Redemption, part 2 Options

[jack cloudy]

My idea of how Blades and by extension, their even more dangerous elite, fight is simply to kill as quickly and efficient as possible. Also, I was rereading the first chapter and noticed three things. One, my style back then was different, with a better way of getting the feel for the environment down. Two, the characters were different back then. Things like proto-Maorlatta actually threatening someone with violence like it's no big deal and showing none of her Altmer-issues.

The third is that the Emperor mentions sending a messenger to Ocato. Obviously my idea back then was of Mythic Dawn elite assaulting the palace instead of my current idea involving traitors. Anyway, let's get some commanding done.



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Chapter 8.3


The young Blades, all five of them, arrived at the exact moment of their meeting. Berius watched them spread through the room, efficiently covering every angle simultaneously, leaving no place to hide or sneak up on them. Even the door they’d come through was kept under close watch. It was therefore no great surprise when Berius and the emperor were discovered.
“Keep your hands, Sir! My lord Emperor!” The Redguard man who had first seen them shouted then sprang to attention as he recognized them. Having cleared her side of the sweep, a woman put a hand on his shoulder and whispered urgently.
“Keep your voice down, Baurus. Can you tell us what is going on, Lord Protector?”

Berius motioned for Uriel to remain knelt and stepped out from among the plants. He examined the two Blades in turn, then his gaze drifted to another man who had just declared the bathroom to be safe. He nodded to himself and looked the woman that had questioned him in the eye.
“In a moment, Sister Renault. This morning when we met in the Tiber Septim hotel you seemed rather amused. Please tell me why.” He asked her and almost shook his head at the surprise he read on her face.
“Because Glenroy nearly jumped out the window when he heard the fly buzzing around the ceiling.” Jennifer Renault answered, pointing at the man who’d walked from the bathroom to one of the windows.
“I told you, I served a tour in face-eating Argonia. The flies are worse than the crocodiles there. You High Rock pampered boys and girls could never understand what that place does to a man.” Glenroy called back, rolling his eyes.
“Good answer on both accounts. It will have to do for now.” Berius decided. If they still had the memories of this morning, then they hadn´t been replaced. There was still the chance that they´d been simulacra for years like Wulfharth but he doubted it. If that had been the case, it would have been far easier for them to have the assassination be performed by the new blades rather than the old guard.
“Six against one would have been a foregone conclusion.”

The Redguard who’d first found them caught on the hidden meaning behind his superior’s question when no one else did.
“You don’t trust us, sir.” He muttered then nearly flinched when Berius drilled him with his stare.
“Brother Baurus, right now I’m debating whether I can trust myself. Now, before entering you came across a dead member of the guard, correct?” He told the young man. Prompted, Baurus shot straight up, as if he was singled out by his Legionnaire captain during inspection.
“Yes, Lord Protector. Slain by a blade that penetrated the lungs and heart via the armpit. The melting of the chain suggest that the weapon was enchanted with armor-eater.” He barked, chin raised. The older man nodded to himself and looked at the pommel of his sword. Like Baurus had claimed, the exchangeable pommel was indeed the armor-eater.
“Quite perceptive of you. I want you and Glenroy to drag him in here. Meanwhile…” He ordered and looked at each Blade individually once more. His next decision was a painful one, but it had to be done. The Lord Protector recalled all the reports as he walked to a window, then picked the two Blades who had least impressed him.
“Brother Merric and Sister Eaglewood. You will go to respectively the coordination centers on the tenth and the twentieth floor. Tell the staff present to announce and execute protocol 4G. Follow their orders once you’ve done that.”
“Yes, Lord Protector! At once!” Merric and Eaglewood snapped and jogged out of the room. Berius watched them go with a heavy heart.


“Sir. 4G is not listed among today’s potential protocols.” Renault’s words pleased him. He’d read about that perfectionist streak of hers in most of the reports that had been written during her career. It was good to see that she’d already gone through and memorized the protocols his staff used.
“Captain Renault, let me tell you that the guidebook you were given was scrambled. 4G is possible today. Still, you are correct in the assumption that 4G will not be used.”
He paused to think over what protocol they should use. In the end, he had to assume that the enemy knew all of the manoeuvres he’d drilled over the years as well as who was on station today and where. Which meant all the usual safehouses were compromised. He came to the conclusion they’d have to use a plan which didn’t exist.
“I want you to take Lord Uriel Septim to the Imperial prison isle instead.” He said slowly as he knelt beside the window and pulled out a pair of bricks. Behind them, lay a small dustcovered pouch.
“The prison? But there’s no plan that includes that location. Besides, it seems…illogical.” Renault objected. The sound of footsteps made her turn to the door and raise her sword but she relaxed upon seeing it was merely Baurus and Glenroy, carrying the armoured form of Wulfharth’s partner between them.
“I know. I scratched it from the books when I became head of the guard here. Call it insurance. Most important is the fact that the only records of that plan now reside in my head. The enemy won’t know of or expect it because as you said, that would be madness. And the guards there get rotated frequently. So go to the isle and hide.”


Berius took the pouch from its resting place but made a point of not putting the bricks back.
“Good. And you won’t be using the stairs. I want you to leave through this window, circumventing the palace interior entirely.”
“You want us to jump, sir? But that’s impossible. We’re not birds. We’d die the moment we hit the ground. Or well, I could do it, but I doubt Baurus here could. And what about the Emperor?” Glenroy objected with a handwave towards the old man that still sat among the plants.
“That’s what these are for.” Lord Protector Berius replied and opened the dirty pouch.
“These rings are enchanted with slowfall. With them, dropping down is no problem.” He explained. Glenroy and Baurus nodded, but Renault was not yet convinced.
“Wouldn’t the Ayleid barrier around the fifth floor destroy them?” She wondered out loud.
“Again you impress me with your knowledge, captain. The barrier can be beaten. An assassin of the Dark Brotherhood managed it first. He had two rings of levitation. The barrier drained the first, but the second ring was sealed in a dampened pouch and survived. He simply had to switch rings in midair. Simple yet effective.” Berius elaborated and gave her one of the dusty copper bands.

“Now these are a new thing from Morrowind. Same trick basically, but no need to switch rings in midair. They’re one use only, but that use will get you through the old field and to the ground.” He finished with a shrug. At that moment Uriel grunted as he pushed himself off the floor, cursing his creaking joints and the frailty of his breath.
“Berius, you never told me of this. Are you certain it will work?” He asked his friend and loyal defender, who handed out the rest of the rings.
“The math is sound. And I’ve tested it on bricks, cats and even a mannequin. Just keep your feet down and you’ll be fine, emperor.”

Jennifer Renault fingered the ring in her hand. Though her Breton blood pulsed in reaction to the magic in the copper band, she had never received the kind of education that would let her tell what kind of magic it was. And Berius had implied he couldn’t trust himself. It hadn’t seemed like a joke to her. Renault realized that she needed to see it work rather than be told it would. She pocketed the ring and turned to the others. Then with a deep breath, she took charge for the first time as the captain she’d informally been promoted to.
“Glenroy, you are experienced at Alteration, yes?” She inquired of the Imperial. The man scratched his chin, not sure why she wanted to know.
“In Argonia, you need at least a basic expertise in…” He began but she cut him off with a simple wave of a hand.
“Yes or no would suffice. Can you slow your own fall without these rings?” She asked him next and Glenroy nodded.
“Yes, captain.”
“Good, then you get the honour to test them. You will jump and try the ring. If it doesn’t work beyond the barrier, stabilize your fall yourself. Afterwards…” Captain Renault leaned over and whispered her last order into his ear.
“See you on the ground, captain.”

They watched Glenroy vault over the windowsill and plummet to the plaza below. The air visibly distorted in a series of small sparks as he crashed through the barrier. But the Blade survived the erupting magic and drifted to the white cobblestones light as a feather. He waved up to the window once, then rushed for cover. Up in the Emperor’s suite, captain Renault let out a breath she didn’t knew she’d been holding. Then she straightened herself and led Uriel and her remaining subordinate out of the room.
“Follow me, milord. We’ll use a different window in case this one was being observed. I don’t like the lightshow Glenroy made on his way down.” She said and shivered as the corridor’s wards washed over her. Behind her, Berius gave her a grim warning.
“Don’t forget to remove the barrierbrick first, captain. And remember this above all. We will not meet again. We won’t. If you see me, your orders are to stab me, then stab me again just to make sure I’m really dead. Don’t even think about asking questions first.”

Neither the Blades or the Emperor gave a sign they’d heard him, but he knew they’d take his words to heart. He knelt down beside the dead guard and carefully began to remove his armour.
“Now then. Berius old boy, time to make some chaos. It’s your last day on Tamriel, make it a good one.”

This post has been edited by jack cloudy: Feb 24 2013, 03:20 PM

[McBadgere]

Fantastic stuff!!... ...

Love it...

Poor old Berius...Gotta love him...Improvising the saving of the Emperor and not being part of it!...

Nice way of getting Uriel to the prison though...Nice one!!...

You made Renault well hot...Simply with the name Jennifer... ...Wow...

Brilliant stuff Jack...

Nice one!!...

*Applauds heartily*...

[jack cloudy]

Over two months. I really am losing it, ain't I? The good news I guess is that I have half a blade piece ready as well. The bad news is that I'm not sure if I should use it or skip ahead and do it more gradually in another flashback.

Going back to the last part. Giving Renault a first name, as well as having her not be a captain already, was a simple and barebones attempt at giving her more characterization than 'woman that dies first'. It also explains a bit more on how the Blades could be blindsided like they were in the game.
But for now, let's change perspectives again. Oh, and a small rant at the end.

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Chapter 8.4

Imperial City

With a hard pat! the brewing storm announced its arrival over Cyrodiil. A man watched from a balcony as the last patch of crimson twilight was devoured by the clouds and his robes became soaked with cold water. It was good weather, he decided. The harsh downpour drowned out the voices of men and drove the regular patrols to any cover they could find. That left the streets open for others. He winced as lightning blinded his eyes for a moment and the roar of thunder overwhelmed even the clatter of rain on stone and metal. Then his lips curled upwards in a smile. Yes, it was excellent weather, better than any he could have wished for.

More lightning tore the sky asunder. They were silent bolts, of the wrong colour and too short to connect with either cloud or ground. The man recognized that what he looked at was no lightning but just as that realization had dawned upon him, his sight was blocked by the arms and bodies of his comrades. They jostled for a place at the balcony, all dressed in robes identical to his own, the red darkening as it soaked to a rusty brown. The man scowled at the sudden crowding and raised his voice over the storm.
“Compose yourselves! Are you heralds of the Dawn, or mere children?!”

With a chorus of “Forgive us, master Camoran!”, the men stepped back and fell to a knee, leaving the balcony once more to him alone. Camoran squinted into the rain and hoped to find the eerie lights again but the glimmer had already vanished.
“It’s gone.” He muttered to himself.
“It came from the palace, master.” One of his companions shouted.
“I know, acolyte! Be silent!” The master bellowed back at the men, not knowing who had spoken and not caring.

The building they’d occupied, a large mansion within a walled-off garden, provided a perfect view of the Imperial residence. Tonight however, that visibility was all but gone. Even moreso than the encroaching darkness, the rain’s haze reduced the Imperial spire into a vague shadow. Only at the crack of lightning, did it stand out. But after days of observation in better weather, he knew exactly where to look. So he mentally retraced the unnatural light and swore under his breath. It had occurred directly beneath the Emperor’s suite.
“Pah, it’s just a little riot over there. I don’t see what it’s got you all riled up for.” An acolyte declared. This time he turned to see who had spoken. Even over the hammering rain he had heard the lack of reverence and the arrogance. His eyes sparked fire and his followers shrinked back, drifted aside from his gaze. All but one.

He settled his sight on the lone Dunmer that dared face his wrath. As he recognized the weathered face before him, he could barely hide his disgust.
“Just a little riot, you say. Your stupidity astounds me, Initiate. Since when do you declare yourself learned in the arts of the arcane? A riot you believe? It may be the right time for one, but why would a riot occur in midair outside the palace? Care to answer that?” He said and stepped closer to the man, carefully swerving around the books stacked in disorderly piles on the floor. He approached till the Dunmer was forced to look up, using his Altmeri stature to his advantage. The smaller man said nothing, but neither did he flinch under the angry stare.
“So silence is your answer. Fine then, I shall answer for you. Every year at coronation-day, rose petals are thrown from White-Gold Tower and light the air aglow.”
“It’s not coronation-day, Camoran.” The Altmer’s eyes narrowed further at the casual response.
“Indeed it isn’t, Harrow. But flowers are not the only thing that stir the Ayleid wonder. Someone just jumped. From Uriel’s room.” He whispered slowly, his words almost lost to the storm raging outside.

Harrow cheered, throwing his fist towards the ceiling.
“Hah! Then we are done here! Let us go now and celebrate our victory!”
Some of the other robed men, mostly Bosmer, raised their own fists. But all, even Harrow, lowered them when they saw the growing displeasure on Camoran’s face. Then, his fury exploded.
“You fool! Is your head only there for bragging?! Do you truly believe that such a fall would kill him? You were an Armiger, you must have encountered more than a few that could survive such in your homeland. Or did you spend your time in taverns playing with the women instead of performing your duty?” Though his words were harsh, they had the opposite result from what he’d intended. Now angered himself by the insult, Harrow snapped back at him.
“This is not Morrowind, Raven. Levitation is outlawed here. You should use your own head before critiscizing others.”
“Cease your tongue lest I cut it out and force it down your throat! This is the Septim we are speaking about. A law he made himself would not stop him when it came to preserving his life!” The Altmer shouted in anger. He saw Harrow’s hands fall to the slit that hid the knife beneath his robe. Though he held no fear for the Dunmer and relished the excuse to burn him to ashes, he remembered that Harrow was a murderer and his father would be displeased to hear that his son had disposed of the fetcher. It was far better to keep him around to take blame for any unpopular but necessary acts than to waste him on a mere whim.

The scent of charred flesh spread through the room and a mad cackling could be heard coming from no distinct direction. With forced calm, Camoran spoke. With each word, he drew his portal open further.
“The Prophet is not here, Harrow. And neither is the Priestess. If it is your desire to lay a hand on the son and brother of those who protect your miserable life, remember this. For whether you would succeed or fail, you will meet our lord. As the defecation of his beasts.”
An inhuman eye blinked and a toothfilled maw large enough to swallow a man whole strained to push through the tear between worlds Camoran had created.
“My apologies…master. I meant no disrespect.”

Raven scoffed at the apology. He doubted the sincerity of it but also knew that pressing further would cause him to lose face before his group. He couldn’t keep his portal open for much longer either, though he hid the strain it placed upon him. Already the corpsegod squirmed and fought his intrusion. So he dropped both the issue and the portal without a further word.
“Leave me. All of you.”
“One of these days, I really will kill the honoured user. And neither father nor Ruma will be able to stop me.”
Turning his back on them, Raven shook his head, angry both at the Dunmer’s insolence and his own failure to control his anger.

He realized that he’d wasted too much time dealing with Harrow. Knowing that he had to move quickly if the Emperor had managed to escape, he reached within the folds of his robe and drew out an eyepatch. He settled it before one eye, closed the other and looked again. To his covered eye, the rain, the stone walls and even the very land seemed to have vanished. What was left on the other hand, shone with a light of its own. The tower rose up towards infinity before him. Its walls were sheathed in dancing rainbows, so bright it hurt. He slipped his gaze down to the streets and scanned the buildings near the palace. Nothing. The only light that was not cast by the tower came from the few magical knickknacks collected by the various noblemen and other wealthy folk that lived nearby. He knew them all and nothing was where it shouldn’t be.
“The Septim would never abandon the symbols of his power. He knows the political ramifications if he did. So that means it was not the Emperor who fell. Good.”

If it hadn’t been the emperor then there was only one answer left. The assassination plan had been defeated. If so, an alarm would be raised.
“Which means that our main operation is at risk as well. Should I be frustrated, or happy?” He thought to himself and for a moment a sharp self-loathing took hold of him. He had hoped the intervention of him and his men wasn’t necessary, but he also knew he hated to stand idly while others performed acts of glory. He struggled with this inner dilemma for a long breath, then he sighed and again dug a hand into the folds of his robe. This time, he retrieved a small ebony rod. It was irregular in both shape and texture, smooth and damp like glass in one place and sharp like tiny knives in another.

Gripping it as if he was holding a dagger, he called upon the powers hidden within the artefact, envisioned a place and thrust at the air before him. Upon drawing back, the punctured air was not the cold of the stormy outdoors, but hot like a furnace and reeking of old wax and burnished copper. He placed his eye before the tiny portal and peered through. Like always, he compared it to peering through a keyhole. The resemblance was there, though keyholes wouldn’t cause bodily harm if its edge was carelessly touched while a portal would. He saw an empty corridor that spiralled downwards out of sight. It wasn’t what he desired. Camoran calculated where the corridor led and stabbed again. And again.

Pure blackness, a gate of diamonds woven like string. A hand, lying amidst bloodsoaked silk, its owner crushed beneath a housesized block of white stone. He flinched and sweat burst from his skin despite the chilling rain. His heart pounded against his ribs and his own hand trembled. With effort, and subconsciously grateful he had sent his troops away, he forced his thought back to reason and studied the hand closer. It was an ugly hand, thick and calloused like a miner’s, one finger missing from an earlier accident. His hand stopped trembling and his heart relaxed as he knew that this bloodied appendage wasn’t hers. It was a sacrifice to the Dawn, not a loss.
“If I’d sent Harrow into the vaults, that might have been him. Hah, only if everyone else had fallen before him. This is no time to daydream, Raven. Now then, where are you, sister dear?”

The dead follower was practically forgotten already as he moved his portal again. Snakes of clicking blades writhe and crawl all over the walls and floor of a long hall. A bridge of clouds cast over a bottomless pit. Eight women in red gathered before a blank wall. One of them is working a spell, muttering in the arcane tongues. Raven changes the angle so he can see her face and smiles. The woman possesses a face much like his own, though finer and lacking the harshness of his brow. He doesn’t speak till she finishes the spell and the wall flows aside like water.
“How fare thee, Priestess?”

The woman in red halted her followers with a gesture. She looked about till she saw the pinprick of rain in the otherwise dry corridor. Then she spoke, slowly and deliberate as each word was chosen with care.
“Several persons of valor have sacrificed their flesh to the Dawn and their names shall forever be remembered in the Prophet’s scrolls. The Septim’s traps are cunning, but they will not hold us in our quest. The first object is already ours and soon we shall come upon the second.”
She raised something and showed it to him, but the portal was too small to give him a good view. All he could make was that the item scattered the light as if made from glass and silver.
“So that is the famed coffer. Its shell is priceless, but the true treasure lies within. It is smaller than I expected though.” He thought to himself.

“I have come upon you with grim tidings. The servants of our Lord, who have waited so many years in the Dragon’s den for the Prophet, have fallen to treachery and betrayal. Pure were their souls, but their flesh has been corrupted.”
Raven picked his words with just as much care. Had it been a more informal setting, had they been alone, he would have called names. But he could not when others were listening. Even if they professed their faith in the Dawn, the men and women of the robes had been born and bred in an empire that reviled the allies his father once had and whose minions they now used. The Dawn would fall apart as minds corrupted by the Septim’s words and teachings would instinctively move away from their betters. So he hid his words and thoughts behind symbolism.
“Priestess and those who were chosen worthy to bring the new Dawn, know this. They are tainted through their proximity with the Septim. Their flesh has grown weak and their masks frozen. Even now the Septim guards his throne and sends his demons among us. Be on guard.”

The Priestess’ blinked, then scowled, then she lost herself to anger and shouted.
“Failed?! How dare they betray father’s trust! They said we could rely on them! That we wouldn’t have to lift a finger! What do you mean, failed?!” Raven cringed at the outburst. As the Dawn’s Priestess, she was not supposed to let her emotions rule her. Especially when they would make her imply that the Camoran’s were fallible. He knew he had to calm her down before she said too much but did not know how to begin. So he answered her question instead and buyed himself time to think.
“Berius. It must be him.”

“That lardfaced relic? Impossible! He’s still trapped in the fourth century.” Despite the seriousness of her continuing indiscretion and the nervous fidgeting of her followers, Raven let out a soft chuckle. She had just given him the key to dealing with the situation.
“That word is not to be used lightly, blessed Priestess. Do not forget that it was this ‘relic’ who defeated the Usurper. His bones may be old, his swordarm sluggish, but his mind is yet sharp. We would do well to remember that. We shall remember, and through remembrance the Dawn shall prevail. None shall speak words of weakness for we shall triumph!”

The woman’s features smoothed as his voice struck home. His words had sounded like a declaration of confidence to her followers but she knew what he’d really said. He saw her let go of her fury and grasp the calculation their father had fostered. She would make sure that those who had witnessed her momentary lapse would be silent, one way or another. None would speak of weakness.
“As always, the wisdom of your words cannot be denied. I shall double my rear guard. Do you require our aid? We can’t let the Septim escape.”
The offer was tempting. If she sent two or three of her followers, then he could find ways to silence them. Place them in the path of a guardsman, or perhaps even a Blade and claim their own incompetence and lack of faith as the cause. But he could not accept it. The Dawn’s hands were few, and growing fewer tonight. The vaults the Priestess had assaulted were murderous and there was no telling how many more sacrifices she would have to make to obtain the most important relic. They could deal with the survivors later.
“Your commitment to the cause is without equal, but we follow our Prophet’s will. The Priestess shall present the gifts, the Hand shall take the blood. Stay with your task as I shall stay with mine.”

She bowed to him and turned back to the opened wall.
“Of course. Your words are as ever true. I shall finish my task and gather the fallen. Once I am done, know that whoever I can spare will be yours to command. Good hunting, Hand.” She said before stepping into the darkness, her acolytes following like rubies on a chain.
“And to you, Priestess.” Raven replied and let the portal cease to be.

He went downstairs to the dining room where his own followers were waiting. They had closed the curtains and were gathered around a large map that had been spread out on the table. Coins were scattered on it. Tenth-pieces for guard-posts, half-pieces for their own observation-posts and a full septim marked each safe-house the Blades maintained in the city. He was glad to see they had not been wasting their time and had been going over the details of the various plans one last time, even though none of those plans would see use. Harrow stood in a corner away from the others. He had no ear for the murmurings and his eyes were focussed on the sharpening of his knife, not the map. But he looked up when he heard Raven Camoran step into the room and stepped forward with an eagerness to please that disgusted the Altmer.
“What is your desire, master?” He crooned with a voice dripping of poisonous honey.
“For you to die, treacherous snake. If you believe a little toelicking will make me trust you, you will find I am wiser than that.”

Raven said nothing and walked over to the bookshelves that lined a wall. From there he picked an old book and leafed through it. Behind him Harrow grit his teeth angrily and eventually went back to his corner and his knife. Raven read the pertinent sections quickly and then addressed the men.
“Unseal the armory. We’re moving out now.”
“You are right, sister. Berius is stuck in the fourth century and knows he can’t trust in the present. So I shall counter him in the same way. With fourth century information, not fifth.”

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OOC random words of randomness follow. Also, spoilers to the game.

So yeah, the Mythic Dawn. They're the bad guys of Oblivion and generally exist to be evil and get stabbed, burned and pincushioned by the heroic deliveryman. Now it's been a few years since I actually last played Oblivion beyond Kvatch and I only ever finished the game once, so I could be missing a lot of characterization that is actually in the game. The problem is, I don't know of that characterization so I'm basically improvising here.

To me, the Dawn never made much sense. They worship the lord of Destruction, while at the same time believing in a happy funtime paradise. The paradise of course turns out to be false because seriously, you're worshipping the lord of Destruction, not the lord of pleasant picnics amidst flowers and cute little bunnies of the non-vorpal kind. What did you expect?

They also don't do much onscreen outside the tutorial, recruit every hobbyist willing to buy their books regardless of the moral requirements they have and have a hideout whose presence is glowingly pointed out on a old monument. Which implies that this hideout has been around for a while (making you wonder why it is still a barebones cave instead of something more comfortable), or the Camoran's don't know the meaning of the words 'secret organization'. Oh, and when they do something, it is in the frontal attack by cannon-fodder way while loudly proclaiming your affiliation.

Back to the recruiting. They have one moral test that I am aware of. This is fine in itself since if the participant fails they get murdered and problem solved. But the test takes place in the secret hideout! What if said recruit decided to tell his families, neighbours and the 'Intelectual society of Daedric studies' where he went beforehand?


The same problems basically exist with the Blades. (watch Baurus' detectiveskills that basically amount to telling everyone he is a Blade then see who attacks him.) I guess in their case it can be summed up however as the requirement to keep the player relevant and front seats for the hero-role. That and I'm not supposed to think about it so much.




So, what do I plan to do with my version of the Mythic Dawn? That's a good question and one I'm not ready to answer. For starters however, I decided to raise up the religious part, give each Camoran a role in the pyramid and make them not be responsible for everything bad. I also want to adress the lord of Destruction and lovely my-little-pony paradise dilemma, but that must wait till later.

Other things include ditching the summonable armour. In the game it served no other role but to point out that this person is an evil Dawn loony and you could totally kill them without remorse. But for indentification purposes, I think the robes were good enough. The armour is redundant and I don't like it myself. It makes them too survivable (even though in-game I think it had as much armour-value as wet paper). The elite can have their bound armour (generic bound armour), but the grunts will have to do with simply not getting stabbed. The way a secret cult without infinite resources and who recruits from criminals and sociopaths might work.

This post has been edited by jack cloudy: Feb 24 2013, 03:21 PM

[McBadgere]

Ooooh, that was good!!... ...

Liked that...Falling short of moustache twiddling and BWAHAHAA, but obvioulsy they's in the anti-Septim line of things... ...

I really did enjoy that...

Loved the Ebony wand thing...Brilliant idea...There was loads of brilliant imagination going on there...

Well done that man!!...

Oh, and on yer rant...Go for it!!...I can't remember the characterisation meself...And really, what does it matter?...There is flaws in both the writing and the voice acting, which means that any fan could rewrite what was done before...In fact, I think it's almost mandatory to rewrite the damned thing!...

As I've mentioned several times...We're all multiversing here...What happened in the game is just one universe...mALX's is happening waaay differently...Mine was somewhat different...Your universe is yours...No one can tell you that it's wrong...It's fiction...

Whatever you do with the various agencies (good or bad), I'm sure it will be brilliant, you seem to have a knack for improvement so far...I look forward to each episode...Every time...Brilliant stuff...

Nice one!!...

*Applauds most heartily*...


Oh, two teenie nits that I noticed...You fell foul of the censor with b@stard at one point (One of these days, I really will kill the honoured user. And neither...)

and

...imply that the Camoran’s were fallible...Don't think it needs an apostrophe...Pretty sure anyways...

Brilliant stuff Jack...

[mALX]

Actually, my story is depicting the last year of Uriel Septim's life before he was killed in that tunnel system escaping at the beginning of the Oblivion game.

I totally agree with what both you and McB said. The game is just the palette, what you paint is what makes the story exciting.

Stories like SubRosa's take place in Cyrodiil and have the familiar names and characters from the game, but the story is totally her own imagination and creativity. It is exciting to read because we can't anticipate where the story will go next. It develops a few new characters into the game that grew out of her own inspiration. Acadian's story is the same way. They take place in the familiar setting, but the story is their own.

I'd rather read what you dream up in the TES realm than just read a replay of the game itself anytime.

Your imagination and the changes you made in your earlier stories kept me on my toes reading, intrigued and interested. The early chapters of your last story, guessing the characters before you revealed who it was - that was genius, huge fun for the reader.

You have a very creative mind and imagination that comes across in anything you write, that is what makes your stories great.

This post has been edited by mALX: Aug 13 2012, 06:12 PM

[Zalphon]

I really like how you're developing Camaron's character. He wasn't exactly memorable in Oblivion, but you're making him more-and-more interesting.

[jack cloudy]

Curse you, autocensor! Curse you!

And just after I went around it the last time I tried to use the word honoured user. (This get's censored again.) It was when Latta was throwing insults at Jauffre. I first considered just the word itself, or bastarde (I think Taillus or Agent Griff used that to get around the censor), but then I figured that the average reader would interpret it as 'generic curse'. In reality, she was literally claiming that Jauffre was an illegitimate child and his father likewise. So I switched to falseblooded son. Think of it as calling someone's mother a mother of mine (curse you, censor! ), only more serious.

As for Raven, I didn't even remember him till I'd read about him in the UESP. Turns out that he's the one who tries to recruit the player or Baurus ingame. Funny, I guess the guy died so fast he never registered with me. And I'd just like to say that we haven't actually seen Mankar himself yet. I don't know how to make his personality, but I do have a barebones plan prepared as well as an excuse for why he isn't around right now.


And I like the multiverse idea. It's a good way to look at things. Anyway, back to the Blades and I'll get to updating the character list in a bit. But first, the recap! Cause it has been a few months.


In the same night that Raven Camoran is watching the tower but a bit earlier, the Lord Protector Berius (head of the palace-guard) went to Uriel Septim to prepare him for a meeting with the new Blades. In turn that meeting was to be preparation for an official knighting ceremony but I digress. Before the Blades could arrive, a member of the palace-guard tried to kill Uriel. Berius fought the man off and discovered that the guard had been a shapeshifting monster. To be more specific, the same kind of monster he believed he'd personally wiped out the same day that Jagar Tharn was slain by the Eternal Champion.

When the Blades arrive on the scene, Berius instructs them to escape with the emperor by jumping out the window and also promotes one of them to captain. He tells them to take Uriel to the prison and hide there. We rejoin our Blades as they make their way to a suitable window.

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Chapter 8.5


Imperial Palace

There was a small storeroom, not quite on the spire’s opposite side. Unremarkable in both place and name, it would seem to be an odd place to go. But Uriel was resolute in his choice and the two Blades followed his command unquestioningly. After all, as Jennifer Renault reasoned with herself, if she couldn’t trust the man she was sworn to protect, then what was she doing here in the first place?

She led the way in silence, Uriel following behind her and Baurus bringing up the rear. Despite her best efforts, her mind kept following random thoughts and more than once she realized she’d lost awareness of her surroundings entirely.
She shook her head and chastised herself for lacking discipline. But the thoughts would soon return.

They were questions and doubts. What was happening? What did the Lord Protector plan to do after he’d sent them off? Would Glenroy make it safely to the rendezvous, or would he fall to an ambush by their mystery assailants? Just what had burned Uriel’s suite? And above all, could she rise to the task? The Lord Protector had promoted her, a necessity for establishing a chain of command. But while she thought of herself as competent, she could not consider herself a fighting Blade. That was Glenroy’s place, who had learned to survive where the very land tried to kill all that approached. Or Baurus, who even now walked backwards with unnatural fluidity, never stumbling, always aware of the distance between them, though he never turned his head to look her way.

The late hour combined with Uriel’s preference for solitude was a blessing in disguise. There was no staff at this level to ask questions or….She shuddered though the thought wouldn’t form clear words. Just what had the Lord Protector so worried? He’d looked as if he’d found himself in a living nightmare.
“He wasn’t supposed to be like that. He should have been confident, dignified, strong. Like he was in the stories. Or even this morning. He was all I’d expected him to be back then.”

“This is the one.” Uriel said and gestured at the simple door which some painter had made to resemble the white walls. Renault shook herself once more to the here and now. She made to open the door but stopped her hand before it could touch the handle. Following the others into the emperor’s suite had been easy, but she felt in no condition to lead an entry-and-clearing procedure herself. The Divines knew she had trouble enough getting around her lab at times. A dark and unfamiliar storeroom was definitely beyond her expertise.

She raised a finger to her mouth in the universal sign for silence, then drew out a message with the same hand.
[Check it out]
Before she’d even finished the first word, Baurus had already stepped passed her and placed his hand on the doorhandle.
“You already knew, didn’t you? Or did you just assume you were the best man for the job?” Renault thought and shook her head. Of course he was the best, she told herself. The man had at first come across as easygoing to her, but his perception had been simply frightening from the moment they’d come across the dead guard. It had been Baurus who noted the tiny entry-wound, it had been Baurus who found the Emperor and the Lord Protector. Baurus, who seemed to have the eyes and ears of five men.

The Redguard repeated the silence sign, loosened a trio of thin throwing knifes from its sheath with one hand and counted down from three with the other, then kicked the door open. The knives followed in an instant, whistling through the shadows left right and straight ahead, the places where an unsubtle assassin was most likely to be positioned. They clattered on stone and thunked into wood. Baurus listened closely but could not hear any response to his actions. After a moment he peered into the room and willed his eyes to acclimatize to the darkness faster.

Rapidly, the dark blotches resolved themselves into crates, rolled up carpets and various other decorations or pieces of furniture that filled the room till there was barely enough room to stand or move between them. At the far end he could make out a small part of the tower’s bare outer wall. There was no window, but the Blade easily pushed the questions it raised from his mind while holding on to the thoughts that mattered. He noticed plenty of hiding spaces for the small and limber assassin but no one foolish enough to stand or crouch in the open. The Redguard would have to step inside to make certain it was truly safe. So silently he laid both sword and shield beside the doorway before entering and drew the curved knife kept on his hip. Within these cramped confines, he reasoned it would serve him better than the more cumbersome weapon.

He moved slowly, holding his breath and straining his ears after each step. He quickly but effectively inspected every nook and cranny, first by sweeping through with his knife, then his eye. No one challenged him and he made it to the bare wall without incident. Again the question came to his mind and again he pushed it aside.
“Clear.” He spoke softly as he worked his way backwards to the door.

Uriel entered the room, leaning heavily on his stick and breathing as if he’d ran a marathon. Renault looked at him with troubled eyes. Even just circumnavigating one floor of the spire was enough to push the emperor to his limits. She did not see how he could walk to the city prison. Not without aid.
“Sit on that crate and rest, my liege. Brother, seal the door behind us. We’re not going back that way.” She said. While the other Blade began to shift the furniture, she took her time to look at the room. The outside wall was completely bare safe for the knife sticking into it. There was no window or anything that suggested there had been one. Renault paused and took a second look.
“That knife shouldn’t stick into the wall like that. It’s stone bricks and Baurus didn’t hit a crack.”

She pulled the knife free and shook her head with an amused smile.
“It’s wood. They’ve boarded up the window and then painted it to look like stone.” The Breton muttered to herself, not knowing whether it had been done for the sake of paranoia or aesthetics. In any case, she could see that it would increase their chances of surprising any observers on the ground. No one ever expected someone to jump from a window that didn’t exist.
She felt for the ensorcelled brick beneath the planks and pulled it out. Behind it she found another pouch of rings which she pocketed.

“My liege, it is my professional opinion that you are in no shape to make it to the prison, especially in this weather. Is there any other place you know to go?” She asked over her shoulder as she continued to free up the window. Behind her the old man sighed and clutched the jewel that hung from his chest. He could feel his spine complain from having keep his back straight and his lungs burned with an intensity that nearly robbed him of his voice.
“None, we go to the prison. Captain, you studied under…the former court healer. I assume you are capable of fortifying.” He wheezed. The woman ceased her activities to walk up to the emperor and watch the symptons that were written in his posture clear as day. Baurus didn’t wait for the order and continued where she’d left off.
“I could.” Renault decided after a moment. “But the kick afterwards will be too much. I estimate that you would be bedridden for days, and that’s the best case scenario. Worst case, you will die. It’s not worth it.”

Uriel coughed and whipped the dribble of saliva that had freed itself from his throat.
“But it is, captain. I can’t…explain. Staying here is…death.” He coughed again and forced himself to breathe slowly and deeply. It was hard to keep his body from spasming and gasping uncontrollably, but he managed. In return, he regained his voice.
“If you will not do it on your authority as a healer, then I shall order you as a Blade.” He spoke and looked her in the eye.

She couldn’t withstand the gaze that had united a continent and forced countless would-be kings and queens to their knees. The Blade saluted and looked away.
“Understood, my emperor. I shall cast a spell the moment we hit streetlevel.”
“Good, then I won’t be needing my cane.”

It was then that Baurus interrupted them and waved for their attention.
“Sister, emperor. If I may? Someone is emptying baskets below us. The whole sky is lit up.” He said and indeed his face was lit by an unnatural glow coming from beyond the opening he’d made. Renault observed that the gap was wide enough for them all to pass through easily now and decided that now was their best chance to leave.
“That must be the Lord Protector rallying the staff. No telling how long he can keep it up. Brother! Jump now and secure our landing. We’ll be right behind you.” She ordered briskly and lifted Uriel onto her shoulder.
“Hold on tight, sir. It’s a long way down. Try not to blink. We can’t have you stumble on landing and breaking a leg.” She said.

They jumped.

This post has been edited by jack cloudy: Feb 24 2013, 03:21 PM

[McBadgere]

Autocensor - I just subtitute characters...B@stard, $hit, b!tch...etc... ...My personal faves are where it changes a$s to boat and ar$e to British boat...Oh, and the Thermos one... ...

Raven - I don't remember Raven in the game at all ...Is he the one in Luthor Broad's place?...So anyways, I found his character as you portrayed him as excellent as all your others...

Recap - I'd remembered all that...See, I'm good me... ...

Aaaamywho...

Loved this chapter muchly...Renault and Baurus work well together...Loved the way that Baurus just put himself in front...Absolutely brilliant characterisation...I also loved that Renault felt she was way too inexperienced for the task...Yet was determined to do it properly and all that...

Uriel was brilliant...Loved his appearance here hugely....

Amazing chapter Jack...

Loved it!...

Nice one!!...

*Applauds most heartily*...

[mALX]

You are doing an amazing job with Uriel Septim in this, and I am absolutely Loving that you are giving us this glimpse of him before that dreaded day! Awesome Write!

[jack cloudy]

The guy at the tavern who attacks Baurus? Nah, I think that was just a random Dawnie. Raven is the interviewer in the sewers, the one that carries the last book you need to figure out where the Mythic Dawn's base is.

For today's bit, we're going to do a little jumping back and forth. I don't tell which viewpoint is which as I think they explain themselves well enough. Besides, the breaks are indicated by the dotted line. Can't miss them.


Chapter 8.6


Outside

He didn’t like it, didn’t like it at all. For the past two minutes or so the barrier that spanned the city had been lighting up in all directions, its glow spreading till it reached the far walls. It had made magicka-enhanced sight mostly useless and even the mundane eyes were discomforted by the light. People pushed their heads out of windows and craned their necks to see while Raven led his troops by them in the hope that no one would have the wit to report his heavily armed group.
“It is a small blessing that everyone is watching the skies instead of the streets. But I wished there had been no reason for them to look beyond their windows in the first place.”

Worse perhaps was that he’d been forced to put away the eyepatch. While bright enough on its own, the light he now saw was merely a fraction of the blinding radiance on the Arcane plane. As such, he could not keep the palace under observation as they jogged towards it. He did risk the patch once, to scan the streets on groundlevel. There were a great number of signatures scurrying about. Far too many for any day and too many to track them all down, even if he did split up his group into lone individuals.
And that was something he would not do. Apart from himself, he doubted that anyone on his team could subdue even a single guard. And guardsmen never worked alone.
“I know the man’s got doubles, but he can’t have that many. Perhaps they are trained animals, small birds and cats.”



They stopped before the gates to the palace district. Raven thought that he’d rather avoid going up to the front door as the guards would never shirk their duty this close to the Septim’s eye, weather or no weather.
“Where would he flee to? Well, I doubt the man would be stupid enough to leave by the front door, or anywhere on the same side of the building for that matter. The Imperial Suites are too obvious as well. So…that leaves east or north?”
He looked both ways. Circling right through the arena would be the shorter path. However, a sizable portion of the city’s watch was stationed in that district to keep an eye on the gladiators. Or anyone else going that way. He did not want to lose his acolytes to a fight which he could just as easily avoid by going left instead.
“The man is old, we are on an island and I already have the bridge and the waterfront under watch. Really, I think we can afford to waste some time.”

“We go clockwise. Keep an eye out!”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Though for Raven the possibility of a citizen noticing his group was merely a grave concern, for Uriel Septim it was a reality. The simplicity of the matter was that he stood out with the shining jewel on his chest that pulsed in rhytm with the waves overhead. To that the official escort and his awfully out of place sleeping-gown were merely an afterthough. Oh, the citizenry’s attention was initially focused on the barrier, but no one watching at street-level could ignore him.

“Look mum! It’s the Emperor!” One young child yelled into the night and the man held back a sigh.
“Everyone will know where I am.” He thought and when Renault steered him to the cover of an awning, he resisted her gentle hand.
“No. No rest till we get there.” He whispered. His voice was lost in the storm but the meaning was not.
“Baurus! Double-time!”


-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


“I warned you not to look up!” Raven snarled when an agonized cry disturbed his thoughts. The group came to a halt as he wheeled to face the Bosmer that had shouted. The mer was clutching his eye with one hand, and a smoking patch in the other.
“Forgive me, master Camoran.” He squealed inbetween his sobs. “Something came from…I think it was the Battlemage’s mansion. It went straight up. Like an arrow.”
At once Raven Camoran’s anger was gone. This was a new development and his mind set to work on how to exploit it.
“So Ocato sent a whisp. Did you see where it landed?” He asked the smaller man who shook his head.
“I didn’t, master Camoran. My will wasn’t strong enough. Please forgive my weakness.”

The Altmer waved for everyone to continue moving.
“Save those words. Your perception is to be praised, not shamed.”
“Whisps are patterns of semi-intelligent magicka. With the barrier agitated like this, it is effectively trapped within the city. So the recipient of the message must be close.”
As they ran, he looked around with enhanced sight himself. Though his skull itched and his eye watered, he stuck with it. Even as his own eyepatch began to burn away and singed his flesh, he still looked.
“Now who would be important enough for Ocato to send a whisp at this hour? They’re too rare and valuable to be expended in frivolity. Given the night, it can only be one man.”



The Altmer nearly missed it. Moving so fast it’s body appeared as a thin line, the whisp came down again next to a cluster of spell-signatures. There it reshaped its nonphysical form to draw a message in the air before promptly vanishing back up towards the rainbow umbrella.
“We got him.” Raven said as he stepped into an alcove and threw aside the now useless eyepatch. Out of the rain, he took out the book he’d taken earlier and opened it.
“The Septim and two of his shields are north-east of us, about three blocks away and moving slowly. Given their current location and heading, I think they are headed…for the prison.” He frowned and reread the paragraph again. The prison had not been in their plans for interception, though they had hidden their boats at an old pier nearby for the evacuation. If the Emperor was headed the same way, he wouldn’t let the opportunity slip him by. And then there was a loose scrap of paper which he just now found had been slipped into the book.
“Listen closely. There is a tunnel leading from the prison to the undercity. And from there they have a straight path to the dock we left our boats.” He held up a hand to hold off the questions. Like his compatriots, this was the first he’d heard of a tunnel leading from the prison. One would suspect the Thieves guild to be very interested in it if such a thing did exist. But their contacts in the guild had never spoken a word of it. Even his father had never spoken of it, though he evidently knew given the small piece of paper. That he’d not informed either of his children was testament to how unlikely he’d expected the information to be of use.
“So does the emperor even know of it? He is heading that way though. Damn that Berius. Damn us for underestimating him.” He thought and then wondered about the exit.

The pier they used wasn’t a secret, though this time of the year it was deserted. Come harvest-season, farmers who could not afford the Waterfront’s exorbitant fees would land their boats there. Such being as it was, he was surprised no one had discovered that exit. There was a barred entry to the sewersystem, but the undercity lay further below.

He remembered the steep hill that rose up from that pier to the prison itself. Never before had Raven given the overgrown dirt and the rough path any thought, but now he realized that the hill was the end-result of centuries of mud sloughing down from the top, fixed by the roots of trees and smaller plants.
“Hah! Of course that’s the answer. The exit has been buried for ages. That makes our job easier, but let’s see if we can’t get it done before we have to resort to dirtying our hands.”



“Harrow! Take the parallel road and block the entry to Justice-street. Under no circumstance are you to engage! You are only to seal off the Septim’s escape while I destroy his allies. You, you and you. Go with him. The rest comes with me.”


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He was the first who noticed. A singular purpose moving to obstruct their path. Exactly what had given him the first clue, he didn’t know. It could have been a misty shadow up ahead, the obscuring of a lantern’s reflection in the windows or the tremor of running feet being carried up through the cobbles.

Baurus grimaced. The unknown assailants had appeared before them instead of chasing from behind.
“They know exactly where we’re going.” He noted and ran in front of the Captain and their charge.
“Hold up! They’re in front of us.” The Redguard called out with a nod towards the still unseen nemace.
“Front? How many?” Uriel asked him.

“I don’t know. Three…five. No more.” He replied as he tried to determine what exactly had set off his instinct. For a moment he held hope he’d merely seen shadows, but that hope was dashed by a voice calling for them through the rain.
“Cease running Septim, and you may not die tired! The days of you and your empire are at an end!”
“Definitely hostile.” Renault muttered even as her eyes searched for potential escape routes. There weren’t many. The alleys here were thin and looped back to the main street right before the gates of Justice district. For a moment she inspected the building walls and nearby clutter for a way up to the rooftops, but then she realized that neither her armour or the Emperor would permit a climb.
“Think we could take them?” She asked.

Baurus looked at her for a moment and saw how she was practically carrying the old man by plain strength now. Though he lacked the training to tell, it was clear to him that her spell was running out.
“Forgive me for being frank, captain. I’ve run escorts before and believe me, you do not keep your charge near a battle if you can help it. They’re packed tight though. If we could keep them that way…”
He did not say what was more obvious to her than it was to him. With a gentle push, Baurus sent her and the emperor to a nearby alley that his instinct told him was still safe.
Renault carried the emperor down the alley as fast as she could, which was unfortunately about the pace of a standard march.
“Keep going.” The Redguard muttered at their receding backs and turned around. He drew his sword and waited.





Baurus observed the figures as they appeared trough the thick mist. There were four of them, all wearing the same rusty brown robes. They came at him unhurried with three hatchets kept loosely in their hand and one short sword, still sheathed. Even more evident of their confidence were the hoods drawn deep over their face. They seemed to consider the weather a greater adversary than a man bearing steel.
“Four to one, the numbers alone would justify their confidence.”

The strangers stopped barely within his sight. For a moment they looked around as if they expected the Emperor to be hiding behind a window. But all that showed were the faces of confused and curious citizens. The one with the sword, far taller than the other three, was the first to give up the search and the first to speak.
“Look, the Septim leaves a little dog to play with us. You picked the wrong street to patrol, lawslave. I dearly hope you weren’t planning on ever collecting that retirement fund.”
Taking the hint, heads were hurriedly pulled back and windows were shut tight.



The Blade’s eyes narrowed. In a way, it was good to finally put a face to the nebulous threat the Lord Protector and Uriel Septim had hinted at. But he didn’t see how a trio of Bosmer and one of other descendance could constitute such a threat. Their hatchets looked like they’d been stolen from a forestry camp, not the kind of weapon he’d gamble on against solid plate.
“Then you must be the one who was shouting just then. I take it you have an issue with our emperor. Who are you anyway?” The Redguard responded.
The robed swordsman barked a laugh and swung his arms wide dramatically.
“I have no name to give to you. Call me, Death. It is a name that fits me well.”
“Quite the ego on that one.”

Again the tall one barked his laugh, but one of his companions seemed less confident.
“Is he really a guardsman? He looks kind of different.” He wondered to himself out loud. The swordsman called Death barked his laugh again.
“Well, he’s dressed too pretty to be a mercenary, isn’t he? And I do not care what he’s wearing. There is four of us, one of him. Surely you have enough fingers to count that far.”

They all began to yell at him now.
“Get out of our way or bleed in the gutter. It’s not a hard choice!”
“I’d love to run. And come back with reinforcements. But I swore an oath.” Baurus thought and began to whisper. His words were blown away by the thunder, the howling winds and the pattering rain. But his soul heard. And that was enough.

“I am Penald Baurus. Shehai Shen She Ru. The sword is the master, the man is the tool. Shehai Shen She Ru. We are Ra Gada. The wave that drowns the land, that cuts rock. Shehai Shen She Ru.”


While the robed men lost their tongues in taunts and threats, Baurus lost himself. Where once had stood a Redguard from the halls of Skaven, now stood two. One was the poet, always attentive to the words of men, both spoken and those kept in silence. The other was the warrior, silent and stoic. A wiseman in the lore of flesh and murder. Both shared the same form, though it was only the warrior that could move its bones and the poet that moved its tongue.
The two stood in silence as the robed strangers threw insults. The words rolled off the warrior’s skin as easily as the rain and passed through the poet’s ears like whispers. The warrior felt the weight of the ill-fitted armour and the slick water coating the street beneath his feet. He made an inventory of the weapons in his possession and those of his enemies. The warrior considered the likely motions the actors in the upcoming conflict were to take, drawing heavily on similar encounters in the past.

Meanwhile, the poet had been forced to listen to a story about a future meeting between the thugs and any females sharing his blood. Unlikely, he considered, since those women were either dead or likely to cut them down as well as the warrior planned to do right now. In fact, their mannerisms revealed a barely constrained anxiety. In other words, they were trying their best not to be afraid. When the warrior and the poet took one step forwards, their demeanor changed entirely.
“Stay back! Didn’t you hear us?! We’ll gut you, we really will!” They cried, waving their hatchets wildly at the air that separated them. The tall one with the sword was the only one who seemed filled with confidence to the point of arrogance.
“Shut up! Did the dummies make you into cowards? Cut and run!” He spat in anger.



They ran, and cut. The poet filtered out the disbelief that the warrior felt at the tactic being used. He’d expected something more elaborate, something better. The first two came in shoulder to shoulder and swung their axe straight down where he’d stood. They were good swings, basic but efficient. It was everything else which was wrong.
They did not accommodate for the shift in posture the warrior performed, nor the placement of his shield or the area threatened by his sword. Yes, they were both so focussed on that strike they were even unaware of their partner’s position. As one, their arms jerked back again as they stumbled into each other’s path and the warrior merely had to lean aside to dodge the attack and destroy their balance.

Left swung the shield, crushing ribs. Right went the sword to cut across the other’s arm then up the assassin’s chest, parting the robe like water, splitting flesh and following the curve of bone to the throat. Before either man had the chance to fall or even scream he stepped between them and cracked the rim of his shield on the left-side man’s skull.
“Two down.” The warrior thought and the existence of the two left him as they crumbled. Only the awareness of two low obstacles remained, for in the event he had to move backwards.
“Two to go.” Thought the poet.



The third cried as he slipped to a halt on the wet cobbles, just beyond the reach of the advancing warrior’s sword. Rather than moving in recklessly, the warrior slipped one of his knives into his shieldhand and prepared to throw it. As the clatter of a falling hatchet joined the clatter of the rain, the third turned and fled back passed the last of the robed assassins.
“Stand your ground, damn you.” The tall one growled but the frightened man paid him no heed. He kept running and vanished within the fog.
“Uriel isn’t that way. Let him go.”

“Tsk, when you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.”
The last said, pulled back his hood and drew his blade. Both actions gave the split entity that used to be Baurus valuable clues. The ashbitten face was Dunmeri, the sword like a hewn piece of stone, black and glossy as only Ebony could be. On their own they would have only given a general hint to the mer’s background but together it wasn’t so much a hint as a blazing sign. The poet put his conclusions into words.
“A Dunmer. Let me guess. Vvardenfell, ashlands? You must have been an Armiger, stationed at Ghostgate. A high ranking one at that.”

The Dunmer was stunned, just as the poet had planned. People that thrived on mystery were often unnerved when that mystery was dismissed. He regathered himself in moments however.
“False Incarnate!” He yelled, his features twisted in fury. He gestured, thumb and ringfnger touched, drew a jagged line in the rain. Then he charged. The black sword cut the air where the Blade had just been, its tip gouging a deep groove in the shield. The warrior retaliated, but the mer was already gone. With unnaturally powerful strides, he circled around to keep the shield between them. Again the sword claimed a piece from the steel disc and again the Dunmer dashed away before the counterblow.



The warrior began to retreat, zigging and sagging with the Dunmer. As if by coincidence, he stepped between the dead and the dying. This broke up the relentless assault. Fast as he was, the Armiger could not step onto the two bodies and he couldn’t reach across. As long as the Blade stayed where he was, he could only be attacked directly from the front or rear.
He could easily turn either way in the time it took the Dunmer to get around his beaten compatriots.

It was an impasse, one that suited the warrior well. With every breath Renault was carrying the emperor closer to safety. All he needed to do now was to keep his enemies attention.
“Ebony weapons are unparalleled in mass and their ability to keep an edge. Unfortunately, a weapon is only as good as the mind that wields it. And your perception is lacking.” The poet laughed, raising the ire of the Armiger once more.
“Ancestors take you!” The dark elf cursed but did not attack.

It happened a heartbeat later. A cold pierced the warrior’s guts, an ethereal hand closed around his spine. He swung his shield at the ghost that had appeared behind him. His arm was gripped by the killing chill and fell lifeless to his side. In that instant, the Dunmer attacked


“N’wah…” He croaked.


He looked down.


The ghost was no more, its incorporeal flesh cut.


His blood washed away in the rain.


The Redguard’s katana was buried deep in his gut.


Something whizzed by them.

The Blade pulled back his sword and ran.
“Damn I feel weak.” Baurus thought.


-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Raven Camoran had only seen the aftermath. One fighter had swiped his shield behind him while simultaneously thrusting his sword forward where the other fighter obligingly impaled himself upon it.
“Archers, fire!” Raven had ordered. One fighter had ran off, the other fell down next to two lumps.

They had drawn closer where Raven saw one of the worst situations he could think off. The fallen fighter was Harrow, the lumps were two of the men he’d sent with him.


“My commands to you were clear. You were not to engage!” The Altmer growled to the wounded Dunmer, who gasped a reply between gritted teeth.
“Shut it Raven. I’m dying.” Harrow said.
Raven threw his head back and laughed loudly. It was a haunting laugh, one that made those around him shiver. He looked down again at the Dunmer.
“Yes. It is a mortal wound. To think that faith smiles upon me so. It has taken the leech from my sister. This is glorious!” He thought to himself. Then another thought came to him and he smiled.

He could let Harrow die, but it would be better if he saved his life. He pulled both of his hands from their sleeves and began to draw the arcane signs of healing over the mer.
“You won’t die, Harrow.” He said as he casted spells that mended the flesh and revitalized the blood. He was not concerned with removing the pain however, or sealing the wound in a way that would get the man back on his feet. Harrow cried out as his guts bent, as torn muscle flexed.
“Oh no. I am going to give you your greatest desire. The continuation of your worthless life. You think that is a mercy?"
"I shall do more for you.I won’t tell the prophet of what you’ve done. I won’t tell him how you charged ahead like a fool, got two of the faitful killed and stole the heart of a third."
"I won’t tell the Prophet of your phenomenal failure.”
The healing was complete now, as far as Raven cared. His smile grew wider, like the hungry grin of a predatorial beast.
“You get to do that yourself.”

He liked the terror he saw in Harrow’s eyes. That alone made it worth it.



A glint on the street, between the two dead Bosmer, caught his attention. Raven knelt down to see it was some sort of knife. It wasn’t like any kind he’d seen before, very thin, flat on one side and rounded on the other. The metal was like layer upon layer of steel and silver. Instead of a leatherwrapped grip, the blade simply narrowed down into a narrow strip. He picked it up and turned it in his hands but could not find a craftman’s signature. What he could tell was that this knife was not a guardman’s weapon. Neither was it part of the palace guard’s toolset. Which left only one answer.
”We picked today because we saw the inauguration of the Blades as a weakening of security. But it seems that the new hands of the Septim were skilled enough to compensate. Well played, Berius.”

He rose and waved his arm at the two martyrs laying side by side.
“Look around you! This is a Blade! When in the future you come upon one, remember this scene! Perhaps it will temper your lust for glory and let wisdom have its tongue.”
He shouted. He looked at Harrow and spat upon the ground.
“Take that cretin, that heretic, to the boats! You can all go guard that passage I told you about. I’ll chase down the Septim myself!”

This post has been edited by jack cloudy: Feb 24 2013, 03:22 PM

[jack cloudy]

Just a quickie.



Chapter 8.7



Blades hideout


The story had wandered on, taking up life and going places. I heard how the young Lord Emperor’s statue had been thrown out of the highest window of the highest tower by his protectors. It had landed in the deepest basin of the splintered sea where he’d sunk to its depths, to the study that was mine. I followed on the wings of a little bird, the tail of a fish.

On and on the statue ran, passed all the places I knew. Passed the lighthouse, the marketplace. Passed the singing galleon stuck on the reef. It danced upon the floors of Orgnum’s palace and presented a broken head to the throne.
“Fear not, child. This is a regret I must take. You shall be the king’s now. So it was promised.” The head whispered and smiled at the empty throne. Shadows leaped at the statue, with spears and malevolent spellsong.
“Foullness! This land isn’t yours!” The statue yelled at them as it jumped around to dodge the deadly assaults. knocking over a lantern, setting fire to the sea. It took me in its arms, spun me around in its wild dance. Then Kelth was there, all radiant like the sun, calling out to the statue.
“You do not belong here, marble man. Why do you take my beloved, steal her in fargone lands?” He said.

Master Zelthir was there as well, tutting about my failings in that brusque yet gentle manner of his.
“Healer third grade, have you forgotten your vows? Why do you stand there? Look, an old man requires your talents. Have you not given your oath?” He asked me, pointing at the Lord Emperor. The statue burned, the elegantly curling beard crackled and laughed.
“Help me. Give me flesh. Give, me, time!” The marble face wailed. It was shriveled now, like a dried corpse ready for the sealing.
I drew back, told it that I was only a second grade, that I didn’t know what to do. It grabbed me, melted, turned to ash.
“HELP ME!”
“No!”

The study burned down, Kelth and Zelthir went away till nothing was left. Just me floating amidst coral and an inky cloud near my hand.
“Child.” The cloud whispered.
“Child.” The inky face whispered. I watched it, couldn’t tell who it was. It changed colour, into the sun like Kelth. But it wasn’t the Kelth I knew. Wrinkles carved his smooth brow, blood colour his eyes red.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“A ghost. Wake up, child.”

My eyes opened.




I was surprised to find I’d nodded off into sleep. I was less surprised that my dreams had been the stuff of nightmares. They’d been that way the last few days, though I rarely remembered them so vividly. At least this one had ended mildly unnerving rather than horrifying.

I rubbed my eyes and tried to remedy the soreness in my back. Around me, the candles were now far shorted and the fire burned less hot.
“Wake up. I need to put some more wood in the furnace.” One of the armoured ones said to me. It was the older guy, the one….I couldn’t help but stare.
“Yeah, looks pretty nasty. Anyway, the emperor needs to rest now. Follow captain Renault. She’ll take you to a room where you can stay.” He answered of his own, making me feel embarrassed for being too curious. I dragged myself onto my feet and walked to the door while trying not to think. How did someone breathe without a nose? The steel woman was waiting for me. Ugly old Jauffre too, looked like he was readying himself to leave. He pushed the both of us through the doorway and then followed.


“Wait!” The emperor hissed, his voice stronger than I’d ever heard it before. We stopped and turned.
“You haven’t heard…the most important thing.” Jauffre shoved us into the hall and closed the door behind us.
“So this isn’t meant for Pyandonean ears. Oh, now I simply have to know!” I muttered to myself. Curiosity had always been one of my vices and I lingered at the door even as the armourlady stomped off.
Before she noticed and came back to drag me along, I managed to pick up two words.



“Tharn…lives.”

This post has been edited by jack cloudy: Feb 24 2013, 03:22 PM

[jack cloudy]

It was about time we checked up on how the other protagonist is doing. Last time we saw the Altmeri sorcerer, Angoril Bobardi, he was trying to find the assassins in the red robes. His search took him to Chorrol and then Kvatch. While in Low Kvatch, which is a 'temporary' and unofficial district located on the road between the cities of Anvil and Skingrad, he found his next clue. Ludius Bester, of the Kvatch Hall of Mercantile Interests, told him which Bosmer could have made the robe. Unfortunately, said mer got caught in a fatal accident not too long ago. Angoril still wants to inspect the store however and uses a coverstory to get in.

In his cover identity he is Tennil, a much simpler Altmer who is frantically looking for a dress for his wife after the last one got devoured by their dog.





Chapter 9: Ghosts of the Past

Low Kvatch

Ludius Bester had come to collect him long before sunrise.
“Best eat hearty.” He’d said. “The climb to Upper isn’t to be done on an empty stomach.”

It was no exaggeration. Like a stairway made for giants, the road to upper Kvatch looped its way up the mountain. Though the sun had not yet risen when they stepped upon the first tile, a good score of carts were ascending already. Each cart was pulled along the sideramps by as many as eight of the muscled beasts and carried food, lumber, stone, luxuries and a wide variety of other goods that had been brought to Low Kvatch by the caravans. Up above, Angoril Bobardi saw a trail of ants making their way downhill. More carts, this time with goods to be sold and taken to Skingrad or Anvil.
When Magnus rose in the east, it baked the path in its light and the temperature rose exponentially. To the Altmer the heat was a forgettable discomfort but to Bester it was a formidable foe that sapped him of his strength and breath. He had to rest often on benches that stood in the shade of a few lonely trees. It was therefore more due to the physique of his companion than the length of the climb that Angoril arrived at Kvatch proper several hours later.

He looked upon the massive walls, higher than ten men and thicker than Valenwood’s oldest trees. They were dark, pitted and scorched with the scars of many sieges long ago. Within the shadow of those walls, Kvatch was laid out like a maze of tiny alleyways and hovels as more and more people had to make use of the limited living space behind the stone ring. Only along the main streets did there seem to be any room to breathe or build spacious dwellings. Even that space however, was limited. The inner keep claimed Kvatch’s heart and the Divines mandated grand gardens around their temples. There was little doubt in the Altmer’s mind that the landprizes were as massive as the citywalls.



The portly Imperial brought him to a medium-sized building, two floors high, just off the main street. Its owner looked to be well-off, where it not for the fact that he was dead. There was a sign mounted above the front door.
‘Belgoth’s on demand fabrics’ it said in golden lettering. Bester produced a large keychain with a flourish and with almost excessive delicacy selected one of the barbed rods which he inserted into the door’s lock.
“I thought he sold clothing. Why does the sign not mention this?” Angoril mentioned when the door came unlocked. Bester shrugged in response.
“Belgoth sold both. Fabrics were his main product but if you wanted them stitched into something, he was always willing to set some local lasses on the job. Course, that cost extra.” He pushed open the gilded door and waved the Altmer in.
“We’re still looking for any heirs he may have had, but until someone steps forward who can make his or her claims stick, Mercantile Interests is going to sell off everything that isn’t nailed down.”


The Altmer looked around and let the first impressions wash over him. Belgoth’s store was a single room, quite spacious. On the right side, he saw a counter and racks filled with rolls of fabrics in all colours, including the elusive red. On his left, was a bizarre contraption of crisscrossing treads, levers, copper tubes and wooden frames.
“Was that, the loom?” He asked the heavy-set man he was with.
“Aye, that’s the cursed thing.” Bester answered. “Strung him right up, like a moth in the spider’s web. Feet reached for the ceiling, his eyes studied the floor. It was a dreadful sight, sir Tennil. Very dreadful.” He crossed his hands to ward off evil and then shook his head. Angoril also shook his head in what Bester took to be pity and empatic sorrow for the dead Bosmer. In reality, it was sceptiscism the Altmer felt. The machine looked like a fragile thing to him and he doubted it could have taken the weight of a man, even one as light as most wood folk were, and continue to function long enough to wrap up the poor soul.
“There are a few articles of clothing upstairs. Call me when you find anything of interest. I’ll be in the office. I just can’t stand being in this room, you see.” The merchant said as he walked away.

As soon as the Imperial’s shoes vanished up the stairs, Angoril began to investigate. He ignored the fabrics for now. Instead he focused his attention on the machine, or the flying loom as Bester had called it. The Altmer knew little of mechanical devices and the spinningmachine’s complexity was far beyond him. He didn’t dare guess at what each part did and the device wasn’t even complete.
“But would this Belgoth really forget that the Besters had stripped out some ‘vital components’? And say he had, then what of it? Given this store’s expense, I’d take him for a manager, not someone who gets his hands dirty on the workfloor.”
He told himself and let a finger run across one of the madly twirling pipes. When he pulled his hand back, the tip was covered in a fine layer of dust.
“It hasn’t been used in a while…wait.” Again he reached out to touch a section of the machine but this time, his finger was clean when he pulled it back.

He looked over his shoulder and listened for any noise coming from above. After some time, he made out the sound of paper rustling. Concluding that Ludius Bester was busy with paperwork of some sort and wouldn’t interupt, he returned to his investigation. A closer look of the clean section revealed ragged screw holes in the wood, as if whatever had been attached to it had been crudely torn free rather than unscrewed first. He found more screw holes when he looked further, most old and clean but some fresh and damaged.
“So assuming for the moment that the old holes are from when the Hall of Mercantile Interests removed the key parts, then someone has taken more components at a later date. And he was in a hurry.”
He listened for more activity from the Imperial upstairs before lowering himself to the floor and looking at the thick dust that covered the floor beneath the device. Spying a squarish bit of metal, he drew it towards him and turned it over in his hands. Two bent screws were sticking to it, and one side of the plate bore stenciled writing. It was a set of instructions for the use of the flying loom. The plate only contained a subset, but it was enough to reveal to him that the contraption could not work without constant activity of its operator. Every single movement required the handling of one or more levers and wheels. Even if Belgoth had fallen into the strings and gotten himself tangled up, the machine would have stopped instantly.
“That does it. Belgoth was definitely murdered. The perpetrator must have taken the instructions to keep the guards from realizing how impossible the accident was.”


He pocketed the plate and turned to the rolls of fabric that were lined up on the other side of the room. He was content to leave Kvatch in its misconception regarding this incident. It was far better than letting them know and in doing so, reopen the investigation. The red-robed men might learn of this and go underground. That was something he didn’t want to happen.
“They came too close to killing Uriel last time, even with me there. I’m not going to give them the chance to prepare a second strike. Anyway, I won’t find anything else down here. The weave is right, but there’s no silk.”

Angoril took a random roll of linen and tucked it under his arm before going upstairs. The second floor of Belgoth’s fabrics was smaller than the first. The area dedicated to the store was only the size of a small walk-in closet and held only three shirts. All the other rooms Angoril surmised to be the general living facilities. Bedroom, kitchen and the like.
“Sir Bester?” The Altmer called and heard the Imperial reply from behind one of the doors. He found the man sitting in a luxurious office, reading a document with one hand and plucking his dark moustache with the other.
“Sir Tennil. Did you find anything?” The man asked him. Angoril let his eyes casually wander across the room, seemingly without focusing on anything in particular. In that casual look however, he read the titles of several volumes, discovered the corner of a wallsafe peeking from behind a deershead, and noticed the deskdrawer from which Bester had taken the document.
“I found some linen. My wife would like a colour and I’ll look into a place to have it sewn up.” He answered while still looking. The other man put the file back in the drawer which he locked with a key. He then lead the Altmer out of the building while they discussed his other plans for the day.

“I was thinking of visiting the temple. It has been some while since I gave the Divines their proper due. The roads aren’t a place for worship.” Angoril told the man.
“You do that. Me, I’m going to visit my pop for lunch while I’m here in Upper. By the time I got back down, it would be far passed noon. Good day to you then, sir Tennil.”

He took one last look at the building as they parted and he turned for the spire of Kvatch’s temple.
“I’ll come back after nightfall. If Belgoth kept a copy of his accounting, it will be in that safe.”

[Grits]

I’ve just spent a very enjoyable rainy evening catching up with your story. This is outstanding! I love the originality, and the way you have portrayed game characters brings them to new life. Jennifer! Who knew that Renault was a hottie? (She must be with that name! )

I must mention how much I enjoyed Baurus’ badassery against ‘Call Me Death’ Harrow and the three Bosmer ex-woodcutters. That whole part was a beautiful thing to read.

I love this, cloudy!

[Darkness Eternal]

Just stopping by to say I will catch up to this! I thought you abandoned it and left the forums!

[jack cloudy]

Nah, I'm just slower than the drat gletsjer that swallowed Cloud Ruler Temple. (Is that even possible? Meh, I guess the Akaviri built things tough.)


Chapter 9.2


Mythic Dawn Temple

After the fiasco at the Imperial City, Raven Camoran and two others had travelled as fast as they could to the Dawn’s hideout. Carved out of stone and dirt by scamps, it was a temple to the glory of Mehrunes Dagon, Daedric Prince of Destruction, and his foremost servants, the Camorans. What Raven didn’t like about the place was how far removed from civilization it was. He hated how it sat in a northeastern corner of the province like the hiding hole of a common bandit. He hated how the nearest city was Cheydinhall, infested with too many Dunmer. He hated how the secrecy of the place had made it impossible to bring decent furniture. All they had was roughly hewn from local wood and a few small luxuries they’d sneaked in over the years.

He had made his own room, actually a large alcove walled off with timbers and a spell of silence to ensure some measure of privacy, in the deepest part of the tunnel-complex. There he simmered and stewed all day, angry at just about anything. At having to sacrifice his comfort here, at his worthless underlings, at his own failure and that stranger who had so easily thwarted his plans. He hoped that Ruma had done better, yet he feared having to explain to his father why he had failed what was supposed to be the easier task.
“This almost makes me believe in the existence of Talos. Who else but an apeothisized Septim could have so skillfully outmanipulated me?”




“Raven! I know you’re in here!” A familiar voice called at the same time the door was thrown open. In came the sister he’d just been thinking about, dressed up like an Imperial Forester in leathers and a chain undershirt. She held a small jewelry box made of misted glass which she slammed down on the table before him with enough force that he feared it would crack.
“When I speak to father, he,” She continued but he jumped up from his seat and cut her off.
“Father has been delayed!” He said.
The Altmeri woman blinked while she processed the new information. By the original plan, Raven and she would perform their respective tasks in the Imperial City, at the same time that other arms of the Dawn would strike at the Septims throughout the province. Their father meanwhile, would personally undertake another vital operation in the land of the Dunmer. He’d left a month or two ago but did promise to return for the fateful day. Yet he had neither visited or contacted her.
“What did he say?” She asked her brother.
“Nothing. We can only assume that something of import had him extent his stay in that land. Now that I have your attention. From the beginning please.”


“It is about Harrow. I want him out of that cell! The Dunmer you put on guard-duty actually had the guts to ignore my commands! I would have burned him to a cinder, were it not for our need to display unity.” He didn’t doubt for a moment she would. She had often demanded the right to cast capital punishment upon the unworthy. But their father had possessed the wisdom to deny her wishes in that, for their grip on their followers was tenuous as it was. If their acolytes would ever fear their masters would kill them, they might make foolish plots to escape or murder the Camorans first. So their father had decreed to his children that all the unworthy were to be cast off through accidents and ‘plots of the Septim’.

With a sigh Raven picked up the box she’d brought in. It was of a simple design, with rounded edges and light as a feather. He focused his eyes upon the patterns that were cast into its smooth shell, like milk that had been frozen in mid-stir. It was the focus he needed to keep his calm and not yell back at her.
“Speak to me not of him. I’ve had it with that sickening psychopath. Do you have any idea how many lives he spilled that night just for his amusement? Do you? I left this blasted cave with a dozen men. I returned with only two.” He spoke softly, yet unable to entirely hide the hatred he felt for the Dunmer.
“He did what he had to. Sacrifice the lesser for the Dawn. You are being a hypocrite, brother. I sacrifice, you sacrifice, father sacrifices. We all spend the lives of our followers like precious coin. What makes his so much worse?”

Raven let out a sigh again and placed the coffer upon the soft pillow he usually rested his head upon in the night. As for Ruma’s question, he knew the answer.
“The way he’s wrapped you around his finger. The way he will kill you, father, me, all of us the moment he believed he could and would gain from it.” He’d said those words or a variation upon them a hundred times, and she’d never once believed them. So he gave her another answer, just as true but not quite as important.
“We sacrifice because we must, not because we can. He claimed three for no other reason than because he thought it amusing to watch them fight a Blade. A Blade!” His self-control was slipping and he gripped the edge of the table till his knuckles turned white. But Ruma dismissed his argument with a dainty wave of her hand. There were no callouses on that hand or even the lightest speck of dust under her nails, Raven suddenly realized. It quite ruined the disguise.

The woman talked, unaware of her brother’s untimely distraction.
“And? He told me it was a mistake. He thought it was a man of the city watch. Anyone could have made that error. Also, you miscounted. One still lives though I do not know if he has returned.” She said. Raven tried to remember the Bosmer that fled. Neither his name or face came to him, though he was certain he’d written down both on some paper. He searched in his pockets, then remembered that he’d gave the scrap away.
“He hasn’t, and won’t have the chance to beg my forgiveness. The Brotherhood does not ask questions.” He finally said as he shook his head to himself. If the mer from Valenwood had rejoined that night, at the boats perhaps, he would have been in the mind to forgive him. After all, it was that mer alone who remembered his orders or had the wisdom to know when he was outmatched. But it was too late for any of that now. The Camoran’s were not generous with second chances.
“As for Harrow, my dear sister. You know this as well as I do. Better even, for no doubt he has regaled you with endless tales of his valour during the long nights. You know how he spent decades fighting the ashen hordes at Red Mountain. He knows the difference that training and proper weapons make. He knows that despite whatever faults the Septim may have, foregoing the training and arming of his men in his city is not one of them. Faith does not save the amateur from the professional. Even if it was just a man of the watch, the outcome would have been the same. Yes, Harrow probably would have slain the man in that case, but the three Bosmer would be just as dead.”


For a while they locked eyes, Raven somehow trying to will his sister to see things his ways through sheer force of will. At the end the woman threw her arms up in defeat.
“Alright, enough! I admit your point holds merit. Some. But you can’t blame him for drowning the men in the undercity. That was entirely beyond our expectations.” She said exasperated. Though savoring his small victory, Raven found himself forced to admit that her argument held some merit of its own. Harrow was not the only one at fault, much as he’d like to think that way.
“True, the blame for that is not his alone. I blame them just as much for following the orders of a man I’d deemed unfit to lead.” He admitted. One of his fingers began to idly play with the latch of the jewelrybox as he continued.
“What’s done, is done.The bigger issue with that incident is the stranger that caused the flooding in the first place. We were unaware that a sorcerer of noteworthy skill was imprisoned there, with his magicka unbound.”

It was the first Ruma had heard of it. All she’d known up to this point was Harrow’s view of affairs, which had focused on her brother’s failure to catch and kill the Septim, as well as his irritable mood on the long journey back to their sanctuary. If he’d mentioned an encounter between Raven and some sorcerer, it had slipped her mind.
“A sorcerer that can give him pause? I can’t think of many. Archmage Traven perhaps, but he never leaves the university these days. A troublesome matter.” She thought and decided to inquire directly.
“Who was he?”



“We never met face to face. I took some time to finish off the prison-guards while my Daedroth ventured down below. I figured that a beast like that should even give the mighty Blades a worthy challenge.” Raven muttered with his eyes on the ceiling as his thoughts returned to his one-man assault on the prison. It had begun easy enough. The weather had driven the outside guards inside and the locked gate could not resist his magics. A clerk had been in the entry-hall, one whose face and throat he’d burned away with an almost dismissive gesture. Still simple.


It had been afterwards that things became mildly difficult. Uriel Septim had warned the prison guards and every single one of them had been in the following room, swords drawn and facing the door from which he entered. The first one had nearly managed to strike a blow at him before he’d managed to draw the Daedroth from its outerworldly realm. Things became easy again as the beast torn the Imperials apart in that brutal way only an animal could. Oh, they’d shown courage resisting the great beast, he admitted that. Their swords had bent on its hide and they’d never yielded, never allowed access to the cells until the last had been tossed aside like a broken doll.
He’d sent the Daedroth ahead and taken a generous amount of time to finish off the mangled survivors. There were none whose wounds weren’t fatal, but the close encounter had retaught him to be ever careful and never allow even the slightest chance for his plans to be defeated.

But when he carefully descended the steps, he didn’t find the Emperor, or his Blades. He found his Daedroth standing in the corridor, immobilized by magic he’d never seen before or heard of. Bands of coloured light that tightened around each joint like a leash. And the cell, with the secret escape route, was wide open.
“I followed immediately, of course. But the undercity was flooded even as I crawled through the narrow tunnel that led to it. I nearly drowned myself.”
He’d been forced to turn back, with his confidence shaken. Coming back, he found that the cells were not as empty as he’d first believed. There was a prisoner on the opposite side of the corridor. He’d been quiet up to this point and Raven had entirely missed him on his way in. The beast naturally tried to eat the grimy mer the moment it managed to free itself from its bonds, but Raven had called it back. He needed answers.
“He told me that the sorcerer was an Altmer like us, and had been in that cell already at the time of his imprisonment. That’s all I know, actually. They did not exchange their autobiographies. But I do believe we may find more if we look into the guild’s records. A mage of that caliber doesn’t operate alone, nor does his education come from a vacuum.”

The prisoner had told him more, but none which he felt like telling Ruma. He definitely wasn’t going to tell her how he’d brought the filthy animal with him. That mer, what was his name? Dreth, was now his very own Harrow. A man who he owned completely, who could take the blame for him if he needed. Besides, he had been somewhat impressed at the mer’s tale of how he bested a Blade and held the emperor hostage, even if just for a minute. It sounded like bragging, but the Dunmer vowed it was the truth.
“Like I’d believe a natural liar. But there is a kernel of truth to his tales. There must be.”
They changed topics to lighter subjects, mostly about what Ruma had done and idle wondering about what could have detained their father. Finally, the woman stood up and walked to the door.
“I must prepare for the service. What will be done with Harrow?” She asked with her hand on the doorbolt. Raven covered his eyes and wished she’d forgotten about that. He knew she would not accept what he really wanted to be done. And the Camorans could never appear disunited.
“You may ensure he does not suffer discomfort. But that is all. He stays there till father says otherwise.”



She left Raven alone in his room. The man looked again at the little box she’d left behind. Finally he flipped the lid to see what was inside. Coins, each a full septim minted in some far corner of the empire, were stacked densely to the point of spilling, and the weight of this fortune pressed the coffer deeply into its pillow. He took one and turned it in his hand before flicking it contemptuously back onto the pile and closing the lid.
“Why is it that the moment one of our problems is solved, two more rear their head?”

This post has been edited by jack cloudy: Feb 24 2013, 03:22 PM

[jack cloudy]

Chapter 9.3

Blades’ Hideout


That short little nap I took next to the fireplace wound up being just about the only sleep I caught that night. The ‘room’ I was given turned out not to be very conductive towards revitalizing one’s body, mostly due to the lack of a fire. Granted, I was not familiar with the logistics of ones fueled by wood, or large-scale flames in general, but I couldn’t see why it was so hard to have one in the guest room. Just cut up a tree, right?
I say guest room, but even that was subject to a rather generous interpretation of the word. By using guest, one would expect to receive a certain form of hospitality. I certainly did, after the Lord Emperor had officially noticed and accepted my presence. He was the most important and powerful man on the continent, so I assumed that everyone lower on the rankings would follow his word. And yet they still threw me in a cell cold enough to store meats with no light or any furniture beyond a pile of dusty furs lying in a corner. I had a lot left to learn about Tamrielic court policy it seemed.

By the time morning came, or what passed for morning in a place with no windows and good clean sunlight, I was just about ready to be hung and boiled in a pot. I heard the door open, but it took me some time to free myself from the furs I’d curled up in.
“Skin is slick, white with no visible veins. Zero bodyhair. Flat toes, barbs between fingers of two to three millimeters in length.” My reply to that is not worthy of mention. Let it be known that my brain was as chilled as my toes and my nose felt like someone had jammed a piece of stonewater into it. I got out of the pile just in time to see the torchbearing figure toss something at me and almost smacking me in the face with it. It was a tome, heavy leather plated with goldleaf lettering and some artist’s impression of the world. Mostly out of habit, I flipped it open to a random page. I landed on a detailed treatise on the differences between meric and mannish development during pregnancies. Fascinating, though the drawing held some serious errors. Our ears don’t become pointy because they’re stretched out in the womb by bony hooks.
“Lexicum Sapiens Tamrielis, the most accurate and comprehensive list of all thinking beings in the world.” The figure continued. “I suppose you’re not hairy, but that’s hardly a distinctive trait and nothing else matches. Hell, you’ve got enough of a tan to claim Redguard ancestry. Uriel may believe he has recognized you but I need a very good explanation for why you don’t match the description.”

Slowly, my thoughts began to resemble those of the living again and I felt an anger taking hold. Put simply, this woman had decided that court policy didn’t apply because she read something in a book and real life didn’t agree with it. And there were all things wrong with it. It had Tamriel butchered into the title and I wasn’t even from there. And where did they get the bright idea to describe us by starting with our colour? The rest wasn’t too far off, but the colour? That’s the last thing one would bother to mention about a healthy Maormer. I mentally kicked myself in the head. There was the answer, all too obvious.
“I’m not dead.” I told her. She cocked her head to one side and chewed on it for a long, long time before giving a wonderfully intelligent reply. It was truly the magnificent display of which only a well-educated mind could conceive.
“Oh.”


She waved me on into the corridor and bade me to follow as she stomped off.
“Now tell me why you’re here. Somehow, I doubt you’re just a tourist.” She said, still suspicious for no reason. I wondered if this was the same woman who had thrown me in that cell last night. These roundears all looked the same, especially when they’re wearing helmets.
“That, is none of your concern. I am Maorlatta Orgnum, princess-heir and designated representative to lord Thras Orgnum, Lord Eternal of Pyandonea. My reasons are mine, to be shared solely with the Lord Emperor Uriel Septim the seventh, ruler of Tamriel.” Now be quiet and take me somewhere warm.
“And I’m, Jennifer Renault, his shield. His concerns are my concerns.” Which was a polite way of saying that it would really be in my best interests to tell her, lest I might receive hands-on instruction in the use and advantages of a metal sword. I giggled nervously for a bit and then let out a long drawn-out sigh. The day it was me bullying harmless kitchenmaidens again simply couldn’t come soon enough.
“The Imperial dynasty of Tamriel entered into a covenant with the house of Orgnum, in the year…” I paused. What year was it in Tamriel reckoning again?
“Now seventy-eight years ago. I remember it like it was yesterday.” That was actually quite a while ago now that I thought about it. I don’t think I’d even lost my babyteeth then.


------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

My aunt had woken me up around midnight, then unleashed her maidens on me. By the time the sun rose and we’d boarded her yacht, I’d been bathed, perfumed, dressed, polished, bejeweled and instructed till my ears bled. The summary of those lessons were shut up and don’t stare too much. I managed the first one pretty well, though that was mostly because I was struggling not to fall asleep on my feet again. The other, not so much.

Orgnum Thras, the ageless king of Pyandonea, did not reside in one place. Or rather he did, but that place swam freely among the countless islands of our realm. His palace happened to be near today and my dear aunt had decided it was time she presented me to grandfather and the other immortals. His estate, if it could be called such, was of the species commonly referred to as the king’s beetle. No doubt because of its oldest, greatest specimen. And huge it was, larger than anything I’d seen, including auntie’s island. On its back rose towers of spellspun glass,banners of all colours, shapes and sizes. A flock of firebirds weaved among the flying gardens and above it all the living island’s manycoloured wings waved to carry a soft breeze over the palace and its grounds. Beneath, a hundred legs walked across the seabed and a second pair of wings sweeped water into its cavernous mouth. Auntie had to tell me to pick up my chin.

I could go on for hours on everything and everyone I saw, but most of it was unimportant in the grand scheme of things. What was important happened in the night. A stranger came into the palace, despite the best efforts of the king’s men to remove him. I remember being scared of him. He was too tall, dressed in black like some demon, with eyes the colour of blood. He strode in there as if he was greater than the immortals around him. Perhaps he was, he didn’t seem to be having any trouble with the best duelists in Pyandonea. I don’t know what the man said once he’d reached the throne, but the king removed his mask for him. Well, nobody left standing was going to try and hurt the stranger after that. Not after receiving the greatest honour a Maormer could get.

It was five years ago that I finally learned who that man was and why he’d come. So now I was here, as one of the main actors in the second part of this play.


----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


In the time I’d spent reminiscing, Renault had brought us to a kitchen. There a pot was bubbling and steaming away over a set of glowing rocks, big cleavers, ladles and spoons hung on one wall and racks filled with urns lined the others. There was also a spiraling staircase going down in the center and some doors leading to other places. Best of all, it was deliciously warm in here so naturally I flowed to the source of it next to the pot.
The woman took the biggest cleaver and opened one of the doors. A wave of new cold came from the other chamber which seemed to be made entirely of stonewater, and contained a single piece of hung meat. Well, so much for the heat. She started hacking away at the carcass while grunting words inbetween swings.
“Pelagius Septim the fourth held the throne back then. Treaties by tradition fall upon the passing of the ruling emperor. If you’re here to renew it, you’re rather late.”

I hadn’t heard about that, but I could see them coming up with this. I remembered the long row of portraits that had lined my room in the Cyrodiil palace. If Tiber was the first emperor, and only four centuries (Aha, so I did remember the year!) had passed, then that line was far too long. Uriel must have been his son, or his grandson if the Tamrielics are sickly and old before their time. To have this many emperors between them, the only answer could be violent upheaval. Murder of the last Lord Emperor by the next and so on. I could see why some usurper didn’t like the idea of upholding the agreements with the allies of his enemy. But that had nothing to do with me.
“The covenant was sealed and done by the envoy of the Lord Emperor…then prince Uriel Septim, specifically in the name of the Septim house. As long as the bloodline remains intact so will the agreement. Moreover, the original signatories still live so I disagree with your assessment.”

I could see on her face she didn’t buy it, but she kept quiet till she’d finished chopping off a large piece of meat and carried it out to the kitchentable. I was happy to close the door behind her.
“I’m no politician so I’ll take your word for it. For now. And, what is this agreement?” She asked me in the end.
“That is,” I began automatically but caught myself. It really was none of her concern. This was between the Houses Orgnum and Septim, not Orgnum and an overzealous guard-and-cook. Then I noticed that she was still holding the cleaver. I let out a long sigh. I really wanted to get home and away from all these metalbearing murderers.
“It was a loan.”

She laughed, a loud and thoroughly unpleasant guffawing that made my head hurt. She actually had to put down the cleaver before she hurt herself, so funny was apparently my joke.
“A loan?” She spurted, gasping for breath. Then she began to laugh uncontrollably again.
“Centuries of no contact, your whole people reduced to some fairy tale I never even heard of, and now you swing by to ask for money? That’s ridiculous!”
I shook my head and let out another sigh. Of course it was ridiculous. That’s the thing I said, five years ago.


“Pyandonea was approached by Tamriel. You swung by to ask us for money.”

This post has been edited by jack cloudy: Feb 24 2013, 03:23 PM

[jack cloudy]

Chapter 9.4

Upper Kvatch, Temple gardens


He approached the question of Uriel’s regular ‘gifts’ as methodically as he could. Angoril began from the outside of the temple grounds and would gradually work his way in as he sought some material eveidence of large-scale spending. First was the park that marked the temple-grounds. He saw tiny hump-trees that normally grew within the canopies of their far larger Valenwood cousins. Each had been groomed into the representation of a person, animal, structure or some part of a mythical scene. There were also flowers of many kinds and marble statues of the temple’s long succession of head-priests. While impressive, the Altmer had to conclude that there was nothing to warrant a yearly donation from the emperor. The statues were commissioned only rarely, the flowers were standard and as for the hump-trees – well, he could see Valenwood’s border the moment he stepped outside the main gates. They were not imported from some far away place.

He walked on paths of crisping gravel and circled the gardens twice before shifting his attention to the main temple itself. Like all Cyrodiilic temples built in the early third era, back when Reman Septim possessed the throne and his conquering armies swept the continent, the Kvatch temple did not fit in any clear architectural style. It was crafted from heavy stone, smooth bricks greater than a man assembled into a square groundplan and thick foundations as found in the High Rock style. It reached for the skies and was built to look light in spite of the gray bricks, with coloured glass spanning the vacuous gaps. This he knew to be an attempt at emulating the glass cities of Summerset, though there were no spells infused into its walls which limited the height that could be reached. To support the high ceiling there was both an internal and external framework of arcs and beams, patterned after the skeletal interiors of the Vvardenfell crab-shells. Finally there were figurines of beasts and saints that walked across the frame in an endless parade, reminding one of Skyrim from which the first Septim hailed.

His first thought had been that the temple was undertaking some grand renovation-project, since that was how Uriel’s annual gift had been listed in the book. But no one whom he’d asked had mentioned such a thing. Still, his questions had by necessity been rather roundabound and secretive. He had not asked them directly as much as he had tried to steer them towards the subject. So he’d still held out hopes.
But though there were all the discolorations that indicated newer sections and recent repair-work, it all looked like it had been done piecemeal. A piece of a flying wing here, a new arm on St. Pelinal there. Expensive, but still far from the 5000 septims Uriel donated each year.

The Altmer shook his head and walked up to the double-doors that were opened wide to permit entry for the believers. Once through, he knew that his movements would be more restricted by the unwritten laws of behavior and pietous humility. It was somewhat of an irony that the temples prided themselves on the lavish decorations of their interiors, the whiteness of their altars, yet at the same time considered it to be rude for anyone to actually look up and see. His best option would be to keep his head respectfully lowered. It was a good thing that one of the demands the Divines made was for their floors to be clean and as reflective as a mirror.



He moved slowly yet deliberate, both to maximize his opportunity to study the floor and to avoid suspicion. Through the reflections he noted that the ceiling revealed no new clues. That left but three reasons for Uriel’s anomalous donations. The first was that the emperor had nothing to do with the monetary gifts. There were more than a few persons who enjoyed the Imperial privilege to use money in the emperor’s name. While it was considered good grace to inform their liege of the spending, this was not necessary. The Imperial Battlemage, Ocato, was one of them and Angoril could name a dozen others. Or rather, he could name the positions these individuals kept. His knowledge of who kept the stations was embarrassingly out of date and he had not yet found the time or means to rectify this weakness.
“Add one more thing to do to my list then. Ah, things are never as simple as the chroniclers would have you believe.”

The second hypothesis could go hand in hand with the first, but was not bound by it. This one was simply that someone somewhere was skimming from the temple’s income. Perhaps a priest with a gambling-addiction, or a desire for more luxury than Divine doctrine allowed. Unlikely though, especially over a timeframe as large as the one he was working with. The donations had begun almost immediately after Jagar Tharn’s death and the return of the true emperor to his throne. Someone should have noticed by now.

The third and last hypothesis turned around the idea of donations. Ocato had written them down as such, but politicians lived in a world of metaphors, hyperboles and half-truths. It was possible for the annual gift to not be aimed at the temple, but at a person or persons instead who held connections to this place. Blackmail was one answer that fit this idea, though again the long years it had been continued made this unlikely. The other was a form of gratitude for some service rendered to the Uriel Septim or one of his subjects, a service the man considered valuable enough for this neverending gift.
“In any case, I am unlikely to see it by just walking around in the public areas. Ah well, it was an unimportant goose-chase anyway.”



With the matter closed as far as the Altmer was concerned and since he was here anyway, he wondered if he should take the opportunity to pray for real instead of merely pretending. It wasn’t a habit of his, but it had been more than thirty years. Now would be as good a time as any. But to which entity should he direct his prayers? He did not know who the patron deity of Kvatch was, though he doubted it mattered much. Should he pray to Akatosh, ask the dragon to rewind time on his account?
“I’ve asked the lizard to merely slow it down and it never answered. I doubt it would be willing to go through the extra effort.”
Julianos, for wisdom and insight to help him along? Or to Arkay, for the sake of all those whose lives he’d brought to an early end. Angoril scoffed at the last idea. Arkay would care not for his actions, even if he felt it had been for the good of Tamriel. In fact, most of the Divines would refuse to hear him for that reason. If they ever listened in the first place.
“May I help you?”
He turned ready to politely yet resolutely brush off the eager priest. Any such thoughts he entertained were blown away when he found himself looking right in the eyes of Geldall Septim, first prince of Tamriel.



It all whirled through his head. Why was Geldall here? Did he recognize the sorcerer? Wasn’t he supposed to be dead? He looked younger than he should.
It was that last thought that let Angoril grip the reins on his mind once more. Time had always been kind to the Septims, but Geldall Septim was pushing sixty by now. The white-robed man before him looked like he was still in his mid-twenties. Too young to be the prince. Besides, with the synchronized wave of assassinations, the last thing Geldall would do was to publically serve as a priest. Especially not in a bustling temple as this one. He had to be a mere lookalike.
“I was just wondering who the patron deity of this temple was, brother.” Angoril said and bowed lightly. The man who looked like a Septim nodded.
“Our patron would be Talos, though all the divines are praised in equal measure here. You may speak to whomever you wish, I am certain your prayers shall be heard.” He said and chuckled.
“I do look like him, don’t I?”

Ever since the first shock, Angoril had kept the tightest control of his expression and posture. As such, looking down on the priest was the befuddled and apologetic Tennil. Inside, Angoril again reviewed the man that stood before him. He was cunning. Was it a mind meant for intrigue, or simply the people-skills all good priests would learn sooner or later?
“Was I that obvious? Forgive me, I did not mean to stare.” He babbled. The man shook his head and chuckled softly.
“You and half Cyrodiil, my friend. And why not? That’s my father over there.” He said and waved at a buste located to the left of the main altar. URIEL SEPTIM VII, 3E 412, the plaque said. With the marble head to compare against, the Altmer realized that this priest really looked like a son of Uriel. They carried the same hard chin and aggressive forward thrust of their brow.
“When the count commissioned a buste of the emperor, he couldn’t arrange to have the emperor model so he went to my old man. Folk have always said that we Tanner men have a pinch of the dragon in us. My father used to joke, that if the stories about Tharn replacing the emperor’s sons were true, I should become the new prince. Of course, it’s only a story.” The young priest continued, oblivious to Angoril’s eyes and mind who thought differently.
“With you, it is more than a pinch.” Everything, the payments, the timing, it all fell into place.
He decided to take a gamble. He had to know where the man stood and what he was willing to do.
“But the Septims are all dead now. It said so in the courier. What is going to happen to us next?... Perhaps you should take the throne. The council does its best surely, but we need a face to look up to.”

Tanner’s generous smile froze on his face. For a split-second, he looked angry, though not at Angoril.
“Oh no. Not me, not ever.” He whispered, “This temple is big enough for me. I’m not the man you or anyone should want as their emperor. Besides, you shouldn’t believe everything the courier says. They’re still searching the rubble and Septims don’t die easily. And lord Uriel has been emperor since before I was born. That is a long time to rule a continent. He’s done well, never complaining and never faltering in his duty. When the Divines finally grant him the rest he must desire, it will come to him through peace, not an assassin’s blade.” The words weren’t special, they lacked the elegance of a prepared speech. But the conviction with which the man spoke was contagious. The Altmeri sorcerer realized that the emperor’s voice, that almost supernatural charisma all Septims possessed, was strong with him. He tried to match that conviction in his answer, though he felt he came far short of it.
“You are right, brother. We mustn’t give up hope. The Divines will guide us.” He just wished he believed it.

Brother Tanner guided him in a prayer for the well-being of Uriel Septim. They whispered the old phrases, clasped their hands and lit the candle. Angoril even added two full golden septims to the offerings on the altar. When afterwards the young Imperial bid him farewell and turned to seek for others that would need his aid and guidance, Angoril begged his attention.
“Ah, permit me to ask you one more thing, brother Tanner.” He said and continued after the priest nodded.
“Would there be a Rajn Treesap among your flock? She’s a Bosmeri woman and related to an old friend of mine.” He was somewhat startled by his own admission, and realized that he’d spoken the truth. He did once have a friend who shared family-ties with the woman.
The priest scratched his chin as he thought.
“Treesap…Treesap. I don’t think I’ve heard the name. Rajn Treesap - Oh, but I do know a Rajn Geydar. Bosmeri through and through. She owns an eatery not too far from here. The Eight Provinces, it’s near the south gate.” Angoril made the connection in an instant.



Aran Geydar and Rajn Treesap. Both had been mentioned in Ocato’s book. The Emperor had ordered an investigation into them in 403, for a considerable but not overwhelming sum of 531 septims. The same year there was an investigation costing over ten times as much into a ‘Cluson Alkad’, and the year after that was the first mention of a ‘Luper Alkad’. Over the years the Alkad-case had snowballed into a minor economic and political crisis it seemed, though he was unsure of how this was connected with Treesap and Geydar, if at all. The price-points were too dissimilar, hinting at a difference in priorities. In any case, he wasn’t too surprised to find that the two had stepped into marriage. It had been thirty years and few people remained single for that time.
“Thank you, brother. I will head there then. I am becoming rather hungry.” Angoril said and bowed.
For a moment, the humor Tanner had displayed when he first approached the Altmer returned.
“One last word of advice, my friend. Don’t ask what’s in the ‘Argonian surprise’.” He said with a wink and a smile.

This post has been edited by jack cloudy: Feb 24 2013, 03:23 PM

[McBadgere]

Reet, I'm so nearly caught up...I'm starting the last part next...

This is simply an amazing story, and I'm absolutely loving it...

That bit with Pydonea was fantastic...Simply amazing...

I'm loving so much the way this is different to the game, and how you're weaving other parts of the "Lore" (*Shudders*) into it...Absolutely brilliant...

I also admire your persistance...I'm sorry I wasn't around to encourage more...

But hey, I'm back now... ...

Well done, I shall finish this very soon...

Nice one!!...

*Applauds heartily*...


EDIT!!!...Oooh!! Oooh!! Should I read Brother Tanner with a particularly Sheffield-ish accent?... ...(Sean Bean is from Sheffield btw... )...

Excellent stuff matey!!...

Nice one!!...

This post has been edited by McBadgere: Nov 9 2012, 01:57 PM

[jack cloudy]

Well, the lore of Pyandonea I am aware of is rather limited. I'll have a rant on that and something else later. As for Sean Bean/Brother Tanner, you can use any accent you like. Heavens know I can't tell one accent from the other anyway.



Chapter 9.5


Blades’ hideout



I was back in the Lord Emperor’s quarters. The venerable elder did look better than last night, if not choking on one’s own lungs could be considered an improvement. Speaking as a healer and using Maormeri anatomy as a guide, I wasn’t going to give him more than another week or two in here. The air was too stuffy, it was either too hot or cold and the scented candles while a nice touch, only worsened the air problem. There was nothing I could do about that however and given his womanguard’s beliefs, it would be best for me to finish my duties and get out before then. It was a horrible thing to contemplate, but I told myself that my loyalty to Pyandonea had to weigh heavier than the respect due to one man in his final days. Besides, I didn’t want to be here when all the prospective candidates began to fight for who got to sit on the throne next. If they hadn’t already started. It did seem to be the tradition here. Sure, he had sons and daughters, but how much would that deter the other hopefuls?

“The covenant stated that we, House Orgnum, would provide the House Septim, with the possession and free use of an object.” Renault didn’t know how fast she could finish cooking and hurry me through all the paperwork and formalities that were necessary before one could have an audience with the Lord Emperor. Jauffre had not filled out any of the two dozen forms she sped me through, but I was wise enough not to mention that. I did however make a mental note that the Tamrielics didn’t seem to care much for diplomacy unless a great deal of wealth was involved. At that point you could just see them reshuffle the priorities in their thoughts.
“Object. You will tell me what that is.”
The man himself. He and two of the guards had insisted on remaining when I tried to send them away. The guards I was willing to tolerate, not in the least because they were armed and I wasn’t. Bald Jauffre however, him I’d rather thrown out beyond the outer reefs. Like the guards, I couldn’t get him out of the room, but I could ignore him.
“In return, the house Septim, or any person granted authority to act in its name, would give a payment of blood.”

Faces of confusion and even disgust all around. Even without the aid of colours I could tell. I wondered how much of what I was telling here was unneeded. Surely the Lord Emperor had to remember the articles of the treaty? Wouldn’t it just be easier and quicker to skip to the relevant part and ask for him to uphold his end? Wasn’t I implying that the Tamrielics couldn’t remember their promises and were untrustworthy as a result? That was how I thought about it, but my mentor had explained that I was thinking in reverse. The idea was not that the other party couldn’t be trusted to know what they’d signed, but that one’s own party remembered and wasn’t trying to sneak in new articles that had never been agreed upon.
“Blood is family, mother to child to grandchild.” I explained. What did they think I’d meant?
“The head of House Septim or any appointed representative of such that meets the House Orgnum’s needs, would father a male child with a woman of Pyandonea. This son would then be wed to a woman of House Orgnum.” Where the blood could be kept nicely on a leash.

More disgust. Why? Weren’t marriages and bloodlines a known and well-spread political tool? I’d been told that it was as true for the Tamrielics as it was for us. Renault shook her head.
“And you’re the one they sent for that. My liege, I must remind you that you are in no condition to sire any heirs. I know it is of the utmost importance right now, but it simply won’t happen.” She said. Important? I had to think about that for a moment before I remembered that the Lord Emperor had fled here despite his health. What happened to his sons and daughters? Perhaps they hadn’t been so lucky. I then realized what else she’d said. Did she think I was here to collect a son? The thought made me wish I’d been wearing a mask. I had a nice one, but they took it before tossing me into the dungeon. It would have made it so much easier to hide the colours of my face.
“Come on, captain. Let’s be honest here. This is a matter of age more than health.” The other guard, the mudman, said. Jauffre and the Emperor said nothing however. The fake monk looked as if he was chewing a sour flatworm while the old man in the bed merely seemed too tired to let anything show.
“Brother! Please, remember your manners.” Renault admonished and the mudman shrugged.
“It’s true though.” He muttered. His attempt at humor was ill-timed, but at least it showed he wasn’t stressed out and likely to put his iron at my throat.



I cleared my throat to draw the attention back to where it belonged and continued.
“The son was sown the night after the covenant was sealed. It’s done.” I said as lightly as I could. I did wonder however. What if the Lord Emperor had offered that alternate arrangement? His age and status would make him a desirable father. But it would also mean breaking my own oaths and voiding the covenant I was here for. Which was the greater accomplishment? Sealing the foreign blood that had already been obtained, or trying to bring in some more? It didn’t matter I suppose. I wasn’t going to get any from the Lord Emperor and he really was the only eligible individual I knew of. Besides, my lack of expertise would just lead to embarrassment and a taint on my House.
“I hope to get back on him later, but for now let us discuss the last article of the covenant.”
“No, no! We’re getting back on this now. Who is this heir and where is he? There is no way I’m going to let any Septim marry some backwoods fish-eating mother of mine when I need him on the throne right here!” Jauffre barked. I couldn’t ignore that. Acting in general like a self-obsessed jerk? Fine, I’m used to it. But I would not accept anyone insulting my House or my personal honour. I faced him and though my heart was beating madly and my face blazing, I kept my voice cool and level.
“For starters, I take offence at being called both backwoods and unable to observe my familial duties. Secondly, I do not care for the opinion of a liar and an oathbreaker. This treaty was made only seventy-eight years ago between the Houses Septim and Orgnum. One so young does not get broken at mere convenience, especially when someone who is not of either House calls for it. Now I demand for all interruptions to be withheld until I have said my words.”

The bald monster opened his mouth to scream again but three whispered words made him clam shut as if he’d been punched in the face.
“Jauffre, back down.” It was the Emperor, the first time he’d spoken since his greeting when I was brought in.
“Thank you, your Grace.” I added a another thank you, a silent one, to lady Renault. The form of address she’d suggested was much easier than saying ‘Lord Emperor Uriel Septim the Seventh, ruler of Tamriel’ all the time. And that had been about the shortest form I’d been given before I left home. I took a deep breath to both calm me down and prepare for the next mouthful in my rehearsed and probably still rather simple speech.
“When a full hundred has gone, measured in years from the moment of signing, the object shall be returned to house Orgnum. The head of House Septim, whomever he may be, shall personally deliver it from his hands to the hands of House Orgnum’s representative. I am aware that time has not yet passed, but my father the king requests an earlier return. In exchange, we brought many riches…”
My voice faltered. Many riches, our ship’s belly had been filled to the limit with them. The handlers had to process and inject nutrition directly into its bloodstream since it couldn’t eat for itself. And now I had nothing to give but the clothes I was wearing and even they were borrowed. I swallowed. What I had to say next was the stuff of nightmares but it had to be done. House Orgnum always upheld their end of a promise, no matter the cost.



I spread my arms and bend forward till my nose brushed my knees. I kept that pose and bit back the tears.
“Those riches have been lost.” To betrayal of my own people no less. “As is customary in these situations, considering the inability of House Orgnum to repay the House Septim through material wealth, as the nearest Maormer able to represent House Orgnum in financial matters, I hereby place myself at the service of House Septim till the debt of my House has been repaid, or till the original time as mandated by the covenant has come to pass.” If only I could be air and fly.





Rant time:

Ok, let's get started on Pyandonea. Using solely my recollections for the moment, here's what I know. Pyandonea is an island kingdom surrounded by fog and also the home of big snakes and water spirits. They've had wars with Summerset Isle. Their king, Orgnum Thras is described as ageless and possibly immortal. The Maormer themselves are described as having skin that is white like pallid jelly (I'm not sure what to imagine here so I just think of it as white pudding). I've also come across a reference of chameleon-powers. Their ships are described as membraneous in the wolf-queen books I think.

Now let's extrapolate that a bit. The islands, the fog and even the wars with Summerset where easy enough. There was no real need to add anything to that right away. But the skin and chameleon ability where a bigger issue. If the Maormer had been in a game, their chameleon would have probably been turned into a greater power for game balancing reasons. But I don't like that. I can understand the need to balance the races so one isn't objectively superior (too much) to another, but the games are compressed as well. Days go by in a matter of minutes so even if you can turn invisible only once a day, the cooldown isn't too bad.

But what if we kept it like that in the lore? Things become all kinds of messed up then. Redguards can go into murder-mode once a day. Orcs can get angry once a day. Bosmer can talk to a single animal once a day, Imperials can charm your shoes off once a day, Khajiit can look crazy once a day etc.

It doesn't make much sense to me so I had to look at the choice of making it a skill that could be toggled at will. And at first that was just what I did. I turned the chameleon from what was probably intended to be magic into a feature of their skin. Latta could go invisible when she was scared with an instinctive shift of her hues (which incidentally makes the clothes she wears a bit of a hazard when the threat is real but let's skip over that). Later on I pushed it even further. If the Maormer could change their skin-tone on instinct, what if they learned to control it? What would they use this ability for? Hunting perhaps, or even communication. Like the peacock spreads its feathers, different colours and marks could mean different things in Pyandonean society.



Moving on to the king, Orgnum Thras. You may have noticed that I called him king Orgnum up till now. That is how he's most commonly referred as when I did my first research and the name stuck. When I found out it was his first name and so he should have been of House Thras, not House Orgnum, well I felt a bit silly. I blame the habit of the naration to use first names too much. Uriel is way too often referred to as Uriel instead of lord Septim. It's too informal. Fortunately, there was an easy way out. Just have the Maormer value the House over the individual to the point the House is mentioned first and we're done. So in Tamrielic it would be 'Thras of House Orgnum', and in Pyandonean it is 'of House Orgnum, Thras'.

One other thing often mentioned about Orgnum is how he is immortal. Again extrapolating from that, I decided that the Maormer put great value on one's age and by extention see immortality as a great achievement. All the greatest Maormer are immortal. There are easier ways to immortality than the one enjoyed by the king and his inner circle, but those are silently mocked and seen as less pure. The mask-thing that was mentioned in Latta's flashback and again here, is another random idea related to this. With the mask, there remains some doubt over whether or not there really are immortals. And well, if your face is likely to broadcast your inner feelings to anyone with eyes, it might help to put on something to cover it when you're playing at politics. The upper class all tend to wear concealing clothing and elaborate masks for that purpose. To have someone remove his or her mask is by extension then, a sign of honesty and great trust.


With the Maormer out of the way, let's go to Brother Tanner. People who have played Oblivion for more than an hour probably know who I'm talking about. Angoril let slip that he's figured it out as well but for those who haven't, I won't spoil it any further. We'll hear plenty about him and maybe I'll have another rant when his place in the story has become clear. For now, let me just say two things.

One, I think that having Jauffre literally explain the entire plot to the player five minutes after the tutorial dungeon was a huge mistake. As a Morrowindophile, I still have to admit that the third Tes game was too slow to get its plot going, but Oblivion went too far into the other extreme. We get to learn just who the bad guy is, who his minions are, why they are a threat now and not before and what we need to do to stop them. And this is coming from a guy who literally didn't know the bad guy could possibly be a threat before you marched in and repeated Uriel's vague one-liner to him.

Two, that scene with Angoril and Brother Tanner was solely there for Tanner's sake.

This post has been edited by jack cloudy: Feb 24 2013, 03:23 PM

[McBadgere]

Um...I hope that rant wasn't aimed at me... ...

Aaaamywho, I know what you mean...And I really thought the whole Pydonea thing was brilliant...I do genuinely love what you're doing with it...

As for the name thing with House Thras thing...I did much the same with the Knights thing...I know that it's the first name that comes after the Sir, so Sir Areldur, Sir Thedret, their names are Areldur and Thedret, but they felt more like Surnames to me, so I changed them...It's all down to what you want to do I think...

As for the Jauffre thing, I do agree with you...If he knows so much, why the hell didn't he guard better, and why hide himself out there if he's head of the order?...Bit far away from the action no?...

Aaaamywho...

As ever...Absolutely brilliant stuff...Love the idea of the living ship thing being so full they have to feed it I.V. style...

I also love the idea that she's confused by the briefness of the human span of life...That's brilliantly done...

Absolutely well done Jack...Keep it up!!...

Nice one!!...

*Applauds heartily*...