Epic. This really had the feel of something huge and cinematic which is difficult but you nailed it. The short parts helped I think and also gave a view on the smaller scale. I agree with Huate that this put me in mind of helms deep in terms of atmosphere, though the burning wolves and traps were a excellent addition. As was the inclusion of the other forms of Khajit which never really make an appearance elsewhere. Along with the Thu'um you certainly did you're homework on this one.

And I like seeing the seeds of the K'Sharra prophecy, a nice touch whether it develops further or not.

Great opening, I'm utterly hooked now.

Yes, as you always do, this is epic. Wow!

Ohhh this is BIG! I'm stunned. Like Olen said it really has some huge cinematic aura....

I'm so impressed!

mALX – Thank you. Rocking you to the core is something that I always strive to do!



Not really sure what you meant here. Are you referring to Ysmir?


SubRosa – Ysmir and Talos have an almost symbiotic relationship. Each is greatly lessened without the other. Talos has no hope of gaining the Cyrodiilic throne without the loyalty of Skyrim, who see him as Stormcrown thanks to Ysmir’s thu’um. Ysmir needs an army so that he can invade Morrowind and destroy the Tribunal, but he doesn’t have the name to gain the loyalty of any troops, and none of the Kings or Warlords of his time would be willing to devote troops to such a nebulous cause.

Dar’Zhan does find himself in a precarious situation. One that I have plans to play with in the future.


haute – As I once told mALX, I like to think that Sheogorath drew inspiration from watching this battle. Think about it, ten thousand Khajiit defeated by a rain of burning wolves, if that isn’t pure madness what is?

And Helm’s Deep? Wow, what a compliment! Thank you.


Winter Wolf – I am glad that you picked up on Arctus’ demeanor throughout the battle. I wanted to capture the self-assured, deliberate attitude of the man who would go on to write The Art of War Magic.


Olen – Epic and cinematic are exactly what I am going for with this story. I am happy that it came across well. Hopefully the quiet moments of reflection before the next storm come across just as well. Thanks.


Acadian – HUZZAH!!! A hearty welcome back to everyone’s favorite paladin! I am so glad that you happened by for this chapter. The re-writes were prompted by your comments on the other board. I hope that this incarnation of the battle reads less confusing than the other, and I hope that I have made who and what Ysmir is somewhat clearer.


minqué – Thank you so much, I am honored that you took the time to read it. Given the number of excellent stories on this board I do not envy you the task of trying to keep up with them all. And, given the frequency in which some of us post updates, it is too easy to find oneself coming back to a favorite thread only to find that you are three chapters behind.





13th Morning Star, 2E 854
Fort Black Boot, Near Cyrodiil’s Border with Elsweyr
Morning


At dawn the garrison was deployed policing the Khajiit bodies in front of the fort. They worked with a renewed energy and purpose, converting the ash filled trenches into mass graves. The sounds of stripped bodies stacked upon one another and the scrape of shovels against loose soil marked the early morning hours. By the time the sun shone through the eastern storm clouds only the blood soaking the ground still told of the battle.

In a tent erected over the mass graves of his countrymen the Khajiit Shaman Ri’Dargo and his retinue met with General Talos and his staff under a banner of truce.

“We are here to discuss an end to hostilities,” said Ri’Dargo. He and his retinue sat on cushions against the far wall of the tent. A table laden with sweetcakes, wine and cheese had been set on a table before them. “I have also been instructed by the Mane to inquire as to the intentions of the fleet you have outside of Torval.”

Lord Richton disobeyed orders. Zurin Arctus thought to himself. He sat next to General Talos at the opposite end of the table. Captain Alorius stood guard near the entrance to the tent.

General Talos smiled. “An end to hostilities, not a Khajiit surrender?”

Ri’Dargo returned the General’s smile. “Our attack was repelled last night, but we were not defeated. If we were to re-engage tonight I think you would find the outcome . . .”

“Re-engage with what, Lord Ri’Dargo?” asked General Talos. “My scouts tell me that the bulk of your host has fled halfway to Senchal. The rest lie under your feet.”

The Shaman’s retinue shifted in their chairs. Ri’Dargo stared at the stains seeping through the floor of the tent.

“Our terms are simple,” continued Talos, “your army must remain in Elsweyr, and there can be no further hostilities anywhere along Cyrodiil’s border. Tell your Mane that the fleet will be withdrawn once the border is clear.

“And what of your army?” Ri’Dargo took a sweetcake from the plate between them. He turned it over in his clawed fingers as if trying to glean from it some great secret.

Talos raised his eyebrows, “my army?”

Ri’Dargo placed the sweetcake back on the plate. “Indeed. Once we remove our forces, what is to stop your army from invading Elsweyr?”

“Need I remind Lord Ri’Dargo that any hostilities have been instigated by the Khajiit. We have no desire to invade Elsweyr.”

“So you say now, but your people speak of Empire. At what point will the Khajiit be forced to acknowledge your sovereignty?” His eyes met those of General Talos. “Your name is known to us, General Talos, as is your ambition. You do your Emperor’s bidding for now, but that won’t always be the case.”

That was unnecessary, thought Arctus.

“My ambition,” said Talos, “is not a subject that is open for discussion. Considering the circumstances, Lord Ri'Dargo, I would advise you to mind your tongue. You want assurances that I can not give you. Yes we speak of Empire, and yes there may come a day when we seek to annex Elsweyr. But when that day comes we will seek to do so by treaty, not force.”

“I apologize, General, I meant no offence. Our ways are not yours. We of the Khajiit value ambition, in much the same way that we value courage and daring. We find it hard to distinguish between the three. I meant only to impress upon you that Imperial Promises have not always been kind to Elsweyr.”

Talos lifted the sweetcake off of the plate and placed it in front of Ri’Dargo. “Then consider it a personal promise. And, as a show of good faith, I give the Khajiit leave to build a settlement somewhere along the border.”

Ri’Dargo regarded the sweetcake. “A settlement?” His retinue began to whisper amongst themselves.

“Yes,” said Talos, “a kind of ‘border watch’ that can act as Elsweyr’s first line of defense in the event of any Imperial aggression.” Talos leaned back in his chair. “Of course, I can always give Lord Richton the order to attack.” He turned to Zurin Arctus. “With an army here and a fleet at Torval we can begin the annexation of Elsweyr immediately.”

The Khajiit retinue fell silent. Ri’Dargo lifted the sweetcake and took a bite.

“There will be an end to hostilities,” he said, “I must take this message to the Mane.”





Captain Itinius was left in charge of the garrison at Fort Black Boot. General Talos and five hundred men began their long journey back to the Imperial City. The General, aboard his white stallion, rode at the head of the column flanked by Ysmir and Zurin Arctus.

Captain Alorius reined his horse even with Zurin Arctus’. “Sir, might I ask a question?”

“What is it, Captain?” asked Arctus.

“This battle we fought, it wasn’t against the Khajiit was it?”

Arctus reined his horse to allow their conversation to continue in private. “Explain yourself, Captain.”

“Well, sir,” Alorius stopped himself. He watched General Talos.

“Speak freely, Captain.” Said the Battlemage.

“Yes sir. All of the General’s dispatches go through me. He never sent for the reserve force from Skyrim.”

Arctus turned to regard the young Captain. “Why wouldn’t he, Captain?”

“Sir, the Skyrim forces are already loyal to the General, sir. When word of this battle spreads he’ll win the loyalty of a large chunk of the Colovian forces.”

“You believe that the General works against his Emperor, Captain?”

“Sir, my loyalty is to my General.” He lowered his voice. “I am not suggesting anything treasonous, sir. I’m just trying to make sense of what happened back there.”

“I see,” said Arctus, “and you’ve come to the conclusion that General Talos used this border dispute to win the loyalty of the legion away from the Emperor?”

Alorius straightened in his saddle. “Yes sir.”

“An interesting theory, Captain, and a dangerous one were it to be repeated.”

“As I said, sir, my loyalty lies with my General.” He pounded his chest in salute and eased his horse down the ranks.

Arctus spurred his horse back into formation.

“Alorius is uncommonly bright,” said General Talos, “he will have a very bright future in the years to come.”

“If he can remain loyal, General,” said Arctus.

“It’s in his best interest to remain loyal. I’m more concerned with Lord Richton’s disregard for orders.”

“Yes General,” said Arctus. “Do you believe the Khajiit will keep the peace?”

“It doesn’t really matter,” said Talos, “they’ll be hard pressed to raise another force like that one. For now we’ve cleared our southern border and bought ourselves time.”

“And maneuvered the Emperor into a corner.”

“Yes. He cannot refuse this Khajiit settlement without antagonizing the Mane, and he cannot move against me after such a glorious victory. As you say, he finds himself in a corner.”

“Yes General,” said Arctus, “but don’t forget. Animals are most dangerous when cornered.”


The year continues in Sun’s Dawn

The Sweetroll Negotiations! Yes, I remember Acadian's comment about the role the common, humble sweetroll played in this parley from the other forum.

Did you rewrite this chapter a little? Or am I more attentive to details now that I know what is coming next? Either way, it has the feel of a plot-weaver - what I call a chapter that lays the groundwork for the next moment of tension. Not too much information, but just enough to provide a sense of foreshadowing. I love the way you have written Talos Stormcrown and the characters around him. They really come alive in a epic, heroic kind of way, the stuff of legends become flesh and blood.

I liked the way the parley tent was pitched over the Khajiit mass grave, and how Talos pointed out to Ri'Dargo that they were sitting on top of their own fallen. What a way to call a bluff! It is bone-chilling, cruel, and highly effective. I'm not sure if this sits well with my morals, but I understand the reasoning behind the placement. It was very carefully considered, and you have shown the thought and care that goes into setting up for negotiations of this nature. Brrgh!

Again, well done!

Ok, finally had time to read.

I have to say that I enjoyed this more than the battle chapters. The reason being that this installment goes a long way to establishing Talos and his ambitions. It also shows that they are not exactly a secret either. Both the Khajiit shaman and Captain Alorius noted that he was planning on making himself Emperor. Given the conversation between Talos and Arctus at the end, it appears that the Emperor himself knows as well. A very interesting situation, one that reminds me of Caesar in his last years in Gaul, when it was becoming apparent to everyone that his ambition to become First Man in Rome was finally matched by his actual ability to make it so.

I also really liked how you wove the creation of the town of Border Watch into history with this chapter. And as Haute already noted, the K'Sharra prophecy as well. They may be small things, but it is attention to little things like these which add up to make a story great rather than merely good.

Are you a Farscape fan by chance? The name Ri’Dargo immediately makes me think of Ka D'Argo.


nits:
Considering the circumstances, Lord RiDargo, I would advise you to mind your tongue.
You missed the apostrophe in Dargo's name.

I will answer this and then go read the chapter:

ARGH! Always a bridesmaid, never a bride!




No, I was complaining that you answered everyone's comment but mine at the head of the previous chapter, ROFL !!!!! - just kidding, obviously.


Now to go read!


I need to go back to the BGSF and read the chapter you had there, this looks different! I just spent the last almost week fiddling with my crashed PC, so my eyes are burning and my mind is tired, lol. I am sorry I was so late in reading this! <333

Or a third time.....
Seriously, I know you stated you changed little things, things other people wouldnt notice but I feel it's the little things that made the story EVEN better. Like the first chapter. I remember being impressed the first time but by the Nine.... it's epic now!

Ah yes, once again, the sweetcake has stolen my heart. I am so pleased you kept the little fellow in this new version. Wonderful stuff as always Destri!

Only you could have a sweetcake take center stage. Amazing write!!


Especially when their fur is singed from falling dogs, lol.

More, Destri, more. Now !!!!!

“Though the title is a bit macabre,” he said, “I am known as the King of Worms, and you come highly recommended.”

That is a brilliant way to end an installment.

The whole scene between Renald and "Erinwe" (why do I have a feeling we might know her under a different name?) is incredible.

Then we have the return of the Direnni and their council (conspiracy?) session. And Talos' preparations.... Everything is drawn so well that I can "see" it all.

"They were still there. He could feel the sound in his head. He could see the burning wolves when he closed his eyes. They rode back to the winding path. He turned and looked past the dead man and the dead elf to the valley. He knew those wolves would follow him for the rest of his life."

If I ever grow up (doubtful), I want to write like that!

And finally, the negotiations (sweetroll and all!), along with the young Captain's insights.

This is story-telling on a grand scale, yet you manage to make the characters 3-dimensional and fully-realized.

I am depressed, out right bummed
from no updates on Interrignum
Sitting, waiting, sad and blue
for any updates that come from you

haute - You have officially given name to this section of the story. 'The Sweetroll Negotiations', I love it!

I have rewritten this chapter a little, most notably the comments made by Ri’Dargo about the Khajiit cultural affinity for ambition, which to my way of thinking they would equate with courage and daring.

I kept in mind the metaphor of the carrot and the stick during the writing of this chapter. Talos chose the location for the parlay with the express purpose of keeping his adversary off balance and ever mindful of the terrible price the Khajiit had paid the night before trying to seize a single fort on the Cyrodiil border. The fact that you describe Talos’ attitude during the negotiations as ‘bone-chilling’ is exactly what I was going for. Thank you.


SubRosa - Once again you have skewered my intention. I have always seen Talos as Tamriel’s version of Caesar, and I have tried to imbue Cuhlecain with aspects of Pompey. Think about it, Cuhlecain is the one who ‘discovered’ the tactical genius of Hjalti Early-Beard and lifted him up so that he could become Talos Stormcrown. I think it makes for a far more interesting story if the would be Emperor of Tamriel sows the seeds of his own destruction during those early battles at Old Hrol’dan.

I am of course familiar with Farscape, but I have never seen an episode. Ri’Dargo came from the etymology of Khajiit names in which the prefix ‘Ri’ is a sign of status, like a tribal elder, and the name Dargo is a contraction of the name of the first Khajiit I ever encountered in an Elder Scrolls game. He was a slave named Baadargo in the smuggler’s cave outside of Seyda Neen in Morrowind.

And thank you for locating my wayward apostrophe. It has been addressed.


Remko - I think it’s safe to say that you have earned the ‘Long Suffering Merit Badge’ for slogging through this beast THREE times! By now you probably know this story better than I do. I am so glad that the rewrites are making the story better for you. One of the best things about bringing this story to a new board is that I get to address issues that I wasn’t too happy with in the original version . . . like that first chapter.


Acadian - Are you kidding? I would have dropped Ri’Dargo from the story before I got rid of the sweetroll! During the rough draft that poor little thing must have changed hands at least a dozen times. It was beginning to border on the ridiculous! I had to cut it down considerably to get it to the point that it is now.

By the way, WOW!!! The new Buffy is SMOKIN’ HOT!!!!


Winter Wolf - I hereby proclaim myself the pot calling the kettle. Here I am, extolling you to write faster, and then I leave you for two weeks without an update! I will try to address that over the weekend. For now I need to get caught up with Aradroth and, rest assured, your ‘more’ is coming.


treydog - It is always so nice when you drop by Interregnum. There is always a chair near the fire left open for you (or would you prefer a rug?). I am humbled by your comments; from a writer of your proven ability they mean a lot!

When I grow up I want to write like treydog.


mALX - First things first, it was inexcusable for me to ignore your comment from before. Allow me to address it now:

You can blame Remko and SubRosa for the teaser. They were the ones who asked me if there was going to be anything new added to Interregnum.

As for the K’Sharra Prophecy, I first envisioned this chapter through the final line that Dar’Zhan says to his son, so the germ of the idea began with K’sharra. From there everything else was put into the chapter to serve that final line. Thankfully it all seems to work.

Now for your latest comment:

I feel as if I have achieved some rite of passage! Who knew that absence was the surest way to illicit a poem from you. Reading it brought a much needed ray of sunlight into what has been a gray, dreary November in my soul for the past few weeks, thank you for that. You're the one that ROCKS, mALX!

I am sorry that I have made you wait so long. As I told Winter Wolf, I hope to address that issue this weekend.



Everyone – Thank you all for your comments. I am sorry that it has taken me so long to respond. I find myself tied to the tracks of circumstance with a deadline bearing down on me like a freight train. The last few weeks have been without social interaction (or very much sleep) of any kind. The good news is that I anticipate a window of time this weekend in which I can try to get caught up with the exploits of Maxical & Shivani, Julian, Teresa, Rales & Zerina, Aradroth, Athlain & Athynae, Firen, and anyone else that I am unforgivably forgetting right now. But as that great unrecognized sage, the Reverend Al Swearengen once said:

“Announcing your plans is a good way to hear God laugh.”

More Interregnum coming soon . . . I promise.

The email made its normal ping
to let me know I had something
I looked to see what it could be
and leaped up whooping when I saw "Destri"

Yeah !!!!!!!!

Book Two: Sun’s Dawn


1st Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
The Nameless Tavern, Sentinel, Hammerfell
Evening


He may have been the largest Nord to ever venture out of Skyrim. He sat with his legs splayed under the table and drained a full tankard of mead with two long tilts of the elbow. The sound that his steel gauntlet made when he slammed his fist against the table drew hooded stares from the darker patrons. But one look at his size or at the battered head of the silver mace that hung from his hip cowed them back into their drinks.

“More mead,” his voice reverberated through the noise of the tavern and bent the barman to his purpose.

The Nord’s companion was fair of complexion and of average height by the standards of High Rock, which is to say that he was short. He wore a weather-stained green tunic over battered mail. At his side the hilt of a silver longsword caught and reflected the light from the candles which dimly lit the inside of the tavern. He held a full goblet to his chest, away from the table which had already started to wobble being subject to the Nord’s fits of temper.

The tavern itself gave stage to the carousing of loud, overbearing sailors while also lending itself as the location that sullen mercenaries sought for drinking and brooding. Here and there a few flinty-eyed specimens of the merchant class moved amongst the rough trade, for it was a well known fact that if you had goods to move or goods to protect, you could find the means to do it in the Nameless Tavern.

“He should be here soon,” said the Breton, he had to raise his voice to be heard across the table.

“You said that an hour ago,” boomed the Nord. “We could have been in Anticlere by now. Maybe even Vermeir, staring up at the Wrothgarians if not for this unnecessary detour.”

“You may be right,” said the Breton, “but say that we were at the base of the Wrothgarians, where would we go from there? Our quarry might be in Cyrodiil by now for all we know. I for one would rather set our feet to purpose than wander blindly through Sun’s Dawn in the mountains.”

Any comment the Nord was about to make was interrupted by a serving wench who appeared with another tankard of mead. With shaking hand she set it on the table. Sweat beaded her brown, Redguard forehead and her eyes were akin to the doe that has just caught the scent of a predator.

After she withdrew the Nord lifted the tankard and drank deep. His brow still held to the scowl, but the fire in his eyes had been replaced with resignation. “What makes you think this friend of yours knows more than we do?”

The Breton rose from his chair; his eyes were focused on the entrance to the tavern, “you can ask him that yourself.”

The Nord turned in his seat. A broad-shouldered, lean silhouette of a man stood shadowed in the doorway. Most of the other patrons barely noted his entrance. However, as he shut the door behind him and the candles lent light to his dark features conversations at all the tables stopped, movement through the tavern was aborted, and there was a new smell that mingled with the sweat and smoke that had seemed almost oppressive in the moments before his arrival. The Nord had no problem identifying it.

Fear.

The newcomer paused, his eyes adjusting to the dim light of the tavern. The Nord studied him from across the room. He was a Redguard, young for the amount of turmoil his presence caused in the room. Yet he carried himself like a man accustomed to defending his honor. He wore a scarlet vest over an unbuttoned white shirt; his black trousers were tucked into high black leather boots that were made for riding. A steel cutlass dangled easily on his right hip, and a matching dagger was tucked into the belt on his left. If it bothered him that his presence alone caused most of the other patrons to move hands towards the hilts of weapons he gave no indication of it. The Nord could appreciate such courage, but that didn’t make him feel less uneasy about this meeting.

The Redguard spotted the Nord’s companion and gave a nod of greeting. He crossed the tavern toward their table. The other patrons returned to their own pursuits at his passing, but every eye remained trained upon his movements. The Nord brought his wayward legs into formation, to lift him from the chair should the need arise. The Breton noticed, but that only caused the smile that was already spreading across his face to grow.

The Redguard reached their table, his eyes sought out the Breton’s.

“Alain,” he said with a smile that matched the Breton’s. He extended his right arm. “Praise be to Arkay that you survived Sancre Tor. When the news reached us I feared the worst.”

Alain clasped the Redguard’s forearm. “Casnar my friend, it is good to see you again. I understand congratulations are in order. A Knight of the Moon at your age, that is quite impressive.” He released Casnar’s arm and motioned toward the third chair at the table.

Casnar gave a slight bow to acknowledge Alain’s hospitality and sat down. “I would advise you to keep your voice down, old friend. This is a Forebear tavern, the last thing that any of these men want to see is one of the Crown’s chosen, hence my appearance before you out of uniform.”

“A disguise that clearly seems to be working,” said the Nord as he drained the dregs from another tankard.

“Forgive me, Casnar,” said Alain, “allow me to introduce my friend, Sir Valdemar of Skyrim.” He turned to the Nord. “Valdemar, this is Sir Casnar, a friend of my youth.”

“Redguard,” said Valdemar.

“Nord,” said Casnar.

“Have things really grown so bad?” asked Alain, trying to allay the tension at the table.

“They have,” said Casnar. “We are fighting battles on many fronts. The Forebears will have civil war before they submit to the Na’Totambu. Attacks of the Selenu have grown more frequent, and have begun to occur within the city walls. And, as if that weren’t enough, now we have to deal with the misguided actions of Zenithar’s flock.”

Alain shook his head. His eyes were attentive, but blank.

“Some priests of Zenithar have decided to stake out territory here in Arkay’s region,” Casnar explained. “They call themselves the Knights of Iron. Many Forebears see them as a natural rival to the Knights of the Moon, Zenithar being held in such high esteem by most Forebears.”

“Who are the Selenu?” asked Alain.

“The local vampire clan,” said Casnar, “it used to be that you could expect an attack or two a month inland. And the disappearance of a few beggars now and again was something that the Crown was willing to turn a blind eye to. But of late the attacks have increased. I have heard rumors that a new matron holds the ear of the patriarch but we know nothing for sure.”

“I am sure this is all very interesting,” said Valdemar, “but I hope that the discussion of politics, effete gods, and vampires is not the reason that we have ventured hundreds of leagues out of our way.” He held his tankard aloft, the barman rushed to fill another. “State yourself plain, Redguard, I grow tired of quaffing the watered down swill that passes for mead in this country.” His eyes ventured throughout the tavern. “Besides, it appears that the time grows short before your countrymen turn murderous thought into action.”

Casnar’s eyes narrowed, “in the event of such an exchange, I doubt that the two of you would find any friends in the room.”

“Forgive my friend’s manner,” said Alain, “he means no offense. Though I confess that I too wonder why you have asked us here.”

“I bear a message,” said Casnar, “one which I’m sure that even your giant friend will appreciate; the whereabouts of he whom you seek.”

Alain and Valdemar exchanged glances across the table. The serving wench returned with three tankards weighing down her tray. She set one in front of each man before backing away from the table.

“How is it that you know that we seek anyone?” asked Valdemar.

Casnar laughed. “The two of you have not been subtle. We heard tell of a Nord and a Breton allied in desperate search over a year ago. Since then your exploits have been the source of whispered rumor from here to the Reach I would imagine.”

“You have known of our search for a year and only now seek me out?” asked Alain.

“You misunderstand, the information that I have only recently came into my possession, along with instructions to pass it on to the two of you.”

“Who gave you these instructions?” asked Alain.

“That I am not at liberty to say.”

“We could force the information from you,” said Valdemar.

Casnar laughed again, “I don’t doubt it, but to what end? If the information proves good, then the end of your search will soon be at hand. If the information proves false, then you are out nothing save a week of your, ahem, valuable time and the expense of drinking some watered down mead.”

Valdemar lifted his tankard from the table. Alain was still holding his goblet. He stared down at the tankard in front of him.

“But I don’t even like mead,” he said.

Casnar’s eyes widened. His arm shot out, the hand covering the mouth of Valdemar’s tankard before the Nord could bend it back.

“Hold,” he said.

Valdemar lowered the tankard; his face bore a puzzled look. The tavern was strangely silent. Casnar looked to the bar, but the barman and the serving wench were gone, as were all the members of the merchant class. Around them the patrons of the tavern began to rise. The silence was broken by the sounds of swords, dirks and axes being drawn.

“I think thought just turned into action,” said Alain.

Valdemar rose, his hand sought the hilt of his mace.

“Good,” he said.

Yay! Alain and Valdemar! And now you've added Casnar, too? Will Rielus make an appearance, as well? That would totally make my day - those are my four favorite undead! You have done a wonderful job bringing these three to life. Necromancer!

You have captured the atmosphere of the inn in Sentinel, especially since it occurs around the time of Cyrus. I loved your summary of the political situation in Hammerfell - the civil war between the Crowns and the Forebears.

I loved these bookends:



Good job!

ARGH! You are re-writing this? Cutting it? AAAARRRRGGGHHHH !!!!! I love this, but....but...WAAAAAAH!!!!!!!!


Unless of course this is an additional scene added in, in which case... YEAH !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Woo Hoo! the interregnum of Interregnum is over, and we are now back in action!

My you have certainly switched gears here to what I can only describe as Fantasy Noir. The rough and seedy tavern, ruffians loaded with more testosterone than Pamplona during the running of the bulls, flinty-eyed merchants and sweaty wenches. I almost expect to see Humphrey Bogart (or would he be the Breton of average height, which is to say, short... )

You display quite a bit of writing chops by changing up your style with this entry, and pulling it off with such polish. That is not easy to do. In doing so you create a very different mood from the other pieces of the story, making Alain, Valdemar, and Casnar (will we see Rielus soon?) stand out from the other characters. I look forward to not only seeing Valdemar and Alain finding their quarry, but also seeing how they and Casnar eventually become Blades.

I will not quote the same passages that h.e.r. did, which were quite good. Suffice to say "what she said" for me too!

Welcome back Destri. You have risen from the grave just like the characters in your story.

The way you weave a tale is second to none, and tons of atmosphere to boot. Awesome !!
I loved the way the tavern came to life in your hands, and that wench in the background seems to miss nothing. (!!)

So cool to see that you are re-writing a few of the chapters. I know the feeling, it is unsettling to have the chapter not quite sit the way it should. It is great fun to try and spot the changes.


A lovely finish to the sentence. Bravo.

Ooohh nice, a new piece

I love it

The atmosphere built steadily and well until the brooding finally snapped in a cliffhanger. The dark feeling and tension in the place were excellently done. Your characterisation is effective too, escpecially the final line just paints a perfect picture of the nord.

I know nothing about this section of Tamriel's history and will have to go and read about it when I have time to have a better idea of what's happening.

haute – Rielus will indeed be making an appearance, but not for a while yet. You are in part responsible for this chapter. I remembered how much you enjoyed Alain and Valdemar in the last version of this story so I decided to introduce them earlier in this version. As you know I have never advanced through the main quest to the point where these characters are encountered in Sancre Tor. I only know how they end up through reading, which I think is kind of a blessing because it allows me to depict these men as the characters I think they should be, rather than the characters that the game gives us.

mALX – Have no fear, consider this chapter ‘in addition to’ as opposed to ‘instead of’. Interregnum remains more or less as you remember it, but there will be some new chapters that never made it into the original. I can think of at least one more for the month of Sun’s Dawn. Stay tuned.

SubRosa – ‘The interregnum of Interregnum’ made me laugh. Bogey is my all time favorite actor (he and I share a birthday, you know), and somehow every time I write a scene set in a tavern I always wind up back at Ricks. Not the clean, lively Ricks where Renault cheats at roulette and Victor Laszlo leads the band. But the shadowy, quiet Ricks where diamonds are a glut on the market and there are vultures, vultures everywhere.

Winter Wolf – So haute has me as a necromancer, and you have me rising from the grave. What is going on here! To (badly) paraphrase Mark Twain: reports of my death are exaggerated.

I am glad that you enjoy spotting the changes. Part of the motivation for rewriting existing chapters and adding in new ones is the paralyzing fear that my loyal, long suffering readers might get bored re-walking the same road.

Remko – I couldn’t imagine asking you to make your THIRD voyage with us without re-arranging the deck chairs changing some of the sheets.

Olen – I think the reason Valdemar seems to stand out has to do with the fact that he is just so much fun to write. Some characters have to be coaxed into existence. Valdemar broke down the door, walked into the room, and put his feet up on the table.

If you’re interested in the historic and socio-political situation in Hammerfell at the end of the Second Era (and who isn’t?), this is a good place to start.

To be honest, he's that way during the Sancre Tor quest as well. I think he is the most defined character of the four in the entire dump.

I have enjoyed Destri's fleshing out (pun intended) of four ghostly Blades. Valdemar has needed the least help, IMHO. And yes, he would be one of those characters that commandeer your keyboard and run with it, and you (as the writer) are helpless against him.

The results are delectable for this reader.

Whew! I thought you were cutting out a whole 4 pages from the original story and was freaking out!! Lol.

As rich and descriptively evocative as ever, my friend. What a talent you are! That tavern came alive.

Acadian - A kind word from you is always welcome, my friend. I am glad that you enjoyed it.





1st Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
The Nameless Tavern, Sentinel, Hammerfell
Evening


For a brief moment the tavern was quiet. Every eye was trained on the airborne sailor who flew in a shallow arc that scraped against the ceiling. His body twitched in mid-air before it was reclaimed by Nirn’s gravity and brought crashing into a table near the door. The table collapsed under the unwelcome weight, throwing half empty tankards of ale and mead like shrapnel at those who stood near. The impact was such that it doused all the candles on that side of the room. In the dim light that remained the sailor’s body lay spread eagle on the table top, which tilted up toward the wall at an angle. His head flopped over the edge near the wall, as if held to the body by the skin of his neck alone. He gave one last spasmodic twitch, and then he moved no more.

As one the remaining heads in the tavern turned toward the direction from which the sailor had come. A giant Nord brandishing a battered silver mace stood before them. Though his features were cast into shadow, his eyes caught the light from the few remaining candles and shined with menace, and amusement.

“Who’s next?” asked Sir Valdemar.

Alain and Casnar rose from the table behind him. They stepped forward, unsheathing their swords.

Bedlam followed, the three knights were silent witness to an explosion of activity. Curses were thrown from the shadows with the same frequency as fists and elbows as more than a dozen sailors scraped, clawed, and fought with each other to be the first to bid a hasty retreat. By the time the dust settled and the sound of churning boots had faded into the night, the number of their assailants had been whittled down to five confused mercenaries whose hands still held to their weapons.

“Five stout-hearted souls,” said Valdemar, “I guess that’s better than nothing.”

“Actually there are six,” said Alain, “if you count the one on the table.”

Casnar addressed himself to the mercenaries. “You men are about to commit an assault against the Crown. I suggest you sheath your weapons and go about your business.”

“Tsun’s shield, Redguard!” Valdemar spat on the floor, “must your kind take the fun out of everything?”

“My apologies, Nord,” said Casnar, sheathing his sword. He turned around and went back to the table to study one of the still full tankards of mead. He waved a dismissive hand toward the mercenaries. “Have at them then.”

Two of the mercenaries backed toward the door, then turned and ran headlong from the tavern.

“We seem to be running out of enemies,” said Alain. His sword was already returned to the scabbard. He looked at the three remaining mercenaries. “I beseech you gentlemen, stay. My friend grows belligerent with lack of exercise.”

The three mercenaries regarded the giant Nord that stood before them. Then, as one, they sheathed their weapons.

“We yield,” said one, through cracked lips in a mouth absent more than a few teeth.

“Damn!” said Valdemar.

“Our quarrel was with the Knight of the Moon,” said another, who peeked with furtive eyes around a tower shield that was larger than he was.

“Yet you chose to attack all three of us,” said Alain.

“Clearly an error in judgment,” said the third who stood closest to the door. He was taller than the rest, but so emaciated that the very sight of him moved one to pity.

“Is there not a worthy opponent in the whole of Hammerfell?” asked Valdemar. “Between the heat, the landscape, and the lack of anything substantial to drink . . . Alduin knows Yokuda must have been the hind end of Tamriel if you Redguards fled from that place and chose this place as the one to settle.”

“Forgive our impertinence,” said the thin mercenary, “we shall take our leave of you now.”

“Not so fast,” said Casnar, rising from the table. “You said your quarrel was with a Knight of the Moon. Threatening a representative of the Crown is still an offence punishable by death.”

“I see no reason to single these men out for punishment,” said Alain. “They are but three when the initial crime was committed by the whole of the tavern.” He winked at Valdemar, “perhaps a fine and a warning would suffice.”

Valdemar turned toward the mercenaries. “You men, leave all the gold you are carrying on the table.” He leveled his gaze upon the smallest mercenary before lowering his mace. “And leave that tower shield as well. Consider it ample payment for your lives.”

The three mercenaries stepped to the table. For the next few moments the only sound in the tavern was the ring of gold coins on gnarled oak. Thus unburdened, the three men disappeared into the night.

Casnar sat back down. As he looked at the small pile of gold on the table a smile spread across his lips. “Noble knights, indeed.”

“They’re alive, aren’t they?” Valdemar lifted the tower shield. He ran his hand across the surface, his head nodded at the appraisal.

“Precisely,” said Alain, “they fared better with us than they would have if left in your care. An empty purse is far more forgiving than the headsman’s axe.”

Valdemar lifted a tankard from the table. Alain sat down and bent to the purpose of stacking the coins into three even piles.

“A most charitable attitude,” said Casnar, “especially considering that they had a hand in poisoning your mead.”

The tankard stopped halfway to Valdemar’s lips. He looked down at Casnar. The Redguard gave a simple nod of his head.

“Shor’s tongue!” Valdemar flung the offending tankard across the room. It bounced off the wall and deposited its contents on the inert form of the sailor still spread-eagled on the broken table near the door. “Where is the barman? And that wench?” His hand was white-knuckled around the mace. His face had grown so hot that beads of sweat stood out like a pox upon his forehead.

Casnar bent his thumb to a door behind the bar. “My guess is that they’ve locked themselves in the storeroom. Don’t bother breaking it down. They aren’t blameless, but their actions are understandable.”

Valdemar snorted. “What happened to Sir ‘threatening a representative of the Crown’?”

“That’s just it; I am employed by the Crown, in a Forebear tavern, with a Forebear clientele, in a Forebear city.”

“Things have grown so bad,” said Alain.

Casnar nodded. “The time comes when I will either have to claim my fortune elsewhere, or prepare myself for war.”

Alain slid a pile of coins across the table. “Perhaps this will carry you closer to finding that fortune.”

“Keep it. Consider it payment for coming so far out of your way.”

“Speaking of which,” said Valdemar, “you have information for us?”

“Forgive me, Nord, I had nearly forgotten. Even as we speak the one you seek travels east. If you can gain the Reach before the end of the thaws you will have success around the city of Jehanna.”

“Jehanna,” Valdemar laughed, “along the Reach? The fetcher has courage, I’ll give him that.”

The scowl on Alain’s face stood in contrast to his friend’s amusement. “He continues to hide among those he betrayed.” He looked to Casnar. “We should compensate you for the information.”

“I am only the messenger,” said Casnar, “the one who hired me will see to my compensation.”

“May that compensation include removal from this forsaken place,” said Valdemar.

Alain scooped the coins into his purse and stood. “We should go. Ours is a long journey and time is not with us.” He extended his arm, “may our next meeting occur in happier times, and in a happier place.”

Casnar took the proffered arm. “Good luck, my friend . . . to the both of you.”

Valdemar stepped forward. “About the mead, perhaps all Redguards aren’t cowards. And I have seen many of your women that aren’t uncomely.” He leaned his new tower shield against the table and extended his arm.

Casnar laughed and stood, he clasped the giant Nord’s forearm. “Perhaps all Nords aren’t savage and artless, and I have seen parts of Skyrim where the sun does indeed shine.”

And then Casnar was alone in the tavern. He sat back down and listened to the muted sounds coming from the street. His hand reflexively wrapped around the handle of one of the tankards still on the table. He lifted it toward his lips . . . and stopped himself. He flung the tankard across the room. The sound it made hitting the floor accentuated the emptiness that he felt. He looked around at the broken tables, the upset chairs, and the goblets and tankards that littered the floor.

A smile spread across his face. What fate awaits the one they seek? He thought to himself. He raised his voice in the emptiness, for anyone with ears to hear.

“Is it the policy of this establishment to leave a man thirsty?”

Great conclusion to the bar scene. The opening paragraph was great, it reall grabbed my attention and then the rest didn't let go. Valdemar continues to be a great character, a shade aggressive and very entertaining.


I laughed, a good bit of humour really brought this piece to life. You've laid quite a few hooks there as well, I want to know more about who they seek and why. And I suspect there's more to Casnar than meets the eye...

Thanks for the link on the lore, I won't have time to read it for a week or so (exams...) but you've piques my interest enough that I will get round to it.

Woo Hoo! You just don't know how great it is to have you back!!!!! You have brought the Sancre Tor ghosts totally to life, it will be hard to kill them now!!! Awesome Write !!!!!!!

Unfortunately there is no twirl emoticon here so that one will have to purvey the message...

I loved the continuation of the tavern scene.

This sums up the three protagonists so well:
The interplay between the three of them is absolutely priceless.

I'm left echoing the others otherwise.

I'm like Remko, I'm really missing the twirl emoticon from the other place. Maybe someone with the power here will add one? Please?

You have not left us hanging over the cliff for too long I see. The sailor sailing (now there is an alliteration for you!) across the room reminds me of so many similar punts I have made with my opponents while playing Oblivion.

This gave me a grin:
“Actually there are six,” said Alain, “if you count the one on the table.”

and this was the perfect way to end it!
“Is it the policy of this establishment to leave a man thirsty?”

Now it is off to Jehanna in the Western Reach. I always liked that name. Perhaps we will meet some of the Witchmen it is famous for?

What can I say? This is BIG....impressive writing....I read with great pleasure!

Olen – Good call on Casnar, I see him as a character who comes to the realization that he has backed the wrong horse. Skill prompted his invitation to join the Knights of the Moon, but he is more of a hired gun than a devotee to the cause. Still, being Redguard, he is not without honor, so he soldiers on.

Good luck with exams, I don’t envy you!

mALX – Thanks again! Believe me, it feels good to be back.

I have never done it, but I was under the impression that you ‘release’ the ghosts in Sancre Tor from a curse imposed upon them. It might just be semantics, but that seems a whole lot cooler to me than having to ‘kill’ them.

I am glad that you’ve grown attached to the characters and now can’t look at them in the game the same way. After all the times you have done it to me (with Vicente, Lucien, Janus, Eyja, and now Agronak), it is nice that the shoe is on the other foot.

Remko – I suppose you could always just write :twirl:! In any case, thank you for the vote of confidence.

haute – The sequence you singled out is my favorite of the entire tavern scene. What is it about certain characters? In my initial plan for this story the four Blades were set to appear in maybe three scenes. In the writing, however, they seemed to demand a larger and larger role. Now I can’t imagine telling this story without them.

SubRosa – Fun with ragdoll physics! Jehanna will have to wait for a while. As for meeting some of the famed Witchmen . . . you never know.

minque – Thank you so much. How you manage to keep up with all the stories you do is just beyond me. Wise Woman, indeed.





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


“Though the title is a bit macabre,” he said, “I am known as the King of Worms, and you come highly recommended.”

Arnand could only see his scarlet silhouette out of the corner of his eye. He still could not move, but he could imagine the void that existed where a face should have been, and the blue points of light within that regarded him in ways that eyes never could. The King of Worms drew closer.

“You find yourself in need of my knowledge,” he said, “I find myself in need of your abilities. Perhaps we can aid each other. . .”





His eyes opened and the dream was gone, but the feeling of helplessness remained. He lay in bed, his eyes focused on a dimly lit ceiling that seemed to close in upon him as his mind shifted from dream to reality. It’s so hot already, he thought. The linen sheet was soaked in his sweat. He sat up and placed his feet on the floor. Small tears of sweat fell from his damp hair onto his bare shoulders. A thick column of sunlight shone through the only window and illuminated the small, well-appointed room. Night’s candle had burned out, leaving a trail of hardened wax that hung from the small table near the bed, and dried into a coin-shaped puddle on the floor.

Arnand rose and crossed to the basin near the door. The water was cool on his hands. He washed his face and neck. I will find a ship today, he told himself. You’ve been saying that for weeks, was his answer.

He dressed in a white shirt and tan linens and secured his dagger to his hip. The sounds of revelry and the acrid smells of sweat, sex and skooma were already thick along the stairs when he left the room. The bar was full, though it was not yet mid-day. Perhaps a ship had come in the night, Arnand thought.

Dreekius was doing a brisk business behind the bar. His green scales glistened, though whether that was due to effort or to a trick of the light Arnand could not say. Bottles of ale and mead flew from his hands into the waiting hands of the sailors who drank, sang and fought with each other, or anyone else unlucky enough to draw their attention. The Draggin Tale was transformed into the busiest market place in Stros M’kai. Working girls, each younger than the next, paraded their wares in front of the loud, brash clientele. Arnand waded through the crowd and sidled up to the bar.

“Ahh, Breton, you are awake. Good,” Dreekius said. Like all Argonians he smiled through his eyes, though his were red and filmy. “I have need of your room for a few hours.

“I’m paid through the week,” said Arnand.

Dreekius placed a bottle of mead on the bar and slid it toward Arnand. “I realize that, and I apologize for the inconvenience. You will not need the room for the rest of the day anyway.”

Arnand quaffed his mead. Warm. The Argonian’s words sunk in. “A ship . . .”

“One that suits your needs, perhaps.”

Arnand scanned the debauchery around the bar.

Dreekius laughed. “No, these men just docked. They aren’t going anywhere for as long as I can keep them happy, which will be longer with the use of your room. Don’t worry; I will have it cleaned by the time you get back.”

“Get back from where?”

Dreekius leaned in close, his breath smelled of ale and old cheese. “One of the sailors mentioned a smuggler’s ship docked at Saintsport. Apparently they have been there for several days.”

Arnand drained the bottle, “I’ll get my things.”





He left the Draggin Tale and made his way toward the docks. Outside the heat was even more pronounced than inside. He walked through the cobblestone streets crowded with the hectic rush of sailors, guards, hustlers and children. All had eyes that seemed to hint at some desire unfulfilled. He traveled through the humid shade made by two story buildings built of sandstone, wood, or clay. He passed over the arched sandstone bridges. As the cobblestones began to give way to sand the smell of the bay caressed his nostrils, tantalizing him with his own unfulfilled desire:





“I am all too familiar with the power of the dark gift,” the King of Worms had said, “I have been told that one you love is so afflicted, that you seek a cure?” With a gesture the spell was removed. The King of Worms returned to the dinner table. Arnand had felt a spreading of sensation through his body as mobility was returned.

Told by whom? “I do,” Arnand had said.

The Necromancer sat. “I have heard that such a thing exists. For a price I would be willing to point you in the proper direction.” He motioned toward an empty chair and the second glass of wine.

Arnand joined him at the table. For Elissa, he told himself. “Name your price.”

“An artifact that was once my property has been recovered. I would have you return it to me.”

“Where is this artifact?”

His answer had caused the cowled head to tilt slightly. The voice that emanated from the void was bemused. “You do not ask what the artifact is.”

“All that matters to me is that you fulfill your end of the agreement.”

“I shall. Now, listen closely. You must travel to the Isle of Artaeum. In the halls of the Psijic Order you will find the Necromancer’s Amulet. I want you to steal it and return it to me.”

Arnand drained the glass. “Such a thing will not be easy . . . your Majesty.”

With a flourish of his cloak the Necromancer produced a red velvet purse. The gold inside jingled when he set it on the table. “For someone of lesser ability it would be impossible. For you, I suspect it will be a challenge. This gold will secure your passage, the rest I leave up to you.”

Arnand’s memory sprung forward. He left the King of Worms and nearly killed his horse riding north to Jehanna. There he sold the beleaguered animal and found a half-drunk Reachman with a small boat willing to skirt the edge of the Sea of Ghosts to carry him to Northpoint. In Northpoint he booked passage on a merchant ship that brought him to Stros M’Kai. For weeks he searched fruitlessly for a ship that would conduct him to the Summerset Isles.





Arnand passed beneath the heavy town gate and turned to the west. He began to walk around the bay, his feet sinking into the hot sand along the shore. To his right the palm trees cast retreating shadows in the grass that grew a few short feet from the beach. To his left the great statue of Hunding, sword raised high, invited visitors to Stros M’Kai. He veered to the south and the ornate Dwemer Observatory came into view. He left the beach and continued on the dirt and sand walkway, past the lighthouse, and into Saintsport.

He saw the ship immediately. It was a galleon, slightly worn along the stem, with rolled threadbare sails tucked near the mast. Several men were engaged in the hauling of casks onto the ship from wagons drawn by swaybacked horses whose sullen disposition was only matched by the crew.

“You there!” came a voice to Arnand’s right. “What do you want around here?”

Arnand turned. The voice was worn by a short, fat, shirtless Redguard with half-healed lash marks across his sunken chest. He sat in a squat wooden chair whose legs bent outwards with his weight.

“Where’s your Captain?” asked Arnand.

The Redguard used a whetstone to sharpen the edge of a rusty dagger. “What are you wanting him for?”

“My business, not yours.”

The Redguard’s smile showed half-a-dozen rotten teeth in gums stained black with age and neglect. He stood slowly, his weight redistributing itself on short, thick legs that were as bowed as those of the chair. The whetstone disappeared into his filthy green linen pants and the rusty dagger jumped from hand to hand.

“Suppose I look to make it my business,” he said.

“That’s enough, Delron,” A female voice said from the ship.

Arnand turned. The voice belonged to a Dunmer woman who stood above them on the gangplank. She wore a pair of wide black pants that ended well above her ankles. Her sheer silk shirt was unbuttoned, the ends tied into a knot well up on her mid-section. Her long sable hair was pulled into a bun at the back of her head, and secured with slaughterfish bones. A silver cutlass hung from her belt and flashed in the light of the mid-day sun.

Delron backed away, “aye, Cap’n.” He sat back in the chair and reproduced his whetstone, but his eyes never left Arnand.

“I’m Captain Shin-Ilu,” said the woman, “who are you and what is it that you want?”

Arnand bowed a greeting. “My name is Arnand Desele, Captain. I have business I wish to discuss.”

“Is that so? What sort of business?”

“The lucrative sort.”

“I guess you had better come aboard then.”

Inside the Captain’s cabin an elderly crewman poured them each a glass of wine. She removed her cutlass and leaned it against the arm of the red velvet couch upon which she sat. She motioned Arnand into the empty chair across from her.

She took a sip of her wine. “This business of yours?”

“I would hire your ship to take me to the Isle of Artaeum.”

“Artaeum? That’s a very expensive trip.”

Arnand removed the purse that the King of Worms had given him. He tossed it into her lap. “I am in something of a hurry.”

“So I see.” she lifted the purse and weighed it in her hand. “What’s to stop me from taking this, killing you, and throwing your body overboard?”

“I am difficult to kill.”

She squeezed the purse . . . then she tossed it back to Arnand. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“May I ask why?”

“Three reasons. First, one does not just sail to the Isle of Artaeum. That’s the home of the Psijic Order. Strangers aren’t welcome. Second, this ship is already overdue in Senchal. There is a certain cargo that I need to procure if I’m going to keep this crew paid. Third, and most importantly, this ship isn’t going anywhere without a navigator.”

“What happened to your navigator?”

“The stupid lizard is sitting in the jail at Stros M’Kai. He tried to kill a guard, if you can believe it.”

“I imagine that a crew such as yours has made the trip before. One could navigate the entire way by staying in sight of the coast.”

“One could,” she said, “if one were a merchant vessel which, I am sure by now you know, we are not. Speed and guile might be sufficient under ordinary circumstances, but word is there is a Colovian fleet anchored off Torval that we would rather not have to deal with.”

“This is a fair amount of gold,” said Arnand, “enough to pay for the inconvenience that my detour would create and enough to pay off your crew, I’m sure. I’m also sure that you can find another use for the profit from your cargo in Senchal.” He tossed the purse back into her lap. “If I can free your navigator, would you reconsider?”

“I told you, ships don’t just sail into Artaeum. You need an invitation or something.”

“Then what about taking me to Dusk? It’s near enough and ships go in and out of there all the time.”

She lifted the purse again and gently squeezed it between her fingers. She smiled. “The lizard’s name is Earns-His-Keep, if you can believe it.”

Maybe you changed it, maybe you didn't.

I think you did. For the better. The description of the slums in the first third of this post struck me as outstanding stuff, and I don't remember it from earlier. This sentence in particular:

followed a few beats later by:


That's mighty powerful stuff, and I don't recall seeing this before.

Regarding your comment to mALX, you're right, you don't "kill" the four Blades in Sancre Tor. They were sentenced to eternal servitude by the Underking, and are freed by the player character in completion of the quest for Tiber Septim's armor. Much like the completion of the Knights of the Nine quest frees the nine original knights of the Order and releases their souls into Aetherius. Your story only makes their eventual fate all the more poignant.

Once more, excellent work!

Your story makes me want to play DaggerFall

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


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

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

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

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

As I said excellent development and I want more

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

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

Great update, please give us more!!

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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





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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shin-Ilu.”

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

“You know her?”

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

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

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

“Why is that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who?” The Argonian whispered.

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

“Earns-His-Keep?” Arnand whispered.

The Argonian nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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





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

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

“I am in your debt,” he said.

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

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

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

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

“Tell me about your Captain,” said Arnand.

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

“Is she good to her word?”

“That depends on what her word costs her.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I doubt you could afford me, Captain.”

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

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

“This is my business,” the Redguard hissed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still loving this!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*Destri maniacally rubs his hands together*

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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





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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Show me.”

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

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

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

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





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


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

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

“We have arrived.” She said.

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

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

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

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

“Do not break contact.” She said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why are there so many men here?”

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

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

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

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

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

“What did you say?” asked Aran.

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

“I heard my name in that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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