I loved this "time-traveling" chapter, especially what comes next here.
The change that comes over Lattia's physical form emphasizes the strangeness of what is occurring.

The Elven lords are well described as heroic figures, and Rislav the Righteous is very solid here.

I love historical epics, and this ranks right up there with the best!

You once again show that you are the master of this craft. Your descriptions and choices of wording are amazingly effective. This is more fun to read the second time as it makes things easier for me to understand and appreciate.

mALX – You have absolutely nailed Lattia’s character. She is a slave to her devotion who will do anything for those that she loves. But underneath that almost mousy exterior there is something else that will become apparent as the year continues (I hope). As for where she is now . . . you’re right, she has been there for quite a while hasn’t she?

I am flattered that reading my story prompted you to find something in the lore to suit your own work.

Olen – To answer your question the Ayleidic is accurate. 'Sunnabe tarnabye av sou math, baune aran' roughly translates as ‘blessed be the passage of your house, mighty king.’

Here is the page that I used for the translation. Likewise you can look here for translations of Ehlnofex languages, charts of the Daedric and Dwemer alphabet, etymology, and more.

SubRosa – Can you guess what my favorite genre of fiction is? You’re right; Lattia doesn’t have the ambition to lead Clan Direnni, as for killing her brother, well . . .

Good call on the repetition of the word ‘ancient’. I have changed it so that it reads smoother.

haute – Isn’t Rislav cool? I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s the trained hawk on his shoulder or the fact that he decapitated his own brother for the throne. Maybe it’s the fact that his battle plan allowed the city of Skingrad to stand virtually alone against the might of the Imperial army, and win! I wish I could do more with him.

Needless to say, like you, I love historical epics.

Acadian – Thank you so much, my friend. I still think that you sell yourself short on your ability to understand (and write) plot-driven stories. I try to make each segment somewhat self-contained. Applicable to the whole, yet solidly understandable (or at least compelling) if read as a stand alone piece.





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


The door behind Aran was thrown open and a bearded Nord marched into the room. His ruddy face was stained crimson with rage. He passed through Aran as one would pass through a column of smoke. A giant claymore swung to and fro across his back as he walked, and his heavy footfalls caused the wine to spill from the silver goblets on the table. He was trailed by a tall, slender, graceful figure hidden behind the folds of a dark hood and cloak.

The Nord reached the table and slammed his gnarled fist knuckle-first against its surface. All at the table flinched, their voices trailed to silence. The Nord’s eyes bore into those of Aiden Direnni and spittle flew from his beard when he spoke.

“While you conduct this little council the campfires of the enemy light the moors, and the finest warriors in all of Tamriel bleed from the eyeballs!”

Aran looked to his guide, his eyebrows lifted.

“Hoag Merkiller,” said his guide in an impatient whisper, “new crowned Chieftan of Skyrim.”

The cloaked figure reached the table. Graceful golden hands removed the hood. Aran needed no one to tell him that he looked upon the face of Raven Direnni.

“Plague has hit the Skyrim camp,” she said, “less than ten men are afflicted, my art cannot help them. They have been isolated, but I fear we may have been too late to halt the spread.”

Hoag snatched a goblet from the table and quaffed the wine in a single tilt. “Stay your tongue, woman. I need no translator.”

“Watch yourself, Nord,” said Ryan Direnni, rising from his chair, “you speak to the Lady of Clan Direnni.”

“And you speak to the Lord of Skyrim, elf.” Hoag’s hand sought the hilt of his claymore.

“Peace,” said Aiden, his voice so quiet that an effort was necessary to hear it. “Ryan, please sit down. I am truly sorry for those afflicted, Hoag.”

“That’s ‘Your Majesty’, elf, and spare me your sympathy. I would wish a pox on your whole damned clan, but disease doesn’t touch your kind as it does mine.”

“It has touched me,” said Rislav the Righteous. He was seated across the table from Hoag. “My own father was taken by the plague, so no one here understands your grief more than I. I know that your father was slain by the army that awaits us on the moors, so I understand the need to avenge yourself upon them. But inciting a quarrel with your allies does nothing to solve either matter. Clan Direnni’s presence here is the reason we have a chance to rid ourselves of the Alessian Reform, you would do well to remember that.”

Hoag spat wine on the table. “You may be friendly with these treacherous elves, Colovian, but do not presume to lecture me.”

“Enough!” Aiden Direnni’s voice cowed all in the room, his green eyes sought out Hoag’s. “Merkiller, they call you? Make one more remark against my clan and I will force you to earn that name. If you would be a part of this council then sit down, and keep a civil tongue in your mouth.”

A wave of pride surged through Aran, warming him more than the hearth-fire could. He squeezed the hand of his guide as a smile spread across his lips.

“Sino na gravia buro,” muttered the King of Nenalata.

Every head at the table turned in his direction. Colovian, High Rock, and Skyrim faces looked to each other in confusion. Rislav suppressed a smile. Ryan Direnni smacked the table with an open hand and laughed out loud.

“Sepredia, pelinal,” said Aiden, “sou bala racuvar. Balagua sila, ni shanta hilyat.”

“If I may,” said Raven Direnni. She placed a soothing hand on Hoag’s forearm. The Nord seemed to deflate. He slumped into a chair and reached for another goblet.

Aran looked to his guide. “What did they say?” he whispered.

“Nenalata’s King insulted Hoag Merkiller,” she whispered back. “Aiden Direnni reminded the King that it is not his place to issue insults.”

“Why is it that Clan Direnni knows the Ayleid tongue?” asked Aran.

“Better you should ask why is it that you do not,” she said.

“I suggest we move the forces of Clan Direnni into camp next to the Skyrim forces,” Raven continued, looking at Hoag. “As you say, Your Majesty, disease doesn’t touch our kind as it does yours. Perhaps our presence between the armies will keep the plague from spreading to the forces of Colovia and High Rock. At the very least, it should buy us the time necessary to finalize plans for the battle.”

Hoag slowly nodded and slammed the goblet on the table. Some around the table began to shrink from the sound. Hoag opened his off-hand in apology. Raven sat down next to him.

“What news do we have of this Alessian force?” asked Ryan Direnni.

“They arrived a fortnight past,” said Rislav, “in numbers that match our own. Their ships were loaded with heavy siege engines, but they’ve had trouble bringing them over the moors. The only high ground is a rise too far for the archers to be effective. If we venture out we will meet them on equally treacherous footing.”

“Equal footing is all that I ask for,” Hoag said.

“If we give them the time we could be looking at a siege that lasts for months,” said Ryan, “with disease spreading amongst our own, my vote is to meet them on the moors.”

“Seconded, with reservations,” said Rislav, looking at his friend, Ryan. “It doesn’t appear that we have much choice.”

“I would know the mind of the King of Nenalata,” said Aiden.

The Ayleid stiffened before regaining his regal bearing. “Abagaianye nagaseli.”

Aran’s guide leaned in closer, “he votes for the moors.”

“The moors,” Hoag Merkiller said, rising.

“The moors,” said Ryan Direnni as he placed a firm hand on his brother’s arm.

“Aye, the moors,” Rislav the Righteous nodded.

“The moors,” said Raven Direnni, “And I believe that the honor of leading the van should go to the Skyrim host.”

Aiden Direnni looked into each pair of eyes seated at the golden table. Near the door, Aran found himself holding his breath even though he knew the outcome.

“So be it,” Aiden Direnni said, “we shall meet them on the moors.”





8th Sun’s Dawn, 1E 482
Glenumbria Moors, High Rock
Dusk


“So much death,” said the spirit who wore his sister’s form.

Aran knelt at her feet. Tears ran down his cheeks. From the rise the moors spread below them. A blanket of gray smoke still hung in the air and separated the red sky of eventide from the deeper red of the war scarred battlefield. Tens of thousands of bodies littered the putrid glade. Men and mer lay with their limbs intertwined. Now they were known only by the bloody, torn, and soiled insignia’s that they wore. Their life’s blood stained the bog red and carried out into the darkening surf of the Eltheric Ocean.

Aran felt the beating of hooves churn the ground behind him. Three horses gained the top of the rise and passed through them before stopping at the overlook. The riders dismounted, Aiden and Ryan Direnni removed their helmets. Raven Direnni pulled the hood off of her head.

“A glorious victory,” said Ryan, “this battle will be remembered throughout all the ages of Tamriel.” He slapped his brother’s shoulder. “We are immortal now, brother. You should be proud.”

Aiden’s face was a mirror of Aran’s, separated by a few feet and thirty centuries of distance. “Proud? Do you feel pride when you look upon that field? Do you see only glory? This battle was won by Raven’s magic, not our swords. All we managed to do was hack each other to death. Do you know what I see when I look upon that field, brother? I see the flower of Clan Direnni withered and spent. Yes, in the battle of Glenumbria Moors we have been victorious, but it has cost us the future. I fear Clan Direnni will never rise again.”

“Nothing is written,” said Raven. “It will take time, I grant you. But if the future of Clan Direnni can learn from our mistakes, perhaps we can rise again.”

“That is no consolation,” said Aiden. “What of our allies, what casualties did they suffer?”

“The Skyrim host was decimated,” said Ryan, “Hoag Merkiller among them. He will not be missed.”

“Do not judge him, brother,” said Aiden, “he fought with honor. Hoag left no heir, the Nords will convene a King’s Moot. Their choice may not look favorably on Clan Direnni. What of Colovia and High Rock?”

“The Colovian losses were not as bad as our own. Rislav is already marching his troops back to Skingrad. No one knows what happened to the Ayleid and his slaves. Slain, taken, or retreated, I believe they quit the field. I did not receive a report from the forces of High Rock.”

“That does not surprise me. I imagine our hold over High Rock is at an end.” He turned away from the battlefield. “Nothing but death awaits us back at the palace. We sail tonight for Balfiera. I am sorry, Raven, I fear that Daggerfall is lost to you.”

A single tear filled Raven Direnni’s eye. She fought to keep it from falling. "I know."

Aran moved forward to comfort her, but he was checked by his guide’s icy grip.

“You have seen all you need,” it was not a question.

Aran nodded. He would learn from the mistakes of his ancestors. “I have.”





9th Sun’s Dawn 2E 854
Glenumbria, High Rock
Dawn


The first sensation she felt was warmth. It burned her skin as it filled her body and made every muscle ache. Her mouth felt like brittle parchment. She felt the pressure of the light on her eyelids, holding them shut despite her best efforts to open them. She tried to cry out, but only a soft moan escaped her cracked lips.

“Lattia?” She heard Aran’s voice as if he were speaking to her from above the surface of water. She drifted, and then her world was darkness again.

The second time she felt the light on her eyelids she was stronger. With an effort she was able to lift her eyelids open, but keeping them open was like trying to hold sand with a fork. She felt the darkness pulling her back and, though she fought hard, it was not long in reclaiming her.

The third time she heard birds whistling, and that kept her mind from drifting. Her eyes stayed open but it took time for them to focus. She lay in a bed with white silk sheets. Aran held a small rolled parchment and sat in a chair near the window which let in the golden sunlight. Through the window she could see past the rooftops to the Eltheric Ocean, and storm clouds that loomed on the horizon. Aran saw her open eyes and rushed to her side.

“Can you hear me?” He asked.

Her voice didn’t work. She nodded once, and the effort sent pain in sharp lances through her neck, shoulders, and back. She winced.

“You warned me,” Aran said, “and you were right. I did not take into account the toll it would take on you. I apologize for that. But I did find the answers I sought.”

She did not trust herself to nod again. He placed the rolled parchment upon her breast.

“I have held this for you for months,” he said. “It is from the Isle of Artaeum. You have been invited to join the Psijic Order. I have decided to send you to them. You will take the ship and sail as soon as you are able.” He leaned in close, his breath smelled of mint.

“Varla had the right of it,” he whispered, “armies are not important. Magic won the battle of Glenumbria Moors, and magic will win our battles now. You must get up soon. The men are restless after what they witnessed on the moors. The sooner you sail the better. The Captain says that a storm is coming. If you sail today you should reach Stros M’Kai before it hits.”

You showed both the fore planing and the aftermath of the battle well, and it appears Aran has learnt something for the coming battle which already promises to be exciting. I liked it that in both battles you have mentioned the win has been via a trick rather than one side having better luck and better butchering ability, it fits fairly well with history.

And then the cost of the vision to Lattia which was warned of is shown which brings home the cost of magic which is important (and under mentioned in game).

I love the setting you've developed and love the complexity of the plot. Great stuff.

Another question: how much of this do you already have written (not that I won't just wait for it here but I was wondering)?

I have loved seeing Hoag Merkiller yet again, in all his oversized glory!

And I have said it before, I'll say it again: Don't dis the Elf!

The emotions during the Council feel very real; the aftermath of the battle in the middle just as devastating. It reminds me of one of the Scottish battles (I can't remember which, maybe the Battle of Glenumbria Moor?), where an entire clan was decimated, and the course of history for Scotland and England changed forever.

And Lattia returning to herself under a huge burden of exhaustion and pain is likewise devastating, albeit on a more personal level.

This chapter is even more enjoyable the second time through!

A solid conclusion to what you set up last post. The council was very well portrayed, showing the very common suspicion and open antagonism that exists between allies of necessity rather than preference. Many times IRL history such alliances fell apart due to the in-fighting between its members.

I also noticed that you conspicuously avoided showing us the battle itself. Obviously this is to keep Aran's secret magic weapon, well... a secret. That is not a complaint, rather I think it is a good idea to reserve the specific knowledge of that for when it is actually put into use.

It does make me wonder what sort of magic it might be that would win a battle though. When you look at the magic presented in the games none of it seems truly powerful enough to have a battle-winning power. You have area effect destruction spells, but those tend to do little actual damage and cost a lot of magicka. Of course the other side would have the same weapons in its arsenal as well too. One would need a huge amount of highly skilled spellcasters for that to really pay off. Sort of like having an entire army of Navy Seals today.

I would imagine that something more like training every soldier in an army to use a few novice level spells, like a healing spell and a shield spell, would actually be worth more in the long run. Especially if you combine it with the practice of rotating soldiers to and from the front of the battle line. So they fight for maybe five or ten minutes, then go to the back of the file and recast their heal minor wounds over and over until it is their turn to step up to the front of the line again. Then they cast their 5% shield and go at it. That however would require a very professional, permanent army, that only a society with a lot of money could afford to maintain.

Another thought is to have your magicians stand at the back of your army, and cast convalescence spells on the soldiers who come back wounded. Then they can go back into the battle. That would give an army an incredible amount of staying power (staying power was the secret of the Roman's success in battle, they rarely used brilliant tactics). Again, it would require a very professional army to pull it off.

So my thoughts are that whatever magic won the battle of Glenumbria Moors was something not regularly available to our characters in the games. Like the Thu'um power. Maybe something created in a lengthy ritual performed by expert magicians (like the Psijics...), or from some lost ancient Daedric/Aedra artifact (remembers Lattia making a pact with Clavicus Vile...). I cannot wait to see what you pull out of your helmet!

I'm confused by this... The vision was of Glenumbria Moor which was in High Rock not Scotland (though it might not always appear so we are not totally fictional). But I agree it put me in mind of reconstructions I've seen of battles, most firmly (possibly the one you meant) being Flodden Field which had a similar end.

I love how detailed you made her return from the spell that carried them back in time - that was so much more realistic than if she had not experienced jet-lag type symptoms - AWESOME WRITE!!!

Olen – Like you I believe that if history teaches us anything it is that the larger/better equipped/more disciplined army doesn’t always win the battle.

To answer your question; right now I am just finishing the month of First Seed, which places me about a month and a half ahead of where you are in the story.

haute – Revisiting Hoag is still kind of bittersweet for me because I know that he has to die at the Battle of Glenumbria Moors, which I hate. I would love to do something with him and Rislav. According to Rislav the Righteous both were in attendance at the coronation of the Emperor Goerius on the 23rd of Sun’s Dawn, 1E 461. Rislav was 13, the fifth and forgotten child of the King of Skingrad, Mhorus. Hoag was about the same age following his father Kjoric the White, King of Skyrim. Also in attendance that day were Indoril Nerevar (presumably with his wife, Almalexia) and Dumac Dwarfking representing Resdayn. And a young mer in the service of the royal court of High Rock named Ryan Direnni. To me the idea of all those different personalities mingling with each other against the backdrop of White Gold Tower is just ripe with possibility!!

SubRosa – I think that anytime you take a group of people who are all used to calling the shots within their own sphere of influence and put them into a room together they are going to butt heads. It almost makes you wonder how anything ever gets done in politics (until, of course, you realize that nothing ever gets done).

I confess that my reason for keeping the action of the battle offstage had nothing whatsoever to do with some secret weapon of Aran’s. It had more to do with the fact that I had just shown a full scale engagement in the month of Morning Star and I didn’t want to repeat myself. Showing the actual battle of Glenumbria Moors contributes nothing to move the story forward. It is the aftermath of the battle that is important because it puts both Aran and Lattia on paths that they would not have otherwise taken.

If I am not mistaken, you description of rotating soldiers exactly mirrors the historic workings of the Spartan phalanx (without the healing spells, of course). I have no idea what kind of magic would be employed to win a battle. I imagine it would be something along the lines of what the Psijic Order did during the War of the Isle:


As for what I’m going to pull out of my helmet, well . . . that would be telling! I will only say that this story is not going to go the way that you think.

mALX – I am glad that you, haute, and Olen all commented on the price of magic. It is something that I don’t think is adequately explored either in the games or in the lore. A spell along the lines of the one cast by Lattia would require an immense amount of magicka to perform. I see it as a far more powerful variation of the Mark/Recall spells from Morrowind. The difference here though is that, since the caster is seeking to travel through time, he/she must give themselves over to beings not bound by space and time. Beings like the followers of Magnus who are trapped in Aetherius, or the denizens of Oblivion who are allowed free rein on this plane because there are no Dragonfires to keep them at bay.

At least that’s how I see it.





9th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Abandoned Cave, Somewhere in the Valus Mountains
Morning


For a month they were trapped in the cave. They huddled together at first to preserve what heat their cold blood could provide. Their only contact with the outside world came in the form of gusts of icy wind that blasted through the cave entrance as the mountain was buffeted by a series of blizzards. After the first week the drifts covered the entrance. Darkness claimed their hold on each other, for though they had enough air they did not want to waste it to fuel a torch. They grew weak from the endless days without feeding. Tongues froze inside their mouths, which stopped conversation. The only sound was their shivering and the muffled shrill howl of the wind.

While his syffim drifted into hibernation, the Chevalier Renald kept the watch even in darkness. He remained those long weeks alone with his thoughts, listening until he could identify each of them by the sound of their breathing. Eesham-Sha’s breath was quick, shallow, clamoring for more than his share of the air that remained in the cave. For every one breath of the others, Eesham claimed two. For Chirasch-Xun breathing was a duty that he performed as dispassionately as any other. Each exhale sent a low rumble through the cave that fought with the sound of the outside wind for dominance. Xarsien-Ves did not breathe at regular intervals. When he did the sound often escaped Renald. When he could be heard the breath was cautious, deliberate. Have I doomed them to a fool’s errand? Renald thought in the darkness, I will not let them die here. They will not suffer like Akal. When we leave this mountain my syffim will still be four.

On the thirty-second day a tenuous shaft of light entered the cave. Renald nearly wept at the sight. The sun melted a small hole in the drift that plugged the entrance. Weak as they were it took a full day to cut the hole large enough to breathe the cold, thin air. There was no need to persuade them to leave the cave. Each had seen his fill of snow. They followed Renald down the mountain.





11th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Shadowgate Pass, West of Kragenmoor
Dusk


“Goblins,” Eesham whispered, his forked tongue tasting the air.

Renald’s tongue caught the scent, it came from over the tree-lined ridge in the distance. With the setting sun in their eyes conditions were not ideal for a hunt. The relative warmth of the lowlands had returned a semblance of their former strength, and feeding was a distant memory for all of them. Goblins were mana from Nirn.

“We shall take them,” said Renald, unsheathing his katana.

Eesham grinned and twin katanas leaped from the crossed scabbards on his back. Chirasch reached for his dai-katana. Xarsien stood armed with katana and shield. Without a word being spoken they spread into battle formation and slithered on their bellies up the ridge.

The goblins were three in number, barely visible in the shade of the trees behind them. They led four tethered sheep slowly north through the pass. Xarsien’s head bent to the side, his questioning eyes found Renald.

They must have raided a farm, thought Renald, but since when do goblins favor lamb? He shook his head to Xarsien. Using hand signals, he ordered his syffim to follow them. Chirasch and Xarsien slid down the ridge silently and crossed the path behind the goblins. On the opposite side they took to the trees. Renald led Eesham up into the trees on their side of the path. They hemmed in the goblins and followed them from the boughs above.

The path began to climb back into the mountain. The fading light made the goblins harder to see. Daylight would soon be spent, thought Renald, if they were going to feed, it would be better while there was still light to see.

The lead goblin stopped and tested the air with his nose. Renald tensed, but the wind was still right. There was no way that his syffim was compromised. The lead goblin turned and walked up a dirt rise toward a low overhang of rock directly beneath Renald’s perch. His companions stayed with the sheep on the path below. Now is the time, Renald thought. He used his hands to give his orders, and his syffim moved as one.

Eesham used his tail to push off into space. From across the path Chirasch and Xarsien followed. For a brief instant all three Tsaesci hung suspended in the air over the hapless goblins. Each found his target simultaneously, knocking all three goblins to the ground. Their screams pierced the still air. The startled sheep felt the hold on the tether give way, and bolted back down the path. Each of his syffim used their arms and tails to engulf and pin a goblin. Their necks bent as one, and sharp fangs broke the skin on the goblins’ throats. The green bodies twitched in the folds of the Tseasci tails as their lifeblood was drained from them. The shrill screams faded with the last dregs of sunlight as the pass was plunged into darkness.

Renald left his perch and slithered down the trunk of the tree. He could hear the almost gentle sucking as his syffim fed. Xarsien lifted his head from the still twitching goblin. His eyes showed red in the light of the new moon. Blood stained his fangs and dripped from the side of his mouth.

“My lord,” he said, “you must feed.”

“I shall, but not yet. Gather your strength.” Renald pulled a branch from the tree. He pulled a piece of cloth from the goblin under Eesham and fashioned a makeshift torch. Eesham produced a flint from a pouch worn around his neck and returned to his feed. Renald lit the torch and amber light fell on what lay below the overhang.

A rusted mine car lay on its side, next to a weathered wooden door which led into the side of the mountain. The trees and the overhang made the door nearly impossible to see from the trail. Goblin tracks marked the soil leading both to and from the door.

Xarsien appeared at his side, and then Chirasch. Eesham finished draining the goblin and uncoiled his tail from the limp corpse.

“This makes a fine lair,” said Xarsien.

“Look to those tracks,” said Chirasch, “more goblins dwell inside, and you have not yet fed, my lord.”

“I could stand another goblin myself,” said Eesham.

“As could we all,” said Xarsien, “there should be campfires inside. To be warm, fed, and away from the elements . . .”

The decision wasn’t difficult, “Fashion torches,” said Renald.





They coiled around a fire built near the entrance to the mine. More than a dozen goblin corpses lay strewn haphazardly around them. Renald savored the warmth flooding through him, as his blood was quickened by the feeding. For the first time in months, since before they left for Black Marsh, he felt his former strength returned. Around him his syffim laughed quietly and joked with each other. Renald’s thoughts strayed to Akal, and his irrepressible optimism. These last months would have been easier had he survived, he thought.

“My lord?” Xarsien stoked the fire with a rusted iron shortsword.

“Speak,” said Renald.

Xarsien hesitated. “This woman you saw at the ravine. . .”

Renald nodded. “I know it is a difficult thing to understand, but I trust her word.”

“As I trust yours, my lord,” said Xarsien. “What I mean to say is, what happens when we reach the Imperial City?”

The other members of his syffim looked to him for an answer.

“We seek out the new Emperor. We honor our oaths.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Xarsien, “but which Emperor do we seek. The one who holds the throne, or the one with the blood of the dragon?”

There was a faint hint of a new scent in the air. Renald’s tongue captured it, and his insides turned to liquid. A wave of fear gripped him like nothing he had felt since his youth in Akavir. Instantly his tail propelled him erect, his katana held in trembling hand. His syffim reacted to him, rising with their weapons drawn. The scent hit their tongues, fear and confusion shaped the contours of their faces.

“It cannot be,” Xarsien whispered.

“It is,” said Renald, “the scent comes from deep within the mine.”

“How is that possible?” Xarsien held his shield close to his chest, as if to ward off the scent.

Eesham’s voice was a panicked hiss, “I do not recognize the scent, yet it causes me fear. Why is that?”

“You were little more than a hatchling when we left home,” said Chirasch, “you are too young to remember.”

Xarsien shook his head. “We should leave this place and never return.”

“No,” said Renald, “it is an omen, one which we must face. I will not order this of you. Each of you must search within yourself for the will to continue.”

“You are Captain, my lord,” said Chirasch, “my life is yours.”

Eesham studied the dark tunnel leading into the pit of the mine. “I follow you, my lord, to the death and beyond, if needs be.”

Xarsien lowered his head. “I followed you to this land because it was my duty. I follow you now because it is my desire. Lead on, my lord.”

Renald felt a rush of pride in his chest that armed him against his fear. He lit a torch from the fire, his syffim followed suit. Single file, Renald led them deeper into the mine.

The tunnel led into the bowels of the mountain. The air grew warm and close. The torches began to dim, barely lighting the stone walls of the shaft. Renald felt the weight of his decision with every undulation of his tail. Its presence here must be more than coincidence, he thought. Have I made the right choice, or am I leading us only to our deaths?

One by one they lost the torches. Burned out clubs would be of no use so they dropped them on the warm stone. Renald used his off-hand to feel his way through the darkness. The others used their off-hands to hold the tail of the one in front of them. They made their way down the empty mine shaft in the dark.

A distant light filled Renald with equal parts fear and dread. By the time they reached its source the oppressive heat in the tunnel had sapped most of their new won strength. A dimly lit cavern opened in front of them. The ceiling and walls were lost in the darkness. The only clue to the size of the chamber was the echoed scrapes of their tails.

Piles of bones littered the ground, high enough to be lost in the darkness of the chambers upper region, and spread out in every direction that they could see. Xarsien lifted one and examined it, “sheep,” he said. He lifted another, “bear,” and a third, “goblin.”

The scent was overpowering. Renald’s hand signal spread them into battle formation. “We know you are here,” he said, “show yourself!”

In answer a plume of fire forty feet high lit the cavern in the distance. It was followed by the sound of mighty wings. A gust of hot wind knocked them all slightly off balance. His syffim recovered quickly, their grip on their weapons tightened. Deep hot breaths came from something large just outside the range of their vision.

A voice from the darkness spread more hot air over them. “What is it that you seek here, Tsaesci?”

Renald moved forward. “I would speak with you, wise one.”

“You have slain my goblins,” said the voice, “now you wish to speak with me. Say your peace, then I will destroy you.”

“You are familiar with our race,” said Renald, “you know that we do not fear your kind.”

The cavern shook with each step forward the creature made, the heavy claws on its feet scraped against the ground. Its head poked into view, larger than Renald, red-scaled, spiked, and glistening. The mouth opened revealing a row of sharp teeth longer than a man’s arm. It sniffed Renald from the top of his head to the tip of his tail. His syffim stood poised, their weapons ready should their Captain give the order. It had been centuries since any of them had seen one, but even in the dim light of the cavern there was no mistaking a dragon.

“Your words betray you, snake,” said the Dragon, “I can smell your fear. I know all too well of your race, what words could you have for me that I would trust?”

The heat from the Dragon’s breath hinted at the inferno to come should Renald’s answer prove false. Renald laid his katana at the Dragon’s feet.

“I made a vow to protect the blood of dragons,” said Renald, “not to spill it.”

His syffim followed his lead and placed their weapons on the ground. The Dragon’s head cocked to the side, its bifurcated tail played around the edge of Renald’s katana.

“You four swore oaths to the Dragon Emperor?”

“We did many years ago,” said Renald, “him and his heirs.”

“That line is dead,” said the Dragon, “your oaths are useless now.”

“It was dead, it has been reborn. We travel to the Imperial City to honor our oaths. It occurs to me that one such as you would be better served as a loyal subject of the new Empire than scratching out an existence enslaving goblins.”

Flames played about the Dragon’s nose. “I will not live as an object of curiosity.”

“Nor should you,” said Renald, “I cannot speak for the new Emperor. If I bring back those who can, will you speak with them?”

There was a moment when Renald thought that his words had fallen on deaf ears. We are too close, he thought, in the first blast of the Dragon’s breath we will all be returned to the Dreamsleeve. I have doomed us all.

“I shall,” the Dragon said, regarding Renald with a look that might have been respect, “It appears we have an accord.”

“Good.” The sigh that escaped Renald then was as filled with relief as it was lacking in dignity. “I am the Chevalier Renald, and this is my syffim. How are you called?”

The Dragon raised itself to its full height. Its voice echoed through the cavern. “I have had many names, but you may call me Nafaalilargus.”

I marvel at your skill in making a story and of getting into your char's head. Renald's awesome. Possible my favourite character in Interregnum.

The fact that you introduce us to such a powerful, larger-than-life character like Hoag Mer-Killer on the eve of his death makes the following battle all the more tragic. That is real storytelling!

I have enjoyed reading the Chevalier Renald and his syffim yet again.

You have the ability to take some very strange and alien characters and making them into something I can empathize with. These snake-beings, the Tsaesci, are not cardboard demons to be hated, they are living, breathing creatures who feel pain and suffering, and have a sense of honor that rivals that of the best samurai, soldiers, cops, etc.

I am still enjoying this second read through.

One nit: I believe boughs would be the better word, as it refers to tree branches, not the weapons or the gestures of courtesy and respect usually seen at court.

I too love the Chevalier Renald, I see him - can you believe the first time I read this I had to look up Tsaesci? It's true! He is one of the huge characters you have developed that brings Interregnum to life in the mind of the reader.

Making your own torches was a touch that adds realism - and their suffering the elements

- and immediately upon reading this the first time I dug in Lore to find out everything I could about Nafaalilargus!

The pieces are all starting to fall into place now, but when you will see this:



I Love this story!!!!!!!

To quote Voltaire: "God is on the side not of the heavy battalions, but of the best shots."

As h.e.r. said, you do an excellent job of portraying the Tsaesci as being people, in spite of how alien they are to we, your readers.

I loved your description of the Tsaesci in the cave, and how differences in their breath emphasized the differences in their character.

“Yes, my lord,” said Xarsien, “but which Emperor do we seek. The one who holds the throne, or the one with the blood of the dragon?”
Now there is the question a lot of people will be asking.

An actual dragon! W00T! You are right I was not expecting that! Very cool to see one still around.

Well that was unexpected... A dragon

I can only agree with SubRosa, very cool. Any story which involves dragons is automatically excellent, and this one already was so its just got even better.

Good characterisation of the Tsaesci, even after so short a part I have a good feeling for their characters and want to read more about them. You have a way of doing that...

One nit:
We shall take them,” said Renald, unsheathing his katana.

Eesham grinned and twin katanas leaped from the crossed scabbards on his back. Chirasch reached for his dai-katana. Xarsien stood armed with katana and shield. -- fairly heavy use of the word 'katana' there but its just a minor detail, the overall part was excellent.

There are two super magic indelible moments in your story overall for me that will stay with me. Moments I will forever remember with fondness or awe.

1. The little sweet roll in the negotiation tent that developed its own personna from quite a few chapters back.

2. And this: This part still makes the elf on my shoulder almost wet her greaves. It was so wonderful to read it again!

Remko – That makes two of us, Renald is my favorite character as well.

haute – It sounds as if someone may have watched When the Last Sword is Drawn one too many times. I went out of my way to portray the Tsaesci with a code and a value system that mirrors the samurai (or at least my idealized version of the samurai).

Thank you for the correction of boughs, it has been addressed.

And you asked for it, so here is your chapter.

mALX – Two spoiler warnings this time?! I could get accustomed to this! Nafaalilargus has a key role to play in the months to come. So don’t worry, you will be seeing more of him.

SubRosa – I was a little worried about that paragraph in the cave. I didn’t want to lay it on too thick, but I did want to give you a sense of who each member of the syffim is without using dialogue to do it. I’m glad that it worked for you.

The good thing about working in the second era is that there is still at least one dragon alive in Tamriel. I thought it would be almost sacrilegious to do this story without including him.

Olen – I see where you’re coming from with the nit involving ‘katana’. At the moment I can’t think of anything better. ‘Sword’ just doesn’t seem right, somehow. I will continue to think it over.

Acadian – I consider it quite telling that the two most memorable moments for you involve the smallest piece of business in the story, and the largest (so far).

This time Buffy ‘almost’ wet her greaves. She is definitely improving!!

A note on this chapter:

I originally wrote this chapter for Interregnum as posted late last year on the other forum. I removed it from that story because it was to serve as the introduction of yet another viewpoint character. My feeling at the time was that I already had too many viewpoint characters for one story. In this incarnation of Interregnum the viewpoint character in question has already been introduced, so I thought it only fair to reintegrate this chapter (heavily re-written) into the story. I hope you enjoy it.





14th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Royal Theatre, Sentinel, Hammerfell
Evening


Crown Prince A’Tor rose from his seat in the royal box and scanned the crowd below him with a discerning eye. Father will be pleased, he thought to himself, even after nearly a dozen performances the crowds still come in droves. All were dressed in their finest silk, Crown solids mingled easily with Forebear stripes. They shared anecdotes and compliments, jokes and complaints without subterfuge and without animosity. A’Tor smiled, who would have thought that something as simple as a play could unite the people so.

His eye was drawn by a hint of the distinctive blue tunic of the Knights of the Moon. The wearer stood to the side of the crowd. A’Tor could not see his face through the forest of people that stood between them, but he knew that the knight stood vigilant, his eyes watchful and wary. With this new peace they can turn those eyes toward protecting us from foreign threats, instead of guarding us from our own.

The crowd parted and the knight’s face came into view. A’Tor’s smile faded. Damn him! He turned to the small contingent of Crown nobles that shared the royal box with him and made his excuse. As he left the box and made his way down the stairs two more Knights of the Moon, wearing the same blue tunics, fell into a flanking step alongside him.





The tunic chafes, Casnar thought to himself, but it has always chafed. He pulled at the neck until it was less likely to strangle him and watched the crowd milling about the theater floor. He paid special attention to the eyes and the hands. Most of the patrons got a cursory glance. Anyone who seemed wrong got an intense stare that lingered until he or she was ruled out as a threat. Not that he was overly worried; the High King had yet to arrive. No assassin worth his poison would tip his hand before the target had even shown himself. A’Tor is in attendance, he reminded himself, I had best remain on guard for his sake.

“Why are you here?” said a familiar voice to his left.

Casnar turned. So intent had he been on watching the crowd that he had not even noticed the Crown Prince’s approach. Now A’Tor stood before him, flanked by a pair of his brother knights, and the look on their faces left no room for levity.

“I am doing my duty for the Crown, my prince,” said Casnar, his eyes seeking the floor.

“Your duty . . . ,” A’Tor stopped himself. His hands clenched and he exhaled slowly through the nose.

Casnar noticed the press of the crowd around them. He saw Crown solids and Forebear stripes, the smell of women’s perfume and men’s oiled leather hung in the air. All of them were too close. All of them wanted a glimpse or a chance to touch the Crown Prince.

“Follow me,” said A’Tor.

He moved past Casnar towards the foot of the stage. The two Knights of the Moon led the way, pushing through the crush of sycophants and well-wishers. Casnar followed behind the Crown Prince. He kept his hand near the hilt of his dagger in case he needed a weapon for use in close quarters.

They gained the stage and moved behind the curtain, away from prying eyes. Casnar followed them down a short hall to a small, dim anteroom in back of the theater. The Crown Prince waved away his bodyguard. The two knights removed themselves to a discreet distance in the hall, and even as they turned their backs Casnar knew that they remained poised and ready.

“Your duty to the Crown is to follow orders,” said A’Tor, “I told you to stay away.”

“I could not bear the thought of something happening to you or your father in my absence,” Casnar replied, “I tried to remain inconspicuous.”

“It didn’t work. Look around you, Casnar. For the first time in my memory Crowns and Forebears are allied. But this alliance is as fragile as gossamer wings. Your presence threatens to upset everything.”

Casnar shook his head, “but I am innocent.”

A’Tor placed a hand on Casnar’s shoulder. “I believe you, old friend. But mine is one small voice in a very large room. Father’s suspicions are easily inflamed. The fact that you were seen in a Forebear tavern conspiring with representatives of High Rock and Skyrim is enough to condemn you in the eyes of many on the council.”

“Alain and Valdemar represent naught but themselves.”

“So you have said. It does not matter, they are not here to give testimony on your behalf. There are those on the council who seek to draw closer to the throne by pointing out the treachery that surrounds it. They have poisoned your name to my father’s ears.”

“So I am accused without proof, condemned without trial? Is justice a casualty of our conflict with the Forebears?”

“Spare me your righteous indignation Casnar!” said the Crown Prince, removing his hand from Casnar’s shoulder. “There was a time not long ago when even a royal summons was not sufficient to produce you. You came and went of your own accord without so much as a ‘by your leave’. Our friendship conferred upon you a favor that none of your knight brothers enjoyed.”

“I regret my former actions, my prince. I had hoped to make amends by my attentiveness of late.”

“You chose to make amends by remaining conspicuously underfoot?” A’Tor began to laugh. “You have many gifts, my friend, but timing is not one of them. Can’t you see that your actions of late only serve to provide those false prophets on the council with ammunition?”

Casnar remained silent.

“I can persuade my father to stay his hand against you, but only for as long as your actions don’t give the council further reason to condemn you.”

There was a surge in the noise of the crowd on the other side of the curtain. A’Tor turned at the sound; his bodyguard roused themselves to stiff attention. A horn’s blare and the beat of a drum heralded the arrival of the High King of Hammerfell.

“You wish to make amends?” asked the Crown Prince.

“I do,” said Casnar.

“Then do this for me. Leave here, stay out of my father’s sight. After the performance the playwright is hosting a celebration at his home. It would be unseemly for the High King to appear at this celebration personally. Besides, there are few creatures in the Mundas that my father hates more than writers. Go to this playwright’s home. Express the admiration of the Crown. Use that charm you possess in the service of something other than yourself for once.”

Casnar bowed in acquiescence. “Yes, my prince.”

A’Tor adjusted the fit of his robe and swept from the room, accompanied by his bodyguard. A second surge in the crowd announced his arrival on the floor. Casnar stood alone in the dim light of the anteroom with the cream of Hammerfell society just beyond the closed curtain.





14th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Theatre District, Sentinel, Hammerfell
Evening


The playwright’s home stood on an outcrop overlooking ragged cliffs which dropped into the foaming surf of the Iliac Bay. Inside the furnishings ran to the modest and the austere. Casnar noticed that he was once again surrounded by members of both parties. They were held together in mutual celebration, and all basked in the glow emanating from their celebrated host.

The man himself scurried to greet Casnar the moment he set foot through the door. He was a tall man and still in fighting trim despite his advanced age. His short woolen hair was shot through with gray, as were his eyebrows and the thin beard that lent wisdom to his features. He wore a broad smile and his ceremonial bow to Casnar was as heartfelt as it was theatrical.

“Welcome, Sir Knight,” he said, “it is a pleasure to have a representative of the Crown in my home.”

Casnar returned the bow. “Many thanks. I come at the High King’s request. He regrets that he can’t be here to express his admiration in person.”

“His regrets are unnecessary. Government takes precedence over entertainment, especially in times such as these. Allow me to introduce you to the rest of my family.” He began to look about the room until his eyes rested on a tall man of an age with Casnar. “Ah, my newest son,” he said. He raised his voice to be heard across the room, “Hakan.”

The man turned, Casnar saw something familiar in his face. He also saw a flash of what looked like irritation cloud his features before he mastered himself and walked over.

“This is my daughter’s husband,” said the playwright, “Hakan, this is Sir . . . forgive me, Sir Knight.”

“Casnar.”

“This is Sir Casnar of the Knights of the Moon.”

“Sir Knight,” said Hakan.

“Hakan,” said Casnar, “how long since the wedding?”

“Not quite a year now,” the playwright answered for him. “Hakan, I want your wife and my son to meet Sir Casnar, would you keep him entertained while I find them?”

Casnar saw something sharper than irritation in Hakan’s eyes.

“Of course . . . father,” said Hakan.

The playwright nodded, turned, and blended into his guests. Casnar studied the face of the man before him.

“I know you,” he said.

Hakan shook his head, “I can’t imagine from where.”

Casnar’s eyes grew cold. “Yes you can. I am tasked with keeping track of the Forebear militias. I take a special interest in the more vocal members. I imagine you were not in favor of the truce; else you would be up in the hills with Baron Volag like your fellows. Or is it the playwright’s daughter that keeps you here?”

Hakan's face remained impassive. His eyes were filled with both fear, and hate.

“No,” said Casnar, “you did not bat an eye both times her father mentioned her. That is unusual for a couple married less than a year. There is strife in the marriage. She knows where your allegiance lies, and she keeps this knowledge from her father.”

Hakan’s silence was more eloquent than words.

“As someone opposed to the truce,” Casnar continued, “it should gall you now to benefit from it. Honor keeps me from betraying your secret, and it prevents my running you through right here and now. But I will remain watchful, woe betide you should any harm befall this family.”

The guests parted and the playwright re-emerged with two young people in tow. The girl was beautiful, and of an age with Casnar and Hakan.

“Sir Casnar," said the playwright, "may I present my daughter, Iszara.”

She stepped forward and lowered herself into a courtly bow that would have been the envy of half the nobles in Hammerfell.

“We are honored by your presence here, Sir Knight,” she said.

“It is I who am honored, milady.”

“My family is of little account, Sir Knight,” said Iszara, “I am afraid that honorific doesn’t suit me.”

“You father has done more for Hammerfell with his quill than a score of nobles with their money and petty squabbles,” said Casnar. “To me, that lifts your family into the ranks of nobility. And I have met few women in the entire kingdom more deserving of the honorific than you.”

The playwright laughed. “Be careful, Hakan, you may find yourself absent a wife. Sir Casnar, this is my son. He is a great admirer of anything involving swords and the men who use them.”

Casnar reluctantly looked past Iszara to the boy fidgeting behind her. He was a tall, well-built lad with his father’s face and his sister’s bearing. Casnar was immediately reminded of himself as a youth. The boy stepped forward, extending his arm in greeting. His eyes danced with eagerness.

“My name is Cyrus,” the boy said.

Yay Cyrus!

At the risk of sounding like a prissy Bosmer, oh, thank you! thank you!

I recognize this as the prelude to Redguard the game - I've read the storyline and watched a playthrough on YouTube. It would have been one of my favorite games of the time!

Again, I thank you for introducing us to Julian's childhood hero, and his sister.

Your presentation of Hammerfell politics on the eve of the uprising against Tiber Septim feels so real, so immediate, I was immersed in it. Casnar was well written, and the conversation between him and Crown Prince A'tor makes me wonder why one of my favorite ghosts was in such big trouble back home, and was that the reason he joined Talos Stormcrown's Blades?

I really love this piece, it spans my favourite genres almost completly, there's swords, battles, a bit of magic and polictical intregue. What more could I want? The politics is well portrayed, you show a country on the verge of explosion from internal pressures and imminently going to burst in some direction... and with your skills that bursting should be quite spectacular.

Casnar is a strong character and it's good to see more of him but even with the few lines you had you've roughed out the shape of Hakan well, I already have somewhat of a feel of how he ticks.

And then Cyrus! I might just explod- *bang*

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT !!! CYRUS and his SISTER? AAAAAARRRRGGGGHHH !!!!! How could you leave this chapter out of the original? The increased depth it gives Casnar - ARGH !!!!! I feel...cheated that I didn't get to read this for a second time just now, having held it in my memory from reading the original - ARGH !!!!!!!!!

I FORBID you to edit out ANY MORE chapters !!!!!!!!!!!!!! ARGH !!!!!


I LOVE this chapter !!!!!! Awesome Write, that goes without saying. Awesome chapter - and ARGH for removing it before !!!

I am glad you put this in, because it really does tell us quite a bit about Casnar. I can already imagine where this is leading, and how it will end with him leaving Hammerfell to become a Blade. That was before meeting Hakan. Now that we have seen him and know who he is, it only adds more gunpowder to the explosive mix.

I love this line:
Use that charm you possess in the service of something other than yourself for once.
I hate to admit that it makes me think of Casnar's inevitable response:
"But can't I at least use it to get laid!"

The only nit I can think to add is the playwright's name. I do not believe we ever learned it, which seems odd.

Oh, and about the use of the word katana. You might try saying 'curved sword' or 'Akaviri blade' instead.

Sorry everyone, no new chapter this time, but I did want to respond to the wonderful comments left after the last chapter.

haute – You can sound like a prissy Bosmer anytime you want to! I think I saw the same youtube walkthrough that you did (there is only one, right?); it’s where I got the description of Stros M’Kai and Nafaalilargus, in addition to a few other things that are yet to surface. As for your speculation of Casnar’s motives for leaving Sentinel, well, that would be jumping the gun, wouldn’t it?

Olen – This is the first time that I have written anything set in a fantasy setting, so your comments really help validate my efforts. Swords rarely make an appearance in most things I write. I have written a few battle sequences, but nothing on the scale that I am attempting here. Political intrigue is a continuously bountiful well of conflict and drama that I find myself dipping into often. Magic thus far has been hinted at in Interregnum; I assure you that it will take center stage soon.

mALX – “Murder your Darlings” was a phrase coined by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch (or was it Fitzgerald, or Nabokov?). The central theory is that, no matter how good a piece of writing is, and no matter how proud you are of a piece of writing, if it doesn’t serve the story it must be edited out.

In the last version of this story I intended this chapter to introduce Casnar, but without a feel for the character you as the reader would have felt no connection with him (and thus no connection to his world or circumstance). Remember, Alain and Valdemar weren’t introduced until First Seed in the last version of Interregnum, so Casnar would have jumped at you seemingly from nowhere. Since I decided in this version to introduce Alain and Valdemar earlier, and since I decided to make that introduction in a tavern in Sentinel so that you could get a feel for Casnar and the political situation that exists there, I felt confident that I could reinsert this chapter back into the story. I promise that I won’t edit out any future chapters without informing you via PM.

*Those are definitely not Destri's fingers crossed behind his back!*

SubRosa – “But can’t I at least use it to get laid!” sounds exactly like something Casnar would have said!

Once again you see the strings on the puppets that I am trying to manipulate into life. I hope that your speculation about Casnar’s future finds adequate answer in the next chapter. And your well-observed nit is, as always, correct. We never hear the playwright’s name because the lore doesn’t provide us with one. I didn’t want to assign an arbitrary name to him so I decided that his actual name would be something that just never comes up. I hope that it isn’t a distraction.

On the subject of the repetition of ‘katana’: ‘Akaviri blade' sounds okay, but ‘curved sword’ sounds to me like a writer trying not to use the word ‘katana.’

Er...is this a hint? ROFL !!!!!

*wolf jumps up and down in frustration*
Damn it, I missed my favourite part in the story, Arnand hiring his passage on the ship and getting stabbed for his troubles. My mind is spinning in relation to the KOW and what impact he will have in your epic story.

I have been reading for the last 2 hours and I am still not caught up. Everytime I read your writing I keep shaking my head in amazement and go back to re-read it again. Not to mention the fact I want to throw all my writing in the bin after comparing it to what you do.

More, more, oh king of prose.

Wonderfully rich, courtly writing, as is the hallmark of your style. You do much to develop the character of Casnar - this must be done through actions and dialogue with such men and you did a great job.

Oh my! I'm afraid I ascribe to a different philosophy: 'The story exists only to serve the characters.' I care not about the plot as long as I love the characters. Although you are a 'plot man', you do a great job of endearing your characters to us as well, my friend.

As always, your skill is amazing.

Sorry for a nit here:
I'm sure you mean 'Your' to be the first word of this sentence.

Back again !!

Finally caught up at last. This is an absolutely insane story, the best of the best. I love the way you slowly brought Lattia back from her trance, taking us, the reader, through her 3 steps of awakening. That was some the best writing I've read yet. Wow. To hang her consciousness upon the bird's noise as the final stepping point was oh so good.


This is such a simple line, almost a throwaway, yet underpins everything that you wanted the chapter to be. And what impact it was. A Dragon !!!!!!!!!!!!


This one really made me smile. The only criticism I have ever felt with your writing is that I never seem to be able to hang my hat on one protagonist. Every chapter puts us into the shoes of another awesome character and it does make it hard to read. My feelings now is that I wouldn't want it any other way. Your writing is at its best when your are spinning a tornado around us and we never know what is about to come down. More, more I say !!!

I think you misunderstand me. ‘Serving the story’ encompasses everything, plot and character. To me the two are inseparable. What fun is it to have a great plot with characters you care nothing about? Conversely, what fun is it to have a great character who sits around looking at his/her naval lint all day?


Thanks for catching back up. And your criticism is well-aimed. I have spent a lot of time agonizing over whether I am properly serving the needs of this story by presenting it through so many varied eyes. I have chosen to do so because Interregnum affected more than just those vying for the throne. That said, if I ever begin to lose you don’t hesitate to let me know.

Everyone - after a great deal of deliberation and an inordinate amount of fruitless re-writing I have decided to split the end of this chapter into two parts. Sorry for the length of the wait.





14th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Theater District, Sentinel, Hammerfell
Evening


Hakan was unrepentantly and irredeemably drunk. He had found a small cushion in an out of the way corner of the room, and from there he watched the party linger on while he fell further and further into his cups. All around him the revelers continued to sing the praises of his father by marriage. Men who but a month before had been staunch enemies of the Crown now applauded the High King like sculptors seeking patronage. It was as if the stripes on their clothing no longer mattered. In the center of it all his wife played the dutiful daughter and hostess. Hakan felt the bile forming in the back of his throat. What does it say of us that our steel can be tempered by wooden swords and stage make-up? What does it say of me that I share my bed with the daughter of the man who has doomed the righteous cause of the Forebears?

The thought was too painful to absorb on his backside, so he stood. There was a slight wobble, but in his mind his rising was altogether respectable considering how much wine he had put away. Most men would have passed out in a pool of their own drool and vomit by now, but Hakan had always prided himself on his head for drink.

He lurched toward a knot of people gathered around the man of the hour. Anger coiled snake-like around his heart and began to squeeze. Someone must stand for the cause, he thought, someone must confront the devil that tore justice from this country and call him by name.





Casnar had come to revise his opinion of the boy Cyrus. For the last hour the young man had regaled him with tales of working on the docks and his aspirations for future knighthood. Whereas upon first meeting him Casnar was reminded of himself as a youth, the time spent in his guileless company had caused Casnar to see before him a vision of the young Crown Prince A’Tor. He had the same strength of character, the same boundless, un-jaded, optimistic energy. His smile and laugh were infectious, and Casnar found that he was enjoying himself far more than was warranted for what was essentially a chore for the Crown.

“I have heard that it takes great skill to become a Knight of the Moon,” said Cyrus, his eyes locked on the sword on Casnar’s hip.

“You admire the sword?”

The boy actually blushed! Casnar could not help laughing. He saw the look of pain that flashed through Cyrus’ eyes.

“I was not mocking you, Cyrus,” he said, “I was laughing because you remind me so much of Prince A’Tor.”

“You know the Crown Prince?” The pain in the young man’s eyes was gone, replaced by wonder and a swell of pride that caused his chin to lift from his chest and returned the smile that lit the room more than any of the lamps.

“Yes I do. And yes, it does take skill to become a Knight. It also takes intelligence, courage, and a willingness to devote your life to the service of the Crown.”

“Could you teach me?” asked Cyrus.

Before Casnar could answer the sound of a raised voice drew his attention to the other side of the room. Hakan lurched toward Cyrus’ father, his movements made clumsy by an overabundance of wine. Casnar could almost feel the struggle that pulled at Cyrus before he brought it under control.

“G’ye!” Hakan yelled the insult so that everyone in the room could hear.

Casnar recognized the word. It meant fabricator in the old Yokudan dialect. He edged closer to the commotion, his hand found the hilt of his sword of its own accord.

“No lo igra!” deceiver. Hakan’s tone and carriage were dangerously close to treason.

A small knot of Forebears began to form behind Hakan, while an angry group of Crowns came to the side of the accused. This will not end well, Casnar thought. I am bound by the truce not to spill Forebear blood, but some insults cannot be stomached.

“Liar!”

Iszara was there, yet Casnar had not seen her among the crowd only an instant before. She stood at her husband’s side.

“Hakan, not this,” she said.

Hakan turned upon her. The sound of his slap carried throughout the room. Even the Forebears gasped. Iszara hit the floor hard. Casnar’s sword half cleared the scabbard before he caught himself. The truce, he reminded himself, must not be broken. It is all that is holding Hammerfell together. He slammed the sword back to his side and allowed himself to breathe. The red haze before his eyes subsided, returning clarity to the room. As he refocused on the commotion the breath caught in his throat for a second time. Inexplicably he looked to his side, as if he expected the boy to still be standing there. Apparently Cyrus did not share Casnar’s respect for the truce. He stood across the room between Hakan and his prone sister, fear and fury caused the naked blade in his hand to tremble.

No! Casnar thought, he is only a boy. The look on Iszara’s face mirrored his own. They both turned to the father to step in, but there was a hard stoicism in the older man’s eyes that Casnar knew would not move him to action. He locked eyes with Iszara, her plea went unspoken, but to Casnar it was louder than any voice in the room. Desire demanded that he come to her aid, but honor kept him rooted to the spot. She turned away from him then, and Casnar knew that whatever small moment of fellowship they had shared was irreparably broken.

The sound of Hakan’s blade being drawn was an explosion in Casnar’s mind. Hakan adopted the stance of one who faces an opponent whose measure has already been taken. He kept his blade pointed toward the floor, as if Cyrus was not worth the raising of it. He is well-trained, Casnar thought, but drink has made him arrogant and robbed him of balance. Against an experienced opponent he would be hard pressed for victory, but against this boy . . .

Looking at Cyrus caused Casnar to lose his train of thought. The tremors that marked his earlier stance with the blade were gone. Casnar now saw a calm self-assuredness that seemed to season the boy right before his eyes.

They began to circle one another, the sneering older Forebear whose grievance was as ancient as the Ra’Gada itself. And the resolute young Crown, innocent of any direct offence yet standing proxy for the trespasses of a line of High Kings that went back to the sailing from doomed Yokuda. The rest of the room seemed to fall away. Every eye bore witness and every heart willed strength to the arm of its impromptu champion. Casnar’s gaze fell to Iszara across the room. Alone amongst them all her face was a mask of grief, yet whether that grief was for the impending loss of a brother or a husband it was not within Casnar’s power to say.

Hakan broke the silence with a bellowed challenge and a vicious thrust of his sword. Cyrus sidestepped the charge and used his own blade to parry. The two swords met like waves crashing against rock, and battle was joined.

Casnar’s worst fear was confirmed. Hakan was indeed well-versed in the sword. Under different circumstances they might have become brothers under the Moon, but that life was only a shadow in the back of Casnar’s mind. In this life Hakan’s skill was blunted by being the worse for wine, and in his relentless assault it quickly became apparent to every eye in the room that the boy Cyrus was a prodigy.

The duel could be told on Hakan’s face. Confident swagger gave way to surprise, then shock, followed by concern which led to trepidation, and finally culminating in naked fear. Cyrus pressed him from every angle; his blade a shimmering blur that whistled through Hakan’s ever slowing guard. Casnar could see the toll that the exchange was taking on the Forebear, and the confidence that was growing in the movements of the young Crown.

Hakan redoubled his efforts. He sought to use his superior size and strength to overwhelm the boy, but Cyrus was ready for him. Instead of parrying an overhead chop Cyrus sidestepped and let Hakan’s blade fall into a shower of sparks against the stone floor. The savagery of the move and the shock of the impact threw the Forebear off balance. Cyrus’ blade darted like dragon’s tongue and drew first blood against Hakan’s exposed flank. The older man screamed with pain and frustration and directed a back-hand slash toward the young man’s neck. Cyrus ducked under the blade and rose up inside of Hakan’s guard. His blade flashed, and Hakan screamed once more.

They separated, blood poured from wounds in the Forebear’s right side and the left side of his chest. His labored breath began to rattle. For the first time Casnar saw the impact of the duel on the face of the young Crown. Uncertainty marred Cyrus’ features and caused the tip of his blade to fall toward the floor. The boy is going to offer quarter, Casnar thought, this night may yet end well for all. Across the room he saw relief flush Iszara’s tear stained cheek.

But Hakan was not undone. With the last of his remaining strength he charged the boy. He brought his sword back for a blow that was meant to separate Cyrus’ head from his neck. Iszara screamed.

Instinct took over. Cyrus’ blade lifted and sought out the Forebear’s sword hand. Hakan’s scream echoed his wife’s as his hand was nearly severed at the wrist. His blade flew back in a lazy arc and crashed into a table loaded with wine and cheese several paces behind him. Before the clatter could subside Cyrus thrust home with his blade. There was a sound not unlike a stone dropped into a deep well, and an almost gentle moan from Hakan. Then the room fell silent yet again. Hakan looked down at the blade protruding from his chest. Casnar thought he saw a smile on his face. Then Cyrus yanked the blade free and Hakan pitched forward and fell face down on the stone floor. His legs twitched in spasm as a pool of blood stained the floor beneath him.

Around him pandemonium reigned. Casnar felt the arms and shoulders that jostled him from those making haste toward the exit. He could not bring himself to move. In the center of the milling storm of people he saw a vision of Prince A’Tor, head down, trembling with bloody sword in hand. When the vision looked up Casnar saw that it was the boy Cyrus, whose guileless innocence had so charmed him earlier that very night. There were tears in the boy’s eyes, and in the eyes of his sister who approached him warily. They briefly held each others gaze, but it was Cyrus who looked away. He turned and sprinted from the room. Iszara dropped sobbing to her knees. Her tears fell and mingled with the blood on the floor.

The playwright had found his way to Casnar’s side. “I know that the Crown sent you here to appease me,” he said, his voice hoarse with feeling, “if you would do your King’s bidding then I beseech you, Sir Knight, watch after my son.” He moved past Casnar and knelt to comfort his shattered daughter.

Ah, this was so much better than the original (Beth) version! Far more detailed, and oh, the tension leading up to the sword fight. The sword play itself is sublimely written! Short in itself yet full of adrenaline and long on description. This takes me back to the days when I used to watch swashbucklers as a child (Errol Flynn, Burt Lancaster, Tyrone Power, et al)!

Poor Casnar, forced to stand and witness something when every nerve in his body must be screaming to jump in and help out the boy!

Oh, and thanks for fleshing out Julian's favorite hero!

A very heart-pounding, fast-paced description of the sword fight. Combine that with the dilemma presented to Iszara, lose a husband, or lose a brother. Then add in the grim specter of renewed civil war, and you have given us quite a heady potion.

My only criticism is that where the two parts break (at the dotted lines?) is jarring. At first I thought it was a shift in pov. I think you could do away with the breaking point and meld the paragraphs above and below in a rather seamless fashion without losing anything. For example:



This is just a rough, first draft, but I think if you polish it up a bit it will accomplish what you are looking for.

The palpable tension and build up to this fight was magnificently exquisite. Bravo, Destri!

The fight itself and aftermath were equally powerful. Wow!

That was good... very good. You caught the tension and build-up perfectly and the first part with Hakan being drunk was spot on, the thought patterns were exactly those which lead to drunken fights. The fight was excellently written and quite believeable given Hakan's drunkenness, but if anything I'd say the build-up made it. This is one of the best passages I've read in a while.

And now the aftermath, that is an exciting prospect. Especially Cyrus who you've developed rather cunningly (I didn't spot any pure character development there but he certainly developed), definitly effiecency with words. And I want to know what happens with Cyrus now.

I do not know what is worse. Having no Destri or no mALX? Both are a torment to the reading eyes of this old wolf. Welcome back to the forum, I see that your talent is still in full swing.

That was an epic chapter. In reality a combat scene passes in the blink of an eye, yet to a reader it can take 2000 words, a challenge for any writer. How delightful it was to read how a talented person can do it. Wow!

The pacing of the chapter and the thoughts of the characters flowed as quickly as the swordplay. Simply beautiful.


This line was magnificent, coming at the end of the sentence and really hitting the spot. Bravo!

I am not too clued up on 2nd era heroes but I do know the name Cyrus and I truly admire your interpretation on him. The "duel" between him and Hakan was epic.

You already know how I feel about your story but let me emphasize it once more: AWESOME!!

haute – What swashbuckler were you watching that starred Burt Lancaster? That sounds like a movie I need to see! I am so glad that you (and Julian) are enjoying my interpretation of Cyrus’ exile. You remain my touchstone for this section of the story. I know how much you (and Julian) admire Cyrus. If I am making the two of you happy then I feel like I am accomplishing my goal.

SubRosa – That’s quite a rough draft! I loved your reinterpretation of it, but the problem is that you focus on Cyrus’ fear and inexperience at the start of the battle. I had hoped to convey that it was Cyrus’ distinct lack of fear that caused Casnar to lose his train of thought and see the boy through new eyes. In my view this is the first time that Cyrus’ potential is put on display. That potential will be realized later in his life when he becomes Hoon Ding (in another story, of course).

I continue to be amazed at your powers of perception. I think that Iszara’s dilemma forms the real ‘meat’ of this chapter, yet due to my own inadequacies as a writer I barely touched upon it. It makes me so glad that you could see it as well because now I know that I wasn’t wrong.

Acadian – I truly appreciate the compliment. I am far more comfortable setting the stage than in the actual act of battle. At some point I would like to try and master the ease which you display in conveying tactical planning. Thanks to Buffy, I am learning a lot.

Olen – Thank you. After reading Firen’s story I consider your endorsement of Hakan’s behavior key! And now I present to you the answer to your questions about Cyrus.

Winter Wolf – In answer to your question, mALX’s absence is a MUCH greater torment. I was worried about this chapter because the fight itself was so brief. I hoped that it would prove worthy of the build-up. I am glad to see that, for you and a few others at least, it was.

Remko – I am glad you enjoyed the duel. I really was worried that it was too brief to justify the build-up.

Everything I know about Cyrus comes from reading this and watching this.





15th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Sentinel, Hammerfell
Pre-Dawn


Run Cyrus! The thought carried him over cobblestones made slick by the rain. Above him the banners were buffeted both by the rain and the wind coming off of Iliac Bay. On occasion the entire city was lit in a brilliant flash of lightning. It was if Kynareth herself was searching for him, and the rumble of thunder that attended these flashes voiced her frustration. Run! That same thought moved him through the alleys that the storm had turned into canals and whose narrow shadows had still not given way to the first hints of morning. His Crown solids clung to his body and were made heavy by the rain. They weighed upon him like a millstone. Run! It was what sustained him past the point that his lungs began to burn and his tears blocked any sight of a possible destination. Run!

What have I done? Iszara, I’m so sorry. Hakan . . . He closed his eyes as if denial could erase memory. His tears mingled with the rain and the filth of the city that stained his cheek. He continued his headlong rush. To where? He thought. Anywhere but here, I am dead to Hammerfell, as it is dead to me. He cursed the strength in his sword arm, gained when needed least. Were he the better man would Hakan have killed me? Or would he have spared my life and remained husband . . . and brother?

The subtle blooming of the eastern sky into a lighter shade of gray was lost on him. Shadows stirred and began their retreat against the light. Small knots of people materialized on the street. They regarded him through rain soaked faces and hooded eyes, their whispered conversation caught in fragments as Cyrus kept running,

“Forebear,”

“Killed,”

“The truce,”

“Broken,”

My doing, Cyrus thought, all my doing. Hakan had been drunk. I could have tried to reason with him. Instead I ran him through and in so doing killed a brother, and took a husband from my sister.

“There he is!”

Cyrus turned toward the voice. An old man dressed in sodden rags was pointing toward him and looking to an area to Cyrus’ left. He followed the old man’s gaze and his already labored breath caught in his throat. His overtaxed heart skipped a beat. Two Knights of the Moon were coming toward him, the rain beaded on the steel of their armor and dripped from the heads of lowered lances. At first Cyrus thought that one of them was Sir Casnar and he was flooded with a moment’s relief. But the eyes beneath those helmets held no warmth for him, and the voice that called for his surrender was colder than the night just passed. His hand sought the hilt of his sword, but there was only death to be gained there. All he had left was a single thought.

Run!





15th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
The Royal Palace, Sentinel, Hammerfell
Dawn


“I told you to represent the Crown,” said Crown Prince A’Tor, “not stand idly and bear witness to the breaking of the truce!”

Casnar opened his mouth to speak, but for the first time in his life discretion defeated impulse.

The gathered members of the Council, those that could be moved to attend at so early an hour, muttered amongst themselves and gave Casnar all of the angry inattention due the unruly mutt that has just soiled the royal carpet. These were men unaccustomed to rousing themselves for business before mid-day, and Casnar could feel the resentment that dripped from them like the raindrops from their overpriced silk robes.

The floor upon which Casnar stood in the center of the council chamber was bordered by a raised platform which formed an arch around him and upon which the council members sat. Long ago the builders of the chamber had learned the elementary truth that it was not an easy thing to look up at a man with contempt, so the platform was raised. The Crown Prince sat in his customary position in the center of the arch.

“Is it your wish to exasperate the Crown, Casnar?”

“No, Your Highness,” said Casnar lowering his head, “it was only my intention to do the Crown’s bidding.”

“When did the Crown bid you to allow the truce to be broken?” said a baritone voice to Casnar’s right.

Casnar turned. The speaker was a mountain of a man clad in voluminous silk. His jowls hung like saddle bags to either side of several chins, and the sausages that served as his fingers clutched to a quill that he absently stabbed repeatedly into the tablecloth.

To save his life Casnar could not remember the man’s name. “I allowed nothing, councilman. . .”

“Inaction is acquiescence,” said another voice, a high tenor that came from behind Casnar.

The speaker was as spare as the other was ample. His bald head bore the curious shape of a warhammer, and the faded silk that draped his emaciated form looked as if it had been recently slept in, and not for the first time.

At least Casnar knew this one by name. “Councilman Borlas, the two men fought a fair and honorable duel. Tradition dictated that I not interfere.”

“What was so honorable about some young hooligan running through a drunk?” said the portly baritone. “From what I understand he was not even the offended party.”

“I believe the table has had enough, Nelvin,” said Prince A’Tor.

Nelvin, thought Casnar, that was the man’s name. He looked over at the fat councilman whose loose cheeks were flushed. His repeated forays had torn through the tablecloth and irreparably bent his quill. He threw down the ruined implement and looked at his thick fingers as if they had acted in contravention of his orders.

“I would advise you to temper your rebuke,” Prince A’Tor continued, “the ‘drunk’ you refer to was a prominent Forebear who sought an end to this council up to his last treasonous breath. And the ‘hooligan’ was the only son of an equally prominent, and loyal, Crown.”

“Be that as it may, Your Highness,” said Councilman Borlas, “this council was not convened to cast blame, but to enforce justice. We seek only to reinstate the conditions of the King’s truce.”

Discretion failed Casnar, “if that were the case, then there would be a Forebear in the room.”

Prince A’Tor placed a hand to his lowered brow and tried to massage away the ache in his temples. Around him the various councilmen buzzed with righteous indignation.

“It is as we have said, my Prince,” Councilman Nelvin’s baritone raised above the general tumult. “Treason falls far too easily from this one’s lips. Perhaps it is not the boy who should be executed.”

Executed? Casnar looked toward the Crown Prince. His eyes searched, but they were left wanting. “Your Highness?”

A’Tor would not look out from under his hand. “The High King has ordered the boy’s execution as the initial step to restoring the truce.”

“The boy is blameless, my Prince,” said Casnar. He turned so that his comments could be heard throughout the room. “He acted to protect his sister and to defend the honor of his father, a man who is responsible for the truce you now enjoy. What does it say to him that we would deprive him of his only son to appease Forebear wounded pride? What does it say of us that we would take the life of a boy who acted in such splendid accord with the very principles of being a Crown? For is it not the duty of a Crown to uphold the honor of his elders and, should the need arise, come to their defense?”

“Surprising words, coming from you,” said Councilman Nelvin.

“Enough,” said the Crown Prince, rising from his chair. He looked down at Casnar. “Your eloquence does you credit, Casnar. But the High King’s word is law and cannot be questioned. The boy shall be brought back to the Royal Palace where his sentence will be carried out. You are ordered to confine yourself to quarters until such time as the Crown can determine whether your actions last night warrant further punishment. This council is adjourned.”

The Crown Prince turned and left through a door in the back of the room. Casnar kept his gaze trained on the floor. He could feel the triumphant eyes of the councilmen upon him as they rose from their seats. He could hear their oiled voices lifted in congratulation as they contemplated a retreat to soft beds and decadent breaks of fast. He could feel the weight of the tunic that he wore. It now seemed like an anchor dragging him down, beneath the gaze of that arch. The collar seemed to tighten around his neck. Once again he was reminded how much the simple garment chafed.

He made his decision right there, as he gazed at the dry stone tiles that made up the floor. He knew that, despite his best efforts and his staunchest desire to be the knight that his Prince deserved, his last act as a Knight of the Moon would be one of defiance.





15th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
The Waterfront, Sentinel, Hammerfell
Dusk


The storm clouds remained, but they had ceased to deposit their charge upon the helpless city of Sentinel. A soft, gentle scraping was now the dominant sound on the waterfront as scattered vendors used brooms made of straw to shift the offending rain toward their neighbor’s stoop. The foot traffic that they relied upon had been absent in the wake of the deluge. Those preparing to sail on the eventide were kept occupied with their ships, so the vendors swept . . . and watched.

Only those well-armed traveled through the streets, the capture of the boy Cyrus was the preoccupation of the city. In addition to the city guard and the Knights of the Moon, Zenithar’s Knights of Iron had joined in the search on behalf of the offended honor of the Forebears. Many small skirmishes between the three groups had occurred throughout the day. Steel-clad bodies bearing tunics stained Moon blue, Iron gray, or Guard red were left to rust in the gutters.





It was two who toiled under the banner of the Moon who finally found him hiding in an alcove on the waterfront. The boy was soaked to the bone and gave no resistance. As he was brought forth it was clear that the trials of the day had aged him. Gone was the innocent light of youth from his eyes, replaced by the shadow of the penitent man’s knowledge that the past travels with you, like baggage that cannot be discarded. He was positioned between the two knights, his head held low in complete resignation. He tried to maintain their pace, but more often than not they had to drag him. His feet made a shallow furrow in the rain and the mud.

“Unhand the boy,” said a shadow that loomed before them. The fading light of the day made it difficult for Cyrus to see. All he could make out was the moon insignia that was identical to the one worn by his captives. He once again lowered his head.

The knight on his left spoke, “we have no time for your jests, Brother Casnar. Our orders are to conduct this boy to the palace.”

Casnar, thought Cyrus. He raised his head for a second time. The shadow continued to block their path. Why did that name sound familiar?

“I am aware of your orders,” said the shadow, in a voice that was laced with steel, “and I am telling you to unhand the boy.”

“Stand down, Casnar. Have you taken leave of your senses?” The one to Cryus’ right had spoken. He had the vague sensation of studded hands tightening around his arms.

Cyrus heard the soft scrape of steel as it leaves the scabbard. He felt the knight on his left tense, and he heard a sharp intake of breath from the knight on his right.

“You would draw your sword against a brother?”

“I would,” said the shadow. His voice held a calm that was far more disconcerting to Cyrus than the thunder that had assailed his ears all day. “This is the last time that I will say it, unhand the boy.”

“Traitor!”

Cyrus felt the knight’s hands leave him. For a brief instant he felt as if he were floating. He heard the sharp clash of steel. The air around him seemed more charged than when the lightning foiled his attempts to hide. The ground was coming toward him. It was the last thing that he saw.





“Cyrus.”

The boy’s eyes fluttered. Casnar felt relief flood through him. He lifted his arm painfully to bend more water toward the boy’s lips. What Cyrus didn’t drink ran across his cheeks, breaking the pattern of vertical streaks caused by the rain, his tears, and the filth of the city. When the skin was finally empty Casnar set it upon the ground and cradled Cyrus in his left arm. He brought his right hand toward the boy’s cheek and stopped short as he noticed for the first time the blood that stained it, and the shaking that attended it. He lowered the hand and turned his attention back to Cyrus.

What trials has he seen this day? Casnar thought. How much of the boy that I remember remains?

“Sir Casnar?” Cyrus’ eyes were open and clear.

“Welcome back, young Cyrus.” Casnar helped the boy into a seated position.

Cyrus took in his surroundings. “How did you find me?”

Casnar smiled, “you spent more than an hour telling me of these docks last night. It is what you know.”

“Have you come to arrest me?”

“No. I have come to help you.”

“I must leave Hammerfell.” It was both statement and question.

“Yes. That is something we have in common.”

Cyrus nodded. His brow furrowed. He looked at Casnar and opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He nodded again.

“Do you have a place to go?” Casnar asked.

“I know a man who captains a ship here. He sails on the morning tide. I had hoped that, in exchange for my sword hand, he would hide me aboard his ship and take me from Hammerfell.”

Casnar’s eyes narrowed, “you would live as a mercenary?”

“I have nothing left.”

“That is not true. I saw the way your sister looked at you when the battle ended. That was not hatred in her eyes, it was relief. Your father implored me to watch over you.”

“I cannot face them,” Cyrus said. He buried his face in his hands. For several moments the only sound was his gentle sobbing. When he raised his head his cheeks were clear of the city’s mud. “Even if I could, the Crown will not grant me peace.”

The boy shows wisdom beyond his years. “No they will not.” Casnar shook his head. “You expressed a desire to be a knight. I am far from the best example, but if you were to come with me I would teach you all that I know.”

For a brief moment the light that Casnar had grown to love came back into the boy’s eyes. “Where would we go?”

“To Cyrodiil,” Casnar said. “I recently performed a service for a very powerful man who dwells there. Such a man could find use for a pair of knights.”

“Hakan once told me that the Cyrodiil’s will attack Hammerfell one day. If that happened it would mean raising my sword against Father . . . against Iszara. I cannot do that. Could you really raise your sword against your own, Sir Casnar?”

Casnar looked toward the Bay. “I already have.”

“I’m sorry,” said Cyrus.

“No,” said Casnar, “I am the one who is sorry, Cyrus. I should have stepped in . . . I could have spared you all of this.”

“Only by taking it upon yourself,” Cyrus slowly shook his head. Long moments of silence passed before the young man spoke again. When he did, his voice was almost reverent. “You could come with me.”

“I am a knight,” said Casnar, “an imperfect one to be sure, but a knight just the same.” He stood and held his left arm out to Cyrus. “Our destinies lie upon different paths, my young friend. I will see you safely to this ship and make sure that the man to whom you give your trust is worthy of it. What is his name?”

“Tobias,” Cyrus took Casnar’s arm and rose from the waterfront. For the first time he noticed the knight’s right arm. “You’re wounded!”

“It is not bad. Healing magic will make it right again.”

Cyrus had taken hold of the wound. “You are losing too much blood. I need to bandage this”

The boy began to look around, searching for something that could bind a wound. Casnar used his left hand to loosen the stay on his collar.

“Use this,” he said, pulling the tunic over his head.

Cyrus helped him remove the tunic and then he set to the task of tearing it into strips. As the boy bent to bind his wound Casnar smiled at the sensation he felt in his neck.

Nothing chafed.

Listen you amazing historian... Your events are way too historically accurate! Historically Accurate+Enjoyable=Does Not Compute.

Just kidding, it's really good

I am in awe of your talent, Destri. Oh my, where to begin. Three magnificent Acts:


Pacing. Here your words paint a frantic race through the city. Run!


Scene painting. Simply amazing painting of the scene at the council chambers. Your characterizations of the councilmen were vividly brilliant:
I chuckled when I read this, but the elf on my shoulder squirmed, convictedly:


This was quite simply spinechilling.

As with the entire episode, simply a magnificently clever end:

Ahh, another chapter of our favorite Redguard hero!

First the nit:
I see the dread loose/lose has reared its head again. The correct form in this context would be losing. Also the period before the closing quote has fled, probably because of the loosing dread!

Okay, the Burt Lancaster swashbuckler I recall is The Crimson Pirate (1952). Saw this as a teenager and went wow! at his shirtless chest!

Now on topic: I echo Acadian on this chapter - the boy's desperate flight through the thunderstorm, Casnar's rebuke by the Crown Prince and the Council, his rescue of Cyrus, and of course, the ending.

Nothing chafed. That is so symbolic of Casnar's decision to cast off his duty to the Crowns and to leave Hammerfell. After being forced to live under restrictions that went against his (better?) nature, he decided to take a path other than that dictated by his upbringing. That takes a lot of courage to do, especially since the future is now so uncertain.

You and I have read and seen the same material. I am really enjoying your interpretation of the prequel!

This was excellently written, very fast moving but with time for some good strong characters (the creation of whom you excell at) and very smooth flow between the breaks whioch might have upset it.


Very good way of showing the snatches of conversation he heard while conveying the full meaning.

The scene with the council was an excellent way to show Casnar's reasons for leaving to the reader and to give him the push into doing so. I like his character and hope he lasts longer than some others have. His attitude at leaving and almost positive anticipation of going into the unknown are captured perfectly in 'nothing chafed' at the end. It fits his character so well.

Now I want more (and how many drafts this goes through to end up so smooth).

I can tell you really enjoy writing Casnar and Cyrus (would William Ray be his first and middle names?). You spent three straight segments on them, and I do not think you have done that much in row with the other characters. The inclusion of Cyrus makes me wonder how much of history you plan to encompass with Interregnum? I know that your original goal was just to portray the year the old Emperor was assassinated. But now I wonder if you are intending to take this all the way through Tiber Septim's conquest of all Tamriel, in order to incorporate the events of Redguard at the end? Or perhaps we will see Redguard as a separate tale?


They weighed upon him like a millstone.
This was a particularly good analogy.

Since you introduced him, I have been wondering how Casnar could go from being a knight of Hammerfell to a Blade. You did a marvelous job of demonstrating exactly how in this rousing segment. Casnar's final decision to defy the Crown was as inevitable as the sunset. Nicely done!


nits:
Casnar, thought Cyrus. He raised his head for a second time. The shadow continued to block their path. Why did that name sound familiar?
This sounded odd, because earlier when Cyrus saw the two moon knights, he wondered if one was Sir Casnar. So why would he wonder if he had heard the name here?


You are loosing too much blood.
I think you wanted losing there.

I might not as eloquent as some other that have commented on your story but I am no less impressed. More please Destri

Awesome write!! I love the way the world of politics swirls over and around your characters, and my oh my, you do love your council chambers.
Any chance I might see you running for office, one day?

Hammerfell is no different to our world. Capture, betrayal, freedom hard fought and won. The world of politics never seems to change, does it?

I've only gotten to read the first chapter so far, but I can already tell that I'm going to love this story. Your writing has a distinct style that's very smooth, and you include just the right amount of description. I could easily picture the scene taking place, and as for the characters, I can see that they're going to grow more and more interesting with each chapter. It's going to take me a while to catch up now that the story's progressed quite a bit, but I'll get there eventually.

Zalphon – If you are looking for historically accurate fiction that is also immensely enjoyable I highly recommend checking out The Killer Angels by Michael Shaara. I read it for the first time almost twenty years ago, and I still try to re-read it at least once a year as a reminder of what good historic fiction can do.

Acadian – Nothing gets past you my friend! The devil is in the details and adding bits of business like the quill in Nelvin’s fat fingers not only gives the reader insight into his character, but also underscores the subtext of the scene. I am a BIG fan of subtext. It comes from being a theatre major way back in the day.

haute – Loose/lose is really starting to tick me off! Thanks to you and ‘Rosa for catching it(again), and thanks for finding my wayward period (now that just sounds wrong!). I can’t believe that I missed The Crimson Pirate! I thought I had seen every swashbuckler made during Hollywood’s golden age. Just goes to show, every time you think you know something . . .

Olen – This next segment of two posts is aimed at you. I hope that they answer some of the questions you have about Arnand. Don’t worry about Casnar, we already know how he winds up so his survival of the events in this story is pretty much a given.

There is no set number to the amount of drafts that I will go through before I post. The needs of the segment dictate the amount of re-writing that needs doing. The fewest number of drafts that I have gone through for a segment is three (Both the first scene with Renald and the boar, and the scene in Direnni Tower between Aran and Varla, discussing ways to drive a wedge between Cuhlecain and Talos). The highest number of drafts, I’m embarrassed to say, has been sixteen (Everything surrounding the Battle of Glenumbria Moors). I am glad that in reading it you think it flows smoothly. Believe me, the writing of it is anything but.

‘Rosa – Interregnum remains a story that will encompass exactly one year, culminating in the assassination of the Emperor and the founding of the Septim line. Sadly, Tiber Septim’s conquest of Tamriel and the events of Redguard will not be told during this story. But the good news is that, given my time lock, I am able to delve into a few of the characters that play a roll in those events. So far you have already seen (or heard about) Lord Amiel Richton, Dreekius, Cyrus, Iszara, and Nafaalilargus. There are a few more that I plan to incorporate into this story. As for Cyrus, his part in this tale is over (I think). In a way that’s a shame because, you’re right, I did enjoy writing about him.

Remko – There is nothing wrong with your eloquence, and your enthusiasm is always appreciated. Thank you.

Winter Wolf – I guess I do love my council chambers, but only in terms of writing fiction. As for the idea of tossing my own hat into the political arena, how can I put this delicately?



Ornamental Nonsense – Welcome to Interregnum! I hope you find things to your liking here. I look forward to any comments or questions you may have.





16th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
The Pelladil, Docked at Stros M’kai
Dawn


The storm passed during the night. The sun would light clear skies when it rose under the twinkling stars of the Lover hanging in the east. This was Captain Valion’s favorite time, before the new day banished the shadows of night, when the whole world was sated and still. Even the violent Abecean was calm. From where he stood on the deck of his beloved Pelladil he could see the growing glow that emanated over the horizon, fading the Lover’s shine to pleasant memory. Presently he could feel the gentle warmth that caressed his face and the light that surrounded and purified the rain-swept deck like apologies from Kyne to those who had suffered through the storm. Any other time the clear blue skies and the shimmering sunlight would be a welcome sight to Valion’s eyes. But today they served only as an insistent reminder of the obligation of his commission, and of the duty too long postponed.

With a sigh of resignation Captain Valion left the starboard rail and lifted the hatch amidships. He descended the stairs and ducked his head through the narrow hallway to knock on the door that led to his own quarters.

“Come,” said a female voice.

Valion opened the door. Lady Direnni sat at his desk, surrounded by all of his charts and maps. She wore a red velvet dress that complimented her golden skin. A large mirror was placed in front of her, an open book lay nestled face down on her lap. Her handmaiden stood behind, brushing her platinum hair with long, graceful strokes.

“Good morning, Captain,” said Lattia.

Valion bowed in the doorway. “Good morning, Milady, it is good to see you looking well.”

“Thank you, Captain, I do feel stronger. Maybe it was seeing the sun this morning after so many days of rain. Will we sail today?”

It was the question that Valion dreaded most. “I’m afraid not, Milady.”

“Oh?” Lattia tried to hide the disappointment in her voice, but failed.

Valion bowed again. “My deepest apologies, but today is Heart’s Day. Most of the crew are off-ship, partaking of the island's hospitality.”

“I see,” said Lattia. She held up two golden fingers. “That is enough, Irinde, please leave us.”

“Yes, Milady,” Irinde stopped brushing and bowed. She turned and left the room, leaving the scent of wildflowers in her wake.

Lattia waited until the door closed behind her. “I assume you know how important it is that I reach Artaeum.”

“Yes, Milady,” said Valion, “I do.”

“Yet you don’t seem to be in any hurry to get there. Your crew has spent more than enough time on the island. This is the first good weather we’ve had since we left Glenumbria. Why shouldn’t we sail today?”

“I . . .” Valion’s voice faded to silence, the only sound in the room was the surf caressing the hull of the ship.

“We are alone now, Valion,” said Lattia, “no need to stand on ceremony.”

He bit down hard on his lower lip and walked across the room. He opened the portal and stared at the whitecaps on the Aebecean Sea.

“How can I explain myself,” he began, “I am a simple sailor, Lady Direnni, it is all that I have ever strived to be. Early in my life I discovered that I am one of the few Altmer without the head for magic, so I have confined my efforts to being the best sailor that I can. I leave the pursuit of magic to those with a talent for it, like you. I look to my maps and charts, and I don’t trust what I can’t see and touch.”

“I don’t understand.”

The words tumbled out of him, “Artaeum moves, Milady. It never resides in the same place for long. For many years it disappeared entirely. That sea is treacherous, five times I have tried to reach its shore and five times I have failed.” He turned from the portal, “I would sail through the Sea of Ghosts without falter. I would traverse the Topal Sea in full view of every pirate in Senchal, but Artaeum . . .”

His voice trailed into silence. The scowl that marked his features told of his fear, and his frustration. Lattia watched him wrestle with the implication of his statements. A knowing smile spread across her lips and she held up the book in her lap. “Is this your copy of Father of the Niben?”

“It is,” said Valion, “why do you ask?”

“It is heavily annotated,” said Lattia, gently leafing through the pages, “your hand?”

Valion started to count the planks of wood in the floor. The scowl gave way to a sheepish smile. “A vestige of youth, Milady, Topal the Pilot is a personal hero.”

“Forgive me for reading it. The time that I spent indisposed would have been unbearable for want of something to occupy my mind. Your notations are very perceptive; I have learned much from reading them.”

“Thank you, Milady.”

Lattia closed the book and placed it gently on the desk. “You are anything but simple, Captain. Do you think that the Pilot felt as you do, upon that first sail from Northpoint?”

For a moment the scowl returned to mark his confusion. Then the smile on Captain Valion’s face broadened. “I imagine that he did.”

“Yet it did not dissuade him.”

“Your point is well taken, Milady. Whenever you are ready, we will sail.”

“Let your crew have the holiday, Captain. I would not think of inciting mutiny by pulling them from their cups. Perhaps I will take a turn through the town myself, and partake of the island's hospitality.”

“Then please allow me, Milady.”

Valion opened the door and called to the deck. Lattia heard the sound of scurrying feet. Seconds later two eager young Altmer ducked their heads through the doorway.

“This is Lorundil,” said Valion, “and Sinyail. Two of my best, they will serve as your escort.”

The two mer bowed and said “Milady” in unison.





16th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
The Draggin Tale Inn, Stros M’Kai
Mid-Day


“We should not be here, Milady,” said Irinde, standing near the door, “this place is not appropriate.”

Lorundil nudged past the handmaiden and held the door open for Lattia. “We can protect you should the need arise, Milady.”

Sinyail stood behind her. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, impatiently. “It would be a shame to visit Stros M’Kai and not partake of the local tavern.”

Lattia suppressed a smile. Upon leaving the Pelladil they had traveled north, through the well appointed town garden to the waterfall. From there they headed east, stopping to shop in the silversmith near the bell tower. Then it was north again over sandstone bridges to the palace, where the name of Clan Direnni secured them an interminable tour. Leaving the palace they swung to the east, walking over cobblestones baked by the sun until the town wall loomed. Turning south, they stopped to browse the maps set outside by the local cartographer. Lattia wandered into the bookstore, where she bought Captain Valion a new copy of Father of the Niben. Through it all, Lorundil and Sinyail answered any questions put to them, when they weren’t preserving a respectful silence. Now they were at the door to the inn, and the eagerness of the two Altmer was the most enjoyable thing that Lattia had seen all day.

“It would be a shame, indeed”, said Lattia, “I think our escorts have earned a drink.”

She led them through the door. Inside the dim light could not hide the members of the Pelladil’s crew. Their loud voices and slobbering songs assaulted the ears while their busy hands fumbled at the pretty young girls. The girls, for their part, pretended to laugh at jokes that they had doubtlessly heard before while keeping one eye on the sailors’ purses.

Lorundil found a relatively quiet table away from the drunken toasts and yelled threats that were easily forgotten in the wake of another drunken toast, or song.

An Argonian held court behind the bar. His green scales glistened and his small sharp teeth flashed often. Goblets and tankards flew from his hands with dizzying speed. As their party sat down the Argonian produced a soiled linen cloth and wiped the spilled dregs of mead, ale, and worse from his arms and chest. He slid from behind the bar and made his way to Lattia’s table. He raised his voice to be heard.

“Lady Direnni, an unexpected pleasure, you and your companions are most welcome. My name is Dreekius, good Heart’s Day to you all. If you require accommodations I would be honored to provide them free of charge.”

“Well met, Dreekius,” said Lattia, “how do you know who I am?”

“Your crew has been kind enough to favor my establishment. They have spoken of you with great affection. That is why I have come over here.”

Lorundil stood, his hand moved toward the hilt of his cutlass. Sinyail followed, his cutlass half-clearing the scabbard.

Lattia placed her hands palms down across the table. “Peace, both of you. What is it that you want of me, Dreekius?”

Dreekius sidestepped past Lorundil and knelt at Lattia’s side. He spoke quietly, for Lattia’s ears alone. She could smell the ale on his breath.

“It is a matter of some urgency, Milady, one best discussed in private.”

Lattia hesitated.

“I know how that must sound,” said Dreekius, “rest assured that I mean you no harm. In fact, I am hoping you can help me. Bring your bodyguard with you.”

Lattia nodded, Lorundil and Sinyail stood when she did, their eyes never leaving Dreekius. Irinde gained her feet, a nervous flush coloring her cheeks. Dreekius rose and led them through the crowd to a spot on the opposite side of the bar. With all of the commotion none of the besotted crew noticed as he shifted a small rug on the floor to reveal a trapdoor. When he opened it, dim candlelight revealed a set of steep wooden stairs leading to a small room below.

“Down here,” Dreekius said as he led the way down the steps.

Lorundil placed his hand on Lattia’s arm. “Let me go first, Milady.” He drew his cutlass and followed Dreekius down the stairs.

Lattia followed with Sinyail close behind. Irinde gingerly tested each step before deigning to lean her weight on it.

A pair of worn candles lit the room. Several casks and crates were stacked against the far wall. A woven pallet lay to the side. A thin, wide-eyed Argonian with skin the color of molded bread stood in the middle of the room.

“Your crew told me that you intend to sail to Artaeum,” said Dreekius, “for that you will need someone who has been there.” He motioned to the Argonian. “This is Earns-His-Keep. He is the finest navigator I know, and he has made the trip before.”

“You have been to Artaeum?” asked Lattia.

“Yes,” said Earns-His-Keep, “long ago. I took three hatchlings there. I am willing to chart a course to the island again, if you remove me from my circumstances.”

Lattia turned to Dreekius, “What circumstances?”

“Earns-His-Keep is a fugitive,” said Dreekius. “Before he came to be here he was a guest of the Stros M’Kai jail.”

Irinde gasped and covered her mouth with both hands. “He is a criminal, Milady!”

“I am an Argonian,” said Earns-His-Keep.

“That is certain,” said Lorundil, “have you been bathing in a sewer?”

Sinyail snickered under his breath. Earns-His-Keep began to wring the bottom of his own shirt with both hands.

“Please, Milady,” said Dreekius, “take him with you. He is no criminal, strictly speaking, and he can be useful.”

“Why were you in jail?” asked Lattia.

“I tried to kill a guard,” said Earns-His-Keep, “I was not successful.”

“Not surprising,” said Lorundil, “I’ve seen spears with more weight than you.”

Sinyail suppressed the obligatory snicker. Earns-His-Keep kept twisting his shirt.

“Why did you try to kill a guard?” asked Lattia.

“He made sport of me,” said Earns-His-Keep.

Lorundil shifted his weight to his heels. Sinyail looked down and found fault with his own boots.

“I don’t think the Captain will appreciate a short-tempered Argonian on board, Milady,” said Lorundil.

Lattia ignored him, “so you escaped from the jail and sought refuge with Dreekius?”

Earns-His-Keep shifted his gaze from Lorundil’s throat. “After I was rescued from the jail I was taken to the Kynreeve.”

“What is the Kynreeve?”

“It is a pirate ship, Milady,” Dreekius offered, “they were his last employer.”

“He is a pirate!” Irinde’s hands flew back to her mouth.

“I am a navigator,” said Earns-His-Keep.

“If you were taken to the Kynreeve, how did you come to be here?” asked Lattia.

“I pay my debts,” said Earns-His-Keep.

Lattia turned to Dreekius. “What does that mean?”

“That ties into the other matter I need your help with, Milady,” said Dreekius.

I smell the corpse of a High Rock Nightblade! I have been wondering how you were going to get Arnand out of his deathly predicament. It seems none other than Lattia may be his savior.

A very fun segment. Lattia is probably my favorite Interregnum character, so I am always happy to see her. I am too tired to add any critical analysis, but I had a lot of fun reading.

Ah, one of my favorite conversations once again! How enjoyable!






I love the irony here! Earns-His-Keep is so pragmatic!

Ooooh, that's quite an honour in a piece of thios quality.

Wow, I might just have to go over that chapter carefully and see how you managed to produce so many strong characters in such a short section without breaking the flow. Earns-his-keep was great, it's good to see him again and his development, I second Haute's comment on his pragmatism, "I am an argonian" made me laugh aloud.

Now I sense that this could get rather exciting, certainly the previous death of a certain nightblade is coming to fruition, one who wanted to get to Artaeum as I recall...

Irinde was spot on too

I love Earns-His-Keeps. I can really relate to his pragmatism
I also love how you gave Lattia bodyguards. Like Rales so justly stated, a knife in the throat is just as effective against mages as a silence spell

What a joy to read! Everyone comes to life. Wonderful to see Lattia again. I find myself reading twice. Once to enjoy, then again to study your magic with prose. I could quote most of your story, but let me limit it to one passage that I recalled struck me with equal vividness the first time I read it during your original telling. Dare I say, almost as memorable as being sniffed by a dragon or following a wandering sweet roll?



Nit, or perhaps just a question. I would have used 'island's hospitality' in both cases below. Would I be wrong?

SubRosa –



Isn’t it funny how things work out? I always knew that Lattia would be a major character in this story, but in the telling she has emerged as something of a catalyst. She is perhaps the most proactive character in the story, which is ironic considering her personality. Perhaps that is what makes her resonate; I have a blast every time I write one of her chapters.

haute – Earns-His-Keep continues to surprise me. Once he opened his mouth it became very hard not to give him more to say. Most of my work of late has been concerned with giving him a larger roll in the story. You will be seeing more of his pragmatism, I assure you.

Olen – Your memory serves you well. We have not heard the last of Arnand’s mission to Artaeum. Irinde is a homage, I wanted her to come across as a younger (though who can tell with the Altmer) version of the nurse/handmaiden/lady-in-waiting character that the wonderful Una O’Connor did so well in films like The Adventures of Robin Hood.

Remko – I would submit that a knife in the throat is more effective. A silence spell eventually wears off. See my comments to Acadian below because they are addressed to you as well.

Acadian – You can thank Remko for the effectiveness of the passage that you quoted. I had to change it because in the first version I had Dreekius glistening with sweat. Remko astutely pointed out that, being Argonian and therefore cold-blooded, Dreekius probably wouldn’t sweat. The resulting debate was a great deal of fun to read. At the time I gave some half-baked justification for why, alone among reptiles, Argonians would have sweat glands. haute backed me on it with an argument far superior to my own. But in the back of my mind I knew he was right, I was just too lazy to change it. Bringing the story over to Chorrol gave me the chance to remedy that.

As for your nit:
You are correct, as usual. That (along with loose/lose) is a mistake that I always make. In fact, I think I made it the last time I posted this chapter. You called me on it then too. I seem to have a hard time reconciling the possessive form to an inanimate object. I don’t know why, but to me the apostrophe doesn’t fit, even though it is grammatically correct. Thanks for spotting it . . . again, it has been changed.





The Not-So-Distant Past
High in the Kurallian Mountains
Morning


“Today we shall discuss the properties of poison,” said Sage Vardengroet.

He was a boy again walking beside his master, his head even with the gold belt around the old man’s indigo robe. They were on a path, high in the Kurallian Mountains. The morning sun had yet to burn off the mist, so the trees all around them had an ethereal quality. Behind him the tall stone walls of the fortress cast lengthening shadows that preceded them. The air smelled of frost and pine.

The sudden sting of the old man’s staff across his shoulders brought his attention back into the moment.

“Arnand,” said the Sage, “stop daydreaming, lad! Pay attention!”

“Yes Master.” Arnand lowered his head to hide the tears welling in his eyes. He heard the crunch of their sandals on the path.

Sage Vardengroet cleared his throat. Arnand looked up, past the flowing white beard and under the tall pointed hat to the smile that played in his master’s eyes.

“You remind me of my youth,” said the Sage, “under Grundingler’s care. I also was a daydreamer, and had no patience for talks of poison.”

“Are they not . . . cowardly, Master?” asked Arnand.

The old man stopped walking and looked off into the distance. Arnand waited, scuffing his sandals in the dirt and kicking free the small pebbles that became trapped under his feet.

“Perspective, lad,” said the Sage. “Imagine there are ogres near your land, and all you have available is a bow with some arrows, a mortar and pestle, and your knowledge of poison, would you be a coward to use it?”

Arnand’s face compressed in concentration, “Ogres have a weakness to poison.”

“Precisely,” said the Sage, smiling, “in the example I gave, that knowledge could save your life or the lives of others. You would not then be hailed a coward, would you?”

“No Master.”

“No weapon or technique is heroic or cowardly, Arnand, only the heart of the one who wields it. Do you understand?”

“Yes Master.”

“Good.” The old man began to walk again. Arnand ran to keep up. “Now, if you are ever poisoned the first thing you must remember is not to panic. No matter how powerful, the effects are temporary and can be reversed. The Dreamsleeve is filled with mages who forgot that simple truth.”

Arnand listened, but his master’s voice grew harder to hear. The mists began to close in on him, the mountains and the fortress faded from view. He was alone, walking as if through a cloud. His footing gave way and he felt himself falling through space.





He lay on the warm sand, his head nestled in Elissa’s lap. Slowly her delicate fingers combed through his hair. He felt the cool surf kiss the bottom of his feet before retreating back into the bay. A trace of heather made the air smell fresh, like a new dawn after a cold, rainy night. He didn’t want to open his eyes.

“Breton?”

The voice was coarse linen drawn across his ears, the interruption of a perfect moment in time. As far as he was concerned his world was held in Elissa’s soft hand. He sighed in peace and consigned everything else to Oblivion.

“He cannot hear me.”

But he could hear. He just chose to ignore. Elissa’s hand wandered down his face. This was where he belonged; with her on their farm, riding together to Alcaire for a meal or a drink in the tavern.

“Perhaps I should try.”

Another voice, one that could have been Elissa’s, but no, she was here with him. He felt her hands on the side of his neck, warm, caressing, massaging.

Memory played familiar scenes before his closed eyes. He saw her on the day when he claimed her for his own. She wore a borrowed silver dress with a waist that rode high and barely served to cover her knees. The wreath of morning glory in her hair could not hide her elven ears. Her green eyes seemed to shine with a light made for him alone, and the smile that lit her face still caused his heart to jump at the recollection.

“I will need a mortar and pestle.”

The voice that could have been Elissa again, faint on a breeze turned cold. Why had it become so hard to breathe? Her hands were still there, cold, squeezing, choking.

He could not open his eyes. The scenes in his mind darkened. He watched himself as a man in a fugue, searching for days and nights until the villagers closed their doors against the madness that burned in his eyes. He searched until he saw his Elissa through the cold driving rain. She lay broken in the tall grass like something discarded. He held her, his tears washed clean by the rain. The twin marks that defiled her neck told of her abduction. He placed his fingers over the wounds, cursing himself for his inattention when the old Sage tried to teach him spells to cure disease. He flooded her body with every restoration spell he knew as if he could erase the damage through magicka alone.

He opened his eyes. He lay on burning black sand that cut into his skin like broken glass. The sky above was on fire. Elissa pinned him to the ground, her long bony fingers clawed at the skin around his neck. Her skin was as pale and thin as parchment, lust and hunger lit her blood red eyes. He was too weak to hold her off. The last thing he felt was her fangs scrape the skin of his throat.





16th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
The Draggin Tale Inn, Stros M’Kai
Evening


Pain was the first sensation that Arnand felt. It centered in his chest and lower back and played down the nerves in his legs. His eyelids fluttered, and opened. They slowly focused on a familiar room.

“He is awake,” a voice called out, “get Dreekius.”

Hurried footsteps faded from the room. Dreekius, thought Arnand, I’m back in the Draggin Tale? He heard the sound of a cart being dragged over the cobblestones on the street below. The room smelled of sweat and crushed aloe vera. A dark ample bosom appeared before his eyes, and a cool damp cloth was gently placed on his forehead.

“Can you hear me?” came from the soft voice of a young girl.

Arnand recognized the pretty young Redguard. She had been entertaining the sailors before he first left for Saintsport. “How . . .” his voice was a whispered croak. He felt the girl’s weight leave the bed. For a moment Arnand worried that he had scared her away, but she returned with a stone cup cradled in her hand.

“Let me help you,” she said. She placed her off-hand behind his neck and lifted.

The pain in his back made Arnand wince. She held the cup to his lips and poured the cool water into him. He drank until the cup was empty. She smiled and turned to refill it. Arnand heard footsteps coming up the stairs.

A second girl entered the room trailed by Dreekius and another Argonian who looked vaguely familiar.

“You are awake,” said Dreekius, “we thought that you had been lost to us.”

The girl returned with more water, she lifted his head and he drank. She lowered his head to the pillow. The croak was gone when he spoke, but his voice was still a whisper. “The ship?”

“Gone,” said Dreekius, “you were betrayed. Were it not for Earns-His-Keep you would have died on the dock.” Dreekius stepped to the side, the second Argonian stepped forward.

Earns-His-Keep, thought Arnand, and then it all came back to him, the jail, the wagon, the dock, Ansu Shin-Ilu and her silver cutlass.

“You were gone,” said Arnand, looking toward his savior, “how did you?”

“He boarded the ship,” said Dreekius, “and, when no one was looking, dove off the other side. He waited underwater until the ship was out of sight and then he came back to the dock.”

“You were slumped over a dead horse,” said Earns-His-Keep.

Arnand remembered being stabbed in the back. He remembered being silenced, the feel of the poison bubbling in his veins. He remembered Delron’s fetid breath and the look of unabashed joy on Shin-Ilu’s face when she ran him through with her sword. He remembered watching their footsteps rise up on the gangplank, and crawling hand over hand toward the wagon where a swaybacked horse looked down on him with such contempt. He remembered that his veins stopped burning, and that he formed an absorb health spell in his hand.

“But why?” asked Arnand.

“I was in your debt,” said Earns-His-Keep, “I told you I would not forget it.” He placed a hand on Arnand’s shoulder, “I pay my debts.”

Arnand smiled as best he could. He placed his hand over the Argonian’s. “And you earn your keep.”

“Rest now,” said Earns-His-Keep, “we sail on the morning tide.”

Arnand’s brow furrowed, he looked to Dreekius.

“The horse sustained you,” said Dreekius, “but it did not heal you, nor did we. Were it not for Lady Direnni and her potions you would not have survived. She has a ship bound for the Isle of Artaeum. She has agreed to take the two of you along. I assume that is where you still wish to go.”





17th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
The Pelladil, At Sea
Mid-Day


There was a knock at the door to the Captain’s quarters.

“Come,” called Lattia.

The door opened and the Breton passenger walked gingerly into the room.

“Lady Direnni,” Arnand said bowing, “it is an honor to make your acquaintance. I understand that I have you to thank for the speed of my recovery.”

Lattia looked up from the open copy of Father of the Niben in her lap. “I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced.”

“Forgive me,” said Arnand, “I am Arnand Desele.”

Lattia thought she saw the light of recognition in his eyes. As if the sound of her voice had triggered some memory within him.

“A pleasure to meet you,” she said, “I am Lattia Direnni. No thanks are necessary, it was the least I could do for a fellow member of the Order.”

“I . . .” Arnand stopped. Words failed him.

Lattia smiled, “Dreekius told me that you were bound for Artaeum. I assume, like me, you go to join the Order.”

“I see,” said Arnand, “in any event, I thank you for your hospitality.” He turned to go.

“I have grown weary of winter,” said Lattia. She looked through the portal to a point far away.

“Excuse me?”

Lattia eyes refocused on him. “You should thank Captain Valion and Dreekius. They reminded me that yesterday was Heart’s Day. If such kindness had been given the Lovers, it would always be springtime in the world.”

I enjoyed Arnand's flashback to his poison training. I do recall his quest relating to his wife-turned-vampire. That was nicely reviewed here. I find Lattia endearing, so it is always a pleasure to read scenes with her in them.

It's fun to read and just let your images toy with my mind as beautiful mysterious pieces of a puzzle. As always, your evocative descriptions are brilliant and far too numerous to quote more than just this one:

I do not believe that it says anywhere that Argonians are cold-blooded or not. I am not even sure it says they are reptiles or not. Although even if they are reptiles, that does not mean they have to be cold-blooded either. There is a strong belief that dinosaurs were warm-blooded, and pterosaurs were definitely so. So really, Argonians - who the lore says were descended from trees - could go either way.

Now, onto the actual segment.

No weapon or technique is heroic or cowardly, Arnand, only the heart of the one who wields it.
Well said. I like how you described Voldemort Vardengroet as a Sage, rather that a Master as well. For a race that was enslaved by elves for thousands of years, I suspect that Bretons would not be thrilled with the latter term.


A trace of heather made the air smell fresh, like a new dawn after a cold, rainy night.
This was a lovely description. The entire flashback with Arnand and Elissa (who is an elf!) was wonderful.


Excellent way of worming out of Arnand's death! It reminds me of the old cliffhanger serials in the old days. Did you have it planned out when you wrote Arnand's betrayal? Or is is something you came up with afterward?

Finally, excellent way of working in a bit of lore with Lattia's reference to Heart's Day. One of the problems I have the TF is trying to work in Tamriel holidays.


nits:
A dark, ample bosom
An enticing prospect. But I think you want a comma in there where I inserted it.