Interregnum, 854 of the Second Era Options

[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.

[treydog]

First, let me reassure you regarding Lattia and her “ascent.” What she is holding on to is her identity- her personality- her “self.” All of those are the “god-like” part of her in her Altmer belief system. So, while she might willingly shed her mortal flesh, she would definitely try to hold on to her “immortal” essence- her identity. Short answer- I believe you got it exactly right.

The entire zombie-POV was brilliantly written, especially Nolquinn’s last(?) thought.

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.

There, you begin to hint at the power of the KoW. And the eventual meeting delivers on that hint in full. Every part of this was spot on- the descriptions, the atmosphere, the incredible tension. Loved it.

The sload was an inspired touch- especially his identity. I wonder when he will have time to write his newsletter…? And of course the last line was perfect.

Nits:

The carrion were quick to discover that fact, and now paid him the attention due a moveable feast.

“Carrion” refers to the dead flesh…. “Carrion feeders” would work.

Its head was the size of an orcs chest with…

Apostrophe wrangler at your service- “orc’s”.

[canis216]

“Carrion” refers to the dead flesh…. “Carrion feeders” would work.

"Scavengers" would be the term of art, methinks.

Ahem. Destri, your historical fiction continues to be very, very fine. Love how you weave all these disparate machinations together.

[Destri Melarg]

mALX – New chapters to you. I have been waiting since March to post this one! I hope you like it.

SubRosa – The fate that you ascribe to those who engage in necromancy will become apparent to Aran as the year continues. And that is the N’Gasta that I intended (as if there is another one).

hautee – Thank you so much! That last line was one of those happy accidents that occur during the writing. I am glad that you enjoyed it.

Acadian – The similarities between the Sloads and the Huts never occurred to me until you mentioned it. I may have to address that at some point. And it is funny you should mention our two brave knights . . .

Remko – You finally get to see a chapter you haven’t already read three times! N’Gasta’s part was intended to be a cameo, but thanks to Acadian’s comment it may turn into more.

hazmick – As always, thank you for the kind words. Here is the more you requested . . .

treydog – Okay, so we can add Altmer theology to the long list of subjects at your command! Thank you for the vote of confidence regarding Lattia, and thank you for the clarification of 'carrion'.

canis216 – Thank you for the compliment. I didn’t use the word ‘scavengers’ because it would have given me a repetition within the same paragraph, but I do appreciate the suggestion.

* * *

6th First Seed, 2E 854
Somewhere Along the Western Reach
Mid-Day


“Stop sulking and spur that horse,” said Valdemar, “I’d like to be halfway to Dragonstar by nightfall.”

“We should not have left them,” said Alain.

“They needed nothing more from us. I, for one, am glad to put that place to my back.”

“We are knights, Valdemar. What good are we if we run in the face of evil?”

“I do not run,” said Valdemar, “I was ordered to leave. There is a difference. As for this evil to which you refer, it existed before our time, it exists now, and it will continue to exist long after our bones are dust. Fight it if you wish, but it is a battle you cannot win.”

“All the more reason why it must be fought,” said Alain.

“Then by all means, go. I will not stop you. For my part, I plan to stop at the first tavern I see and drink until I forget all about caves and zombies.”

They rode in silence.

“What is it about the undead that unsettles you so?” asked Alain.

Valdemar turned in the saddle and shot a sidelong glance toward Alain. “I am not unsettled.”

Alain drew back on the reins. “And I am not stupid, Valdemar.”

Valdemar slowed his horse to a trot. “What difference does it make?”

“It makes a difference to me. We have spent a great deal of time together, yet I know precious little about you.”

“You know the important things.”

“Yes I do, but I would know the rest.”

They continued to ride toward a cluster of trees in the distance. For a time neither man spoke. Valdemar broke the silence with a long sigh through the nose.

“Bretons,” he said. He looked over at Alain, “I was born in Riverwood . . .”

“I am serious,” said Alain.

“So am I. Now do you want to hear this or not?”

The only sound was the soft clump of hooves sinking into the melting snow.

“As I was saying,” continued Valdemar, “we were a small village near Cyrodiil’s border, about thirty leagues south of Whiterun. Do you know where I mean?”

“Near the foot of the Jeralls,” said Alain.

“Not so near as that. We split the distance between the Jeralls and the halls of Castle Whiterun, about twenty leagues north of the valley that contains Pale Pass. What do you know of the fort that was built there?”

“Very little, it was used by the Akaviri who fought one of the Reman’s, wasn’t it?”

“Reman the first,” said Valdemar. “I have heard stories of that fort since childhood. The elders used the legends of that place to frighten unruly children.”

“Of which you were one, no doubt.”

Valdemar’s eyes were far away. “I thought you said you were serious.”

“Sorry,” said Alain.

“In winter the wind blows out of that valley and carries north, freezing the river and covering the whole of Riverwood in a sparkling blanket of snow and ice.”

“It sounds beautiful.”

Valdemar shook his head. “It hisses, Alain. That wind is like a snake coiled in those mountains waiting for winter’s chill. When it strikes it cuts through fur and skin, it blinds and it chokes. It drives the game and the fish away, starving us for months at a time. And, because of it, my village remains poor even now.”

He lapsed into silence. The two of them rode through trees newly bloomed with the sun high above their heads, yet Alain could still feel the cold of receding winter. When Valdemar spoke again it was through a voice made quiet by the weight of memory.

“The Akaviri built that fort to launch their sack of Cyrodiil. But they were undone by winter in the Jeralls. A piece of those mountains fell upon them, burying the fort and the pass under mounds of snow. The elders used to say that the dying screams of those snake-men were carried by the wind.” He paused in his remembrance, and then his voice rose as he began to recite:

“East to Akavir with Spring,
Fall South to Colovian plains,
Summer to the Western sea,
North in frozen Winter remains.”

“An effective legend to scare unruly children,” said Alain.

“That it is,” said Valdemar. “Just after my seventeenth name day a stranger came into the village. He boasted of the farsight, what your people call prophecy. He claimed to have learned it at the feet of the Graybeards of High Hrothgar. Do you know much about them?”

“They are reported to be oracles of the Nords. I have heard that they possess great power,” said Alain.

“They do. You must understand the mind of a Nord, Alain. We revere magic that serves useful purpose in battle. It is why so many of my countrymen jumped into Talos’ service when he displayed the thu’um at Sancre Tor. But magic that conceals and confuses is looked upon with disdain. And magic that looks beyond the veil of time is the province of the Graybeards alone. To profess knowledge of such is considered the worst form of hubris, and he who claims it is not to be trusted.”

“So you turned this stranger away?”

Valdemar nodded. “The elders did. They banished him south to the base of the mountains, but not before my friends and I stoned him under the village tree.”

Alain could not hide the revulsion that furrowed his brow and set his mouth to a grim line.

“I am not proud of it,” said Valdemar. “I even sought to make amends. My friends and I, the eight of us who threw the stones, journeyed to his wagon camped at the base of the mountains. We sought to do whatever service he deemed just to atone for our actions. He greeted us without rancor, gave us warmth by his fire, and fed us from the meager stores of his own wagon. He told us tales of the Akaviri treasure that lay buried in Pale Pass. And, after we had spent many hours in his company, he saw each of us in turn and cursed us with death at the hands of the undead. I alone still survive.”

“Valdemar,” said Alain.

“Let me finish. Another year passed. A year spent scratching for survival in the shadow of those mountains. It was our time to be young, when the days are long, filled with wonder, and marked by small victories and setbacks. In youth the shadow of death is easily forgotten. What we could not forget was the promise of treasure buried within the pass of those mountains. That treasure would sustain us all through even the coldest of seasons. Winter was bearing down on us. Each day that the air grew colder, the desire to claim the treasure grew warmer. It became a longing that we were helpless to deny.”

The trees above cast shadows that darkened the path before them. Alain kept to his silence.

“We left during the night,” said Valdemar, “in the days after the trees had shed all their leaves. The hunt that morning had produced scant game for our bows. We knew that time was short before the wind uncoiled and froze the world around us. Our hope was to reach the fort, claim the treasure, and return before the advent of snow. Eight of us crept from the village to fulfill dreams of glory with the strains of imagined bard-song ringing in our ears.”

He leaned back in the saddle and cast his eyes skyward. The sound of falling water could be heard from somewhere in the distance.

“We made our way up through the growing cold to the first summit of the Jeralls, and from there we looked down into the valley below. The pass and the ruin were there just as the elders and the stranger had claimed, but they were not buried. Years worth of spring and summer thaws had exhumed the fort for our eager eyes and we set upon it like the wolves we fancied ourselves to be.”

He grew silent again, his gaze pulled from the trail through the corridors of time to a long forgotten ruin. Alain thought better of prompting and left him to his memories.

“We found no treasure in those halls,” said Valdemar. “No buried Akaviri gold or trophys. The entire place, all five levels, was barren of anything save deadly traps and undead defenders.”

“The snake-men?” asked Alain.

“No, we met no serpents. They were human skeletons, armed with Akaviri swords. You know the ones I mean; long and thin, with a slight curve? They bear a name that sounds like a woman’s weapon.

“Katanas,” said Alain.

Valdemar nodded. “They wielded them with purpose. Maybe they were mercenaries charged with guarding the fort, but they were once as human as you or I. Eight of us entered that ruin. Only three made it to the lowest level. There we encountered a ghost that again bore a human aspect. He claimed to be the Commander of the Akaviri force. The name he gave us escapes me now. He looked upon us as messengers bearing official orders from Akavir. When we confessed we had none, he set upon us with a two handed . . .” he looked to Alain for help.

“Katana.”

“Yes, katana. Both of my friends fell before his might. I alone made it back to the sunlight.”

“Then you proved the stranger’s prophecy wrong,” said Alain. “You did not fall by undead hands.”

“No I did not,” said Valdemar. “But it is not because of fortune or my prowess in battle. I ran Alain! I fled from that place as if the forces of Oblivion itself dogged my heels.”

“You are no coward, Valdemar. I know that better than any. You withdrew in the face of a foe you could not defeat. You showed discretion, and in so doing you now live to honor the memory of your friends.”

“You do not understand. I do not regret leaving that foul place. I regret leading them there in the first place. They all looked to me, Alain. I led them in throwing those stones and I led them to the stranger’s wagon where he pronounced judgment on them all. I told you he saw each of us in turn.”

“Yes.”

“Well, as the leader, he reserved a special curse for me. He told me that I too would fall to an undead hand, but that would not be the end of my curse. He doomed me to walk as one of them. I shall never see the halls of Sovngarde. I shall never drink of the golden mead at Shor’s table. I shall spend eternity roaming the darkened halls of some cave or forgotten ruin.”

“You cannot believe that,” said Alain.

“By the time we reached the lowest level of that fort the two friends I had left believed it. They fell believing it. I am a Nord, Alain. I can think of no more glorious fate than a righteous death in battle. My fear is reserved for what lies in wait for me beyond it.”

The warmth of the western sun gave neither man solace as they rode together in uncomfortable silence. Whether it was the length of rest, the lateness of the hour, or some intuitive understanding of the mood, both horses were ready to run.

“You are now the only other person who knows the tale,” said Valdemar. “If you are intent on going back to face the evil in that cave, I will go back and stand with you.”

Alain looked over at his friend. “No. Whatever evil exists in that cave shall be for some other knights to vanquish. Your tale has awakened my thirst. I say we spur the horses, stop at the first tavern we see, and drink until we forget all about caves and zombies.”

This post has been edited by Destri Melarg: Sep 21 2010, 09:37 AM

[Remko]

Valdemar's story was bonechilling. Great write Destri, I could almost feel the cold wins whip- no, hiss by me.

[Acadian]

I pulled this early in my reading of this story to quote. By the time I was well into the story, I felt too affected by the powerful tale to believe that quoting the humor in this was appropriate. Yet, I do quote it now:

“We are knights, Valdemar. What good are we if we run in the face of evil?”

“I do not run,” said Valdemar, “I was ordered to leave. There is a difference. As for this evil to which you refer, it existed before our time, it exists now, and it will continue to exist long after our bones are dust. Fight it if you wish, but it is a battle you cannot win.”

“All the more reason why it must be fought,” said Alain.

“Then by all means, go. I will not stop you. For my part, I plan to stop at the first tavern I see and drink until I forget all about caves and zombies.”

They rode in silence.

Much wisdom contained here.


This is what changed my mind and let me decide to offer the quote after all:

Alain looked over at his friend. “No. Whatever evil exists in that cave shall be for some other knights to vanquish. Your tale has awakened my thirst. I say we spur the horses, stop at the first tavern we see, and drink until we forget all about caves and zombies.”

A very powerful story, and expertly told, my friend!

[haute ecole rider]

In your hands Valdemar has shown unexpected depth and strength of character. And I loved your tale of Pale Pass - it remains (along with Sancre Tor) one of my favorites of the quests involving undead. Probably it's so because the undead are freed, not just destroyed. Knowing what awaits them at Sancre Tor, hearing the prophecy/curse that Valdemar carries with him adds even more tragedy to the story of the four greatest Blades. My mind is already thinking how I can borrow from this for Julian's encounter with Casnar, Rielus, Valdemar and Alain . . .

May I?

[SubRosa]

A wonderful story! Valdemar's tale brings some very welcome depth to his character, all done with a very strong viking Nordic influence. The story itself stands up strongly in its own right. The traveling mage, the young, pig-headed men and their foolish act, and finally the terrible doom that fell upon them.

Also, I see you went with Oblivion's depiction of the defenders of Pale Pass as being human rather than Tsaesci. That, plus some mentions of the survivors of the Akaviri host interbreeding with Imperials lends a great deal of weight to the belief that the term 'eaten' in Mysterious Akavir was not meant literally, but rather figuratively. Or perhaps it was literal, and the Tsaesci only ate the men, but not the women, who then had kids who grew up to serve the Tsaesci in their armies.

nits:
Fall South to Colvian plains,
I think you meant Colovian.

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Sep 20 2010, 08:03 PM

[hazmick]

I am loving this story! Valdemar is awesome--he appears to be the classic Nord (Tough, big guy) and he is but under the surface he is sensitive and deep.

“Then by all means, go. I will not stop you. For my part, I plan to stop at the first tavern I see and drink until I forget all about caves and zombies.”

They rode in silence.

This part made me chuckle but at the same time I kinda feel sorry for Valdemar's obvious hatred for and discomfort about the undead. I will have the usual please, more!

[treydog]

Throughout this episode, I was furiously taking notes, hoping to learn how to give my characters a past that informs their present… And how to write like this:

Valdemar shook his head. “It hisses, Alain. That wind is like a snake coiled in those mountains waiting for winter’s chill. When it strikes it cuts through fur and skin, it blinds and it chokes. It drives the game and the fish away, starving us for months at a time. And, because of it, my village remains poor even now.”

“…armed with Akaviri swords. You know the ones I mean; long and thin, with a slight curve? They bear a name that sounds like a woman’s weapon."

There is a perfect touch. You do not “tell” that Valdemar searched for the name of the weapon- you “show” him admitting he does not recall it, even as he describes the sword.

“I am a Nord, Alain. I can think of no more glorious fate than a righteous death in battle. My fear is reserved for what lies in wait for me beyond it.”

I feel the need to pull my furs closer around me to shut out the sudden chill.

[mALX]

First: WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT !!!!!!!

I love the way you slid in references so the reader could picture the location of Valdemar's home - the minute you said twenty leagues north of the valley that contains Pale Pass - I could envision it in my mind. I actually went off-map out of Pale Pass and may have crossed through his town, lol.

They bear a name that sounds like a woman’s weapon.

I expected the name of the weapon to be Regina or maybe ...berry sundae... ARGH!!!!

OOOOOH! That curse...foreshadowing !!!

Sorry it took so long, I started reading this before going to work, but had to savor it. This was no chapter to rush through! I had to work till late and crashed when I finally did get home. This was worth the wait...I knew it would be !!!!


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This post has been edited by mALX: Sep 23 2010, 01:26 PM