hautee – I am embarrassed to admit the lengths that I went to in order to avoid writing that chapter. I absolutely hated killing Chirasch, but it was essential for what happens next.
Talos’ explosion has been a long time coming. I originally wanted it to occur during the Battle of Fort Black Boot, but there wasn’t a suitable moment for it.
Acadian – That last line was pure serendipity. It came to me on the final rewrite when I recalled Renald’s audience with Cuhlecain (which you so astutely pointed out). Cuhlecain pointed out to Farenenre that he saw great promise for his plans because ‘
snakes don’t blink.’ Well, one just did.
‘Rosa – I am so glad that you caught the reference to Reman Plaza! In fact, the house that Talos now occupies undergoes a few centuries worth of additions and a name change as well. You know it as the Tiber Septim Hotel.
QUOTE(SubRosa @ Aug 5 2011, 06:16 PM)

So Talos is searching for the Old Way? I wonder if that is so a certain Breton Nightblade can get into the palace at a later date? Or if perhaps he wants in sooner in order to make a grab for the Chevalier?
I think you will find that you are not far off track.
And thanks for catching yet another annoying nit.
Cappy – I’m still waiting!! Where’s the next segment of FMBFGFT? *Man, it felt good to be on the other side of that exchange for once!*
I think Talos (like George W.) would wear whatever the circumstance dictated. Need to show solidarity with the troops? Show up on the deck of the aircraft hanger in your flight jacket. Never mind that you intend to go back home and push through legislation to severely cut their medical benefits. Need to appear the man of the people? Do an interview from your ranch . . . Oh, never mind, he isn’t even President anymore!! Besides,
Will can say it a lot better than I can!
Olen – You nailed the central irony of the story. The snakes are the only ones in this cauldron worthy of trust. I wanted to convey the fact that, despite his experience in diplomatic matters, Arctus is not immune to Varla’s considerable charm. However, Arctus didn’t really give away the store with his revelation. Her knowledge of Talos’ true station serves his end as much as it does hers.
More
Interregnum coming right up.
trey - I was actually a little worried about that metaphor. I didn’t want to lay it on too thick but, as you said, it fit the way Arctus would think.
And you have nailed the bit of foreshadowing. Though how it happens is a card that I am keeping close to the vest for now.
mALX – I hope that part wasn’t too confusing. The Tsaesci would never feed on a brother. They carried Chirasch to the bleeding minotaur in order for him to feed and (hopefully) regain his strength.
As another who has been swallowed by RL this year, here’s hoping that you find your way free from the belly of that particular whale.
Grits – I hated to hit you with Chirasch's death most of all because you saw it coming in the last chapter. That little exchange between Mero and Talos is exactly how you interpret it. The Shrine Sergeant appears to have chosen a side.
And yes, that little smile did cause the carnage to the General’s bed-chamber. Talos has seen the method in Cuhlecain’s madness. Everyone else will have to wait a little longer because . . .
Everyone –
Now that the longest day is over (Thank the Eight!) it’s high time to shift our gaze to some long neglected characters. We’ll get back to the Imperial City in time. I promise.* * *
???
Apocrypha, Realm of Oblivion
???
Who am I? At first she had trouble deciphering the lines of old Aldmeris within the borders of the ancient tome. But the lessons of a youth long forgotten are not easily discarded, and soon the book’s mysteries became apparent. With her recognition came the sense of detachment to which she had grown accustomed, dependent. It was followed by acceleration, that sense of traveling through space and time, always ending with the impenetrable mists that swirled around and through her until memory and revelation chose to part them.
This time she stood upon the Golden Hill and watched as thin stalks of flame danced through the trees of the darkened valley far below. Screams, laughter, and the deep rumble of great beasts broke the songs of nocturnal insects and the soft music the wind played as it moved through her hair. A small plume of fire cleared the line of trees and began to climb toward her vantage on the hill. As it grew closer she could see through it to the shape underneath. Realization gave way to revulsion; the scent of burning flesh assailed her nostrils. Rising screams confirmed her suspicion. The flame was not dancing.
It was running!
Where am I? Her eyes were drawn to the stones that were arranged near where she stood. They formed the foundation of the great city still to come. She heard the Ayleidic words for Golden Hill as if spoken into her mind, though some small part of her knew that somewhere she was reading them on a page.
Sancre Tor. Her eyes were pulled back into the valley. Behind the burning figure a horror of fangs and claws emerged from the brush. With a roar of triumph it launched itself upon its flaming prey. Steel-shod claws smothered the engulfing flames into submission, and ripped flesh from the tormented soul beneath. Screams gave way to the sounds of breaking bone and the almost gentle play of a harsh tongue over roasted flesh. Through the dying flame she could see the glow of amber eyes, the blood-soaked snout, and striped matted fur.
The sharp crack of a whip drew the tiger’s attention. A figure in golden armor waited impatiently just outside the curtain of trees. Its prize forgotten, the tiger bounded to its master's side and disappeared behind the shroud of leaves. The golden figure lingered and swept long platinum hair away from emerald eyes. Even from her vantage on the hill she could see that the golden figure wore her face.
What am I? She was not alone on this Sancre Tor. The scrape of soft flesh on stone drew her attention to the foundation behind her. Even by human standards the girl she beheld was small. She wore the weathered rags and manacles of a slave, and her skin was kissed a golden brown by too many days working under the harsh rays of Magnus. Blood oozed from small bare feet and stained the stone she walked upon. It served as eloquent testimony to the frantic nature of her climb to this place.
But it was her eyes that held attention, and the way her body shook as if chilled by more than just the cold felt at altitude. This was no terrified mouse caught outside in the storm. This was a vengeful figure whose soul still stood firm long after the point of breaking. She knelt upon the stone and cast her eyes toward the Heavens. She whispered in quiet tones, continuing an interrupted conversation as her entire being continued to shake.
“And this thing I have thought of, I have named it, and I call it freedom . . .”
The wind began to swirl around the Golden Hill. The valley far below fell silent. For a moment she felt as if she were being drawn back to the endless stacks of books still unread. But there was no detachment, no acceleration. The only movement was the swirling wind around her, placed into motion by the words of the slip of a girl who knelt upon the stone. Those words and her form became lost to the stinging, blinding force of the zephyr. Before her vision was completely obscured she saw a figure emerge from the mists and reach out for the girl.
It was an old woman, tall, frail, and cloaked.
Silence fell upon the Sancre Tor. Swirling winds cloaked the girl in a fine mist of dust and soil that surrendered naught but her silhouette to the half-light. The vision of the old woman was gone, replaced now by a faint scrape that grew into a sharp report of steel against the stone. It soon became unmistakable.
Approaching hooves.
The girl’s silhouette shrank away from the sound. A black mass grew in the center of the maelstrom. Through eyes half-closed against the force of the wind she saw the mass take shape before the startled girl. From her vantage point she saw the top of the approaching shadow coalesce into the wide, upturned horns of a bull.
“Peace, girl,” the shadow spoke with the voice of a man. “Shrink not from my voice. Know that your words have not been in vain. Your blood has consecrated this stone, and your voice has moved my Lady to act.”
The girl’s voice was soft against the swirling wind. “What are you?”
“I am promise fulfilled. I am boon made manifest . . . I am Breath-of-Kyne. What are you?”
“I am but a simple slave.”
“Once perhaps, but no longer. What shall I call you?”
“Our masters do not permit us names, my lord.”
“Yet you have taken one, nonetheless.”
The girl hesitated. “Some call me Perrif.”
“Perrif is most appropriate,” said the horned shadow, “for it means ‘first of its kind’ in the elven tongue. I shall call you Paravania, and from this moment forth you shall forever be my Lady of Heaven. You may call me Morihaus, and I make you this promise. As payment for the name deprived you I shall see you wear many before your time is done. Your people shall worship you as I do. They will call you Al-Esh, which is the highest tribute known to their tongue. They will celebrate you as their First Empress, Queen ut Cyrod, Aleshut, Esha . . .
Alessia.”
_____
???
Apocrypha, Realm of Oblivion
???
She was back amongst the endless miles of books stacked all around her, and she was not alone.
“It pains me to see one so young so lost.”
The speaker was ancient, even by the standards set by this place. His gaunt form was bent at the waist, and was composed of pale skin stretched to near translucence over gnarled bone. Thin white hair hung like a shroud that engulfed him to the knees. A matching beard did more to obscure his sunken chest than the threadbare cloak that he wore. It also tried in vain to hide the cruel downward turn of his mouth. Amber eyes and pointed ears told of an Altmeri heritage, but time had faded that distinction to make him just another ghost amongst the stacks. She lowered her head.
“Do you hear me, child?” he said.
In the eternity of her existence she had never encountered a voice outside of the ancient tomes.
There has been no blessed detachment, she thought to herself,
no acceleration or swirling mist. She felt as one dreaming, with no control of event or circumstance.
The figure before me could be no more than smoke given form. There is already so much that has been lost. To address the smoke would be to admit defeat. The gaunt figure spoke again. “But what if I am real, child?”
What if he were real? He could tell me who I am. No, he cannot be. One cannot hold to oneself in this place. He . . .
Her head lifted of its own accord. She met his amber eyes, and was rewarded with a smile that lifted the down-turned corners of his mouth.
“You have not completely succumbed yet,” he said. “That is good.”
“You . . . read . . . my . . . thoughts?” Her voice sounded strange to her ears. She realized that she had no memory of ever using it before.
“That’s it, child. Hold on to that stubborn defiance of yours, it will serve you well in this place.” He took her by the arm and lifted her from the floor. “I read your thoughts, but your identity does not dwell within them. That is something that we shall have to find together.”
They began to walk. He led her through the endless stacks and past the unmoving ghosts of the readers.
“We?” she asked.
He stopped. “I have wandered among the stacks for years without number, child. Yours is the first living voice I have heard, and it is welcome. You are too young to share my fate or the fates of those who have approached these halls seeking knowledge. If you would have it, then I will aid you in finding yourself.”
She hesitated, and then nodded. “I would have it. Thank . . .”
“Save your gratitude, child. What I propose is no easy task.”
“But you have done it?”
“My path is not to be recommended. I regained my self when the stacks here lost their mystery.”
She could think of nothing to say, so they began to walk again.
He broke the silence. “Yes, child, I have been here long enough to read every tome in this realm, some more than once. By the reckoning of the world we left behind I have been here for several centuries. But time does not exist in this place. You have no memory of a world before this one, yet you have not been here very long.”
“You know how long I have been here?” she asked.
“I do not,” he said. He closed his eyes and took her scent. “You do not smell of dust and ink and ancient tomes. Your grey cloak marks you, and you smell of oassom trees, ocean, and sand. You smell of Artaeum.”
“Artaeum,” she repeated.
“Yes. Does it sound familiar?”
She shook her head.
“You are too young to be a master. And one could not find this place by accident. You were sent here, but why?”
“You know this Artaeum?”
He smiled. “I know it well. I called it home for many years, until my banishment here.” Once again he stopped. “Could you have been sent here to find me?”
“Sent by whom?”
“The Psijic Order, child. The Order to which you belong, and the Order which I led so long ago.”
He left her behind and began to march through the stacks with such speed that she had to run to keep up. She could barely hear his quiet mutterings.
“Could they have discovered Celarus’ treachery? But then why send one, and why a child? Is this Celarus taking pity on his old master? No, too much time has passed. Did she commit some crime? Did she bear witness to something?”
“Please,” she said, panting. “It is hard to follow you.”
He stopped. “I daresay it is, but you must if we are to discover the reason for your presence here.”
“I would be content just knowing my name.”
The smile returned to his face. “Then that is where we shall begin. Introductions. Until we have found your name I shall continue to call you ‘child’ if it pleases you.”
“And what shall I call you?” she asked.
He hesitated, and then nodded as if coming to some understanding. “You shall call me the name reserved for the lips of apprentices and slaves.”
“And what is that?”
“Master,” he said. “Master Iachesis.”
_____
A/N: The lore holds conflicting accounts about the origin of Sancre Tor. According to The Legendary City of Sancre Tor, it was where Alessia received the divine inspiration for her rebellion. However, according to Remanada it did not exist until Alessia’s long dead spirit joined with the mortal King Hrol to beget a golden mound which grew for nine months before giving birth to the infant Reman I. For the purposes of this story (and out of concern for certain child endangerment laws) I decided to go with the first version of events.This post has been edited by Destri Melarg: Aug 27 2011, 10:30 PM