Interregnum, 854 of the Second Era Options

[Acadian]

What an entrance!!!!!!!!!

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.

WooHoo! They are not dragons, but nevertheless, Buffy and I stared at each other as chills ran up my back and down hers. A masterpiece of an effective passage!

Political intrigue. It seems Talos is a target for Tsaesci assassins - I can pick that up. Obviously lots more mystery of swirling pieces here that I shall have to wait for you to show me. No worries. I don't normally solve mysteries until I ask Mrs Acadian during the closing credits.

Nit?

They weaved amongst the bridges that separated the Imperial City from Cyrodiil’s coast.

I guess it would be bridges that connect to, while waters separate from. Since the boats weaved among the bridges, I would stay with bridges, simply changing two words as follows: 'They weaved amongst the bridges that connected the Imperial City to Cyrodiil's coast.'

[hazmick]

hooray! I've been waiting in the shadows for this chapter and I'm not disappointed. I love your descriptions of the Tsaesci, they are my favourite characters You're story continues to be rich and full of...awesomeness! More, please?

[SubRosa]

Your description of the Imperial City is very powerful. The line about rebuilding the dungeons of course made me snap to my memories of Oblivion's tutorial, and the ancient-looking ruins beneath the prison. Likewise with the finale of the Thieves Guild questline, where you actually get to play in the old Ayleid city beneath the human one.

However, it sounds a little different from the place we see in Oblivion as well. Canal's? Pleasure boats. This hearkens me to the Aztec capital of Tenochtitlan. I take it you are drawing on ideas from the earlier ES games, when Cyrodiil was a jungle rather than merry old England? Not a problem, it makes it feel more interesting of a city, like Venice, or the aforementioned Tenochtitlan.

And Spearman Rielus I see! About time our forth Blade reared his not yet ghostly head. Using him to describe the city was a good touch. Likewise showing the reintroduction of the Tsaesci through his eyes. Your description of Rielus being rooted to the spot by the Chevaliar's gaze brought back memories of watching Riki-Tiki-Tavi as a child, and the hypnotic glare of the evil cobra.

The machinations of Talos and Arctus were once again most intriguing. I have the distinct impression that Farennre will not be with us much longer, and that when push comes to shove, the Tsaesci will not be allying themselves with Cuhlecain. I am sure it will not take Reynald long to notice that he is not wearing the Amulet of Kings...


Nits
Either way, he looses nothing.
Ysmir might be in Morrowind, but he left an extra "o" in loses before he left.

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Sep 8 2010, 10:55 PM

[haute ecole rider]

Wheels within wheels, indeed!

Everything read fine, except for the looses/loses that trey and Sage already pointed out.

I loved the description of guard duty, especially this line:

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.

This is something that completely captures the feeling of being out in the sun in full plate for far too long!

And welcome back to Chevalier Renald and his syffim!

And a cheery to my fourth Sancre Tor Blade, Rielus!

[mALX]

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.

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

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT!!!!!!!!!!


ARGH !!!!!! GAAAAH !!!!!!! Chevalier Renald - That scene is one of my favorite in the whole story !!!! It is like an unveiling of a masterpiece when he says his name!!!!!!!!!! I love that !!!

Spearman Rielus, sir,” he said.

Sancre Tor here we come !!!!! WOO HOO !!!!!!

[Destri Melarg]

trey – Thank you for your wonderful comments. Your place near the hearth is always kept open, and it is a pleasure when you choose to drop by. Mea culpa on loose/lose. It is a mistake that I always seem to make, no matter how much I try to guard against it.

Acadian – What would I do without the Acadi-editor? Your observation about bridges connecting and waters separating was well-observed (as always). I have gone back and changed that passage as per your recommendation. The mysteries herein deepen in this chapter. In anticipation of the confusion that this may cause, I have included a brief note below. After all, Mrs. Acadian has to rest sometime.

hazmick – You and I share a fondness for the Tsaesci. I see them as incredibly complex figures. On the one hand, they are capable of the atrocity of hunting the dragons of Akavir to near extinction. On the other hand, they are willing to lay down their lives to fulfill a vow made to a foreign Emperor.

And your wish for more is my command.

SubRosa – I wasn’t aware that the earlier ES games portrayed Cyrodiil as a jungle. I was simply of the mind that the IC of the second era would bear some striking differences to the IC of the third era. I incorporated canals because I think any major city built on the water would inevitably contain them (though I am sure you can find many examples of cities that do not). They provide an easy way to move goods through the city without the use (or expense) of horses, oxen, and wagons.

Your mention of Riki-Tiki-Tavi brought back a lot of memories. I think I was maybe five or six years old when I first saw the animated version of the story. That mongoose became my personal hero for at least three years. I spent many hours and many tears trying to persuade my parents to buy me one, even after my mother astutely pointed out that cobras were not indigenous to Cleveland!

And I took that wayward ‘o’ and shipped it back to Ysmir.

haute – Now that all of your ghosts from Sancre Tor are assembled, what pray tell shall we do with them? I confess that the idea of an all out battle between the four knights and the four Tsaesci still plays about the corner of my imagination. Maybe I could persuade Lattia to project them nearly five hundred years into the future to properly welcome Julian into their ranks while discretely slapping Jauffre around.

mALX – I love that scene with Renald as well. I got little goosebumps when I wrote it. The initial idea was to show Rielus escorting the Tsaesci to the Palace, and all that occurred within. But after Renald’s line the rest of the scene seemed anticlimactic, better shown through narration than action. Hence the scene with Talos and Arctus, which also served to get Rielus into Talos’ employ. Thank you so much, mALX.

A Note to the Reader:

This chapter has given me more trouble than any other. It has gone through so many versions and re-writes that I have lost count. The one you read now is an expansion of what I posted on the other forum, and I believe it is far superior. In it we encounter things that go beyond the lore usually discussed within Oblivion. If you’re curious, this book formed the main inspiration.

* * *

???
Apocrypha, Oblivion
???


Her world was a gray fog. It was all around her and inside her. She felt herself falling within it, yet not through it. The many whispered voices that surrounded her pressed in closer. Their words were unknown to her, a language never heard on the plane that mortals occupy. Yet in her mind she understood their meaning. They regarded her as one of their own. With every whisper she felt her self being stripped away, becoming one with the Gray Maybe. She held her eyes tightly shut, and in her mind she shouted to herself so that she could be heard above the whispers.

I am Lattia Direnni. I am Lattia Direnni.

The voices grew insistent; one above the rest exploded in Lattia’s head and shattered her feeble attempt at self-control. It was a male’s voice, expressive in a way that she had never heard before. It was like an urge filled with both longing and promise that raised itself over the others to be heard.

“A new plane,” the voice was saying, “a Mundas in which we create souls that might interact with one another.”

“Why?” asked a female voice, and in that one simple word Lattia felt herself overwhelmed by the sense of compassion which sprang from its source.

Lattia heard a chorus of voices echo this sentiment, but the first speaker was not dissuaded.

“Because thanks to the Dragon time now exists, all of us have settled into our current forms. Eternity looms over us as a weight that even we cannot move. How will we pass through eternity? Will we spend it adrift in the Aurbis? Or shall we spend it in the creation of a plane that is ever-changing, ever-entertaining?”

“Change,” said a voice deep with authority and heavy with the weight of time, “is a Padomaic concern. Why bring this plan before us? Why not ask those more in tune with the will of change?”

“Because they are interested only in chaos and destruction, what I propose is a plane of order and creation. I admit that this plane would possess some of the nature of Padomay, but its light is that of Anu. Besides, isn’t the nature of time itself Padomaic?”

“Be careful, Lorkhan,” said the deep voice. “Do not question outside of your province.”

“Apologies Auri-El,” said Lorkhan, “I meant no insult.”

“How exactly will this proposed plane be constructed?” asked the compassionate voice that Lattia realized could only belong to Mara.

“I believe Magnus can answer that question better than I,” said Lorkhan.

A new voice was heard, one that echoed throughout the In Between. “First I shall form a pocket in Aetherius. Then we shall need Kyne to provide the space for this new world in the void; the rest of you will then need to lend a portion of your aspect to form the substance of this new plane.”

Another voice spoke in the Aurbis. This one was female, and seemed to be formed of wind and rain and treacherous seas. “If this new plane be a place where my winds might roam free, then I would see its construction done.”

One by one Lattia heard the voices in the mists agree to this, each motivated by its aspect and each like a lightning strike until only Auri-El’s voice had not been heard. There was a silence that reminded Lattia of long, cold days in Direnni Tower when she and Varla sat huddled near a beaded window, waiting for the peal of thunder that always followed the lightning.

“Then let it be done,” said Auri-El.

_____

She was back amongst the shelves which rose like mountains all around her. Pages floated past her vision on a wind which could not be felt. She sat cross-legged on a floor without substance, yet a floor all the same. A large, black, leather bound tome sat heavy in her lap. Around her she felt the presence of souls, ancient, desperate, yearning souls that had lost themselves within the pages of identical tomes which filled the shelves and spread without number throughout the realm.

She closed the book with a consuming sadness. For a brief time she had stood among the ancestors who had been tricked into the creation of the world. For a time she had been made whole, given back the aspect that should have been hers save for Lorkhan’s foul treachery. Tears streamed down her face as she realized how easy it would be to lose herself in this place.

I am Lattia Direnni, she told herself, I am Lattia Direnni.

She was still telling herself that as she reached for another book.

_____

5th First Seed 2E 854
Red Mountain, Morrowind
Evening


From ash he had come, to ash he now returned. The wanderlust was upon him again, unbidden, ungovernable. Now, as always, it kept his eyes trained ever east, to this mountain, and the Heart that lay beating within. He began to climb.

Time held no meaning for him. For those of his kind the ages of mortal existence are viewed as a simple glance to the left or to the right. Memory plagues the gods as death plagues the mortal, omnipresent, inescapable, and inevitable. In this time he called himself Ysmir, but there were other times when he wore other faces, and other names. His true name he kept hidden, for that was the aspect of him that had been lost. He gazed inward, for the heavens were always silent to his plea. Though he knew that Kynareth still wept, she would not defy the others. How long must I wade amongst the sheep? Have I not suffered enough? Mundas has taken from me far more than from any of you, was my crime so great?

They would not answer; silence greeted him as it always did. He continued to climb, dispatching the creatures that appeared through the ash with an ease that marked his true station. Above him Masser and Secunda shone down as eloquent testimony to the continued rage of those he had betrayed. The tiny points of light that kept him from climbing in darkness were a mute reminder of the followers of Magnus who had escaped into Aetherius.

The Heart would restore him. Even corrupted by the Chimer lords the Heart still beat within the mountain, so he climbed. He could not claim it now, weak as he was. The Tribunal would destroy him without much effort. To reclaim what was his he would need an army. So even if it meant fulfilling the ambitions of a half-breed Atmoran. Even if it meant taking the man’s form to give his troops the illusion that he possessed the thu’um, it was a price that he would gladly pay to visit his vengeance on those who had corrupted the Heart. For now he could only gaze upon it, but that was enough.

So he climbed.

_____

???
Apocrypha, Oblivion
???


A light brighter than any in her experience cut through the gray mists and flooded her vision. Aetherius, she thought to herself. Familiar scenes could be seen both through her eyes and in her mind. They shifted and swirled against and into each other. Blue skies over white-capped seas, green fields leading to majestic snow-filled mountains in the distance, a torrent of ice that swirled amidst stunning sunlight caused her to shield her eyes out of reflex, even though the act did not mute the glare.

The sound was deafening. It started as a low whine at the edge of hearing, and grew with the churning violent formation of Nirn. Around her the sound grew in pitch and crescendo, a part of this new formed world yet separate from it as well. She was filled with the fear that realization brought her, the sound suddenly identifiable in its intensity.

Screams.

I am Lattia Direnni, she thought, I am Lattia Direnni.

Movement drew her attention to the left. Her eyes were met by a field of heather and lavender stirred to gentle movement by a caressing breeze. In the center of the field Lattia saw what appeared to be an old woman; tall, frail, and cloaked. The woman spoke into the breeze. Her voice told of wind and rain and treacherous seas. At her command the gentle breeze grew into a gale which swirled around her and caused the folds of her cloak to flap like banners caught in the storm.

The screams grew louder. Lattia covered her ears and endured through strained jaw and closed eyes. Nothing she did could mute the pain and terror carried by those sounds. When at last she opened her eyes the field and the woman were gone, but the screams remained. She floated in a world that was plunged into darkness. It was so absolute that only the countless number of dim lights below reassured her that she had not been consigned to the void. Those lights began to rise all around her, covering her in a warm embrace that alleviated the cold that, until then, she was not even aware that she had felt. She was visited by a profound sense of peace that quieted the screams around her. For a time she bathed in the lights, reveling in the warm penumbra that washed over her. But, all too soon, they lifted above her and rose until they reached the canopy of stygian darkness overhead. There each of the dim lights tore a hole through the shroud and disappeared into the brilliant light of Aetherius, still visible just past the darkness. The tiny holes that marked their passing remained, allowing small, shimmering points of Aetherius into the darkness of the world.

I am . . . Direnni . . . Lattia . . . Direnni.

She fell. Time was lost as she rolled and twirled through the blackened sky. An anguished scream revisited her senses only to be lost to the sound of rushing wind that pulled at her hair and made her close her eyes against the blinding tears. It took several anxious moments to realize that the scream had come from within, born of a pain that went beyond any in her experience. It felt as if the talons of some fierce and hungry beast had torn through her chest and removed a large piece of her soul.

I . . . am . . . Lat . . . tia . . .

Her eyes opened to blood-red skies. She lay naked on a barren field amongst the broken bodies of men and mer, so many that they blocked her view of the horizon. The air smelled of ash and blood and filth. In the distance she could just make out the silhouette of a Great Dragon with a long neck and mighty wings. What was left of her mind marveled at the beast's apparent size that she could see it from so far away. For some reason the fact that it was moving toward the far horizon filled her with terror. Laughter filled the space that was left by her screams and a voice resounded within her ears.

“This Heart is the heart of the world,” it said, “for one was made to satisfy the other.”

She rose to her knees sobbing, her eyes riveted to the receding Dragon until it faded from view.

I . . . am . . . I . . . was . . .

She could no longer remember.

_____

5th First Seed, 2E 854
Akulakhan’s Chamber, Red Mountain, Morrowind
Evening


He felt her in the rain that began to fall as he gained the summit of the mountain. He raised his head and allowed himself to drink the cool, swollen droplets. She watches me still, he thought. He fought through the corrupt creatures that guarded the Citadel with the taste of the rain sweet on his tongue. Her presence permeated the maze of winding corridors within. By the time he reached the central chamber it was as if she stood there with him. Despite all he had suffered a smile graced his features, for it was not often that a god felt surprise.

“I did not expect to find you here,” said Ysmir.

The Heart still lay encased in the chest of a Dwemer construct, which rose defiantly from a sea of molten rock in the center of the chamber. Movement behind it betrayed her position. She emerged into the light cast by the lava below. Ysmir looked upon her, tall, frail, and cloaked. Even without eyes she had no trouble negotiating the thin span of bridge that separated them.

“Where else should I be?” she asked as she reached him. Her voice spoke of wind and rain and treacherous seas.

“At his side,” said Ysmir.

“Then you remain a fool,” she said.

He dropped to his knees. His arms encircled her slender waist and pulled her close. He buried his head in the folds of her cloak. For a time only his muted sobs could be heard in the chamber.

At last he looked up toward her. “Kyne . . .”

She placed an almost skeletal finger over his lips. “No. As you now call yourself Ysmir, I would have it that you call me Erinwe.”

“I do not care what you call yourself. I care that you are here. Why?”

“Why? Did you truly think that I only wept? We are one, beloved. I would see you restored to all that you were.”

He stood and wrapped her small hand in a powerful squeeze. “How? By remaining silent to my desperate pleas? By remaining by his side, doing his bidding?”

“Yes!” She placed her other hand against his cheek. “You cannot outlast one who has dominion over time itself. He will not waver, nor shall he bend. I seek to restore his covenant with those you have left for him to rule. I have even sent powerful agents to guard the dragon blood you have allied yourself with. But I exacted a price for my service.”

“What price?” asked Ysmir. He felt himself ease the grip he had on her hand. Through her hood he could see the tears that trailed down from sightless eyes. He pulled her in close, and held to her with a strength that surprised him once again. “What price?”

“Your freedom,” she whispered.

This post has been edited by Destri Melarg: Sep 18 2010, 09:04 AM

[Acadian]

By Mara! Lattia walking among gods! I am . . . Lat . . . tia.

This is quite the rich experience to read! I say experience, because that is how I think of reading your writing. I simply relish the feeling and mystery of it.

You would be proud of me to realize that I have poked around in lore enough to recognize almost every player you featured. In fact just last week, we chose Aetherius as the name for Carandial's bay horse in BF.

[hazmick]

APOCRYPHA!!!!! I think that your Apocrypha kicked my version's a..s..s. However, Haa-Rei's Apocrypha was only a dream-version and not the real thing. (Excuses excuses ) Good job with this chapter, you've made Gods feel like Men (and Mer) to me as a reader. More please? (Or should I say...Mora? )

[SubRosa]

Well this certainly ratchets the story up another notch! Before we were only looking at the plots and counter-plots of mortals and the occasional Daedra Lord. Now we have the plots of the gods themselves thrown into the stew. It makes me wonder what is going to bubble up from this cauldron you are are brewing!

Memory plagues the gods as death plagues the mortal, omnipresent, inescapable, and inevitable.
This really sums up the weight of immortality. Once again, I really enjoyed your depiction of Lorkhan. I have always suspected that he was Pelinal Whitestrake, given the latter's godlike abilities and psychotic hatred for elves.

And Lattia, my poor Lattia, lost in Apocrypha. It is funny, because on the surface it seems the most benign of all Daedric Realms, but in reality, it is probably the most dangerous to its visitors. Your description of the creation of Nirn was lovely (if one can call making an abattoir of gods lovely). I have always thought of someday playing a character who sees Nirn in the same way that Magnus and the others must have seen it - not as peaceful green fields and rolling oceans, but as a nightmare of mutilated divinity. It would seem perfect for an Altmer assassin.

[treydog]

Your effort shows- or rather, it doesn't- which is the true mark of a well-crafted story.

Everything about the first section has a “monumental” feel; it is easy to understand and empathize with Lattia’s need to remind herself of her “self” in the midst of all that power.

Memory plagues the gods as death plagues the mortal, omnipresent, inescapable, and inevitable.

Wow, just- wow.

I . . . am . . . I . . . was . . .

She could no longer remember.

Eep!

Brilliant and beautiful images from start to finish.

One nit:

What was left of her mind marveled at the beasts’ apparent size that she could…

Misplaced apostrophe- there is only one “beast,” so “beast’s.”

[haute ecole rider]

The expanded version certainly works, and is much more powerful than what I read initially over on the other forum.

It really resonates with me in the manner of the most timeless of myths - the story of Creation. Lattia's struggle to hold on to her self in the midst of the gods is humbling.

A nit:

There was a silence that reminded Lattia of long, cold days in Direnni Tower when she and Varla sat huddled near a beaded window, waiting for the peel of thunder that always followed the lightning.

I think the lightning scared the 'a' into squishing into a second 'e' in peal. Thunder doesn't peel like oranges, but rather peal like bells.

Back to what I liked/loved about this chapter. Again I am reminded of the images of Dagoth Ur as presented by others writing MW fiction, but I realize now that this is the Lost God, Lorkhan. The interchange between him and Kyne is both heartfelt and terrifying. Yikes!

You have done very well with this chapter - I really found myself caught up in it along with Lattia.

[mALX]

I get goosebumps every time I read that last chapter too, and on each re-read.

I haven't had time to read the referenced Morrowind book yet, but will get to it ASAP. Once I do I will re-read this chapter too.

Your version of Apocrypha is stunning, and I am so glad I didn't tackle it in my original !!! After reading yours mine would pale terribly !!!

I remember Lattia's day in Apocrypha from your original story, this version is so much more powerful - I love them both, but would choose this one instantly as my fave of the two - AWESOME WRITE !!!!!!

[Remko]

Lorkhan is Ysmir?? hmmm.....
wow Destri... I swear that if this hadn't been a fanfic, you should have had it published. It truly is among the best fantasy I have ever read.

[Destri Melarg]

Acadian – Aetherius! You will have to forgive me if I steal that name for my Arch-Mage’s white stallion. It’s perfect! I promise I won’t use it if I ever get around to writing about her. I am so glad you have taken to poking around in the lore. But be warned, it can become more addictive than skooma! I will be interested to see how this might inform Buffy’s story in the future.

hazmick – Don't sell your version of Apocrypha short. I like the mystery of not knowing too much about it.

As for gods, the thing I love the most about the Greek pantheon is that they are motivated by the most human of emotions. Love, pride, rage, jealousy; all have their place, especially amongst immortals. I am glad that I have been able to infuse some of that into this story.

SubRosa – I admit that it all seems a bit complicated. I see this as THE watershed event in Tamrielic history that shapes everything that follows it. Given what happens to Talos later, it seems illogical to think that the gods and the daedra wouldn’t play a part.

Like you I believe that Pelinal was a manifestation of Shor/Shezzar/Lorkhan. I think that his relationship with Morihaus bears this out. Early on in the planning of this story I fell in love with the idea that the gods use manifestations to walk amongst the mortals of Nirn. Through the lore we know that Lorkhan is doomed to walk through eternity wearing many guises. We also know that you can encounter Mara, Zenithar, and even Talos himself in Morrowind. I thought it might be fun to characterize Kynareth’s manifestation, and give her a minor roll to play.

And you have just described the world view of my de-frocked former Psijic assassin and necromancer, Amairgen.

trey –

You effort shows- or rather, it doesn’t- which is the true mark of a well-crafted story.

Wow! I can think of no better compliment than this! Thank you so much!

I also thank you for helping me wrangle that wayward apostrophe. It has been fixed.

hautee – The more I think about it, the more I question my handling of Lattia’s situation. Like most Altmer, she believes that godhood is her true aspect, stolen from her when Lorkhan tricked the gods into the formation of Nirn. Given that, would she really be so quick to hold onto her ‘self’ when given the opportunity to regain that which was lost? I had hoped to convey that inner struggle through the device of her constant mantra within the chapter, but I’m not sure it worked the way that I wanted it to.

*Shut up, Destri! Stop second (and third) guessing yourself!*

Thank you for delivering the ‘a’ back to ‘peal’.

mALX – Are you kidding?! I can just see Janus and Melissande waltzing through Apocrypha. He standing eight feet tall, holding Alix the mouse, and scaring anything that moves into submission. Her muttering incantations while clutching Maxical’s soulgem to her breast. There would be thousands of lost, wayward souls scrambling over each other to give them wide berth. And, over in the corner, Hermaeus Mora curled in the fetal position repeating over and over again:

“Please, just make them leave. Please, just make them leave.”

Remko – Thank you so much. Ysmir is a manifestation of Lorkhan, I know it is a semantic difference but it is still a difference. Lorkhan’s ‘body’ was sundered and cast into the night sky to form the twin moons, Masser and Secunda (at least, that is my understanding of events). A manifestation is like an avatar. It is a representation of the original, without being the original. I imagine it would be a lot like having to experience eternity in Cyrodiil as your Oblivion avatar. It might be fun for awhile, but it would be torture after, say ten years (or a couple of thousand if you’re stuck in Morrowind with Zerina ).

Everyone – At last! This marks the final post of the ‘old’ material that many of you have read before. After this every new post will be just that, NEW!!! Thank you all for staying with me through this sometimes tedious process. I appreciate all of your support and comments more than I am able to adequately express. Thank you again.

* * *

6th First Seed, 2E 854
Unmarked Cave, Somewhere Along the Western Reach
Morning


Nolquinn could still feel the warmth of the morning sun on his face. He could feel the occasional breeze that stirred the bandages that covered him from head to toe. He could feel the pull of the stitches along his throat that kept his head from flopping backward like a lowered hood. And, as he lumbered in front of the cave, he could feel the sodden ground that the melting snow had left under his desiccated feet.

The coming back was worse than the dying, he thought to himself. Thinking was all he could do now. Someone had cut his vocal cords before the ritual, unless they had been severed by the cut that killed him. Either way it no longer mattered. All he knew for certain was that the salt they used to preserve his body still lingered on his tongue. He would have spat it out if he could, but he couldn’t. Although his soul remained his own, his will was bound to another. There are worse things, he thought. He had been a tool of the master in life, why not remain one in death? No, the only thing that Nolquinn considered bad about the whole situation was sharing the watch with that idiot Lorian again.

Looking over at the Breton would have made Nolquinn laugh if he were still able. At least they took their time with my preparation, he thought, perhaps because I am a fellow Altmer. They could have given the Breton some clothing at least. The condition of Lorian’s animated corpse was positively shocking. His once pale skin was now the color of tanned leather, and bits of it fell from his body whenever he moved. The carrion eaters were quick to discover that fact, and now paid him the attention due a moveable feast. Somewhere along the way he had lost an arm. They had not bothered to close his neck wound, which was now a haven for scavenging insects. The crown of his head flopped against the back of his shoulders, which caused him to perpetually stare glassy eyed towards the firmament.

I wonder if he can still think and feel? Nolquinn thought. No, he couldn’t think and feel before, why would it be different now? At least now Nolquinn didn’t have to tolerate his stupid jokes or listen to his drunken wheezes as he slept through the watch. There was a lesson to be learned in that, and it warmed Nolquinn more than the morning sun and filled this new day with promise. It was obvious that Lorian’s incompetence had sentenced him to an eternity as a Worm Thrall. Yet they preserved my body, perhaps they seek to make me an Eremite.

Nolquinn banished the thought from his mind. They would do nothing of the sort if his inattention allowed another intruder into the cave. With legs made stiff by the bandages he turned his back on Lorian and continued his patrol around the perimeter.

The clump of boots on soft ground caught his attention and caused him to make a slow turn toward the sound. Lorian was lumbering toward a man bedecked in light mail. With the only arm he had the former Breton swung toward the head of the intruder, and missed.

Stupid Breton! Nolquinn willed his legs to move but the bandages that preserved his skin caused his legs to be slow to respond. The intruder drew a silver longsword that whined from its sheath, and before Nolquinn could cover half the distance between them he swung it in a shimmering arc that culminated at Lorian’s neck. There was a sound like the tearing of old parchment, and Lorian was absent a head. It hit the ground with a muffled thump and rolled glassy eyed away from the mouth of the cave. Lorian’s body sank to both knees, and then pitched forward onto the sodden ground. Most of the scavengers were thrown clear upon impact save those that still clung to the body like rats to driftwood.

There was a sound behind Nolquinn. He tried to turn but he was just too slow. The right side of his head exploded. Thankfully there was no pain, that was a thing of the past. But cold blood and the jagged remains of teeth replaced the taste of salt in his mouth. The impact was such that it knocked him several paces off his course and left him disoriented. He could not see out of the right side of his face, so it wasn’t until he brought his head completely around that he saw the battered head of the silver mace coming towards him, held in the steel gauntlet of the largest Nord he had ever seen. Not again! He thought.

It was the last thought he had before the world went black.

_____

“Zombies,” said Alain. He pulled a cloth from inside his tunic and began wiping the sticky, congealed blood from his sword. “This must be the right place.”

Valdemar grunted and set to the distasteful task of pulling bits of what had once been Altmer from his mace. “It better be. This is the fourth cave we’ve marked since leaving Jehanna. I do not intend to spend the entire season slogging through the Reach. Volunteering us as escorts to spoiled nobility was not one of your better ideas.”

“Quiet,” said Alain, “lest they hear you.”

“Let them hear me,” said Valdemar, pulling an embedded tooth from the head of his mace, “I’d sooner face live Altmer than dead ones.”

“You may get your wish if you’re not careful, Nord.” The brush near the severed head of the other zombie parted and Hecerilar emerged with his sword in hand. He led a contingent of mer that surrounded the armored and cloaked Castellan of Balfiera, Aran Direnni.

“Do not mind Valdemar, my lord,” said Alain, bowing to the Castellan, “he has always been unsettled by necromancy.”

Hecerilar sheathed his sword and made way for the rear guard leading the horses. “We have all seen how Sir Valdemar wields his mace. I do not know whether to be encouraged by the thought that there are still shadows in this world that unsettle him, or terrified at the thought of meeting those shadows.”

Aran Direnni waved a dismissive hand and looked toward the mouth of the cave. “The Nord’s attitudes do not concern me as much as the knowledge that this is the right cave.”

“We believe it is, my lord,” said Alain.

“So you have said thrice before,” said Aran, his off-hand caressed the amulet of Clavicus Vile that adorned his neck. “I am beginning to doubt your competence as guides. Perhaps I should have left you both in Jehanna’s dungeon. Well, I suppose there is nothing for it now. You will have to search the cave of course.”

“That will not be necessary,” said a voice behind them.

Even the horses jumped. Fists closed around the handles of weapons. Both men and mer stood poised, ready. Every eye turned toward the cave, and the distinctly female voice that had spoken.

She stood near the opening, though none of them could remember her presence there even an instant before. She was framed in the halo of light cast by the torch that she carried. Her slender frame was obscured in the folds of a black cloak that fell into a puddle at her feet. The skin of her hands was the color of the melting snow, and her cold blue eyes dismissed each of them in turn before lingering with a startling insolence on Aran Direnni. When she spoke the voice that exited her blood-red lips carried the unmistakable accent of High Rock.

“Lord Direnni, my master bids you welcome.”

“How do you know who I am?” asked Aran. Hecerilar kept his hand on the pommel of his sword and slowly circled toward the woman’s flank.

Her eyes followed Hecerilar. “You will find that there is precious little that my master does not know.” She returned her gaze back to Aran. “However, he expected you to arrive yesterday.”

“I was subject to the knowledge of my guides, which was sadly lacking,” said Aran. The amulet gently smacked against his cuirass as he spread his arms in front of him. “But at long last I am arrived. If your master knew of my coming, then doubtless he knows that I am not here to do battle. I seek an audience with him.”

“He has sent me to collect you,” said the woman. “He offers you safe passage through the cave.”

Aran raised his right hand to a point even with his jaw. Hecerilar took his hand away from his sword and backed away from the cave. When he reached the Castellan’s side the other mer allowed their hands to fall away from their weapons. Hecerilar led Aran toward the entrance. Sir Alain released his sword and fell into step behind them. Sir Valdemar followed with his hand white-knuckled around the handle of his mace.

“No,” said the woman, raising a delicate alabaster hand, “my master’s offer extends to you alone, Lord Direnni. Your retainer must wait here.”

“My lord,” said Hecerilar, “this is folly. What is to stop them from holding you to ransom except us?”

“I agree, Lord Direnni,” said Alain, “we cannot just watch you walk into what could be a trap.”

The woman’s laugh was like the crack of a whip. “I assure you that if ransom were our aim, the meager force you have assembled wouldn’t stop us. Now come, Lord Direnni, my master awaits.”

Aran placed a hand on Hecerilar’s shoulder. “Make camp here, I shan’t be gone long.”

“But my lord. . .”

“Do as I say, Hecerilar.” He turned toward Sir Alain, “I release you and your companion from my service. We have no debts between us. You may keep your mounts as payment for services rendered, such as they were. I suggest that you move on, forget the location of this cave, and strive to put as many leagues between it and yourselves as possible before nightfall.”

“Fine with me,” said Valdemar. He released his mace, turned on his heel, and strode toward the horses.

Alain lingered, his eyes locked onto the Castellan. He opened his mouth to speak, and then thought better of it. He set his jaw, made an awkward bow, and then turned and followed Valdemar toward the horses.

Aran watched as the two knights mounted and spurred their horses back into the brush. When the sound of the hooves faded into the morning air he gave a last look to his bodyguard, and then followed the woman’s flowing black robes and the flickering torchlight that disappeared into the shadow of the cave.

_____

The light of the torch cast bent reaching shadows along the walls of the tunnels as she led him deeper within the bowels of Nirn. Ghosts whose tangibility allowed them to move like wisps mingled with animated skeletons who sauntered through the tunnels, their bony claws clutching the hilts of swords or the handles of axes. Zombies moved amongst them, the stench of their rotting flesh was overpowered by the sweet, cloying smell of the incense burning in braziers placed at regular intervals. The combined smell was pungent enough to bring tears to Aran's eyes.

He stayed as close to the torch as he could without seeming a coward, his hand clutched around the amulet of Clavicus Vile. For luck, he thought. The undead denizens of the cave recoiled and cowered before the light. For the first time in his life Aran understood the human preoccupation with Arkay and he found himself giving silent thanks to a deity that he did not believe in before entering the cave. If not for the light of this torch, he thought. He knew why the woman had found humor in the bravado of his retainer, even without the score of black cloaked figures that they passed in the tunnels there were enough undead to kill them all many times over. Have I made a mistake coming here?

No! The King of Worms himself has extended safe passage. The thought gave him some comfort, and allowed him to move through the cave with his head high and his chest forward in some semblance of his Direnni bearing that remained with him as long as he stayed within the cone of the light.

In the lowest chamber of the cave the woman came to a stop before a large door made of stained oak. She moved to the side of the door and held the torch up as she bowed.

“My master waits,” she said.

Aran stepped forward. His jaw ached from the interminable moments of tension felt on his tour through the shadows of the cave. And his hand cramped painfully from how tightly he had held to the amulet. The door opened inward at his approach. He passed through a threshold of darkness, as if all of Nirn had suddenly faded away. While enveloped in that darkness he was aware that the door behind him had closed. He tried to continue forward, but his feet could find no purchase within the void. Fear took hold of him even as his hand renewed its hold on the amulet. He could not tell if he were swimming, falling, or flying. Before him the darkness shifted and parted like the drawing of a curtain, and it was only then that Aran allowed himself to breathe.

What magic is this? He felt himself transported. The room he was in could not exist in a cave. It was paneled in oak and as well-appointed as the Castellan’s study at Balfiera. He stood on red carpeting so soft and thick that he swore he could have stood upon a cloud. The shelves lined two entire walls and housed books of every shape and color. Yet one would have had an easier time finding an Altmer in Falinesti than a speck of dust amidst the covers.

Two figures were engaged in a conversation across the room. The first was male with an Altmer’s height and dressed in an ornate flowing red robe. The matching hood hid even the barest hint of any features, and cast the face within to the same darkness as the void that Aran had just passed through. Twin points of intense blue light escaped from the darkness under the hood, and told of unspeakable power and threatened madness to any who would stare into that abyss for too long. The power of his presence was astonishing. There was no mistaking his identity. The King of Worms, Aran thought with a reverence he had not known himself capable of. Fear of his own weakness in the presence of the Worm King forced him to pull his eyes toward the other figure.

It was like something from a child’s nightmare. It was bent to a little more than half the height of the robed figure, but it easily matched that height in girth. Its head was the size of an orc's chest with two small, rheumy golden eyes placed too far to either side. In the center of that massive head a pulsating maw loudly sucked in air and swallowed it like water. Its gray skin matched the pallor of a corpse, but it glistened with a substance too thick to be perspiration. It wore a soiled brown robe and a gnarled cane protruded from something that was more stump than hand. Aran was struck with a memory from childhood, when Emero had tutored the young generation of Direnni elves on the subject of the Thrassian plague. Could this be a Sload?

“You will find no shortage of souls on Stros M’Kai,” the King of Worms was saying, “but make haste, despite their immortality the Daedra are notoriously impatient.”

He sounds Altmer! Aran did not trust his legs to carry him across the room, so he remained where he stood.

“This one shall not fail you, master,” said the other.

“See that you don’t,” said the King of Worms, “else the All Flags Navy will seem as nothing compared to my wrath.”

“Yes master.”

“Then away with you,” those blue eyes locked on Aran’s from across the room. “Welcome, Lord Castellan. Please enter and make yourself comfortable. The food is plentiful, the vintage is excellent, and we have much to discuss.”

Through a profound act of will, Aran’s legs carried him unsteadily across the room. He barely registered passing the repulsive creature who was in the act of exiting, so intent was he on the robed figure before him.

The King of Worms spoke, and his voice lifted Aran from his trance. “One last thing, N’Gasta.”

“Yes master?” asked the creature as he paused at the door.

“Try not to draw attention to yourself.”

This post has been edited by Destri Melarg: Sep 18 2010, 09:09 AM

[mALX]

This was one of my fave chapters - the return of Nolquinn and Lorian as zombies, the KOW - really huge chapter to me that shows just how subtly you are weaving this tapestry - and NEW CHAPTERS !!!!! ARGH !!!!! WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT !!!!!!

[SubRosa]

Ahh, my favorite zombies. I always liked how you brought them back in this form. Just seeing a scene from the pov of a zombie is delicious. Nolquinn's major regret being that he was stuck with Lorian was just priceless. What I really liked however was how this underscores the fate of all those who become necromancers. They join up thinking they are going to be the ones who gain great power. Yet in the end, they are nothing but worm-food. The weak ones die, and the strong ones eventually become so much so, that they might be a threat to the boss, who has to kill them. Either way, their lust for power destroys them all.

Our first good look at the KoW as well. The godlike version of him from the older games is much more interesting than the high elf who was so easy to kill in Oblivion. He resonates with power and madness, just what you would hope for in a necromancer king.


nits:
Although his soul remained his own, his will was bound to another.
Perhaps adding a comma where I inserted it will give a timely pause for breath when reading this sentence?

“Fine with me,” said Valdemar.
Not a nit, but as I was reading this, I thought spat Valdemar. would come across with more emphasis on the Nord's disdain for Aran, and what he and Alain have been doing.


Edited to Add: I knew I had seen N'Gasta's name somewhere! !!

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Sep 19 2010, 12:01 AM

[haute ecole rider]

Oooh, boy, the atmosphere of the cave!

Starting with the zombie's viewpoint was fascinating, and it only became better.

And that last line was priceless!

[Acadian]

As others have said, the zombie POV scene was stunningly good! Well, really all of this was. The attention you assigned the the black robed alabaster skinned escort as well as the King of Worms himself - wow!

I was pleased to see our two brave knights freed of their service to this . . . expedition.

And the sload. See, I'm not so deeply into lore that I can't chuckle and steal quite the enjoyment from an image of . . . Jabba the Hut! WooHoo!

[Remko]

I lovedlovedloved the part of the zombies. "not again...."
The Sload's name was interesting too....
can't wait till you have another update.

This post has been edited by Remko: Sep 16 2010, 11:40 AM

[hazmick]

oh my. this was an exciting chapter! The Zombie-Vision, the Sload and The King of Worms. I love your KoW in particular, you show him as a figure of massive power and a brilliant necromancer. MORE! SOON! please.