Hi all: Thanks for reading and commenting on the last chapter.

As for the screenshot, I tried gpstr's trick, and it looks quite a bit better, though not quite what I had in mind.

Kirk Douglas or Charleston Heston as Julian's father? Hmmm, not.

Everyone seems surprised by the eye color. I had mentioned it (if only in passing) in chapter 2.1:

Now I would prefer to tone the lightness down a bit, but the game does not let me tinker with it so much. And now, the more I look at it, the more I like it. It does show up in high contrast with the dark skin, though.

Destri, I'm glad the screenshot doesn't disappoint.

mALX, Julian is outmatched by the competition (Maxical, Shivani, and that sizzler of a black Khajiit)! Still, I'm glad you think so!

On to the next chapter in Julian's saga:

*****************
Chapter 3.4 The Refugee Camp

Paint paced nervously at my shoulder as I led him up the slope toward the campfires at the base of the mesa. His breath blew hard on my shoulder and cheek.

All the way from Chorrol, he had been an easy ride, ambling up and down twisting, curving paths, cantering easily on level ground. His ability to detect enemies was more sensitive than mine, and I had quickly learned to rely on him to warn me of opponents on the road ahead.

But as we had approached Kvatch after our overnight stay at a bandit camp outside Skingrad, Paint had become more and more jittery. Even joining a Legion rider for part of the way had not calmed him down. The roiling thunderstorm I could see above Kvatch’s walls had not helped matters, either. Though the sky was overcast, and a light rain drizzled down, that clot of blood-black clouds over blackened city walls had only increased our mutual feeling of dread.

When the panicked Altmer had run down the road toward us, waving his hands and screaming, “Run, run while you can!” - Paint had nearly jumped out of his skin. The Altmer had disappeared behind us by the time I dismounted the trembling horse.

Ahead, we approached a cluster of small campfires, some with tents around them, others showing only huddled bodies. The rain increased, until both Paint and I were soaked.

Three children, covered in soot and blood, watched me numbly as I passed them. One girl, an Imperial, had tears tracing white paths down her cheeks. A small Dunmer boy curled next to her, his head in her lap. A slightly older Altmer girl had her arms about the Imperial.

At the next campfire, an old man, a Breton by his slight frame, lay shaking on a rough bedroll, moaning. He held his shattered left arm, the ends of bone poking through a mess of flesh and skin, close to his ribs. His eyes stared unblinking at the sky above, heedless of the rain. A young Redguard woman covered him with a tattered blanket before looking up at me, despair in her dark eyes.

By Akatosh, what happened here? Who are all these people? Pausing in the center of the plateau, formerly a hayfield, I looked around, trying to find someone who was somewhat coherent. Seeing only fear, desperation, and shock in the faces around me, I limped on, following the road towards the mountain. Behind me, the moaning faded away. Looking back, I saw the young Redguard woman rise to her feet and wander away, her face turned to the ground at her feet.

“I lost everything,” the hoarse voice sounded at my left shoulder. Paint flinched and snorted as I stopped to look at the tall Nord woman. Covered in soot, her once-fine blue velvet dress dragging over the trampled grass, her hair straggling from a bun that was coming apart, she was still beautiful in her despair. “I’m just tired, really,” she said to me. “I can’t face it anymore. You picked a bad time to visit Kvatch, ma’am.”

“Who are all these people?” I asked, waving my hand at the campfires.

“What’s left of Kvatch,” the woman said bitterly. “Everyone else is dead.”

“Now, Sigrid,” a man’s voice reached us. A Redguard joined us, standing between me and the Nord woman. “We don’t know that for certain.” He looked at me. “I’m Boldon, traveler, and this is Sigrid. She’s an alchemist.”

“I was,” she corrected. “Now I’m nothing. I lost all my equipment, my ingredients, up there.”

Where is Martin in all this? Whatever happened here, it didn’t kill him, did it? “I’m Julian, from Anvil. Can you tell me what happened here?”

“Something, a Gate to Oblivion, I think it’s called,” Boldon began, then faltered, uncertain eyes on me. Gaining courage from my nod, he continued, “it opened late last night while we were all asleep. They had a siege engine that came through the walls. It blasted us all with fire, burned the whole city. Most of us were killed, and the few that are left -” he waved his hand expressively at the campfires scattered across the hayfield.

“If you don’t believe him,” Sigrid spoke defensively, “go see for yourself!”

Thinking of the memories of blood and fire that had haunted me the past two nights, I met Sigrid’s blue gaze. “I believe Boldon, and you, too.” Glancing back at the refugees, I took a deep breath. “There’s the evidence right there.” Just like the aftermath on the battlefield. The blood, the smell of death and dying, the sounds of pain and agony. I looked back at the two survivors. “It looks bad from here.”

“You think that’s bad?” Sigrid’s tone became less angry, more weary. “It’s worse up there, believe me.”

“Savlian Matius is up there,” Boldon added. “With what’s left of the Guard. He’s holding the road, keeping the daedra from overrunning us here. But once the Guard gives way -”

“I came here for Martin,” I met Boldon’s gaze. “He is a priest of Akatosh. Did he survive this?”

“I’m not sure,” Boldon and Sigrid exchanged glances. He looked back at me, his expression guarded. “The last I saw of him, he was leading a few citizens into the Chapel. I don’t know if he is still alive. Savlian may know.”

Cacat! If he’s dead, who is left to re-light the Dragonfires? “He didn’t make it down here?” I asked, looking from Boldon to Sigrid. Again, they exchanged looks, then shook their heads.

I unslung my pack from my shoulder, hanging it over the cantle. Reaching in, I drew out the mutton and the vegetables I had scrounged from the bandit camp. I handed them to Boldon, along with the remaining food Jauffre had packed for me two days ago. “I know this isn’t much,” I said to him. “But you’ve got to get these people fed. They need food in a bad way.”

My fingers felt the mortar and pestle, caught at them. I handed them to Sigrid. “Here, you know how to use this better than I do.” Pressing my collection of ingredients at her, I caught the astounded looks on their faces. “I’ve got to go up there,” I continued, detaching the steel bow stave, a gift from a dead bandit, from the pack. Tucking the coiled bow strings into my belt pouch, I slung the quiver over my shoulder. “I cannot give up looking for Martin as long as there is a chance he is still alive.”

Boldon stopped me before I picked up Paint’s rein. “Don’t take your horse up there,” he warned me, his eyes grim. “What’s up there -” he shook his head, “your horse is jittery enough as it is.” He pointed out a small open area to the west of the camp. “I’ll put him there, make sure he has water. There’s grazing for him.”

Regarding him silently, I considered the options. These people are desperate. If they get hungry, what’s to keep them from slaughtering Paint? I had seen enough refugee camps to know the depths to which people could fall. On the other hand, it would be cruel to force him to go up there with me. Paint regarded me with wide brown eyes, his ears pointed at me. He’s scared enough as it is. He never asked to be in this situation.

“He’s not my horse, Boldon,” I said quietly, putting as much strength as possible into my voice. “He was entrusted to me, and as such, I’m responsible for his welfare.”

“I will care for him myself, until you return, Julian,” Boldon assured me. Regarding his open, honest expression, I made my decision. Patting Paint on his curved neck, I leaned to his ear.

“Go with Boldon, friend, and wait for me.” Handing the rein to Boldon, I let my hand move along Paint’s body as he followed Boldon away.

Checking to make sure my longsword was secured on my belt, I strung the bow, then started for the road switchbacking up the mountain. Sigrid turned to watch me go. “I hope you find Martin, Julian,” she called after me.

You describe the camp well. It always seemed to clean and clinical in game, not nearly as desperate as such a place would be. I like how you add the emotion and realism which is often absent while playing into your writing.

I like this piece and look forward to reading the next part.

I always liked the people running down the path when you first come to Kvatch (when you take the road at least).

Like Olen, I enjoyed your description of the camp, especially the shock and despair of the survivors. Having read OHDH before, I now paid more attention to the three children Julian sees when she first rides in.

I think this was your first use of this lovely word to bypass swear filters:
Cacat!
I always liked that inventiveness. It not only fixes the problem of censors, but also adds flavor to the story at the same time.



nits:
This line makes it sound more like Julian is there to kill Martin then rescue him:
“I have to be sure Martin is dead before I can give up.”
Perhaps saying something like:
“I cannot give up as long as there is a chance Martin is alive.”

Awesome writing in this chapter.


You are breaking my heart with that one Hauty.

And when Hirtel scared him on the road leading up to Kvatch I was ready to chase that low-life down the road. How dare he scare my lovable Paint.

SOMEBODY (no names mentioned, COUGH, COUGH) seems to think my comments are annoying and tactless!

That aside, I love the job you did on this and the upcoming segments in Kvatch - although I am not going to use a seven letter word that starts with A as I have been told it is the adolescent poundings of a...

*

But EYE can do it, since I have now preventerd HER (no names COUgH CoUgH, SHALL BE MENTIONED, AHEM mALX) from doing so...


A.W.E.S.O.M.E!!!

DOUBLE

The tension in this chapter has been drawn out almost as much as mALX’s resentment over being called tactless and annoying (nobody really thinks you are, mALX, despite your best efforts! ).

The ‘blood black clouds’ really serve to set the mood for the refugee camp, and act as an apt (five ‘a’ words in a row = alliteration) metaphor for what Julian is about to face.

Paint continues to be one of the most vivid characters dreamed up in any fan-fic. His reaction when Hirtel came running out of the camp was just great. The only thing missing was for him to turn that giant head of his, look at Julian, and say,

Cacat!

Have you changed things? I have the distinct impression you made some changes or added somethings to the first chapter (that's as far as I got today)
Anyway; I dropped in to say I loved it, whether or not is's been changed from what I read in that other forum

Yay Julian!

@Olen: I've read waaaay too many war stories to not mention the grisly side of combat and the effects on the noncombatants. I agree that this gets glossed over too much in the game, but since it's PG-13, unfortunately it's necessary. Those of us who know better can fill in the blanks.

@SubRosa: Part of the fun of posting on a PG-13 forum, as I was saying to a friend at work this morning, is that I have to think up creative swearing. It is actually quite interesting to see what passes the filters and what doesn't. Doesn't always make sense, but there you have it. And I fixed your nit - good point about semantics.

@Winter Wolf: It's nice to know that Paint has his own adoring fan. Horses are actually very sensitive to the emotions of people around them - it's one of the things that make them amazing animals. They are highly social, so that helps.

@mALX: I never said you were annoying, just the poetry written by certain people! But then, I'm not a big fan of poetry. Some I like, and some I'm just

@D.Foxy: Does that mean you're an adolescent pounding . . . I'll let you fill in the blank.

@Destri: My old mare liked to pretend she was a spooky girl. She did jump out of her skin once and bolted on me when a deer came out of the trees behind us. To this day I still don't understand how I managed to stay in the saddle! Paint has a lot of her characteristics - she was my first horse and took care of me in many ways. I still miss her. Writing Paint is my way of honoring her memory.

@Remko: I've polished up a few things here and there, but little really in the way of drastic rewrites. I'm glad you liked this so far. I'm enjoying your own two stories myself!

I'm sure those of you who have read this before are hopping to get into action. For all of you, here it comes.

******************
Chapter 3.5 Matius and the Great Gate

The rain turned heavier as I hiked up the steep road. Above, the sky grew darker, more forbidding. Beneath the thunder, I started hearing an unholy shrieking, like a horde of tortured souls screaming their agony to Nirn. My breath started puffing in the cooling air as I trudged higher, higher, up that escarpment.

Finally I saw something ahead, something other than bare rocks and scorched tree trunks. A rough barricade was thrown across the road at the top of the slope, where it leveled out onto the top of the mesa. A scattering of soldiers stood along it, once-white surcoats smudged with soot, blood, and other things. Their shoulders were slumped, and a couple of them swayed on their feet.

Now I could hear something else beneath the thunder and the screaming of souls. A crackling, buzzing sound set my teeth on edge, and made the small hairs on my neck stand up beneath my soggy ponytail. As my head reached the level of the mesa, the sight that met my eyes bought me to a stunned halt.

A hot wind blew in my face, causing the rain to disappear into steam. On the mesa, Kvatch’s broken, burned walls rose behind an ovate lens of fire and sizzling energy. Black, blood-stained tusks rose around it, some propping the flames up, others serving as grounding rods for the red lightning that flew off the Gate at irregular intervals. It seemed to suck the life out of its surroundings.

Creatures began appearing out of that inferno, naked male creatures with stringy muscles, monkey-like faces and pointed ears. Scamps! Damn! As the bare-headed soldier shouted orders, the men sprang to action, some slower than others. Two archers started firing arrows, while the others ran through the barricades to tackle the scamps.

Drawing my longsword, I shouldered my bow, its string loosened, and limped forward as fast as I could. Pausing behind the archers, I counted swiftly. Eight scamps against four swordsmen. The daedra were forming fireballs and flinging them with deadly accuracy at the mailed soldiers. As I moved through the barricade, I could hear bowstrings twanging madly. Hobbling toward the nearest scamp, I came up behind him and struck him in the side. His screech, too high pitched to hear, nevertheless drowned out the roaring of the Gate for a brief moment. He turned for me, but the guardsman he had been attacking swooped in and stabbed the scamp in the lower back.

As the scamp slid off the other’s blade, the guardsman shot a puzzled look at me, then ran to take on another scamp. Following as quickly as I could, I came under fire from another of the daedra. I dodged the fireballs and turned for him. He tossed another fireball at me, then came running. Ducking the fiery missile, I shoved my shield into him, knocking him off balance. Closing with the staggering creature, I shoved the tip of my sword into his upper abdomen, twisting the blade as I did so, before stepping to my left and tearing the blade out his side. Intestines and blood trailed the tip of my blade as the scamp fell away.

Turning back to the melee, I found that while the numbers of scamps had decreased to three, so had the number of guardsmen, from four to three. The soldiers had drawn together into a defensive knot, their backs to each other, and faced the remaining scamps. Not a good idea. They can’t duck those fireballs. For the moment, the scamps were focused on the three guardsmen. As I had done before, I hobbled behind the nearest one and stabbed him in the kidney. Now the odds are better. The men separated, going after the remaining two scamps. In a flurry of steel, almost too fast for my eye to follow, the three succeeded in finishing off the last of the daedra.

The bare-headed soldier, apparently the commander, spotted me, and said something to the guardsman I had assisted earlier. He shrugged in response, and knelt beside the fallen man. Shaking his head at the commander, he waved the other swordsman to help him carry the body to the barricades. The commander stalked up to me, sheathing his sword when I put mine away.

“Who in Oblivion are you?” he demanded once he was within earshot. His square face, which would have been boyish if not for the exhaustion and pain, scowled at me.

“I’m Julian, from Anvil,” I answered. “I came here -”

“You don’t belong here,” he cut me off. His brown eyes were cold on mine. “I don’t care if you carry a frickin’ daedric claymore, you’re not one of us!” He jabbed a gauntleted finger at the barricades. “Get back there, now!”

I stood my ground, my need to find Martin warring with my natural inclination to obey a commanding officer. “Sir, are you Savlian Matius?”

“Yes, I am!” he growled, but I saw he was swaying on his feet. Younger than I expected, the strain around his eyes belied the weight on his wide shoulders.

“Then maybe you can help me, sir,” I said, turning for the barricades. Now is not the time for a pissing contest.

“Help you?” Matius returned, his voice quieter now. “What makes you think I can help you? I can’t even help my own people!” he stabbed his hand at the Gate behind us.

“I’m looking for someone, I’m hoping he’s one of the survivors, sir,” I said when we reached the barricades.

“Did you look down in the camp?” Matius shot a glare at the Gate.

“I talked to Boldon, he said Martin might be in the Chapel. He told me you would know.”

Matius turned to look at me, and now I could see the despair he refused to show his men. “Know? Me?” he shook his head. “I know nothing.” Regarding him thoughtfully, I considered what approach to take with him.

“You know something, sir,” I said finally. “What do you know?”

“What do I know?” Matius’s anger flared up again. “I know we failed to protect the city. It was too much, too damned fast. We couldn’t get everyone out in time -” he stopped suddenly, straightening up and turning away from me, staring at the slice of Oblivion crackling before the smashed gates of Kvatch.

I stepped close behind him, so I could speak into his ear without the men overhearing me. “Sir, you’ve never seen anything like this before. By Akatosh, I’ve never seen anything like this, and I’ve been around the provinces. What could you do, what can you do?”

“The only thing we can,” he answered grimly. “Hold these barricades as long as we can.”

“And when the last one of you falls, what then?” I asked. His head snapped around at me.

“Do you think I don’t want to do something about that?” he snarled, punching his fist at the Gate. “My damn home is in flames, and I can’t do anything about it! But we can’t leave the barricades until that damned Gate is closed!”

“And how do you close it?” I asked him. He shook his head, turning to face me.

“It’s some kind of portal to Oblivion. The daedra are using it to attack the city. I’m not sure how it can be closed. There were three smaller Gates that opened just before this one,” he jerked his head backwards at the Gate. “They closed once the Great Gate was open, so I assume this can be closed the same way.” His eyes shifted. “I sent six men in there several hours ago, but they haven’t come back. And I can’t spare any more -” he waved at the four men standing behind the barricades. “I’ve got ten men down in the encampment, badly wounded, maybe dead by now.”

Stepping past Matius, I studied the Gate. “Your men went in there?” I said. If they went in there, then they should be coming out. But if they close that Gate, can they come back out?

“I fear the worst for them,” Matius was saying. Tears were in his eyes when I glanced back over my shoulder at him.

Ach, what else is there to do? If Martin’s still alive, as a priest, he probably won’t leave his flock, as long as this thing is open. What to do? Eliminate the source. How? Something shifted in my gut, just below my breastbone. Close shut the jaws of Oblivion.

“I will go in there,” I found my mouth saying, before my mind could stop it. Me? In there? Am I crazy? But it has to be done. It needs to be done.

“You?” Matius stepped in front of me, blocking my way. “It can mean your death if you go in there.”

Holding his steady gaze for a few moments, I looked away and stepped past him, through the barricades, and started limping toward that ovate fire.

“Julian!” Matius called after me. “Good luck to you! It’s a brave thing you’re doing!”

Brave? Me? I’m all jelly inside. I straightened my back and kept limping.

I have read it before, but I was not hopping to get into the action. That is just me though, I am weird.

I liked your truly horrific description of the gate and its surroundings. The shrieking, lightning, hot wind, etc... It really sets the mood.

This I liked too. The serpent in Julian's gut speaking:
Something shifted in my gut, just below my breastbone. Close shut the jaws of Oblivion.

But especially this:
Brave? Me? I’m all jelly inside. I straightened my back and kept limping.
Nothing like honesty.

Adolescent poundin (a pudding).

There. I filled in your....er...er...blank.

Still find myself riveted to the page on this one!

I just got caught up in your story and I love it so far! I like the choice of character. Normally I see ones that are pretty young and fit. I can see a lot of creativeness on how she gets through certain parts of the game coming up. Great job!

Er...is that a chocolate pudding?

No, m'dear.

'Tis the pudding sweet
which adolescent boy's meat
Ever, 'n ever wishes to meet
in a place discrete...

..and in tryst complete
he hopes to (censor delete)
an delicious reproductive feat
To know more - you, me Tweet!!!

This is one of my favorite chapters. From the description of the gate, to the depiction of the battle with the scamps, to Julian’s subtle ‘handling’ of Savlian Matius in the aftermath (do I detect a subtle dig at the malleability of men-folk in there?). Everything just works in this chapter.

I like how Julian questions whether the men that Savlian sent in can get out in the unlikely event that they succeed in closing the gate. It really underscores her decision to go in there herself.



Just a question, though: If the scamp’s screech is too high pitched to hear, how can it drown out the roaring of the gate?

@ SubRosa, mALX1, D.Foxy: thanks for the comments.

@ Jacki: Welcome to Julian's story! I'm glad you're liking this so far. You're not the only one to comment on Julian's age and condition. She is not the first "older" character I've written; as a matter of fact, most of my characters in other fiction are in their 30's and 40's. That doesn't mean I don't enjoy younger characters, like Teresa and Buffy, et. al - they are terrific stories because they are told well. I hope you continue to enjoy reading Julian's story - there's quite a bit to come yet!

@ Destri: I'm glad you liked this chapter, and the interaction between Julian and Matius. I wrote it more as an experienced NCO "handling" a green lieutenant more than a man-on-woman thing. But I'm glad you picked up on the subtlety of that conversation.

The first Gate is always a memorable one, like your first kiss, your first, well, you know. The first time I played the Kvatch Gate, I was a nervous wreck the whole time, and hours later, when I finally got out of there, I just felt drained. That feeling is what I've been able to give Julian when I wrote this chapter.

******************
Chapter 4.1 The Kvatch Gate

A moment of disorientation, a red flash, then I found myself in a totally strange environment. Red sky, red rocks, boiling red lava, even the wind was red. It felt like Morvayn’s smithy, only a thousand times more so. The heated air robbed me of breath. The Gate stood behind me, my link back to a normal world.

Down a rocky slope in front of me, I spotted the surcoat of a Kvatch guardsman as he battled a scamp, fending off fireballs with his shield. Locating one of the fireball throwers, I moved forward to lend the soldier my blade. The scamp spun toward me as I neared him, hissing as he slashed his clawed hand at my face. Swinging the edge of the shield, I hit him hard in the nose, sending him reeling back. I followed, ignoring the pain in my knee, and slid my sword into his bony chest. After sweeping the tip of the sword across the inside of his rib cage, I stepped back, withdrawing the blade. The soldier finished off his scamp, then we were clear. For the moment.

The soldier turned to me. “By the Nine, I thought I’d never see a friendly face again!” he panted, sheathing his sword. Doing the same with mine, I wiped the sweat off my face. “But who are you?”

“I’m Julian, from Anvil,” I answered. “Where are the others? Matius told me there were six.”

He shook his head, looking around at the hostile environment, swaying with exhaustion. “Ilend Vonius,” he responded. “They ambushed us,” he pointed toward a closed pair of tall metal gates. “They trapped us on that bridge, picked us off one by one.” He looked back at me. “I escaped, and have been fighting daedra since. I can’t find another way across, though.” Now his brown eyes sharpened on me. “Matius is still alive?”

“Yes,” I answered. “You’re the only one left alive?”

“I saw them taking Menien Goneld prisoner,” he winced. “They took him to that big tower,” he waved at the tall tower barely visible beyond the war gates. He looked me up and down thoughtfully. “I should go and report to Matius, but if he sent you here, maybe we should stick together . . .”

Don’t tempt me. You’re exhausted. You’re more of a liability than my knee is right now. “Matius needs you more on the barricades than I do here.” Again my words surprised me.

“Thanks!” Vonius responded. “I’ll see you again when the Gate is closed. Best of luck!” He ran to the portal and disappeared. I took a deep breath against my audacity. I would have liked his company.

********************
Only one door unlocked, I looked around the hall again. The great tower that Vonius had pointed out had been the most difficult part so far, with the constant roar of that pillar of fire running up the center of the keep, and the dremoras and daedra infesting the passages and side halls.

Only the amazing magicka founts and the blood wells had kept me going. Slinking along the walls, hugging the shadows, I had crept ever higher and higher. My feet hurt, my throat burned, and my knee threatened to down me for good. My right shoulder ached where a fireball had hit me - twice.

Three doors led off this side hall, but only one was unlocked in the outer wall. Cautiously, I opened the door and peered out. A narrow bridge, high above the ground, connected the main keep with one of the smaller towers I had noticed from outside.

Akatosh! That’s a damned long way down! Forcing my eyes up from the vertiginous drop, I looked across the bridge at the smaller tower. Maybe the key to those doors is in there. Having nowhere else to go at the moment, I crept across the spindly bridge. Akatosh, don’t let any of those creatures find me here!

Fortunately the door opening into the smaller tower was unlocked, and I escaped into the relatively cooler interior. This tower had no central pillar of fire, and was quieter as well. A ramp spiraled up its inner walls from below. A guttural voice sounded above, and another, this one human, responded in pain. Torture? Menien Goneld? I crept up the ramp, making sure of each step before putting my weight on it.

I saw a glass floor at the top of the spiraling ramp, a glass dome above it, showing nothing but red, red sky. Corpses dangled down the center of the keep, suspended by chains from the floor. Thunder from outside shook the stone of the tower and vibrated through the scorched soles of my feet.

Nearing the dome, I could make out a cage suspended just above the glass floor. A man crouched within, stripped to his undergarments with blood splattered on his bruised and fair skin. His voice was angry, despairing. A tall dremora spoke to him in an interrogatory tone. Slowing down at the top of the ramp, I held my shield and sword ready. Waiting until the dremora was facing away from me, I stepped onto the floor. In spite of my caution, the glass surface thrummed under my feet, and the dremora spun around. He immediately approached me, his posture threatening.

“You should not be here, mortal,” his voice had an odd inflection, like stones tumbling down a long mountainside. “Your blood is forfeit, your flesh mine!” His mace swung for my head, trailing clotted blood and gore. Stumbling to my right, I came up hard against the side of the dome. The horned head of the daedric weapon snagged the edge of my shield, wrenching it down and twisting my elbow.

Bent off balance by the weight of the mace, I brought my right arm over and sought the gap between the churl’s pauldron and cuirass. The tip of the blade slipped between the metal pieces and bit into something soft. Twisting my body to face the churl, now starting to recover from his swing, I reversed my grip on the hilt. Raising it, I pivoted it around the tip in the other’s shoulder, and drove the blade in a downward angle as far as it would go. It sank in half its length before the end struck something hard.

Slipping the shield straps onto my wrist, I seized the guard in both hands and twisted it in place, causing the blade to tear through flesh and sinew. The dremora screeched, the sound almost too high-pitched to hear. He turned into me, his right arm useless, and punched me to the floor with his left hand. I hung on grimly to the hilt of my sword, which slid out of the churl’s body.

Scrambling backwards across the glass floor, I managed to raise my sword at him. The top of my back, where his blow had landed, screamed with the effort. The churl stumbled toward me, his mace dropping from nerveless fingers, blood seeping out of his right armpit, and red foam appearing at his mouth. He fell forward, and his great bulk struck the cage and set it swinging wildly.

The prisoner inside shouted as the iron enclosure tossed him from side to side. Struggling to my feet, I managed to catch the thing and bring it to a stop, though it nearly threw me off my feet. Panting, I managed to sheath my sword as the injured man subsided into moaning.

“Menien Goneld?” I asked, scanning the frame for a way to open it. He became quiet, and I glanced at him to see his eyes steady on me.

“Did you get the key?” he asked, pain making his voice ragged.

“There is a key?” I asked. “I can’t get any higher in that big tower, I need a key.”

“He has the key!” Goneld pointed at the churl I had just killed. “He’s the sigil keeper. Take his key, get to the top of the main keep, and take the stone. It’s the stone that’s keeping the Gate open!”

Limping to the churl, I knelt stiffly beside him and searched his corpse. A ring of keys dangled from a loop on his armor, at his waist. Getting the ring off took a couple of tries, but I managed in spite of my shaking fingers. Returning to the cage, I looked at the keys. Let’s see if one of these unlocks the cage. I’ve got to get Goneld out of this!

The injured Imperial shook the cage violently, catching me in the face and causing me to drop the keys. His desperate gaze met mine.

“You do not have the time,” he rasped. “Leave me! Hurry!”

Staring at him, stunned, I realized he was right. I can’t leave him here in this place, but he’ll only slow me down. He knows it. I know it. I could see encroaching death in his face. Stepping back, I drew my sword and swept the blade into vertical before my face, in the salute accorded only to Legion officers. Courage showed in Goneld’s gaze as I picked up the keys and returned to the ramp.

The Kvatch Gate. That one always seemed the hardest, because you never know what to expect. You do a good job of keeping the story moving by skipping over every minute fight in the struggle. That would get boring quick. Instead you present us with the high points, and indicate what a long road it is has been for Julian to get even that far.

Good descriptions as well, of the redness everywhere, the heat, the roar of flame in the main tower, etc... You really transport us into this corner of Oblivion. It makes me glad I have the windows open!


nits:
glass floor.A man
I think a Daedra ate the space after your period above.

The way the man shook the cage at the end was perfect, a splash of water in the face that made Julian face up to the reality of the situation. I can just imagine the dawning look of horror on both their faces as they were forced to part. Awesome write!!

“You should not be here, mortal,” his voice had an odd inflection, like stones tumbling down a long mountainside.
Perfect use of description here. We all can relate to the sound of the churl.

A man
I think a Daedra ate the space after your period above.




And I though humans were perverted...

What, you have never earned your red wings? Poor fellow. The blood is the life my friend.

GAAAAAK !!!


Great Write Hauty!

I always marvel at how swiftly Ilend Vonius bolts when you tell him it’s okay to leave. ‘Vapor trail’ doesn’t seem adequate to describe it.

And why, why, WHY didn’t the devs give us a way to save Menian? It seems a shame to sacrifice someone who has to be the bravest man in Tamriel.

@all: thanks for the ongoing support!

A warning about the upcoming chapter: Do not read this immediately before, during or immediately after meals, especially if you have a weak stomach for gore. I ought to get one of those surgeon general's warning labels for this one. Those of you who have read this before will remember why.

Chapter 4.2 Taking the Sigil Stone

Re-entering the central well of the keep, with its roaring, screeching pillar of fire, I nearly bumped into a scamp. He saw me before I could duck into the shadows. Too close to use his usual fireball spell, the creature leaped for me. His claws raked across my cuirass, tearing through the tough leather before I could raise my shield to bear.

Swinging the shield as hard as I could, I brought its edge down hard on the scamp’s arm before he could come back with another swipe. I felt the bone snap, and the daedra screamed, reeling back. Raising my right leg, I shoved my heel into his belly. The scamp staggered back, then flipped over the low iron railing that lined the spiral ramp.

The thin stone vibrated under my feet, and I looked up to see a dremora charging at me, his mace raised high. Managing to duck under his swing, I hobbled around to swing the iron blade outward across the unprotected back of his knees. Buckling to one side, he somehow brought the mace back and clipped my left hip. Pain exploded out of the old wound, and I spun away, to nearly meet the same fate as that scamp. Only by grabbing one of the clawed struts with my shield hand did I keep myself from going over that railing.

“Damn you, keister!” I shouted at the top of my lungs. My panic and terror tore out in a string of curses that would have turned my old pilus prior’s hair as white as my own. Feeling the heat build up in my right hand, I threw the sword at the dremora as he limped towards me. He batted the blade away and moved to give me the fatal blow. He was so close, I couldn’t miss his face with the fireball if I wanted to, and I didn’t.

The flames melted the red flesh off his head as he reeled back. Pulling myself forward off the railing, I half ran, half stumbled toward my sword, laying beside the door through which I had entered. Skidding to my knees and bracing my left arm against the wall, I grabbed the hilt and whipped it around at the dremora. He was kneeling, screaming that odd, almost soundless screech that temporarily blocked out all other noise, his hands still over his face. I limped up to him, and taking the hilt in both hands, swung the sword at his neck with all my remaining strength.

The sturdy iron blade smashed into his neck and bit into his spine, then jammed. The force of the blow knocked his bulk over to his left, dragging the sword, and me, with him. His sheer mass forced me onto my right knee, sending even more daggers of pain shooting into my thigh. Cacat!

Sitting on my right hip, I twisted the sword loose from the neck bones and set it down close to hand. Reaching into my belt pouch, I fumbled out the last vial of healing potion. Leaning back onto my right elbow, I looked up the central well of the keep, my eyes tracing that pillar of fire. Still a long ways to go. Yet there was no walking on this bum knee right now. Uncorking the little bottle, I choked down the vile liquid.

Waiting for the full effect of the potion, which wouldn’t be enough to fully counteract these injuries, I hoped it would at least let me function again. Picking up the sword, I crawled over to the dead churl. A quick search of his gear netted me a couple of lockpicks, some septims, and a piece of amber.

“Honey, run down to Felen, see if he has that order of daedra heart for me.” My mother’s voice snaked through my memory. “I’m getting low on the Fire of Life potions.”

Gingerly putting some weight on my knee, I fell back down to the floor. Ach, damn. Fumbling at the churl’s cuirass, I struggled to lift the heavy plate off of his chest. Settling for pushing it to the side, I drew my dagger. With the hilt in my right hand, and my left hand over the pommel, I drove it into the breastbone with as much of my weight as I could bear behind it. My left palm stung with the impact, but I felt a satisfying crack! as the sternum split into two.

Feeling it give under my fingers, I wrestled the knife out and used it to slice the flesh over the broken bone. Then I shoved the tip of the dagger back into the fracture, picked up the sword, and jammed the the iron blade next to the knife. The longer weapon gave me the leverage I needed to wedge the rib cage apart. Leaning my right hand on the sword kept the incision open. I picked up the dagger, which had fallen away, and reached into the chest cavity with the blade cupped in my left palm.

Using my fingers on either side of the small weapon, I located the heart, then the great vessels coming off of it. The dagger made short work of them. Then I peeled the heart out of its membranous sac, and pulled it from the chest cavity. The rib cage snapped shut with a thud when I withdrew the sword.

The heavy organ dripped clotted blood as I cradled it in my lap. Using the dagger, I sliced the muscular walls into thin sections, much like slicing a sweet bell pepper as my mother used to do. Closing my eyes, I popped one of the sections into my mouth and started chewing.

Almost immediately, I started gagging. Gods, this is awful! The meat was tough, gristly, and foul tasting. Part of the metallic taste was from the blood still coating the heart, but the meat itself was almost as vile. But the pain in my knee drove me to continue chewing. Finally I choked it down, fighting the increasing urge to vomit.

Waiting for a few moments, I regarded the remaining sections. Do I have to eat the whole thing? Wishing for my mortar and pestle, I took another piece and chewed it into submission. Fortunately, the pain subsided enough after it that I could stand up. Wrapping the remaining pieces of the heart into parchment, I slid the whole gory mess into my belt pouch and picked up my weapons. Sheathing the dagger, I limped up the ramp towards the top.

*******************
I reached the blood well with some relief. Extending my shaking right hand into its red fountain, I felt the healing surge through me. My strength restored, the pain in my left hip, right shoulder, and right knee damped down to more tolerable levels.

Limping to the double doorways that led into the central chamber, I realized I had finally reached my goal. Through the red dome that formed the floor of the immense room, the sigil fire punched upwards to something that hovered at its tip. That something glowed, throwing off sparks and red lightning bolts, and howling with the barely audible sound of tortured souls. The sigil stone!

Two ramps, formed of bloodstained talons, rose on either side of the chamber, meeting at a mezzanine that ringed the room. Another balcony, this a round one, jutted out above it, at the level of the sigil stone.

Assessing the room, noting the long sightlines from one side to the other, I sheathed my sword. A little archery would be good here. Tightening the string on my bow, I made it ready. Notching one of the steel-tipped arrows to the string, I moved to the ramp on my right. Slowly, feeling my way up the ramp step by step, I climbed until I could just see above the edge of the ring balcony.

Two more ramps, these made of a leathery material, connected the mezzanine with the round platform above. Two scamps patrolled the circular floor, dwarfed by the immense scale of the chamber. Neither seemed aware of my presence as I paused to watch their movements. Their patrol seemed confined to the base of the leather ramps, across the room from me.

Picking the scamp on the right to be the first, I sighted on him with the bow. I raised my aim point quite a few degrees above his head to allow for the greater distance and the slightly upward angle of my trajectory. He paused in his patrolling, and I loosed the arrow. Pulling another shaft out of my quiver, I watched the scamp stagger and turn in my direction. By the time he started forming his fireball, the second missile was already winging its way across the chamber into his abdomen.

The second scamp had moved behind the ramp, out of my sight. Limping quickly onto the balcony, I continued widdershins around the room, hugging the wall. He appeared past the base of the far ramp, pacing back towards his partner. He stopped at the sight of the corpse, and started scanning the chamber. Arrow already nocked to my string, I aimed and loosed it in a smooth movement. The bodkin tip slammed through the scamp’s bony chest, the shaft disappearing until only the fletching could be visible. The scamp stared down at the missile, then turned his face in my direction before falling backwards.

Drawing my sword, I hobbled to the first scamp. Dead as the Deadlands. Moving to the second, I found him in similar condition. Crouching at the base of the ramp, I looked up at the sigil stone. A shadow moved on the platform just past it. It seemed bigger. Dremora. Cacat! Those beings were more than I could handle. I had been lucky so far, but I knew I wasn’t strong enough for those oversized war machines.

Working my way up the ramp, crouching to keep my silhouette low, I nocked another arrow to the bow. The dremora was pacing restlessly from one side of the sigil platform to the other. He’s missing his minions. He stopped at the far side of the platform from me. Take him. Now.

In a smooth motion, I sighted on him. Calm came over me as my arms steadied, and my aim settled on that small space at the back of his left knee, where the armored greaves left a gap as large as my hand. Letting the arrow fly, I nocked a second arrow before checking to see if the first had flown true. The churl staggered as the bodkin point stabbed through his knee, felling him to a half-kneeling stance. He spun around, trying to stagger back to his feet, and my second arrow thunked home in his side. He went down instead of up, and stayed down. Drawing my sword as a precaution, I approached him cautiously, but the churl was dead.

Turning to the sigil fire, I walked up to it, to the very edge of the platform. The heat of the fire scorched my face and left hand as I reached for the stone. Taking a lung-searing breath, I cupped my fingers around the round thing and pulled it out of the fire. The stone pulsated in my hand, a high-pitched screeching emanating from it, yet it was comfortably warm to the touch. The unexpected sensations nearly caused me to drop it. I pulled it instead to my chest, behind my shield.

Fire exploded outward, flames swirling first red and orange, then turning through yellow to blinding white. The platform shifted beneath my feet, and I dropped into a crouch. Abruptly I could no longer feel solid ground under my soles.

Bleah! I didn't heed the warning, and should have remembered it, lol. HUGE details on this one, I love it in spite of my queasy stomach!

Nice update, I like the description of the Gate closing. It got the feel of it without taking too long and slowing things down.

I'm a little confused as to what she did with the dremora to get it's heart out though. I'd have thought it would be easier to attack the ribs where they join the sternum or even go up under the ribcage (they say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach) than going to the effort of breaking the sternum and prizing the ribcage open.

It was well done though, not too many details so I could fill in enough myself , and of course opening a ribcage is that bit nastier.

Nice piece.

I think this might be the first time we have seen this patented Julian move?
I hobbled around to swing the iron blade outward across the unprotected back of his knees.

This was an excellent way to seamlessly weave a description of your main character into the action:
that would have turned my old pilus prior’s hair as white as my own.

This is also an excellent way to show how Julian knows that she can use Daedra heart for alchemical healing:
“Honey, run down to Felen, see if he has that order of daedra heart for me.” My mother’s voice snaked through my memory. “I’m getting low on the Fire of Life potions.”
It also reminds me of hunting rituals, where a first time hunter eats the heart of their first kill, or at least has their blood smeared over their face.

The Witch in me loves this:
I continued widdershins around the room
It is not often I hear the word widdershins outside of Witchcraft!


Olen: I cannot speak for after someone is dead, but for open heart surgery the ribcage is cut in half right down the sternum to get at the heart. My brother had quintuple bypass surgery nearly two years ago, it has taken nearly this long for his sternum to heal again.

@ Olen:

Going up through the diaphragm (from the abdominal cavity) would make it more difficult to get the heart out in one piece. You're going in blind, and it would be easy to cut your fingers!

Doing necropsies (animal autopsies) back in vet school, we were taught to cut through the ribs parallel to the breastbone using bolt cutters (one of the most useful tools in the veterinarian's repertoire) and break the ribs back to expose the heart. That allows us to get it out intact. Of course, Julian doesn't carry bolt cutters with her!

Bashing the ribs next to the sternum would be okay, but time consuming. You've got to break at least five or six of them to fit a small hand through (the ribs are close together at the breastbone). It's also easier to cut your hands on the ends of the ribs when you reach in to get the heart out (shades of Indiana Jones!). Cracking the sternum lengthwise, however, would get all of those ribs out of your way, and you can use the sword blade to leverage the opening wider.

I suppose for the purposes of Alchemy, one doesn't need the heart whole, but it's easier to get it out whole, then cut it up into neat pieces for transporting (or chewing, as she did).

Gory enough?

Me see it before and me see it again
And second time around is better, by ten!!!


eees alll goooood!!!

The heavy organ dripped clotted blood as I cradled it in my lap. Using the dagger, I sliced the muscular walls into thin sections, much like slicing a sweet bell pepper as my mother used to do. Closing my eyes, I popped one of the sections into my mouth and started chewing.

Apart from the stories about Paint (which you already know I love more than anything else!!) this sentence was the one part over at Beth that blew me away. The way that you showed that Julian was not scared to get her hands dirty and would do what ever needed to be done spoke volumes about her.
Without a shadow of a doubt she is our girl to close shut the jaws of Oblivion.
Look out Mr Dagon!!

I wonder if eating the heart will make your voice sound like stones tumbling down a mountainside? That would be attractive on Julian, I’m sure. This chapter was fun to read the first time, and time has not eroded the effect. Unfortunately, I got caught making faces at the screen this time . . . so thank you for that!

@mALX: Dang, I knew I needed that Surgeon General's warning label on this one. Not that it works - people still smoke!

@Olen: Because of my line of work (veterinarian), I have to keep reminding myself that not everyone has the stomach for gore that I do. Likewise, not everyone understands the implications of different approaches to the same place as I do. I hope I have explained Julian's approach adequately for you.

@SubRosa: In view of the absence of clocks in Oblivion, the terms clockwise and counterclockwise still bug me. I have known widdershins as the term for counterclockwise, but I have long forgotten the alternate term for clockwise. I hope I remember it before I need to use it! I'm glad you noticed some of my favorite parts in this chapter.

@D.Foxy: Thanks for the German (Afrikaans? Dutch?) accent! Made me smile!

@W. Wolf: Paint says Heyyy, Adoring Fan! Julian says thanks for the vote of confidence!

@Destri: Sorry you got caught making faces at the screen this time!

The pace will slow down over the next couple of chapters, so catch your breath, put your feet up, and grab some drink of your choice while you can. After that, we'll be off hobbling into combat again.

**************
Chapter 4.3 Recovery

Landing on my knees with a grunt, I hunched over the pain flaring in my right leg and left hip. Lowering the sigil stone, hissing and crackling in the cold rain, I braced myself on my left arm. My scorched breath steamed in the damp night air, the rain hissing into vapor as soon as it hit my heated cuirass. Lifting my head against the pain in my back, I let the cold drops stream onto my burned face. Oblivion was gone, Nirn had replaced it. A normal thunderstorm roared above my head. Before me, the twisted and ruined metal gates of Kvatch rose from shattered walls. A circle of steaming ashes and charred struts were the only evidence of the Oblivion Gate’s erstwhile existence.

Goneld! He’s still back there! The realization hit me hard. Warm tears mingled with the cold rain on my face. Not wanting to imagine his fate, I shivered suddenly. Bringing my eyes back down to the world around me, I could see the barricade behind me, barely visible in the downpour. Two shadows moved cautiously toward me, weapons drawn.

“Julian?” one of them called. “Is that you, ma’am?”

Not recognizing the voice, I sheathed my sword and struggled to my feet, turing to face the pair. The tall archer hung back as the other walked up to me. “It’s me, sir,” I said, my voice harsh in my parched throat. “Where is Matius?”

“Down in the encampment,” the Imperial answered. “I’m Jesan Rilian,” his gaze moved past my shoulder towards the remnant of Oblivion behind me. “You did it,” he exclaimed softly. “You really did it! Akatosh be thanked!”

The Altmer had lowered his bow, returning his arrow to his quiver. “I’m Merandil,” he said to me, looking me up and down. “You’re hurt.” Oh, no kidding. “Matius is resting at the moment,” he added. “He’s been on the barricades nonstop for almost twenty-four hours. He will be glad to see you again.”

“Vonius?” I asked, looking from one to the other.

“He’s fine,” Rilian volunteered. “Matius made him go down and rest right away, he should be coming back to relieve us.”

“You should head down yourself, too,” Merandil advised. “You look like you need rest as well.”

************************
At the bottom of the mesa, Boldon greeted me. “Julian!” he exclaimed. “What happened up there?”

Meeting his gaze, I tried to think. Well, there was this Oblivion Gate that was blocking the way into Kvatch - my mind couldn’t focus on his question.

“Julian,” Boldon tried again, gripping my right elbow when I wavered. “Paint’s been restless, pacing all yesterday and for much of the night. But look!” he pointed at the small grazing area where he had turned the horse loose. Paint’s brown and white splotched coat was barely visible in the rain, but I could see him standing three-legged, characteristic of horses at ease. “He’s been like that for just the last half-hour.”

When I closed the Gate, my eyes widened. “Well, Boldon, that Oblivion Gate is gone now,” I said.

The Redguard stared at me. “That thing is closed? You closed it?” he looked me up and down, taking in the gash across my cuirass, the scorch marks on my right shoulder and my shield. “By Akatosh, you really did it?” He led me to a nearby campfire, where a big Orsimer sat slumped by an anvil. “Batul!”

She lifted her head to look at us, rising to her full height. “What?” she growled.

“This is Julian, from Anvil,” Boldon ignored her tone. “She has need of you.”

“Me?” the Orsimer snapped. “Look at this!” she whipped her hand around the fire, at the anvil, the few repair hammers next to it. “I lost everything! Everything!”

Boldon turned to me. “This is Batul gra-Sharob. She is our best smith.” Now he faced the angry Orc again. “Mind your manners, Batul,” he said mildly. “Julian just closed the Oblivion Gate. Can’t you hear it? The silence?”

Gra-Sharob eyed me thoughtfully. Returning her gaze, I drew my longsword. She tensed, as did Boldon, but I took the sword by the blade and held it out to her, hilt first. “How much to sharpen this blade?” She eyed the blade, then snapped her eyes at me. “I see you have your anvil, a fire, and some hammers,” I continued, keeping my tone bland. “I’m assuming you still have your skill, ma’am.”

The big mer narrowed her eyes at me. I held my breath - Orcs are hard to stop once they get going, especially angry ones. She exhaled suddenly, and her pointed teeth gleamed in the firelight. Taking the sword from me, she examined it expertly. “Two drakes,” she answered, after casting that same expert eye at my armor. “Throw in your bow, shield and armor, and I’ll repair the lot for four drakes total.”

Looking down at myself, I considered gra-Shrob’s offer. Nodding, I thanked her. She gestured for me to lay my weapons down next to the anvil.

“Julian,” Sigrid greeted me, waving at me from the next fire. “Come with me, you can use my tent to change.” Following the tall Nord, I was struck again by her regal bearing in spite of her disheveled appearance. “Thanks for the mortar and pestle,” she said to me over her shoulder as she drew back the flap of a pavilion. “I’ve been making healing potions as fast as I can get the ingredients.”

The daedra heart. I drew out the bloody package from my belt pouch. “My mother used this in her strongest potions,” I said, handing it to Sigrid. “Sorry about the mess.”

Taking the object, she gasped when she had unwrapped it. “A daedra heart!” her eyes shot up at me. “Then it’s true, you closed the Oblivion Gate, didn’t you?”

Already unbuckling the cuirass, I only grunted. Easing it off over my shoulder, I looked down at the linen tunic. Other than being stained with sweat, it was fine. Dropping the cuirass onto the floor, I sat down to peel off the greaves. Sigrid bent down to touch the scar tissue covering the outside of my right knee. The knee itself was badly swollen, already turning black and blue. The wound over my left hip hadn’t broken open, but the flesh around it was severely bruised. Sigrid looked at me wide-eyed, handing me a blue woolen robe. Stripped down to my undergarments, I wrapped myself in the soft fabric.

“You need to sleep, Julian,” she said finally, picking up my leathers and tossing them outside the tent. “No amount of healing spells or potions are going to heal these,” she pointed out my various bruises, muttering under her breath.

“I need to see Matius,” I gritted my teeth against the weariness overwhelming me. Sigrid shook her head.

“He’s finally asleep,” she answered. “I’m not going to let you wake him. He needs his rest, too.” She pointed me to the bedroll behind me.

Obeying her unspoken command, I lay down gingerly on the thin mattress. “Then let me know when he wakes,” I mumbled as Sigrid left the tent.

“I see you have your anvil, a fire, and some hammers,” I continued, keeping my tone bland. “I’m assuming you still have your skill, ma’am.”
Julian rolls the dice here and wins!!
This moment could have got nasty real fast. And I don't think our Redguard had another fight left in her.
Now where is that mattress....

Ahhhh, Sigrid!! (said like a sneeze)


http://www.uesp.net/w/images/images.new/th...-npc-Sigrid.jpg



If Matias had used her bra as a slingshot he may have been able to beat the Daedra single-handedly.

But Matius is too chivalric to ask Sigrid for her brassiere!

It looks like it may burst off of its own accord though, lol. Then he could just pick it up. That is my fave pic of Sigrid! I about made Acadian die of embarrassment with that pic when he brought Buffy to Kvatch, lol.

The opposite of widdershins is deosil (or sun-wise). It is the direction traveled when creating a circle. While widdershins is the way you go to remove it.

Goneld being left behind was something I rather liked in the game. It told me that this was not a nice, neat conflict where the good guys always won in the end. But rather one where sacrifice was not only common, but necessary. I sometimes wonder what happened to Goneld afterward. Was he simply tortured to death as we might imagine. Or was there perhaps a worse fate in store for him. Perhaps rather than killing him, Mehrunes Dagon instead fashioned him into a weapon, brain-washing him and sending him back to Mundus to wreak some form of havoc? That would make for an interesting story for a writer willing to go to some very dark places...

Hmm, don't tempt me!

Sigrid has a face?

Oh....YEAH.

I only just noticed!!!

Julian closes an Oblivion Gate and still has enough chutzpah left to stare down an orc! I’ve got twenty septims on the limping ex-legionnaire.

You caught the feeling of tiredness there, both mental and physical, from the gate. Good stuff with her returning to the camp and it not seeming nearly as bad as it had first time, it highlights how tired she is and how bad the gate was.

I agree that Goneld being left there was a nice touch. It gave the game at least some darkness which was otherwise rather lacking (compared to morrowind anyway).

I'm looking forward to more.

@all: I see that Sigrid is fast becoming the favorite character of many. Not only is she well-endowed, but she is also well-liked. I have plans for her future.

I'm also glad to see that I'm not the only one who felt bad about leaving Goneld behind. And SubRosa, I have a tendency to write dark stories, so please don't distract me from this one! I've got a lot to finish first!

And Destri, this won't be the last orc Julian faces down. Gra-Sharob is actually the best friend (except for Mazoga) that any warrior or soldier could ask for. Thanks for the PM. I put your advice to work starting with this chapter. Let me know if it works better for you.

Thanks, Olen. I was exhausted when I finished that Gate for the first time! I'm glad I could convey that feeling as effectively as you say.

This next chapter is one of my little favorites of the quiet interludes.

*****************
Chapter 4.4 Request for Help

After a dreamless slumber, I lay for a few moments, disoriented. After a while, memory came back, and I sat up suddenly. My burned right shoulder had healed, and so had the top of my back where that churl had slammed me with his fist. The bruising over my left hip had faded to an ochre tinge against my dark skin. Raising my right arm brought no pain.

My leather gear lay neatly folded, beside the bedroll. Shaking out the greaves, I found them not only cleaned and repaired, but also conditioned. The tough leather was now supple, and pulled on easily. As I laced them up, I found them soft and light over the wound on my left hip. The padded tunic had been washed as well, and lay softly against my skin. The boots had been resoled with the softest buttery leather that embraced my still-tender feet.

The patch across the front of my cuirass was cleverly worked to follow the original stitching. It was much easier to shrug it on, not only because my aches and pains had mostly healed with only an occasional twinge, but also because the stiff leather was broken in at all the right places. Buckling it on, I took a deep breath. It moved over my body like a second skin.

This gra-Sharob is a truly talented smith, I smiled to myself. Four drakes? The work on this cuirass alone is worth oh so much more! Fingering the patch on my breast, I shook my head to myself. Who would have thunk an old Legion pilus like me would prefer light armor to the old plate? It was true that after my experiences over the past several days, I found the leather armor to be better suited to this new way of fighting. I couldn’t hide in the shadows clanking around in a tin suit. Uh-huh, no way. My smile faded, as memories of my century surfaced, the young tironii so eager to prove themselves, anxious to blood their weapons. The same tironii laying scattered around the battlefield, their armor and weapons broken, their bodies bleeding into the hard ground. The hope of glory gone from their dead eyes.

Fleeing those memories, I stepped out into bright sunlight. The air smelled clean and fresh after the rain. The campfire before me was warm and friendly. The bareheaded soldier, sitting hunched over a plate of polenta, looked around at me and rose to his feet. It was Matius. Hastily swallowing the grub in his mouth, he gestured me to a nearby stool.

“Hello, Julian,” he greeted me, remaining on his feet as I returned his gaze. “I’m sorry I was such a pain in the heinie to you before.” He still looked tired, but his eyes were sharper, his boyish face less strained.

He seems to be in a better mood this morning. “Sigrid wouldn’t let me wake you when I got back,” I said after a few moments, taking the proffered seat. “She said you had finally gone to sleep.”

Matius reached one-handed towards the fire, handed me another plate, then plopped a ladleful of polenta onto the metal disc from the pot simmering beside the fire. Sticking a spoon in the thick gruel, he handed me an empty pewter cup. He poured klah into my cup, still balancing his own plate of half-eaten grub.

Staring at the meal in my hands, I stifled a chuckle at his brisk style of hospitality. Just like the mess line in the Legion. Take your plate, here’s your grub, no complaints now, move along soldier!

Matius hesitated as he sat back down, glancing at me. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he murmured. “That was rude of me. I can try to find something else to eat -”

I looked at him. “Sit down and eat, sir,” I told him, taking a sip of the hot klah. The weakness of the brew made me wince. I set it down on the ground, next to my boot, and picked up the spoon. “I asked Sigrid to wake me when you were up, sir,” I added, before taking that first bite. The taste of the bland polenta took me back several years.

Relaxing a little, Matius sat down and refilled his spoon. “She wouldn’t let me wake you up when I found out you had returned.” His tone was dry.

“What time is it, sir?” I asked. Judging by the angle of the eastern sun, it was still fairly early in the morning, but my body insisted I had slept more than a few hours.

“Seven bells in the morning,” Matius shot me a glance. “You slept the day through yesterday.”

I choked down the polenta. “I slept over twenty-four hours, sir?”

“Akatosh knows you deserved it,” Matius smiled crookedly at me. “I gather you closed that Gate after all, ma’am.”

“I found Menien Goneld, but I couldn’t get him out of that place,” I looked away from his gaze, “I’m sorry, sir.”

“We have lost many of the guard here,” he matched my tone. “Goneld will be counted among the fallen.”

We ate in silence, while the camp woke from the long night. A couple of children appeared just beyond the small circle of tents, watching us hungrily. Matius, finishing off the last of the polenta, looked up and saw them. With a gesture, he waved them to the fire. Refilling his plate, he held it out to the pair. They looked at him hesitantly, but he did not meet their looks, only picking up his klah with his other hand and taking a long gulp. He did waggle the dish slightly.

Finally the older boy, a Redguard, took the plate from Matius. He turned to lead the little Bosmer girl away, but Matius stopped them with a wave. He pointed at a bench on the opposite side of the campfire from me. Hiding my smile behind my cup, I sipped at the klah as the two children took the seat and dove into the food together.

“Well, Julian,” Matius turned to me. “I may be presumptuous, but there’s still work to be done, and I’m still short good soldiers.” He cast a glance up and down me, as he had before. “We need to clear Kvatch of daedra, and get to any remaining survivors. The Count is still in the castle, we must get him to safety.” He held my gaze as I put the spoon down on my dish. “Obviously you’ve got more experience than my guard - what’s left of them. I could use your help.”

Across the fire, the children watched me, wide-eyed. I must seem old - no, ancient, to them. I certainly feel it, after that Gate. “Well, I came here looking for Martin,” I said slowly. But I can’t turn my back on these people. If Martin is alive, and if he really is his father’s son, he won’t, either. “I’ll do it.” I saw a flicker of relief in his blue-grey eyes. “Don’t know how much good I’ll be, but I’ll help.”

He clapped his hands on his thighs, rising to his feet. “Good!” He nodded at the next campfire behind me. “I believe gra-Sharob has finished with your weapons.” Giving the children a wordless glance, he picked up his sword and shield. “I’ll meet you at the barricades, whenever you’re ready, ma’am.”

I see the polenta has reared its ugly head.

A nice quite piece that gives us time to catch our breath after the rush of action in the Deadlands. Matius is also more manageable too, given time to sleep and closed oblivion gate. Now time for the real fight!

Your writing has inspired me to begin the MQ with a new character (my avatar), waiting to start it until she was level 17. Wow is it a challenge with Spider Daedra, Frost Atronachs and Daedroths all over the place! Clearing Kvatch was far worse than the closing the Gate outside of it.

Julian and the children, I like the way she is with children!!

Your writing always flows smoothly, and this chapter is no exception. I did a side by side comparison of this version and your last so that I could see for myself the changes that were made (yes, it involved me going back over to the un-named board). Starting with the very first line, every change that you made makes the story flow even better than it already did. Congratulations! You have done something that every writer strives for. You have taken something good, and made it great through diligent rewriting.

Have some placenta polenta, you have most definitely earned it.

Hmmm, I was looking for more pudenda, myself...


*crosses fingers and prays the mods will not know Latin*

A beautiful quiet chapter before the coming storm. Horses and kids sing within your hands.


Dont forget to use heaps of shock weapon enchantment and shock spells SubRosa.
It is a nightmare without it....
Invisibility wouldnt go astray either.

This is even better the second time around (referring to your old thread on the other forum). I'm so glad you are taking your time so it can be savored!

I agree about that being one of the best quiet interludes which is saying something becasue you write them very well. They have every bit as much meat to them as the action with no filling bits.

Have some polenta - I'm just glad I'm not sharing a tent with her...

buttery leather - excellent metaphor, really brought the feel of it to mind for me

pain in the heinie - I found heinie a bit jarring. To me it's a (rather archaic) disparaging term for a German so I had to look it up, that could just be because of my accent but it's not a common bit of slang. Possibly just 'being a pain' or 'pain in the back side' seeing as the filter would eat the obvious word choice.

@SubRosa: If you think the Battle for Kvatch is hard, wait until you get to the Battle for Bruma! Talk about impossible tasks (keeping your friends alive)! I tried it once at Level Eleven and kept losing the darn Emperor! And I hate those Spider Daedra and their darned mini-me's!

@mALX1: I guess her manner with children comes from the fact that she has none of her own - she can always give them back!

@Destri: Thanks! - both for the critique and for the reminder of your confusion over the word polenta on the other board!

@D.Foxy: He he. I do know some Latin meself!

@Winter Wolf: Oh I agree - at higher levels shock and chameleon are the best friends you can have!

@Acadian: Thanks for sticking with this the second time around!

@Olen: I see you share Destri's distaste for polenta. Just remember, the Roman Empire conquered the world on polenta. Respect the polenta! As for the use of heinie, you're not the first to comment on that. I wanted something that would demonstrate Matius's self-awareness of his earlier behavior in a manner that shows his ability to be self-derogatory, and still get past the filter. There's not many one-syllable terms that do.

Back to some combat:

***********
Chapter 4.5 Securing the Chapel

My sword repaired, my shield functional, and my belt pouch restocked with Sigrid’s healing potions, I limped up the steep road yet again. Vonius paced at my side, silent. He’s thinking about the battle ahead. He had thanked me for finding Goneld, even though I could not rescue him after all. Behind us, a couple more young guardsmen, recovered from their wounds two, no, three - nights ago, trailed along.

Matius turned from the barricades as we approached. Jesan Rilian and Merandil stood next to him, and I returned their nods. Then all of us gathered around Matius at his signal. “All right, listen up!” he addressed all of us, raising his voice to be heard over the wind whipping the mesa. “This is Julian from Anvil,” he pointed at me. “She risked much to close that Oblivion Gate. Thanks to her, now we can take Kvatch back.” He looked from one soldier to another, assessing each man’s courage and determination.

“Merandil spent a good part of the day yesterday reconnoitering the lower town,” he continued, with a nod at the Altmer archer. “There are daedra swarming in there, and we’ve got to clear them out.”

Now he knelt in the mud, sketching out a rough circle. He’s mapping out the town for my benefit, I realized. “This is the chapel,” he marked it off within the circle, just north of the gates. “That’s our first goal. I believe there are some civilians and more of the Guard holed up in there. Once we get the gate plaza cleared, they can leave safely and head down to the encampment.”

Listening to Matius, I caught myself nodding. That’s what I would do. He glanced at me thoughtfully. While I silently returned his gaze, I waited for him to continue. He made a circle within the northwest arc of the larger oval representing the city walls. “This is the castle. Once we secure the chapel, we can run over here and retake the castle. The Count and some of the Castle Guard are probably still in there. Merandil was not able to get close enough to the castle to see.” Again, he looked at each of us, making sure we understood. He held my gaze longest. “With both the chapel and the castle in our hands, we’ll be able to mop up the rest of the daedra.” He rested his right forearm on his knee. “Any questions?”

“Julian,” Vonius turned to me. “We know scamps run out of magicka and switch to melee attacks. But are there other kinds of daedra we need to know about?”

“You haven’t encountered any other than scamps?” I looked around the huddle. Everyone shook their heads. “There’s a couple of other ones,” I thought back to my time in the Oblivion Gate. “Both dremora, you’ve heard of those, right?” This time I received nods. “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.”

Matius looked around the huddle again. “Any other questions?” Silence. “All right!” he rose to his feet, drawing his sword and shaking his shield into his hand. “Let’s go!” We followed suit as he ran for the gates, yelling back, “For Kvatch!”

“For Kvatch!” the others shouted, hard on his heels. I brought up the rear, my bum knee holding me back. For once, I didn’t mind. These guys are younger, stronger than me. Let them be the heroes.

We filtered through the shattered gates, squeezing between the broken panels. On Merandil’s heels, I paused next to him to take in the carnage within. A large chapel stood at the far side of the plaza, its bell steeple laying in the street leading back into the city. Two large buildings, their wooden upper floors collapsed, lined the west side of the plaza. The east side consisted of an impassable mass of burning and charred rubble. Smoke drifted heavily across the scene, making it hard to see clearly.

At my side, Merandil’s bow twanged in a rapid rhythm. Below the wide steps to the plaza, several scamps engaged the guardsmen. Vonius and Matius ran toward the chapel, crossing half the plaza before they were swarmed. The two young guardsmen who had joined us ducked fireballs, trying to get near their assailants without much luck. To the left, Rilian struggled on his own to reach the large buildings on the west side.

Past him, movement drew my eyes to the second floor of one of the ruined structures. Scamps appeared out of the same place. Moving sideways to stay out of Merandil’s field of fire, I hopped down the stairs and hobbled towards Rilian. Three scamps converged on him while two more hung back, firing flares at him.

My sword moved through the figures of the Sunbird Dance as I reached the young Imperial’s side. Two of the scamps lay twitching on the cobblestones, but we had no time to congratulate each other, for more were coming.

“In the Fighters Guild,” Rilian panted, stabbing his sword towards one of the large buildings. “I thought I saw a dremora mage in there.”

I moved away from him to take down another of the annoying creatures, then limped back to him. “There is a mage in there. Can you cover me?”

“Yes, I’ve got your back!” he shouted, falling behind me. “Let’s go!”

A beam, one end on the ground, the other still attached to the second floor, appeared out of the murk as I hobbled for the building. Rilian stayed close to me, his light iron shield easily blocking the fire spells from the scamps. The makeshift ramp gave me access to the second floor. I hopped onto the floorboards above to find a tall dremora mage at the far end of the building, his hand raised in a summons.

Without regard for the sulfurous swirls around me, I headed for the mage as swiftly as I could. He unlooped his mace and used it to block my sword. As he deflected my blade to the side, he swung his left hand against my cuirass. A bolt of energy slammed into me, more powerful than any punch, and flung me onto my back. My nerves tingling and my muscles numb, I looked up to see the - goblin shaman raise her totem staff, no - dremora mage raise his mace for the death blow.

A steel blade flashed brightly over me, stabbing the mage in the abdomen before he could bring the mace down. I rolled away, catching a glimpse of the dremora’s left hand glowing white with another spell.

“Don’t let him touch you!” I shouted at Rilian, but he pulled back, out of reach of the wounded mage. His shield protecting his body, the young Imperial sidestepped the flung spell and leaped to close with the spellcaster. Another flash of the steel blade, and the mage crumpled to the floor.

Out in the plaza, about half of the scamps melted into sulfur wisps. Rilian reached a hand down to me. Thanks to his strong grip, I scrambled to my feet, and we returned to the ground looking for more enemies. The remaining scamps fell quickly before the swordsmen and Merandil’s accurate archery.

At the foot of the chapel steps, Matius scanned the plaza. He saluted me with his sword before sheathing it. The other guardsmen joined him. As Rilian and I walked across the square, the young guardsman nearly sent me flying with a hearty clap on my shoulder.

“Good fighting, friend,” he commented, still a little out of breath. He looked tired, and there was blood on the side of his neck, but his hazel eyes smiled at me. “Let’s go see what Matius has to say.”

“Good work, everyone,” Matius greeted us, smiling grimly through a bloodied visage. “Let’s go in the chapel and see what we find.”

The other guardsmen and I followed him within the chapel. Matius paused, scanning the dark interior. A Redguard woman wearing the Kvatch Wolf came up to him.

“Thank Akatosh you’ve arrived!” she exclaimed, her voice rough with tension. “We weren’t sure how much longer we could hold out, sir.”

“Tierra, what’s the status?” Matius got to the point, the brusque soldier still evident.

Tierra straightened up. “Sir, there’s two of us, Berich Inian and I, and four civilians here.”

Matius’s face fell. “Everyone else is dead?” he sounded discouraged.

“Sir,” Tierra responded, “we’ve been cut off from the castle. I have no idea how many survivors remain there.”

“Very well,” Matius sighed. “What’s done is done. Inian, stand watch here. Tierra, take the civilians down to the camp, make sure they’re safe.”

“But sir, I want to fight!” Tierra burst out. Glancing at her, I was reminded of myself when I was her age, looking for blood and glory. Matius cut her off with a sharp gesture.

“You’ll get the chance soon enough,” he stated flatly. “It’s more important to get these civilians out of here. Kvatch isn’t yet safe for them. Get them to the camp, then return as quickly as possible. I need your blade here, and soon.”

I looked at the four refugees. They looked frightened, exhausted, and dirty. Is one of them Martin? Rilian leaned to me to whisper in my ear, “That brown-haired Imperial, in the blue robes, that’s Martin the priest.”

As Tierra gathered the refugees to her, I studied him thoughtfully. Before I could call his name, they filed out of the chapel, the priest supporting a limping Breton man.

Still twitchy after that shock spell, I hobbled down to the altar at the head of the nave. With my sword hand on the stone pedestal, I breathed deeply as the healing energy swirled around me. Matius joined me and took some of the healing for himself. Feeling more like myself, I waited for him to step back.

“Sir, do you still need me?” I asked him. His eyes grim, Matius wiped the blood off of his face.

“I can still use you,” he responded quietly. “There is still the castle to secure. We’ve got to recover the Count. Are you able to continue on?”

“Yes, sir, and I’m ready whenever you are.” I matched his tone.

“You are truly a friend, Julian,” he said, relief in his voice. “Not many would walk in off the road and help strangers.”

“If strangers don’t help each other,” I countered softly, “the world would be a cruel place, indeed.” He nodded agreement.

“Well, then,” Matius cast an assessing glance at the other guardsmen. “Inian, when Tierra comes back, both of you join us at the castle.” He strode for the northern doors. “The rest of you, follow me!”