Interregnum, 854 of the Second Era Options

[Destri Melarg]

Book Two: Sun’s Dawn


1st Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
The Nameless Tavern, Sentinel, Hammerfell
Evening


He may have been the largest Nord to ever venture out of Skyrim. He sat with his legs splayed under the table and drained a full tankard of mead with two long tilts of the elbow. The sound that his steel gauntlet made when he slammed his fist against the table drew hooded stares from the darker patrons. But one look at his size or at the battered head of the silver mace that hung from his hip cowed them back into their drinks.

“More mead,” his voice reverberated through the noise of the tavern and bent the barman to his purpose.

The Nord’s companion was fair of complexion and of average height by the standards of High Rock, which is to say that he was short. He wore a weather-stained green tunic over battered mail. At his side the hilt of a silver longsword caught and reflected the light from the candles which dimly lit the inside of the tavern. He held a full goblet to his chest, away from the table which had already started to wobble being subject to the Nord’s fits of temper.

The tavern itself gave stage to the carousing of loud, overbearing sailors while also lending itself as the location that sullen mercenaries sought for drinking and brooding. Here and there a few flinty-eyed specimens of the merchant class moved amongst the rough trade, for it was a well known fact that if you had goods to move or goods to protect, you could find the means to do it in the Nameless Tavern.

“He should be here soon,” said the Breton, he had to raise his voice to be heard across the table.

“You said that an hour ago,” boomed the Nord. “We could have been in Anticlere by now. Maybe even Vermeir, staring up at the Wrothgarians if not for this unnecessary detour.”

“You may be right,” said the Breton, “but say that we were at the base of the Wrothgarians, where would we go from there? Our quarry might be in Cyrodiil by now for all we know. I for one would rather set our feet to purpose than wander blindly through Sun’s Dawn in the mountains.”

Any comment the Nord was about to make was interrupted by a serving wench who appeared with another tankard of mead. With shaking hand she set it on the table. Sweat beaded her brown, Redguard forehead and her eyes were akin to the doe that has just caught the scent of a predator.

After she withdrew the Nord lifted the tankard and drank deep. His brow still held to the scowl, but the fire in his eyes had been replaced with resignation. “What makes you think this friend of yours knows more than we do?”

The Breton rose from his chair; his eyes were focused on the entrance to the tavern, “you can ask him that yourself.”

The Nord turned in his seat. A broad-shouldered, lean silhouette of a man stood shadowed in the doorway. Most of the other patrons barely noted his entrance. However, as he shut the door behind him and the candles lent light to his dark features conversations at all the tables stopped, movement through the tavern was aborted, and there was a new smell that mingled with the sweat and smoke that had seemed almost oppressive in the moments before his arrival. The Nord had no problem identifying it.

Fear.

The newcomer paused, his eyes adjusting to the dim light of the tavern. The Nord studied him from across the room. He was a Redguard, young for the amount of turmoil his presence caused in the room. Yet he carried himself like a man accustomed to defending his honor. He wore a scarlet vest over an unbuttoned white shirt; his black trousers were tucked into high black leather boots that were made for riding. A steel cutlass dangled easily on his right hip, and a matching dagger was tucked into the belt on his left. If it bothered him that his presence alone caused most of the other patrons to move hands towards the hilts of weapons he gave no indication of it. The Nord could appreciate such courage, but that didn’t make him feel less uneasy about this meeting.

The Redguard spotted the Nord’s companion and gave a nod of greeting. He crossed the tavern toward their table. The other patrons returned to their own pursuits at his passing, but every eye remained trained upon his movements. The Nord brought his wayward legs into formation, to lift him from the chair should the need arise. The Breton noticed, but that only caused the smile that was already spreading across his face to grow.

The Redguard reached their table, his eyes sought out the Breton’s.

“Alain,” he said with a smile that matched the Breton’s. He extended his right arm. “Praise be to Arkay that you survived Sancre Tor. When the news reached us I feared the worst.”

Alain clasped the Redguard’s forearm. “Casnar my friend, it is good to see you again. I understand congratulations are in order. A Knight of the Moon at your age, that is quite impressive.” He released Casnar’s arm and motioned toward the third chair at the table.

Casnar gave a slight bow to acknowledge Alain’s hospitality and sat down. “I would advise you to keep your voice down, old friend. This is a Forebear tavern, the last thing that any of these men want to see is one of the Crown’s chosen, hence my appearance before you out of uniform.”

“A disguise that clearly seems to be working,” said the Nord as he drained the dregs from another tankard.

“Forgive me, Casnar,” said Alain, “allow me to introduce my friend, Sir Valdemar of Skyrim.” He turned to the Nord. “Valdemar, this is Sir Casnar, a friend of my youth.”

“Redguard,” said Valdemar.

“Nord,” said Casnar.

“Have things really grown so bad?” asked Alain, trying to allay the tension at the table.

“They have,” said Casnar. “We are fighting battles on many fronts. The Forebears will have civil war before they submit to the Na’Totambu. Attacks of the Selenu have grown more frequent, and have begun to occur within the city walls. And, as if that weren’t enough, now we have to deal with the misguided actions of Zenithar’s flock.”

Alain shook his head. His eyes were attentive, but blank.

“Some priests of Zenithar have decided to stake out territory here in Arkay’s region,” Casnar explained. “They call themselves the Knights of Iron. Many Forebears see them as a natural rival to the Knights of the Moon, Zenithar being held in such high esteem by most Forebears.”

“Who are the Selenu?” asked Alain.

“The local vampire clan,” said Casnar, “it used to be that you could expect an attack or two a month inland. And the disappearance of a few beggars now and again was something that the Crown was willing to turn a blind eye to. But of late the attacks have increased. I have heard rumors that a new matron holds the ear of the patriarch but we know nothing for sure.”

“I am sure this is all very interesting,” said Valdemar, “but I hope that the discussion of politics, effete gods, and vampires is not the reason that we have ventured hundreds of leagues out of our way.” He held his tankard aloft, the barman rushed to fill another. “State yourself plain, Redguard, I grow tired of quaffing the watered down swill that passes for mead in this country.” His eyes ventured throughout the tavern. “Besides, it appears that the time grows short before your countrymen turn murderous thought into action.”

Casnar’s eyes narrowed, “in the event of such an exchange, I doubt that the two of you would find any friends in the room.”

“Forgive my friend’s manner,” said Alain, “he means no offense. Though I confess that I too wonder why you have asked us here.”

“I bear a message,” said Casnar, “one which I’m sure that even your giant friend will appreciate; the whereabouts of he whom you seek.”

Alain and Valdemar exchanged glances across the table. The serving wench returned with three tankards weighing down her tray. She set one in front of each man before backing away from the table.

“How is it that you know that we seek anyone?” asked Valdemar.

Casnar laughed. “The two of you have not been subtle. We heard tell of a Nord and a Breton allied in desperate search over a year ago. Since then your exploits have been the source of whispered rumor from here to the Reach I would imagine.”

“You have known of our search for a year and only now seek me out?” asked Alain.

“You misunderstand, the information that I have only recently came into my possession, along with instructions to pass it on to the two of you.”

“Who gave you these instructions?” asked Alain.

“That I am not at liberty to say.”

“We could force the information from you,” said Valdemar.

Casnar laughed again, “I don’t doubt it, but to what end? If the information proves good, then the end of your search will soon be at hand. If the information proves false, then you are out nothing save a week of your, ahem, valuable time and the expense of drinking some watered down mead.”

Valdemar lifted his tankard from the table. Alain was still holding his goblet. He stared down at the tankard in front of him.

“But I don’t even like mead,” he said.

Casnar’s eyes widened. His arm shot out, the hand covering the mouth of Valdemar’s tankard before the Nord could bend it back.

“Hold,” he said.

Valdemar lowered the tankard; his face bore a puzzled look. The tavern was strangely silent. Casnar looked to the bar, but the barman and the serving wench were gone, as were all the members of the merchant class. Around them the patrons of the tavern began to rise. The silence was broken by the sounds of swords, dirks and axes being drawn.

“I think thought just turned into action,” said Alain.

Valdemar rose, his hand sought the hilt of his mace.

“Good,” he said.

This post has been edited by Destri Melarg: Dec 12 2010, 11:50 AM

[haute ecole rider]

Yay! Alain and Valdemar! And now you've added Casnar, too? Will Rielus make an appearance, as well? That would totally make my day - those are my four favorite undead! You have done a wonderful job bringing these three to life. Necromancer!

You have captured the atmosphere of the inn in Sentinel, especially since it occurs around the time of Cyrus. I loved your summary of the political situation in Hammerfell - the civil war between the Crowns and the Forebears.

I loved these bookends:

“Besides, it appears that the time grows short before your countrymen turn murderous thought into action.”

“I think thought just turned into action,”

Good job!

[mALX]

ARGH! You are re-writing this? Cutting it? AAAARRRRGGGHHHH !!!!! I love this, but....but...WAAAAAAH!!!!!!!!


Unless of course this is an additional scene added in, in which case... YEAH !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This post has been edited by mALX: May 11 2010, 01:39 AM

[SubRosa]

Woo Hoo! the interregnum of Interregnum is over, and we are now back in action!

My you have certainly switched gears here to what I can only describe as Fantasy Noir. The rough and seedy tavern, ruffians loaded with more testosterone than Pamplona during the running of the bulls, flinty-eyed merchants and sweaty wenches. I almost expect to see Humphrey Bogart (or would he be the Breton of average height, which is to say, short... )

You display quite a bit of writing chops by changing up your style with this entry, and pulling it off with such polish. That is not easy to do. In doing so you create a very different mood from the other pieces of the story, making Alain, Valdemar, and Casnar (will we see Rielus soon?) stand out from the other characters. I look forward to not only seeing Valdemar and Alain finding their quarry, but also seeing how they and Casnar eventually become Blades.

I will not quote the same passages that h.e.r. did, which were quite good. Suffice to say "what she said" for me too!

[Winter Wolf]

Welcome back Destri. You have risen from the grave just like the characters in your story.

The way you weave a tale is second to none, and tons of atmosphere to boot. Awesome !!
I loved the way the tavern came to life in your hands, and that wench in the background seems to miss nothing. (!!)

So cool to see that you are re-writing a few of the chapters. I know the feeling, it is unsettling to have the chapter not quite sit the way it should. It is great fun to try and spot the changes.

He held a full goblet to his chest, away from the table which had already started to wobble being subject to the Nord’s fits of temper.

A lovely finish to the sentence. Bravo.

[Remko]

Ooohh nice, a new piece

[Olen]

I love it

The atmosphere built steadily and well until the brooding finally snapped in a cliffhanger. The dark feeling and tension in the place were excellently done. Your characterisation is effective too, escpecially the final line just paints a perfect picture of the nord.

I know nothing about this section of Tamriel's history and will have to go and read about it when I have time to have a better idea of what's happening.

[Destri Melarg]

haute – Rielus will indeed be making an appearance, but not for a while yet. You are in part responsible for this chapter. I remembered how much you enjoyed Alain and Valdemar in the last version of this story so I decided to introduce them earlier in this version. As you know I have never advanced through the main quest to the point where these characters are encountered in Sancre Tor. I only know how they end up through reading, which I think is kind of a blessing because it allows me to depict these men as the characters I think they should be, rather than the characters that the game gives us.

mALX – Have no fear, consider this chapter ‘in addition to’ as opposed to ‘instead of’. Interregnum remains more or less as you remember it, but there will be some new chapters that never made it into the original. I can think of at least one more for the month of Sun’s Dawn. Stay tuned.

SubRosa – ‘The interregnum of Interregnum’ made me laugh. Bogey is my all time favorite actor (he and I share a birthday, you know), and somehow every time I write a scene set in a tavern I always wind up back at Ricks. Not the clean, lively Ricks where Renault cheats at roulette and Victor Laszlo leads the band. But the shadowy, quiet Ricks where diamonds are a glut on the market and there are vultures, vultures everywhere.

Winter Wolf – So haute has me as a necromancer, and you have me rising from the grave. What is going on here! To (badly) paraphrase Mark Twain: reports of my death are exaggerated.

I am glad that you enjoy spotting the changes. Part of the motivation for rewriting existing chapters and adding in new ones is the paralyzing fear that my loyal, long suffering readers might get bored re-walking the same road.

Remko – I couldn’t imagine asking you to make your THIRD voyage with us without re-arranging the deck chairs changing some of the sheets.

Olen – I think the reason Valdemar seems to stand out has to do with the fact that he is just so much fun to write. Some characters have to be coaxed into existence. Valdemar broke down the door, walked into the room, and put his feet up on the table.

If you’re interested in the historic and socio-political situation in Hammerfell at the end of the Second Era (and who isn’t?), this is a good place to start.

[haute ecole rider]

Olen – I think the reason Valdemar seems to stand out has to do with the fact that he is just so much fun to write. Some characters have to be coaxed into existence. Valdemar broke down the door, walked into the room, and put his feet up on the table.

To be honest, he's that way during the Sancre Tor quest as well. I think he is the most defined character of the four in the entire dump.

I have enjoyed Destri's fleshing out (pun intended) of four ghostly Blades. Valdemar has needed the least help, IMHO. And yes, he would be one of those characters that commandeer your keyboard and run with it, and you (as the writer) are helpless against him.

The results are delectable for this reader.

[mALX]

Whew! I thought you were cutting out a whole 4 pages from the original story and was freaking out!! Lol.

This post has been edited by mALX: May 12 2010, 07:31 PM

[Acadian]

As rich and descriptively evocative as ever, my friend. What a talent you are! That tavern came alive.

[Destri Melarg]

Acadian - A kind word from you is always welcome, my friend. I am glad that you enjoyed it.

_____

1st Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
The Nameless Tavern, Sentinel, Hammerfell
Evening


For a brief moment the tavern was quiet. Every eye was trained on the airborne sailor who flew in a shallow arc that scraped against the ceiling. His body twitched in mid-air before it was reclaimed by Nirn’s gravity and brought crashing into a table near the door. The table collapsed under the unwelcome weight, throwing half empty tankards of ale and mead like shrapnel at those who stood near. The impact was such that it doused all the candles on that side of the room. In the dim light that remained the sailor’s body lay spread eagle on the table top, which tilted up toward the wall at an angle. His head flopped over the edge near the wall, as if held to the body by the skin of his neck alone. He gave one last spasmodic twitch, and then he moved no more.

As one the remaining heads in the tavern turned toward the direction from which the sailor had come. A giant Nord brandishing a battered silver mace stood before them. Though his features were cast into shadow, his eyes caught the light from the few remaining candles and shined with menace, and amusement.

“Who’s next?” asked Sir Valdemar.

Alain and Casnar rose from the table behind him. They stepped forward, unsheathing their swords.

Bedlam followed, the three knights were silent witness to an explosion of activity. Curses were thrown from the shadows with the same frequency as fists and elbows as more than a dozen sailors scraped, clawed, and fought with each other to be the first to bid a hasty retreat. By the time the dust settled and the sound of churning boots had faded into the night, the number of their assailants had been whittled down to five confused mercenaries whose hands still held to their weapons.

“Five stout-hearted souls,” said Valdemar, “I guess that’s better than nothing.”

“Actually there are six,” said Alain, “if you count the one on the table.”

Casnar addressed himself to the mercenaries. “You men are about to commit an assault against the Crown. I suggest you sheath your weapons and go about your business.”

“Tsun’s shield, Redguard!” Valdemar spat on the floor, “must your kind take the fun out of everything?”

“My apologies, Nord,” said Casnar, sheathing his sword. He turned around and went back to the table to study one of the still full tankards of mead. He waved a dismissive hand toward the mercenaries. “Have at them then.”

Two of the mercenaries backed toward the door, then turned and ran headlong from the tavern.

“We seem to be running out of enemies,” said Alain. His sword was already returned to the scabbard. He looked at the three remaining mercenaries. “I beseech you gentlemen, stay. My friend grows belligerent with lack of exercise.”

The three mercenaries regarded the giant Nord that stood before them. Then, as one, they sheathed their weapons.

“We yield,” said one, through cracked lips in a mouth absent more than a few teeth.

“Damn!” said Valdemar.

“Our quarrel was with the Knight of the Moon,” said another, who peeked with furtive eyes around a tower shield that was larger than he was.

“Yet you chose to attack all three of us,” said Alain.

“Clearly an error in judgment,” said the third who stood closest to the door. He was taller than the rest, but so emaciated that the very sight of him moved one to pity.

“Is there not a worthy opponent in the whole of Hammerfell?” asked Valdemar. “Between the heat, the landscape, and the lack of anything substantial to drink . . . Alduin knows Yokuda must have been the hind end of Tamriel if you Redguards fled from that place and chose this place as the one to settle.”

“Forgive our impertinence,” said the thin mercenary, “we shall take our leave of you now.”

“Not so fast,” said Casnar, rising from the table. “You said your quarrel was with a Knight of the Moon. Threatening a representative of the Crown is still an offence punishable by death.”

“I see no reason to single these men out for punishment,” said Alain. “They are but three when the initial crime was committed by the whole of the tavern.” He winked at Valdemar, “perhaps a fine and a warning would suffice.”

Valdemar turned toward the mercenaries. “You men, leave all the gold you are carrying on the table.” He leveled his gaze upon the smallest mercenary before lowering his mace. “And leave that tower shield as well. Consider it ample payment for your lives.”

The three mercenaries stepped to the table. For the next few moments the only sound in the tavern was the ring of gold coins on gnarled oak. Thus unburdened, the three men disappeared into the night.

Casnar sat back down. As he looked at the small pile of gold on the table a smile spread across his lips. “Noble knights, indeed.”

“They’re alive, aren’t they?” Valdemar lifted the tower shield. He ran his hand across the surface, his head nodded at the appraisal.

“Precisely,” said Alain, “they fared better with us than they would have if left in your care. An empty purse is far more forgiving than the headsman’s axe.”

Valdemar lifted a tankard from the table. Alain sat down and bent to the purpose of stacking the coins into three even piles.

“A most charitable attitude,” said Casnar, “especially considering that they had a hand in poisoning your mead.”

The tankard stopped halfway to Valdemar’s lips. He looked down at Casnar. The Redguard gave a simple nod of his head.

“Shor’s tongue!” Valdemar flung the offending tankard across the room. It bounced off the wall and deposited its contents on the inert form of the sailor still spread-eagled on the broken table near the door. “Where is the barman? And that wench?” His hand was white-knuckled around the mace. His face had grown so hot that beads of sweat stood out like a pox upon his forehead.

Casnar bent his thumb to a door behind the bar. “My guess is that they’ve locked themselves in the storeroom. Don’t bother breaking it down. They aren’t blameless, but their actions are understandable.”

Valdemar snorted. “What happened to Sir ‘threatening a representative of the Crown’?”

“That’s just it; I am employed by the Crown, in a Forebear tavern, with a Forebear clientele, in a Forebear city.”

“Things have grown so bad,” said Alain.

Casnar nodded. “The time comes when I will either have to claim my fortune elsewhere, or prepare myself for war.”

Alain slid a pile of coins across the table. “Perhaps this will carry you closer to finding that fortune.”

“Keep it. Consider it payment for coming so far out of your way.”

“Speaking of which,” said Valdemar, “you have information for us?”

“Forgive me, Nord, I had nearly forgotten. Even as we speak the one you seek travels east. If you can gain the Reach before the end of the thaws you will have success around the city of Jehanna.”

“Jehanna,” Valdemar laughed, “along the Reach? The fetcher has courage, I’ll give him that.”

The scowl on Alain’s face stood in contrast to his friend’s amusement. “He continues to hide among those he betrayed.” He looked to Casnar. “We should compensate you for the information.”

“I am only the messenger,” said Casnar, “the one who hired me will see to my compensation.”

“May that compensation include removal from this forsaken place,” said Valdemar.

Alain scooped the coins into his purse and stood. “We should go. Ours is a long journey and time is not with us.” He extended his arm, “may our next meeting occur in happier times, and in a happier place.”

Casnar took the proffered arm. “Good luck, my friend . . . to the both of you.”

Valdemar stepped forward. “About the mead, perhaps all Redguards aren’t cowards. And I have seen many of your women that aren’t uncomely.” He leaned his new tower shield against the table and extended his arm.

Casnar laughed and stood, he clasped the giant Nord’s forearm. “Perhaps all Nords aren’t savage and artless, and I have seen parts of Skyrim where the sun does indeed shine.”

And then Casnar was alone in the tavern. He sat back down and listened to the muted sounds coming from the street. His hand reflexively wrapped around the handle of one of the tankards still on the table. He lifted it toward his lips . . . and stopped himself. He flung the tankard across the room. The sound it made hitting the floor accentuated the emptiness that he felt. He looked around at the broken tables, the upset chairs, and the goblets and tankards that littered the floor.

A smile spread across his face. What fate awaits the one they seek? He thought to himself. He raised his voice in the emptiness, for anyone with ears to hear.

“Is it the policy of this establishment to leave a man thirsty?”

This post has been edited by Destri Melarg: Dec 12 2010, 11:52 AM

[Olen]

Great conclusion to the bar scene. The opening paragraph was great, it reall grabbed my attention and then the rest didn't let go. Valdemar continues to be a great character, a shade aggressive and very entertaining.

must your kind take the fun out of everything?

I laughed, a good bit of humour really brought this piece to life. You've laid quite a few hooks there as well, I want to know more about who they seek and why. And I suspect there's more to Casnar than meets the eye...

Thanks for the link on the lore, I won't have time to read it for a week or so (exams...) but you've piques my interest enough that I will get round to it.

[mALX]

Woo Hoo! You just don't know how great it is to have you back!!!!! You have brought the Sancre Tor ghosts totally to life, it will be hard to kill them now!!! Awesome Write !!!!!!!

[Remko]

Unfortunately there is no twirl emoticon here so that one will have to purvey the message...

[haute ecole rider]

I loved the continuation of the tavern scene.

This sums up the three protagonists so well:

“Tsun’s shield, Redguard!” Valdemar spat on the floor, “must your kind take the fun out of everything?”

“My apologies, Nord,” said Casnar, sheathing his sword. He turned around and went back to the table to study one of the still full tankards of mead. He waved a dismissive hand toward the mercenaries. “Have at them then.”

Two of the mercenaries backed toward the door, then turned and ran headlong from the tavern.

“We seem to be running out of enemies,” said Alain. His sword was already returned to the scabbard. He looked at the three remaining mercenaries. “I beseech you gentlemen, stay. My friend grows belligerent with lack of exercise.”

The interplay between the three of them is absolutely priceless.

I'm left echoing the others otherwise.

I'm like Remko, I'm really missing the twirl emoticon from the other place. Maybe someone with the power here will add one? Please?

[SubRosa]

You have not left us hanging over the cliff for too long I see. The sailor sailing (now there is an alliteration for you!) across the room reminds me of so many similar punts I have made with my opponents while playing Oblivion.

This gave me a grin:
“Actually there are six,” said Alain, “if you count the one on the table.”

and this was the perfect way to end it!
“Is it the policy of this establishment to leave a man thirsty?”

Now it is off to Jehanna in the Western Reach. I always liked that name. Perhaps we will meet some of the Witchmen it is famous for?

[minque]

What can I say? This is BIG....impressive writing....I read with great pleasure!

[Destri Melarg]

Olen – Good call on Casnar, I see him as a character who comes to the realization that he has backed the wrong horse. Skill prompted his invitation to join the Knights of the Moon, but he is more of a hired gun than a devotee to the cause. Still, being Redguard, he is not without honor, so he soldiers on.

Good luck with exams, I don’t envy you!

mALX – Thanks again! Believe me, it feels good to be back.

I have never done it, but I was under the impression that you ‘release’ the ghosts in Sancre Tor from a curse imposed upon them. It might just be semantics, but that seems a whole lot cooler to me than having to ‘kill’ them.

I am glad that you’ve grown attached to the characters and now can’t look at them in the game the same way. After all the times you have done it to me (with Vicente, Lucien, Janus, Eyja, and now Agronak), it is nice that the shoe is on the other foot.

Remko – I suppose you could always just write :twirl:! In any case, thank you for the vote of confidence.

haute – The sequence you singled out is my favorite of the entire tavern scene. What is it about certain characters? In my initial plan for this story the four Blades were set to appear in maybe three scenes. In the writing, however, they seemed to demand a larger and larger role. Now I can’t imagine telling this story without them.

SubRosa – Fun with ragdoll physics! Jehanna will have to wait for a while. As for meeting some of the famed Witchmen . . . you never know.

minque – Thank you so much. How you manage to keep up with all the stories you do is just beyond me. Wise Woman, indeed.

_____

2nd Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
The Draggin Tale Inn, Stros M’Kai
Morning


“Though the title is a bit macabre,” he said, “I am known as the King of Worms, and you come highly recommended.”

Arnand could only see his scarlet silhouette out of the corner of his eye. He still could not move, but he could imagine the void that existed where a face should have been, and the blue points of light within that regarded him in ways that eyes never could. The King of Worms drew closer.

“You find yourself in need of my knowledge,” he said, “I find myself in need of your abilities. Perhaps we can aid each other. . .”

* * *

His eyes opened and the dream was gone, but the feeling of helplessness remained. He lay in bed, his eyes focused on a dimly lit ceiling that seemed to close in upon him as his mind shifted from dream to reality. It’s so hot already, he thought. The linen sheet was soaked in his sweat. He sat up and placed his feet on the floor. Small tears of sweat fell from his damp hair onto his bare shoulders. A thick column of sunlight shone through the only window and illuminated the small, well-appointed room. Night’s candle had burned out, leaving a trail of hardened wax that hung from the small table near the bed, and dried into a coin-shaped puddle on the floor.

Arnand rose and crossed to the basin near the door. The water was cool on his hands. He washed his face and neck. I will find a ship today, he told himself. You’ve been saying that for weeks, was his answer.

He dressed in a white shirt and tan linens and secured his dagger to his hip. The sounds of revelry and the acrid smells of sweat, sex and skooma were already thick along the stairs when he left the room. The bar was full, though it was not yet mid-day. Perhaps a ship had come in the night, Arnand thought.

Dreekius was doing a brisk business behind the bar. His green scales glistened, though whether that was due to effort or to a trick of the light Arnand could not say. Bottles of ale and mead flew from his hands into the waiting hands of the sailors who drank, sang and fought with each other, or anyone else unlucky enough to draw their attention. The Draggin Tale was transformed into the busiest market place in Stros M’kai. Working girls, each younger than the next, paraded their wares in front of the loud, brash clientele. Arnand waded through the crowd and sidled up to the bar.

“Ahh, Breton, you are awake. Good,” Dreekius said. Like all Argonians he smiled through his eyes, though his were red and filmy. “I have need of your room for a few hours.

“I’m paid through the week,” said Arnand.

Dreekius placed a bottle of mead on the bar and slid it toward Arnand. “I realize that, and I apologize for the inconvenience. You will not need the room for the rest of the day anyway.”

Arnand quaffed his mead. Warm. The Argonian’s words sunk in. “A ship . . .”

“One that suits your needs, perhaps.”

Arnand scanned the debauchery around the bar.

Dreekius laughed. “No, these men just docked. They aren’t going anywhere for as long as I can keep them happy, which will be longer with the use of your room. Don’t worry; I will have it cleaned by the time you get back.”

“Get back from where?”

Dreekius leaned in close, his breath smelled of ale and old cheese. “One of the sailors mentioned a smuggler’s ship docked at Saintsport. Apparently they have been there for several days.”

Arnand drained the bottle, “I’ll get my things.”

_____

He left the Draggin Tale and made his way toward the docks. Outside the heat was even more pronounced than inside. He walked through the cobblestone streets crowded with the hectic rush of sailors, guards, hustlers and children. All had eyes that seemed to hint at some desire unfulfilled. He traveled through the humid shade made by two story buildings built of sandstone, wood, or clay. He passed over the arched sandstone bridges. As the cobblestones began to give way to sand the smell of the bay caressed his nostrils, tantalizing him with his own unfulfilled desire:

* * *

“I am all too familiar with the power of the dark gift,” the King of Worms had said, “I have been told that one you love is so afflicted, that you seek a cure?” With a gesture the spell was removed. The King of Worms returned to the dinner table. Arnand had felt a spreading of sensation through his body as mobility was returned.

Told by whom? “I do,” Arnand had said.

The Necromancer sat. “I have heard that such a thing exists. For a price I would be willing to point you in the proper direction.” He motioned toward an empty chair and the second glass of wine.

Arnand joined him at the table. For Elissa, he told himself. “Name your price.”

“An artifact that was once my property has been recovered. I would have you return it to me.”

“Where is this artifact?”

His answer had caused the cowled head to tilt slightly. The voice that emanated from the void was bemused. “You do not ask what the artifact is.”

“All that matters to me is that you fulfill your end of the agreement.”

“I shall. Now, listen closely. You must travel to the Isle of Artaeum. In the halls of the Psijic Order you will find the Necromancer’s Amulet. I want you to steal it and return it to me.”

Arnand drained the glass. “Such a thing will not be easy . . . your Majesty.”

With a flourish of his cloak the Necromancer produced a red velvet purse. The gold inside jingled when he set it on the table. “For someone of lesser ability it would be impossible. For you, I suspect it will be a challenge. This gold will secure your passage, the rest I leave up to you.”

Arnand’s memory sprung forward. He left the King of Worms and nearly killed his horse riding north to Jehanna. There he sold the beleaguered animal and found a half-drunk Reachman with a small boat willing to skirt the edge of the Sea of Ghosts to carry him to Northpoint. In Northpoint he booked passage on a merchant ship that brought him to Stros M’Kai. For weeks he searched fruitlessly for a ship that would conduct him to the Summerset Isles.

* * *

Arnand passed beneath the heavy town gate and turned to the west. He began to walk around the bay, his feet sinking into the hot sand along the shore. To his right the palm trees cast retreating shadows in the grass that grew a few short feet from the beach. To his left the great statue of Hunding, sword raised high, invited visitors to Stros M’Kai. He veered to the south and the ornate Dwemer Observatory came into view. He left the beach and continued on the dirt and sand walkway, past the lighthouse, and into Saintsport.

He saw the ship immediately. It was a galleon, slightly worn along the stem, with rolled threadbare sails tucked near the mast. Several men were engaged in the hauling of casks onto the ship from wagons drawn by swaybacked horses whose sullen disposition was only matched by the crew.

“You there!” came a voice to Arnand’s right. “What do you want around here?”

Arnand turned. The voice was worn by a short, fat, shirtless Redguard with half-healed lash marks across his sunken chest. He sat in a squat wooden chair whose legs bent outwards with his weight.

“Where’s your Captain?” asked Arnand.

The Redguard used a whetstone to sharpen the edge of a rusty dagger. “What are you wanting him for?”

“My business, not yours.”

The Redguard’s smile showed half-a-dozen rotten teeth in gums stained black with age and neglect. He stood slowly, his weight redistributing itself on short, thick legs that were as bowed as those of the chair. The whetstone disappeared into his filthy green linen pants and the rusty dagger jumped from hand to hand.

“Suppose I look to make it my business,” he said.

“That’s enough, Delron,” A female voice said from the ship.

Arnand turned. The voice belonged to a Dunmer woman who stood above them on the gangplank. She wore a pair of wide black pants that ended well above her ankles. Her sheer silk shirt was unbuttoned, the ends tied into a knot well up on her mid-section. Her long sable hair was pulled into a bun at the back of her head, and secured with slaughterfish bones. A silver cutlass hung from her belt and flashed in the light of the mid-day sun.

Delron backed away, “aye, Cap’n.” He sat back in the chair and reproduced his whetstone, but his eyes never left Arnand.

“I’m Captain Shin-Ilu,” said the woman, “who are you and what is it that you want?”

Arnand bowed a greeting. “My name is Arnand Desele, Captain. I have business I wish to discuss.”

“Is that so? What sort of business?”

“The lucrative sort.”

“I guess you had better come aboard then.”

Inside the Captain’s cabin an elderly crewman poured them each a glass of wine. She removed her cutlass and leaned it against the arm of the red velvet couch upon which she sat. She motioned Arnand into the empty chair across from her.

She took a sip of her wine. “This business of yours?”

“I would hire your ship to take me to the Isle of Artaeum.”

“Artaeum? That’s a very expensive trip.”

Arnand removed the purse that the King of Worms had given him. He tossed it into her lap. “I am in something of a hurry.”

“So I see.” she lifted the purse and weighed it in her hand. “What’s to stop me from taking this, killing you, and throwing your body overboard?”

“I am difficult to kill.”

She squeezed the purse . . . then she tossed it back to Arnand. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“May I ask why?”

“Three reasons. First, one does not just sail to the Isle of Artaeum. That’s the home of the Psijic Order. Strangers aren’t welcome. Second, this ship is already overdue in Senchal. There is a certain cargo that I need to procure if I’m going to keep this crew paid. Third, and most importantly, this ship isn’t going anywhere without a navigator.”

“What happened to your navigator?”

“The stupid lizard is sitting in the jail at Stros M’Kai. He tried to kill a guard, if you can believe it.”

“I imagine that a crew such as yours has made the trip before. One could navigate the entire way by staying in sight of the coast.”

“One could,” she said, “if one were a merchant vessel which, I am sure by now you know, we are not. Speed and guile might be sufficient under ordinary circumstances, but word is there is a Colovian fleet anchored off Torval that we would rather not have to deal with.”

“This is a fair amount of gold,” said Arnand, “enough to pay for the inconvenience that my detour would create and enough to pay off your crew, I’m sure. I’m also sure that you can find another use for the profit from your cargo in Senchal.” He tossed the purse back into her lap. “If I can free your navigator, would you reconsider?”

“I told you, ships don’t just sail into Artaeum. You need an invitation or something.”

“Then what about taking me to Dusk? It’s near enough and ships go in and out of there all the time.”

She lifted the purse again and gently squeezed it between her fingers. She smiled. “The lizard’s name is Earns-His-Keep, if you can believe it.”

[haute ecole rider]

Maybe you changed it, maybe you didn't.

I think you did. For the better. The description of the slums in the first third of this post struck me as outstanding stuff, and I don't remember it from earlier. This sentence in particular:

All had eyes that seemed to hint at some desire unfulfilled.

followed a few beats later by:

As the cobblestones began to give way to sand the smell of the bay caressed his nostrils, tantalizing him with his own unfulfilled desire:

That's mighty powerful stuff, and I don't recall seeing this before.

Regarding your comment to mALX, you're right, you don't "kill" the four Blades in Sancre Tor. They were sentenced to eternal servitude by the Underking, and are freed by the player character in completion of the quest for Tiber Septim's armor. Much like the completion of the Knights of the Nine quest frees the nine original knights of the Order and releases their souls into Aetherius. Your story only makes their eventual fate all the more poignant.

Once more, excellent work!