two men you wished to see.”

She recognized the Breton’s voice from the night before, “Lord Castellan, thank you for your generosity. I am Sir Alain of Wayrest, and this is my comrade-at-arms Sir Valdemar of Skyrim.”

“You are every bit as Hecerilar described you, gentlemen,” came the cultured voice of the Altmer lord, “I am Aran Direnni, please join me.”

Castellan, Direnni, Sosile’s mind reeled, What is Balfiera’s interest with the Reach?

“Wench!” the voice of the guard captain cracked like a whip, “bring drinks for the table.”

Sosile stood and hurried to the bar. She used the basin to wash the pink foam from her hands while Gaston prepared a tray that he filled with wine, ale, and mead. When he gave it to her his hands shook, his face was gray, and the whites of his eyes shone like searchlamps.

Sosile took the tray and carried it to the table. As she came within earshot she heard the voice of Lord Direnni:

“. . . friend does not seem to share your gratitude, Sir Alain.”

“Sir Valdemar speaks with his weapons, my lord,” said Sir Alain, “in that respect I am sure he would be happy to express his gratitude.”

Sosile emptied the tray on the table. She kept her eyes on her work, and tried to be as invisible as she could short of a spell. When the tray was empty she backed away from the table, laid down the tray, and returned to the bloodstain on the floor.

“In that case,” said Lord Direnni, “I find myself in a position to allow him to express his gratitude, unless you are both bound by some other obligation.”

“Any obligation we had died last night on the end of Valdemar’s mace, my lord,” said Sir Alain.

“Good, then I shall do you the courtesy of being direct. Hecerilar tells me that you tracked your quarry for two years throughout the mountains of High Rock. I have recently been directed to a cave that lies to the south. A ride of two or three days I have been told. You may both show your gratitude by guiding us to this cave, and helping us deal with any difficulties that may present themselves on the road.”

A cave to the south! Sosile’s hands began to shake worse than Gaston’s.

Sir Valdemar’s rumbling baritone sounded for the first time. “You were told wrong, Lord Castellan. Alain and I chased that traitorous cur, sure enough. But we did not track him down, we were told where to find him.”

“Told by whom?”

“That we do not know,” said Sir Alain. “We were contacted through a third party, an old friend of mine from Hammerfell.”

“Is it not curious that your mysterious benefactor chooses to remain anonymous?”

“I suppose it is, my lord,” said Sir Alain, “but since his information proved good we saw no reason to press the issue.”

“I see,” said Lord Direnni, “and since you have no idea who this person is I trust you feel no burden of obligation?”

“It does not come before our obligation to you, my lord,” said Sir Alain.

“Good, then finish your drinks and meet us outside the main gate,” said Lord Direnni.

Sosile heard the sound of coins bouncing off the oak table and the scrape of boots trailing out the door. Then the tavern was quiet except for the sound of her gentle brushing.

“They are gone now,” said Sir Alain, his voice so close that Sosile jumped from the sound. “You can stop pretending not to listen.”

Sosile turned, he was standing over her. She saw the hilt of his sword, the same sword that had spit poor Thetrick. She dared not move.

He knelt beside her. “Peace, girl,” he said, “we aren’t going to hurt you. And your curiosity is a secret we shall gladly keep if you will but answer a few questions.”

Sosile saw kindness in his eyes. “What do you wish to know, my lord?”

“I recognize you from last night,” he said. “The boy who I . . . the boy who was killed, did you know him?”

She nodded.

“Who was he?”

“His name was Thetrick, my lord,” she said. “He was no one important, just a simple boy from Jehanna who should not have died last night.”

“On that we agree. Tell me more about him.”

“He was kind, and he was sweet. He wanted to be a knight.” She felt the tears in her eyes and did nothing to stop them. “He came in last night to say goodbye. Today he was supposed to venture south to join the army of his hero, General Talos.”

Sir Alain turned and looked at Sir Valdemar.

“Bloody Oblivion!” said the giant Nord.

“You said we should honor his memory,” said Sir Alain.

“No,” said Sir Valdemar, “I said you should keep to your honor. How would the dead at Sancre Tor feel were you to continue down this path?”

“The dead feel nothing,” said Alain, “but I do. Our friends died in battle, and we honored their memory last night. But this Thetrick was innocent, and his memory begs to be honored as well.”

The two men stared at each other, further discussion went unspoken. Sosile’s knees began to ache from such long contact with the stone floor. Sir Alain broke the silence.

“General Talos is half Nord.”

A smile formed on Sir Valdemar’s lips, “and half Breton. Damn.”

“South then?” asked Sir Alain.

“Aye,” said Sir Valdemar, he held out a hand and helped Sir Alain back to his feet. “After we finish holding little lord Castellan’s hand.”

Sir Alain turned back to Sosile. He reached into his purse and produced a small stack of gold coins. He pressed them into her palm.

“For your trouble,” he said, “and your toil.”

Sosile knelt on the floor for a long time after the two knights left the tavern. Her skirt was wet with pink foam, and the gold coins rested light in her hand. She closed her fist around the coins and got to her feet. She walked past the bar and Gaston and climbed the stairs to her room.

Inside she was greeted by the insistent squawk of doves and ravens in a light iron cage. She ignored the birds and went to her desk under the frosted window. She tore a thin strip of parchment from a roll and scratched a hasty message with her quill. Then she reached into the cage and scooped her swiftest raven, who perched on her shoulder with a triumphant squawk towards his fellows. She laid the strip flat on the desk and checked her message:

Clan Direnni seeks the King of Worms. They have secured the services of the two knights toward this end. Please advise.

Satisfied, she rolled the message and attached it to the leg of her raven. Then she opened the frosted window and tossed the raven into a cold wind heading south.

This post has been edited by Destri Melarg: Aug 17 2010, 11:16 PM

[SubRosa]

You can still give "the Breton" a name in the story. Just because history did not record it, does not mean he never had one,or that your readers cannot learn it. For example, I do not believe Aran, Varla, and Lattia are anywhere in the history books, but you still gave them names. Same for Arnand, he only appears in the history books as "a High Rock nightblade". You seem to have an aversion to giving characters a name. I know I hate coming up with them myself, as I am so anal about it being just right, but the truth is that it makes the character become much more realistic.

Very neat history behind At-Stuhn. Knowing the story behind an area always adds more depth to the setting. However, it all comes across as telling, rather than showing. I suggest trying to make it more plain that Hecerilar was ruminating about this history. That would make it flow more naturally from the story.

OTOH, I loved how you used Hecerilar to link the previous segment with the new one. That was a very elegant way to maintain a steady flow through the scenes.

So the mysterious Breton had a fortify luck enchantment going for him. I was wondering about that during the fight, with the way you described him always being able to slither his way out of danger. That it is an artifact of Clavicus Vile is intriguing, considering how Interregnum started.

How the ‘blivion should I know.
This is a nice lore-friendly phrase. But perhaps it should end with a question mark?

Sosile was wonderful. Her feelings of frustration at being reduced to scrubbing floors in a tavern ring so true. Likewise her impression of Aran's ruthless ambition. Finally her birds which at first seem to be just pets. All add up to make her a rich, breathing character. I was not surprised to learn that she is a spy, given all the things you had shown us about her. Nicely done.

Also, excellent use of Thetrick's death to lead Alain and Valdemar to Talos's army. As I just said the last time, I have been wondered how they of all people would end up as Blades. Now I see! Brilliant!

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Aug 18 2010, 01:13 AM

[haute ecole rider]

I truly love what you have done with Alain and Valdemar (and Casnar, and eventually, I hope, Rielus).

Hecerilar ran a whetstone over his blade, or what was left of it. For the seventh time since leaving the tavern he questioned his decision to lend it to that foul Breton. Dishonor now clung to the sword like a stain; as soon as they reached home he would exchange it in the armory.

This rings very real considering what I know of various warrior-cultures, including Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Native American, Bedouin, Norse, etc. Having an Altmer express distaste at the dishonorable man who held his sword and caused the death of an innocent bystander is even more powerful.

The exchange between Alain and Valdemar in the prison is outstanding. I really enjoyed getting to know these two characters. So far they have remained true to their personalities in the Sancre Tor quest of the MQ line in Oblivion.

One nit:

The guard captain preceded the two knights who’s handiwork, even now, Sosile addressed.

I believe you meant whose.

You have introduced yet another intriguing character in Sosile. Her part makes me want to know more about her. And the exchange between Alain and Valdemar when they learn that Thetrick intended to join Talos' army, the general who slaughtered hundreds (thousands?) of their own comrades at Sancre Tor, and when they realize that Talos himself is half Nord and half Breton is the stuff of which legends are made.

[hazmick]

"a steaming puddle spread around his boots." It's always good to see a guard pee himself.

Oooh, the king of worms? An amulet from Clavicus Vile? Sounds exciting.

I like the character of Solise, there is a lot to be discovered. will she be playing a major part in this story?

[Olen]

I take back my comment about giving the young man a name previously, you used it's revelation in this part to great effect in demonstrating the affect it had on Alain. As for the Breton, if it expressly says he had no name I can see why you didn't give him one.

The way you show Alain was good, he has the guilt but also the knowledge that it wasn't really his fault, though he has trouble believing it. Certainly his joining Talos now makes rather more sense and is a logical progression.

And as ever the twist at the end... perhaps she won't be the throw away character I expected, and another subplot is tied in. The amulet sort of joins another too, I'm amazed you can keep track of it all with the story's 'simple outline'.

[Remko]

Very nice Destri. Loved Alain's feeling of guilt and Valdemar's assessment. "I saved your butt, so it's mine. Now, stop whining."

About Zerina; she only exists in my imagination. I kinda misplaced my MW game

[Acadian]

Wonderful again.

So, with the discovery that the amulet possesses a strong luck enchantment, I see now why that pesky Breton was such a challenge for Alain.

It was my eyes that watched the light leave his,

This is beautiful.

The guard captain preceded the two knights whose handiwork, even now, Sosile addressed.

What a magnificently crafted entrance!

I recall the brilliance of you incorporating carrier birds into this the first time. No less brilliant this time.

Wow!

This post has been edited by Acadian: Aug 18 2010, 05:06 PM

[mALX]

Sosile is still scrubbing floors, she is such an interesting character for having such a bit part in the story - does her sending that raven with the message mean you are going to expand her role? If so...YEAH !!!!! Awesome write !!!! (as usual, lol)

[Destri Melarg]

haute – I think the consideration of how honor not only affects the user of a weapon, but the weapon itself is in keeping with the Altmer sense of superiority. I am so glad that Alain and Valdemar’s personalities ring true to you. I think you will like the chapter that follows this next one.

Thank you for exposing yet another nit. It’s all fixed now.

hazmick –

It’s always good to see a guard pee himself.

Well, we can’t let Buffy have all the fun!

The King of Worms is about to become a prominent fixture in this story, and Claivicus Vile’s amulet has an important part to play.

Olen – I am so glad that you pointed that out! My intention was to use the boy’s name to make him more real to Alain, which in turn drives him to an action that he would never have considered otherwise.

Remko – Like this response, you encompass Valdemar’s feelings in ten words!

Acadian – As ever your words are a great source of encouragement. Thank you for the PM, and for the impeccable timing with which it was sent.

mALX – Actually Sosile stopped scrubbing floors to send off her bird. I don’t imagine that she will be going back to it anytime soon. I have missed your ‘Awesome writes’ so much you have no idea! Welcome back (again)!

Everyone – It seems Sosile stole the show in this last chapter. Fear not, her role in these events, though small, is just beginning.

I also wish to say a very special thank you to SubRosa. Her gentle prodding (now I know how cattle feel ) and her well-worded arguments have resulted in my re-visiting the decision to name the Breton in the last chapter. Unfortunately, ‘Rosa, I am as anal as you are when it comes to finding the perfect name (or word). Mark Twain once said that the difference between the ‘right word’ and ‘almost the right word’ is the difference between Lightning . . . and the lightning bug! It may take me a while to get there, but it will eventually be done. Thank you again.

* * *

4th First Seed, 2E 854
The Pelladil, within sight of Artaeum
Dawn


Arnand stood at the rail and looked out on a sea that was as calm as glass. Beneath the smooth surface he could see the rolling undulations of sea life that moved like muscles under skin. The eastern sun was a hazy golden orb half cut by the horizon, and the air around him was damp with the mists of dawn. To the south he saw a tiny boat push away from the coast; its oars dimpled the still water and propelled it ever closer. Now is the time, he thought to himself, I have taken advantage of their hospitality long enough. Here is where we part ways.

“That Argonian of yours is a wonder,” said Captain Valion. He was standing so close that Arnand was irritated with himself for not hearing his approach. “Fifteen days from Stros M’Kai to Artaeum and here I stand, looking at that elusive shore. I doubt if the trip could have gone any better.”

“’Keep knows what he is doing,” said Arnand. “Although I don’t think he would take kindly to being called ‘my Argonian’.”

“I meant no offense,” said Valion, “I was only saying that the two of you have provided good fortune to this voyage, I will be sorry to see you go.”

“’Keep’s life is his own. You have seen the value he brings as a navigator. If you offer him a position with your crew I’m sure you will find him agreeable. As for me, I am not going, not to Artaeum anyway.”

“You’re not going?” asked the clear, musical voice of Lattia Direnni.

Arnand turned, cursing himself again for his inattention. Lady Direnni was emerging from below deck with Irinde in tow. Her golden skin shone like sunlight in the new dawn, and the butterflies that resided in Arnand’s stomach were quickly transformed into cliff racers. It must be now, he thought, before the boat arrives.

“May I have a word in private, Lady Direnni?” he asked.

She nodded. Irinde took her mistress’ lead and wrapped her arm around Captain Valion’s. She steered him towards the stern, leaving the rail to Arnand.

Arnand struggled. This is harder looking into her face. Where do I begin? How much do I tell her? Honor binds her to the Order; if I steal from them then I am stealing from her. By the Eight, why is this so hard?

“Is this when you tell me your true purpose in coming to Artaeum?” She asked.

Arnand’s reverie exploded like a soap bubble. “You knew?”

“I suspected,” said Lattia, “you don’t act like a mage, and you certainly don’t carry yourself like one.”

“How do mages carry themselves?”

“Deliberately,” said Lattia, “as befits those who have spent a lifetime in study. You are too much a man of action, Arnand Desele. If I had to venture a guess I’d say that you were closer to a nightblade or an assassin than a true mage.”

“You were not concerned by the thought of bringing an assassin into the midst of your Order?”

“Are you an assassin?”

“No,” said Arnand, “I’m not.”

“Then I needn’t be concerned.” Lattia leaned against the railing. The small boat in the distance left a trail of its brief journey, like a finger drawn across a still pond. She turned to Arnand.

“You are not an evil man,” she said, “I have known evil men. Still it begs the question, why go to Artaeum? As much as you risked getting here there must be something on the island that you want.”

“There is,” said Arnand.

“Why?”

Why? Not what. Arnand smiled. “You don’t want to know what?”

“I suspect the why is more important,” said Lattia.

How much do I reveal? She is a Direnni Elf and a Psijic initiate, how much can I trust her? “It is for my wife,” he heard himself say. Strange, that is the first I have thought of Elissa since leaving Stros M’Kai.

“You have a wife?”

He must have imagined the dark cloud that shadowed her face when she said it, because when he looked to the sky it was as still and hazy as he remembered. When he turned back to her the shadow was gone, but her eyes still held the question.

“I did,” he said, “I do. She was corrupted by a vampire, and is now cursed to walk undead through the night. In order to find a cure, I met with a sorcerer willing to lend his aid. But to do so he requires a service of me.”

“A service that brings you to Artaeum,” she said.

“Yes, and I will speak no more of it. I have burdened you with too much as it is. That is why I’ll be leaving the ship. I will find my own way to the island.”

She tried to speak, but he stopped her with an upraised hand.

“Please,” he said, “I am loathe to ask, Lady Direnni, considering how much kindness you have already shown me. But I do ask you not to reveal my presence or my intent.”

She reached out and covered his hand with her own. His hand closed around hers before he could stop himself. Her hand was soft and warm, yet it clung to his with a curious strength that quieted the cliff racers in his stomach. An energy that was both soothing and terrifying flooded through him. Their eyes met, and she smiled.

“Call me Lattia,” she said, “and I shall call you Arnand. I do not know your intent, so I have nothing to reveal. As for your presence,” she paused and turned toward the approaching boat, “I too know what it is to enter into an unholy alliance for the sake of another. Your secret is safe with me.”

Arnand’s gratitude was interrupted by the arrival of the small boat which heaved to and bumped gently against the hull of the Pelladil. Lattia bid her farewells to Irinde and the crew. Lorundil and Sinyail appeared to help lower her over the side. As she settled into the boat, she cast her eyes back to the ship. All those she had come to know through her voyage stood at the rail to watch the boat depart.

All save one.

_____

4th First Seed, 2E 854
The Isle of Artaeum, Summerset
Mid-Day


The boatman was dressed in the grey cloak and hood of the Psijic order. He kept his back to Lattia and bent to the task of rowing. For the entire time they traversed the placid water he never uttered a word. The only sound was the gentle play of his oars. As the boat drew closer to shore, Lattia could see more greycloaks waiting on the beach. This is really happening, she thought. She felt an intoxicating mix of exhilaration and fear, as if she had climbed to the top of a mountain, and from her vantage point on the summit she could see a higher peak in the distance.

There were three greycloaks on the beach. They waited in eerie silence among the half-hearted smoke and embers of long-spent torches stuck in the sand. The tide was so gentle that it barely disturbed the azure water with its rise and fall. The boatman jumped into the surf, and with his cloak wet from the waist down he dragged the boat to the shore.

The boatman offered a hand covered in green scales to help Lattia from the boat. Recognition flooded through her as she was taken back to that secret cellar under The Draggin’s Tale. Her eyes searched past the hood for a glimpse of the boatman’s face, and she wondered if this was one of the hatchlings that Earns-His-Keep had brought with him on his last visit to the island.

One of the greycloaks came forward to greet her. Slight of build and small in stature, the figure’s head was barely even with Lattia’s stomach. Slim golden hands pulled the grey hood back from the kind face and welcoming smile of an elderly female Bosmer.

“Good day, initiate,” she said, “Welcome to Artaeum. I am the Chief Proctor for the Order. You may call me Gelwaen.”

Lattia bowed a greeting, “thank you, Chief Proctor. I am Lattia Direnni.”

“Gelwaen,” said the Bosmer, “we all know who you are, initiate. Your reputation precedes you. Follow me, the Loremaster wishes to speak with you.”

Why would the Loremaster wish to see me? Lattia thought.

Gelwaen turned from the shore; Lattia fell into step behind her. They crested a rise and the ocean mists and white sands surrendered to a rolling green meadow under a sparkling cloudless sky. A path that seemed to be part of the meadow led into the distance. Lattia followed Gelwaen onto the path. Everywhere she looked there seemed to be some new gift for her eyes. To her left a shaded wood of oassom trees with their long trunks and high branches dropped ripe fruit to the shimmering grass. To her right a carpet of proscato flowers, pale purple in the mid-day sun, stretched and fell towards the deeper blue of the sea. As they walked the trees and flowers fell behind them and were replaced by moss-covered brown rock, and the crystal waters of a still and silent lagoon where a group of greycloaks held quiet council. By the time they had gained the base of Ceporah Tower the only word Lattia had left to describe it was ‘eloquent.’ She stopped and bent at the waist to catch her breath.

“I never dreamed,” she managed. Her breath had been taken by so many sights that she no longer trusted her mouth to speak. Tears rolled down her cheeks, but she could not recall ever being happier. “The island is so. . .”

“Yes,” said Gelwaen smiling, “and it is such a rare privilege for us to see it through new eyes. Thank you, initiate. Now come, the Loremaster waits.”

By the time they reached Iachesis’ Palace Lattia was spent, her mind afire with inspiration. The Palace melded into the landscape in such a way as to suggest it was formed when the island was shaped by Akatosh hurling himself into Mundas. Gelwaen led her through warm halls that seemed to be the arteries of some majestic creature that lent its wisdom and temperance to all within. She was used to the opulence and mystery of Direnni Tower, her life spent immersed in the history of those halls. But, as she followed the quick silent steps of the greycloaked Bosmer, Lattia felt with all her being that she had finally found her way home.

She was led into the Loremaster’s quarters, a well appointed egg-shaped room that was dominated by the towering rows of bookshelves that climbed up all around her. Tomes of varying shades and weights covered every bit of wall space from the floor into the rafters and attested to the knowledge of the room’s single occupant.

He was an Altmer whose hair was whiter than the snow on the Jerall Mountains. Each furrow and line in his face spoke to Lattia of experience earned, and wisdom won. He was seated at his desk and he regarded her through soothing brown eyes that she instinctively knew had seen the end of the First Era.

“Loremaster Celarus,” said Gelwaen. Lattia had forgotten she was in the room. “May I present our newest initiate, Lattia Direnni.”

“Thank you, Chief Proctor,” said Celarus, “would you please prepare temporary quarters for this initiate?”

“Yes master,” said Gelwaen. She bowed to the Loremaster, nodded once to Lattia, and quietly left the room.

“Would you like to sit down, Lady Direnni?” asked Celarus, “I know the walk from the beach can be taxing to those unprepared.”

Temporary quarters? Lattia took the offered seat. “Thank you, Loremaster. And thank you for your kind invitation.”

“I should thank your brother for accepting on your behalf. We are very happy to have you here.”

So that’s it, Lattia thought bitterly, it always comes back to my family. “I imagine that it is unusual for an initiate to be greeted by the Chief Proctor, or to have a private meeting with the Loremaster.”

“Unusual yes,” said Celarus, “unprecedented no. Yours is a special circumstance.”

“I suppose Clan Direnni’s reach still extends to the Isles. My brother will be happy to know that.”

“Whether it does or not is for others to say. Our interest in you has absolutely nothing to do with Clan Direnni.”

“It doesn’t?”

The warmth in the Loremaster’s eyes faded, replaced by something that caused the room to shade and grow noticeably colder.

“You opened a gate to Oblivion, and conversed with a Daedric Prince,” he said. “In so doing you unwittingly violated a pact that has been in place for nearly a thousand years. How could the Order not be interested in you?”

“I. . .I did not know.”

“No you did not, nor did you consider. You were only interested in what you could acquire from the attempt. We brought you here to give discipline to this wild natural talent of yours. And in so doing perhaps we can mend some of the damage you have already caused.” Celarus leaned back in his chair. The weight of untold years could be seen in the droop of his shoulders and the burden could be told through the pain in his eyes. “You have no idea how fragile our existence on this plane is. This fragility forms the reason that the more destructive of the daedra covet this world. Whether or not you subscribe to the Eight Divines, the Chim-el Adabal is a powerful artifact whose sole purpose is to shield us from the hordes of Oblivion. With it lost our security lay in a pact brokered many years ago on this very island. Your actions have broken this pact, and I fear that all may suffer as a consequence.”

Lattia could not find the words. In her mind she had made a tentative peace with the price that her communion with Clavicus Vile had cost her. While it did concern her, she was content with the fact that the price was hers alone to pay. It never occurred to her that it might have to be shared with this entire plane of existence. She suddenly knew exactly how small she really was.

“It is customary for an initiate to be tested before being accepted fully into the Order,” continued Celarus. “In addition to testing your abilities you will also apply them to the task of gleaning knowledge that can aid us in finding some new way to shield ourselves from the daedra. I trust you know the significance of tomorrow’s date?”

“I do, Master,” said Lattia, “the Fifth of First Seed is the summoning day for Hermaeus Mora.”

“Indeed,” said Celarus, “you will be shown to temporary quarters where I suggest you get some rest. Tomorrow you shall be tested at a place that we call the Dreaming Cavern.”

This post has been edited by Destri Melarg: Sep 8 2010, 09:19 PM

[mALX]

No! Don't do it Lattia!!!! ARGH !!!!!

[hazmick]

Wow. The opening paragraph was beautiful, as were all of your other descriptions. The dialogue of the characters was amazing, the characters seem so real and I can see that you put a lot of effort into your story. I'm glad to the the king of worms will be back, he's such an intriguing character. I am also glad the everybody's favourite daedric prince will be making an appearance, Hermaeus Mora is great. I can't wait to see what Lattia has to do next.

This post has been edited by hazmick: Aug 20 2010, 11:43 PM

[haute ecole rider]

Again I'm swept up in the wonderful place that is Summerset Isle, at least in your fiction. Beautiful!

The Palace melded into the landscape in such a way as to suggest that it was formed when the island was new made at that time when Akatosh threw himself into Mundus.

This seems a little awkward. As you have helped me in the past with similar sentences, forgive me for trying to return the favor. Maybe rewording like this (CAUTION: rough draft quality!): The Palace melded into the landscape in such a way as to suggest it was formed when the island was shaped by Akatosh's plunge into Mundus.

She was used to the opulence and mystery of Direnni Tower, her life spent emerged in the history of those halls

This word kind of jars me - don't you mean merged or perhaps immersed?.

Overall a wonderful chapter. I remember being spellbound when I first read it, from the beginning and Arnand's POV, his interaction with Lattia (is that infatuation I detect?), to her POV and her arrival on the island. I loved it the first time and I still do!

[Acadian]

Each of your stories strikes me differently in unpredictable manners, as you well know. I am not familiar with the port of departure, sea they sail or the destination. I am, of course familiar with Arnand and Lattia.

What struck me here was simply the jaw dropping quality of your writing and the way you paint with words. This ripples throughout your writing of course, but what really stood out for me in this was, well, everything about the portion at sea. The sea, the ship, the interaction between the characters. Quite magical to read in fact.

[bobg]

Despite playing Daggerfall and Morrowind for years, I lack the patience and discipline needed to work through most lore and had difficulty in getting into your original thread on that other forum (my shortcoming not yours.) At last the sun shone through the murk of my tiny brain. Vague memories, and the knowledgeable responses from your fans brought back snatches of scenes in dungeons and the words of tomes thought long forgotten. Having been away from fan-fic for a while, today I read the first post in this thread. I registered just to let you know you have another fan.

[SubRosa]

Finally getting around to reading again.

That was a nice, sweet scene between Arnand and Lattia. Especially good was the very last line.

the butterflies that resided in Arnand’s stomach were quickly transformed into cliff racers.
This was a skillful turn of phrase.

In so doing you unwittingly violated a pact that has been in place for nearly a thousand years.
I was so hoping Lattia might reply with "Well maybe you should have clued the rest of the world in about that boatmaster."

So this is the what you alluding to before when you mentioned why the Daedra never invaded Nirn while the Amulet of Kings was lost. I was half-expecting you to go with the theory that the towers (White Gold Tower, Adamantine Tower, etc...) were what kept them out. From the Nu-hatta Intercept. The deal that Sotha Sil brokered always reminds me the Munich Treaty, and seems even less likely to be as effective as that was, since the Daedra have less reason to honor it than Hitler did Munich. But that is just an entirely personal opinion.


nits:
“Your have a wife?”
I think the King of Worms slipped in an extra "r" there.


her life spent emerged in the history of those halls.
This sounds a bit odd, did you mean merged by chance?

[Olen]

Another excellent part. This piece is very slick and well put together. You have plenty of hooks laid too, how has Arnand gotten ashore and how will he avoid notice. What are the details of the treaty which is broken and how did she unwittingly manage it. And what's about to happen with old Herma (who is by far my favourite of the daedra).

and it is such a rare privilege for us to see it through new eyes

Another of those great little observations which sit so well with real life they they lend the story and characters a greater reality.

warm halls that seemed to be the arteries of some majestic creature

Great metaphor.

Nit:
For the entire time they traversed the placid water he never made a sound. - never said a word might be better, not making a sound suggests he wasn't rowing or had muffled oars (not that they're that quiet) or something.

[Destri Melarg]

mALX – Unfortunately for Lattia, she simply cannot say no. Prepare to cue the WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT!!!!!!!!!!! The first part of this next chapter is for you.

hazmick – After reading of Haa-Rei’s brief sojourn through Apocrypha, I think it will be fun to compare notes to see how much of it we see the same, and how much of it we see differently.

haute – That is infatuation that you detect in Lattia and Arnand. Unfortunately you will have to wait to see if it grows into something else. The good news is that I think you will like this chapter. It answers one of your burning questions.

I was thinking of both immersed and submerged when I wrote that sentence, hence ‘emerged’ . . . ARGH!! Thank you for pointing it out.

And please sing out anytime you see something of mine that needs to be re-written. Your rewording of that passage is better than what I wrote. I have changed it to your version but I have tweaked it to maintain the fact that Akatosh threw himself into Mundas. ‘Plunged’ sounds to me like something that was done to him, not something he did himself. Thanks again.

Acadian – You have no idea how gratifying it is that you pointed out that portion of the story. I wanted that sequence when they are in sight of the island of magic to have an almost dreamlike quality. I took great pains to evoke the peaceful nature of their surroundings and the growing fondness that Lattia and Arnand feel for each other. It is all a prelude to the storms yet to come.

bobg – Welcome to Chorrol. Wow! Just, wow. I don’t know what to say. I’m speechless (something for which you have just earned the undying admiration of all my family and friends!). ‘Thank you’ seems inadequate to express my gratitude. The fact that you registered just to say how much you are enjoying this story is like giving me a miniature sun that will warm me through those cold nights of self-doubt. I can’t think of a better endorsement (lacking two commas and several zeroes) that any writer could receive. Again, thank you.

Oh, PLEASEPLEASEPLEASE say that this means that we will see Angel over here soon!

SubRosa – You have done it again!! As the story continues you will see aspects of Michael Kirkbride’s interpretations postulated within the text. For now let me just say that all is not as it appears. I agree that Sotha Sil’s ‘pact’ bears less weight than the parchment needed to print it. Comparing it to Munich is appropriate. I would say that, given that the daedra measure time differently than mortals, it is not unreasonable to assume that such a pact could be sustained for a thousand years or more. Yes, I know that reasoning appears weak. Would Mehrunes Dagon or Molag Bal really feel bound to respect the terms of a truce brokered by a Chimer sorcerer in a cave on Artaeum? But there is also the fact that, when Sotha Sil brokered this ‘truce’ there was still an Emperor on the throne wearing the Amulet of Kings.

This brings me to my only problem with the theories put forth by the Nu-Mantia intercept: It makes Akatosh look like either an idiot or an a-hole to give Alessia the Amulet of Kings knowing that the towers are already protecting Nirn. Of course, writing that brings to mind that our only knowledge of those events comes from books written by mortals after the fact, which makes them subject for debate and interpretation.

Okay, now I have a headache!

Thank you for pointing out the nits. I am glad to see that you remain vigilant; we don’t want the King of Worms ‘slipping’ anything anywhere!

Olen – As always, your nit is well observed. I think it was the noiseless variety of oar made only from the oassom tree that he was using. I have gone back and fixed his silence.

As for the rest: Patience, my friend. All of your questions will be answered in the course of time. For now we must shift our gaze a thousand and more leagues north by northeast . . .

* * *

4th First Seed, 2E 854
Main Gate, Imperial City
Dusk


The spearman stood his post on the side of the Main Gate and longed for the shift change. He had been there since dawn, when the new light made the long shadows dance away from him, and the sun hitting the Main Gate behind him provided ample shade. By mid-day the high sun cast short shadows that made shade a memory to be longed for. He had nearly cooked in his armor then, but as the sun fell towards the west and the day dragged on the shadows lengthened both in front and behind him, cooling him like a spit boar over burned out embers.

During his watch, the affairs of the city played out around him. Artisans, workers, and those who had chosen toil over the harsh conditions of the dungeons set to the task of rebuilding the portions of the city that an older generation had destroyed. The sounds of hammers, picks, strained rope, and straining horses assaulted the spearman’s ears. Below him every manner of craft, from simple rafts and fishing boats to gondolas and ornate pleasure barges filled the canals and the clear blue water of Lake Rumare. They weaved amongst the bridges that connected the Imperial City to Cyrodiil’s coast.

By the time the sun disappeared over the tree tops of the Great Forest the traffic at the Main Gate was limited to those returning to the city after a long day of fishing, hunting, or farming. Some carried bundles of slaughterfish and mudcrab, their muscles straining under the weight. Others carried naught but bait and tackle, with envious looks on their faces. For every wagon and bow-legged horse loaded down with pelts and bloody meat, or fresh vegetables, flowers and fruits there were wagons empty, and horses unburdened. Very few looked satisfied with the day’s catch. But with the first cold winds of nightfall coming in from the north and the plaintive howls of wolves to the east, they all found reason to make their way behind the safety of the Main Gate.

The spearman stole a glance to his left. It was met by the blue eyes of another dressed in identical armor. The other guard nodded once, and the spearman suppressed a smile. He didn’t know the name of the other guard, but the two of them had stood their watch well. With the shadows lengthening in the twilight, that made them as close as brothers.

A small group of figures left the bridge and began to climb the easy rise toward the Main Gate. They looked as if they had formed from the deepening shadows. They were four in number, wearing flowing black robes that dragged along the ground in their wake. Their faces were invisible behind the shadows of their hoods, and they glided with soundless grace over the cobblestones. The spearman heard the scrape of a heavy boot against stone to his left, and knew that the other guard had seen them. He brought his own spear to rest in both hands.

“We are here to relieve you.”

The booming voice came from behind and nearly caused the spearman to jump from his skin. He turned and saw the fresh shift waiting.

“It’s about time,” said the guard to his left, but he kept his eyes on the cloaked figures approaching.

“Trouble?” asked one of the new guards.

“We’ll soon know,” said the spearman. He stepped forward and lowered his weapon. The lead shadow stopped a few scant feet from the point, and the three behind him fanned into what looked to the spearman like a battle formation.

“State your business,” said the spearman.

The lead figure bowed his head. “We seek an audience with the Emperor.”

The clipped, measured tone of the voice bespoke of someone highly educated and comfortable with the weight of authority. But something about the way he rolled the ‘S’ sound caused the hairs on the back of the spearman’s neck to stand up.

“Who seeks an audience?” asked the spearman.

The figure lowered his hood. Behind him the spearman heard the other guards rush forward. He felt his own sudden intake of breath. A thousand thoughts cancelled each other out in his mind. He felt as one charmed, hypnotized, rooted to the spot, and in that moment he knew why the mouse doesn’t run from the snake. The figure before him spoke, and the spearman heard clipped, measured tones coming from behind golden scales.

“I am the Chevalier Renald,” the figure said.

_____

4th First Seed 2E 854
Reman Plaza, Imperial City
Evening


Captain Alorius opened the door and showed Zurin Arctus inside. He led the battlemage across the room. General Talos lounged on a couch near the stairs leading to the second floor. A spearman stood at attention opposite the couch. The room was well-lit, and as Arctus reached the couch he noted the distinct lack of smoke. General Talos motioned him into a chair.

“Ysmir?” asked Acrtus.

“Sent to Vvardenfell,” said General Talos, “he is scouting potential routes for our invasion.”

Arctus took the offered seat; he looked at the General and raised an eyebrow.

“Of course not,” said Talos, “but his absence improves the room’s décor, and I grow weary of burning incense.” He nodded to Captain Alorius, who turned to the spearman.

“Spearman,” said Alorius, “tell the General what you told me.”

“Yes sir,” said the spearman, “I spent the day on duty at the Main Gate, sir. At dusk, with the shift change, a group of Tsaesci stopped at the Gate and requested an audience with the Emperor.”

“Tsaesci,” said Arctus, “you are sure?”

“Yes sir,” said the spearman, “it is hard to mistake one, sir.”

“Go on,” said Talos.

“Yes sir. As the shift being relieved, it was left in our charge to escort the Tsaesci to the Palace. When we arrived the Palace Guard refused to escort the Tsaesci through the doors. A runner was sent to inform the Emperor.”

Inform the Emperor? Arctus thought to himself. Not Farenenre?

“We were told by the Palace Guard to usher the Tsaesci into the throne room,” the spearman went on, “the Emperor met with them there.”

“Just the Emperor?” asked Arctus.

“No sir. Lord Farenenre was present, as was Lady Direnni and her bodyguard.”

Direnni, thought Arctus, curious. This cannot be a coincidence.

“Were you dismissed at that point?” asked Talos.

“No sir. We were kept to protect the Emperor, I presume. Though I’m not sure why sir, given the attitude of the Palace Guard. We had disarmed the Tsaesci at the Gate. Had their intent been hostile, they would have been set upon by the whole of the Palace long before they gained the Ruby Throne.”

“So you heard their conversation?” asked Arctus.

“Yes sir. The Tsaesci Captain introduced himself and his . . . well, men isn’t the right word. He called them his ‘syffim’.”

“Of course he did,” said Arctus, “do you remember their names?”

“I do sir. The Captain called himself Renald, but he said his name was once Vershu. Those of his syffim were called Xarsien-Ves, Eesham-Sha, and Chirasch something. I’m sorry, sir, I can’t remember his second name.”

Arctus was no longer listening. Vershu, he thought, Vershu?

“What else did they discuss?” asked Talos.

“This Renald complimented the Emperor on his strength,” said the young spearman, “I heard him mention an ancient vow, something like Pale Pass, and Reman I. He spoke of a debt owed to the line of Dragon Emperors that he and his syffim had come to pay.”

Arctus’ eyes met those of General Talos. Wheels within wheels, he thought.

“You have a good memory, spearman,” said Talos. “Captain Alorius, this man looks hungry. Take him to my table and give him his fill.”

“Yes sir,” said Alorius. He motioned for the spearman to follow and led the way across the room. Arctus waited until they were out of earshot before turning back to the General.

“Vershu? Pale Pass?” asked Talos

“Unlikely,” said Arctus, “but it is possible. Tsaesci are immortal.”

“Tell that to the ones who died at Pale Pass. Why did Lady Direnni’s name affect you so?”

The man missed nothing! “A message I received yesterday from one of our operatives along the Reach. A representative of Clan Direnni left Jehanna to seek out the King of Worms. He hired the two knights as guides.”

“What two knights?” asked Talos.

“The two I suggested,” said Arctus, “to tie up that loose end from Sancre Tor.”

Talos nodded. “I suppose it was too much to ask that Clan Direnni sit out this contest. At least now we know that they are on the move, though I fail to see what they hope to gain from the necromancer.”

“I think our immediate concern should be with the Direnni getting close to the Emperor,” said Arctus, “curious that we received no warning from Farenenre.”

“Curious indeed,” said Talos. “I think you should have a talk with Lord Farennre, remind him where his loyalty lies.”

“Yes General. What of the Tsaesci, should we be worried by their arrival?”

Talos took a sip from an ornate silver goblet. “I would be very surprised if Cuhlecain didn’t put them to use immediately.”

“To assassinate you,” said Arctus. It was not a question.

Talos nodded, “it is the smart play. If they succeed he can hail them as heroes come to protect the line of Dragon Emperors from my ambitious machinations. If they fail he can condemn them as heirs of the Potentate who seek to usurp the Ruby Throne by isolating the Emperor. Either way, he loses nothing.”

“Then you should leave the city,” said Arctus, “we need to play for time to put our own plans into effect.”

“If I leave then Cuhlecain knows he has an informant in his midst. We would lose Farenenre, who is too valuable to us right now.” He took another sip from his goblet. “The Tsaesci didn’t just materialize on Nirn. Doubtless they have heard the talk of who is and is not of dragon blood. Soon they will realize that the Amulet is too big for Cuhlecain’s neck.”

“Are you willing to bet your life on that, General? Even if we double your bodyguard they may not be enough to stop these Tsaesci. I have in mind one whose sword we could add to your personal guard but still, I almost wish you hadn’t sent Ysmir away.”

“Who is this one you have in mind?” asked Talos.

“A Redguard acquaintance of mine, I used him to set the two knights to purpose.”

“You trust him?”

“I trust his word, General. He is, was, a Knight of the Moon. He left his Order rather than compromise his honor. However, he is currently in Sutch receiving treatment for an arm injured when he left Sentinel. I fear he may not arrive before these Tsaesci make their attempt.”

“You are a good friend, Arctus,” said Talos, leaning back on the couch, “and your concern is noted. But my course is set; I will not leave the city.”

“Very well,” said Arctus. He looked past General Talos at the young spearman eating at the table across the room. “What of this spearman, what motive does he have in telling us all of this?”

“The same motive that all young people have, Master Arctus, ambition. Alorius tells me that this young man is wasted on guard duty. After hearing of our activities at Fort Black Boot he has spent the last month pestering Alorius for a transfer to my staff.”

“Does he have a name, General?”

Talos turned on the couch. His voice carried across the room, “spearman!”

The spearman rose from the table as if poked by a branding iron. He stood at attention. “Yes sir.”

“What is your name, son?” asked General Talos.

The spearman kept his back straight, and his eyes forward. But he could not help the smile that formed at the corners of his mouth.

“Spearman Rielus, sir,” he said.

This post has been edited by Destri Melarg: Sep 30 2010, 10:18 AM

[treydog]

The first paragraph is a simply brilliant bit of description seen through the eyes of one of the ubiquitous Guard family. I wonder if his first name is “Imperial?” ETA- Ah, I see it is something else.

You weave such a wonderful, bustling picture of the day dwindling to somnolence and then- the reveal!

Things are getting even more interesting than they were, which is saying something. Woo-Hoo.

Nits:

"If they fail he can condemn them as heirs of the Potentate who seek to usurp the Ruby Throne by isolating the Emperor. Either way, he looses nothing.”

Loses, I think.

We would loose Farenenre…

Lose, again.