Interregnum, 854 of the Second Era Options

[Remko]

Your story makes me want to play DaggerFall

[Olen]

Brilliant. You nailed that part, strong stuff, good development of Arnand who seems to be an interesting sort and exciting to read about. I loved the description of the bar.

the acrid smells of sweat, sex and skooma were already thick along the stairs

This is a real eyeball kick. Set the scene excellently.

I agree with Haute that the third section was very good, and also liked the unfilfilled desires and his desire thing. I did spot one slight nit there though:

built of sandstone, wood, or clay. He passed over the arched sandstone bridges. As the cobblestones began

The repetition of sandstone (and cobblestone) was a little jarring to me.

One other (somewhat obsessive) nit:
and dried into a coin-shaped - wax doesn't strictly 'dry' though seeing as your meaning's clear and I doubt any normal person would notice/care this nit is a bit niche.

As I said excellent development and I want more

[ureniashtram]

All these intense writing makes me want to play Redguard, actually.

Your solid description is just fantastic! And writing the story with different perspective? Wow. I always wanted to visit, so to speak, Summerset Isles. Maybe now I would!

Great update, please give us more!!

[mALX]

Your descriptive language always leaves me in awe. Your KOW is so well done - my problem in reading this is the feeling of foreboding I have in this reading that I didn't have the first time...and got shocked. ARGH! (I'll say it in advance). You ROCK !!!!

[SubRosa]

My, what a disgusting bar! Thank goodness people do not smoke in ES, otherwise it would be even more revolting. The pirates were no less rank. My, I am glad I am not one of your characters!

Which is to say you did a good job of portraying the dark underbelly of Tamriel. I find it mildly ironic that Arnand passed through Jehenna on his way to Stros M'kai. It makes me wonder if the timing is such that he will bump by our questing knights on the streets while he is there? (I know you put dates on the posts, but I cannot keep any of the ES months or days straight, even with a link to the ES Calender).


Hey, I have one of those Daedric claws under my name now. Does that mean I finally got accepted by the Mythic Dawn?

This post has been edited by SubRosa: May 19 2010, 07:08 PM

[Acadian]

I just read the last two chapters and what a treat they were. From the three knights kicking some butt, to a steaming bar then a suspicious pirate ship. Wow!

[Destri Melarg]

haute – You’re right, I did change it a little. The two passages you cite are in the original, but I went a bit farther on the descriptions leading up to them, which perhaps made them stand out more.

I couldn’t agree with you more regarding the bitter fate awaiting the knights. I think that knowing what happens to them is one of the things driving me to tell their story. I am intrigued by the depth of devotion that they must feel for Talos to swear themselves into his service, just as I am intrigued by the sequence of events that leads to the rise of the Underking (though I will not be dealing with those specific events in this story . . . maybe in a sequel?).

Remko – I tried to play Daggerfall once, after I had already fallen in love with Morrowind. I just could not get into it. Given the setting I hope that if you do fire it up you will choose to write about it to give us all a feel for the game.

Olen – The repetition of 'sandstone' was deliberate. I wanted to convey both the heat of the place and the desolation. To me the word sand-stone evokes images of arid deserts and hard, unforgiving rock. I can see where the addition of ‘cobblestones’ would be jarring, thanks for pointing it out. I’ll go back over it to see where I can improve the description.

ureniashtram – Welcome to Interregnum, and thank you for your comments. Like you, I just love multiple perspective, and I used footage from Redguard to inspire the description of Stros M’Kai. As for the Summerset Isles . . . you’ll just have to stay tuned.

mALX – Thank you for the compliment to my KOW, but it is not one that I am comfortable accepting. I feel like I cheated where his character is concerned. I keep him firmly in the background, purposefully enigmatic. I tell you as little about him as possible. Why? Because I have had the good fortune (or the bad fortune, depending on your point of view) to read the definitive version of the KOW as he appears in Rumpleteasza’s remarkable The King and I. I know that any version of the character that I might present would suffer in comparison.

SubRosa – Ah, but they do smoke in Tamriel! You forget that in addition to drinking skooma you can also smoke it (ask Olen’s Firen). One of the first things that struck me in Morrowind is that, upon arriving at Caius Cosades house in Balmora, I noticed the hooka that had been haphazardly kicked under the bed. I also doubt that they grow tobacco for its pretty green color.

And I actually considered the logistics of having Arnand encounter the questing knights in Jehanna, but I couldn’t get the dates to fit. Too bad, I think it would have made for a very interesting scene.

Acadian – Thank you, Acadian. That new screenshot of Buffy is amazing! Where is her waist? You know what they say about little Wood Elves who 'go black'?

_____

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


The spent bodies of several sailors littered the tiled floors, sleeping off the day’s debauch. Half-dressed girls exited the second floor rooms and negotiated the stairs on unsteady legs. They stopped and each produced a tiny fistful of gold coins that gleamed in the half-light when they set them on the bar. Dreekius collected the coins and dropped them into a purse that he kept tucked near his privates. The girls laughed and whispered, passing Arnand standing in the doorway as they left.

“You have returned,” Dreekius said, “did you find what you seek?”

Arnand stepped over the prostrate body of a drunken sailor and joined Dreekius at the bar.

“I don’t believe I’ll need the room any longer, Dreekius,” said Arnand.

“You are leaving us?” Dreekius opened a bottle of mead and passed it along the bar towards Arnand.

“At long last, it seems.” Arnand drank from the bottle.

Dreekius ran a finger over his purse, his soft pink tongue poked out the side of his mouth. “You don’t sound convinced.”

Arnand laughed. “I’m not asking you to refund my money, Dreekius.”

Dreekius smiled through his eyes. “That’s quite human of you. Why, then, are you so apprehensive?”

“I’m not sure I trust this Captain to keep her word.”

“This Captain is a woman? What is her name?”

“Shin-Ilu.”

The smile faded from Dreekius’ lips. “Ansu Shin-Ilu?” He opened a bottle of ale and drained nearly half of it in one pull.

“You know her?”

“Know of her, yes. Your instincts serve you well, Breton. She may well be the most ruthless pirate on the Abecean Sea.”

“If that’s the case, then I’ll have to be careful,” Arnand said, getting up. He paused on his way to the door. “Do you know anything about an Argonian named Earns-His-Keep?”

“I know that he is sitting in the jail.” The ridges above Dreekius’ eyes furrowed. “Is he your price of passage? Well, breaking him out of the jail should not prove difficult.”

“Why is that?”

“We are on an island, Breton, surrounded by waters that teem with life, most of it not friendly. If one escapes and does not have a boat, then there is not far that one can go. If one escapes and does have a boat, then that one is usually allowed to become the mainland’s problem.”

Arnand nodded. “Goodbye, Dreekius. Thank you for all the help.”

Dreekius grinned. “Thank you for all the gold.”

He left the Inn. Outside warm breezes stirred the humid air. Diaphanous clouds obscured Masser and Secunda, but could not dim their light. The moons reflected off the cobblestones which shone like mirrors in the night.

The borrowed wagon was where he’d left it. The old nag pulling it gave a contemptuous snort when she saw him approach. Arnand’s hand flashed a spell which calmed the beast and allowed him to guide her across the street to the jail.

The jail at Stros M’Kai was a two story sandstone structure with stone columns supporting a canvas awning in the front. Iron bars covered the windows and the thick wooden door was supported by iron hinges and locks.

The streets were nearly deserted. With the lateness of the hour, most citizens had settled into their beds, or their cups. Arnand’s detect life spell showed two pink blots inside the jail. He shifted the blanket in the wagon; then he found a spot against the wall opposite the awning and waited.

The night wore on. The clouds obscured the twin moons, taking their shine off the cobblestones. Darkness drifted on Stros M’Kai and Arnand crossed the street and stopped under the awning. The locked door was briefly lit in a purple glow that originated from his hand. The glow faded, and with it the lock. Arnand stepped inside while the shadows still lingered.

The jailor was asleep at his desk. He snored from the nostrils, drowning out the sound of Arnand’s movements. The bars of a heavy iron door led to the cells behind him.

Arnand cast a combination spell of calm and drain fatigue. An emerald mist enveloped the guard, forcing his snores deeper, into the diaphragm. By the time the mist faded Arnand could have beaten a drum next to the guard’s ear without effect.

Arnand searched through the guard’s clothing. Up close he smelled of crab meat and ale. He found the small iron key dangling from a string on the guard’s belt. Arnand cut the string with his dagger and liberated the key.

The key fit the heavy door easily and released the lock with a click that was loud enough to cause Arnand to clench his jaw in spite of himself. The guard’s rhythmic snoring marked the seconds that Arnand stood in the doorway, one hand on the hilt of his dagger, the other poised to cast an invisibility spell in the event that more guards were alerted to the sound.

When he was confident that his actions had not disturbed the peace, Arnand turned his attention to the cells. There were four, two on each side of the cramped hall. A detect life spell told him that all save the last on his right were unoccupied. In this last cell the pink blot of a life form remained horizontal, suspended above the stone floor.

The cell door opened with a turn of the key and a softer click than the main door. The pink blot faded with the spell and was replaced by the form of an Argonian who lay curled on a cot against the far wall. He was a male, thin as Argonians went. He had mottled skin the color of molded bread, and two needle-like horns that protruded from an equidistant point above his bottle-shaped nose.

Maybe it was the sound of the cell door opening, or perhaps it was Arnand’s proximity that caused the Argonian to stir and open his eyes.

“Who?” The Argonian whispered.

Arnand placed his index finger vertically over his lips. The Argonian nodded. Arnand moved into the cell and crouched near the Argonian’s cot.

“Earns-His-Keep?” Arnand whispered.

The Argonian nodded.

“Come with me . . . quietly.” Arnand whispered.

Earns-His-Keep was only too willing to comply. He positioned himself so close that with every exhale his breath fluttered the hair along Arnand’s collar. The two retraced Arnand’s steps through the hall, past the snoring guard, and out into the gentle breezes of Stros M’Kai.

“Who are you?” Earns-His-Keep asked when they were outside the jail.

“A friend,” said Arnand, “sent by your Captain.” Arnand helped lift Earns-His-Keep into the back of the wagon. The Argonian’s skin was cold to the touch.

“No,” said Earns-His-Keep as he lay down in the wagon, “blackmailed perhaps, forced most likely, but not sent.”

Arnand covered the Argonian with the blanket. The horse nickered half-heartedly when Arnand climbed on the buckboard and took the reins. But it conducted them both to the city gate without incident.

_____

They traveled the well worn path, in full view of the patrolling guards. Arnand kept his hood over his head and nodded sullen greetings to those he passed. Earns-His-Keep stayed under the blanket, and tried his best not to breathe.

The heat returned in the last dregs of twilight, as the sun’s distant aurora brought light back into the world. As they passed the lighthouse Earns-His-Keep threw off the blanket and rose sweating and sputtering into the new day.

“I am in your debt,” he said.

“Forget it,” said Arnand, “I’m being compensated.”

“I hope you received your compensation ahead of time. Still, I am in your debt. I shall not forget this.”

Arnand regarded the skinny Argonian. “Did you really try to kill a guard?”

Earns-His-Keep shrugged. “I was not successful.”

“Tell me about your Captain,” said Arnand.

Earns-His-Keep stared at Arnand. “Since I am in your debt,” he began, “I will tell you this. Captain Shin-Ilu has spent her life taking advantage of men’s tendency to underestimate her. You should not make that mistake.”

“Is she good to her word?”

“That depends on what her word costs her.”

The ship came into view. Captain Shin-Ilu stood alone at the foot of the gangplank. The rest of the crew went about the business of preparing to sail. A half smile creased her lips as the wagon came to a stop.

“I was beginning to think you had failed,” she said to Arnand. She turned her attention to Earns-His-Keep. “You’ve cost us a week, you stupid lizard. What were you thinking, mixing it up with a guard?”

Earns-His-Keep jumped from the wagon. “Apologies, Captain.”

“Just get on board and look to your charts. We have to sail to Dusk now because of you.”

Earns-His-Keep scurried up the gangplank and disappeared onto the ship. Arnand removed his cloak and climbed from the wagon.

“You’re pretty resourceful,” said Captain Shin-Ilu, “I’m tempted to offer you a position on my crew.”

“I doubt you could afford me, Captain.”

She laughed. “You might be right. Why don’t we discuss it over another bottle of wine? Come, we are ready to sail.” She turned and walked up the gangplank. Arnand followed.

A light scrape behind him caused his muscles to tense. No! He reached for his dagger. He felt the blade enter his kidney from behind. His back twitched from the pain. He felt his blood begin to boil. Poison, he thought. He tried to cast, but he was silenced. The blade twisted, causing his back to twitch again. He dropped his dagger and his legs gave way. Delron’s fetid breath was hot on his cheek.

“This is my business,” the Redguard hissed.

Ansu Shin-Ilu turned and approached him, unsheathing her cutlass. Delron twisted his blade again and stepped back, leaving the rusty dagger in Arnand’s back. She grasped his shirt with a strength that surprised him and kept him from falling. She leaned in close.

“You were right about one thing,” she said, “we can’t afford you.”

She stepped back, raised her blade, and lunged. Her thrust pierced Arnand’s chest. He felt the blade slide past his ribs, through his heart, and out between his shoulder blades.

He fell to the dock. Elissa, I have failed you, he thought. Captain Shin-Ilu stood over him, wiping his blood from her blade with a linen cloth.

“But you were wrong about something else,” she said, “you weren’t difficult to kill at all.”

This post has been edited by Destri Melarg: May 21 2010, 09:52 PM

[haute ecole rider]

I knew this was coming, but still held my breath nonetheless.

Just a question:

The heat returned in the last dregs of twilight, as the sun’s distant aurora brought light back into the world.

At first I thought you meant it was late (i.e. just after sunset), since twilight is the last light of the day between sunset and full dark. However, later, it seems that you were actually talking about sunrise. Twilight and dusk are associated with sunset, and dawn with sunlight. So this sentence is a little confusing in its sense of time. Maybe clarify it a little bit more here?

Otherwise, I love the descriptions here. Wonderful stuff, yet again.

Oh, and sandstone is actually quite soft. You can literally rub the stuff away with your thumb. However, sandstone is perfect for the desert, since that is where the sand comes from (wind erosion on sandstone). And sandstone can feel hard, when you're looking at it, especially with the desert sun shining down. Whew!

Still loving this!

[mALX]

I felt the strain of this coming reading last chapter, had flashbacks to the first time I read this chapter. It still hits like a ton of bricks when

[minque]

ohhhh!!! been away for a couple of days and by Nirn....have a LOOOOT of catching up to do..(destri...I do have severe problems getting enough time to comment as much as I want to!, But darn it..I read!!!!)

As quite a few already commented...this is BIG! Brilliant writing...Nope I haven't played Daggerfall or Redguard, but I can understand if ppl say they get inspired to play, I've read quite a bit about the storyline in those games.

Anyway it has been a most enjoyable read....continue please!

[SubRosa]

The sleep spell of Arnand was a good touch, something missing from Oblivion. I am kind of surprised he died though, since as of yet he has not done anything to effect the overall plot. That makes the earlier chapters with him pointless to have written. Unless we are going to see an undead Arnand soon? Considering who he is working for, that would not be a surprise. Perhaps he will be keeping Nolquinn company on guard duty back at the cave? Or perhaps this is just a setup to bring his vampire wife into the mix, seeking vengeance?

One nit I do have is that while the scene of his death was good, it was also painless. Granted I have never been stabbed in the kidney myself, but I suspect it rather hurts. Perhaps saying something like:
Pain seared white-hot through his flesh as the blade entered his kidney from behind.

This post has been edited by SubRosa: May 21 2010, 10:39 PM

[Olen]

That was great to read, the death really caught me by surprise, I hadn't expected hit to die, yet at least. Makes me wonder how he fits in...

As for the sandstone fair enough. The connotation you were going for was a bit lost on me seeing as most of the buildings I've lived in have been sandstone and this bit of the world is anything but a desert... As for hardness, it depends on the stone, the stuff here is plenty hard but some is really crumbly.

Anyway awesome stuff and a great read, you structure the parts well.

[Destri Melarg]

haute – actually the classic definition of ‘twilight’ refers to both the time between sunset and dusk and the time between dawn and sunrise, but I can understand the point you are making. I used the word because something about it denoted a very specific image in my head. I will change it to something else if it causes too much confusion.

As for the use of sandstone: I wasn’t as interested in the literal representation of arenite as a sedimentary rock as I was in the evocative connotations of the two words together, sand-stone. To me it gave a tactile feel to Stros M’Kai that I couldn’t achieve by any other means that occurred to me at the time.

I am glad that you are still enjoying this, and thank you for your always constructive comments.

mALX – Hey!! A spoiler warning in my thread!

*Destri maniacally rubs his hands together*

I am glad that the chapter still holds the impact that I intended. As you already know, Arnand’s fate is necessary to set up the next faze of the story.

minque – Any comments you make are like the cherry on top of the sundae. The fact that you read this thread is the sundae! Thank you so much, I really do appreciate it.

By the way, I have just finished reading Serene of Cyrodiil, chapter 1. I will comment on your thread when I have fully caught up, but what I’ve read so far has been great!

SubRosa – I did once make a 'sleep spell' at the spellmaking altar. If memory serves it was a combination of Drain Fatigue for the maximum points available with a duration of five seconds and a maximum level Calm spell with a duration of either one or two seconds (I can’t remember which). When cast upon a target it worked much like a five second Paralysis spell (complete with a fall down effect), but it cost less magicka to cast.

Rest assured, it has been a very long time since I wrote anything without a purpose. The point of those earlier chapters with Arnand will become apparent as the year continues (somehow I think you know that though ).

He felt the blade enter his kidney from behind. His back twitched from the pain. He felt his blood begin to boil. . . The blade twisted, causing his back to twitch again.

That doesn’t seem painless to me. As someone who has been stabbed (albeit with a pair of scissors and in the leg, not the kidney), in those first few horrible moments shock and fear push pain to somewhere far back in your consciousness. Pain didn’t come until later, after realization as the adrenaline starts to fade. Even then it started off like a sound on the edge of hearing that grows louder and louder until it becomes not just a part of you, but it becomes who you are. At least that was my experience.

Olen – Point taken on the sandstone. I can see how the connotation would have been lost on you.

I know it seems cheap and almost amateurish to whack Arnand before his promise in the story is fulfilled. Don’t worry; all of your questions about how he fits in will be answered in the chapters to come.

* * *

8th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Glenumbria Moors, High Rock
Dawn


They stood on the edge of the moors surrounded by the cold mists drifting in from the Eltheric Ocean. Behind them the sunrise lifted the gray cast from the land and bathed the soggy ground in shades of brown and green. The house guard that accompanied them kept a respectful distance, but Lattia could tell that they were miserable. Standing knee deep in a cold bog when they could be in a warm tavern celebrating the Day of Release was not something that they should have been called upon to do. Lattia decided to make another appeal to the grim figure before her that wore her brother’s face.

“Aran, please do not ask me to do this,” she said, kneeling. “All of Glenumbria embraces our clan today. Let us join their feasts and celebrations instead of hunting for ghosts.”

Aran turned and faced his sister. “I know what day it is,” he said, “do you think we came all this way to prance and drink with the noisome rabble? Three thousand years ago the Alessians were stopped right here. I must know exactly how it was done.” He reached out and his strong fingers dug into her arms and shoulders. He pulled her to her feet. “I am not asking.”

Lattia stood her ground. “Magic is not a tool placed at your disposal, brother. What skill I have takes a heavy toll, not that you seem to care.”

“Spare me the self pity, sister. If you are not strong enough to perform the task then perhaps you are not strong enough to stand by my side. There are other mystics in the world, you know. Now, are they here or not?”

A rush of heat banished the cold from Lattia. Her face and neck flushed, her clothes felt heavy. Even the silk outer cloak seemed to chafe at her throat. She glared at her brother, fear and rage battled against love and devotion in an inner struggle that boiled the blood in her veins and flashed through her emerald eyes.

Aran smiled and touched his sister’s face. There was pride in his voice when he spoke. “Now I see a Direnni Elf before me.” He said. “Are they here?”

“Yes.” Lattia’s eyes closed, a tear tumbled over the mound of her cheek.

“Show me.”

Lattia’s sigh echoed throughout the moors. She arched her neck and shoulders, her eyes remained shut. A sudden gust seemed to pass through her. As close as he was to her, Aran felt the warmth leave her body. It was replaced by something that was both cold and ancient. The moors grew darker, as if the sun were a simple candle that had been extinguished. Noises that were equal parts wail and laughter carried in from the darkness. The house guards began to finger the pommels of their swords. Aran saw the faintest ghost of a smile spread across Lattia’s lips and he shuddered despite himself.

She lowered her head and looked at him. The green that had once made her eyes seem like twin pearls of jade had been replaced by a black that even ebony couldn’t match. All the pigment had been drained from her skin. She raised an arm that could have belonged to a cadaver.

“Take my hand.” She said in a whispered voice that sounded like the crunch of brittle leaves.

Aran’s hand rose slowly, tentatively. I must know, he thought to himself. He grasped her hand and all the warmth he felt dissipated like old memory. All around him the world began to blur and fade. He could not turn away from her. The endless void of her eyes became the sum of his existence. Time became irrelevant. At one point, before unconsciousness claimed him, he heard himself screaming.

_____

7th Sun’s Dawn, 1E 482
Glenumbria Palace, High Rock
Evening


Light flooded his eyes as he came back to himself. The moors were gone, replaced by the great hall of a long dead palace. A large fire crackled in the hearth, and for the first time since he had taken his sister’s hand Aran felt warmth.

He still held her hand. He looked down to her face. A semblance of her former color had returned, but her eyes remained black and trackless.

“We have arrived.” She said.

Aran’s eyes focused on those around him. The great hall was filled with activity and hushed, anxious voices. Men from Colovia, High Rock and Skyrim mingled amongst each other in uneasy alliance. They all wore leather armor, offset by chainmail, cloth, silk and fur. Each man’s chest was colored with the symbols and insignia of his house, province, or tribe. The many Altmer in the hall stood out in their ancient Elven armor, but the insignia that covered their hearts was familiar enough.

“They wear the standard of Clan Direnni.” Said Aran.

“Yes,” she said, “this is Glenumbria Palace on the night of 7 Sun’s Dawn in the year 482 of the First Era. Tomorrow these men will join their respective armies in the battle of Glenumbria Moors. Tonight they share accommodations in this castle.”

Aran stepped toward a Direnni retainer, but he was held fast by her icy grip.

“Do not break contact.” She said.

Something in the quality of her voice caused Aran to study her face. “You are not my sister.”

That smile played across her lips again. “No. But for this journey I am your guide, and it would behoove you to heed my word,” she regarded him as one might regard a tenaciously clinging insect, “unless, of course, it is your wish to remain here.”

Aran turned his attention back to the great hall. “They cannot see us?”

“We were not here. What you see tonight is what you wished to see, but these events have already occurred. The voices you hear are only echoes of voices that have long been silent. Come.”

She led him past the gathered soldiers toward a closed and guarded door leading from the hall. The guards were Direnni retainers armed with halberds made of silver and gold. They stared through Aran into the great hall and made no move to bar him from the door.

“Beyond this door lie the answers you seek,” she said.

Aran nodded and reached for the door, but in the reaching the door and wall dissolved in front of him and reformed behind him, leaving him and his guide in a large chamber.

The walls of the chamber were filled with tapestries that depicted ancient battles and the heroic postures of the heroes who fought in them. A raging fire burned in the cavernous fireplace against the far wall. The scarred oak floors were covered in rugs of red, green, and gold that featured detailed maps of all of the provinces of High Rock. A large golden table fit to seat a score of men dominated the room. Around this table those who would lead the battle congregated, their raised voices echoed off the walls of the chamber.

An Altmer sat at the head of the table wearing Elven armor plated with gold. His long platinum hair caught the light and made him look to Aran like a statue given life.

“That’s Aiden Direnni,” Aran whispered as if he were afraid that the sound of his voice would break the spell.

“It is,” she said, “His brother Ryan sits on his right hand.” She pointed to the figure with his back to them. “I do not see Raven, but I assume she is here. Her magic is vital to the coming battle, but I suppose you already know that.”

“Why are there so many men here?”

“Your knowledge of this event does not allow for the presence of so many men does it? Know you that Clan Direnni came late to a rebellion whose origin sprang in the world of men.”

She pointed toward a Colovian standing near the table’s center staring intently at a map unfolded before him. He looked to Aran to be a man in his mid-thirties, in the prime of his life. He wore leather armor with the ancient standard of Skingrad emblazoned on his chest. A hawk larger than a cat rested on his left shoulder and the handle of a heavy axe poked over his right.

“There,” she said, “is the man that your history will remember as Rislav the Righteous, King of Skingrad. It is he who defeated the Alessian Emperor Goerius, an act that inspired Clan Direnni to join the rebellion.”

She pointed toward the opposite end of the table where an elf larger than any that Aran had ever seen sat resplendent in solid gold armor. He held himself erect, as if the foundations of the castle were dependant upon his carriage.

“There is a lonely soul. The King of Nenalata, last of the Ayleids. He was born into an empire long bereft of glory. Even now he rules over a ruin. Yet he carries the pride of his kind, and will not appear as anything less than what he still believes himself to be. He has more reason to hate the Alessian Reform than any other in this room.” Her voice had grown quiet, almost reverent. Aran could sense a great sadness that emanated from her. “Sunnabe tarnabye av sou math, baune aran.” she whispered.

“What did you say?” asked Aran.

“Nothing,” she answered, “a simple benediction for the last of his line.”

“I heard my name in that.”

“Curious is it not? Have you never wondered why you and your sisters were not given the names of the Aldmeri?”

“Our loyalty to the Isles is tenuous at best,” said Aran. “What language was that?”

She looked at the table, into the face of the long dead King of Nenalata, “one that he would understand, if he could hear us.”

Aran looked about the room. He studied the harried faces of men and mer, of soldiers and kings. “I never realized there were so many.”

“No,” she said, “you never did. But you will.”

This post has been edited by Destri Melarg: May 31 2010, 10:25 AM

[mALX]

Poor Lattia, she has the powers but never uses them for her own sake. Instead she becomes a tool for others who coerce her sweet nature into submission. She is like a silent heroine. This chapter inspired me to dig into the Lore the first time I read it and some of what I found ended up in my original story - Awesome Write Destri !!!!!

PS - I remember where she is now, too !!!!!!! HELP !!!!!

This post has been edited by mALX: May 25 2010, 02:14 PM

[Olen]

I'm liking this story, I don't know any of the background but it doesn't seem to matter, it just makes everything that bit more mysterious and exciting. The writing is very good as ever and really draws me in quickly and effortlessly then sweeps along at a good pace.

One question: is the alyeidic accurite? If so where's it from?

[SubRosa]

Once again, very cool. You are becoming the unofficial historical fiction guru of the ES world. Not only do you have a story set in the past, but the characters in it are reliving events in their past!

Poor Lattia. She really does not have the ruthless ambition for this. Then again, if she did she would probably kill her brother, so just as well for him.


nits:
The walls of the chamber were filled with tapestries that depicted ancient battles and the heroic postures of ancient heroes.
The use of ancient is repetitive here. Maybe just say depicted ancient heroes and battles?

[haute ecole rider]

I loved this "time-traveling" chapter, especially what comes next here.
The change that comes over Lattia's physical form emphasizes the strangeness of what is occurring.

The Elven lords are well described as heroic figures, and Rislav the Righteous is very solid here.

I love historical epics, and this ranks right up there with the best!

[Acadian]

You once again show that you are the master of this craft. Your descriptions and choices of wording are amazingly effective. This is more fun to read the second time as it makes things easier for me to understand and appreciate.

[Destri Melarg]

mALX – You have absolutely nailed Lattia’s character. She is a slave to her devotion who will do anything for those that she loves. But underneath that almost mousy exterior there is something else that will become apparent as the year continues (I hope). As for where she is now . . . you’re right, she has been there for quite a while hasn’t she?

I am flattered that reading my story prompted you to find something in the lore to suit your own work.

Olen – To answer your question the Ayleidic is accurate. 'Sunnabe tarnabye av sou math, baune aran' roughly translates as ‘blessed be the passage of your house, mighty king.’

Here is the page that I used for the translation. Likewise you can look here for translations of Ehlnofex languages, charts of the Daedric and Dwemer alphabet, etymology, and more.

SubRosa – Can you guess what my favorite genre of fiction is? You’re right; Lattia doesn’t have the ambition to lead Clan Direnni, as for killing her brother, well . . .

Good call on the repetition of the word ‘ancient’. I have changed it so that it reads smoother.

haute – Isn’t Rislav cool? I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s the trained hawk on his shoulder or the fact that he decapitated his own brother for the throne. Maybe it’s the fact that his battle plan allowed the city of Skingrad to stand virtually alone against the might of the Imperial army, and win! I wish I could do more with him.

Needless to say, like you, I love historical epics.

Acadian – Thank you so much, my friend. I still think that you sell yourself short on your ability to understand (and write) plot-driven stories. I try to make each segment somewhat self-contained. Applicable to the whole, yet solidly understandable (or at least compelling) if read as a stand alone piece.

* * *

7th Sun’s Dawn, 1E 482
Glenumbria Palace, High Rock
Evening


The door behind Aran was thrown open and a bearded Nord marched into the room. His ruddy face was stained crimson with rage. He passed through Aran as one would pass through a column of smoke. A giant claymore swung to and fro across his back as he walked, and his heavy footfalls caused the wine to spill from the silver goblets on the table. He was trailed by a tall, slender, graceful figure hidden behind the folds of a dark hood and cloak.

The Nord reached the table and slammed his gnarled fist knuckle-first against its surface. All at the table flinched, their voices trailed to silence. The Nord’s eyes bore into those of Aiden Direnni and spittle flew from his beard when he spoke.

“While you conduct this little council the campfires of the enemy light the moors, and the finest warriors in all of Tamriel bleed from the eyeballs!”

Aran looked to his guide, his eyebrows lifted.

“Hoag Merkiller,” said his guide in an impatient whisper, “new crowned Chieftan of Skyrim.”

The cloaked figure reached the table. Graceful golden hands removed the hood. Aran needed no one to tell him that he looked upon the face of Raven Direnni.

“Plague has hit the Skyrim camp,” she said, “less than ten men are afflicted, my art cannot help them. They have been isolated, but I fear we may have been too late to halt the spread.”

Hoag snatched a goblet from the table and quaffed the wine in a single tilt. “Stay your tongue, woman. I need no translator.”

“Watch yourself, Nord,” said Ryan Direnni, rising from his chair, “you speak to the Lady of Clan Direnni.”

“And you speak to the Lord of Skyrim, elf.” Hoag’s hand sought the hilt of his claymore.

“Peace,” said Aiden, his voice so quiet that an effort was necessary to hear it. “Ryan, please sit down. I am truly sorry for those afflicted, Hoag.”

“That’s ‘Your Majesty’, elf, and spare me your sympathy. I would wish a pox on your whole damned clan, but disease doesn’t touch your kind as it does mine.”

“It has touched me,” said Rislav the Righteous. He was seated across the table from Hoag. “My own father was taken by the plague, so no one here understands your grief more than I. I know that your father was slain by the army that awaits us on the moors, so I understand the need to avenge yourself upon them. But inciting a quarrel with your allies does nothing to solve either matter. Clan Direnni’s presence here is the reason we have a chance to rid ourselves of the Alessian Reform, you would do well to remember that.”

Hoag spat wine on the table. “You may be friendly with these treacherous elves, Colovian, but do not presume to lecture me.”

“Enough!” Aiden Direnni’s voice cowed all in the room, his green eyes sought out Hoag’s. “Merkiller, they call you? Make one more remark against my clan and I will force you to earn that name. If you would be a part of this council then sit down, and keep a civil tongue in your mouth.”

A wave of pride surged through Aran, warming him more than the hearth-fire could. He squeezed the hand of his guide as a smile spread across his lips.

“Sino na gravia buro,” muttered the King of Nenalata.

Every head at the table turned in his direction. Colovian, High Rock, and Skyrim faces looked to each other in confusion. Rislav suppressed a smile. Ryan Direnni smacked the table with an open hand and laughed out loud.

“Sepredia, pelinal,” said Aiden, “sou bala racuvar. Balagua sila, ni shanta hilyat.”

“If I may,” said Raven Direnni. She placed a soothing hand on Hoag’s forearm. The Nord seemed to deflate. He slumped into a chair and reached for another goblet.

Aran looked to his guide. “What did they say?” he whispered.

“Nenalata’s King insulted Hoag Merkiller,” she whispered back. “Aiden Direnni reminded the King that it is not his place to issue insults.”

“Why is it that Clan Direnni knows the Ayleid tongue?” asked Aran.

“Better you should ask why is it that you do not,” she said.

“I suggest we move the forces of Clan Direnni into camp next to the Skyrim forces,” Raven continued, looking at Hoag. “As you say, Your Majesty, disease doesn’t touch our kind as it does yours. Perhaps our presence between the armies will keep the plague from spreading to the forces of Colovia and High Rock. At the very least, it should buy us the time necessary to finalize plans for the battle.”

Hoag slowly nodded and slammed the goblet on the table. Some around the table began to shrink from the sound. Hoag opened his off-hand in apology. Raven sat down next to him.

“What news do we have of this Alessian force?” asked Ryan Direnni.

“They arrived a fortnight past,” said Rislav, “in numbers that match our own. Their ships were loaded with heavy siege engines, but they’ve had trouble bringing them over the moors. The only high ground is a rise too far for the archers to be effective. If we venture out we will meet them on equally treacherous footing.”

“Equal footing is all that I ask for,” Hoag said.

“If we give them the time we could be looking at a siege that lasts for months,” said Ryan, “with disease spreading amongst our own, my vote is to meet them on the moors.”

“Seconded, with reservations,” said Rislav, looking at his friend, Ryan. “It doesn’t appear that we have much choice.”

“I would know the mind of the King of Nenalata,” said Aiden.

The Ayleid stiffened before regaining his regal bearing. “Abagaianye nagaseli.”

Aran’s guide leaned in closer, “he votes for the moors.”

“The moors,” Hoag Merkiller said, rising.

“The moors,” said Ryan Direnni as he placed a firm hand on his brother’s arm.

“Aye, the moors,” Rislav the Righteous nodded.

“The moors,” said Raven Direnni, “And I believe that the honor of leading the van should go to the Skyrim host.”

Aiden Direnni looked into each pair of eyes seated at the golden table. Near the door, Aran found himself holding his breath even though he knew the outcome.

“So be it,” Aiden Direnni said, “we shall meet them on the moors.”

_____

8th Sun’s Dawn, 1E 482
Glenumbria Moors, High Rock
Dusk


“So much death,” said the spirit who wore his sister’s form.

Aran knelt at her feet. Tears ran down his cheeks. From the rise the moors spread below them. A blanket of gray smoke still hung in the air and separated the red sky of eventide from the deeper red of the war scarred battlefield. Tens of thousands of bodies littered the putrid glade. Men and mer lay with their limbs intertwined. Now they were known only by the bloody, torn, and soiled insignia’s that they wore. Their life’s blood stained the bog red and carried out into the darkening surf of the Eltheric Ocean.

Aran felt the beating of hooves churn the ground behind him. Three horses gained the top of the rise and passed through them before stopping at the overlook. The riders dismounted, Aiden and Ryan Direnni removed their helmets. Raven Direnni pulled the hood off of her head.

“A glorious victory,” said Ryan, “this battle will be remembered throughout all the ages of Tamriel.” He slapped his brother’s shoulder. “We are immortal now, brother. You should be proud.”

Aiden’s face was a mirror of Aran’s, separated by a few feet and thirty centuries of distance. “Proud? Do you feel pride when you look upon that field? Do you see only glory? This battle was won by Raven’s magic, not our swords. All we managed to do was hack each other to death. Do you know what I see when I look upon that field, brother? I see the flower of Clan Direnni withered and spent. Yes, in the battle of Glenumbria Moors we have been victorious, but it has cost us the future. I fear Clan Direnni will never rise again.”

“Nothing is written,” said Raven. “It will take time, I grant you. But if the future of Clan Direnni can learn from our mistakes, perhaps we can rise again.”

“That is no consolation,” said Aiden. “What of our allies, what casualties did they suffer?”

“The Skyrim host was decimated,” said Ryan, “Hoag Merkiller among them. He will not be missed.”

“Do not judge him, brother,” said Aiden, “he fought with honor. Hoag left no heir, the Nords will convene a King’s Moot. Their choice may not look favorably on Clan Direnni. What of Colovia and High Rock?”

“The Colovian losses were not as bad as our own. Rislav is already marching his troops back to Skingrad. No one knows what happened to the Ayleid and his slaves. Slain, taken, or retreated, I believe they quit the field. I did not receive a report from the forces of High Rock.”

“That does not surprise me. I imagine our hold over High Rock is at an end.” He turned away from the battlefield. “Nothing but death awaits us back at the palace. We sail tonight for Balfiera. I am sorry, Raven, I fear that Daggerfall is lost to you.”

A single tear filled Raven Direnni’s eye. She fought to keep it from falling. "I know."

Aran moved forward to comfort her, but he was checked by his guide’s icy grip.

“You have seen all you need,” it was not a question.

Aran nodded. He would learn from the mistakes of his ancestors. “I have.”

_____

9th Sun’s Dawn 2E 854
Glenumbria, High Rock
Dawn


The first sensation she felt was warmth. It burned her skin as it filled her body and made every muscle ache. Her mouth felt like brittle parchment. She felt the pressure of the light on her eyelids, holding them shut despite her best efforts to open them. She tried to cry out, but only a soft moan escaped her cracked lips.

“Lattia?” She heard Aran’s voice as if he were speaking to her from above the surface of water. She drifted, and then her world was darkness again.

The second time she felt the light on her eyelids she was stronger. With an effort she was able to lift her eyelids open, but keeping them open was like trying to hold sand with a fork. She felt the darkness pulling her back and, though she fought hard, it was not long in reclaiming her.

The third time she heard birds whistling, and that kept her mind from drifting. Her eyes stayed open but it took time for them to focus. She lay in a bed with white silk sheets. Aran held a small rolled parchment and sat in a chair near the window which let in the golden sunlight. Through the window she could see past the rooftops to the Eltheric Ocean, and storm clouds that loomed on the horizon. Aran saw her open eyes and rushed to her side.

“Can you hear me?” He asked.

Her voice didn’t work. She nodded once, and the effort sent pain in sharp lances through her neck, shoulders, and back. She winced.

“You warned me,” Aran said, “and you were right. I did not take into account the toll it would take on you. I apologize for that. But I did find the answers I sought.”

She did not trust herself to nod again. He placed the rolled parchment upon her breast.

“I have held this for you for months,” he said. “It is from the Isle of Artaeum. You have been invited to join the Psijic Order. I have decided to send you to them. You will take the ship and sail as soon as you are able.” He leaned in close, his breath smelled of mint.

“Varla had the right of it,” he whispered, “armies are not important. Magic won the battle of Glenumbria Moors, and magic will win our battles now. You must get up soon. The men are restless after what they witnessed on the moors. The sooner you sail the better. The Captain says that a storm is coming. If you sail today you should reach Stros M’Kai before it hits.”

[Olen]

You showed both the fore planing and the aftermath of the battle well, and it appears Aran has learnt something for the coming battle which already promises to be exciting. I liked it that in both battles you have mentioned the win has been via a trick rather than one side having better luck and better butchering ability, it fits fairly well with history.

And then the cost of the vision to Lattia which was warned of is shown which brings home the cost of magic which is important (and under mentioned in game).

I love the setting you've developed and love the complexity of the plot. Great stuff.

Another question: how much of this do you already have written (not that I won't just wait for it here but I was wondering)?