A Question of Fate Options

[ThatSkyrimGuy]

First things first... I apologize for not getting any posts up in "Commentasaurus"... Things have been hectic lately with work and family.

@ mALX - Somehow I knew you would get a kick out of the Val / Aela exchange.

Now I worry he’ll drink too much and brawl -- Valrimor? Drink too much? LOL

@ Acadian - Actually, in the game, Aela is indeed an expert archer and a trainer in the ability. There are several side quests that feature her (which makes for some interesting writing material), but Val's story won't be following that path anytime soon.

@ jack cloudy - Val is not a naughty guy...he's just needs to get...well, we have female readers, but you know what I mean.

@ haute ecole rider - Welcome to the story. So glad to have you here and receive your input. Thanks for pointing out the nits...they have been picked. I also want to thank you for the critique regarding verb usage. It's the kind of stuff I want to know because I have zero training in creative writing.

...he is definitely of the heterosexual inclination, with a nice, well-developed libido. Which makes me wonder when is he going to get lucky? -- Soon... I am glad you are enjoying Val's adventures so far.

@ Grits - Why not rest and rehydrate first? -- Val's thoughts exactly!

*****

@ Everyone - Thanks as always for your kind comments and critiques. Y'all are awesome!

*****

Author's Note - This is where Interlude 3 begins. When I was writing it, it was one of those nights that the words seemed to just pour onto the pages. Before I knew it, I was over 3,000 words. So, this Interlude (which is the last one) will be busted into two parts. As with the other Interludes, it is dated for reference and narrated in third person instead of Val doing the narration. I do hope you enjoy Part One of the last of Val's backstory.

*****

Interlude 3 – Part One

2nd Evening Star, 4E167

It was his eighteenth birthday, but Valrimor did not feel like celebrating. The Nords of Bruma considered this day to be a coming of age event, and treated it with special significance. Most of his friends had already reached eighteen. Their parties had been boisterous affairs with plenty of food, music, and mead. The celebrant was always the lone competitor in a drinking contest, trying to break the local record for how many tankards of mead could be quaffed prior to passing out. The current record was held by Langmar Cleaver-Fist. He was a friend of Val’s and had turned eighteen earlier this year. Lang had managed to put away twenty-two tankards before falling face first into the ample breast of the serving girl. That earned him a nickname to replace Cleaver-Fist with one that had to do with his hawkish nose and the voluptuous chest of the waitress.

Recalling that night brought a slight smile to Val’s lips, but it did not linger long. His mother let out a deep sigh and this refocused his mind to the task at hand. He scooped the last spoonful of stew from the bowl and fed it to Ellinar. She slurped it down dutifully and Val wiped the excess from her chin.

“That’s good Ma. You finished it all. Are you ready for a seat by the fire?” Val asked his mother.

She answered with another sigh which Val took as an affirmative answer. He helped Elli up from her chair, leading her to another near the fireplace hearth. Placing a shawl over her shoulders, he leaned over and kissed her cheek, then bade her to stay there while he cleaned up the supper dishes. Not that she would have moved. She never moved anywhere without prompting these days. Val collected the dishes from the table and went to the basin in the kitchen, his brow furrowed with concern.

Ellinar’s depression had steadily worsened ever since Harlan Bjornsen had returned to Bruma. He was the man who had hired her husband as a bodyguard so many years ago. It seemed that their party had been attacked by brigands. Harlan reported that Erik was nowhere to be found after the battle, and stated that for all he knew, the bandits had taken his bodyguard as prisoner. He did not wish to sully Erik’s name the only other possible conclusion, which was that the man had merely run off during the fight. Regardless, Harlan could not confirm what had happened to Erik, or whether the man still lived. Ellinar had already begun her slide into blackness well before this happened, but the news that Erik’s return now seemed highly unlikely sent her over the edge.

Now she was a shell of her former self. Sometimes she would weep for hours. When she wasn’t crying, she would just sit and stare off into nowhere, almost catatonic. She had long since stopped caring for herself, so it was up to Valrimor to do it for her. He would feed her, dress her, and now he even had to bathe her. She wasn’t physically ill, but her mind had gone totally black with despair. The times that she became animated terrified Val the most. She would look at him and suddenly shriek with wide-eyed panic, begging him to get away from her and not hurt her again. Val couldn’t figure out why she would ever even think such thoughts. Sometimes, after these episodes passed, she would apologize to him, saying it was because he looked so much like his father. This would confuse Val even further, but he usually shrugged it off as a side effect of her deteriorating mental state.

Val let out a sigh of his own as he finished cleaning up and went to the fireside, sitting in a chair next to his mother. He picked up a book that was on the table between them and opened it to the marked page. He would read a few chapters aloud to her, though she never gave a hint that any of it was getting through. This was a nightly ritual that seemed to calm his mother before bed and help her sleep through the night. When he had concluded this evening’s reading, he helped her to bed, tucking her in and kissing her on the cheek.

“I love you Ma,” he said as he extinguished the bedside candles.

When Val was satisfied that she was sleeping peacefully, he left and walked up to Olav’s. He knew that he would be able to escape his dark mood in the tavern, at least for a short while. Val had become quite the regular customer, often working off his bar tab by cutting firewood or cleaning up after closing time. He really couldn’t afford to spend money in the tavern. Any coin he had went toward supporting his mother. But tonight was his birthday, so he wouldn’t have to spend one Septim. Pietor Guldsen was the first to notice that Valrimor had entered the tavern.

“Well, well, well…the birthday boy has finally decided to join us,” Pete said from his stool at the bar, “Come Valrimor, it is time to see if you can beat Lang’s record.”

At this, Langmar chimed in, “Wait Pete, perhaps he is too weary from battling dragons in his sleep.”

“Stuff a cask in that mead hole of yours, Cleavage-Beak! I’m not in the mood for your quips tonight,” Val snapped, then instantly felt remorse for barking at his friend. He apologized to Lang as he took a stool at the bar. Pietor placed a tankard of mead in front of him and raised his own in a toast.

“To Valrimor, a good boy turned good man on this day. Happy Birthday, friend!”

A round of cheers and raised mugs from everyone he knew brightened Val’s mood a bit, and he raised his own tankard as well, clanking it off those of his comrades and chugging the entire contents before placing it on the bar. Lang looked at him and said, “So, why the black mood on this of all days?”

“It’s my Ma,” Val replied while trading his empty tankard for a full one, “She is getting worse. I don’t know what to do. It is taking all of my time to care for her. Staying at home is preventing any chance for income, and money is getting tight.”

Lang and Pete exchanged glances and then asked Valrimor to escort them to a table at the back of the tavern. The three of them rose, with Lang grabbing a flagon of mead to take with them. When they were seated, it was Valrimor that spoke first.

“So, what gives?” he asked.

“Val, we see the pain you are enduring,” said Langmar, “and we want to help you. We think you should take your mother to the Temple of Mara in Bravil. There are healers there that could help her.”

“NO!” replied Val with more vehemence than he had intended. He continued in softer tones, “I won’t have acolytes performing Magicka on my mother. Nothing but ill comes from those arcane forces.”

“We knew you would feel this way,” Pete chimed in, “but you need to face reality, my friend. You cannot cure her. I doubt there is anyone here in Bruma that can. Her condition fails to improve. You just said yourself that it is getting worse, not better. By this time next year, you will be homeless for failure to keep your taxes paid. You must take action to prevent this. She would be in good care, and perhaps even be cured.”

“And if you stayed in Bravil, you could rent your house to me,” Lang suddenly suggested, with a grin that was supposed to make the idea appealing.

Valrimor knew that the logic of his friends was undeniable. But the thought of leaving her in someone else’s care chaffed at him. Especially in the care of those that practice in the arcane. He took a healthy swig from his tankard before responding.

“How can I abandon my Ma, when it was abandonment that drove her to this state?” he asked of his comrades.

“Aye, we know it is a difficult decision, Val,” Lang answered, “and we want to help. We are willing to accompany you and see you both safely to Bravil.”

Val considered the idea further and softened his stance by agreeing to sleep on it. He downed his tankard of mead and said, “Now come on…I have twenty more of these to quaff so I can claim Cleavage-Beak’s record,” as he twirled the empty tankard on his finger.

* * *

3rd Evening Star, 4E167

Valrimor woke with his skull being used as a blacksmith’s anvil, or at least he felt like it was. As he stood, a wave of nausea struck him and he barely made it to the basin before losing the previous night’s award winning mead. Wiping his mouth, he glanced at the gold medallion lying on his dresser. A vague memory of Lang saying that he had cheated somehow brought a weak grin to his lips. When he looked back down into the basin, his stomach rolled again and he decided to go wash his face in the kitchen.

His mother was still sleeping when Val had finished cleaning up and got dressed. His thoughts went back to the proposition his friends had made. Valrimor could not recall ever having to make such a difficult decision. He knew that his friends were right. He was going to run out of money, it was only a matter of time. But he just couldn’t face the idea of abandoning his mother. No, he would not do it. Somehow, he would make ends meet staying in Bruma. With the help of the Gods, time would mend his mother’s heart and mind. Time would…not arcane priests.

[jack cloudy]

Oh dear. Though the 'manhood' ritual was a nice bit of worldbuilding, I'm worried about Ellinor. She's losing her grip on reality or given her response to Val at times, the ability to distinguish between the past and the present.

I foresee that Val is going to do some desperate and stupid things to provide for the two of them, while refusing to take her to the healers at Bravil. And I can understand that. For him magic is destruction, not restoration. And speaking from an outside perspective, restoration is good at healing the flesh, but Val's mother is suffering from an injured soul. And I don't know what, if anything, the healers have for that.

[Grits]

Ellinar’s decline and Val’s devotion were touching. I look forward to part two and learning the consequence of Val’s decision. Even though he has caring friends he’s very alone at eighteen, making a parent’s decision for his own mother.

[Acadian]

Good choice to break this interlude into two nice bite-sized installments. When a scene whispers for you to linger and lavish depth, it is often a good idea to listen and flow with it. The results can be managed exactly as you did: simply break it up into nice enjoyable segments.

‘Sometimes, after these episodes passed, she would apologize to him, saying it was because he looked so much like his father. This would confuse Val even further,’ - - This is heartbreaking. More so because we know the violent story of Val’s conception and he does not. Grits is so right that this opening scene touchingly shows Val’s devotion to his Ma.

“Stuff a cask in that mead hole of yours, Cleavage-Beak!” - - After spending a few moments early in this episode pondering what Cleaver-Fist’s new nickname might be after his record-breaking birthday feat, I was delighted to actually learn the result here.

I enjoyed that this was set in the city of Olav’s Tap & Tack and also paid homage to the City of Mara’s healers. The proposal presented to Val really showed that, despite their rough edges, the other two young men are true friends indeed. You paused the interlude at a perfect point, allowing us to ponder the fate of Ellinar.

[haute ecole rider]

This is heartbreaking! So Ellinor's memories are catching up to her. It must be difficult for her to look at her near-grown son and see the man who caused her so much pain. And it's hard for Val to bear his mother's panic attacks which seem to be linked to his father, even though he doesn't realize that the man she calls his father and the man he calls his father are not one and the same. Loved the drinking contest, and even more The Cleaver's new moniker after his earlier win!

[SubRosa]

determined to get to Whiterun and more libations as soon as possible.
There is nothing better than having a clear goal to motivate you!

Ah the Companions and their giant. When I first started playing my characters would always rush in to help. Then later I started wondering what the story was with that giant? We have no idea if he was a marauder threatening the farm, or if he was a peaceful fellow until he was attacked by a bunch of nasty shorties looking for glory? Ever since that thought, my characters usually just stand back and stay out of it.

the Jarl can wait ‘til morning…
My thoughts exactly! My characters never bother with him (not since it forces you deeper into the main quest). Besides, he's probably busy ballin' anyway...

A very sobering eighteenth birthday for Val. It is hard enough having a loved family member go downhill like that, it is worse when you have to care for them. It does sound like his friends are right about the Temple of Mara in Bravil. But it looks like Val is not going to go that route. At least not yet. When things get worse though, how knows?

[mALX]

Oh, this started off with such a good memory that the condition his mother was in came as a shock; really sad to read...

Bless her heart, Val looking so much like his father and in her state not being able to discern.

It is so hard to correlate this loving Val taking care of his mother with the Val that grabbed that poor man’s arm in Riverwood and cost him a friendship.

This chapter was both amazingly written and heartbreaking. It doesn’t bode well if he does nothing, very worrisome. Awesome Write !!!

[ThatSkyrimGuy]

I know that it has only been four days, but I wanted to get Part Two posted while Part One was still fresh. But first...

@ jack cloudy - For him magic is destruction, not restoration. -- I am so glad you see that as clearly as Val does himself. He would prefer to avoid getting Magicka involved at all costs.

@ Grits - Even though he has caring friends he’s very alone at eighteen, ... -- Indeed, as all his time is occupied at home. He has missed out on a lot.

@ Acadian - Part Two is going to a tad more than "bite sized", which I shall explain momentarily.

...what Cleaver-Fist’s new nickname might be after his record-breaking birthday feat, I was delighted to actually learn the result here. -- It was too easy...and fun!

@ haute ecole rider - It must be difficult for her to look at her near-grown son and see the man who caused her so much pain. -- This, as much as her husband never returning, is definitely at the root of her emotional shut down and her dark depression. And by proxy, Val's dilemma. I have no training or experiance with mental illness, so it has been difficult to translate to the story.

@ SubRosa - re: the giant, ...or if he was a peaceful fellow until he was attacked by a bunch of nasty shorties looking for glory? -- What an interesting concept! Val was actually ready to help, but the fight was over too quickly. But I love that idea, especially since giants in-game don't go out of their way to kill you, as long as you don't provoke them.

But it looks like Val is not going to go that route. At least not yet. When things get worse though, who knows? -- Stay tuned

@ mALX - It is so hard to correlate this loving Val taking care of his mother with the Val that grabbed that poor man’s arm in Riverwood and cost him a friendship. -- Val of 18 and Val of 51...well...people change with their circumstances. Val was only a budding alcoholic at 18...but he is still basically good at heart at 51...basically.

*****
@ Everyone - As always, thanks so much for following Val and all of your kind comments.
*****
Author's Note: - Part Two is still a bit on the longish side, at just over 2,300 words. It was too short to break it into Parts 2 and 3. So I apologize in advance for the length. I think that when you read it, you will agree that there was not a good spot to split this segment.
*****
Previously in Part One - Val has been offered some help from his friends by way of an escort to Bravil, to take his ailing mother to the Temple of Mara for healing. His aversion to Magicka has caused him to decide not to accept this offer, even though it is a logical choice...

Interlude 3 - Part Two

17th Rain’s Hand, 4E169

Valrimor sat in the main hall of the temple, in a pew near the stairway that led downward to a lower level. A loud crack of thunder came quickly on the heels of a brilliant flash that had shone through the stained glass windows, briefly bathing the interior with a kaleidoscope of colors. The weather outside had been violent all afternoon. Suddenly the doors burst open as an elderly peasant woman in drenched clothing entered the temple vestibule. A gale was soaking the old woman and preventing her from closing the doors. Val rose to help her and was surprised at the force required to get them shut. With the doors finally closed, the grey haired peasant turned and thanked him, and then walked up to the altar and knelt in the puddle that was forming beneath her. Val returned to his seat and continued mulling over how he had gotten here.

It had taken almost a year and a half for Valrimor to cave in and admit defeat. The final blow had been the Imperial tax collector showing up at his door with an armed escort. Val’s inability to pay resulted in being served with eviction papers. With no other choice, Val had taken Langmar and Pietor up on their offer to escort him and his mother to Bravil. It had been a long journey. The weather had been brutal ever since they left the Jeralls. In Valrimor’s opinion, this month should be named Thunder’s Fist instead of Rain’s Hand. Another flash and peal of thunder punctuated his thoughts. They had arrived in Bravil early this morning. They procured a room at a filthy place called The Lonely Suitor Lodge. The only other inn, Silverhome on the Water, had a “No Vacancy” sign posted on the door. Lang and Pete were waiting for him back at the lodge.

His mother’s condition had not worsened, but it had not improved at all. He felt so helpless and guilty at the same time. Helpless because could not do anything for her and guilty for what he was now doing for her. Lang and Pete had kept assuring him that he was doing the right thing during the entire trip. Val couldn’t understand how doing something right could feel so wrong. The Priestess here at The Temple of Mara had agreed with Val’s friends, saying that this was the right choice. She had taken his mother downstairs and had been with her for hours now. Valrimor could only wait with a tightly twisted knot in the pit of his stomach. A squeaking door hinge and soft footsteps coming from the stairwell behind him jarred his attention back to the present. He looked up to see a young Breton acolyte approaching him, her face calm and emotionless.

“How is my mother?” Val asked with urgency.

“She is resting comfortably. The Priestess has seen to her immediate needs. She is not asleep yet, and has asked to see you,” she informed him in soft tones barely above a whisper, and with a twang in her accent that suggested she grew up near Leyawiin.

“My mother spoke?” Val asked with incredulity.

“Why…yes. She has been speaking with the Priestess for almost the entire time, and now she wishes to speak to you. Follow me please,” she replied, and turned back toward the stairwell.

Val was stunned. He sat there, staring at the Breton's back with a slack jaw. She turned and repeated her request that he follow her. Valrimor rose and obliged her, still struggling with the thought of his mother speaking normally. The ochre robed girl took him down the stairs and through a doorway, asking Val to close it behind him. They were in what appeared to be a dining hall for the temple staff. As he followed the girl through the room, Val tried to recall the last time he had heard his mother speak anything outside of a wild rant. A short hallway at the opposite end of the room led to another door that was open. Inside, Val could see fine furnishings. This was likely the sleeping quarters and office of the Priestess. There were two short staircases on either side of the hallway that led down to other doors. It was down the steps to the right that the acolyte led Valrimor. She paused in front of the door and said, “She is in here,” and opened the door for him. A moment of fear gripped Val’s heart before he entered. When he entered the room, Ellinar looked at him and smiled.

“My lovely son…please…sit,” she said, patting the bed next to her. Tears immediately welled in Val’s eyes. He couldn’t remember what it was like to hear his mother speak this way, let alone see her smile. The Priestess excused herself, requesting that Valrimor come see her in her quarters after they were finished. Her words might as well have fallen on deaf ears, as Val was entranced by the sight before him. As soon as the Priestess exited and the acolyte had closed the door behind them, his mother spoke again.

“Don’t cry, my son,” she said as Val took a seat on the bed, “It’s all right now. I need to tell you something while I can.”

“While you can?” Valrimor asked with a quivering lip. Tears had now migrated from his eyes to his cheeks.

“Yes, son, while I can. I am leaving soon,” his mother replied.

“Leaving? We just got here. Where are you going?” Val asked with an obvious tone of confusion.

“Just listen to me Valrimor. Just listen. This is not easy for me to say and I fear it will be even harder for you to hear, but it must be spoken,” his mother said.

Wiping tears from his face, Val nodded his head.

“Your father is not who you believe him to be. My husband, Erik Grey-Mane, is not the man who fathered you. Your real father died on the night that you were conceived,” said Ellinar. She paused a moment as tears of her own began to trickle down the side of her nose, and then she continued, “Your father raped me, in Imperial City, and Erik was his traveling companion. When Erik discovered what was happening, he pulled your father off of me and killed him, although I don’t believe he meant to. Your real father’s name was Jonsin and he was from Riften. That’s all I have ever cared to know about the man.”

Val’s mouth had gone agape with disbelief as his mother continued, “The two of us fled that night, for neither of us had sufficient coin to bribe the City Guard. The day you were born, I asked Erik to be your father in Jonsin’s stead. We were married that week. He felt it was best if you never knew the truth, and I agreed.”

Val shook his head. He could not believe his ears. His joy at the sound of his mother’s voice was slowly being replaced by swirling emotions of anger and sadness at being deceived. Ellinar saw this in his face.

“Erik was a good man, and I loved…no…still love him with all my heart. He would have made such a wonderful father figure for you. He treated you as his own son in the short time that he had with you. I wish you would have been older when he left, so that you could at least have memories of him,” Ellinar continued.

Valrimor’s emotional turmoil continued to build. He couldn’t believe that his mother had lied to him all of his life. She had maintained a lie that was concocted by his Da, who was not his father. He just kept shaking his head in denial, his eyes glaring at his mother and wishing she would take back what he had just heard.

“Val, I am so sorry to have deceived you. I am so sorry to have compared you to your real father. I am so sorry for everything, but I am grateful to have had this chance to tell you before I go,” she said, and then reached over to the nightstand next to her bed. She grabbed a paring knife from the fruit plate. Before Val could begin to guess her intentions, she ran the blade deeply across her throat. The immediate gush of her lifeblood soaked his face and stunned him momentarily before the anguish from what he had just witnessed burst forth.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” he screamed with a sorrow he hadn’t known was possible.

At the sound of Val’s howl, the acolyte burst in the door and froze in terror at the sight of all the blood. Val jumped to his feet and confronted the Breton, glaring with eyes of hate through his new gory mask.

“You did this to her!” he raged, “You and your arcane Priestess!” He pointed to the blood soaked bed and screamed, “She never would have done this at home! This is your fault!”

Images of a scorched Altmer in Bruma briefly danced before his eyes. Horror and heartache swirled into his rage, firing his fury like a bellows to a forge. He swung his arms toward the servant of Mara and white hot power shot from his fingertips, momentarily wrapping her in dancing tendrils of lightning. The force sent the acolyte flying backward through the doorway, landing in a heap on the hallway floor. Val walked past the smoldering corpse as though he had nothing to do with it. His rage was in control of him now, and all other emotions had been shut off. He stalked up the stairs with murderous fury and turned toward the Priestess quarters. She stood there in her doorway, petrified with fear at the sight of a blood covered madman with blue-white balls of fire in his hands. The woman never knew what hit her. Two lightning bolts as thick as Val’s arms instantly connected his palms to her skull. Her death was immediate and she crumpled to the floor as soon as the bolt released her. Two other acolytes had entered the dining hall behind Valrimor, and he just caught a glimpse of them fleeing when he turned away from the dead Priestess.

“Come back here, you arcane murderers!” Valrimor bellowed, and ran after them. He burst through the door and up the stairs to the main hall of the temple. The mages were nowhere to be seen. The peasant woman he had helped earlier shrieked at the sight of him. Val glared at her with wild eyes and simply said, “Leave this place…NOW!” The woman screamed and fled for the nearest exit.

A loud boom of thunder rattled the windows and shook the earth, accenting Valrimor’s anger as he walked between the pews toward the Altar of the Nine. The tingling power of wild Magicka coursed through his veins, itching for release. He raised his arms and nine bolts of lightning radiated outward from him, shattering each of the stained glass windows that portrayed likenesses of the Nine Divines.

Then it was over. Valrimor stood there, his power exhausted and his heart laboring under the duress of so much spent energy. He dropped to his knees at the altar, racked with anger and sorrow and no way to release it. His face was frozen in a voiceless cry as his tears turned red with his mother’s blood before they hit the floor. Lightning was flashing amidst a non-stop crescendo of thunder claps. Wind howled into the temple hall through the openings that once held beautiful glass art. A sudden rush of panic replaced his anguish. Val jumped to his feet and ran out of the temple and into the storm. Lightning chased through the sky followed by peals of thunder as he ran through the empty streets. Every time he thought he saw someone, he would duck behind a barrel or cart to hide, until he reached The Lonely Suitor Lodge. When he arrived, the main hall was empty and he sprinted up the stairs to their room. It was also empty. His friends were not there and their belongings were gone. Val’s pack, armor, and weapons were set in a neat pile on one of the beds. Leaning with his back against the closed door, soaked from the storm, Valrimor slid down the door and squatted. Panic, sorrow, and rage all fought each other for equal time in his heart and mind. He began whispering an oath while he hugged his knees to his chest, rocking back and forth.

“Never again…never again…never again…”

The sound of the storm moving away in the distance paced Val’s growing calm. He rose to his knees and spoke his oath aloud, as though testifying to the Gods themselves.

“I swear by Y’ffre that I shall never use Magicka again, for any reason what so ever!” he exclaimed with his arms stretched wide and his face turned upward. The sounds of wind in the roof thatch and rain drops against the window were the only response. He knew he needed to get moving, but Val remained on his knees and bowed his head for a moment longer, and then whispered, “I love you Ma.”

He rose and went over to the basin to wash the blood from his face and hands. He glanced around the room for anything else that might be his as he shed his bloody clothing and donned his gear. Satisfied that he was forgetting nothing, Valrimor turned and left. Once Bravil was well behind him, he slowed to a walk. He glanced up and caught a waning Masser peeking through a break in the clouds like a blood soaked scythe.

“Never again,” he reaffirmed to himself as he walked north alone.

*****

EDIT - Nit picked.

This post has been edited by ThatSkyrimGuy: Aug 1 2013, 05:42 PM

[haute ecole rider]

Wow. No wonder our good-hearted Val sought solace in booze. The irony of it is, alcohol removes inhibitions, making it more likely for one to give in to sudden impulses, such as using Magicka. Our Val will need to be careful not to get so drunk he doesn't know what he is doing when someone pisses him off.

So sad about his mother. So she couldn't face life after telling Val the truth about his father. At least she had the courage to tell him before she left.

This is a pretty powerful installment, and no, I never noticed its length. It was just perfect as it is. I've noticed that when you have dialogue, it makes the read go faster, and you can get away with a longer segment. So don't worry about the word count of this post!

[Grits]

Val walked past the smoldering corpse as though he had nothing to do with it.

I thought this phrase captured Val’s disconnection so well, making it even more powerful when he returned to himself at the altar.

Wow, much is explained now. I didn’t notice the length of this part at all. It was a very fast and captivating read.

[Acadian]

Sadly, the cleansing storm provided by Lady Kynareth that danced outside the Great Chapel of Mara that day could not stop the bloody storm of rage that erupted from Valrimor.

His deadly and magical rampage within a sanctuary of the Nine will doubtless be compared to atrocities inflicted by no less than Umaril the Unfeathered. I can imagine prophets ranting, and wanted posters for ‘Valrimor the Unhinged’.

Perhaps this is part of why Val ended up in Skyrim. A very dark piece of his past indeed.


Nit: ‘He sat there, staring at the Bretons back with a slack jaw.’ - - Bretons needs an apostrophe before the ‘s’ to make it possessive.

[SubRosa]

So worse has finally come to worse, and Val has lost their house to the taxman.

I thought the description of the thunderstorm illuminating the church through the stained glass windows as wonderful. So to was Val's observation that the month should be named Thunder's Fist. It not only established the time of year through his musings alone, but was also a rather clever turn of phrase.

It looks like Val's mother made her peace with what happened by deciding to kill herself. I am not surprised by the sudden clarity she possessed beforehand. Poor Val though, if the revelation of his true father was not bad enough, to have to see his mother kill herself. Its no wonder he blamed magicians, or fled into a bottle.

[jack cloudy]

Um, wow. Didn't see that one coming.


Worst part is, before the knife and the meretic rage, she seemed to have turned for the better.


And I thought Val had been motherless for longer so I went back and checked dates. Yup, this is about thirty years before his escapades in Skyrim. I guess it is a good thing Val does not get angry while drunk. (or not as easy in any case)


Seriously, how could this situation get worse? Running into not-daddy and finding out that he did join up with some bandits for looting, pillaging and raping?

[Captain Hammer]

Well, this has been sudden.

Valrimor's affection for the bottle, and the birthday celebration that started it, are certainly some interesting scenes. "Cleavage Beak" in particular is hilarious.

But then we get to Bravil. Oh, Bravil. And Valrimor's true ancestry comes out. I have to be honest, I thought he overreacted a bit here, but then I remembered he didn't know a healing spell that could be used on others, so my initial thoughts really oughtn't matter that much.

Val's got certified power. It's just a shame that whenever he uses it the results aren't pretty, or desirable.

Oh, and tell Aela to bugger off. Though, given her wardrobe, I don't know if I would want her leaving before that's finis...Moving along.

Val's trials and tribulations in trying to score some more mead were enjoyable, but my favorite part was his conversation with the guards. I'm still waiting for one of them to get angry at seeing his bow and arrows, only to mention previous work experience and patella-related injuries. More!

[mALX]

In Valrimor’s opinion, this month should be named Thunder’s Fist instead of Rain’s Hand.

LOVE this line!

How weird that she killed herself in front of Val so he would have that trauma for the rest of her life! She had been such a good mother all that time, then suddenly deliberately traumatize him? Strange scene. Uh oh, Val’s lost it now. I feel sorry for the priestesses there, they couldn’t know what his mother intended to do. How strange she would do that in front of him! I see a bottle coming up in his life now. Awesome Write!

[ThatSkyrimGuy]

Well, the interludes are finished and we can get back to Val's current affairs, but first...

@ haute ecole rider - Besides a possible genetic pre-disposition due to his Nordic half, you are correct about the root of Val's alcoholism. On a separate note, I'm glad the word count wasn't too far over the top.

@ Grits - I am glad that you picked up on Val's complete disconnect with events when he is in one of his rages. He is so completely not himself when this occurs.

@ Acadian - Much appreciation for the nit spotting...picked it. The wanted posters never materialized, to Val's knowledge, perhaps because the only witness left alive was an elderly peasant woman. Anyone that actually knew Val would dismiss the idea due to his complete aversion to Magicka. Of course, those that have known him all his life might recall a shocking murder in Bruma eleven years earlier.

@ SubRosa - It's no wonder he blamed magicians, or fled into a bottle. -- Exactly! Val could not conceive that this would have occurred eventually anyway, so it had to be the fault of the arcane arts. And of course, the bottle just makes it all go away...for a bit...

@ jack cloudy - Worst part is, before the knife and the meretic rage, she seemed to have turned for the better. -- You actually touched on this in an earlier comment...

And speaking from an outside perspective, restoration is good at healing the flesh, but Val's mother is suffering from an injured soul. And I don't know what, if anything, the healers have for that.

You nailed it! Healers are great at curing wounds of the body, but all they did for Ellinar was bring lucidity, not sanity...

@ Captain Hammer - Welcome back!

Val's got certified power. It's just a shame that whenever he uses it the results aren't pretty, or desirable. -- Indeed, if he could only embrace that power rather than shun it. To quote a certain intergalactic green midget, "Control! You must learn control!"

@ mALX - How weird that she killed herself in front of Val so he would have that trauma for the rest of her life! She had been such a good mother all that time, then suddenly deliberately traumatize him? Strange scene. -- Perhaps I didn't shed enough light on Ellinar's condition. She was, what we would call today, certifiable. She had not been herself (kind, caring, or otherwise) for years. And you are correct about the bottle...many, many bottles over the next 32 years.

*****
@ Everyone - Many thanks once again for all of your kind comments, compliments, and critiques!


This post has been edited by ThatSkyrimGuy: Aug 4 2013, 08:21 PM

[ThatSkyrimGuy]

Previously – Valrimor had witnessed another legend (in his eyes) come to life. A giant had been slain by members of a group known as the Companions. Then it was on to Whiterun, where he procured a room at The Bannered Mare. When we left him, he had promised Hulda that she could count on him returning to the main hall of the inn. Knowing Valrimor as we all do by now, we can rest assured that he did indeed…

Chapter 18 – Morning Haze

24th Last Seed, 4E201

My first thought was an immediate need to get all of the skeever pelt out of my mouth. My second thought was that someone needed to quit punching my head. Then I opened my eyes and realized I had no rodent fur in my mouth, nor was an assailant bashing my brains out. This did not stop my head from pounding when I propped myself up on my elbows. I knew this feeling all too well. I also knew that there could be a whole lot of really bad news waiting for me at the inn. I looked around and tried to determine where I was. The room looked somewhat familiar, which could be a good thing. In the far corner was my pack, sitting on a chair. On top of a dresser was all of my armor. I raised the bed cover and was relieved to find I still had my underclothes on.

At least you hadn’t walked around naked like you did in Anvil…or this could have been a jail cot instead of a bed…

I sat up and swung my feet to the floor, and then waited through the instant round of nausea and headache that always accompanied these moments. Groaning, I rose and walked to the wash basin next to the dresser. The instant relief of cold water hitting my face was another all too familiar feeling. I looked up into the polished steel mirror on the wall. My eyes looked like they belonged in a Dunmer skull. My face was all puffy, with an indented print of the pillow seam running down one side. I opened my mouth and stuck out my tongue, just to double check for skeever pelts. Frowning, I shook my head and regretted it instantly, squinting against the pain. I shambled over to the dresser, got dressed, and then picked up my pack from the chair. Suddenly, I looked around the room with a sense of urgency. My weapons were gone! My sword, my bow, my quiver of arrows, and even my dagger…they were all missing.

What in Oblivion had happened?

I left the room and eased my way down a set of stairs that was right outside the door. At the bottom, I realized that I was still at The Bannered Mare. Relieved somewhat that I had determined my location, I walked over to the bar as Hulda appeared from the kitchen.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t our master showman. And how are we feeling this morning?” the proprietor asked with a smirk and a cocked eyebrow.

“Showman?” I inquired.

Hulda burst out laughing. She placed a cup of herbal tea on the bar as she said, “You obviously have no memory of last night. Here…sit and drink this. I am sure you need it”

“Gods bless you woman,” I said, sitting on a bar stool. I gulped down the hot tea as if my very life depended on it.

Hulda continued to chuckle, and then asked, “I don’t suppose you are ready for food yet, no?”

“No, not yet. So, tell me, how bad was I? Do I owe for any damages? Can I expect the city guards to be coming for me?”

She just laughed again, and then said, “Don’t worry about that now. I can assure you that prison is not in your future. But a career as a bard is not out of the question.” This brought more giggles from my host.

“Do you have any idea what may have happened to my weapons?” I asked with no small amount of trepidation, based on Hulda’s behavior.

“Well, you were a little disappointed that we didn’t have a dart board. So you decided that you would challenge any willing patron to a knife throwing contest. You drew your dagger and got ready to throw at that post over there,” she explained, pointing toward a thick wooden support pillar on the other side of the room, “and when you brought your arm back, I grabbed the dagger out of your hand. You spun around, but lost your balance and fell. That was when you told me that it might be a good idea if I kept your weapons for you. They are all here,” she finished, pointing to a table behind the bar. All of my weapons were there in a pile.

“Oh,” I said, “Well, if that’s the worst that happened, then that’s good.”

Hulda burst into laughter yet again, and I had the feeling that the story of the evening’s events wasn’t finished.

“When you come back this evening, I will fill you in on anything you still can’t remember. Right now, you need to shape up for your meeting with the Jarl. You are not quite presentable yet. I’ll get you more tea and some bread to soak up that ale,” Hulda said as she went back into the kitchen. While she was away, two people entered the inn. When one noticed me at the bar, she pointed me out to her friend and they both started giggling amongst themselves.

Oh Gods, Val…What have you done this time?

Hulda returned with more tea and some toasted slices of bread. I looked at her and asked, “How did you know I was going to see the Jarl?”

“You told me last night, and asked that I make sure you rose at a decent hour to do so. I was on my way to wake you when you came downstairs.”

“Oh. Thank you,” I replied, “May I have my sword? I will collect the rest of my gear when I return. I promise not to throw it.”

Hulda just chuckled again as she handed me the blade, and then she wished me luck as she headed back to the kitchen. I finished my tea and toast, and then walked past the snickering patrons with my head down on my way out the door. There was a city guard at the bottom of the stairs.

“You look a little rough,” he observed, “You should see Arcadia at the apothecary. She probably has something to whip you into shape.”

“Thanks, but I need to see the Jarl. Could you direct me please?”

“You will find him in Dragonsreach. It’s up those stairs, then up more stairs, at the top of the hill. You can’t miss it,” replied the guard, “If they won’t let you in, you could always say you are the new court jester.” With that, the guard burst into laughter and continued his rounds.

Frowning, I gazed up the direction he had pointed. A very large building sat at the summit of a stairway that climbed the rocky hill, somewhat obscured by the morning haze. I sighed through the dull ache in my head and started in the direction that he had pointed. The first set of stairs was flanked by narrow canals with water flowing into grated openings that took the water out of the city. When I reached the top of that set, I found another plaza. The water that had escorted the stairs downward was coming from another canal that encircled a very large, very dead, tree. It could have easily shaded the entire plaza had it been in full leaf. Looking to my left, I could see manors than likely belonged to the wealthier residents of Whiterun. To my right was a large building that gave the impression of an overturned ship, with the keel pointed skyward. Directly across from me was another set of stairs that led upward to the massive keep at the top of the hill. These steps were also bracketed by canals.

As I made my way around the tree, I noticed an old man ranting away at anyone that would listen. Then I noticed that no one was listening. He yelled on and on about Talos and the Thalmor. Anyone that had that much ire toward the Thalmor was okay in my book, but I didn’t have time to indulge him at the moment. Nor was I in the mood. I continued up the next set of stairs, the first of three more flights of them. One landing was flanked by pools of water that were feeding the lower canals. The rest of the way, the water cascaded down on both sides of the steps in a series of rocky falls. At the top, the walkway passed between two massive wooden columns topped with lit braziers.

Screenshot

This led to a stone walkway that made a semi-circle around the front of the keep. The curving walkway was atop a dam, holding back a large pool that was being fed by water that came through grated openings in the keep’s foundation. A wooden bridge, spanned by towering wood arches that came together in a point over the center, led to the keep’s entrance. The side rails were of an intricate wrought iron lattice topped by a wooden beam. I marveled at the fine craftsmanship of both the woodworkers and the ironsmiths that had built this structure.

Before crossing the bridge, I turned around for a moment to take in the view. I was a little winded from the climb and didn’t want to be panting when I was introduced to the Jarl. Most of the city was visible from here. The majority of the morning haze had burned off and I could see the stone arches of Bleak Falls Barrow far to the south. On another, even taller mountain, I could make out the silhouette of a structure at the summit. I couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to build something way up there, but I had seen stranger things in my travels.

My travels…

That thought brought on a frown and a heavy sigh. My journey into Skyrim had not been what I expected so far.

Dragons…walking dead…the dreams, so vivid and terrifying...my temper, going out of control...blasts of raw and untamed Magicka. Val, what is going on with you?

My mind continued to drift, taking me back to the tavern in Bruma just a few short weeks ago. After so many years, I had still been running from my mother’s ghost and the atrocities I had committed in Bravil, drowning them both with alcohol when they had caught up with me. I had traveled around the whole of Cyrodiil, never making a plan set in stone. Moving from one city to the next, looking for the next easy coin and tankard. That night, as I sat in Olav’s, I had vividly recalled what my mother had said all those years ago. She had said that my Da wasn’t really my father. Up until then, I had known my father to be Erik Grey-Mane. But she had told me a story of a man that took her against her will, and that this man, not Erik, was really my father. Jensen, or Jonsin, or Jonas…something like that…was my real father’s name. She had also mentioned Riften. I had dutifully drowned out the rest of that fateful day’s events with ale. And so, in a drunken depression, I had decided to come to Skyrim to search for answers.

And now, you are about to meet with a Jarl regarding a legend that has come to life right before your very eyes…The same legend that has plagued your dreams for all these years… Just get it over with…then you can go to Riften…

With renewed determination, I turned toward the doors and prepared to enter the keep of Dragonsreach.

This post has been edited by ThatSkyrimGuy: Aug 4 2013, 08:20 PM

[SubRosa]

I think Skyguy just typed in his last two episodes of AQOF in invisible pixels!

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Aug 4 2013, 08:16 PM

[ThatSkyrimGuy]

Not sure what happened there, but the thanks are now in my first post and the installment is in the second post...weird!

[haute ecole rider]

I, too had noticed the invisible pixels, too!

Glad you came back and fixed it!

So we catch up to Val in the present and see that he has a memory lapse. Apparently everyone else around him hasn't, and therein lies the potential for significant embarrassment! I can't wait to find out what happened last night!