This is the second and final installment of my little "mini-series" if I can call it such. Enjoy! Oh, and please add feedback about the actual battle. I for one find it mildly confusing in some stages yet I suppose most battles in that age were like that. I based this battle on the type of battles fought in the early medieval period, which were highly unordered and disorganized, or so I hear. And btw, what do you mean by introducing a character, Olen? You mean an actual protagonist for the story? Rest assured that I've handled that with great care to please both fans of my omniscient style of writing and my somewhat more personal style. As I've said before, enjoy!

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The two lines clashed with amazing brutality. The Nords hurled themselves upon the Breton lines with the ecstatic ferocity characteristic of a frenzied warrior. The first lines of each army were massacred almost instantly, the second and third lines joining battle afterwards. The spell-casters now entered their role of heavy infantry, charging into the mass of swinging blades and rent flesh. Right before they made contact they flung spells at whatever foes they could see, killing any soul unlucky enough to be in their path instantly. After leaving behind a few piles of ash or a burnt corpse still shaking from the impact of a lightning bolt, the battlemages started brutishly carving a path through the Nords while the spellswords maneuvered in a somewhat more nimble way around them, flinging spells and swinging swords as they went. The fighting got even more savage as more and more of the ranks joined. The Nord warriors went out of their way to try and break up the formations of the Breton warriors, fighting as savage beasts. Soon enough the Nordic berserkers joined the fray, killing left and right with crazed joy.

From Lord Regnier's position the fighting looked like two disorderly waves pushing each other back and forth, a sprout of colour sometimes appearing from the spell of a battlemage or spellsword. Sometimes a mob would break out from the Nordic "wave" and try to wreak havoc in the Breton "wave" before being ultimately surrounded and hacked to pieces, a burst of flames sometime flashing if a battlemage was involved. As the front lines of both armies decimated each other, the Breton mercenary Roland Dubois stood near the carnage, next to Sir Roderick who was trying to direct his troops. Standing beside Sir Roderick was also his guard formed of twelve veteran knights of the Order of Evermoor. Sir Roderick was mounted atop his horse, a fine stallion of a pure white colour. As he stood about, lusting to join battle, Roland looked at Sir Roderick slightly, admiring his shining armour.

"Dubois, order the mercenaries to join battle!" Roderick said as he looked about at the mercenaries, who seemed to be anxious to enter battle. Roderick however didn't seem as tense as the knights around him. He seemed oddly calm, for a man standing near a battle.

"Right away sir! You heard him lads! Go earn your pay!" Roland shouted as he urged the mercenaries forward. With heart-chilling battle cries, they all joined battle, cleaving and hacking the enemy left and right.

As Roland drew his sword and prepared to enter the battle himself, he was ordered by Roderick to stay behind. With a sigh of frustration Roland stopped in his tracks and returned to the side of his commander. As Roland stood, he noticed that there were no true professional soldiers in either army. They all fought individually, as little more than a disorderly mob. It was no wonder why the Imperial Legions had conquered them all. The mercenaries gathered from almost all the corners of the Empire, the rag-tag militias summoned to fight or the simple Breton clansmen fighting for their homelands had little cohesion, hardly even holding their ranks in battle. Only the battlemages seemed to have some discipline about them, holding their formation even in battle.

As the battle went on, the old Imperial battlemage stood at the forefront of all the fighting, his battlemages holding out around him. Their numbers had fallen however, amounting to only about eighteen remaining battlemages. The spellswords had also sustained heavy casualties, having already retreated from battle.

"Hold! Not one step back!" the Imperial battlemage shouted furiously as he cleaved apart the skull of a Nord warrior with his axe.

After slaying another Nord warrior, he raised his hand and summoned a fireball in his palm, ready to unleash it on touch. A Nord came at him from the left, his axe held high. As he raised his own axe to block, the Imperial punched the Nord in the chest, making him catch fire. With another swing of his axe he pierced another Nord's neck, blood gushing out violently, blinding him temporarily. After quickly scrubbing the blood with his hand, the Imperial saw a Nord coming at him with a sword poised to strike. Before the Nord could deliver his strike however, a lightning bolt threw him on his back in shock. As the Imperial looked back he could see one of his fellow battlemages had saved him. After narrowly dodging a Nord coming down on him with an axe by side-stepping, the Imperial hacked off the arm of a Nord which had stabbed one of his Breton comrades, making the Nord scream in pain. Before the battlemage could slay another Nord however, he felt a strike, yet it was too quick to even feel the pain. Before he could realize it, his head had been severed masterfully. While the Imperial's headless body fell to the ground, Aenar Wolf-Bane admired his feat. The battlemages all ran after Aenar turned his gaze towards them, dismayed by the loss of their leader. After another swing of his pole-axe, the head of a Breton clansman dropped to the ground, followed by the body.

Such was the strength of Aenar that he held his meter long pole-axe in one hand while holding the reins of his horse with the other. After the battlemages retreated, the Nords got the upper hand in the battle with the Bretons, slaying or routing a great many of them. The battle was fast approaching Sir Roderick's position. As Aenar's horse slowly walked towards Roderick, Sigurd passed by with his horse in a quick gallop, lopping the head of another Breton as he rode. As he neared Roderick, he reared his horse then stood still.

"Fight on my brothers, for victory is near! Persevere, and we shall triumph!" Sigurd shouted as he thrust his blade into the neck of a Breton frightened by his horse. He then withdrew to the back lines, close to the combat.

"Coward." Aenar muttered as Sigurd passed by atop his horse.

Aenar's advance had also marked the onslaught of the Nords, which had cut their way right next to Roderick. The Bretons that still fought started losing heart as they felt they were losing the battle. If Roderick was to be slain, they would definitely flee the field. Roland still stood by his commander. From his position he could now see Aenar rising up before them on his horse, the Nords making their way around him like water around a stout rock. The blade of his pole-axe was blood-red by now. The Nords, seeing him around, fought with greater ferocity and courage than usual. The Bretons seemed to be afraid even to stand in the presence of such a warrior. Indeed it was hard even for Roland to stand still in front of such an opponent. He wanted to either charge or flee, but not to stand about waiting for his own demise. Roderick however seemed calm. The visor of his helmet was raised, so his face could be seen. He wore a pig-faced bascinet on his head. The helmet was called pig-faced because it had a sharp snout protruding from the visor.

"Sir, what are your orders?" Roland asked in an anxious way. The Breton was eager to join battle and actually start killing Nords. Perhaps he could even have a swing at that Nord warrior that everyone seemed to fear. His pole-axe could fetch a pretty sum, if Roland could carry it off that is.

"Hold your positions!" Roderick shouted, without even looking at Roland.

After a few moments in which he stood still, watching how the Nords fought with the Bretons standing close to Roderick, Aenar eventually urged his horse forward, his pole-axe held high. As he passed by, the Nords seemed to gain courage and fight with renewed vigour, yet the fact of the matter was that the Nords still fighting were all thoroughly exhausted because they had not been reinforced for some time. The Bretons standing near Roderick however were well rested, not having actually participated in combat. Roderick's knights would also pose a challenge for the Nords.

As Aenar advanced amidst an ever decreasing band of Nord warriors, Sigurd was currently marshalling a new company of soldiers to join the fray under his command. As his horse paced to and fro, he held his horn tightly, preparing to give the signal to begin the charge. Sweat poured on his face, and his breastplate had received several deep dents. The thrust of a Breton spear had managed to even pierce the ring-mail underneath his armour, yet it had only pierced his hand. The wound drew blood nonetheless, and Sigurd would grit his teeth now and then to resist the pain. His horse also had to be replaced, because of several slashes it had received.

"When I blow my horn, we shall advance, and we shall crush all who stand against us. We mustn't leave Aenar by himself. He might be skilled, yet his pride will bring his downfall if we don't save him. Follow me, and we shall cut our way to the Breton general himself! To victory!" Sigurd shouted as he blew his horn with all his strength. He then galloped off on his new horse with his men following closely.

Meanwhile, back at the fore-front of the battle where most of the fighting was taking place, Roland could see Aenar advancing. Bretons and Nords were fighting and killing each other all around him, yet by magic all blows seemed to miss the Nord champion. The thrust of a lance missed him narrowly as he dodged to the side then brought down his pole-axe on the one which had tried to kill him.

"Charge, slay them all!" Roderick shouted as he urged his troops on.

All of the men standing near Roderick then suddenly sprung, overwhelming the few men Aenar had around him by pure weight of numbers. Roland also joined the fray, joyously slitting the throat of a Nord which stood in front of him. None dared to approach Aenar however. One of Roderick's knights tried to fight the Nord champion yet the short battle was decided with a thrust of Aenar's pole-axe, which was aimed for one of the only parts of the knight's armour where it gave way to the mail underneath his cuirass. Before anyone else could challenge Aenar however, the reinforcements led by Sigurd charged into the fray, clashing violently with Roderick's own troops. With a look of pleasure on his face, Roland wrestled a large Nord to the ground then stabbed him several times in his unarmoured throat. Chaos reigned all around him, Bretons and Nords grappling and fighting each other savagely on the bloody grass. By then, they were walking on the bodies of their comrades and their foes alike.

More and more Nordic reinforcements eventually joined the fray, led by another one of the Nord champions. Roderick's secret tactic however paid off. A company of about 100 knights of Evermoor which had been maneuvering around the Breton battle-line, attacked the Nords in the rear for a devastating surprise effect. Were it not for the presence of Sigurd who held his troops together they would have fled. As the troops fought on and on, Roland eventually spotted Sigurd himself, which had advanced together with his guards by carving a bloody path through any Breton troops in their way, had gone past Aenar, which advanced at a slow pace, cutting down any which hindered his path. Sigurd was a mere ten paces away from Roland, holding a mounted Knight of Evermoor armed with a mace at bay. Near Roland was a spear which was thrust firmly in the ground. Grabbing it in a quick motion, Roland wheeled around then threw the spear using his momentum. The spear flew high, and with a speed which would be remembered in the future years to pass. By a large ammount of luck, it hit Sigurd in the neck, throwing him off his horse. As several Breton soldiers stabbed Sigurd to death while he was wounded on the ground, Roland gave a roar of pure ecstasy. He had just slain one of the most famous Nordic champions.

The Nords, despite the recent reinforcements which had been led by Sigurd, started wavering because of his death. Lord Regnier had also sent a company of elite troops from his reserve to turn the tide of the battle. The battle seemed to be over, with the Bretons as the victors. It was not to be so however. With a battle cry that froze the blood of any nearby Breton, Aenar passed through the Breton ranks like lightning, striking down any in his way.

Roland, who was near Sir Roderick, stood and watched as the savage Nord rode towards them, killing left and right without any mercy or remorse. Aenar shouted out challenges as he rode, daring the Breton's best warriors to face him in combat. As he rode ever closer to Sir Roderick, Roland grew edgy. It wasn't a feeling of fear that the Breton felt, but a feeling of anxiousness in not doing anything, a feeling of greater awareness. He could see in detail how, a Breton peasant near him was being brutally stabbed by a larger Nord which had wrestled the smaller Breton to the ground. He could also see how one of the Knights stabbed a Nord wearing a coat of mail right in the chest. Another Knight was courageously fighting three Nords all by himself, their blows bouncing off the Knight's plate armour. Roland could also notice Sir Roderick lowering the visor of his helm and drawing his longsword.

With a gentle flick of his spurs, he rode forward to meet Aenar in battle. The horse walked at a brisk pace, giving Roderick time to think what he should do. Once combat would commence however there was little he could think or plan however. It would all rely on his instincts and luck.

While Roland watched, Aenar approached Roderick until the latter was in the reach of his pole-axe. With a mighty swing, Aenar struck Roderick down, severing his body from the shoulders up. Blood splashed out violently, hitting Aenar straight in the face. As the Nord champion closed his eyes he raised his head and gave a mighty shout:

"Who else seeks death?" he roared with a ferocity unseen before. All Bretons around Aenar abandoned whatever they were doing and ran, many were cut down by any Nords nearby. Aenar's action also had the effect of rallying the retreating Nords.

Roland was amazed to see his commander being struck down so easily by the Nord. In a fit of defiance, he gave his own challenge to Aenar. Roland care little for the troops around him, yet he was insulted to see a warrior of such superior skill.

"Stand and fight ye cowards for there is still one Breton with courage and daring in his veins! Come and fight me, knave!" Roland shouted as he pointed his sword towards Aenar. All of the Bretons which had been running turned around to watch the battle. The Nords also stopped the slaughter to watch.

A circle was slowly formed in the area around the two warriors. Roland stood at a distance of about thirty yards from Aenar, brandishing his blade. He had also quickly gotten a bronze shield from the ground. By the runes on it it had probably been dropped by a Nord warrior. It had a few dents here and there, signs of thorough use in the past. Still, it was better than nothing in battle with such an exceptional warrior. Aenar stood and watched as Roland prepared himself. After a few moments, Aenar charged Roland, still mounted on his horse and pointing his pole-axe towards Roland.

"The dastard wishes to ride me down, eh? Who does he think I am?" Roland muttered to himself as he prepared to face the charge.

As Aenar approached Roland he laughed wildly at the foolishness of his opponent, who stood to meet his charge. When the point of Aenar's pole-axe was within a few feet of Roland's position however, Roland rolled out of the way, slashing the legs of Aenar's horse as he evaded the charge. After grievous injury to one of its legs, the horse collapsed as it ran, throwing Aenar to the ground. Out of pure luck however, he wasn't injured at all. He got up and, after a curse or two, was ready to resume fighting. The duel was now really ready to begin. The Bretons and the Nords all started shouting as the two warriors circled each other.

"This will be easy!" Aenar shouted as he held his pole-axe in one hand.

The blade of the weapon was well-bloodied by the blood of all those it had slain in the hands of Aenar. Roland braced himself as he saw the blood-thirsty Nord approaching him, pole-axe in hand. A walk slowly turned into a sprint as Aenar ran towards Roland, holding his pole-axe high. Before he could enter the reach of Roland's blade, he brought his pole-axe down on the Breton. With some effort, the Breton dodged. Aenar then started swinging his pole-axe in almost all directions, in a bid to slay the Breton. Roland however surprised his foe by skillfully dodging most blows, and blocking the ones he couldn't dodge with his shield. The few strikes he blocked however had done terrible damage to his shield, puncturing it in several places.


Aenar seemed to be tired by his short flurry, which would have slain most opponents. Roland realized that the time to begin an attack of his own had come. He closed the distance with Aenar quickly, deflecting one of his pole-axe blows. Now that he was close to the Nord, he could begin his own assault. With a quick diagonal swing of his blade, he tested the Nord's defenses. Aenar however was quick to respond, parrying the blow with the wooden hilt of his pole-axe, which he now held in a two-handed manner. He then quickly followed by thrusting the blunt edge of the hilt towards Roland. Slightly surprised by the tactic, Roland was slower to block this strike with his shield. This gave Aenar time to thrust the blunt edge of his spear for a couple of more times, one of the blows actually going through one of the holes in the shield. Aenar's pole-axe hilt was now stuck in Roland's shield. Using this to his advantage, Aenar quickly spinned his pole-axe while it was still stuck in the shield, making sure that the blade was pointed towards Roland. Using his utmost strength, Aenar pulled the blunt edge out of Roland's shield then spinned counter-clockwise, giving Roland a potentially devastating blow. If he were to parry it with his sword or block with his shield, either of them would be broken. That only left him the option of dodging the blow, yet that would also leave him open to an attack. The Bretons watched with horror as Aenar's strike was about to connect with Roland.

Roland decided, in the split-second he had to react, that it was best to dodge. That he did, dropping to the ground in a crouched position. Aenar, as soon as he sensed his pole-axe had gone past Roland while touching thin air, immediately stopped and prepared a final blow to slay Roland. Roland, who was crouched, was too far to actually hit Aenar with longsword, so the only thing he could do would be to accept his fate, and the fact that he had lost. Aenar's blow came, yet Roland heard the sound of steel clashing with steel. Another warrior had joined the fight.

Roland looked up to see that the curved blade of the Redguard mercenary Owyn stood between himself and the pole-axe of Aenar. Aenar, with a look of frustration on his face, drew back his pole-axe and looked at his two opponents carefully. In the end, he spoke, while holding his pole-axe next to him.

"You have broken the rules of the duel by joining our battle. Thus I shall hold you responsible and kill you both for your impudence. Prepare to do battle!" Aenar shouted as he raised his pole-axe in preparation for combat.

"And I thought I was going to die on my own." Roland said with a smirk to Owyn, while preparing to do battle with Aenar.

"Your luck didn't hold out that much." Owyn replied in a witty way, yet with an ever serious face as he raised his own blade. "Someone's got to save when you get yourself in trouble, right?"

Aenar charged the two warriors, swinging the blade of his pole-axe towards Owyn, then quickly turning around and thrusting the blunt end towards Roland. They were both quick to parry his blows however. Roland backed off slightly while Owyn closed the distance with Aenar, intent on giving Roland time to rest. He swung his blade in a wild flurry yet Aenar managed to parry and deflect all of his blows succesfully. He then swung his own pole-axe in a wide arc, yet Owyn was quick to crouch and dodge the blow. Before Aenar could strike down Owyn, he had to deal with Roland, which had come behind his back. With a wide slash of his pole-axe Aenar held Roland at bay, while he prepared to deal with Owyn. After slashing at Roland, Aenar quickly raised his pole-axe in one hand to bring it down on Owyn, which was still crouching. Owyn however surprised Aenar by rolling out of the way at the last moment. Roland tried to surprise Aenar as well with a well timed thrust of his sword, yet Aenar dodged at the last moment and was then quick to punch Roland in the face, making him stagger. He would have finished Roland off with his pole-axe were it not for the quick intervention of Owyn, who slashed his blade while aiming for the Nord's head. Aenar however heard the Redguard coming in behind him and put the hilt of his pole-axe between Owyn's blade and his own head.

The duel between the three warriors went on in this way for several minutes. It dazzled the Bretons and the Nords looking on for it looked more as an improvised dance than an actual fight between three warriors aiming to kill each other. Aenar constantly gained the upper hand on one of the two mercenaries, only to be distracted by the other while the one which had just been under pressure rested. Blades flowed in all directions, and the combatants bobbed and weaved to avoid each other's blows. It all went on like this until Aenar made space with his pole-axe then retreated in the gap which had resulted between Roland and Owyn. As Aenar gained more and more distance between himself and the two mercenaries, fighting began in earnest once more between the Nords and the Bretons. Roland was eager to follow Aenar and continue fighting, yet Owyn was quick to stop his overly-daring comrade. Roland was the only Breton on the field that day which had no fear for Aenar Wolf-Bane. Of course, he was thoroughly insane when compared to regular men.

In the end, the battle ended with no definite victor. There were heavy losses and great numbers of wounded on both sides when dusk came and the two hosts retreated to their own camps. The Nords lost a great many fine warriors on the field that day, their casualties amounting to about 3 200 men and countless wounded. Among them was also the greatly-loved champion Sigurd son of Sigmund and two of the other champions. Aenar famously survived the battle unscathed, yet was greatly shamed for running from the duel. The Breton host was also severely drained by the battle, losing almost 3 000 men by the end of the day. Among the many losses was also the leader of the spell-casters, the Imperial battlemage Viator Artorius and the leader of the Knightly Order of Evermoor, Sir Roderick, slain by Aenar son of Alfhedil. The heroes of the battle were, by far, the two mercenaries Roland Dubois and Owyn the Redguard, which would later become Blademaster of the Imperial City Arena. They were held in high regard by both Nords and Bretons alike for having held their ground against Aenar and forcing him to retreat from the battle. Like all battles, and wars, for that matter, all the deaths and savage killings on the field that day would be in vain. Neither side would advance decisively, for the Breton coallition was too fragile to maintain when the enemy was not on their door-step. The Nord king Thorvald on the other hand was advised by his son, Thoralf, not to pursue the campaign further since the price of the battle was too high and the Bretons were a highly independent people and famously hard to conquer.
~~~

I hope you've liked my little story. As I've said before, I hope others like it are posted in the future

Again, I was reminded of the Illias. Only with more action and less talking, which is good. I'm referring to the infamous ten pages of bloody talking which could be summed up as: ,,The Trojans are attacking. Take up arms and fight!"

I also definitely enjoyed the duel. When Owyn cut in, it really got cool. One thing though, I am rather surprised that they could hold that long against Aenar. On the other hand, Aenar didn't feel that skilled till the duel. Before that, he just felt like a Gaenor, with luck coming out of his ears.

I can feel the parasite of "school lecture" in your voice and in your words. Do not let hate take over you! Fight it!

I've had experience with books like that. Well, not in the sense that they are filled with words when they should be filled with action, but in the sense that most school books are about boring things, like the lives of 19-th century Romanian peasants or shepperds.

But yeah, there are some epic poems like the Illiad where, instead of fighting, which is what people usually do in a war, they talk and talk and talk before actually doing something. In an actual combat situation you don't really have time for long statements and poetic verse. You general have time to say a few things to rally the troops then it's off to battle. Nothing more to it. Afterwards, my favourite part begins: COMBAT!!! I'm a fan of mid-realistic combat that doesn't sport long discussions between enemies, and I think that shows. The fact that I have a descriptive way of writing also shows, I suppose. That's for you to decide anyway. I'm glad you liked it Jack. I'm eagerly awaiting your own contribution, whatever the subject may be.

That was a good finish to the battle, I like how you focused in from a wide overview down to just one place.

Only comment would be that this line: "about 3 200 men and countless wounded" jarred when the number of injured must be less than the number of dead given the army size you gave in the first part... But thats not much of a problem really.

An interesting story; I think we can forgive the fact that it wasn't actually a one-shot

The battle was intense, with a lot of action and some very compelling individual fights. Aenar's single-strike kill of Sir Roderick did seem a little unrealistic; I would have assumed that a well-trained knight would last at least a couple strikes against almost any enemy. The fight against Roland seemed more realistic to me, although I suppose it was unfortunate that he needed help to repel Aenar. Still, these are minor things, and the story overall was very enjoyable.

Well, if we were to discuss a strictly realistic battle, Roland's battle with Aenar was overly long. In a real battle, the two fighters wouldn't manage more than ten strikes before one of them was killed. When Owyn joined the fight, Aenar should have lost. I tried to show that by having Aenar retreating after a few minutes.

Regarding Aenar's one-hit kill, Aenar's weapon (pole-axe) was a weapon designed to puncture armour like the one Roderick was wearing (plate armour). If Aenar had a weapon like a big sword, he would have needed to carefully aim for the joints at Roderick's armpits or his neck, since that is generally the only place in plate armour that is even mildly vulnerable. Any other type of strike at plate armour is worthless, and more likely to damage your own weapon. Now, since Aenar had a pole-axe (something like this http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Bec_de_Corbin.jpg ) and since he was riding a horse at some speed, that gave his strike momentum. Momentum which was enough to kill Roderick in one blow, severing his head. It was the most realistic option and I went for it. I could have gone for a stylised battle, as most battles in fan-fics are, but I went for one of the most realistic things possible.

Anyway, I'm glad you all liked the story.

That looks like solid reasoning to me, Griff. Now I hope you don't mind, but I'm going to butt in on this thread for a bit. It's not TES though. Heavens forbid, it had better not be. The characters I use here are way over the top.


Unknown location.

Then, in that short moment, it was over. The man who only knew himself as a number, 547, realized he had succeeded in the sole task he had been meant to do. But at a great cost. His armour still smouldered, now little more than a paper-thin shell, cracked and punctured in a myriad of places. Beneath it, his body was slowly losing a second battle, the battle for survival. His lungs were barely functional, everything below his abdomen had been devastated by a humongous lance of destruction and his eyes had been seared into a gory mess. He could no longer feel the familiar thumping of a heart in his chest.

All he could feel was the essence of his power, still blazing with a cold fury, and the passive essence of his opponent, now harmless yet still with staggering potential. A potential that had now been lost. As had his. Yet, despite the knowledge that he was going to die, he was satisfied. Satisfied with the knowledge that a dreadful weapon such as he and his foe would never exist again. The power needed for that was here, beyond the reach of those who knew how to put it to use. The only thing that made him still wonder was just why he had been victorious and managed to survive till this point. Weren’t they both of equal strength, equal essence? Why had he been stronger? It didn’t matter. What had happened, happened, there was nothing more to it. Content, his mind receded into the darkness that loomed, now numb to the pain of his wrecked flesh.

A tingling sensation made him struggle to survive just a bit longer. Had it been an illusion, or was it real? Where was it? He focussed, straining to press the last breath he had to use. There it was, a brightness, touching the fury within him. So powerful, so dreadfully powerful as he’d only felt once before. The new knowledge shook him to his very soul. There had been two of them! Two, essence divided evenly between them. The first had crippled him, now the second one was coming to clean up the remnants. He had to fight, yet he already knew he couldn’t. His injuries were too severe, and his foe was still out of reach. Half an hour, then it would arrive. Half an hour too late. He would already be dead by then. There was only one thing he could do. Warn his people. Give them a chance, however slight, to escape. As his consciousness faded, he hurled his final message into the void. It would never arrive.

Onboard SLS Salvation, command deck.

Grand Chief of Core Operation and Coordination Paul Armand, GC Armand for short, stared at the holographic reports with bloodshot eyes, in exactly the same position he’d maintained for six long hours. Fists resting on the table, feet planted wide. One could have imagined him to be a statue, an incredibly realistic statue. But he wasn’t, as his steady breathing and fluttering eyes showed.
,,Core has reached target location. No hostiles detected.” Armand’s gaze shifted to the source of the report. To him, it was just the backside of the head of an anonymous person, yet he still watched and waited for the remainder of the report.
,,Report of two essences, both inert.”

Armand closed his eyes and let slip some of the tension that had been holding him. So the original plan had succeeded, though it was a pyrrhic victory at best. The civilization he’d left behind was now in ruins as the sole means of interstellar travel and communication had been disbanded in order to create the two living weapons. Now one of those was destroyed, yet the other, the one they couldn’t finish on time, had become operational last week. He could only imagine that his lifetime foe was in ruins as well. But unlike them, he still had a weapon without equal. Oh yes, he had a weapon, but no one to use it against.

,,Recall the Core.” He ordered. It had been an unnecessary order. The communication was one-way only. Only one seer remained to accept the message, only one seer in two galaxies. While capable of transmitting himself, he could never pass on a message across half a light-year, let stand half a million. His order would go unheard, which had been gnawing at him ever since the plan had first been proposed, sixty years ago. He was used to having his weapons operate out of reach, but this time it was different. This time the weapon’s capability for destruction was completely beyond any known scale. The chance of it going berserk was negligible, but it was still there. And if the impossible happened, if it went berserk, there would be no way to stop it.

,,Core detected. Shift in at docking port three. Navigational error of two millimetres.” Another voice reported. Two millimetres off target after traversing half a million lightyears in less than a moment. It was an error, yet so small it was supposed to be impossible. He’d been told this very morning that the absolute minimum would still be on the order of a dozen lightyears.
,,What kind of monster have we created?” Armand asked himself. He then got another thought.
,,I told it to perform multiple shifts and lower the distance gradually with the last shift ending at a lightsecond away. To perform a single shift directly to its destination, we didn’t plan for that kind of independent thought.” He noted and vowed he would keep a closer eye on it from now on. But since it was actually standing on the outside hull of his ship now, he could give orders and expect them to be carried out.
,,Lock all available weapons on it and issue Case Damocless.” He spoke and pulled his eyes back to the board. He did not want to see who would first issue the inevitable complaint.

,,Sir, it’s friendly.” Armand’s eyelids twitched slightly.
,,I know it’s friendly. I watched it’s every living moment! But can you prove it will remain friendly? Think of what we’re telling it to do! It’s hard enough just to order someone else to do it, but to actually have do it yourself, it could drive even the Core crazy! So lock weapons and issue Case Damocless. The moment that thing does as much as bat an eyelid the wrong way, blast it to pieces and hope it doesn’t have a barrier up!” He spoke much sharper.
,,Yes sir…Weapons locked, Case Damocless issued. No negative response. Beginning countdown.”
,,Good lads. They don’t like it, but they would go through hell for me. And they will, we all will.” Armand thought.
,,Good, proceed to the next stage. Mass shift to location and prepare for immediate salvage.”

SLS Salvation, outside.

The Core, standing on the circular platform, watched at the tiny pinpricks around it. Each of them was a collection of countless stars, yet it didn’t realize. Its imagination was sorely lacking for it. Even the galaxy it had come from simply didn’t exist. It only knew that it begun in a room and then wound up in a black void next to the salvation after a single shift. How was it to know that it had passed stars, worlds and collapsing civilizations?
,,Commencing shift.” It intoned passively. The pinpricks leapt to different locations, the only sign of the mind-boggling distance it had just travelled, together with the Salvation.

It looked down at its feet that were planted on the steel hull. The Salvation was huge. Not just as all the people it had seen which were always huge, but this thing was really huge. In the Core’s imagination, it must be as big as a hundred people. It wiggled a toe and watched one of its pitchblack boots slide to the left, till the edge of the tiny platform. No, not as big as a hundred. Twohundred, more likely. The first pang of pain shot through its skull.
,,Thirteen minutes till breakdown.” The seer on Salvation reported. The Core sent a neutral reply and then ascended from the deck, without a single flicker of a thrusters nor a single push of a foot. It simply rose as if the wind had carried it. But there was no wind, not in the vacuum of intergalactic space.

Ahead of it were the two inert Cores it had found, still two dozen lightyears away. The Core jumped ahead and landed less than a metre from one of them. The one that was still…warm? The Core held its head sideways as it pondered this new observation. What was half a people doing there, coated in the shell of an active Core? Or was it…..a Core? Were Cores people? A new thought entered its mind. Doubt. It shook its head violently. No, Cores weren’t people. People were huge, Cores were not. A second pang of pain. There was no report this time, but it didn’t need one. There would be a pang each minute. Then the mental self-destruct would occur, whatever that was supposed to mean. It probably wouldn’t be pleasant, though.

The Core rose its hands and cast a tendril of its essence at each of its two inert siblings. The essence of the dead Cores reacted and gathered around the tendrils which it drew back, inside itself were the new essence mixed with the old. It then wasted no more time and shifted back to Salvation’s platform.
,,Salvage complete.”

SLS Salvation, command deck.

Armand got his latest report and checked the time. Little more than eleven minutes remained.
,,Eleven left? It was supposed to do this in less than a minute. It’s beginning to hesitate and think thoughts it isn’t supposed to think.” He realized with a shock.
,,Change of plan. At this rate, the Core isn’t going to last. Commence final phase of the operation. Tell it to do it snappy and not rest till after it is done after which it should return to Salvation.” He ordered and with creaking joints, he moved. He moved to his seat where he sat down.
,,Now all we can do is wait.”

SLS Salvation, outside.

The Core received its new instructions and went to work. The idea was simple, though they were odd. Why did it have to jump to several preset locations and then fire a maximum-sized lance at one of those little lights? Why? The third pang came. The Core decided to think about it later and pointed a finger at the first light. An invisible wave of pure annihilation burst out of the skintight black shell that served as the Core’s armour, racing out towards its target at lightspeed. It would arrive in little over twohundred years.

Ten more times did it repeat this action. Shift to location, then fire at the light it had been told would be there. Only at the last point did it stop, before firing the twelfth lance. It had noticed that there were a lot more lights around it than there had been at Salvation. Why? Why did the lights gather here? It waited till the next pang came before thinking any further. Nine minutes till breakdown.

What if it tried to get closer to the light and take a look at it? That wouldn’t be bad, would it? It could easily come back here and finish the job in a heartbeat. Yes, there was time enough to look. It felt for where the light really was and shifted.

A raging fireball, as big as a thousand Salvations. It was beyond huge and it was hot, unbelievably hot. So hot, it heated even the Core’s shell to near melting point, something a dozen of Salvation’s lasers couldn’t achieve together. The Core absentmindedly intensified the tendrils of essence that formed the shell and gawked at the sight. It was so….beautiful. And it had been destroying these beautiful lights? It shivered. Impossible! It was a bad Core, a bad destroyer of beauty. Bad, bad, bad! But people told it to do this. So people were bad, bad, bad!

All of a sudden, the Core yawned. It was feeling tired. Another pang. Which one? It didn’t know. Shocked as it was by the nearby light, it had forgotten to count. What should it do? Continue to destroy the pretty lights? Or go back and tell the people they were destroying the lights? It worried about the next pang also. What if it would be the last? There was no time left, it had to go.
,,Bye bye, pretty light.” The Core said and shifted, back to Salvation. At least this light would be spared.

SLS Salvation, command deck.

,,Core detected, off the bow at a distance of fivehundred metres.” Armand nodded to show he had heard the notification.
,,So it has been done. Two galaxies, each now englobed by six blasts of a Core holding the power of these two galaxies. Perhaps there will be a seer we missed, somewhere. Perhaps this seer will pass on its strength. Doesn’t matter. By the time a seer would detect the destruction vectoring in from all directions, it will be too late. There will be no escape. And so the endless war with Cores shall come to an end.” He thought.
,,Tell the Core to wait outside. We’ll let it burn out its brains before putting it into a pod and firing it off, far away from the third galaxy. I will not let our colonists be tempted with such power.” He spoke, looking at the head of the one who maintained contact with their seer who in turn maintained contact with the Core. The man’s head bobbed up and down, then froze.
,,Sir, negative response! It’s negative!” Armand’s eyes flew wide open.
,,Negative?!” He repeated. He then remembered the last report. Off the bow, fivehundred metres. It had not jumped to the platform where the point-defence lasers could shoot at it, as it had done each time before moving to its next firing position. Why? Perhaps because….
,,Lock on with planetbusters and all lasers! Take the damn thing down before it goes insane!” His last thought was one of irony.
,,The most powerful warship ever built, capable of razing planets into smouldering hulks. And it can’t beat a mere child. A child that has inherited the power of two galaxies, and I was the one who made it all happen.”

SLS Salvation, nearby space.

The Core watched with interest as the space surrounding the massive starship was set ablaze with all the fury countless lasers and anti-matter explosions could cause. All of that blaze was focussed on it, into a sphere less than two metres wide. The Core shrugged off the assault with utter nonchalance. It had the power to annihilate entire galaxies from thousands of lightyears distant, in a single shot. Next to that, the firepower of a single warship was absolutely nothing. A billion warships wouldn’t compare. So it merely strengthened its shell with a tiny fraction of its strength as it pointed a finger at the opposing hulk. Again it yawned.

,,People are bad. They tell me to destroy the pretty lights. Therefore, people must leave. People can’t fly, but get thrown out if there are holes from inside to outside. People won’t move if outside. So must make holes.” Tendrils of essence leapt towards Salvation, hungrily carving their path through the fury that still pounded at the Core in an helpless act of defiance. Through the bulkheads they slashed and cut, slicing the ship into tiny ribbons. People came out, but not whole. Parts of people they were, cut into countless pieces by the same tendrils that cut up Salvation. Explosions rippled through those areas were the containment of volatile elements had been breached. In the blink of an eye, the carnage was over and as the Salvation ceased firing, so did the Core. A pang of pain shot through its brain. It had been the last, the one that made it go into a coma from which it would never wake up again.




OOC: Why is it that whenever I imagine ultimate power of destruction gathered into a single being, I see that being in the form of little child? Am I just weird? Or maybe I just like the irony. You've gotta admit, the size difference between a huge warship and a child makes it quite funny if the child swats it out of the void with the ease of cracking a bug beneath its heel.

Journal of an Imperial "Courier": Morndas, 26th Sun's Dusk, 3E:432

I was riding from Kragenmoor toward the City on my weekly run when I was accosted by a khajiti fellow in glass armor. Hoping against hope that for once this might not be a bandit, I slowed Many-Gallops--my newly purchased chestnut bay--and smiled like I suspected no ill-will.

"How can I help you on this fine day?" I said it as if I meant it, which I suppose I did. It was a fine day. Of course, cynic that I am, I thought that this betmer's idea of "help" would be a large sack of my hard-earned gold and a blade between the ribs.

The khajiit smiled back, and drew an ebony blade. "Fine day indeed, argonian. Fine day. It would be even finer if the argonian gave khajiit his valuables for safe-keeping. Very dangerous, the way to Cheydinhal."

I kept smiling. You might think me odd, but as I get on in years I find myself more and more able to laugh at the inherent corruption of our world. I suppose that might be some person's definition of a cynic--it's as good a one as any. In any case, I kept smiling, and asked the bandit, "How much?"

With that his smile dropped to something like a snarl; he said, "Everything. Your gold. That courier's pouch, with the Imperial seal on it. Your saddle. Your horse. Even that robe of yours. Khajiit wants the black silk."

I must have sighed then; I think I sigh whenever the bandits make their exorbitant demands. "First I'm sure you'll be wanting my weapons."

"Yeah..." his voice trailed off once he discovered my ebony embedded in his chest. He staggered back a few steps, at a loss for words, then looked up just in time for me to dismount and draw Kills-You-Dead, my dagger.

"Wha..."

"You picked the wrong courier to hold up, friend."

-- A.H.L.i.t.S.

So Al went to Cyrodiil now? And he's gotten older. Older, but no less stylish. Nice one, Canis.

A little older. I set this in 3E:432, so I think that would make him... 38 years old. Older than he probably expected to live, given his profession...

And this is something of a teaser for future work, as soon as I can pull together the monies to get an upgraded PC that will run Oblivion.

Hm, Nice story Jack. For some reason, I didn't imagine the Core as a child, but more as a big mech with a genetically altered human inside, Omega Boost style. For those who don't know, Omega Boost is an old PlayStation 1 game where the player controlled a cool mech in humanity's battle with the forces of ENIAC, the first computer ever made. Or so I remember. Anyway, I liked the debates inside the mind of the Core. It really had the mind of a child. But since you posted a story, I'll have to do one better, and post one of my own.

~~~

The stone halls of the castle were cold and dark, only lit up by the occasional torch. In the distance a door could be sighted, half open. Beyond it, a flicker of light could barely be noticed by those with keen sight. Even though the castle appeared deserted, Reginald knew well that it was filled to the brim with people of varying positions in society. Emissaries from other lands, men at arms or just plain servants tending to the grounds, the castle was anything but empty. As he passed another torch hung on the wall Reginald was getting closer and closer to the door at the end of the corridor. His lord, Regnier of Evermor, had summoned him, noting that the matter was of utmost importance and urgency. Dressed with expensive clothes, Reginald had come to his lord's summons. Reginald wore a fine shirt made of silk from Hammerfell along with light linen pants from the best tailor in the city. At his side he had his blade, a fine longsword of steel mined from the foot-hills of the Wrothgarian Mountains themselves. That sword had been passed down in his family from generation to generation and it stood as the greatest heirloom Reginald owned. Despite its considerable age, the blade was still battle-worthy, not just a symbol of power.

Opening the wooden door in front of him, Reginald saw himself in the chambers of his lord and senior, Lord Regnier Ramorran of the city of Evermoor. The Ramorran family was quite well-known both in Evermor and in High Rock as a whole, the family being spread out among several cities. The most prominent city in which the Ramorrans were present however was Evermor. The outlying territories near Evermor though were quickly falling under the influence of the kingdom of Wayrest and King Eadwyre of Wayrest. More and more settlements under the protection of the Ramorrans were falling prey to raids by bands of 'rogue' Orcs. At first glance these attacks had nothing to do with Wayrest, yet one never knew what the cunning King Eadwyre might be planning.

Reginald himself was quite well versed in the politics of the area. Since before his own birth however, his family had been staunch supporters of the Ramorran family, some of Reginald's ancestors, his great-grandfather most notably, being known as the 'Guard Dogs' of the Ramorran family. That great-grandfather of Reginald's fought in over twelve duels in the name of his senior, winning all of them and killing eight of his opponents. Reginald himself had yet to fight a single duel in the name of Lord Regnier, but the shadow of his family was always reminding Reginald that he had a reputation to uphold. Before he could think about his family and their deeds, Reginald was greeted by Lord Regnier.

"Good evening Lord Reginald. What brings you to my estate at this late hour?" Lord Regnier asked, pretending not to remember that he had summoned Reginald himself. Lord Regnier however was always very formal in everything he did, and his greeting was a subtle way to remind Reginald that he always had to state his duties when in front of his senior.

"I have been summoned by his Lordship Regnier Ramorran of Evermor, on account of most urgent matters to deal with." Reginald said in an impersonal way. He then returned to his regular way of talking. He wasn't one to hold up to formal etiquette much. "Why have you summoned me my Lord?"

"The recent battle with the Nords has sparked off another conflict it seems, yet on a much smaller scale Lord Reginald. While we were away and battling the Nordic marauders, a noble from a nearby town came to Evermor and publicly challenged my position as Lord of Evermor, citing an old contract which conferred the title to one of his uncles. Since Breton law can give even a wild beast the title and right to own lands, I must reply to this challenge. Through his claims he also challenges the authority of his Majesty, King Dwaine ruler of Evermor." Lord Regnier said, keeping to his formal speech. Regnier himself wasn't the ruler of Evermor, yet he was the most powerful noble in the court of King Dwaine, and most saw him as a direct representative of the King. True to his fame, Lord Regnier was also the chief advisor of King Dwaine.

"In other words, we cannot challenge the legal rights he holds over the land and the city?" Reginald asked in a rather bored manner. The various contradictions of Breton law did not interest him greatly, yet the opportunity to finally fight a duel in the name of his Lord was arising.

"To be specific, the rights he holds account only for the land, not for the city itself because they were given a very long time ago, when the lands where Evermor now stands were mere fields and wilderness. We could reach a legal compromise wherein our rival shall own the land while I and my family manage the actual city, yet it would be a grueling process for both sides, my dearest Reginald and King Dwaine is highly unappreciative of such legal processes." Lord Regnier said, finishing his sentence with the tone he used when wanting to convince Reginald to do something.

"So that leaves only one other solution then, my lord." Reginald said briefly.

"Indeed." Regnier replied in a very brief way, which was uncharacteristic of him.

"A duel." Reginald stated, holding the hilt of his sword tight.

"You stood at my side at the battle against the Nords, yet since your duties were to protect me you were not able to actually do battle in my name and prove yourself as your father and your grandfather did in my service, nor were you able to give your life honourably as your cousin, Sir Roderick, did. Now however comes a time when blades will be drawn and blood will flow, a time when the most holy function of Breton culture will come into its own, the time of the duel. The Nords may have been fierce opponents, yet this is the greatest way through which a noble of High Rock gains both fame and fortune." Lord Regnier said, returning to his normal style of speech.

"Have you...I mean, has your Lordship already established the terms of the duel with your contester?" Reginald asked, changing his style of speech after a slight glare from Lord Regnier.

"I have. It will not be a usual duel. By the wish of my contester, a certain Count Arcyte of Lanark, the duel will be held in a way similar to a tournament. I do not have the exact details of the tournament, yet we will receive them on arrival." Lord Regnier said.

"On arrival? Where shall we be traveling my Lord?" Reginald asked, stuttering for a bit.

"The tournament grounds can be found at the estate of Count Arcyte, in Lanark. It is near Evermor, half a day's traveling as the crow flies. I suggest you take your own weapons and armour since I do not deem this Count Arcyte to be a trustworthy fellow." Lord Regnier said with a slightly suspicious tone of voice.

"What do you believe his motives to be?" Reginald asked, in a seemingly informal way. Lord Regnier however seemed to forgive his vassal's lapse of etiquette.

"Well, he certainly is not a land-owner which has been deprived of the right to rule lands that should have belonged to him in the first place. Evermor was not founded yesterday or the day before that. The kings of Evermor have ruled the city since before the birth of my own family. I find it hard to believe that this Count of little-known origins could be part of a house older than my own. We will put his claims to the test however. In your skill at arms will he see the glory of both House Ramorran and King Dwayne when you will fight in his tournament. When you finally win the tournament he will undoubtedly put down his claims and leave both us and the city of Evermor in peace." Lord Regnier said in a somewhat confident way. Reginald smiled slightly seeing his senior speaking in such a way.

"When shall we leave my Lord?" Reginald asked rather eagerly.

"We will leave tomorrow at first light. You will fight in the name of both myself and my liege, his Majesty King Dwaine so do your best to honour both our names. Least of all, do not forget you are fighting for the city of Evermor and its people. I am quite sure that the Royal court of Wayrest will be watching this battle keenly, just as I am sure that this Count Arcyte also has their support in this venture. They will see however that Evermor is not as weakened as they believe. They will see that Evermor's champion can match up to any of their own. Now go and rest, Lord Reginald, for you will need your strength tomorrow. Good night." Lord Regnier said, bolstering the confidence of his vassal. Despite Reginald's youth, a mere 23 years old, he was held by many to be capable of surpassing his late cousin Roderick in skill at arms.

"Good night, milord." Reginald said with a slight bow.

With that, Reginald left the estate of his liege-lord. Mounting upon his horse, a stallion as black as the very night, Reginald rode to the estate of his own family, House Collonock. The estate was humble when compared to the estates of other nobles in the area, yet House Collonock was always well known for its austere standards. Reginald's father especially had been a keen rival of debauchery and hedonism, almost always wearing simple clothes as most of the commoners did. He was as fierce as a lion in battle however, and that brought him the respect of his peers. A small stone keep surrounded by a few cottages and huts was all that made up Reginald's estate. Unlike his father, which was somewhat negligent when it came to his own estate, Reginald had made his lands prosper, encouraging farming and trading among his subjects. As soon as he was within sight of his keep, a horn sounded to greet the Lord Collonock.

After the death of his cousin Roderick in battle against the Nords, Reginald had inherited the title of Lord Collonock, being next in line after his cousin. Despite being present in the battle, Reginald never got a chance to fight because he was tasked with protecting Lord Regnier. That frustrated him greatly, yet he only showed that frustration in private. A doubt had also grown inside Reginald, a doubt and a very great regret that he wasn't at the side of his cousin when he was slain by the Nord champion Aenar Wolf-Bane. Even though Lord Regnier told him not to blame himself for Roderick's death, Reginald nonetheless brooded on the fact that he could have saved his cousin from dying, where he not burdened with the duty of protecting Regnier.

As soon as he reached his bed-chambers, Reginald undressed then slipped into one of his sleeping robes, leaving his sword at its side, scabbard and all. The sword had its own place in Reginald's chambers, on a stone pedestal close to Reginald's bed. Exactly above the pedestal was a window in the roof, so that the golden rays of the sun could shine down on the blade on sunny days, making it hard to look upon the sword for long. Reginald liked to sometimes just sit and stare at the blade, thinking of whatever troubled him the most. What now troubled him was the tournament that lied ahead. Who knew what trials would await him at Lanark? For now, Reginald slept and tried not to think too much about it.

He woke up early the next morning. Sweat was pouring down his back while one of his shoulders was sore. Another restless night, it seemed. With a lazy motion, Reginald got up from his bed and sat for a while on the edge of the bed, trying to properly wake up. With a sudden motion he rose from his bed and went for a jug of water he held in his chambers. He formed a cup with his hands then took some water and violently scrubbed his face with it. After washing his face, Reginald got dressed. He had a meeting with Regnier and there wasn't much time to spare. He strapped his scabbard to his belt then sheathed his blade. His men at arms were already waiting for him outside. There were three of them, all wearing mail hauberks with surcoats bearing the coat of arms of House Collonock over the mail. A cart with two horses attached was next to them and inside was a chest which contained Reginald's tournament armour. It was plate armour of a heavier kind, designed to make the wearer nigh invulnerable. It wasn't practical on the battlefield, yet it was useful for tournaments where the objective was usually to disable your foe, not to kill him outright, though accidents did happen.

After greeting his men and receiving brief bows from them all, Reginald mounted his horse then left the estate, followed by his three retainers which drove the horse-drawn cart. After a short journey to the edge of Evermor, Reginald finally caught sight of Lord Regnier and his entourage. Along with eleven other men, all mounted, Regnier stood at the edge of a clearing near Evermor, mounted on a horse of his own. At his side he had his own blade, a long hand-and-a-half sword made of fine steel and with a ruby-encrusted pommel.

"Greetings my Lord! I have come with three men of my own, my most trusted retainers. They are all brave men and they will guard my armour. I have also brought my own weapons, just as you have instructed. An ash-wood spear, a winged mace and my very own sword stand ready to serve Evermor, in the hands of the Lord of House Collonock." Reginald said in a formal manner.

"Greetings Lord Reginald! I see you have come with men of your own and I am glad to see it. Slowly but surely you are coming into your own as a noble of House Collonock. Surely, you will make your ancestors proud. Let us now set forth and meet this Count Arcyte. To Lanark!" Lord Regnier said, making a sign to all his men.

Afterwards Lord Regnier together with all his men broke off in a gallop. Quickly following them from behind came Reginald, being himself followed by his men in the horse-drawn cart. Because of the cart, Reginald was forced to slow down so he couldn't keep up with his liege.

Just as his liege lord had predicted, the whole convoy reached Lanark by dusk. As the sun was setting the whole countryside near Lanark gained a dark orange colour bordering on blood red. The landscape surrounding Lanark was quite pictoresque, a cluster of rolling hills and flowery fields with dark forests of rowan and ash trees in between. Had the reason for his visit not been the tournament, Reginald would have lingered in this land, if only to admire its beauty and peacefulness.

Lanark itself was a large castle made up of a keep with four large towers surrounded by an imposing wall. This looked more like a fortress than an estate. The walls were well-manned with both men at arms and archers. The garrison could probably outlast an army ten times its own size. Thankfully, Reginald had not come to lay siege.

As soon as they all reached the gate, the gate-keepers hailed them and opened the gates to the visitors. Inside the court-yard Reginald could see a wide array of knights had come from other lands. With a quick glance he could number about fifteen knights, ranging from Bretons to Nords, with a few Redguards between them.

They all seemed to be waiting for something. Since they didn't want to be out of line, Reginald together with Lord Regnier started doing the same thing. Soon enough, a man appeared at a balcony. He was wearing an impressive tunic embroidered with the coat of arms of Lanark. At his waist, Reginald could clearly notice a scabbard yet any more details of the blade inside couldn't be seen from such a distance. From the looks of him, he appeared to be Count Arcyte himself. After a few moments of silence, the man smiled then began talking.

"Greetings my friends come from lands both near and far! My name is Count Arcyte of Lanark. I am very grateful you have all made the journey to my humble estate and I also hope no troubles have befallen you in your journeys to reach Lanark. I can see here the elite of Skyrim, Hammerfell and High Rock, all gathered at my home. I am humbled to see such a great panoply in my own court-yard. But surely, you must all be wondering why there are so many gathered here, when this was supposed to be just a duel? This contest shall be a tournament, my friends! Gathered here are sixteen of the best knights in all of Tamriel, all come to fight in my tournament. The prize, as you all know, are the lands of Evermor, to the East of Lanark. The battles shall be held both on foot and mounted. Thus, there will be a total of fifteen battles in the next days, my friends! A knight must first pass through the round of eight, by defeating an opponent both on foot and in a joust. If there is a draw, a final battle will be held on foot to decide who goes into the next stage. The quarter finals follow, afterwards the semi-finals and then the grand final held between the two best warriors in the whole tournament. The tournament begins tomorrow, knights. Prepare!" Count Arcyte said.

After the speech held by the Count, every knight was led to their own individual quarters. Reginald discovered that this Arcyte fellow was quite wealthy, seeing as the room in which he was assigned to was furnished in a way which spared no expense. If all of the pieces of furniture in the room were to be sold, Reginald could probably buy a mail hauberk along with a helmet and greaves, all finely made. That or a small house. Besides the great bed which stood next to a wall, there was also a couch made of oak and with feather-filled pillows and a table of cherry wood along with three chairs, all intricately carved with the coat of arms of Lanark. The room was truly a sight to behold. There was also a large window by the bed yet it was covered with velvet drapes of a blood red colour. While Reginald laid down in the bed, relaxing, he heard a knock on the door. Jumping to his feet he answered. It was lord Regnier.

"I hope you have found your lodgings to be appropriate. May I enter?" Regnier asked in his usual manner.

"Of course milord." Reginald answered shortly, making way for his liege.

"I expect you to be prepared for the trials that lay ahead. I know that you are a warrior of exceptional skill on foot, but this jousting part worries me. The fact that so many foreign knights are also here also worries me greatly. I have seen among them the faces of many men I know to be skilled at arms, seasoned warriors who have been through many battles." Lord Regnier said, almost whispering.

"I am no lesser milord, as I have been in a battle as well, with the most terrible of foes Tamriel has to offer. What could be more terrifying in a battle than a Nord gone berserk?" Reginald asked. He then stopped and lowered his head and silence stepped in for a few fleeting moments. "If only I could have fought in the battle, perhaps things would not be as they are.

"Do not dwell on such things Reginald for, in the end, it is not for us to decide who dies and who does not. We all have our established fate, and we must meet it whatever the cost. The Gods shall not be fooled. If Roderick's fate was to die on that field so that the battle would go in our favour, then he did finely. I promise you however, his name shall be reedemed in this tournament." Lord Regnier said with a tone which he didn't use often. He then raised his head and started slightly looking down on Reginald. "I have seen many great champions from far away lands gathered in the court-yard of Count Arcyte. Some were bearing the coat of arms of Wayrest. It is truly serious if Wayrest is openly involved in this conflict which should only interest King Dwaine and Count Arcyte. I also expect foul play on the part of the organizers. Now, listen closely, I've had a talk with one of the Counts underlings and he told me that the matches will be picked randomly, with the champions each extracting a rock with a pouch. In that pouch there should be eight pairs of little rocks, each pair with its own specific inscription. If we are lucky, you will not face a skilled opponent from the first day. In the end, Lord Reginald, skill at arms will determine the winner, whatever ploys Count Arcyte and the Court of Wayrest may have in their employ. I wish you luck."

"Thank you for your encouragement Lord Regnier, and good night." Reginald said as he bowed slightly in front of Regnier. Whenever Reginald did this, he did it out of respect since Lord Regnier had become a father figure to Reginald, ever since his own father died.

With that, Reginald laid down in his bed and went to sleep, knowing well what hardship would await him in the days to come.

To be continued
~~~

I've done it again! A second one-shot! Please don't shoot me. I hope you enjoy it anyway.

'Lanark... if only to admire its beauty and peacefulness'

I assume you don't know about the RL Lanark then....

Good story though a couple of things jarred a bit. First how have these lands come up to be won, I thought they weren't owned by the count of lanark. Was that not what the dual was about to start with (in which case why not send an army).

Also 'Since they didn't want to be out of line,' why not?

Nothing major and the story goes well. I assume all will be explained in part two.

To clarify a little, the two rivals, Lord Regnier and Count Arcyte respectively, have documents certifying that they each own the same land. Since these two documents obviously contradict each other, the one which is the most accurate must be determined. Now, there are two ways in which this could be done: either through a lengthy legal process which would take a long time to properly conclude (as most things the Bretons do) or, High Rock style, through a good-ol' duel. Now, to spice things up and to mask the fact that he is working in the interest of Wayrest, Arcyte has organized this tournament so the lands could go directly to Wayrest.

That goes for the duelling bit. Now the bit with 'Since they didn't want to be out of line,' I can't really explain since I don't have a clear refference. If you could point out what part of the story you're talking about, I might be able to pull something out of my british boat to explain it.

And about Lanark, I honestly had no idea that a real one existed. I think I heard the name in passing in a documentary about William Wallace, but other than that I really didn't know it existed.

I'm glad of you feedback however. The fact that there are some plot-holes shows the fact that this story has suffered an unusual ammount of editing after I actually wrote it to include some things, like the fact that Evermor is actually a kingdom ruled by a king and not a lord. Also, some bits regarding the duel feel pretty complicated to me, but I'm never too pleased with my work so that's to be expected.

EDIT: Oh, that bit in the court-yard. Well, since everyone was sitting around and waiting for something, they decided to go with the flow and do the same thing. Group mentality etc. You surely understand.

That, and they technically were still guests. Even though they're bigshots themselves, they are still visitors and as such it is common courtesy to be polite to your host and go through the whole diplomatic routine.

Anyway, I like what you've got going here. The way you tie these one-shotters together by using familiar characters and stuff is really enjoyable. It reminds me a bit of how Al started.

I wonder, will Arthago be passing through in one of them someday?

And I'm glad you liked my story, Griff. Though technically, it isn't a one-shot anymore as I see potential for a sequal, complete with even more over the top destruction. All I need is to add some time-dilation, some high-tech medical technology and I can grab my little Core just like that. I've already trial-written a scene that involves a sword that cuts a star and a gas giant in two while ripping apart all the planets it missed by sheer gravitational influence. All in one swing. And yeah, I know that means that most of the blade must have gone faster than light. It was a fun experience so yup, this one has potential worthy of exploring.

And last thing. I never played console games (excluding emulated Snes rpgs.) but that sounds like it was a fun game.

Well its a long time since I did any writing which is the main reason I appeared here. I have about 14000 words of a fanfic done but you won't be seeing that until it gets a second pass (and modified to be more PG-13) so I thought I'd try my hand at this.

Any thoughts appriciated, I tried to be a bit... arty towards the end of this and don't know if it worked but here goes:

---


Anyir hurried out the door of the Tiber Septim hotel and joined the evening crowds. Unlike the rest of the crowds, however, he wasn’t on his way home. In fact he had only just awoken. He smiled as he passed into the Elven Gardens district, to think a year ago that he would be living in the Tiber…

He slipped sideways into a narrow alley which ran alongside the city wall. An old imperial stood halfway down smoking some foul herb from Morrowind. A job tonight then. Good. Anyir walked along the alley, and the man stubbed out the cigarette and flicked it into the folds of Anyir's cloak as he passed. He didn’t break step as he manipulated it into his pocket. He had only gone a short way when he heard the man move behind him and follow. What did Geld think he was doing? Anyir fingered his dagger and felt his heart race.

Footsteps hurrying behind him. He closed his hand over the hilt and withdrew the dagger a short way, its razor edge was dulled with lampblack. He turned into a darkened doorway and waited. He was glad that his old friend, if such a relationship could be referred to as such, knew nothing of the thin armour he wore under his robe. He tensed while trying to retain outward nonchalance waiting to see what Geld was planning. The wispy hared man ignored him as he walked past.

Anyir’s eyes red eyes blazed as he emerged. “N’wah,” he muttered. Geld wasn’t nearly careful enough; on the rare occasions they spoke he didn’t seem to understand that their business had enemies. And the brotherhood wasn’t known for its tolerance of competition either. He shuddered. Even after a year and numerous more killings the memory of the night after he killed a traveller made him shiver. It wasn’t the thought of murder that bothered him, or even the fact anyone had known though that still puzzled him. It was the man. The softly spoken man who had woken him and offered him entrance to a new family. The same man who spoke of worshiping the darkness and the glory of cold murder. The cold insanity had shaken Anyir: killing was a job but to make it a pastime…

They were insane, and they knew that he had killed. How could they have known? He did not take all the elaborate precautions for fear of the guards, as Geld seemed to think. It was them. He was careful, and so long as he kept such care no one would be able to find him.

He shook himself from his musings and pulled out the cigarette butt. He ran his nail across it and unravelled the greasy parchment. Yellow tar stained it from the smoke it had filtered but he scarcely noticed. Six words and a number: Temple district. Second story north corner. 3000.

Three thousand? It was more than he usually got for four kills, soon he would have the money to retire. He flicked the parchment down a drain.



He walked the long way round and as he walked he prepared himself. He checked his weapons, feeling the lumps in the thick travelling cloak. His tools. A miniature crossbow, a dagger and a vial of most potent poison, the bolts were already treated and the soot on the blade was an oily mess of venom. He stopped in a hovel in the market district and sat unnoticed allowing time to pass and listening to the rumours. Some were of his making but he cared little. A job only.

It was full night when he emerged, moonless but with a slight breeze which made the torches choke. He stalked though the sleeping city, too nondescript to be worthy of remembrance. When he passed into the temple district he slipped into the shadows and shed his cloak. The time was near. He wore tight dark greys and greens, not black. And kept to the shadows. In the city the best disguise was to be one of the crowd. At a crime scene it was better not to be seen at all.

Something bothered him as he neared the western corner. He paused. There was nothing there. Then what isn’t here? A guard. There was no guard stationed outside the corner watchtower. Was it luck? He didn’t like it. He didn’t like luck. He glanced around before turning his attention to the door. The lock was oily. He put a pick and a lever in and felt around. One of the tumblers was jammed up. Someone had picked this, or tried to. He focused on the next tumbler. It was stiff. He pushed harder and the pick snapped. Jammed. That explained the oil and one up but not why.

He paused to think. This was a big payer but something was going on. He looked up to the first floor window. It was ajar. Plenty of people sleep with their windows open… It was too unlikely. He merged into the shadows. In and out fast then. There was a small window by the door but it didn’t look like it opened. He looked up again at the open one. Not a chance. He returned his attention to the lower one.

His dagger flowed from its sheath and soared in his hand. He drove its hilt into the bottom pane and winced at the crack. Steadying his breathing he pulled off his shirt revealing the thin armour beneath and stuffed it though the dark hole. He brought up the heels of both his hands and slammed them into the top pane. The putty gave way and it fell inward and was muffled by his shirt. A gentle twist brought the wooden bar which had been between the panes out and he dropped himself though.

The house was typical. A table, some food, a chest. A couple of fine vials sat on the table with an elaborate pipe. He ignored them all and crept to the stairs. A low moan sent his pulse racing. It was only the second step. He stole on upward, the worn carpet killing all noise of his passing. The door at the top was easy to unlock.

He eased the handle round and pushed gently. The hinges were oiled. He pushed again careful of the first hint of squeal. There was none but he though he heard something. A noise from downstairs? He froze. Nothing. He strained his eyes into the gloom but all was still. Just nerves. He pushed the door again. It was only a little open when the bed came into view.

Anyir permitted himself a smile as he raised his crossbow. The string twanged. The sleeping figure was momentarily rigid then slumped. Clean kill, and he would never know who the victim was.

A creak cut his thoughts like broken glass. The second step. He didn’t waste time in looking back but slipped though the door and leapt over the bed landing soundlessly. He spun and stared. Geld stared back, the whites of he eyes bulging in a pale blue tinged face. The bottom fell out of Anyir’s stomach. What the hell?

Had Geld ordered his own death? True the man was desperate but Anyir had always assumed that ended in the bottom of a skooma vial. Suicide, however contrived, was beyond the old imperial.

A footfall on the stairs. He hadn’t imagined it, someone was trying to go unnoticed but hadn’t his skill. He loaded another dart into his crossbow and sighted over Geld’s stiffened body. The door swung open and the intruder stepped in, dagger drawn. She fell back, a bolt in her throat but Anyir had recognised the black armour she wore.

She’s from the brotherhood. The lock downstairs clicked open. Anyir felt a dampness at his crotch. He leapt to the window and hauled it open.

The world turns to blinding light and he falls scarcely able to breathe, his body a rag doll. Boots advance up the stairs. He has fallen looking at the door. A trickle of saliva runs from his mouth, his paralysed throat unable to swallow. A man steps in.

The man from the nightmares. He smiles warmly, “So good to see you again. We have followed you with interest, it is such as shame you chose not to honour sithis,” the word sounds like a dieing man’s final gasp, “Still you shall. In your way.”

The man chuckled as if enjoying a friend’s fireside jest as he advanced with a knife. “You’ll be amazed what I can do.”

Note to self: Never work on the Dark Brotherhood's turf...

Excellent one shot, Olen. Definitely a nice balance of description and action. I definitely look forward to reading this fan fiction you have started if it is of the same caliber as this.

Ahhhh..so many good stories here....I only wish I could come up with something, but nope....not at the moment

So, this is the next part of this long short story. Enjoy.

~~~
Reginald woke up late in the morning, feeling tired. He had "enjoyed" another one of his sleepless nights. These were nights in which Reginald went to bed relatively early but couldn't fall to sleep easily, and when he did he woke up in the night, cold and shaking. Things of this sort had been happening ever since his cousin Roderick died in battle. After Reginald learned that the slayer of his cousin, Aenar Wolf-Bane, had been defeated in battle by a pair of mercenaries he cursed the day mercenaries were hired, just because they robbed Reginald of the chance to defeat that savage Nord himself. Ever since, he yearned for the day in which he could put his blade through that Nord's cold heart. Now though, he would have to fight for his lord and liege, Lord Regnier Ramorran. When fighting though, Reginald would envision the face of Aenar in the face of all his opponents, even though Reginald had never even seen the man. Such was his hate.

After washing his face with cold water to make the exhaustion go away, Reginald got dressed and summoned his three retainers, which guarded his armour. As soon as they had arrived, Reginald instructed them to help him equip his armour. The chest containing Reginald's tourney armour was soon brought to his chambers by his three retainers. One of them, Reginald's own squire, was the first to help Reginald fit on his cuirass. The boy was tall despite his years, slightly taller than Reginald himself. Reginald was four years his elder yet the difference barely showed. The only signs that Reginald himself wasn't fourteen years old like his squire was his freshly shaven beard which showed clearly. First to be fitted was Reginald's mail hauberk, which protected his chest and the upper sections of his arms. The breastplate came easily afterwards, being custom-made for Reginald. It had the coat of arms of House Collonock at its center, a white gauntlet with a black castle behind it, symbolizing how Reginald's family protected Evermor. The backplate followed afterwards, forming the cuirass itself. The faulds, a skirt of steel which protected Reginald's groin and upper legs were then attached since, much like the cuirass, they were separated into two halves both attached to the breastplate and the backplate respectively. The retainers then fitted on Reginald's neck guard.

After the cuirass was properly fitted on, the pauldrons followed. Large, semi-circular steel plates were attached to Reginald's shoulders, protecting one of the vulnerable sections in his armour. Arm-guards were then placed to protect Reginald's arm pits. A hardy pair of leather gloves then followed, with steel gauntlets worn over them for good measure. Now that the upper section of Reginald's armour was fitted on, then followed the lower section. Greaves of finely polished steel defended his shins while his feet were shod in steel boots. One piece remained: his helmet.

The helm of House Collonock had been formerly held by Reginald's fallen cousin, Roderick. When Aenar beheaded Roderick in one blow, the helm was thankfully left intact and found by a knight who had survived the fierce battle. It was a great pig-faced bascinet, one of the rarer types of helm. The visor had a sharp steel snout protruding from the portion where the mouth would be. When the visor was held up, the wearer of the helm seemed to have a steel horn. Despite the fact that the visor had been down, it didn't help Roderick.

Now that the preparations had been made, Reginald's squire brought him his sword while his retainers strapped his shield onto his left hand. It was a wooden shield coated with steel and, as was tradition, featuring the White Gauntlet of House Collonock.

"A fine job lads." Reginald said with a smile that was visible because his visor was up. The three boys all smiled back, seemingly proud of their work. The armour had been thoroughly polished beforehand and it shined in a blinding fashion, much akin to a jewel. Reginald then turned towards his squire, who was as he always was. Although he had an unassuming look about him, Brynden Greyjoy was the son of a much respected lord who thought his son could learn something by aiding Reginald. "Soon enough you'll have squires of your own tending to your armour, Lord Greyjoy."

Greyjoy looked down and smiled, letting off a slight "I am honoured Lord..." as he did. It was enough for Reginald, who set out towards the tournament grounds arranged in the expansive courtyard of Lanark.

Despite the way the day started out, the sun was shining when the four entered the courtyard. Spectator stands had already been erected, with a large arena in front of them. It was big enough for both jousting and melee fighting. Most of the combatants were already there, all flaunting their finest armour. The knights and champions were all queuing to extract a pebble from a bag. From the way Lord Regnier described it, if the pebbles held by two knights matched, these knights would then fight each other. When Reginald finally drew a pebble from the sack, he could see that his pebble had a bird painted on it. When the extracting was finally done, an announcer yelled out a certain inscription on a pebble, and the knights who had the respective pebbles raised their hands, showing that they had the pebble.

"Bear...Wolf...Dragon...Fish...Hedgehog…Eagle..." the announcer shouted loudly as knights raised their armoured fists into the air. When the word 'Eagle' finally came, Reginald raised his hand. As he looked around he couldn't exactly see who had raised their hands in the group of knights. After the yelling was over, the announcer actually named the pairs. "First to fight in the Round of Eight are the noble knights Sir Folcred champion of Solitude and Sir Rupert Umber champion of Baron William Wormwood."

The crowd cheered as the names of several more fights were uttered. When the announcer finally reached the sixth fight, Reginald could actually hear his own name. "The sixth fixture in the Round of Eight is made up of the valiant knights Lord Reginald Collonock champion of Lord Regnier Ramorran and Sir Palamon champion of Elinhir."

It seemed that some had come from really far away to fight in this tournament organized by Count Arcyte. Despite the fact that Reginald wasn't well versed when it came to the history and lore of Hammerfell, he knew a little bit about Elinhir to have some information about the background of his opponent. Elinhir was a predominantly Crown-affiliated town in the North-East of Hammerfell so his adversary would most likely be a Crown. As far as Reginald remembered, the Crowns were involved in a long-going blood feud with two other Redguard factions, the Forebears and the recently established Lhotunics which seemed to be gaining more and more power. Their leader King Lhotun must have been to blame, since he was well known as a cunning politician and plotter throughout High Rock. Officially, Lhotun was not the leader of the Lhotunics, a veteran member of the Knightly Order of Sentinel serving in that position, yet everyone knew that Lhotun actually controlled everything from behind the scenes.

With everything set, Reginald retired so he could watch the matches which preceded his own. The fights before Reginald's match with the Redguard were all fierce, showing what determination the participants had to win. This made Reginald's job even harder, himself being the official representative of Evermor at the tournament. It would have been disastrous if he were to loose any battle, yet alone the first one, for it would seal Evermor's fate. In the first match the Nord defeated the Breton knight who fought under Lord Wormwood after three hotly contended jousting rounds followed by a similar melee won by the Nord. The other five matches went in much the same way, except some cases where one of the combatants showed exceptional skill and defeated their opponents with relative ease. Two potentially dangerous adversaries thus appeared, yet Reginald first had to deal with the Redguard knight.

After the fifth match finally ended, the victor was the young Breton knight Sir Podrick Martell who had shown prolonged stamina during his lengthy match with his fellow Breton adversary. If similar showings of martial skill followed, coupled with the dash his youth gave him, this young knight could well win the tournament. Reginald's match finally came. After receiving his jousting lance from Greyjoy, Reginald prepared for battle. His individual pieces of armour were all well-strapped together and his jousting horse was ready. His black war-stallion looked at him in a nervous way as he prepared to mount the beast and begin the match.

"Champions...begin!" the announcer yelled as trumpets sung the beginning of the match.

Reginald was mounted atop his horse and looking at his opponent when the beginning of the match was signaled. He was holding his lance in his right hand, balancing the blunt end of the lance on the tip of his boot. When the signal was actually given, he gently hit his horse over the belly with his spurs and raised his lance, aiming it towards his opponent.

The Redguard opposing him did the same at the other end of the arena. The fence separating the two lanes was small and fragile yet it stopped the horses from colliding. In battle, two horses colliding mid-charge could spell disaster for both riders. As the horses neared, the Redguard seemed steady and confident in his skill, holding his lance in place as he neared ever more. When they actually passed each other, Reginald thrust his lance towards the neck of his opponent, hoping to dismount him. The Redguard however surprised Reginald by leaning in his saddle at the last moment and dodging the lance aimed for his neck. His lance however hit Reginald in the shoulder, yet the impact was weak because of the Redguard knight's awkward position.

When the two horsemen finally reached the end of the lane they both turned their horses quickly. Reginald was angry he missed the Redguard at the last moment yet he fought hard to suppress his anger and focus. As he neared his opponent Reginald almost thought he could see the Redguard smiling through his helmet. When the moment of impact came, it was almost as if the crowd had been silenced. Before he actually hit the Redguard, Reginald leaned to the right in his saddle, as a feign. Right in the moment of impact, he quickly drew back into his original position yet kept his lance in a lowered state. The Redguard thrust his lance towards Reginald's previous position, hitting only air, while Reginald hit his opponent clean in the stomach. The Redguard leaned heavily to the opposite side of the saddle and one of his boots left its stirrup yet he seemed to hold on to his horse. After a few moments however he lost grasp of the horse's bridle and fell, stirring the dirt beneath and dirtying his armour.

At that moment Reginald raised his jousting lance high in the air and cried out with joy. At the end of the lane he could see his two retainers along with Greyjoy laughing and smiling, holding his sword while the others held his shield in preparation for the melee.

"Wonderful showing my lord!" Greyjoy cried out as Reginald threw him the lance he had just used. Despite impact, the lance had not splintered, pushing the Redguard to the edge of his saddle. Reginald removed his helmet and threw it to one of his retainers, shouting a cry of relief while he looked at the sun. His face was red and sweat poured down his forehead.

"Keep that lance Brynden, it has been lucky today, it will be lucky another. We might yet have use for it." Reginald said as he poured some cold water on his face so he could cool down. The crowds were cheering Reginald's name as he dismounted his horse.

"As you wish, milord." Greyjoy said briefly as he gave Reginald his sword. The retainers of Sir Palamon were helping him get up from the dirt. His armour was stained with dirt and his face was blood-red once he took off his helmet yet he didn't seem to suffer from the hit he had just received. He even bowed slightly to Reginald when he noticed that Reginald was looking at him. Reginald was quick to do the same, showing courtesy to his opponent. "Do not rest however thinking that you've won. The melee remains to be beaten."

"Of course Brynden. My sword and my shield, if you will." Reginald replied as one of the retainers carefully strapped the shield to his left arm and Greyjoy have him his sword. Raising the sword in the air, he gave a salute to both Count Arcyte and Lord Regnier.

As soon as Sir Palamon had equiped his own melee weapon, a curved sword, the actual melee was ready to begin. The fence separating the two jousting lanes was hastily removed as the two combatants entered the edges of the arena. They were about thirty yards apart. The Redguard was standing on the opposite side of the arena, holding his curved sword in a high guard position. He was wearing lighter armour than Reginald, a light steel cuirass coated with bronze over a scale-mail hauberk with light leather pauldrons protecting his mail-clad arms. Protecting his legs was a long mail skirt and a pair of steel greaves to protect his shins. On his head he had a steel helm coated with bronze just like his cuirass, with the visor pulled up so it would give him a wider field of vision. This showed that Reginald's opponent was either a seasoned knight or an inexperienced squire freshly knighted.

Whatever the case, the two opponents approached each other. Reginald brandished his heirloom, the blade of Collonock, along with his shield while his opponent held his scimitar high. The crowd was silent as the two warriors got within ten paces of each other. With a short bow by both combatants, the battle was ready to begin. Reginald looked at his opponent carefully, looking him in the eye. The Redguard didn't move his view from Reginald's eyes either, staring at Rginald for a few moments before charging. When he did charge the Redguard did so furiously, lauching a storm of blows against Reginald's defense. The Redguard moved so quickly that it seemed Reginald was fighting four scimitars at once, not one. He parried with both his arms, deflecting blows with his sword and parrying with his shield. After a sustained barrage, the Redguard managed to slash Reginald against the chest, leaving a dent in his cuirass. It was nothing more than a shock for Reginald however, the Redguard would have to do better than that if he wished to defeat the Breton knight.

Reginald's was slowly weakening his defence, trying to make his opponent tire himself even more attacking. Even as he continued his savage barrage, the Redguard's iniative lessened and his blows grew weaker. Reginald on the other hand had only been defending and still had much of his original stamina. After blocking a high slash with his sword and parrying an upward diagonal cut with his shield, Reginald began his counter-attack. He ran towards the Redguard, aiming for the vulnerable portions in his armour. The Redguard, being more lightly armoured, retreated and backed away from Reginald. Reginald feigned slashes so that his opponent wouldn't know his intentions precisely. After swinging his blade in a wide arc, the Redguard backed away even more. Following up with his attacks, Reginald swung his blade once more, yet the Redguard manage to deflect the blade to the side and kick Reginald, maintaining the distance. As Reginald staggered back, dazed by the kick, the Redguard raised his scimitar so he could attack the lightly defended back of Reginald's neck. The blow came and it would have slain Reginald where he stood, if he wouldn't have moved. In a surprising move, Reginald head-butted his opponent with his helm, leaving a dent in the Redgaurd's cuirass. The Redguard however felt the brunt of the blow in his stomach, and it was clear to see.

As his opponent staggered, Reginald followed with a quick upward slash. Blood flew, robbing Reginald of his vision for a moment. When he opened his eyes once more, his enemy was laying on the ground with a small pool of blood forming around his head. Reginald's blow had slashed the Redguard clean over the face, almost severing his nose and blinding him in one eye. The fact that the Redguard's visor was up had been the reason of his downfall. Seasoned knight he might have been, yet that was a mistake which cost him dearly. Sir Palamon was not dead however, merely unconscious and bleeding heavily. Seeing his opponent in pain, Reginald threw his sword to Greyjoy, who was standing nearby, and dropped to his knees next to his opponent.

"He's still alive! Come quickly, he can still be saved!" Reginald shouted desperately as he looked to his opponent's wounds. They were grievous indeed, almost crippling to a certain point. If the Redguard had great willpower however, he could survive these wounds and continue to be a knight. He could even learn from this mistake. After all, what is experience if not the sum of one's mistakes?

The retainers of Sir Palamon quickly came to the aid of their master. Picking him up, they carried him to a mage waiting by the side of the arena, ready to give treatment on the spot. As Reginald helped Palamon's retainers carry him to the mage, he could see Palamon's eyes open. Reginald grabbed Palamon's hand and looked him in the eye. Palamon didn't seem to understand what was happening.

"What's going on? Am I dead?" Palamon asked in a rather dazed manner. Despite the bleeding and the wounds, he would survive, Reginald was now sure of it.

"Thankfully not. You are alive and well. Hopefully, we will meet again when this tourney is over. Farewell, noble knight." Reginald said as he left Palamon to be taken care of by the mage. As he returned to the center of the arena, Reginald could once again hear the announcer.

"And the winner is, the truly noble Lord Reginald Collonock! So far, this has been one of the most exciting fights of the tournament. We will surely be keeping an eye on this skilled knight in the future. Now, prepare for a battle of strength and skill, between the Nord Aenar champion of Lord Rickard Helmsleigh and Sir Alexander Greyjoy, champion of Lord Verick Greyjoy." the announcer yelled as trumpets sung once more. Reginald turned to his squire as he heard the words 'Greyjoy'. Brynden had two elder brothers and it seemed that one of them was participating in the tournament.

"That's my brother...and my father too, they're here." Brynden Greyjoy said in an obviously awed way as he looked towards his father standing in the crowd stands, close to Lord Regnier and Count Arcyte. Reginald however soon remembered the first name to be uttered.

"Aenar..." he grumbled as he removed his helm and gave it to one of his retainers. He kept his sword close at hand however and scanned the arena for the one who slew his cousin. This tournament was the opportunity to avenge the death of his cousin, Roderick. He could have slain the accursed Nord there and then, yet he soon realized that it would only have gotten him disqualified. All Reginald could hope was that Aenar was truly as skillful as they said and that he would qualify into the final. For the sake of Evermor, Reginald also hoped that he could do the same.

He soon spotted Aenar himself. Atop his Nordic warhorse, the warrior emmerged from the tunnel leading to the arena. He was followed around by several retainers, all of which had a Nordic look about them. The Nord had an arrogant look in his eyes, much like Reginald envisioned him in his dreams. In his hand held a great jousting lance which ended in a small iron fist instead of the usual blunt wooden point. The harness of his horse bore the heraldic symbols of house Helmsleigh, three red roses on a golden field. The Nord seemed obviously displeased with having to wear these items of heraldry, yet the Breton noble sponsoring him requested such shows of loyalty. On the Nord's shoulders were two small manes of werewolf hair, an item which many saw as the mark of Aenar. Reginald hoped he could hang those pelts atop his fireplace after beheading Aenar.

For now however, Reginald had to rest for his next fight. During this time, he saw it appropriate to watch the remaining fights from the spectator stands, next to his liege, Lord Regnier. In the fights that followed, Aenar defeated Brynden's older brother after a much contested joust and a shorter melee match. The Nord wielded a halberd fiercely in the melee, overwhelming Greyjoy's brother in a matter of seconds. Judging by the Nord's difficulties in the joust, Reginald thought he could defeat him easily yet the melee would be much harder to win. After Aenar's match with Greyjoy's brother was over, the last fight of the day came. By that time, Reginald lost interest in both the outcome of the match and the skill shown by those fighting. Lord Regnier however noticed that his vassal appeared troubled.

"It seems our former Nordic adversary is participating in this tournament. I never cease to wonder when it comes to Lord Helmsleigh for I must say that he is truly eccentric in his manner and ways. Last year he had a beast-master from Argonia serve at his court and now this, a former Nord warlord fighting in his service. What could possibly follow? An akaviri warrior serving as his squire? I would truly marvel at such a sight." Lord Regnier said, geting lost in his musings. Reginald however had a stern face.

"What I would marvel at, my lord, would be Aenar's skill, not his lord's eccentricity. Did you see how quickly he dispatched my squire's older brother?" Reginald asked, looking intently at his lord to show that he was very serious.

"Well...yes. Everyone was left quite awed even though your victory was quite impressive as well." Regnier said, trying to bolster Reginald's confidence.

"I didn't shatter my opponent's helm and neither did I sever his ear in the process." Reginald said in a grim way.

"Hm, it seems you're not in an overly talkative mood today. Well, except if we're talking about unpleasant things like hacking people's ears off. The only thing I can tell you Reginald is to have faith in your own courage and your own sword-arm. That Nord is nothing more than a mercenary fighting for coin and in that way you are far better than him. I myself have not raised a sword in proper combat in five years, yet I can tell that we will leave this tournament in a different way than that in which we came, be it for better or for worse. The rest, Reginald, is up to you." Reginald said with a slight smile, showing the confidence he had in Reginald. "Now let's see who you will fight tomorrow."

As Lord Regnier spoke, the herald started announcing next day's fixtures. After the last fight was over, the little painted rocks which belonged to the victors were all put in a bag and then randomly extracted. After a tense minute or so of silence, the next day's fights were finally announced. After three fights were announced the last fixture finally came and it was apparent that it was Reginald's. Reginald however wouldn't be facing Aenar, for he had already been appointed to fight another Breton the next day in the second match.

"And now, the last fixture for tomorrow's matches will feature the noble Lords Reginald Collonock champion of Lord Regnier Ramorran and Sir Vesemir champion of Falkreath. With the fixtures for the quarter finals set, I wish all you Lords, Ladies and knights gathered here in Lanark good night on behalf of Lord Arcyte and good luck in tomorrow's battles!" the announcer said in a jolly voice as the sun started steadily sinking behind the mountains in the distance, leaving the whole landscape in a blood-red colour.

With steady steps, Reginald parted with his liege lord and returned to his chambers. He would have to rest for he had a hard fight awaiting him the next day. If his luck held out, and his skill didn't lessen he would go on to fight in Evermor's name until he reached the very finals and won the tournament. If he managed to kill Aenar while at it then things would have been even better, yet wishes do not always come true in the way we would want them to.
To be continued
~~~
As you can see, I am quite lazy these days. Playing "The Witcher" all the time doesn't really help, mark my words. So this will be quite a premiere, a three-shot 'one-shot' story. Hopefully, my latest update will be enjoyed. If not...well I always have my witcher to reassure me.

So at last...I´m posting something again...Enjoy!
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A letter posted in Ald´ruhn, Sarethi Manor, 10 Last Seed 451 3E…

To
Athlain Treyson
Fort Darius
GNISIS

From
Athynae Sarethi
Sarethi Manor
Ald´ruhn

Dear Athlain.

I really shouldn’t be writing to you at all, you silly selfish boy, but I felt I had to…out of respect and honor of Aunt Baria, who I’ve spent a lot of time with during the last months.

Yes, I am studying Arts currently and since your Mother is the best there is in Vvardenfell, I wanted to learn from her, and she was kind enough to take me as a student. Ha! I bet you didn’t know that, right? Not that I’m any good at arts…unlike my other skills! Mom still thinks I should be applying for Studies of Healing at the University of Chorrol, but I’m not so sure I’d like to go to Cyrodiil….not just yet, so I’m trying to stick around in Ald´ruhn as long as possible.

But but…enough about me! I’m not as self-centred as you think! My reason for writing this is to tell you that you really have done it, this time! Why on Nirn did you have to leave just like that? Without even say goodbye? To me, that is…and Aunt Baria is not pleased at all!

She spends a lot of time with my mother….the mighty Arch mistress ha-ha….No, she does not like me calling her that! It’s not respectfull...but I don’t do it in public….Gah, she really has lost her sense of humour; everything is so serious now and all the rules make me nuts!

I prefer spending time with Father and Uncle Trey, especially when they’re drinking brandy in Father’s study and telling stories from the past, or even better when they do all that at Indarys Manor, and then my Mother won’t interfere.

No it’s not that I don’t get on with my Mother, it’s just that being Archmaster is not good for her as a person, not in my opinion anyway!

Gah! I’m rambling again! Sorry Athlain! But I miss you, silly….not that we’re that close but you’ve always been around…sort of! Like the big brother I don’t have.

Want to hear the latest? Cai is a regular at Sarethi Manor these days, always accompanied with Mae of course (Do they always just have to stick together? All the time?) Now the thing is…she, Cai that is, has a real soft spot for my lil´brother, Rahvin…Can you imagine? That brilliant vivid girl is mooning after Rahv? I mean you know him! He’s really a bore, says nothing, and just pores over those wretched books all the time… Cai thinks he’s gonna rule Tamriel one day; she thinks the world of him! And maybe she’s right; Rahv never lets anyone close to him, except Mother…and now Cai…By the way she has grown into a sheer beauty, so I don’t blame Rahv!

Mae is a sweetie; she’s often with me and sits beside me when I take those lessons from your Mother. I gather she’s got an artistic gene in her…Anyway she’s nice and doesn’t make much fuss- except when she and Cai are together… and up to mischief.

Brianna is just as annoying as usual! Father seems to think that every child is a miracle, no matter how they behave! Bree gets everything she points at, and I have to wonder, did I also get that? Ma says I did, but I don’t believe her. Gah!

Oh and Salyn and his wife are going to have a baby…again! Naturally that will be another miracle…

But now you must explain to me why you left home in such a hurry, Uncle Trey won’t tell; he’s just sitting silent, shaking his head and giving me those far-away eyes, you know. It’s scary, it really is. Not to mention Aunt Baria…she’s worried- you can tell by the way she suddenly stops whatever she’s doing and just sits there staring into the air, with eyes so sad! I tell you Athlain, your actions have got quite a few people really sad, just so you know!

The Archmaster, my dear Mother, is concerned about you; she obviously knows why you went away and she seconds it, I think so anyway, but she doesn’t want to talk about it. This makes life a bit complicated my dear friend, at least for Aunt Baria and me, all those secrets are really getting on our nerves by now…

But I have a plan!! You just wait and see…

Anyway, you are in my prayers always dear Athlain, and I can’t but wish you luck in whatever you are involved in.

Be well for now and please do write to me!

Your friend

Thyna

Obviously, I like this one. First, it helps move my story forward.... something I have been having trouble with. Then, it also perfectly captures the breathless way of talking of a teenage girl.

If we can't have more Serene, at least we can have more of Minque's wonderful writing.

This one is a Guild Wars fanfic, not an Elder Scrolls fanfic. Hope this is OK.


Tegan and Fjorngrin first met when they were children. Almost instantly, they became the best of friends. As they grew and developed, so did their relationship. They were married as soon as they were able and settled down in the countryside near Ascalon, where they made a living as farmers. Many thought they looked silly: a short bald man with a tall woman. The two of them were happy together and that was what mattered.

The war with the Charr was getting worse so Fjorngrin took up his warhammer, joined the army, and went away.

Tegan stayed behind and awaited the return of her beloved. The thought of her also becoming a warrior had never occurred to either of them, though many woman did so.

Both of peasant upbringing, neither could read, so they did not send letters to each other. The lack of a proper postal system would have been a hindrance, had they been literate. Tegan could only stoicly wait and hope that her husband was doing well and that he was killing as many Charr as he could.

Sometimes, working in the fields or buying provisions in the marketplace, she would pause and look to the horizon, wistfully remembering her man. She pictured him as he left, all decked out in his blue armor. The army was not very strict about uniforms: recruits were permitted dye their armor as they chose. Blue had always been Fjorngrin's favorite color.

Then the fateful day occurred. Tegan's world was forever destroyed. It was the Searing, a bizarre magical attack launched by the Charr, in which giant crystals and magical flame burned the land, the trees, the plants. They smashed almost every building and killed most of the population.

The land, once green and fertile, was now a blasted wasteland of brown. Nothing grew there but a few scraggly plants. The countryside crawled with hostile and dangerous monsters that had been changed and mutated by the Searing.

The house of Fjorngrin and Tegan had been obliterated: smashed squarely by one of the huge crystals. Tegan was only among the living because she had been out at the time.

She was now alone and homeless ... like most surviving Ascalonians.

After a year or two, in which she never saw Fjorngrin nor heard of him, she realized that she was at a loss for what to do with her life. It seemed that he was gone. She paid for passage with a caravan (for protection) and went to the nearby town, where she had family. Maybe some of them were still alive. Much to Tegan's surprise and relief, her uncle Bob still lived there and was unhurt, though he had not aged well.

"Tegan," he said, "you should go away from this region. There is nothing here but death and destruction. You should live a full life where the land is still green. Find yourself another man and settle down."

"Fjorngrin is the only man for me. There shall be no other."

"He's been gone for two years. He's never coming back. Face facts, he is dead."

Tegan shook her head and said: "No body was found. There was never a messenger from the Army. He could still be alive, just very far away. And if he is dead, there will be no other for me."

"Maybe he left you."

"Never," she said fiercely, "he would no more leave me than I would leave him."

Her uncle nodded. Though he did not want her to spend her whole life waiting for a man who was no longer alive, he could appreciate her loyalty and determination.

"And," she continued, "I won't leave this land, like a rat from a sinking ship."

"A rat," he countered, "cannot save the ship. Self-sacrifice in such a situation is pointless. Tegan, my favorite niece, you should go. Go away from here. This place is doomed. The Charr have won, though no one will admit this, save perhaps the Prince. I must stay because of ... commitments, and I am too old for such a trip. You have no reason to stay.

"The timing of your arrival is fortuitous: an old friend of mine, a Dwarf, is currently here in town. He can get you out. You will pose as a slave that he is bringing to one of the Dwarven markets. A few other people will be traveling with you, also posing as slaves. In this way, you can get through the Shiverpeak mountains alive."

"What if he actually sells me as a slave?"

"I trust him with my life. More importantly, I trust him with yours. He will not do this."

"OK, uncle. That is enough for me."

"Go to Cantha. Go to the academy on Shing Jea. Master Togo is an old friend of mine. I'll give you a letter to present to him ... I will call on an old favor from him. He will then enroll you. Learn a new trade. Start a new life. You can be an elementalist or a monk. Please do this, Tegan."

Tegan nodded. Her uncle's words were sensible.

"Thank you."

He quickly scribbled a note and gave it to her. "No need for me to seal it, just keep it safe and present it to Master Togo."

She looked at the paper. She marveled that these little scratches and markings could convey a message. Literacy in that world was not as common as is in other places, in other times.

"I'll never see you again, will I, Uncle?"

"Most likely not, Tegan. The trip to Cantha will take a long time and you'll be there for years. Do not dwell upon it. I've had a long life, and have done many things. Your life is just begun. You must go and live it."

The trip was long and interesting, and her uncle's plan actually went off without a hitch. From Lion's Arch she took a ship to far off Shing Jea Island.

The note did not get her into the monastery, but some gold did. After asking around, she was presented to Master Togo. If he was as old as her uncle, then he had aged better. His goatee was grey, but he appeared fit. He looked like he could hold his own on the battlefield.

Tegan bowed and presented the letter. He unrolled it and silently read. She waited. His eyebrow rose and then he sighed.

She waited. He read some more.

"So my old friend, at last, calls in that favor. Oh, it was so long ago. Suddenly every year of my life is stretched out before me."

Togo said nothing for a time.

Tegan waited silently.

"I am sorry, child, I was woolgathering. Your note has brought back a flood of memories. Some good, some ... best forgotten.

"You are now a student here. All tuitions and dorm charges are waived. You will need to pay for your supplies and that is all. There is money to be made during the lessons: many creatures and outlaws carry gold and sellable items. You will not want for funds.

"Just from looking at you I would say you would make an excellent warrior, though I expect you would rather be a monk or the like."

He began to explain each profession. Privately, to herself, she ruled out the magical occupations, since they would necessitate knowing how to read.

She thought ... for the very first time ... "If I had been a warrior, I could have been at my husband's side. Maybe I could have saved him."

The look in her eyes made Togo stop in mid sentence. He had been in the middle of explaining why necromancers were not such a bad thing,

"You chose, didn't you? Just now."

"I will be a warrior."

"You have the height for it. Know that it is a hard life."

"I come from a hard life."

"Fair enough."

And so her training began. It rapidly became apparent that Tegan had a talent for combat. Some experimentation revealed that her aptitude was with swords rather than warhammers. If Togo had had any misgivings about accepting her as a student, they were quickly abolished.

She pictured how she would have looked, in her new recruit's armor, swinging her longsword alongside of Fjorngrin with his warhammer.

The tears still came from time to time but she hid them from the other students. She missed her husband so much.

Though the same age as the other students, something distanced her from them. Events had made her older than her years. She conducted her class time and her free time solemnly and with a quiet, focused, determination. For the others, the training was fun, a game. For her, it was a serious matter.

As Master Togo had predicted, making money was not a problem. It was not necessary to find a job: fighting outlaws and monsters was good income. She made more gold than she spent.

It eventually became time for her to chose a secondary profession.

"I am only a warrior. I care nothing about anything else."

"No Tegan, you must chose," said Headmaster Zhan. "It is how we do things. It will be better for you: many professions actually enhance your warrior skills. There are good combinations."

"I want to slay monsters, like those that killed my husband. I care not about ... spells."

"Tegan, spells are important and powerful."

The warrior headmaster beckoned her closer. She did so. He lowered his voice and hissed, "Tegan. I have watched your progress. You will be an excellent warrior, but you cannot graduate without adopting a secondary profession. Please, you must chose something, or they'll throw you out!"

"Oh."

"Take another day to think about it. Warrior monk might be good, or perhaps warrior ritualist so that you can summon assistance."

"I, I do not know how to read." she said. Each word had hurt to say. She had never admitted this to anyone else at the academy.

"Not all magic requires you to read," he said, his voice reassuring.

"Oh."

"Go. Think. Speak to the other headmasters. Decide."

The next day she returned to Headmaster Zhan.

"My husband died on the battle field. If I was there maybe I would have saved him. If I knew monk spells, I could have healed him. I will be a warrior monk."

"Are you sure? You cannot bring him back. Chose for yourself, not for him. What do you really want?"

"I have chosen."

"Very well then. I hope you do not regret this. The woman you need to speak to is Headmaster Amara."

Tegan learned some the skills of a monk. As expected she learned healing magic. What she had not expected were the smiting spells. It was a pleasant surprise to learn that a monk was more than just a healer. She approved of smiting spells though she did not have manna enough to use them often in combat.

In the meantime, a strange sort of plague had broken out on the island. It twisted men into malformed masses that wandered the countryside, slaying all they encountered. They were formidable, dangerous and quite effective at killing. Since she was a rapidly advancing student, Tegan had been asked to help fight the creatures and also to help in the search for the source of the problem.

After fighting some of the plague creatures, she realized that it was time to spend some of her accumulated gold on new armor. Her recruit's armor, obtained the first day or so of her studies, no longer provided sufficient protection.

A crafter in Seitung Harbor was able to make a fine set of Canthan armor. It was far superior to her old armor.

Fellow students had mentioned a storage service called Xunlai Storage. Apparently she could buy a space to keep her things. All of the items were accessible at any Xunlai chest, anywhere in the world. It was as if she had actually lugged all of it with her.

"No," said the Xunlai agent, not unkindly, to Tegan, "Living things cannot travel this way. It has been tried. They die."

Tegan asked a few more questions and finally paid the fifty gold.

The agent led her to one of the chests, while explaining how to use the system.

"This one is free so we'll use it," she said, "Now I wave my hand thusly, spelling it so that it opens only for you. The magic will sense your Kirlian Aura: only you will ever be able to access your belongings. This first time, the chest will be empty, ready for you to fill it."

She waved her hand and some sparkles flew around the chest.

Tegan reached out and lifted the heavy stone lid.

The chest was not empty.

She saw vials of dye, some warhammers, assorted clothing, and a pile of gold coins.

"Oh, you are married!" said the Xunlai agent. "Why didn't you say so? There is no charge to access an existing account."

Also in the chest was a full set of Ascalon recruit's armor. She picked up the cuirass. It was Fjorngrin's size. It was blue: his favorite color. It was the one he had worn the last time she had seen him.

"My ... my husband is dead," said Tegan as she sadly placed the cuirass back in the chest.

"Oh. I am sorry. Look, he must have opened the account ... umm ... before ... and the magic knew of your bond with him."

"Do you ... can you tell where he was when he last used a Xunlai chest?"

"I am sorry, but no. The magic, set up centuries ago, prevents a client's account from ever being traced. It uses powerful magic that ... even we do not understand."

"Oh, OK. Thank you."

"No trouble at all. Here is your fee back."

Tegan silently accepted the money. She placed her old recruit's armor in the chest, next to Fjorngrin's. She picked up the blue cuirass again and sniffed ... it still smelled faintly of him.

After placing some of her gold in the chest, she closed it and thanked the agent.

"You are welcome. Xunlai storage: wherever you go, there we are."

Tegan was quiet for the rest of the day.

It eventually became necessary to go with Master Togo to the mainland to ascertain the source of the plague. The metropolis was a new experience to Tegan, accustomed as she was to the country. She'd never seen a city larger than Ascalon. The city of Kaineng extended forever, or so it seemed. Even its height was amazing: it was as if man had made mountains out of stacked buildings. It was noisy and smelly, but kind of exciting. The city was filled with many dangers, worse than anything she had encountered on Shing Jea Island or Ascalon.

Tegan suspected that Togo already had an idea as to what was behind the plague, which had already spread to the mainland, but was not saying anything yet.

In a rare idle moment, she stopped at the Xunlai chests in Kaineng Center to drop off more gold. The agent spelled the chest, as had the one back at the island, and then Tegan lifted the lid.

Her old armor was still there but one of the pieces had been moved. The clothing had been rearranged, as if she had gone in there for a change of clothing ... but she had not.

A single rose had been placed on her cuirass.

It had not been there before.

She picked up the flower. It was beginning to wilt, indicating that it had been there for two days, possibly three.

Someone else had recently accessed the chest.

Only one person could have placed it there.

"Fjorngrin ... you're alive."

He must have accessed the chest and had noticed the things she had added. After a talk with the Xunlai agent, he had figured out that it could only have been his wife. He must have then placed the rose in the chest as a way to communicate with her, to tell her that he was alive and that he loved her still.

The tall warrior-woman's tears flowed freely. She did not care that passers-by looked at her strangely

"I don't know how I will do it, but I will find you. I will find you even if I have to search all of Cantha, Tyria and beyond. I will find you, Fjorngrin ... and I will be with you again."

Wow, that was such a touching story. Even I'm getting a little teary...

I really enjoyed it and despite not knowing anything about Guild Wars I managed to follow the story easily. The focus was more on the characters than the setting which should be the point in any story in my opinion.

I'm really happy you did this, blockhead.

The old Imperial walked along in the sunset, bow on his back. He had hoped to be in Anvil by now: but he was not as young as he once was, and he both walked slower and rested more often, which had eaten up his time. This was bad news in these parts.

Still, he was Legion born and bred, and no stranger to violence: indeed, before his retirement, he was the fastest shooter in all of Cyrodiil’s troops. It was with a little of this old combat mentality in mind, casting around for threats in the growing darkness, that he caught sight of a Redguard up ahead loitering behind a rock, dressed all in black.

“No prizes for guessing his intentions.” the old man mumbled to himself. The Redguard, too, held a bow: but it was cheap and wooden, whereas the old soldier carried the ultimate prize from his last expedition: an ebony longbow, beautifully crafted by the Vvardenfell Dunmer, and enchanted to bring extra marksman’s skill.

The old man swiftly notched two arrows on the string, and fired them both at once.

The bandit moved just in time, sprinting for cover. He found it behind another rock, dodging more arrows as he ran. He was too far away to hit with his pathetic bow: he would have to advance.

Arrows still flew past the Redguard. The Imperial’s muscle memory had let him fly arrow after arrow at incredible speed, dotting the ground behind the Redguard with sharp death. Yet still, he advanced, ever more gaining ground.

Finally, he ran out of cover.

Still seemingly a safe distance away, the Imperial smiled. This would be too easy. He could see the Redguard’s right leg poking out from behind the tree. He reached for another arrow-

And found himself empty. He swore, pulled out his sword and charged, then took one perfect arrow between the eyes.

Short, but nice. I am rather surprised at how a supposed veteran forgot to count his arrows, though.

Maybe he was beginning to go senile?

Good point. I was thinking more of the contrast between 'lots of arrows', as you would see in a pitched battle where you're guaranteed to hit something anyway, and the one perfect shot. Sort of like a way to level up your marksman skill, as it were. A little overconfidence might've crept in there too, but still, good point.

Nice Marcel! really!

Ahh, finally I've commented on a lot of stories that I've been reading for the last two days....I do hope you guys know that I read all stories even though my comments not always appear in time!

Hm, I liked the story with the old imperial archer Marcel. Shows were overconfidence gets you. Short but sweet.

I can't seem to find the old "Temple of Lore", which I liked and which fit this best, so I guess I'll post this fragment of a story that might be some months off as a bit of teaser, and because I'm not quite in the proper mindset to write Al, at the moment. Got to work on job applications...

Bear in mind that this is a tiny, tiny, fragment of what I hope this will eventually become.



The wind blows. A Second Seed wind, bearing sand and scratched retinas. A pair of Redguards force their way through it, aiming for the top of a low escarpment, a perch perhaps seventy feet above the surrounding badlands, the mal-i-pah. Both are tall, and clad in robes the color of rust and the Alik’r sands. The leader, the man in front, has short graying hair and a salt-and-pepper beard. He walks slowly but steadily. The man behind is younger and lets his long, unkempt black hair billow in the wind behind him. He appears to chafe at the older man’s walking pace but he maintains a respectful position to his elder’s rear. At the top of the rise the two raga gaze off to the northwest where thin white clouds dot the sky above Sentinel. Finally, they take shelter in the scant lee of a scrub juniper.

The younger man spoke. “You see the rain, Ansu-Haka?”

The old Redguard nodded. “In the afternoon.”

“This is good,” said the younger man. “It will keep the dust down.”

The wind continues to howl, insistently. “We used to call this month Tava’s Fury,” said Ansu-Haka. The younger man nodded. For five minutes more the two men sit out of the wind, the old man with eyes closed and a thin smile on his face, the younger man looking east to the mountains, still dusted with snow.

“It is still too early in the season, Cyrus.”

Self-conscious, the younger man smiled. “Two weeks, Ansu-Haka. No more. Then it will be time.”

“Indeed,” the old man answered, his lips still locked in his thin smile. “But we must not act and speak as if asleep. Your namesake—”

“We will go down to the others,” the young man countered. “We will ride.”

The two Redguards descended, traveling easily but gingerly atop the ridge, struggling to shield their eyes from airborne sand. At the bottom they turned onto a faint footpath down into a narrow gully—it was crowded with ephedra and willows and old man sage and smelled of water where the ridge top had been nearly bare. At the head of the gully could be seen cottonwoods, golden-green leaves in the morning light, and the nickering sound that horses make intermingled with the play of water upon the rock—familiar, pleasant sounds. Thirty men and their horses idled around the cold spring, waiting.

The older raga, the one called Ansu-Haka, entered the encampment ahead of his compatriot but said nothing, instead choosing to wander over to his paint horse, which was tied to a quinine bush. This was signal enough. When the one called Cyrus appeared all the men—Redguards dressed in robes of all the colors of the Alik’r, sabers to the side and bows on their backs—sat astride their mounts. Cyrus vaulted onto his own horse, a white stallion almost seventeen hands high. He hefted his sword, the cold curved steel, and gazed about at his cadre of bandits.

“Van-i-khamos,” he called, raising the sword skyward. “We ride south.”

They put that in my sub-forum, Ive been meaning to ask them to put it back here, but otherwise, good job!!

Thadius knelt over Lorit's body, the red line across her neck already drawing blood. He scooped her lifeless body into his arms, burying his head into her hair. Weeping, he scrunched his eyes shut, whispering to her "I'm so sorry, baby, but I had to!" He paused as the sobs racked his body. "You...you were becoming a vampire, baby, I couldn't let you live like that! Please...please forgive me?" He gently lowered her to the ground and closed sightless eyes. He laid his head on her chest and wadded her shirt as the tears flowed freely. Muffled voices shouted at him to open up as the door shook under the barrage of pounding fists. It blew inwards in a shower of sparks as armed men entered the room. Soon, four swords were trained on him, but he continued to weep, ignoring the guards surrounding him. A large man, clad in the Imperial Legion uniform, strode it and grasped by the neck, lifting him off of the women. Bringing him face to face, the man said "Thadius, you are under arrest for murder. Men, take him away." Thadius meekly allowed himself to be shackled and led out. The captain knelt down by Lorit and shook his head before standing and silently following his men out.

A time after the men left, a soft voice filled the room. "Arise, Lorit, it is time." Lorit's eyes fluttered open, the redness a stark contrast to the palor of her skin. "R...Reden?"

"Yes, my love. Your rebirth is complete and that fool Thadius is gone."

Lorit smiled and slowly stood as a figure glided over to her. She reached up a hand and carressed his smooth face, glidding her hand through his pale hair. "I have missed you, my love..."

Reden grasped her hand with one just as pale. "As I you, my love, but now we have enternity together..."

The room grew silent and empty as the two disappeared into the night.

Lorit is not a very nice lady . Poor Thadius, he was so sad because he thought he had killed her. Too bad vampires are a little harder than that to kill.

True, but Thadius should have educated himself better about vampires.