Interregnum, 854 of the Second Era Options

[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)?

[haute ecole rider]

I have loved seeing Hoag Merkiller yet again, in all his oversized glory!

And I have said it before, I'll say it again: Don't dis the Elf!

The emotions during the Council feel very real; the aftermath of the battle in the middle just as devastating. It reminds me of one of the Scottish battles (I can't remember which, maybe the Battle of Glenumbria Moor?), where an entire clan was decimated, and the course of history for Scotland and England changed forever.

And Lattia returning to herself under a huge burden of exhaustion and pain is likewise devastating, albeit on a more personal level.

This chapter is even more enjoyable the second time through!

[SubRosa]

A solid conclusion to what you set up last post. The council was very well portrayed, showing the very common suspicion and open antagonism that exists between allies of necessity rather than preference. Many times IRL history such alliances fell apart due to the in-fighting between its members.

I also noticed that you conspicuously avoided showing us the battle itself. Obviously this is to keep Aran's secret magic weapon, well... a secret. That is not a complaint, rather I think it is a good idea to reserve the specific knowledge of that for when it is actually put into use.

It does make me wonder what sort of magic it might be that would win a battle though. When you look at the magic presented in the games none of it seems truly powerful enough to have a battle-winning power. You have area effect destruction spells, but those tend to do little actual damage and cost a lot of magicka. Of course the other side would have the same weapons in its arsenal as well too. One would need a huge amount of highly skilled spellcasters for that to really pay off. Sort of like having an entire army of Navy Seals today.

I would imagine that something more like training every soldier in an army to use a few novice level spells, like a healing spell and a shield spell, would actually be worth more in the long run. Especially if you combine it with the practice of rotating soldiers to and from the front of the battle line. So they fight for maybe five or ten minutes, then go to the back of the file and recast their heal minor wounds over and over until it is their turn to step up to the front of the line again. Then they cast their 5% shield and go at it. That however would require a very professional, permanent army, that only a society with a lot of money could afford to maintain.

Another thought is to have your magicians stand at the back of your army, and cast convalescence spells on the soldiers who come back wounded. Then they can go back into the battle. That would give an army an incredible amount of staying power (staying power was the secret of the Roman's success in battle, they rarely used brilliant tactics). Again, it would require a very professional army to pull it off.

So my thoughts are that whatever magic won the battle of Glenumbria Moors was something not regularly available to our characters in the games. Like the Thu'um power. Maybe something created in a lengthy ritual performed by expert magicians (like the Psijics...), or from some lost ancient Daedric/Aedra artifact (remembers Lattia making a pact with Clavicus Vile...). I cannot wait to see what you pull out of your helmet!

This post has been edited by SubRosa: May 29 2010, 01:14 AM

[Olen]

It reminds me of one of the Scottish battles (I can't remember which, maybe the Battle of Glenumbria Moor?), where an entire clan was decimated, and the course of history for Scotland and England changed forever.

I'm confused by this... The vision was of Glenumbria Moor which was in High Rock not Scotland (though it might not always appear so we are not totally fictional). But I agree it put me in mind of reconstructions I've seen of battles, most firmly (possibly the one you meant) being Flodden Field which had a similar end.

[mALX]

I love how detailed you made her return from the spell that carried them back in time - that was so much more realistic than if she had not experienced jet-lag type symptoms - AWESOME WRITE!!!

[Destri Melarg]

Olen – Like you I believe that if history teaches us anything it is that the larger/better equipped/more disciplined army doesn’t always win the battle.

To answer your question; right now I am just finishing the month of First Seed, which places me about a month and a half ahead of where you are in the story.

haute – Revisiting Hoag is still kind of bittersweet for me because I know that he has to die at the Battle of Glenumbria Moors, which I hate. I would love to do something with him and Rislav. According to Rislav the Righteous both were in attendance at the coronation of the Emperor Goerius on the 23rd of Sun’s Dawn, 1E 461. Rislav was 13, the fifth and forgotten child of the King of Skingrad, Mhorus. Hoag was about the same age following his father Kjoric the White, King of Skyrim. Also in attendance that day were Indoril Nerevar (presumably with his wife, Almalexia) and Dumac Dwarfking representing Resdayn. And a young mer in the service of the royal court of High Rock named Ryan Direnni. To me the idea of all those different personalities mingling with each other against the backdrop of White Gold Tower is just ripe with possibility!!

SubRosa – I think that anytime you take a group of people who are all used to calling the shots within their own sphere of influence and put them into a room together they are going to butt heads. It almost makes you wonder how anything ever gets done in politics (until, of course, you realize that nothing ever gets done).

I confess that my reason for keeping the action of the battle offstage had nothing whatsoever to do with some secret weapon of Aran’s. It had more to do with the fact that I had just shown a full scale engagement in the month of Morning Star and I didn’t want to repeat myself. Showing the actual battle of Glenumbria Moors contributes nothing to move the story forward. It is the aftermath of the battle that is important because it puts both Aran and Lattia on paths that they would not have otherwise taken.

If I am not mistaken, you description of rotating soldiers exactly mirrors the historic workings of the Spartan phalanx (without the healing spells, of course). I have no idea what kind of magic would be employed to win a battle. I imagine it would be something along the lines of what the Psijic Order did during the War of the Isle:

The War of the Isle, in 3E 110, twelve years after Antiochus assumed the throne, nearly took the province of Summurset Isle away from Tamriel. The united alliance of the kings of Summerset and Antiochus only managed to defeat King Orgnum of the island-kingdom of Pyandonea due to a freak storm. Legend credits the Psijic Order of the Isle of Artaeum with the sorcery behind the tempest.

As for what I’m going to pull out of my helmet, well . . . that would be telling! I will only say that this story is not going to go the way that you think.

mALX – I am glad that you, haute, and Olen all commented on the price of magic. It is something that I don’t think is adequately explored either in the games or in the lore. A spell along the lines of the one cast by Lattia would require an immense amount of magicka to perform. I see it as a far more powerful variation of the Mark/Recall spells from Morrowind. The difference here though is that, since the caster is seeking to travel through time, he/she must give themselves over to beings not bound by space and time. Beings like the followers of Magnus who are trapped in Aetherius, or the denizens of Oblivion who are allowed free rein on this plane because there are no Dragonfires to keep them at bay.

At least that’s how I see it.

* * *

9th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Abandoned Cave, Somewhere in the Valus Mountains
Morning


For a month they were trapped in the cave. They huddled together at first to preserve what heat their cold blood could provide. Their only contact with the outside world came in the form of gusts of icy wind that blasted through the cave entrance as the mountain was buffeted by a series of blizzards. After the first week the drifts covered the entrance. Darkness claimed their hold on each other, for though they had enough air they did not want to waste it to fuel a torch. They grew weak from the endless days without feeding. Tongues froze inside their mouths, which stopped conversation. The only sound was their shivering and the muffled shrill howl of the wind.

While his syffim drifted into hibernation, the Chevalier Renald kept the watch even in darkness. He remained those long weeks alone with his thoughts, listening until he could identify each of them by the sound of their breathing. Eesham-Sha’s breath was quick, shallow, clamoring for more than his share of the air that remained in the cave. For every one breath of the others, Eesham claimed two. For Chirasch-Xun breathing was a duty that he performed as dispassionately as any other. Each exhale sent a low rumble through the cave that fought with the sound of the outside wind for dominance. Xarsien-Ves did not breathe at regular intervals. When he did the sound often escaped Renald. When he could be heard the breath was cautious, deliberate. Have I doomed them to a fool’s errand? Renald thought in the darkness, I will not let them die here. They will not suffer like Akal. When we leave this mountain my syffim will still be four.

On the thirty-second day a tenuous shaft of light entered the cave. Renald nearly wept at the sight. The sun melted a small hole in the drift that plugged the entrance. Weak as they were it took a full day to cut the hole large enough to breathe the cold, thin air. There was no need to persuade them to leave the cave. Each had seen his fill of snow. They followed Renald down the mountain.

_____

11th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Shadowgate Pass, West of Kragenmoor
Dusk


“Goblins,” Eesham whispered, his forked tongue tasting the air.

Renald’s tongue caught the scent, it came from over the tree-lined ridge in the distance. With the setting sun in their eyes conditions were not ideal for a hunt. The relative warmth of the lowlands had returned a semblance of their former strength, and feeding was a distant memory for all of them. Goblins were mana from Nirn.

“We shall take them,” said Renald, unsheathing his katana.

Eesham grinned and twin katanas leaped from the crossed scabbards on his back. Chirasch reached for his dai-katana. Xarsien stood armed with katana and shield. Without a word being spoken they spread into battle formation and slithered on their bellies up the ridge.

The goblins were three in number, barely visible in the shade of the trees behind them. They led four tethered sheep slowly north through the pass. Xarsien’s head bent to the side, his questioning eyes found Renald.

They must have raided a farm, thought Renald, but since when do goblins favor lamb? He shook his head to Xarsien. Using hand signals, he ordered his syffim to follow them. Chirasch and Xarsien slid down the ridge silently and crossed the path behind the goblins. On the opposite side they took to the trees. Renald led Eesham up into the trees on their side of the path. They hemmed in the goblins and followed them from the boughs above.

The path began to climb back into the mountain. The fading light made the goblins harder to see. Daylight would soon be spent, thought Renald, if they were going to feed, it would be better while there was still light to see.

The lead goblin stopped and tested the air with his nose. Renald tensed, but the wind was still right. There was no way that his syffim was compromised. The lead goblin turned and walked up a dirt rise toward a low overhang of rock directly beneath Renald’s perch. His companions stayed with the sheep on the path below. Now is the time, Renald thought. He used his hands to give his orders, and his syffim moved as one.

Eesham used his tail to push off into space. From across the path Chirasch and Xarsien followed. For a brief instant all three Tsaesci hung suspended in the air over the hapless goblins. Each found his target simultaneously, knocking all three goblins to the ground. Their screams pierced the still air. The startled sheep felt the hold on the tether give way, and bolted back down the path. Each of his syffim used their arms and tails to engulf and pin a goblin. Their necks bent as one, and sharp fangs broke the skin on the goblins’ throats. The green bodies twitched in the folds of the Tseasci tails as their lifeblood was drained from them. The shrill screams faded with the last dregs of sunlight as the pass was plunged into darkness.

Renald left his perch and slithered down the trunk of the tree. He could hear the almost gentle sucking as his syffim fed. Xarsien lifted his head from the still twitching goblin. His eyes showed red in the light of the new moon. Blood stained his fangs and dripped from the side of his mouth.

“My lord,” he said, “you must feed.”

“I shall, but not yet. Gather your strength.” Renald pulled a branch from the tree. He pulled a piece of cloth from the goblin under Eesham and fashioned a makeshift torch. Eesham produced a flint from a pouch worn around his neck and returned to his feed. Renald lit the torch and amber light fell on what lay below the overhang.

A rusted mine car lay on its side, next to a weathered wooden door which led into the side of the mountain. The trees and the overhang made the door nearly impossible to see from the trail. Goblin tracks marked the soil leading both to and from the door.

Xarsien appeared at his side, and then Chirasch. Eesham finished draining the goblin and uncoiled his tail from the limp corpse.

“This makes a fine lair,” said Xarsien.

“Look to those tracks,” said Chirasch, “more goblins dwell inside, and you have not yet fed, my lord.”

“I could stand another goblin myself,” said Eesham.

“As could we all,” said Xarsien, “there should be campfires inside. To be warm, fed, and away from the elements . . .”

The decision wasn’t difficult, “Fashion torches,” said Renald.

_____

They coiled around a fire built near the entrance to the mine. More than a dozen goblin corpses lay strewn haphazardly around them. Renald savored the warmth flooding through him, as his blood was quickened by the feeding. For the first time in months, since before they left for Black Marsh, he felt his former strength returned. Around him his syffim laughed quietly and joked with each other. Renald’s thoughts strayed to Akal, and his irrepressible optimism. These last months would have been easier had he survived, he thought.

“My lord?” Xarsien stoked the fire with a rusted iron shortsword.

“Speak,” said Renald.

Xarsien hesitated. “This woman you saw at the ravine. . .”

Renald nodded. “I know it is a difficult thing to understand, but I trust her word.”

“As I trust yours, my lord,” said Xarsien. “What I mean to say is, what happens when we reach the Imperial City?”

The other members of his syffim looked to him for an answer.

“We seek out the new Emperor. We honor our oaths.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Xarsien, “but which Emperor do we seek. The one who holds the throne, or the one with the blood of the dragon?”

There was a faint hint of a new scent in the air. Renald’s tongue captured it, and his insides turned to liquid. A wave of fear gripped him like nothing he had felt since his youth in Akavir. Instantly his tail propelled him erect, his katana held in trembling hand. His syffim reacted to him, rising with their weapons drawn. The scent hit their tongues, fear and confusion shaped the contours of their faces.

“It cannot be,” Xarsien whispered.

“It is,” said Renald, “the scent comes from deep within the mine.”

“How is that possible?” Xarsien held his shield close to his chest, as if to ward off the scent.

Eesham’s voice was a panicked hiss, “I do not recognize the scent, yet it causes me fear. Why is that?”

“You were little more than a hatchling when we left home,” said Chirasch, “you are too young to remember.”

Xarsien shook his head. “We should leave this place and never return.”

“No,” said Renald, “it is an omen, one which we must face. I will not order this of you. Each of you must search within yourself for the will to continue.”

“You are Captain, my lord,” said Chirasch, “my life is yours.”

Eesham studied the dark tunnel leading into the pit of the mine. “I follow you, my lord, to the death and beyond, if needs be.”

Xarsien lowered his head. “I followed you to this land because it was my duty. I follow you now because it is my desire. Lead on, my lord.”

Renald felt a rush of pride in his chest that armed him against his fear. He lit a torch from the fire, his syffim followed suit. Single file, Renald led them deeper into the mine.

The tunnel led into the bowels of the mountain. The air grew warm and close. The torches began to dim, barely lighting the stone walls of the shaft. Renald felt the weight of his decision with every undulation of his tail. Its presence here must be more than coincidence, he thought. Have I made the right choice, or am I leading us only to our deaths?

One by one they lost the torches. Burned out clubs would be of no use so they dropped them on the warm stone. Renald used his off-hand to feel his way through the darkness. The others used their off-hands to hold the tail of the one in front of them. They made their way down the empty mine shaft in the dark.

A distant light filled Renald with equal parts fear and dread. By the time they reached its source the oppressive heat in the tunnel had sapped most of their new won strength. A dimly lit cavern opened in front of them. The ceiling and walls were lost in the darkness. The only clue to the size of the chamber was the echoed scrapes of their tails.

Piles of bones littered the ground, high enough to be lost in the darkness of the chambers upper region, and spread out in every direction that they could see. Xarsien lifted one and examined it, “sheep,” he said. He lifted another, “bear,” and a third, “goblin.”

The scent was overpowering. Renald’s hand signal spread them into battle formation. “We know you are here,” he said, “show yourself!”

In answer a plume of fire forty feet high lit the cavern in the distance. It was followed by the sound of mighty wings. A gust of hot wind knocked them all slightly off balance. His syffim recovered quickly, their grip on their weapons tightened. Deep hot breaths came from something large just outside the range of their vision.

A voice from the darkness spread more hot air over them. “What is it that you seek here, Tsaesci?”

Renald moved forward. “I would speak with you, wise one.”

“You have slain my goblins,” said the voice, “now you wish to speak with me. Say your peace, then I will destroy you.”

“You are familiar with our race,” said Renald, “you know that we do not fear your kind.”

The cavern shook with each step forward the creature made, the heavy claws on its feet scraped against the ground. Its head poked into view, larger than Renald, red-scaled, spiked, and glistening. The mouth opened revealing a row of sharp teeth longer than a man’s arm. It sniffed Renald from the top of his head to the tip of his tail. His syffim stood poised, their weapons ready should their Captain give the order. It had been centuries since any of them had seen one, but even in the dim light of the cavern there was no mistaking a dragon.

“Your words betray you, snake,” said the Dragon, “I can smell your fear. I know all too well of your race, what words could you have for me that I would trust?”

The heat from the Dragon’s breath hinted at the inferno to come should Renald’s answer prove false. Renald laid his katana at the Dragon’s feet.

“I made a vow to protect the blood of dragons,” said Renald, “not to spill it.”

His syffim followed his lead and placed their weapons on the ground. The Dragon’s head cocked to the side, its bifurcated tail played around the edge of Renald’s katana.

“You four swore oaths to the Dragon Emperor?”

“We did many years ago,” said Renald, “him and his heirs.”

“That line is dead,” said the Dragon, “your oaths are useless now.”

“It was dead, it has been reborn. We travel to the Imperial City to honor our oaths. It occurs to me that one such as you would be better served as a loyal subject of the new Empire than scratching out an existence enslaving goblins.”

Flames played about the Dragon’s nose. “I will not live as an object of curiosity.”

“Nor should you,” said Renald, “I cannot speak for the new Emperor. If I bring back those who can, will you speak with them?”

There was a moment when Renald thought that his words had fallen on deaf ears. We are too close, he thought, in the first blast of the Dragon’s breath we will all be returned to the Dreamsleeve. I have doomed us all.

“I shall,” the Dragon said, regarding Renald with a look that might have been respect, “It appears we have an accord.”

“Good.” The sigh that escaped Renald then was as filled with relief as it was lacking in dignity. “I am the Chevalier Renald, and this is my syffim. How are you called?”

The Dragon raised itself to its full height. Its voice echoed through the cavern. “I have had many names, but you may call me Nafaalilargus.”

This post has been edited by Destri Melarg: Jun 6 2010, 09:16 AM

[Remko]

I marvel at your skill in making a story and of getting into your char's head. Renald's awesome. Possible my favourite character in Interregnum.

[haute ecole rider]

The fact that you introduce us to such a powerful, larger-than-life character like Hoag Mer-Killer on the eve of his death makes the following battle all the more tragic. That is real storytelling!

I have enjoyed reading the Chevalier Renald and his syffim yet again.

You have the ability to take some very strange and alien characters and making them into something I can empathize with. These snake-beings, the Tsaesci, are not cardboard demons to be hated, they are living, breathing creatures who feel pain and suffering, and have a sense of honor that rivals that of the best samurai, soldiers, cops, etc.

I am still enjoying this second read through.

One nit:

They hemmed in the goblins and followed them from the bows above.

I believe boughs would be the better word, as it refers to tree branches, not the weapons or the gestures of courtesy and respect usually seen at court.

[mALX]

I too love the Chevalier Renald, I see him - can you believe the first time I read this I had to look up Tsaesci? It's true! He is one of the huge characters you have developed that brings Interregnum to life in the mind of the reader.

Making your own torches was a touch that adds realism - and their suffering the elements

- and immediately upon reading this the first time I dug in Lore to find out everything I could about Nafaalilargus!

The pieces are all starting to fall into place now, but when you will see this:

"WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT !!!!!!!!!!!!!"

I Love this story!!!!!!!

This post has been edited by mALX: May 31 2010, 04:14 PM

[SubRosa]

To quote Voltaire: "God is on the side not of the heavy battalions, but of the best shots."

As h.e.r. said, you do an excellent job of portraying the Tsaesci as being people, in spite of how alien they are to we, your readers.

I loved your description of the Tsaesci in the cave, and how differences in their breath emphasized the differences in their character.

“Yes, my lord,” said Xarsien, “but which Emperor do we seek. The one who holds the throne, or the one with the blood of the dragon?”
Now there is the question a lot of people will be asking.

An actual dragon! W00T! You are right I was not expecting that! Very cool to see one still around.

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Jun 2 2010, 04:44 PM

[Olen]

Well that was unexpected... A dragon

I can only agree with SubRosa, very cool. Any story which involves dragons is automatically excellent, and this one already was so its just got even better.

Good characterisation of the Tsaesci, even after so short a part I have a good feeling for their characters and want to read more about them. You have a way of doing that...

One nit:
We shall take them,” said Renald, unsheathing his katana.

Eesham grinned and twin katanas leaped from the crossed scabbards on his back. Chirasch reached for his dai-katana. Xarsien stood armed with katana and shield. -- fairly heavy use of the word 'katana' there but its just a minor detail, the overall part was excellent.