Into the breach once more! Your pacing of the battle was good here. Enough to keep it interesting, but dragged out so much that it became redundant either. I know I said it the first time, but it bears repeating, seeing the brief flashback of Julian's debilitating encounter with the goblins in the middle of the battle was an especially strong touch.

It is nice to see this sentiment:
These guys are younger, stronger than me. Let them be the heroes.
Usually in fiction, be it in print and especially on film, it is quite the opposite. Having an older and wiser protagonist is a breath of fresh air. Then again, maybe that is because I am past 40 myself...

On the subject of Matius' heinie, you might say "can" instead, or "fundament", or "bum", or "cheeks", or "asinus"

This is one of my favorite parts of the main questline - and you ROCKED it!!!

Oohhh I have now read through this and I must admit I just can't keep up with your ferocious posting, but my my what a great story this is...

Oh and since I'm a native Nord I naturally am very fond of Sigrid! Sigrid is a fine nordic name, it used to be rather common in both Sweden and Norway, in those very old days of course. Nowadays you do not see so many Sigrids here

Yes! That's our Julian! Well done again. I noticed you added some reconnoitering by Merendil this time - and realistically, he was unable to get too close to the castle.

“The churls are really big, and heavily armored. They carry maces. The only way I’ve been able to bring them down is to get my weapon, sword or arrow,” I glanced at Merandil, who nodded his comprehension, “between the pieces of their plate armor.” Shaking my head against the remembered bruises and broken ribs, I looked at each soldier. “Much easier said than done. Try to cripple them first - hamstring them from behind.”

After a moment’s thought, I rocked back onto my heels. “There’s another kind of dremora - a mage. He won’t be wearing armor, but I think he’s worse than the big churls.”

“Mages are squishy,” one of the guardsmen commented. “What’s so bad about them?”

“Summons,” I replied. “Summons, and drain health spells. Shock spells, and burden.” I shook my head again and met the guardsman’s gaze. “The summons are the worst. If you see a lot of scamps coming from the same place, chances are there’s a mage hiding back there, calling them as fast as you can kill them.” With a glance at Matius, then at each man in turn, I continued, “If you see a mage, ignore the little guys. Go for him first. Otherwise he’ll wear you down.”


Oh, how the warrior in me loves this part, even when I read it again!!!

Had to comment; your German is atrocious. so is D.Foxy's
I'll get back to reading now. I was kinda hoping to read about some stringy, red maned Bosmer in the library.

Was? Meinen Deuschlish is nicht gut, ya?

Hmmph! Ich sprache nicht DEUSTCH....Ich sprache der SCHWARTZEN Deustch... du Weisser Speisser!!!

I picked that up in three weeks in Berlin. I also picked up quite a lot of other ... things.... but I can't talk about them here.

I especially enjoyed Matius forming the battle-plan before they charged through the gates. As SubRosa said, Julian’s flashback to her encounter with the goblin shaman was terrific. I also liked the way that she saw an echo of herself in Tierra’s eagerness for battle, especially after showing her willingness to ‘let the younger men be the heroes.’ It seems that some old habits die easier than others. With age comes wisdom, indeed.

@SubRosa: Let me see . . . "pain in the can." Does Cyrodiil have cans? Haven't seen one, though some of the armor I've seen in the game comes close. "Pain in the fundament." Sounds like an over-educated scholar (like me). "Bum" refers to Julian's knee, not her behind, thank you very much. "Pain in the cheeks." Makes me want to slap him. "Pain in the asinus." Hmm. that's a thought, but again, sounds a bit over-educated for a soldier. Still, it gets the juices flowing, that's for certain! Oh, and those daedra at the upper levels are tough. It's even tougher keeping your friends alive!

@mALX1: thanks for the kudos!

@minque: Hey, welcome again! I'm glad you're still keeping up with this! I'm even more glad that you are enjoying this so far. As for Sigrid, she is a sweetheart, and I enjoy writing her. Bruma is one of my favorite cities in Cyrodiil, mainly because how can you not enjoy the company of people who know how to have a good time with drink, song, and stories by a warm fire while the cold north wind is howling outside? People like that make me want to sit back, put my feet up on the hob, and enjoy a mug of spiced hard cider or a foaming stein of dark ale.

@Acadian: I'm glad you noticed that I took bobg's advice this time around and made Merandil the scout. I had added an extra day to give him time to reconnoiter - those missions take a long time! It's good to have you back - you've been missed.

@Foxy (both times): I'm always happy to make the old warrior smile. As for the German, well, I never claimed to be fluent in it. After all, it's been nearly thirty years since my last German class! But Foxy, blank food? I'm sure you picked up more than gutter German while you were in Berlin, and of course you can't tell us, or you'd have to kill us all!

@Remko: Atrocious? Of course my German is atrocious! That's why I got straight A's in my German classes. It's American high school German! Now, let me see, where did I pack that German-English dictionary?

@Destri: I'm glad you noticed the change in Matius's battle plan. And I'm also glad that you and SubRosa picked up on Julian's brief flashback. After being pretty heavily shocked then, it feels natural to me that she would relive that time whenever she gets hit with a shock spell. And yes, Tierra's gung ho attitude reminds Julian of herself as a tyro.

Now let's finish this. Time to recover the Castle of Kvatch.

***************************
Chapter 4.6 Lifting the Siege

On the other side of the chapel, the battle was more evenly matched, with four scamps between us and the tall gates that led to the moat bridge and the castle beyond. There wasn’t much for me to do but follow the guardsmen past a large statue toward the castle moat.

Matius reached the gate, and tried it before turning away with a curse. “Locked! Of course, they would have locked it from the inside.” He turned to me, but whatever he was about to say was interrupted by a barrage of arrows from the castle parapets across the moat. The distinctive armor of dremora churls appeared and disappeared behind the walls.

Under cover in the shelter of the gate towers, Matius swore angrily. If there are dremora archers in the castle, then it may have fallen. Things are not looking good for the Count. “Julian,” he called me over. “Listen, go find Inian. He has the key to the north guardhouse. That will get you inside the walls and let you unlock the gate from the inside. Hurry!”

“Yes, sir!” I responded and hobbled back to the chapel as quickly as I could. Within, three Legion soldiers were speaking with Inian. On my entrance, he glanced at me, and said something to the soldiers. The Legion pilus, his rank indicated by the white scarf tied on his right arm, strode up to me.

“We saw the smoke and flames from the Gold Road, ma’am, and came up here to investigate. What can we do to help?”

“Yes!” I exclaimed, feeling relief at their offer. So this is how Matius felt when I agreed to help him. “Let me talk to Inian first, then I’ll fill you in.” The pilus nodded at me. Inian turned his brown gaze on me as I limped to him. “I’m Julian, from Anvil,” I offered. “Do you have the key to the north guardhouse?”

“Yes, I do,” he frowned at me. “Why?”

“Matius needs the bridge gate unlocked,” I answered. Inian’s face brightened in comprehension.

“Of course! Listen, the only way to the north guardhouse is through the chapel undercroft. If you’ll follow me, I’ll get you there.”

I nodded at the soldiers to follow us to the stairway leading down to the chapel quarters. “We need to unlock the bridge gate from the inside,” I tossed over my shoulder. “Inian will get us to the north guardhouse, he has the key for it.”

“Understood,” the pilus responded. “We’ve got your backs.”

Down in the crypt, we were swarmed by scamps. Fortunately, the columns gave us ample cover from their fireballs, and the heavily armored Legion soldiers dispatched the daedra easily. Inian led us to an exit door. Pausing with his hand on the handle, he looked at me.

“Listen, there are likely more daedra out there,” he said. “If I don’t make it, take the key and get to the north guardhouse. We must not fail Matius and the Count.”

“You’ll make it,” I said firmly. Think positive. Inian seemed to take greater courage from my tone and opened the door.

Before we had moved six meters from the chapel undercroft, we encountered eight more scamps among the burning ruins. The five of us spread out and took on the daedra as they came at us. While the others fended off the flares easily with their metal shields, I started to worry about the integrity of my own leather buckler.

Inian led us into narrow, twisting streets, through a ruined arena, and toward the tower set into the city wall beyond. Fifteen minutes of heavy fighting took their toll before we reached our goal. Inian mirrored my limp, and the pilus’s left arm dangled by his side, numbed by a scorching fireball. Fumbling out two of Sigrid’s healing potions, I gave one to Inian and the other to the pilus.

After gulping the potion down, Inian led us inside the guardhouse, located in the base of one of the towers supporting the city wall. At a trapdoor in the floor, he unlocked the latch and swung it back. As I sat on the edge of the floor, swinging my legs inside, he leaned to my ear. “The passageway at the bottom will take you inside the wall at the castle gate. You’ll find the lock wheel there.” He nodded at me in salute. “I’m going back to meet up with Matius. See you on the inside!”

“Thanks,” I said to his retreating back.

****************
At the county hall after heavy fighting, we were swarmed yet again by scamps and dremora churls. Merandil and the Imperial archer fired arrows as fast as they could into our opponents. The others split off into pairs and waded into combat, their blades flashing in the smoky air. One of the guardsmen fell, leaving his partner exposed, and I moved forward to take his place.

Two scamps wheeled into a nearby burning pile of rubble with a shove from my battered leather shield. I reached Inian’s back and beat back another scamp with the hilt of my sword, not wanting to hit the guardsman with my blade. “I’ve got you!” I shouted at him over the din of the combat. Inian didn’t answer, but his blade moved with more vigor and confidence.

My glance fell on the fallen guardsman. Rilian. I managed to tear my eyes away in time to block another assault by yet another scamp. Don’t think about it now. Mourn him later. We fought down the left side of the hall, toward the throne at the far end.

Matius shouted at me from the center of the hall. “Julian!” Taking a moment to stab an oncoming scamp, he gestured with his bloody sword towards the door at the top of the stairway. “Through there are the private quarters. Go on and find the Count, his suite is at the far end. Hurry!” He turned and yelled over his shoulder. “Merandil! Go with Julian! Show her the way!”

Without hesitation, I hobbled up the stairs and glanced back to see the pilus and the remaining Legion soldier, claymore ready, following me. Merandil brought up the rear, his face grim. He carried a bloodied war axe in his hand. Out of arrows. We entered the private quarters and found ourselves in a long, narrow chamber, furniture and books tumbled to the floor and burning. Several scamps assaulted us out of the billowing smoke, but the pilus and the Legion soldier blocked their flares from me. As the four of us battled through them en bloc, Merandil led us to a small corridor at the rear of the chamber.

Once all the scamps were down, we headed to the rear, encountering a door that would not budge. The claymore-wielding soldier motioned me to stand aside, and rammed his shoulder against the panel. It flew open in smithereens, the soldier stumbling into the room beyond. Hot on his heels, I looked ahead to see a big scamp standing on a disheveled bed. He screeched at us and flung a fireball at me.

Without thinking, I blocked it with my leather shield. It disintegrated under the flames. The now-useless shield dropped off my arm as I leaped for the scamp, ignoring the agony in my right knee. My blade entered his abdomen, and I twisted it savagely. With a pained hiss, he clawed at my eyes, but I ducked back, catching the swipe on my right cheek. As he crumpled to the floor, I stabbed him in the neck to make certain he was dead.

Coughing from the smoky air, I scanned the room for more enemies. The pilus’s gaze snagged mine, his left arm useless again. Merandil stepped past him into the bedchamber, searching the room for the Count. The bloated body of a nobleman lay face down between the bed and the fireplace, the blood around it dry and peeling. Merandil stopped beside me, his gaze on the corpse. “My lord-?” his voice held despair.

My stiff knee made it hard to kneel beside the Count, but I managed to turn his body over. The sickly sweet smell of decomposition sent the two Legionaries reeling back. I swallowed hard and opened my mouth to breathe. Dead. Cacat! A couple days by the smell. I noted the dark lividity in his swollen face. Picking up the beringed right hand, I found a signet ring, marked with the Kvatch Wolf. Merandil exhaled sharply as he recognized the carving. Yes, the Count is dead. With some difficulty, I slipped the ring off and palmed it in my left hand. Using my iron blade as a support, I struggled to my feet and turned to face the other soldiers. The pilus shook his head, gripping my shoulder.

“We fought hard,” he said to me. “That’s all we can do.”

Back in the county hall, we found it cleared of scamps. I almost hid behind the big Legion soldier when Matius turned to face me, hope still in his eyes. “Did you find the Count, Julian?” he asked.

“I’m sorry, sir,” I answered, holding the signet ring to him. “The Count is dead.” His face fell as his hand came up to take the ring.

“Damn!” he muttered, turning the ring in his fingers. “We took too long!”

I shook my head. “I think they killed him right away,” I turned aside from the grief in his face. “He’s been dead longer than a couple of days, sir.” I limped over to Rilian’s body and knelt beside him. I’m sorry, Rilian. You were a good fighter. My hand moved over his open eyes, lowering his eyelids. Nearby, the Imperial archer also lay dead, his face torn away by scamps. His quiver was empty, a steel shortsword near his out-flung right hand.

“It’s over,” Matius dropped his shield with a clatter, sheathing his sword and unfastening the sword belt. I struggled to my feet and hobbled back to him. The sword dropped next to the shield as he started unbuckling the mail cuirass. “I’m done, I’m tired of fighting,” he declared. The other guardsmen eyed him anxiously. Almost angrily, he stripped off the armor, shoving the cuirass and surcoat into my hands. “Take this, friend. I’m grateful to you for your unflinching aid. You deserve better, but this may be of some use in your travels.” He eyed my battered leathers. “Where is your shield?”

“Destroyed,” I answered. “Too many fireballs.”

Matius knelt and picked up his light iron shield and steel sword. He held them out to me. “These will serve better, Julian. Carry them, and remember Kvatch.” As he stood before me in linen shirt and leather breeches, Matius still carried the air of a soldier. Speechless for the moment, I looked down at the armor and longsword.

“Go on,” Matius smiled sadly at me, his anger gone. “You came looking for a priest named Martin, didn’t you?” He nodded when I looked back at his open face. “Tierra saw him safe to the camp, right, Tierra?”

The Redguard woman glanced at me. “Yes, sir, Martin’s safe at the camp.”

“Go, Julian, and blessings of Akatosh be with you,” Matius said wearily. “Thanks for all your help and assistance.”

Kvatch is retaken... Good change of atmosphere at the end there, you captured how they had been sitting on panic then that dissipating and leaving them tired. You also did the fight though Kvatch well, it came accross as long and arduous without becoming repetative.

I also like the continued development of Julian. Its very subtle, so much so that I dodn't notice it happening but Kvatch has changed her noticably, burying the characterisation like that with it still being effective is excellent.

One thing I think perhaps might have improved the fight scene would be the occasional close detail, like how she kills an individual scamp, or a slightly longer description of a place. It would give a brief change of perspective and make the next section of the fight seem fresh, though possibly at some cost to the continued feel of the fight. It's something to consider anyway.

Only one nit:

Dead. Cacat! No rigor mortis. But the blood has settled -- I read this to mean he was about and hour or two dead not two days, in that rigor mortis was yet to set in but the blood wasn't fresh. Changing 'but' to 'and' could sort this, and it might just be me misreading. You mention the lividity in his face, but 'livid' can mean pale or flushed so this didn't clear it up.

Thanks, Olen. I really appreciate your comments.

I reviewed my own notes on post-mortem changes after your comments. When I originally wrote this piece, the timeline between the opening of the Great Gate and the battle for Kvatch was much shorter. In this rewrite, I added an extra day for recuperation. That would mean the Count had been dead for a few days, had he been killed right away.

My original thoughts was that he had been dead just long enough for rigor mortis to pass, which is what I meant by the lividity (settled blood) persisting past the RM phase. But in reviewing my notes (thanks for calling my attention to that bit of gory detail), I realized that not only would rigor mortis had passed, but decomp would be already fairly advanced.

And my research notes are quite a bit more scientific than CSI . . . (a popular TV show about crime scene investigators here in the US).

I have gone back and edited that scene to more accurately reflect the post mortem changes in the Count's body. Ugh.

Another change of pace, slowing down again after the intensity of the battle for Kvatch.

*******************
Chapter 4.7 The Hero of Kvatch

Walking back to the camp, I felt weary and empty. All the frenetic activity of the past twelve hours seemed futile. With the Count dead, what will happen to Kvatch? Who will replace him? At least Martin is still alive. Now I need to find him and get him back to Jauffre.

I stopped by the meadow to check on Paint. He seemed happy, and whickered at me. Bits of dried hay clung to his back and mane. Brushing his coat smooth with my hand, I looked around for my gear. Boldon came up to me, pack in hand.

“Here, I kept it aside for you,” he said, handing me the pack. “Let me know when, and I’ll have Paint ready for you.”

Squinting at the westering sun, I considered the fatigue I felt in my bones. “Tomorrow morning, I think, sir,” I answered, slinging the pack over my shoulder. “Thanks for keeping an eye on Paint for me.”

“It was my pleasure, Julian,” Boldon smiled at me. As I turned from him and limped through the camp, I saw again the grief and despair on the people’s faces. Yet, on this beautiful late summer evening, I glimpsed something new. Hope. The three children I had spotted on my arrival, and the two youngsters who had shared breakfast with Matius and me, wordlessly surrounded me. As I trudged on, they fell into step alongside me. A tiny hand crept into my right palm, and I looked down at the Bosmer girl. She kept her face averted, and I closed my fingers gently around hers.

We reached gra-Sharob’s fire, and the children hung back. The Orsimer smith glanced at them, then waved for them to sit by the fire. The air was cooling rapidly with the sinking sun, and the children had only thin night-clothes. They huddled together, their eyes on us.

Silently I handed the steel sword, the mailed cuirass, and the light iron shield to gra-Sharob. She looked at them, then at me, her eyes wide. “These belong to Savlian Matius,” she exclaimed. “What happened?”

“Kvatch is cleared, ma’am,” I said, unbuckling the iron longsword and dropping it to the ground. Sitting heavily on a nearby stool, I reached into my pack. My fingers found the sigil stone, warm within the scrap of red wool. “All the daedra are gone. The Count is dead. Jesan Rilian is dead. The Legion archer who lent us aid is dead.” I held the stone in my cold hands, seeking its warmth in spite of the screaming of souls I still could feel in it. “Matius is finished with fighting. He gave me those,” I nodded at the gear.

“Do you know what he gave you?” gra-Sharob asked, raising the mail cuirass between us. “This is enchanted. It gives you extra strength and endurance.”

So that’s how he managed to keep going for such a long time. "Then that is an even greater gift than I thought,” my voice cracked. “I need to find Martin, talk to him.”

“The priest?” gra-Sharob asked. She pointed to a pavilion across the road. “He’s exhausted, poor soul. He’s sleeping in there.” The Orc picked up her hammer. “Give me a few hours, and I’ll have your gear repaired.”

The stone still in my left hand, I reached down and drew out the iron longsword. As the dark blade cleared the sheath, the sigil stone slipped out of my grip and struck the weapon. The metal sang discordantly, making all of us gathered around the fire jump. The orb disappeared in a brilliant flash of red. The blade glowed briefly, then went dark again.

“What was that?” gra-Sharob demanded, her hammer poised in mid-air. “You enchanted the old iron sword?”

“I- I did?” I stammered, looking vainly for the orb. “I only dropped the stone on it, now the stone’s gone -”

Setting her hammer down, gra-Sharob stepped over to the blade and picked it up, evaluating it thoughtfully. She turned and tested it on a scrawny weed fighting for survival between the tents. The plant flared into fire, and burned rapidly away. “Hmm, fire damage,” she mused. “Very effective against undead and will-o-wisps.” Again, she eyed the blade. “It’s damaged. I’ll repair it for you, as well.”

Sigrid walked over from her campfire. She had washed up, and tidied her hair. “Hello, Julian,” she greeted me. “You look tired again. Let gra-Sharob tend to your gear, and come join me for dinner.” She frowned slightly, a crease appearing between her fine eyebrows. “Such as it is.” Catching my glance at the children, still huddled near gra-Sharob’s fire, she turned to them. “You little ragamuffins, too. You’ll only be in Batul’s way if you keep your arses on her fire.”

When they hesitated, gra-Sharob mock-growled at them. Her sparkling glare motivated them to leap to their feet and join me as I followed Sigrid. Once again, the Bosmer girl took my hand, and when I sat down on the bench, she snuggled next to me without a word.

My pack placed beneath the bench, I looked at the other children. They returned my gaze shyly, shifting their weight from side to side. “Come on, sit down,” I said quietly to them. “Unlike Batul, I won’t bite.”

They came and settled around me, the Dunmer boy against my other side, and the older children on the ground in front of me, their backs to the fire. Sigrid handed me a large plate heaped high with polenta and chopped vegetables, then handed the three on the ground a similar serving. She passed spoons all around, indicating that we should share. Pouring a cup of klah, she handed it to me, then provided the children with water.

“How are you for provisions, ma’am?” I asked Sigrid, recognizing peppers, onions, and edible mushrooms in the polenta. She shrugged, her face shadowed in the gathering dusk.

“It would be good to have some meat,” she replied. “But I’ve been gathering as much edible plants as I can, as well as medicinal herbs and fungi. That daedra heart you gave me is going to be so useful.” She looked up as an older Redguard woman joined her beside the fire. I recognized the newcomer as one of the refugees from the church.

“Thank you for rescuing Oleta and the others from the chapel,” Sigrid continued, serving the other woman. “I’m glad to have her healing skills again.”

“I hear you closed the Oblivion Gate,” Oleta addressed me after thanking Sigrid. “That was very brave of you.”

My mouth full, I shook my head, aware of the children’s eyes on me. With a swallow of the grub, I looked at the Redguard boy. “What is your name?”

“Avik,” he answered, looking down at the plate in his lap. The two girls on either side of him paused in their spooning.

“How old are you, Avik?” I had noticed that the two smaller children had stopped eating from my dish.

“Thirteen,” he answered. “Boldon’s my pa.”

“He’s the only one of the children to still have family living,” Sigrid volunteered from the other side of the fire. “His mother and sister died -” her voice trailed off.

“I’m sorry, Avik,” I said. “I know what it’s like to lose family like this. It’s hard, but I’ve noticed you taking care of this little girl here,” I nodded at the little Bosmer. “That’s a brave thing to do.” I looked down at her. “Isn’t it, little one?” The girl’s head moved against my side as she nodded, looking down at her spoon.

“Pa says we have to look out for each other now,” Avik drew himself up, pulling his shoulders back.

“And your pa’s right,” I said firmly. The Altmer girl met my gaze from Avik’s left side, and I smiled at her. “And you, what’s your name, and how old are you?”

“Irinwe,” she answered shyly, looking down at her hands. “I’m eighteen.”

Typical Altmer. You look all of ten. That difference will only become greater as you gain years. “I saw you with these two,” I pointed at the Imperial girl sitting at Avik’s right side, then at the Dunmer boy at my own left side. “You were looking out for them, too. That makes you brave, as well.” A faint blush crept over the young girl’s golden cheeks as she kept her eyes downcast.

The Imperial girl sat up. Her dark red hair waved around her pixie face, and she brushed it back impatiently. “I’m Melissada Veta, and I’m nine,” she declared. Pointing at the Dunmer boy, she said, “He’s Dalen Llenim, and he’s six.” A little overbearing, this one, but protective.

“You have a good heart, Melissada Veta,” I said to her. “Dalen, what do you think?” I handed my platter to Avik and put my arms around the two children. The Dunmer boy nodded.

“She’s just like my big sister -” his voice trailed off. I bent down to him.

“You mean, bossy?” I whispered to him, just loud enough for the red-headed girl to hear. Dalen looked at her mock scowl, then giggled.

I turned to the Bosmer girl. “And you, what is your name?”

“Falisia,” she whispered, finally meeting my gaze. “And I’m -” she paused, holding up her right hand, thumb folded into her palm, “four years old.” Her green eyes held mine. “And how old are you?”

I stifled a chuckle at the direct question, at the horrified gazes from Irinwe and Melissada. “Old,” I answered. “I’m Julian, from Anvil. Any of you know where Anvil is?”

Nods from the three older children, negative shakes from the two young’uns at my side. “Anvil,” I said for their benefit, “is a small city on the coast south of here,” I pointed in that general direction. “I’ve come a long way, but I’m glad I’m here, with you.”

“Can I ask you something?” Dalen looked up at me, his red eyes curious. Not sure what to expect, I nodded.

“What does it feel like to be a hero?”

“Who’s saying I’m a hero?” I exclaimed, startled.

“Why, everyone is,” Melissada piped up. “All the grownups are calling you the Hero of Kvatch!”

“Hero of Kvatch?” I repeated. “Me?” I looked up at Sigrid, then realized that several people had gathered around while I was talking to the children.

“You closed the Oblivion Gate!” Avik exclaimed. “That’s what a hero does!”

“No,” I shook my head, lowering my gaze and pitching my voice to be heard. “No, that’s what a soldier does. A real hero is someone who does not give up just because bad things happen.” Against the abrupt return of the weariness I had felt, I glanced around at the circle of faces visible in the firelight. “The daedra set out to destroy Kvatch, and they failed. What’s up there is just a bunch of ruined and burning buildings. That’s not Kvatch. You,” I looked at each half-shadowed face, “are Kvatch, and in you, Kvatch still lives.” Rumpling Falisia’s black hair, I looked at each child again. “That makes you heroes, not me.”

I finally have time to get back to reading again.

“Yes!” I exclaimed, feeling relief at their offer.
I felt the same way. Seeing those guys always makes my heart leap. "Yes, the Army of Light has arrived!"

You handled the ending of 4.6 well, where Matius gives Julian his cuirass and shield. It always felt strange in the game, but you made it seem a natural culmination of events. I wonder, will we see Matius again in OHDH?

This I loved:
“You mean, bossy?” I whispered to him, just loud enough for the red-headed girl to hear. Dalen looked at her mock scowl, then giggled.
It really highlights the scene of bonding between Julian and the surviving children. I liked that entire thread, as imho it was very important. It illustrates exactly what Julian and the others were fighting for, and what their victory really was. Not to take back a bunch of broken stones, but to protect the remaining people of Kvatch, and through them, the future. As Julian says herself, Kvatch is not a bunch of buildings, but the people in the encampment.


nits:
4.6
[i]Yes, the Count is dead.
You have some errant bbcode here.

That last paragraph is so powerful! Sorry I was so late getting here, my PC was crashed most of this week.

Chapter 4.6:

I really enjoyed this chapter. Your decision to use Julian’s narration to describe the battle through the streets of Kvatch to the north gatehouse was inspired. You told us all we needed to know in an entertaining way without getting bogged down in the details of each engagement. I like the fact that Julian gave Inian and the pilus healing potions from her own pack . . . would that we could do that in the game. (Are you listening Bethesda?)

The assault on the castle was equally exciting. It’s always the little details that bring a story to life. Merandil runs out of arrows and has to use a war axe. One of the Legion soldiers falls and Julian only notices it when two instead of three join her.

A few things that struck me:


There is an awkward repetition of the word ‘follow’ in this sentence. I know how much you want to avoid beginning every sentence with the letter ‘I’, but perhaps if you streamlined it a bit:

There wasn’t much for me to do but follow the guardsmen past a large statue toward the castle moat.


I wanted to quote this sentence because this is one of the many times that your phrasing is just perfect.


Coming from a family of medical professionals myself I realize that you guys just can't help yourselves, can you?

Chapter 4.7:

I said his to you the first time I read this chapter, but it bears repeating. I love the way Julian discovers the enchanting properties of sigil stones. Too bad she had to drop the thing on the iron longsword and not the steel one.

Something that will never cease to amaze me is how much you can tell about a person by the way that children behave around them. From your description we can see that Julian is a natural protector, something that I’m sure will be tested by the trials to come.

One problem that I have with this chapter is Julian’s speech at the end. It was heart-wrenching, inspiring, and beautifully written . . . that’s not the problem. No, the problem is that Julian seems to suffer from the same malady as SubRosa’s Teresa. I ask myself, would it kill haute to let Julian sit back, take a sip of klah, and let people gush over her for a change? I’d say that she’s earned it!

@SubRosa: Again you have picked out the importance of Julian's interactions with the children. I had intended this as a quiet interlude before Julian hits the road again, but this has turned into quite a revealing window into her character, as her sense of herself re-emerges again after years of addiction. And yes, Matius is a recurring character, more so than in the game. I already have a whole back story for him, and hope to bring it out in later chapters.

@mALX: So sorry to hear about your PC problems. You're cursed, you know that? First your XBox, now your PC! What's next? Your TV? I'm glad to see you back - you've been missed.

@Destri: Your rewrite of that troublesome sentence is much better. I'll dutifully go back and fix it. Thanks for the input in that. As for the gross stuff, no, I simply can not resist. Having worked in necropsy through three years in vet school, I have no problems eating lunch while working on a bloated cow. To be honest, the smell isn't so bad when it's coming from a dead animal, but when said animal is still alive . . . ugh. Not good.

No, it wouldn't kill me to sit back and enjoy the gushing, but it would kill Julian! She's not accustomed to it, and won't be for a while. Eventually, she does learn to accept the inevitable, but you'll see she draws the line somewhere!

Julian finally catches up to the purpose of her whole trip to Kvatch: Martin.

*****************
Chapter 4.8 Martin

The children shared breakfast with me, mostly quiet and subdued. Afterwards, they trailed behind me to gra-Sharob’s fire. The big Orsimer was working on a mail cuirass. She grinned at me when I paused.

“Good morning, Julian!” she said heartily, shooting a mock glare at the kids. Grouped behind me, they responded with giggles. “I’ve got your weapons here,” she nodded at the two swords stacked against the tent flap. “How do you find your armor today?” As she had before, gra-Sharob had left the leathers and mail cuirass folded just inside the pavilion where I had spent the night.

“They’re fine,” I answered, shrugging the leather cuirass over my shoulders. “I appreciate the work, ma’am.”

“Good!” gra-Sharob put the hammer down and stepped to the tent. Picking up the shield, she held it out to me so I could see the Kvatch Wolf. “Good as new. You’ll find it more durable than that leather thing.”

“I think I will, ma’am,” I took the round disc, hefting it thoughtfully. There was a flat hook on the back of it, that would allow me to attach it to a loop on the outside of my pack. Taking the iron longsword, I noticed that gra-Sharob had made a new sheath for it. Black leather capped with a dark iron ferrule, it had fancy script on one side. Daedra Slayer. I smiled. A good name for this weapon - it has killed a fair number of those creatures. Pulling the sword partway out of the scabbard, I evaluated the blade in the morning light. Its keen edge caught the roseate sunlight, tossed it back with a slight red shimmer.

“This is beautiful, gra-Sharob,” I commented, putting it next to my pack. “It will be useful as a backup weapon.”

“Well, then, I think you’ll like this for your primary sword,” gra-Sharob handed across the steel longsword Matius had given me. The plain brown scabbard, with the small Kvatch Wolf insignia, gleamed with fresh cleaning. Heavier and wider than the iron blade, its hilt snugged into my hand as if coming home.

It has been a long time since I held one of these, I thought to myself. As the sword moved through the air in a figure-eight, the rising sun flashed off the tapered blade. Good balance, solid weight. When the sword slid back into its sheath, I noticed silver script gleaming on the leather. Hero of Kvatch. Frowning, I looked up at gra-Sharob.

“Savlian was standing behind you last night, when you were, ah, educating the kids,” the Orsimer smith said. She shrugged. “He told me to add the name to the sheath. I wasn’t about to argue with a real hero.”

Neither would I. Shaking my head, I buckled the sword belt over the leather cuirass. “Thanks for all your work, gra-Sharob,” I said. “How much do I owe you?”

“You closed the Gate,” gra-Sharob picked up the mailed cuirass she had been working on. “You helped Savlian clear the city and drive the daedra out. It’s more a question of what we owe you.”

“It doesn’t feel right, ma’am,” I insisted, “taking advantage of your skills without fair recompense. It’s going to be difficult for you, all of you, with so much loss. You need as much income as you can get in the days to come.”

“I was poor once,” gra-Sharob grunted. “It’s not so scary, once you know what you can live without.”

Her implacable expression told me further argument would be futile. “Well, this one time, then,” I said finally. “Thanks, again.” Picking up my pack, I turned to leave. “Have you seen Martin?”

“Yes, I think I saw him walking towards the meadow, where your horse is,” gra-Sharob returned to her hammering. The children jumped up.

I can’t have them following me. With a shake of my head to them, I met Avik’s gaze. “Why don’t you stay and tend the fire for gra-Sharob?” I suggested to him. He stared, wide-eyed, from me to the Orsimer, who had shot me a glance.

“And I was just thinking it would be nice to have an apprentice -” her growl trailed off, her black eyes sliding over to the young Redguard. After a moment, he nodded. While the smith pointed him to the bellows over the fire, I looked at the other children.

“Irinwe, Melissada, why don’t you go look for wood for the fires,” I added. “And Dalen, Falisia,” I led them to Sigrid’s campfire, where the Nord woman sat tending her retort. “let’s help Sigrid gather ingredients. She can show you which ones to pick.” The woman glanced up at me in surprise, then regarded the youngest pair.

“Well, I suppose these ragamuffins can be of some use,” she admitted mock-grudgingly. With an exaggerated sigh she rose to her feet and showed them a pair of empty sacks. Turning to me, she stopped me with a hand on my arm. “Julian, I know you’re leaving,” she said quietly. “There are many of us who would like you to stay,” she shook her head. From a pocket of her skirt, she drew out a small volume. “Take this, you’ll find it of value in the days to come, I’m sure.”

The Pocket Guide to Cyrodiilic Flora. I met Sigrid’s gaze. “Thanks, Sigrid. I think it will be very helpful.”

As gra-Sharob had said, I found Martin with Boldon in the meadow, stroking Paint’s neck as the gelding nuzzled his shoulder. Boldon cinched up the saddle, then gave the horse a final pat on the rump. He turned to me when I reached them.

“Hullo, Julian,” the Redguard greeted me. “I’ve got Paint ready for you, as you asked.”

“Thanks, Boldon,” I responded. “I really appreciate it. But it seems,” I looked down, toeing the shorn grass of the hayfield, “I may just have apprenticed your son to gra-Sharob.”

“Oh, you did, did you?” Boldon responded, his tone warming. Hesitantly I looked up at his smiling eyes. “I’ve been trying to think up ways to keep that boy busy,” he continued. “But what about Falisia? He’s kind of taken her on as his responsibility.”

“I sent her and Dalen to Sigrid,” I admitted. “Where I’m going, I can’t have the children following me, sir. I’ve got Irinwe and Melissada gathering wood for the campfires.”

“Good, keep them all busy,” Boldon nodded in approval. “Better than dwelling on -” his eyes darkened. “- losing their families.” I looked away from the grief in his eyes. He’s doing the same thing for himself, too. With a shake of his rounded shoulders, he turned to the priest standing quietly next to Paint’s head. “Martin, this is Julian of Anvil. Julian,” he glanced at me, “Martin.”

Matching Martin’s silent regard, I found him to be about my age. His dark brown hair framed a high-browed face, his hazel eyes an echo of the Emperor’s own. Yes, he is indeed the Emperor’s son. He has the same eyes. Already tired and weary. “Hello, Martin,” I greeted him, as Boldon walked away.

“Hello, Julian,” he responded. Gods! His voice is so like the Emperor’s. “I hear you’ve come looking for me,” he continued while I struggled for my breath. He frowned, the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes deepening. “Why?”

In an attempt to recover my composure, I turned to Paint and hung my pack from his cantle. How to tell this priest that he is the Emperor’s son? He just survived three very scary nights in a destroyed town. He waited patiently as I settled my weapons and the buckler on the saddle, securing them to the rings attached to the cantle. When the tears that threatened to emerge in my eyes and voice faded away, I turned back to Martin.

“I came looking for Martin the priest, sir,” I said quietly, looking around the hayfield. Except for Paint, whose discretion could be counted on, we were alone.

“Have you need of a priest, ma’am?” Martin was skeptical. “I’m not sure what good I would be to you.” He shrugged, his eyes turning dark and his voice bitter. “I’m not much good as a priest.”

“The Emperor sent me to find you, sir,” I said finally. Here it comes. He’s not going to believe me, Jauffre. Martin’s level brows, so much like Uriel Septim’s, rose in surprise.

“Find me?” Martin repeated. “Why? The Emperor is dead, ma’am.”

“I was with him when he -” I faltered momentarily, “died. He gave me a final task in his last few moments, sir.” Now I locked gazes with Martin. “Find his last surviving son.”

“Surviving son?” Martin stared at me. “But all three of the princes were assassinated, too -” his eyes unfocused as he caught his breath. “An illegitimate son, ma’am?” He turned from me, stepping two paces away. “I never heard anything about the Emperor having an illicit affair -”

At Paint’s head, I rubbed his long nose while Martin muttered under his breath. He turned back to me. “But the Emperor would need to be very discreet about such affairs, no?” he asked me. I nodded silently. He considered me for a few moments more. “Then why are you looking for me, ma’am? I know of no such son. How am I supposed to help you find him?”

With a level gaze, I shrugged. “I already found him, sir,” I replied. “Now I need to get him to Brother Jauffre at Weynon Priory.”

“Oh, you found him then?” Martin returned to Paint’s side, rubbing his hand along the gelding’s shoulder. “Where is he?”

I only waited, watching Martin. He met my gaze after a few moments, puzzled by my reticence. Then his eyes widened, and his face paled. “Me? I’m the illegitimate son?” He took a step back, raising his hands in a warding motion. “No, no, there’s been a mistake, ma’am. My father’s not the Emperor, he’s just a simple farmer.”

“I wouldn’t believe it, either, sir,” I said quietly, turning my gaze to Paint’s bridle. Checking the fit of the headstall as I had been taught, I continued, “But I’ve met the Emperor, and I see him in you, Martin.” Again, I rubbed the gelding’s nose, tucking his forelock beneath the browband. “You have his eyes, his nose, his - “ I swallowed the lump in my throat, “voice. There’s no mistake.”

His stunned gaze remained on me, his hands dropping to his sides. “Somehow,” he frowned at me, “I believe you, ma’am. But my place -” He looked past me, at the camp beyond.

“Come with me to Weynon Priory, sir,” I said. “Brother Jauffre can explain things better than I.” I could see the conflict between the obligation to stay and help his fellow refugees here at ruined Kvatch, the people he had known for most of his life, and my request to accompany me to Weynon Priory where his destiny waited.

“Well,” Martin’s tone took on a quiet determination. “You destroyed the Oblivion Gate. You helped the guard drive the daedra back. You helped us.” His hazel eyes returned to mine. “You didn’t come here to do all this, and yet you did, ma’am. I’ll come with you, and hear what this Brother Jauffre has to say.”

You handled Martin well there, his slowness to realise what was being said made the whole thing more believeable. It also goes some way to show the sort of character he'll become (which I'm most interested to see given how full a character Julian is).

I'm looking forward to see how she deals with the fame, I don't think we've seen the end of that...

Nice piece.

ARGH! Bite your tongue!!!!! Actually, my XBox 360 is working well, even the new Oblivion game I started is playing (so far) on it - it was just that one game that glitched for some reason. - now I can't swear it wasn't the disk itself because we have two 360 disks, one is my sons - and since he never plays it anymore...I may have inadvertently switched disks with him. (If he ever decides to play again I am sure he knows where to find it, but I have twice pulled it from a pile of vids he was selling to the used vid store - and have been thanking my stars that I did with this happening to my game, lol).

Your after battle scenes are always so well done! They convey the exhaustion and numbness so well !! Julian's way with children is amazing, and the rapore with Martin - (insert the A word here) !!!

The big Orsimer was working on a mail cuirass.
Seeing the proper term for mail armor does my anal British Boat good.

It seems that since it would indeed kill Julian to bask in the recognition of her deeds (as I fully expected it would, you have done a excellent job at portraying her) gra-Shelob Sharob has taken it upon herself to make sure that she receives it, with the names she has placed on Julian's gear. I reminds me of when Mace Windu said to Anakin: "Hand me my lightstaber, its the one that says bad-**** mother***"

Once again, I love the way you wrote Julian's explanation of who Martin is, the way she tells him without telling him. I also found her having to stall for time in order to get her voice back when she thinks about Uriel. It is an excellent way of showing us that her grief for the Emperor is still fresh and clear in her mind.



nits:
In the game Uriel and Martin have blue eyes (which is eyeDefault in the editor). I do not know if you are making them hazel by design, or if you just goofed, so thought I should point it out.

Ahhh nice conversation with Martin! I so like when writers enhance the conversations and make them more lively! Very good work!

Or when he held Palpatine at bay and said:



I do love the way that you drew out the reveal of Martin’s identity. Even while reading it I had the image of Julian bonking him over the head with the Kvatch Wolf to help increase his speed on the uptake. On to Weynon Priory!

@Olen: Thanks for the comment about how full a character Julian is already. She may not be full-figured but she has layers to her character that I've only begun to dig into. I do work on Martin's character a little more - the game leaves so much to be desired. I had fun writing this little scene once I got past the lame in-game dialog. I hope you like how I continue developing this unknown son of Uriel's.

@mALX: The rapport with Martin came as a surprise, for both Julian and me. It was not the same with the other characters I played later. Guess the writer in me was too immersed in the role-playing to just take things at face value. You may recall that there are more to come!

@SubRosa: How else are the people of Kvatch going to recognize their gratitude for her aid at a dark time than to announce to the whole world that the bearer of this sword (and shield) is the HERO OF KVATCH! And yes, I knew in game both Uriel and Martin have blue eyes, but I gave them hazel eyes to make them a little different. Thanks for that little detail.

@minque: I'm glad you enjoyed the conversation between Julian and Martin! There'll be more to come! I'm also delighted to see you still reading my story!

@Destri: Being a huge fan of the original Star Wars trilogy, I'm not as familiar with the prequels, so I'll take your word for it. Your image of Julian bonking Martin on the head with her new Kvatch Wolf (which she is very proud to carry) made me spew! And yes, on to Weynon! But we'll take a little while getting there, thank you very much.

On the road, Julian and Martin get to know each other a little better, but the conversation doesn't get interesting until they stop for the night in Skingrad.

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Chapter 5.1 Musings in Skingrad

It was very late when we reached Skingrad. Tilmo, the ostler at the Grateful Pass Stables, was happy to take Paint in hand for the night. Martin wanted to see the Chapel of Julianos, so we trudged our way through the cobblestoned streets toward the church. The only souls we encountered were the City Watch, taciturn men clad in gleaming mail covered by quilted dark red surcoats. They did not speak to us, but I was aware of their wary eyes following us from beneath steel helms.

The caution on their part was easy to understand. After all, how do we appear to them? A bone-weary, haggard priest in sooty, tattered robes, and a gimpy old Redguard in light armor carrying two swords and a bow? Are we a threat? Will we cause a disturbance? Or are we merely travelers seeking shelter after a rough day on the road? Careful to avoid returning their gazes too directly, I kept my hands away from my weapons.

The chapel was quiet, dark in the corners, with soft lantern light throwing long flickering shadows away from the central altar. The stained glass windows typical of such places showed few hints of color, backlit only by the overcast night. Setting my gear on the floor beside one of the pews, I walked the perimeter of the chapel, deep in study of the designs. The grey-bearded sage in his tall pane returned my gaze from stained glass eyes when I stopped before him. Julianos, God of Wisdom and Logic, says: Know the truth. Observe the law. When in doubt, seek wisdom from the wise. The words of chapel-school wound through the years since my childhood.

“You were named for Julianos,” Mother said, stroking my hair back from my heated face, “before you were even born. I just knew you would always seek knowledge and truth.”

“But Julian is a boy’s name!” I exclaimed, tears still hot on my cheeks. A couple of the pretty girls in town had made fun of my name behind the priest’s back. “I’m no boy!”

“Julianos doesn’t care if you’re a boy or a girl,” Mother answered, her voice calm as always. “He only cares that you live by his code.”

Have I lived up to his code? I wondered, returning to the present. I’ve served Akatosh, not Julianos.

“You were in the Legion?” Martin asked from behind me. Realizing I had spoken my thoughts out loud, I turned away from the window to meet his shadowed gaze. With a nod, I limped to the pew and sat down, easing the ache in my right knee. “And you were named for Julianos?” he continued, taking the pew in front of me and turning sideways so he could look at me over its back.

“My mother told me I would seek knowledge and truth,” I looked down at my clasped hands resting on my thighs. “But all I know is how to fight, how to kill, sir.” At the slight tremor in my voice, I took a breath to steady it. “She wanted me to follow in her footsteps, become an alchemist. But I wanted to be a fighter. Now I wonder if I took the wrong path.”

“Who’s to say you did?” Martin responded softly. “If you didn’t know how to fight, how to kill, would you have been able to close that Gate?” He shook his head when I kept my silence. “I grew up the son of a farmer,” he remarked, looking away from me. “But I found it dull, quite boring. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life working the land. So I joined the Mages Guild.”

The memory of how he had utilized potent frost-flares to help me bring down a bandit we had encountered at dusk still fresh in my mind, I considered his words. “Is that where you learned how to cast those spells, sir?” I asked.

“Yes,” he answered, his voice becoming dry. “I thought it would give me more adventure and power. Instead, I found it quite tedious - studying, studying, practicing, practicing, then studying some more, and so on. It seemed to take too long to advance. I never made it beyond apprentice level.”

“What happened, then, sir?” Martin didn’t meet my gaze. “If I may ask, sir,” I added hastily.

“You may ask,” Martin looked at me, a faint humor in his eyes. “Like-minded friends and I,” he continued after a moment, “left the Guild to explore other ways of gaining power. We were reckless, and I made some - mistakes. People died. My friends died.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” I murmured when he paused, averting his eyes again. “It’s hard, losing friends.”

Still not meeting my gaze, Martin nodded, sighing. “It all seems so hubristic, now,” he remarked. I frowned at the unfamiliar word.

“Hubristic, sir?” I repeated.

“Hubristic,” Martin confirmed. “It means excessive pride or defiance of the gods, to the point of being one’s own nemesis.”

“Hubristic,” I muttered to myself. Have I ever been hubristic? I’ve been over-confident at times. But have I ever defied Akatosh, or even Julianos?

“You are the last person I would consider to be hubristic,” Martin’s voice warmed with good humor. With a silent chuckle, I shook my head.

“You didn’t know me in my younger days, sir,” I remarked. “In hindsight, I’m sure I caused my mother no end of grief growing up.”

“And you’ve learned from your mistakes, I’m certain,” Martin responded, smiling at me. “Now you’re older, experienced, and you seem to know better.”

“Huh,” I felt my mouth lift on the right side. “There are days when I doubt that I do, sir.” Like when I went into that Gate.

“We all do, Julian, we all do,” Martin agreed. His smile faded. “When we met that Legion rider, what was his name -?”

“Hugh Berennus,” I answered, thinking back. We had encountered him near Mortal Camp. He had remembered me from a few days before, and we had exchanged news.

“Hugh Berennus,” Martin repeated. “Why didn’t you tell him you were the one that closed the Oblivion Gate?”

Leaning back in the pew, I stretched my spine. “Why should I, sir?” I said after a moment. “It doesn’t matter who closed the Gate, only that it was closed.” He frowned at me. “It doesn’t apply to you, sir,” I continued, trying to find the words to explain. “But for most soldiers, there is something called ‘need-to-know.’ We only need to know that something needs to be done, not necessarily why or who. If my century is assigned to perform a task, we do it, we don’t ask ‘why is it necessary,’ or, ‘why us? Why not the other century?’”

“When I order you to jump,” Carius, my first pilus, growled at us, pacing along the first rank, “you don’t say ‘Yes, sir!’”

“No sir!” Lariat piped up from somewhere behind me. “We ask ‘How high, sir!’”

“Don’t waste my frickin’ time with that bull talk!” Carius roared back. “You just frickin’ jump!” Now he glared at each of us in turn. I managed to keep my spine straight under that fierce stare. “Recruits! Jump!”

We jumped.

“Without question?” Martin asked, bringing me back to the present. “What if it is an immoral order? What if it is treacherous to the Emperor, or Akatosh himself?”

“It is the officer’s job to question such orders, sir,” I answered. “He or she must do so respectfully, and very carefully. The officers have sight of the greater picture, not the soldiers in the ranks themselves.” My eyes studied my hands, avoiding Martin’s gaze. “Soldiers have to kill, and sometimes the civilians suffer. They may be caught between two opposing forces, or they may be harboring the enemy against their will, or their leaders may refuse to cooperate with us. Most people think we don’t care about the innocent, but the truth is, we do.” With a deep breath, I thought about the soldiers I had served with through the years. “Most of us, anyway,” I continued. “If we were to challenge every order, not only would wars be lost, but more people would die in the ensuing confusion.”

“It’s hard to govern by committee, I suppose,” Martin mused. “I suppose the same is true for the Legion.”

“The ranks are asked to do the dirty job in war, sir,” I continued. “All we can do is trust that our officers and leaders are working toward a higher goal.” I shrugged. “It is sometimes the only way we can survive as a unit.”

Martin rose to his feet and walked away, hands clasped behind his back, head bowed in thought. “And since you serve the Emperor,” he mused, so quietly I could barely hear him, “you must always obey his order, correct?”

My eyes followed him, and I wondered where he was taking the conversation. “Yes, sir.” Now Martin turned halfway towards me, his gaze sidelong at me.

“And the Emperor ordered you to find me?”

With a blink, I considered his words. “It was more a request of a man facing his death, sir,” I said finally. “But I accepted it as an order.”

“Why?”

Why, indeed? “Old habits, I suppose,” I answered. “That, and he was courteous and respectful to me, when I was so wretched.”

“Wretched?” Martin repeated. “You?”

“Just -” I did a quick count, eight already? “eight days ago, I was in a cell in the Imperial Prison. I had been in a brawl, though about what I don’t remember. I had been drunk, and off skooma just a little too long -” I trailed off, avoiding Martin’s gaze. He returned to the pew and sat down again, facing me.

“Go on, Julian,” he prompted quietly. “You were in the Prison for drunk and disorderly.”

In the dim lighting of the chapel, I saw again Uriel Septim’s visage in front of me. With a shiver I blinked away the memory. In almost a whisper, I told Martin of how the Emperor had come into my cell on the last night of his life. The tears came when I told him of Uriel’s courage and acceptance of his fate, how he had placed the Amulet in my care, just before his death at the hands of an assassin.

Martin stared at me. “Uriel gave you the Amulet of Kings?” he muttered, incredulous. I nodded.

“I realize now how important it is,” I responded. “But at the time, all I could see was how he grieved for the death of his sons, how prepared he was for his own death -” again my voice failed me. After a deep breath, I recovered my composure enough to continue. “I did not have the heart to refuse him.”

You set the scene with a strong description of the chapel. The shadows in the corners, the soft light, the darkened windows, etc... all build a powerful foundation for what follows.

I have always thought it odd though, that Akatosh seems to be the patron of the Imperial Legion (it is his dragon all over them), not Talos, who is supposedly the war god. That is not a nit on your storytelling, it is just an observation of the Bethesda's setting.

“And you’ve learned from your mistakes, I’m certain,” Martin responded, smiling at me. “Now you’re older, experienced, and you seem to know better.”
This really catches my eye, as it sums up so much of the characters of both Martin and Julian. You have done an excellent job of drawing strong parallels between the two. In many ways they are mirror images. Both have seen hard times, fallen from grace due to their own actions, and are fighting for redemption. Even more compelling is their experiences have made them exactly the right people to face the crisis besetting Tamriel. As if an unseen hand has been shaping them for their entire lives. Best of all, it is all done very subtly, without shoving the hand of fate down the reader's throats.

The last paragraphs are so powerful! Julian's vulnerability was so well done when she was being honest and frank about her own situation to Martin. Really great write!!!

Caught up again. Wonderful stuff. I'm covering several chapters here so let me hit some of the things I really liked:

- The way you portrayed Savlian Matius as he gave his gear to Julian.
- That Julian carries the trappings of the 'Hero of Kvatch'. Now we do not have to wonder how it is people know who closed that gate!
- As said above, nice interaction with Martin.

Hey all, I'm in St. Louis this weekend visiting my sister. I've got a little time to post the next chapter before turning in for the night, but I might not post again until I get back home.

@SubRosa: I never thought too much about Akatosh vs. Talos - the Imperial Legion predates Talos Stormcrown, so it makes sense to me that they would have always served Akatosh. Like military organizations everywhere through time, they would find it hard to change tradition. I'm glad that you see Julian and Martin have much in common, though in some ways Martin is more advanced than Julian (especially in the use of magicka, as we have already seen).

@mALX: Martin somehow brings it out of Julian - she feels she can confide in him. Is it because he is a priest? Or because he shared some of his past with her? Who knows? I doubt Julian understands it herself.

@Acadian: I'm glad you are still reading Julian's fiction. No, I don't subscribe to the telepathic guards myself. All they have to do is look at her sword and Kvatch Wolf and white hair and realize this is the Redguard of the rumors! Hey, you're the - Shh, be quiet!

Julian learns a new magic trick that will become very valuable in the future.

*********
Chapter 5.2 Convalescence
A gentle touch on my arm rescued me from a maelstrom of uneasy emotion of loss, of fear. I lifted my head, blinking at the bright light from the altar. A small-boned Breton woman stepped back as I straightened up, her hand dropping from my shoulder. Her gaze held concern and wariness. Rubbing at my eyes until I saw stars, I looked around. The stained glass windows glowed with daylight. Beyond the Breton, Martin watched me patiently, the dark circles under his eyes still present.

“It’s just past dawn, Julian,” he said softly. “We should eat breakfast and go, if you’re ready.”

Taking a deep breath, I nodded. After the day yesterday, I felt stronger, refreshed. “We spent the night here?” I exclaimed softly.

“You fell asleep,” Martin responded. “And I spent the night in meditation.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” I apologized to the Breton. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep here.”

“If you found some measure of peace here,” the woman responded, her light voice nearly musical, “then that is all that matters.” She frowned at me, and leaned forward to take my chin in a surprisingly strong but gentle grip. Turning my face this way and that, she traced the parallel slashes on my right cheek, now healed into raw scars.

“That’s from no wolf or rat,” she said quietly.

“Scamp,” I muttered, tilting my head back out of her fingers and turning my head away.

“I’m Marie Palielle,” the Breton woman volunteered, stepping back to let me out of the pew. “I’m the healer here. If you ever get injured in these parts, don’t hesitate to see me.”

I remembered something one of the Legion riders had said to me. “I’d like to learn how to cast a convalescence spell,” I met her gaze uncertainly.

“See Tumindil,” she pointed out the tall Altmer near the altar. “He’s a little snobbish, but a good mer. If you ask, I’m sure he’ll teach you a spell, for a price.”

Martin nodded when I glanced askance at him. He remained next to my gear, still stacked at the end of the pew. The Altmer lifted his head as I approached the altar uncertainly.

“Yes, what can I do for you, stranger?” he asked, his high brows arching higher at my patched leather cuirass and my scarred face.

“I’d like to learn a convalescence spell, sir,” I murmured hesitantly.

“Do you know how to cast a healing spell on yourself, then?” When I nodded, he gestured impatiently. “Well then, show me.”

Momentarily off balance, I wavered. Thoughts of pain and blood crowded my mind, white energy surged down my arm, and I raised my fist and opened my hand to let it cascade around me.

“As I thought,” Tumindil mused to himself. “You’re a novice. One must be an apprentice in restoration magic to be able to cast a convalescence spell. Hmm, can you do it again?”

His tone irritated me, and I took a deep breath to calm myself before repeating the spell. “How do I become an apprentice?” I asked him.

“Ah, you can join the Mages Guild,” Tumindil responded. “But if that is not your style, then simply practice this small spell of yours and gain experience. Then you will be able to cast a convalescence spell on your friends. It will cost more of your magicka.” He regarded me a moment longer, then smiled. “Your desire to heal others is admirable. And I believe you are close to becoming an apprentice of restoration. I will teach you the cheapest convalescence spell.” He named a price that made me blink.

Counting out the drakes, I looked up at him. “If I’m not ready to cast this spell, how can you teach me?”

“Oh, knowledge and ability are often two separate things,” Tumindil’s smile grew wider. “I can teach you how, so when you can, you will be able to do so.”

Dubiously, I handed over the drakes. He drew me off to one side, near Mara’s window. “Tell me what you do to heal yourself,” he said. Slowly, I shook my head.

“I don’t think about it,” I said. “It’s something that comes when I’m in pain, or bleeding.”

“What do you feel then, when you cast it?” Tumindil asked, nodding encouragement.

“I’m not sure how to put it into words,” I faltered, taking a deep breath. “It’s a power that comes from down my arm here,” I touched my breastbone with my knuckles, “and builds up in here,” I held up my fist, “and escapes around me when I open my hand like so.”

Tumindil was nodding vigorously. “You’re well on your way to understanding,” he murmured. I stared at him. Was that excitement in his voice? “Have you ever tried, well, holding that power in?” He clenched his fist in demonstration. I shrugged.

“Is it supposed to hurt when I hold it?” I asked him.

“That is how you make a stronger spell,” he confirmed. “Hold it in as long as you can. Of course, it will build up, and take more of your magicka, so you will take longer to recover.” Again that impatient gesture. “Try your spell again, but hold it in as long as you can.”

I obeyed, keeping my fist clenched above my head. The energy I could feel built up in my hand, fighting to open it against my will. My forearm and wrist ached, then a sharp, silver pain shot down my arm into my shoulder. I gasped, my fingers flying open, and the magic surged up then cascaded around me. The pain disappeared almost immediately, but I was left breathless and dizzy. Tumindil caught my shoulders as I staggered, steadying me easily.

“Did that hurt?” he asked. Blinking away the tears, I nodded. “Now you understand more,” he continued. “Don’t hold it in so long that it hurts like it did just now. Let it go before that pain comes.” His gaze sharpened on me. “Does that make sense, Redguard?”

I nodded. It did make sense! The comprehension must have been clear on my face, for Tumindil smiled in satisfaction. “So how is a convalescence spell different from a healing spell?” I asked him.

“Ah, I’m glad you asked that!” he exclaimed. “You are quite an apt pupil, indeed.” He held up his long-fingered hand and started ticking off his fingers as he continued. “A spell is made of three components, first the effect,” he tapped the first finger, “in this case restore health. Secondly,” he indicated the second finger, “the means of transmission - self,” he tapped his own chest, “touch,” he reached out and laid his palm gently against my shoulder, “or target,” he flung his hand out toward Martin, still waiting beside my pack.

“And the third thing,” he continued, touching the next finger, “is strength or duration of the effect. That is most dependent on your amount of magicka and the strength of your willpower. As you practice, this third effect will increase.” Tumindil touched my shoulder again, murmuring softly. White light passed from his fingers into my shoulder, and I felt my shakiness disappear. He nodded at Martin again. “Try casting this energy of yours at your friend.”

Regarding Martin dubiously, I imagined him injured, hurt and bleeding. For some reason, the memory of the Emperor lying dead came into my mind. The white energy surged down my arm rapidly, and I barely kept the presence of mind to cast that energy toward Martin instead of letting it cascade around me. The magic, however, fizzled as soon as it left my fingers.

“You see,” Tumindil laid a hand on my shoulder as I stared at my fingertips. “You do not yet have the will to throw your magic. But it will come, I can see that.” He shook me gently, drawing my attention back to him. “What did you think of when you made that attempt just now?”

“I imagined Martin hurt,” I said, my voice unsteady. “Then I remembered a - a friend who was killed recently,” my voice broke. Tumindil squeezed my shoulder in sympathy.

“You are a Protector,” he leaned down to me. “You want to keep harm from your friends, and from those who are innocent, no?” After considering his words for a moment, I nodded. “Ah, yes, and you can not bear to see them hurt, yes?” Surprised at the Altmer’s assessment of my own heart, I nodded again. “That alone bodes well for your ability. There,” he tapped my shoulder for emphasis, “lies your secret, your power. The desire to protect others from harm, and to heal them when they are injured, drives your restoration spells. Don’t deny that desire.”

I looked down at my hands, thinking over his words. That was worth the price. I met Tumindil’s gaze. “Thank you very much, sir. I will not forget.”

The Altmer’s smile belied the arrogance Palielle suggested he possessed. “It is not every day I get such an apt pupil. It has been my pleasure.”

Martin lifted an eyebrow in askance at me as I returned to my gear. “I learned something,” I answered the unspoken question. “Now I must practice to use it.”

This was one of my favorite chapters before, and it still is. I love where Tumindil is teaching Julian about healing - so well done!

Excellently done. A description of magic with more depth than just 'it's magic'. And you show more of Julian, she's developing into a brilliant character, a pure hero but with sufficent realism and weaknesses to be quite believable. It's really nice to read a happy (or at least hopeful) story which holds together so well.

This really is a treat

“If I’m not ready to cast this spell, how can you teach me?”
I have always wondered about this myself, you did an excellent job of putting a reasonable explanation on this bit of game mechanics. Likewise for the rest of the description of magic. You fill in the very large blanks left by the game in this regard.

Once again I liked your portrayal of Tumindil. At first he comes across as the typical arrogant Altmer. But as we see more of him, we find that he is quite the opposite. When he calls Julian an apt pupil though, it makes me think of the Stephen King short story by the same name.

The way you build up your scene and characters is so real it is frightening. Wow.

I loved the second last chapter with the crowding shadows in the chapel and the dialogue that followed. And this one with the magic lesson. Simply great!!

Safe trip back home Haute.

This is great...two wonderful updates! Oh hautie, rest assure I read your story! haven't the chance of responding as quickly as you update, but I'll do my very best.

You are a master of conversations...I appreciate that alot...you make the charachters so alive...

Hello all, back after a fun weekend in St. Louis:

@mALX: So that was one of your favorite chapters? I recall struggling with that one, until Tumindil got fed up and took over. Once I let him have control, it came easily.

@Olen: I'm glad you find this still interesting. I've thought long and hard about magic, restoration/healing, and the ethics of such things in the context of the TES universe. I'm glad that my solutions to my dilemmas sit well with you.

@SubRosa: Tumindil is one of those characters that seem a little thin at first, but in typical Altmer fashion he became impatient with me and just took over my keyboard. I'm glad he did. He turned out quite good after all.

@Wolf: I remember how much you and Destri liked my description of the chapel at night the first time around. I'm glad it still touches you the second time around. And yes, I had a safe trip back home today, thanks.

@minque: I love writing conversations! I think it's a great way to get a feel for characters. I think you're a master at character development yourself, after having read your own Morrowind fiction (Selena). To get these comments from you is high praise, indeed. And don't feel that you must comment after every post. I know you have a busy life, and I trust that my story will wait for you to come!

Julian gets to introduce her new friend Martin to a (relatively) old friend, and enjoy a simple but hearty meal (no polenta this time!) at the same time.

***************
Chapter 5.3 Lunch and Stories

The walk through the West Weald east of Skingrad was quiet. The imps I had encountered on my way to Kvatch still lay beside the road outside Greenmead Cave. It reminded me of something that had been bothering me.

“There’s this flare spell,” I said, “but my problem with it is that it only comes when I’m angry, sir.”

“Well, of course, anger and rage are the driving forces for destruction spells,” Martin explained. “But we must always keep it focused, or the spell will not be effective.”

“In other words, don’t lose my temper, sir?” I asked. He nodded in response. Thinking about it for a few moments, I glanced at him. “I never could cast a destruction spell before, sir,” I remarked. “That’s pretty new, only since I left the Prison. I’m not sure why I can do this now.”

We walked along in silence, Martin’s eyes unfocused. He shook himself and returned my gaze briefly. “Julian, are you as strong now as you were when you served in the Legion?”

“No, sir,” I answered. “These wounds, and the past four years, took away a lot of my strength, and my skills.”

“Would it be fair to say that when you’re in combat now, you’re scared more than you were before?”

Combat was pretty scary then. “Yes, sir, I guess so,” I said slowly. “There’s been a couple of times I’ve been glad these greaves are dark brown -”

Martin shot me a startled glance, then laughed shortly. For a second, his cares and tension melted away, and I smiled at his humor. Then he grew sober again, though his hazel eyes still sparkled. “There’s a pretty fine line between fear and anger,” he said. “Likely you’re scared, then you get angry that you’re so scared -” Again he glanced at me.

“I guess I get pissed a lot quicker than I used to, sir,” I commented. “And that’s why I can cast flares all of a sudden?”

“Well, it doesn’t come spontaneously,” Martin responded thoughtfully. “Like your healing spell, it’s something that most people learn as very young children. You may not remember learning it, but you always knew how to cast it.” He shrugged. ”But it would explain why it’s come back to you now.”

********************

Gathering clouds chased the high sun by the time we reached the Red Ring Road. Paint began walking slower as we crossed the bridge across the draw. He returned my gaze steadily, but I thought he looked tired.

“We have been walking a long way,” Martin commented, looking at Paint as well. “He will keep going as long as we do, but he needs a rest soon.” He sighed. “As a matter of fact, so do I.”

Feeling the growing dampness in the balmy air, I surveyed our surroundings. “There’s Weye,” I pointed out the hamlet to Martin. “I know someone there.”

“If you are sure we wouldn’t impose on his hospitality,” Martin remarked. “I would be glad of a short rest, and I think Paint would, too.”

As I hoped, Merowald was in his garden, tending the beautiful blooms. He heard Paint’s hoofbeats on the cobblestones and straightened up to look in our direction. Recognizing the gelding and I, he moved to the little paddock and opened the gate for Paint. “‘ail, good Julian!” he greeted me cheerfully, working to draw water for the horse. “Bring your ‘orse over here, and sit down there,” he pointed at the garden bench near his front door. “Take a load off, and tell me what news ye ‘ave, friends,” his friendly gaze included Martin.

The Imperial seemed a little relieved by Merowald’s hearty welcome. As we sat down side by side on the bench, Merowald set the full bucket down in front of Paint.

“Well, we have walked from Skingrad,” I began, when the aged Breton returned to the garden.

“Ye must be parched after walking all morning!” Merowald exclaimed. “Let me fetch ye some food and water. The road is dusty today.” He held up a finger. “Just a moment.”

Leaning back with a sigh next to Martin, I watched the cloud shadows cover the land. The warmth of the sun disappeared, replaced by the chill of impending rain. “It’s nearly fall,” Martin commented. “We are turning toward winter. The days are getting shorter and colder.”

Merowald returned with a tray full of bread, cheese, and smoked mutton. He handed us tumblers full of water, and set the tray on the bench between Martin and I. Merowald pulled up a stool. “Now, good friend,” he said to me, sitting down, “the last time I saw ye, ye were alone and poor. Now it seems ye ‘ave moved up in the world,” he gestured toward the hilt of my steel longsword at my left side. “With a new friend,” he nodded at Martin. He met the Imperial’s gaze as Martin assembled a sandwich of mutton, cheese and the wonderful bread.

“This is delicious, Merowald,” I commented, taking a bite out of my own construction. “Thanks for this.” Seeing the curiosity in the Breton’s eyes, I nodded at my companion. “This is Brother Martin. He is a priest of Akatosh. Martin, this is Aelwin Merowald, retired fisherman.”

“My pleasure,” Martin offered around a mouthful of his sandwich. “This is good food, sir. Thank you for your hospitality.”

“Did Julian ever tell ye ‘ow we met?” Merowald asked. Martin shook his head. While I squirmed, Merowald told an overly flattering tale of our encounter, his offer to care for Paint, and my payment of twelve Tamriel Barracudas. “A stranger, on the road to somewhere, not in great ‘ealth ‘erself, took on the burden of ‘elping me, a poor, crippled old fisherman! And all I ‘ad to give ‘er was a little ring -” his voice trailed off as his eye fell on my right hand, where the brass pearl ring encircled my little finger.

“All you gave me?” I countered, swallowing the grub first. “You gave me an enchanted ring, and more importantly, your friendship, the value of which you are proving right now.”

Merowald shrugged. “Aye, it’s the least I can do,” he remarked bashfully. His eyes sharpened on us. “But now, dear Julian, tell me ‘ow ye came to return in just a few days with fine gear, and a fine friend,” he nodded at Martin.

“I traveled to Kvatch -” I began, and that was as far as I got.

“Ye were at Kvatch?” Merowald interrupted, interested. “Is it true? The ‘ole city is destroyed?”

“Yes, pretty much,” I answered grimly. “An Oblivion Gate opened in front of the city, and daedra invaded the place. I’m told they had a siege engine that came right over the walls and killed most of the people there. The Count was killed in the Castle, the Guard decimated, and very few civilians survived.” A glance at Martin showed him sitting quietly, downcast eyes on the half-eaten sandwich in his hands. “Martin managed to get some of the civilians into the chapel. I guess Akatosh was in that chapel that night, for the daedra could not gain entrance, though only two of the Guard were left to hold the place.”

I thought again of the guardsmen, of Matius. “Savlian Matius, one of the Guard, managed to get other survivors out of the city. He had the remaining guardsmen set up a barricade at the top of the road in front of the Gate to keep back the daedra. Their bravery saved the survivors.”

Merowald turned to Martin. “I am sorry, good sir,” he spoke quietly. “Ye must ‘ave lost many good friends on that terrible night.”

“So I did, good friend,” Martin responded, his calm tone belying the grief I knew he still felt. “And yes, Savlian was very brave to hold the road against the daedra. Tierra and Berich Inian were the two guardsmen in the chapel with us, they too gave much courage to hold out until Savlian and Julian could get to us.”

“Ah,” Merowald’s voice took on a note of satisfaction as he regarded me. Ducking my head, I focused on my sandwich. “I knew Julian ‘ad more good deeds in ‘er. So tell me, Brother Martin, ‘ow did good, brave Savlian and Julian rescue ye?”

Martin glanced wryly at me. “She closed that Oblivion Gate.”

“By ‘erself?” Merowald exclaimed, astonishment clear in his voice. “And that is why,” he pointed at the scabbard of my steel sword, “she is named ‘ero of Kvatch?”

“Aye, that is why she is the Hero of Kvatch,” Martin’s tone was firm, though a little amused. “One thing I’ve noticed, traveling with Julian, is that she is quick to speak of bravery and courage in others, but says next to nothing of her own.”

“Why, I never -” Merowald declared, regarding me more intently. “I knew Julian ‘ad a good ‘eart, but to go into Oblivion alone, why, that is a true ‘ero!” He smiled at my growing discomfort. “Ah, my good friend,” he leaned forward to grasp my right shoulder in his still-strong hand, “I will always remember ye as the stranger who ‘elped me find a comfortable retirement. Ye are always welcome ‘ere, friend.”

Paint wandered over to the stone wall separating the garden from the paddock, clearly refreshed. Martin licked the last of his sandwich off of his fingers, finishing the water and sitting back with a replete sigh.

“More water, or food, per’aps?” Merowald reached for the empty tray.

“No, thanks,” Martin shook his head. When Merowald glanced at me, I, too, shook my head.

“We have far to go before we are done, and the day is growing late.”

“Very well,” Merowald rose, taking the tray under one arm. “I’m glad ye took the time, then, to visit an old man and tell ‘im stories.”

“It seems you told us a good story, yourself,” Martin responded, rising to his feet and bowing slightly to the shorter Breton. I stood too, but found myself being hugged by the old man.

“Do come by again, Julian, Brother Martin,” he said to us. He clasped my upper arm in his free hand. “When ye are a great and famous ‘ero, do not forget the old fisherman of Weye!”

“I’ll never be great, or famous,” I responded. “But I will never forget you, Merowald.”

I always like seeing Aelwin. You make him a much more lively and engaging character than I ever did. Seeing him make Julian squirm was simply delightful.

“One thing I’ve noticed, traveling with Julian, is that she is quick to speak of bravery and courage in others, but says next to nothing of her own.”
Quoted for truth here. Julian is obviously one of those people who understands that some things speak most eloquently for themselves. Not to mention she is fighting four years of extremely low self-esteem...

“I’ll never be great, or famous,” I responded. “But I will never forget you, Merowald.”
Methinks that Julian will be wrong on one of these counts...

It's nice to see a return to Aelwin rather than him simply being a one off side quest, it makes the world seem alive and changing which can be hard to achieve. The dynamic developing between Martin and Julin is good too, their characters are developing and coming together well off their interactions.

Good section

This chapter gave Martin some insight into Julian's character - loved it then and now!!!!

Two very nice chapters! I very much enjoyed the Skingrad Chapel, learning of some more healing magic. And, of course I am pleased to see Julian revisit Weye and introduce Martin to her old fisher-friend. Very nice to curl up, settle down and read this!

@SubRosa: I enjoyed watching Aelwin make Julian squirm, too. And yes, actions do speak louder than words. Julian will never forget Aelwin is her friend. So I guess she either will be great, or famous . . .

@Olen: Thanks for the comments. It's good to know that revisiting some of these NPC's after finishing a side quest is welcomed by readers. When I'm role-playing, I always stop by and visit some of the NPC's that I've helped in the past, and Aelwin is one of the favorites. It's also good to know that the growing friendship between Martin and Julian is appreciated as well.

@mALX: I used this chapter as a way for Martin to learn more about Julian. Getting her to talk more about herself is sometimes like pulling teeth. Aelwin's so good at making her squirm!

@Acadian: So very glad to see that you are still enjoying Julian's story.

@all: Now we finally reach Weynon Priory, and the end of the road turns out to be further away than our friends originally thought . . .

******************
Chapter 5.4 Thievery and Death

The rain started as we passed Fort Nikel, picking up the Black Road toward Chorrol. We trudged on into the highlands, not speaking much to each other. At first, it was just a light drizzle, but as we passed Fort Ash, it became a downpour. The entire afternoon was grey, and our mood turned to match it. After two days of walking, I was looking forward to the simple, warm hospitality of the Priory. Perhaps Martin will find some peace at last. He still had dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep, and I could only guess at the nightmares that haunted him.

Thoroughly drenched, we reached the bend in the road that led to Weynon Priory. The priory itself was a dark shadow in the rain, the chapel on its hilltop an even fainter shadow. “There it is, Martin,” I said, pointing at the barely visible structures ahead. “A warm fire, good food -” my voice trailed off when the clash of steel on metal, the shouts of men in combat, reached us. Dropping Paint’s rein, I drew my longsword, and shook my shield into my left hand. Beside me, Martin drew his dagger. We started toward the Priory, but did not get far before a running figure appeared out of the downpour.

It was Eronor. “Weynon Priory is under attack!” he gasped when he saw me. “They’re killing everyone!”

Through the rain, I could see a robed figure battling a familiar hulking form. I caught my breath at the sight of the daedric armor. Assassins!

“Stay with Paint!” I shouted, as much at Martin as at Eronor. Without looking to see if they obeyed, I hobbled toward the priory as fast as my bum knee would let me. Two red-armored figures loomed at me, both with maces raised high. With a skip to my left, I stabbed the sword beneath the lower edge of the daedric cuirass of the nearer assassin. Not stopping my forward movement, I recovered the blade and turned the Kvatch Wolf toward the second assassin. The coldness of a frost-flare shot past me and impacted the shoulder of the assailant. He staggered, and I shoved him off balance with the shield. As I slipped to the right and behind him, I backhanded the blade across the back of his knees.

Turning back to the first assassin, I found him already dead, frost across his face and the top part of his cuirass already melting away in the rain. Martin ignored the glare I shot him, before I spun away and plunged my sword into the exposed neck of the second assailant.

“Son of a farmer, huh?” I panted at Martin as we continued toward the priory and the persistent sounds of combat. In the porte-cochere, Brother Piner deflected the assaults of two more assassins. Not bad for a monk, I thought silently as Piner wove his slim katana in an intricate web of slashes and parries that kept the two assassins at bay. One of them fell as I approached the other. Another frost-flare drew him away from Piner and towards me. My steel sword sparked as I slashed at the cuirass, already made brittle by Martin’s potent magic. The tip of the blade sank into the other’s abdomen, catching on bone before I could pull my swing.

As the assassin fell lifeless from my weapon, I looked at Piner over his body. “Thank Talos you’ve returned!” he gasped, lowering his katana slightly. “Brother Jauffre is in the chapel!” The stabbing pain in my knee worsened as I ran past Martin, toward the chapel. I could hear the priest and the monk at my back as I flung the chapel door open.

Two assassins towered over Jauffre. The old man wielded a slim two-handed weapon, longer than Piner’s katana, with deceptive quickness against their assault. He sent the two assassins reeling from his counter-attack. One of them staggered into my ready blade, which slid into the gap in his side. Taking his greater weight on my sword, I angled the tip upwards into the rib cage, seeking vital structures.

As he fell from my blade, Piner stepped past me and took on the other assassin. Unable to decide which of the two monks was the greater threat, the assailant fell quickly before their flashing weapons.

As the daedric armor dissolved into sulfurous smoke, leaving behind ordinary-looking corpses, Jauffre and I stared at each other. “They must be after the Amulet!” he exclaimed. “I have it hidden in a secret room in the priory. I must go and see if it is still safe!” Not waiting for a response from me or Piner, he ran past Martin out the chapel.

“Wait!” I shouted. What if there is an ambush inside the priory? The old Breton kept running. With a mouthful of curses for my bum knee, which stabbed with every stride, I hobbled after him back out in that pouring rain. He passed a black-robed body slumped against the front facade of the priory and slammed through the door. In the brief second I allowed myself, I recognized the dead man. Prior Maborel. My stride faltered, but I forced myself to continue into the priory, hearing Jauffre’s footsteps already pounding up the stairs.

When I followed the Grandmaster to the landing, I saw one of the bookcases shoved to one side, books scattered on the floor from its shelves. Jauffre had disappeared through a doorway in the wall, an opening previously covered by the displaced bookcase.

Entering behind him, I took in the chaos of the small room, the overturned chest and desk, and the sudden despair in Jauffre’s shoulders as he sheathed the long blade at his back. “They have the Amulet,” he muttered. “The enemy has defeated us at every turn!”

“How could they know of the Amulet?” I exclaimed, stunned. “I told no one of it! Only Baurus knew I had it!”

Jauffre turned to face me, his gaze grim. “Dagon is powerful,” he answered my question. “He can see things invisible to us mortals.”

My sword slid home in its sheath, and I returned to the landing, where Piner and Martin stood near the stairs. Piner’s eyes closed in discouragement, and uncertainty showed in Martin’s expression. How hard has this been for him, I thought, seeing again the weariness and exhaustion in his gaze. Three nights of horror, two days of hiking, now combat, and not knowing who is friend and who is foe. I waved him up, turning back to Jauffre. “I found Martin, sir,” I said to the Grandmaster. “Here, he is safe. Martin, this is Grandmaster Jauffre of the Blades. He served your father for many years.”

“I still serve the Emperor,” Jauffre turned to Martin and bowed deeply. “So it has not all gone against us,” he addressed us both. “Talos be thanked! But Sire, you can not stay here. Once they learn about you, they will track you down.”

“Where will he be safe?” I asked, thinking of Martin’s fatigue and of my own.

“Nowhere is truly safe,” Jauffre responded, clasping Martin’s shoulder encouragingly. He too, had noted Martin’s exhaustion. “But Cloud Ruler Temple near Bruma is the best place for now.” He looked around the landing, at the books scattered across the floor. “First, we must rest and recoup.” Heading for the stairs, he turned back in our direction. “My Lord,” he said quietly, “welcome to Weynon Priory. I apologize for the reception. If you’ll follow me, please.”

Martin shot me a slightly panicked glance. It’s beginning to sink in. He’s Uriel’s son, not the son of some farmer as he has believed all these years.

As Jauffre led Martin to a seat beside the fire, I went outside, back into the rain. Eronor appeared, leading Paint. “Is it over?” he asked. I nodded, stopping beside Prior Maborel’s body. “I was in the sheepfold, when I heard voices,” he said, joining me beside the black-robed corpse. “They seemed like ordinary travelers, talking to Prior,” his voice became ragged. “All of a sudden, weapons appeared in their hands and they struck him down. I ran, and found you.”

If only we had walked a little faster. If only we hadn’t stopped for lunch at Weye. As I watched, Paint stepped to Maborel’s body, nosing him briefly, then recoiled, sidling away. It’s the blood, and bowels. Horses don’t like death. I took the rein from Eronor and led Paint away, toward the stable. Putting him in his stall, I removed the saddle and bridle.

Eronor had followed me, and took the tack from me. “I’ll take care of him,” he said quietly, sadness making his voice unsteady. “Go on inside, Julian.” Taking the pack from the saddle, I turned back to the priory.

Piner stood outside, looking down at Maborel. “I’m sorry, Brother,” I said quietly. He raised his eyes to me, his cheeks wet, from tears or the rain, I couldn’t tell. His eyes were dark, sad. Turning away from me, he knelt beside the prior. As I had done with Rilian in the castle at Kvatch, he closed the older man’s eyes.

Eronor appeared from the rear, pulling a fodder cart behind him. He stopped the cart next to Maborel’s body. Wordlessly, Piner and I moved to pick up the dead prior, and gently laid him out in the cart. We helped Eronor pull the wooden cart up to the chapel’s door. First we carried out the bodies of the two assassins, dumping them unceremoniously outside the chapel, off to the side.

Piner brought out a wooden bier from a storage cabinet near the door, and set it up in front of the small altar. After he covered it with a white cloth, he led me back out to the cart. Together, with Eronor holding the door for us, we brought Maborel inside and set him down on the bier.

“Thank you for your help, Julian,” Piner turned to me. “I’ll take care of this.” It was a dismissal. I understood. Brothers take care of their own. Back out in the rain, I helped Eronor gather the bodies of the assassins and loaded the cart. Together we took them to the road leading away from the priory, toward the Black Road. Eronor stopped the cart at the side of the path.

“I’ll take them up to Chorrol in the morning,” he said to me quietly. “The Watch needs to be notified about this. Thanks for helping, Julian.” He gripped my shoulder. “Now go inside and warm up.”

A very exciting play of words here:
I recovered the blade and turned the Kvatch Wolf toward the second assassin. The coldness of a frost-flare shot past me and impacted the shoulder of the assailant. He staggered, and I shoved him off balance with the shield. As I slipped to the right and behind him, I backhanded the blade across the back of his knees.

First, saying "the Kvatch Wolf" is far more dramatic and evocative than "my shield". Then the bit of teamwork from Martin (the frost attack), the bash with the shield, and finally Julian's patented slash to the back of the knees all add up to not only a very realistic feeling battle, but also an exciting one!


“Dagon is powerful,” he answered my question. “He can see things invisible to us mortals.”
Or the Mythic Dawn has a spy in Weynon Priory...


If only we had walked a little faster. If only we hadn’t stopped for lunch at Weye.
Could'a, would'a, should'a. John Crichton could not have put it better.


dumping them unceremoniously outside the chapel, off to the side.
Jauffre will take care of those heads later...


nits:
I asked, thinking of Martin’s fatigue, of my own.
this might flow better with an "and" tossed in after the last comma:
I asked, thinking of Martin’s fatigue, and of my own.

Entering behind him, I took in the chaos of the small room, the overturned chest and desk, and the sudden despair in Jauffre’s shoulders as he sheathed the long blade at his back. “They have the Amulet,” he muttered. “The enemy has defeated us at every turn!”

“How could they know of the Amulet?” I exclaimed, stunned. “I told no one of it! Only Baurus knew I had it!”

Jauffre turned to face me, his gaze grim. “Dagon is powerful,” he answered my question. “He can see things invisible to us mortals.”


This is a touch that brings the game to life.

The game itself requires you to 'fill in the blanks' a lpt. With touches like this, you and your character immerse themselves into the game...

Well done, an excellenct rewrite!

I like this piece a lot. It's coming to life in and of itself while following the game and bringing out so much more from the game world and characters we know.

I agree with SubRosa about the Kvatch wolf line, brilliant way of putting it.

You captured to feel of that bit of the game well (or perhaps more accuritly how it should have felt) the uncertainty and panic then come down after. And Martin continues to proove to be an interesting character.

One thing, perhaps not a full blown nit but a bit unusual:
As the daedric armor dissolved into sulfuric smoke -- you might want to consider changing 'sulfuric' to 'sulfurous'. I've rarely heard sulfuric used outside a chemistry context, unless you meant the smoke smelt of sulfuric acid. Might just be me though.

The first time I came up on this part of the quest I was freaked out by all that going on - it was unexpected and overwhelming being at a lower level and not knowing Martin was marked essential at the time, lol. You did a very accurate rendition of that scene!!!

@SubRosa: Only once during my playthroughs did I obtain the Kvatch Wolf from a fallen guardsman. I loved carrying that shield - it was lightweight, effective (up to a point), repairable with low armor skills, and had a wonderfully bold graphic on it that was easy to see at any distance. While Julian herself never carried it in game, I gave it to her in the fiction because I knew she would feel the same way about it that I did. Oh, and yes, I was thinking of Jauffre posting those heads later, as well. Your nit has been fixed.

@D.Foxy: thanks for continuing to read this! I agree that the game leaves much to be desired as far as interactions between the characters, but I like to think my own imagination is up to the task! I certainly hope so!

@Olen: Your words mean a lot to me, especially coming from an author as imaginative as yourself. Yes, following the game is sometimes restrictive (especially in the tutorial dungeon), but I'm finding ways to break out of its monotony and make it more compelling. I'm especially glad that you like the way I'm developing Martin. I hope you continue to like the direction I'm taking him. Oh, and you're right, "sulfurous" is much better in this context than "sulfuric" - I guess all those chemistry classes I took twenty years ago had more of an effect on me than I realized.

@mALX1: Yeah, I remember thinking "Can't you stay put in one place for a change??" when he would follow me into combat. "Aaahh, you're going to get yourself killed!" Especially after I had a Kvatch guard get between my sword and a daedra earlier in the game. "Stop following me!!" About the third or fourth time through, I realized I had a dialogue option where I could tell Martin to stay put! D'OH!

@all: Onwards to Cloud Ruler Temple!

*****************
Chapter 6.1 Night Ride

The rain had stopped when we returned to the horses. I sat on Paint, looking back at the Priory. The overcast sky made the dark night even darker. Water dripped from the trees and roofs, matching our mood.

Next to me, Martin waited on the calm bay mare. He seemed a little uneasy, and I wondered if it was due to fatigue, or to lack of riding experience. He seemed to know what he was doing, however, so I decided it must be fatigue.

“We need to leave tonight,” Jauffre’s voice echoed in my mind. He had insisted we eat something while our gear was drying off by the fire. “They won’t expect us to leave until morning. If they return, we must be gone.” I couldn’t argue with his logic, but Martin, Paint and I were tired from the past few days.

Beyond Martin, Jauffre’s chestnut stallion jibbed at the bit, tossing his head and prancing. The Grandmaster noticed my regard, and nodded calmly, his hands steady and quiet on the reins of his restless mount.

Ahead, the road led out of the priory, northward to meet with the Orange Road. Paint turned his head in response to pressure from the rein, and I smooched him into a walk. He stepped forward without hesitation. Behind, I heard the other two horses fall in behind me, the mare’s slow footfalls and the stallion’s quick strides.

We reached the Orange Road and headed eastward, where the road wound through the foothills of the Jeralls. The cobblestoned way dropped down a steep slope, then turned northward to rise again. Paint picked his way carefully across the slippery stones. As we neared a curve, I saw a dark figure appear out of the night, unshouldering a large battle axe. At the same time, I felt a sharp breeze pass just in front of my nose. Paint half-reared in front of me when I abruptly leaned back. I heard the distinctive twang of a bowstring somewhere in the trees on my right. Archer!

As one, the three of us dismounted. While I turned for the bandit with the battle axe, Jauffre took off into the woods to the south of the road, his weapon drawn and ready. The bandit swung wildly at me, nearly knocking me off balance when I deflected the axe with my shield. His momentum carried him past me, toward Martin, who flung a frost flare into the bandit’s chest.

As the bandit staggered back toward me, I limped behind him and slammed my sword overhand into his right shoulder. His weapon arm effectively disabled, the bandit lost his grip on the axe. He whirled toward me, his left fist aiming for my face. Ducking his roundhouse blow, I moved to sink my blade into his leather-covered chest. Before I could do so, he staggered, his eyes flying wide, and collapsed at my feet, blood gurgling black from his mouth.

Martin stood just behind him, his own silver dagger bloodied to the hilt. We locked eyes, and I frowned, not liking his quickness to engage in combat. Jauffre joined us, already sheathing his drawn weapon. “That archer’s dead,” he stated simply.

“I wish you wouldn’t jump in so quickly, sir,” I said quietly to Martin. He glanced up at me in surprise.

“I don’t want to sit idly by and let you do all the work, Julian,” he countered softly. “I am not Emperor, yet.”

“And I don’t want you getting killed before you are Emperor, sir,” I replied, keeping my voice even. “It is my job to protect you.”

Martin shook his head, his mouth grim. “And I don’t want to see my friend killed in front of me,” he held my stare steadily. “I’ve had enough of that, Julian.”

I turned to Jauffre in silent appeal. In the gloom, his blue eyes twinkled at us, though his face remained stern. “Tiber Septim led from the front lines,” he said to me, “as did Uriel the Fifth.” He turned his intent gaze to Martin. “However, if you, my Lord, are killed before the Dragonfires are lit, we have no way of turning back Mehrunes Dagon’s plans for Tamriel.”

Martin fidgeted under Jauffre’s level stare. He looked at me, just a little abashed. “I will be careful, I’ll promise you that much, Julian.” That’s all I’m going to get from Martin. It is enough. It has to be.

Once back aboard Paint, I twisted in the saddle to look back at Martin, who was already guiding the mare towards me. “You’re a priest, sir, who grew up a farmer and trained to be a mage.” I said to him. “Where in Oblivion did you learn to fight like that?”

Martin’s smile was barely visible in the darkness. “My fa - the man who raised me,” his voice held amusement, “was in the Legion for many years, much like you, Julian, before he retired and went into farming. He taught me how to use a dagger.” His face turned away from me to look down the road ahead of us. “When I was part of the Kvatch Mages Guild, I specialized in destruction. I had the opportunity to practice those skills when I left the Guild.” Now he looked back at me. “I’ve been a priest only for the last five or six years, Julian.” He shrugged. “Old habits die hard, I guess.”

I blinked, my mind working fast. He was placed with a Legion soldier? Was that Legion soldier already retired, or was he forced to retire when he was handed the babe? Leaning to my left just a little, I looked past Martin at Jauffre. The Grandmaster returned my gaze blandly.

********
The sky cleared as we started up the switchbacks leading into the Jerall Mountains themselves. Stars twinkled between the black leaves of the trees, and the twin moons cast dappled light across the cobblestones. As we climbed higher, the trees grew thinner along with the air, and opened up glimpses of the lowlands. Near the topmost switchback, I looked down the mountain range, and caught my breath at the vista spread below us.

Lake Rumare glistened softly in the moonlight, an argent halo around the white marble of the Imperial City and the tall spire of White Gold Tower. Paint stopped near an outcropping at my signal, where I dismounted. At the edge of the road, the ground dropped away in a plunging escarpment. As I knelt in the grass, I studied the landscape below us, matching its contours with the map in my head.

Behind me, I heard Martin’s breath catch as he paused, taking in the awe-inspiring sight. The growing fatigue in his star-filled eyes was clear to me. “Shall we stop here for a rest?” I glanced back to include Jauffre in my question. The old monk began to nod agreement, but stopped at Martin’s head shake.

“Let’s keep going,” the priest answered. “I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since Kvatch.”

************

The road crested just below the snowline, skirting the shoulders of the Jerall Mountains. The moons shone unobstructed on the cobblestones, outlining everything around us in silver.

“Is it true, Grandmaster,” Martin’s voice reached me as we walked along the road, “that it never rains in Bruma, only snows?”

“Aye, even in the summer,” Jauffre responded. “It is so high, the air is crisp and clear, and blizzards are common in the summer. During the winter, it is often too cold to snow.”

“Too cold to snow?” Martin repeated. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Believe it,” I responded, irony in my tone. “The Wrothgarians are higher and colder than this. Have you not noticed how chilly it’s become? I’ve been seeing my breath since we left Chorrol!” I shivered in my cuirass, thankful for its long sleeves. The oiled leather had repelled the worst of the rain, but my hair and the back of my neck were damp and chilly. My hands felt frozen to the reins. With some difficulty, I unclenched my left hand and flexed my fingers, trying to shake some warmth back into them. I managed to do the same to better effect with my right. “Are you two warm enough?” I called back, thinking of their woolen robes.

“Yes,” Martin responded, though I could hear his teeth chattering. “Wool is warm, even when wet, thank Akatosh.” He exclaimed softly, under his breath. “Speaking of Akatosh -” he called my attention to the circular colonnade perched on the mountainside to the left of the road. “I believe that is his one of his wayshrines.”

Paint halted, and I dismounted when Martin did so. “Shall we go look?” he asked me.

“Very well,” I answered, glad of the chance to get down and walk a bit. My behind is almost frozen to the saddle. Jauffre motioned for us to hand him the reins of our horses. He remained on his stallion, eyes watchful. Martin found the half-buried marble steps leading up to the small circle of white columns, which were topped by a dark grey ring-shaped cornice.

Joining Martin beside the small altar within, I studied the round object. Martin laid a hand on the rim, and was immediately covered in a white burst. “It will heal you,” he said, “cure any diseases you have, and, in the case of Akatosh, give you a blessing of speed for a short time.” He gestured for me to touch the altar as well.

As we returned to Jauffre and the horses, I commented to Martin, “That blessing of speed can be useful. Too bad it can’t be used on Jauffre’s horse.”

Martin chuckled softly. “Red is not as fast as he thinks he is,” he said, reaching for the bay mare’s reins. Jauffre smiled as he handed me Paint’s. “Jasmine, on the other hand,” Martin continued, mounting the mare effortlessly, “knows her own limitations, it seems.”

As Paint followed me to a nearby rock, I laughed softly. “I’m not sure of Paint, except that he has been a good companion.” Swinging into the saddle, I ran my hand down his crest. Paint tossed his head, then bumped his nose lightly against my right knee.

“Paint is like you,” Martin responded. “Brave and courageous.”

Heat rose in my cheeks, and I was glad of the darkness. “I think he is wiser than I am,” I remarked. “He certainly has been very patient with me.”

“That is why the good Prior,” Jauffre’s voice faltered momentarily, “gave him to you.”

Twisting around in the saddle, I looked back at Jauffre as Paint started eastward down the road. “Prior Maborel did tell me it was more a matter of trusting him with me, rather than the other way around.”

“Paint and Jasmine are not foolhardy at all,” Jauffre’s voice turned warm in the cold night. “Red, on the other hand,” I heard him slap the chestnut stallion affectionately on the neck, “thinks his balls are bigger than anyone else’s.”

“Like all stallions,” Martin remarked, the humor still in his voice. And some men, I added silently to myself. The black flight of a raven caught my eye as the bird ghosted silently across the road in front of us. A raven? At night? Its dark form disappeared into the trees below the path as we continued on. Paint did not seem bothered by its sudden appearance and disappearance, only flicking an ear at the bird. I decided to follow his example and think no more of it.

The battle with the bandits was exciting. More importantly however, it brought an important piece of character development on the part of Martin. We see him leaping into the fray himself, and learn it is because of his unwillingness to stand by and watch the people he cares for die. Poor chap, he is going to learn that being Emperor means doing exactly that...

“Old habits die hard, I guess.”
I bet you could not wait to use that line!

Was that Legion soldier already retired, or was he forced to retire when he was handed the babe?
This was an excellent bit of conjecture. The game tells us nothing about Martins parents (i.e. the people who raised him), not even if they are still alive. Julian's musing is very logical. Perhaps you might want to delve more into Martin's family in future chapters? One imagines that they lived in Kvatch, and were killed there.

Lake Rumare glistened softly in the moonlight, an argent halo around the white marble of the Imperial City and the tall spire of White Gold Tower.
I quoted this just because it is a lovely piece of writing. I especially like your use of the word "argent" here.

The black flight of a raven caught my eye as the bird ghosted silently across the road in front of us. A raven? At night?
Now where did that bird come from, I wonder...

The last lines in this chapter hit me then and now as some of the best Martin/Jauffre/player dialogue ever!

Hmm it appears I haven't commented on this one yet...

It was because I couldn't think of anything to say though, the last part was excellent. It held together tightly and the dialogue between the three was excellent. The inclusion of a wayshrine was inspired too, it really helps being Cyrodiil alive in this quest and makes it drive the setting and characters in a way the filler in the game failed to.

Good update, more?

@SubRosa: I'm glad you picked up on Julian's thoughts about Martin's foster parents. I'm planning to explore this more towards the end of the Main Quest. At this point I wanted to emphasize the progress of becoming an Emperor, with the mindset that follows. I really enjoyed the dialogue between the three of them. As for "Old habits die hard," I recently reviewed all of my fiction, and out of ten or twelve pieces that I had actually finished, I think only one or two of them does not have a character say this! I guess it's one of my lines. In reviewing this story, I realize this line is fast becoming one of those that every character gets to say, much like "I've got a bad feeling about this" in the original Star Wars trilogy.

@mALX: That dialogue in that part of the chapter is mostly free-typing. I'm sure you can pick out the rare line that is drawn from the game itself. This is one of the places I like to sit back and let the characters speak for themselves, and apparently others like it when I do that as well.

@Olen: Your request is granted!

I've said this before, but it's worth saying again. Julian gets her first glimpse of what is one of my favorite places in all of Cyrodiil - where the air is crystal clear, the view awe-inspiring, the climate freezing cold, and the company warm. Welcome to Cloud Ruler Temple!

****************
Chapter 6.2 Dawn Arrival

The Orange Road ran into the Silver Road, leading us higher into the Jeralls. The twin moons were low in the west, and the stars overhead seemed brighter and clearer. The air drew colder around us. With a shiver, I ran my right hand over my head, startled at the ice crackling in my bound hair. I untied the red cord, shaking out the white strands until all the ice had fallen off, leaving my hair feeling less damp. With the reins crossed over Paint’s neck, I retied my ponytail at the nape of my neck.

At the point in the road where it turned sharply west, I looked up the steep slope to the left to see the tops of the Bruma city walls, black in the indigo sky. More mountains towered above us to the east and north, higher even than the alpine plain on which Bruma nestled.

Paint followed the road easily, his ears pricked forward. The path forked just before the gates, still closed against the night, and Paint took the right hand path. He walked toward a small stable tucked against the city walls, stopping near the gate to the corral. Turning in the saddle, I looked at the sign above the stable door. Wildeye Stables.

Jauffre guided Red alongside Paint. “This is where Paint was born, about seventeen years ago. He has not been back since Prior Maborel purchased him, ten years ago.” He smiled at Paint. “He does not forget. This was a good place for him.” Now Jauffre pointed at the secondary road that wound northward past the city walls. “Follow that around to the road that comes down from the North Gate,” he directed. “That road will take us to Cloud Ruler Temple. Lead on, Julian.”

I chirruped at Paint, who, with a last look at the paddock of his youth, stepped onto the path and continued on. We followed the slender thread around the city walls to the slightly more prominent road dropping away from the North Gate of Bruma.

After we turned onto the new path, my eyes traced the route ahead. It crossed a little dell to the side of a steep escarpment. The road turned west to climb across the face of the slope, leading my sight up to the top, where a squat stone structure crowned a shoulder of the mountains. Topped with a peaked tile roof possessing upswept eaves, the uppermost stones of the fortress gleamed a faint pink in the first flush of dawn.

The sky above was growing light in the east, where the high peaks kept us in shadow. On the escarpment, I could see the shadow line cast by the eastern mountains thrown across the walls of the fortress.

By the time we reached the top of the road and turned northeast to face the huge iron gates, the roseate light had crept down the sides of the fortress to light the top of the mountain’s shoulder. It dazzled my eyes, forcing me to turn my face toward the fortress. Those tall metal panels creaked open as we dismounted, and a steel-clad figure, dwarfed by the gates, stepped out to face us. The dawn light flashed off the brass trim and the blue enamel of the Blades armor as he paused to study our faces.

The Blade faced the one man he recognized, his hand on his hilt, “Grandmaster, is this -”

“Yes, Cyrus,” Jauffre responded, “this is the Emperor’s son, Martin Septim.”

The Redguard turned smartly to Martin, his armor clinking slightly. He raised his right fist to his chest and tipped his head forward in salute. “We are honored, Sire,” he said crisply. “Welcome to Cloud Ruler Temple!”

Cyrus stepped back to lead us into the Temple. Within the gates, a wide stairway rose within the high walls to bring us to a raised plaza. Red protested initially at having to climb the steep steps, but gave in when Paint and Jasmine, following us, left him behind. At the top, Cyrus caught my gaze, and gestured toward a small stable tucked beneath the fortress wall at the west side of the plaza.

After collecting the reins of all three horses, I led them to the stable. As they entered the tie-stalls, I loosened the girths and removed their bridles. Fresh hay drew them towards the manger that ran along the stalls.

Back in the plaza, I watched the company of Blades gather in two ranks on the open pavement, leaving the way from the stairs to the Temple proper at the north side clear. Jauffre led Martin to the broad steps leading up to the Temple and paused there, turning to face the assembled Blades. Limping across the paving stones, I stopped behind the nearest rank to listen.

“Blades,” the Grandmaster’s voice rang in the dawn. “This is your new Emperor, Martin Septim!”

The air sang with the sound of katanas drawn in unison, as the soldiers lifted their weapons in salute. “Hail, the Emperor!” The strength of their response caught me off guard. “Hail, the Dragon Born!”

Past armored shoulders, I could see the chagrin in Martin’s face at their cheering. He glanced at Jauffre, then took a deep breath.

“Thank you, I think,” he spoke haltingly, quietly. His voice, soft compared to Jauffre’s, still carried well in the cold mountain air. Years of casting whispers into the farthest reaches of a chapel, I thought to myself. Very different from the command voice of combat veterans. “I will try to do my best for you,” he continued. “Your loyalty to the Emp - my father, as well as to me, is greatly appreciated. That is all.”

A tall Blade, his armor slightly more ornate than the others, stepped out of the line and turned to face the others. “Dismissed,” his rough voice broke the ranks. “Return to your duties, Blades.” As the others scattered to their posts around the plaza, more than a few met my gaze with level stares. None held overt hostility, rather more an assessment. Becoming acutely self conscious of my repaired leathers, I searched their faces for Baurus. Though I saw quite a few Redguards, none were my first friend.

“Sire,” Jauffre was saying as I approached Martin and the Grandmaster, “they’ve prepared a room for you. It’s been a long trip from Kvatch, and you look exhausted.” He nodded at Cyrus, who waited patiently near the front entrance to the Temple Hall. “Cyrus will show you the way.”

Martin glanced at me. “What about Julian?” he asked.

What about me, indeed? I wondered, aware of Jauffre’s gaze on me. What do I do, now that Martin’s safe?

“Don’t worry,” Jauffre turned his blue gaze back to the priest. “She is welcome here, too.” What? Me? I stared at the Grandmaster, who returned my gaze calmly.

“This is so strange, Julian,” Martin said to me. “After all that’s happened, I’m the Emperor here. I’m supposed to act like one, and I don’t even know how.” He paused, holding my gaze with his own, so like his father’s. “I’m grateful to you, Julian,” his mouth curved, the smile not touching his eyes. “You got me here safely, and I owe much to you, friend.” He looked around at the fortress plaza, at the Blades patrolling the walls. “These soldiers are waiting for me to tell them what to do, and I don’t know where to begin.”

“That’s what the Grandmaster is for, Sire,” I said to him quietly, aware of Jauffre’s and the tall Blade officer’s steady regard of me. Martin flinched at my use of the honorific reserved for the Emperor. “It’s his job to tell the Blades what to do. For now,” I smiled at him, “I’d take his advice and get some rest, first. You’ll be able to think better after some sleep and some food.”

With a rueful glance at me, Martin turned to Cyrus. “Lead on, then.” As I watched Martin follow Cyrus into the Temple Hall, Jauffre clapped a hand on my left shoulder.

“Well, Julian,” he said in that clipped voice of his. “You have done all that I have asked, and more. Your assistance has been of great value.”

I began to shake my head, but stopped when the Blade officer handed Jauffre a sheathed katana. “Thanks, Steffan,” Jauffre acknowledged him. Holding the katana across his open palms, he extended the sword to me. “You’ve shown not only bravery and courage, but also tact and reticence. We are always in need of people like you, Julian. It would be an honor to have you join us.”

I stared at him, stunned. Join the Blades? Me? Am I good enough? I finally found my voice. “Uh, y- yes,” I stammered. “The honor would be mine, sir.”

“Good, then,” Jauffre nodded in satisfaction. He gestured at the Blades officer. “This is Captain Steffan. He is the officer in charge here. If you need anything, please go to him.”

Ahh, Paint's homecoming. I have been waiting for this. I always liked that scene, because of how it shows Paint is a character, rather than a mode of transportation.

This was one of my favorite lines from the game:
“After all that’s happened, I’m the Emperor here. I’m supposed to act like one, and I don’t even know how.” I like it because it shows Martin not as a one-dimensional superhero, but rather as a regular guy who has found himself thrust quite unwillingly into the boots of said superhero.

Just as importantly, I liked how Martin turns to Julian at the end. We see here that she is indeed the Son's Companion. She is the one he trusts most now, the one thing he knows he can always count on.

Now Julian is a Blade! I bet she never saw that coming when she was getting in fights with her brother! Or when she was in the Legion!

Woo update

I loved the description of cloud ruler in the mountains, you really bring that bit of the game to life. It never felt high to me in the game, but in that description I could feel the cold almost dry feel of thin air and see the shape of the mountains. It reminded me very much of a real place in the himalayas.

Again you managed a lot with the dialogue, if I recall that is along the lines of what is in game but altered slightly which I like, it gives the game a nod while keeping your characters different and setting them apart. It really worked well for showing Martin out of his depth and a little uncomfortable, then Julian feels similar. Excellent stuff.

The air drew colder around us. - I like the choice of 'drew', it has so much more than 'became'.

casting whispers into the farthest reaches - this really worked for me, lovely bit of description.

That is one of the scenes I love in the game, when they raise their Katanas in salute to Martin when he arrives at Cloud Ruler Temple - as you always do, (dare I use the word?) Awesome Write!

@SubRosa: Paint is a living, breathing character to me, and I'm glad my readers pick up on it as well. As for Martin's line after being hailed by the Blades (that's when it really hits home, I guess), that is one of my favorite lines, too. I think it really sums up his situation so well. And no, she never saw her acceptance into the Blades coming. It was not even a dream back when she was in the Legion. If only her brother could see her now!

@Olen: I do stick with the in-game dialogue a lot, but I'm glad that you are enjoying how I'm managing it. As for Cloud Ruler Temple, it is one of my favorite places in the game. Looks like you went higher than I ever did! I've been to Sante Fe, NM (7,000 feet), Hurricane Ridge in Olympic National Park (about 5,600 feet), and Going to the Sun in Glacier National Park (6,600 feet). You were in the Himalayas? I envy you - you definitely have the bragging rights!

@mALX: Thanks for the Awesome praise!

In this chapter Julian is introduced to life at Cloud Ruler Temple.

****************
Chapter 6.3 - Captain Steffan

Captain Steffan removed his helm as Jauffre walked away. He possessed Imperial features, but stood taller than most Imperial men. Intense blue eyes studied me from beneath level black brows. Close-cropped black hair with a shock of white above the left temple topped his head.

“Welcome to Cloud Ruler Temple, Julian,” he said in that rough voice. Why so rough? Old injury? Sore throat? “I know you’ve traveled a long way,” he continued. “Let me show you the barracks, the armory where you can keep your gear, and the dining hall where we share our meals.”

“What will be my duties here, sir?” I asked, looking around the plaza. Two Blades patrolled the outer walls, and I could see two more in the watchtowers above the gates. Another Blade stood guard beside the door to the Temple Hall.

“I’m sure Grandmaster Jauffre has something in mind for you,” Steffan responded, starting for the east wing. Falling into step beside him, I wondered what he meant. “For now, you can rest, repair your gear or replace it, and catch up on your food.” Again he gave me that assessing glance, making me aware of my thinness. “Grandmaster said you were pretty gaunt,” he continued, “but it looks like you’re making up for it.”

He’s right, I admitted with some surprise. This cuirass isn’t fitting so loosely as it used to. Maybe it isn’t all gra-Sharob’s doing. “I’ve been trying to eat meat once a day, like the Grandmaster told me to do,” I answered. Steffan nodded, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Ah, yes, Grandmaster would tell you that,” he commented. He directed my attention to the two Blades trading blows with their weapons in a square of sand. “Personally, I think there’s nothing like using your muscles to build them up.”

One of them wielded the same two-handed blade that Jauffre carried. “What is that blade, sir?” I asked, indicating the taller of the two Blades. “I have never seen the like of it before. It’s almost like a claymore, but so much lighter.”

“Aye, it is lighter than a steel claymore,” the captain agreed. “That is an Akaviri dai-katana, the big cousin to the katana most of us carry. Very few of us use it - it takes a great degree of skill and strength to wield it effectively. That’s Fortis, and Baragon is the only other Blade to carry it.” Catching my eye, he jerked his head toward the sunken stairway leading down to a door in the east wing. “We have one available in the armory, if you’re interested in it.”

“Certainly, sir, I’d like to see it,” I turned away from the practice sands and followed the tall captain. A wide brazier set at one side of the main steps fended off the chill with a merry crackle as we passed it. Steffan opened the door and waved for me to step inside.

A short passageway led straight ahead to a dogleg up to an upper level, a wooden railing separating it from the entry level. “Up there, that’s the dining hall. You’ll find provisions, and we eat here.” Steffan explained. “Most of us are on rotating schedules, but we try to gather for dinner, with just a couple out on the walls. When we are on combat footing, though, it’s fend for yourself time.”

“Grab whatever grub we can get when we can get it?” I commented. “Makes sense.” Directly to my left, a truncated stairway led down to another door, beneath the dining hall floor. The captain preceded me down the steps.

“This is the armory,” he said, leading me within. The sounds of clashing metal on wood ceased as I followed him. “Hello, Ferrum,” he greeted the young Blade standing at the training dummy, his katana lowered toward the floor. Ferrum wiped the sweat from his brow with his ungloved left hand. “This is Julian,” Steffan continued. “She’s our most recent Blade-sister.”

“Sir,” Ferrum gave the captain a short nod, then regarded me with black eyes. “Hail, sister,” he greeted me, barely winded. “Welcome to Cloud Ruler Temple.”

“Thanks, - brother,” I responded. The dark-haired Breton smiled at me, then glanced at Steffan.

“As you were, Ferrum,” the captain answered the unspoken question with quiet humor. The Breton turned away and started slashing again at the wooden dummy. Steffan led me to the rear of the underground chamber. A smith’s forge sat in a corner, its fire banked. Along the wall next to it, several blades rested in a weapons rack. At the opposite wall, shelves held long, narrow chests.

Steffan regarded the chests for a few moments, then knelt and selected one that sat on the floor. Swinging the lid open, he stepped back. “Here, you can use this one for your gear,” he explained. “Whatever you don’t need while you’re here.”

Thankfully, for the pack was pulling at my spine, I lowered the bag into the locker. The container was long, long enough for weapons, as well. I unloaded the bow and quiver, and laid the two swords I had brought - Hero of Kvatch and Daedra Slayer, within the box. The katana in my left hand, I closed the lid and pushed it back under the shelves.

After I buckled the new weapon to my waist, I followed the captain to the center of the long room. He opened a weapons cabinet, similar to the one at Weynon Priory, and drew out a dai-katana. The slender blade sang slightly as he unsheathed it and handed the hilt to me.

Slightly longer than my new katana, with a two-handed grip, the weapon was heavier and felt sturdier. Still, it felt much lighter than the steel claymore I remembered from my Legion days. Steffan stepped back to give me room as I hefted the dai-katana thoughtfully.

“Its speed and reach are the same as a katana’s, and most longswords,” the captain commented. “But its balance is more like a claymore, and it does more damage for its weight, like a claymore.” He turned his head to the side. “Ferrum.” The younger Blade stopped and turned to give me a little more space.

With the hilt in both of my hands, I could feel the meaning of Steffan’s words. The balance was indeed different than a longsword’s. As the blade swished through the air in a figure eight, I could feel the speed in its movement, but its weight caused my shoulders to tighten after a few circuits. “Yes, sir, I see what you mean,” I said after a moment. Handing the blade back to the captain, I shook my head. “I think I’ll stick with the katana, thanks.”

“You may be tall, Julian,” Steffan slid the elegant blade home in its sheath, “but even I don’t handle it all that well. It takes much practice and strength to handle a blade such as this.” He placed it back in the weapons cabinet. I studied the pieces of armor on the shelves as Ferrum returned to his exercises.

The captain selected one of the distinctive Dragonscale cuirasses worn by the Blades and held it up in front of me, visually measuring it against my torso. “This may fit you, if you would like to wear it.”

Taking the armor, I nearly dropped it when Steffan released its unexpected weight into my hands. Gods! Have I really lost so much of my strength? I held it up with a twinge of regret. It was beautiful, with brass buckles fastening the segmented body plates, blue enamel and brass medallions on the pauldrons, and a stiff leather collar lined with softer kidskin. “Am I supposed to wear this, sir?” If the answer is yes, I’m in big trouble.

The captain took it back. “No, most of our agents do not wear the armor,” he said, replacing the cuirass in the cabinet. “And that’s what I think Grandmaster Jauffre has in mind for you.”

“Agent?” I repeated, looking down at my leather cuirass.

“Most Blades work undercover,” Steffan explained, leading me out of the armory. As I passed Ferrum, he sent me a farewell glance without breaking his rhythm. “There are actually few of us who wear the armor,” the captain continued as we headed to the dining hall. “The garrison here at Cloud Ruler Temple, and the Emperor’s personal bodyguard.”

“Like Baurus?” I asked. Steffan nodded. Limping after him, I smelled smoked boar and roast mutton. My stomach growled, and the captain glanced back at me. Mortified, I returned his gaze sheepishly.

Without pause, he scooped an apple off a table and tossed it back to me. “I’ll show you the rest of the Temple, then you can come back here and get some more grub,” he said with a lopsided smile. “In the meantime, enjoy.”

Without hesitation, I bit into the apple as I hobbled through the upper door into the central Hall. Steffan led me to the center of the immense space. Heat from the enormous fireplace against the north wall caressed my right cheek. My leather boots thudded softly on the wide floorboards. Around me, the post-and-timber construction led my eyes upwards to the clerestory windows near the peak of the roof, which let morning light into the space and made the roof appear to be floating above the walls. That morning light shimmered on the argent blades of katanas hung along the rafters down each side of the long Hall.

“This is the Hall of Blades,” Steffan gestured at the katanas. “Here we honor the fallen.” With a touch on my shoulder, he turned me to face the fireplace, and showed me two weapons hanging by themselves above the hearth. “Those belong to Captain Renault and Glenroy. I believe you knew them.”

Choking down the bite of apple, I nodded. “Only for the briefest of moments,” I answered. “Glenroy was brave - and angry.”

“Yes, I can understand that,” Steffan’s rough voice became very quiet. “Baurus reported that by the time the three of them reached your cell with the Emperor, they were the only Blades left of the Imperial Bodyguards. Even the ones guarding the princes fell during the assassinations.”

“All of them?” I shot a glance at the captain, but his gaze was on the two lone katanas. “All but Baurus?” At his nod, I looked down at the apple in my hand. “I know how that feels,” I muttered.

Why so rough? Old injury? Sore throat?
Perhaps like Shelby Foote, too many cigars and mint juleps while sitting on the back porch...

A good piece-o-chapter, establishing not only the physical space of Cloud Ruler Temple, but also introducing us to many of the Blades, now Julian's sisters in arms.