OMG, Una O'Connor! I had forgotten about her! Now that you mention her, it all comes flooding back, and Irinde is now even more alive thanks to my fond memories of the flighty but loyal servant. Thanks!

I have my own favorite passage to quote:

I love this interplay between Argonian and Breton. It is good to see Arnand alive again, though his memories are so bittersweet, especially of his wife. The growing friendship between the two men is clear to see in this simple exchange.

I still enjoy reading this, both the 'old' stuff and the new scenes you have added here and there. It is a story that holds up well to re-reading, which I consider a sign of quality writing. My hat's off to you, yet again!

By any chance, did you grow up watching WGN's Saturday matinee? It seems you and I have watched the same old films as kids!

I've only gotten to the part where Talos is introduced as a character, and I simply had to stop and express my appreciation for this story yet again. I'm anxiously waiting to see how you tie all of these different characters together, and I found myself pondering this time and again when each chapter switched between various personalities. I personally find Lattia the most interesting character thus far, but all of them are compelling in their own right, especially your killer with his vampire wife. It's nice to see such a wide array of personalities that are fleshed out.

I admit that I'm a bit rusty on certain parts of Elderscrolls' lore, and so I had to check references on certain things that you mentioned. As a result, I've learned quite a bit. I wonder how much time you put forth in ensuring that lore details are nicely incorporated into your story. I imagine quite a bit, and the results show through in the quality of this story.

I also found your comment on expanding the world and travel time quite interesting. I've read many stories where it only takes a day or so to get somewhere, which is fine if the story focuses on remaining close to the game's size, but making the world larger is definitely a better fit for your story. I found that I had to do the same thing in 'Slipping into Shadow', because the cities do seem rather small, don't they? I mean, the Imperial City is supposed to be the center of a massive empire. Well, anyway, I've got to get back to reading now so that I can catch up.

Well Arnand survived... that i hadn't seen so an unexpected twist there. The dream (if that's the word) sequence had the right sort of feel and was a cunning way of working in backstory without forcing it. I especially enjoyed how it suddenly darkened as he came towards wakefulness, an observation I'd say was accurite to RL.


This has me stumped. Which game was Arnand from?

As ever you have a full cast of strong characters who interact well. In fact they're so effective as to be giving me a bit of a pause for thought... I like strong characters and tend to go for first person but maybe I should give third a try...

I caught a distinct alchemical motif there, I wonder if we'll be seeing more of that.

Olen, I think my words may have been confusing. I meant that I recalled from earlier in Destri's story that Arnand has set himself to a task related to the fact that his wife had been turned to vampirism. I did not mean to imply that a quest from MW or OB was involved. Forgive my poor choice of words.

I just can't help but wondering.... You haven't made any hints at Arnand being a vampire but still...

Regarding: 12th Morning Star, 2E 854
Fort Black Boot, Near Cyrodiil’s Border with Elsweyr
Dusk. a.k.a the epic battle

The throwing of wolves reminded me of ancient battles where diseased bodies were thrown into enemy cities in order to spread pestilence and whatnot. Of course, the corpses here weren't being thrown at cities, and they weren't diseased, but still, I liked your use of them. The entire scene was very well written, and the tactics extremely realistic given the Elderscrolls world. By that I mean realistic in terms of magic being included alongside melee combat. The scene with Talos emerging from his cover to charge reminded me of the early battles described in Livy's first book of Roman history. In fact, your Talos reminds me of Tullus Hostilius in this scene due to his manner and plans. Of course, your writing isn't nearly as dry as Livy's. Funny that Tullus also came to power following an interregnum...

If you haven't read them, I highly recommend Steven Saylor's novels based in ancient Rome. In particular 'Catilina's Riddle'. From what I've seen of your own writing and your interests in historically inclined topics, I think that you'll love the book. That's just a random thought on my part though.

Oh, and for some reason, I imagine that the perfect theme song for your Talos would be 'Under the Dark Span' by Jeremy Soule. Yeah, random, but the idea just came to me when I was thinking about how much I love your portrayal of the man.

Acadian – The thing that constantly worries me about this story is that I will lose people while trying to juggle so many characters. I never intended to tell a story this big. I just wanted to present the rise of Tiber Septim, but in the telling all of these other characters came forward and demanded that their part in the events be explored. Maybe that’s why I like to write Lattia’s chapters so much. She just sits quietly in the corner and waits patiently for me to get to her. Valdemar, on the other hand, is ticked at me because he and Alain are still slogging through the snow toward the Western Reach, and Renald has stopped speaking to me entirely because I left him and his syffim in a cave with a dragon while I explored events in Hammerfell.

SubRosa – As much as I would love to take the credit, Sage Vardengroet is lifted from this book. I never thought about how his title might be offensive to the people of High Rock, but now that you’ve raised the point I feel like I should try to incorporate that into the story somehow.

I made a few allusions to Elissa’s race in Arnand’s previous chapters, but this was the first time that she was identified as an elf. As for Arnand’s ‘death’, that was planned out ahead of time. I wanted him to accompany Lattia to Artaeum aboard the Pelladil so I had to make sure that he didn’t set sale aboard the Kynreeve.

Finally, in respect to the lore about Heart’s Day: I was hoping to find a telling of the story of the lovers, Polydor and Eloisa, but there isn’t one in any of the sources I checked. (SLIGHT SPOILER ALERT) Because of what I have planned for Lattia and Arnand, their meeting on this day is particularly auspicious.

haute – I grew up in Ohio so I saw more than my fair share of WGN (mostly to watch the Cubs lose . . . sorry). I didn’t watch a lot of the Saturday matinee because there was a movie house (not a theatre, we were very specific about that) down the street and the man who owned it screened nothing but old movies every Saturday and Sunday. I started working there on the weekends sweeping popcorn when I was ten years old (actually I did more eating popcorn than sweeping it). My weekends were filled with Errol Flynn, Cary Grant, Humphrey Bogart, Gary Cooper, Flash Gordon (the originals with Buster Crabbe which I still love, dated as they are) and Rin Tin Tin.

Olen – I think you should give third person a try, especially if you are going to explore multiple characters. As much as I love first person narrative it can be a bit too restraining for my taste. If you are going to use multiple characters I would caution you to be careful to be consistent with your viewpoint within a chapter. Third person can make the narrator omnipotent, and there is a tendency to head-hop because of it. Don’t worry though, if you do it in your own story SubRosa will be the first one to tell you.

Remko – Arnand as a vampire presents some tantalizing possibilities. The whole dream sequence was meant to be symbolic on the one hand while also being the means by which I could explore Arnand and Elissa’s past. Her fangs on his neck represents Arnand’s greatest fear.

Nonsense – Thank you for your comments, I will definitely check out the books you recommended. I just finished listening to your song choice to represent Talos. I loved it! It certainly has an Elder Scrolls feel to it (not surprising). For anyone who has not heard it you can find it here. The clip is only about ninety seconds or so. Thank you again for that, Nonsense (we really do need to give you a nickname).

My obsession with the lore prompted the writing of this story. To me the people over at Bethesda are wasting their time giving us the Oblivion Crisis when they have the makings of so many more interesting stories (and games) in the timeline that they have created.

Everyone – The next few segments are slightly longer than my usual. At long last we reach the Imperial City!





22nd Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Arena District, Imperial City
Dawn


“Do you believe the legend, Emero?”

“Pardon, Milady?” Emero pulled his eyes away from the gate leading to Green Emperor Road. Already there were too many people coming through to count. Soon the lines to get into the Arena would make movement through the district difficult. Security concerns were foremost in his mind, but he dismissed his trepidation and focused on his mistress.

Varla stood framed in the morning mist, amidst the grass and rocks of the garden. She was gazing at the giant statue of St. Alessia. More specifically, she was staring at the stone shackles encircling the statue’s ankles. “The Amulet of Kings,” she said, “do you believe the legend?”

“I believe it is an artifact of great power.”

“Yes, but one gifted by the Gods? That seems unlikely.” She left the statue and joined Emero against the low wall. Behind and below them a pair of wayward urchins swam with the sacred lotus blossoms. “The Amulet supposedly protects us from the hordes of Oblivion, yet for centuries it was lost and we were not overrun with daedra.”

Emero brushed a stray leaf from Varla’s shoulder. “It must be a condition of mortality that we believe our plane so desirable that daedra sit in wait for that moment when the barriers fade. The span of all the ages of mer means the same to them as the lifespan of the leaf I just brushed from your shoulder. Remember, your sister was permitted to enter a realm of Oblivion. That would not have happened if the Dragonfires still burned.”

Mention of Lattia pulled Varla’s eyes away from the statue’s bare feet. “I fear for her, Emero. Aran won’t hesitate to sacrifice her to get what he wants. His ambition knows neither bounds nor propriety. Lattia has never had the strength to defy him.”

“Have faith, Milady. There is more strength in your sister than she shows.” Emero looked into the marble eyes of St. Alessia, “As for the Amulet of Kings, we acknowledge that the daedra exist. Why should we shrink from the thought that the Eight Divines do as well?”

His words barely reached Varla’s ears. He could see that she was lost in the same rush of anger that she had spent the entire voyage from Balfiera suppressing. “If the Dragonfires were relit,” she said to the statue, “then the daedra would not be able to act on this plane.”

“True,” said Emero, eyeing his mistress. The folded letter in his robe seemed to gain weight. And it may have been his imagination, but it seemed as if the clouds picked that moment to obscure the rising sun. “But for that to happen, Alessia’s heir must sit the Ruby Throne. You would defy your brother to save your sister?”

Varla looked to her left, past the gate to where the giant statue of Morihaus stood armed with a sword in one hand and stone shackles in the other. “I would,” she whispered.

Emero thought upon how this could impact their plans. His eyes wandered back toward the gate. He stiffened. “Then prepare yourself, our contact has arrived.”

Varla turned toward the gate. An Altmer, resplendent in a red silk robe and heavy with gold jewelry, emerged from the gate leading to Green Emperor Road. He flinched and twisted his way through the rabble until he found a quiet corner of the steps. From there he looked around the garden as if he expected a servant to attend him. When none was forthcoming, he dragged himself across the cobblestones to where Varla and Emero waited.

“Emero,” he said, extending a limp-wrist, “it has been too long.”

Emero straightened and grasped the offered hand. He bowed before the newcomer. “Lord Farenenre, allow me to present the Lady Varla Direnni. Lord Farenenre is the Emperor’s Chief Advisor, Milady.”

Lord Farenenre reclaimed his hand and regarded Varla as one would regard an especially rare flower. “Lady Direnni,” he bowed, “I am a great admirer of your family.”

“You are too kind, My Lord.” This advises an Emperor? Varla extended her hand. Farenenre took it and held it captive in his crossed arms. He led her away from the wall. Varla noted that they wore the same scent.

“Emero tells me that you wish an audience with His Majesty.”

Varla emphasized the innocence in her voice. “We have been here for weeks without an introduction, My Lord.”

“Yes,” said Farenenre stroking her hand with his own, “the Castellan’s sister should have been presented at court. I must apologize for that, my dear. The Emperor has been indisposed these last weeks.”

Indisposed as in hiding? “Oh,” Varla covered her mouth with the fingers of her free hand, “I hope he is well?”

“Of course,” said Farenenre, “do not be troubled, Milady. His Majesty has been dealing with important matters of the Empire. You have my word, as soon as we are able, you will be presented to the court.”

Simpering fop! Varla looked around the garden. Satisfied that they were away from any prying ears she dropped all pretense of innocence. “I’m afraid ‘as soon as we are able’ is not good enough, My Lord.”

Varla raised her free hand and Emero appeared at her side. He pulled the folded letter from his robe and held it before the startled Lord. Varla took note as the look on Farenenre’s face shifted from indignation, to irritation, and finally to calculation as the light of recognition came into his eyes.

“Good,” said Varla, “you recognize the letter. I don’t think your Emperor would be happy to learn that his Chief Advisor makes routine reports to the Aldmeri Council. Cuhlecain does not seem the type who would take such news in his stride.”

Farenenre blanched and seemed to shrink by half. His voice was a whispered croak. “Where did you get that?”

Varla’s smile did not touch her eyes. “Nothing is impossible to one with wealth and patience. I have had ample opportunity to exercise both while you’ve left us waiting. I think the question that should concern you is ‘what do I plan to do with it?’”

“But you are a fellow Altmer.”

Varla laughed out loud at that. “My clan left Summerset centuries ago. We have never been welcomed back. Truthfully, I hold more allegiance to Daggerfall than I do to Alinor.”

“Please, you must not . . .”

Varla’s eyes narrowed. “Do not presume to tell me what I must and must not do, Farenenre.”

She nodded to Emero. He returned the letter to the folds of his robe and returned to his place along the wall. She turned her attention back to Farenenre.

“The Emperor is mad with suspicion,” said Farenenre, “he sees enemies all around him. That is why he remains hidden in the tower. If this letter were to reach his eyes my life would be forfeit. I beseech you, Milady.”

“We shall keep your secret,” said Varla, “and in return you shall favor us. I wish an audience with the Emperor. Today.”





22nd Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Reman Plaza, Imperial City
Morning


The Dragon statue of Akatosh bore mute witness to the crowds that formed as dawn brightened into morning. Servants appeared outside the more expensive manors and walked with purpose to execute their master’s bidding. The beggars were out in force, regaling any who would listen with tragic stories of starving children, or serving in far away wars long forgotten.

A palace guard in gleaming silver armor entered through the gate to Green Emperor Road. A rolled parchment peeked from his closed left gauntlet. He fought his way through the traffic before stopping at the heavy door to the manor on the southwest corner of the plaza. At his knock the door opened, and the smell of burning skooma assailed his nostrils and caused his eyes to water. The figure who answered the door was bedecked in identical armor, complete with the addition of rank. His eyes were blinking furiously at the sunlight, and the look on his face was not one to question.

“Captain Alorius, sir,” said the Guard, holding up the parchment, “I bear a message from the Emperor.”

Alorius loomed in the doorway. Smoke wafted around him as if he stood in the fog. Behind him the room was dark and silent. He snatched the parchment and identified the Emperor’s seal.

“Dismissed,” said Alorius. The Guard sent another glance into the dark room beyond the door. He opened his mouth to speak, but the look from Alorius made him think better of it. He turned on his heel and faded into traffic. Alorius glared into the plaza for any other curious eyes, then he re-entered the manor and shut the door.

Alorius stood near the door and allowed his eyes to readjust to the darkness. Already he felt giddy from the fumes in the air. He turned his attention to the far corner of the room, and the hulking shadow that had claimed it. He mustered all the authority he could into his voice before he spoke.

“Must you continue that?”

In response he saw the tiny embers in the pipe flare anew. A low, rumbling chuckle escaped from the mass in the corner.

Filthy Nord! Alorius thought, why does the General tolerate him? He crossed the room and found the stairs by tripping over them in the dark. He righted himself with all the dignity a career soldier could muster and climbed to the second floor.

The skooma stench could not break the incense that hung in the air. Alorius’s giddiness faded as he walked, his boots silent on the thick carpet. He reached the tall oak door at the end of the hall and knocked.

“Enter,” called a voice from within.

Alorius opened the door and entered an opulent bedchamber. The smell of incense was weaker, but still noticeable. General Talos stood at the far end of the room with his back to the door, adjusting the fall of his sleeve through the arms of a black silk brocaded coat.

“Sir,” Alorius announced himself with a salute, “a message from the Emperor.”

General Talos continued to adjust his sleeves. The sound of the crackling fire in the hearth was the only thing that kept the room from silence. Alorius waited, knowing that the General had heard him, but also knowing that the General was not a man to leave any task half done.

Satisfied with his sleeve, General Talos held out his hand. Alorius crossed the room and delivered the parchment. The General unrolled the message and read.

“At last,” said General Talos, “have my uniform prepared, Captain. I’ve been summoned.”





22nd Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Arcane University, Imperial City
Morning


“When planning a campaign,” said Zurin Arctus, “whether it’s against a single opponent or an army, always maintain a balance between the arcane and the mundane. Remember, a weight lifted by one hand is heavier than two weights lifted by both hands. Are there any questions?”

None of the apprentices raised a hand. The garden lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Arctus saw past the confused, eager young faces to the Palace Guard lingering near the stairs, and the rolled parchment in the Guard’s hand.

“Master Arctus,” said a small voice from the benches, “regarding the Battle of Fort Black Boot, how was there a balance maintained?”

From where he stood Arctus could not identify which apprentice had spoken, only that the voice was decidedly female. He saw the palace guard looking over the apprentices for the source of the voice. Damn the child for her timing, he thought to himself. He addressed his answer to all of them.

“Fort Black Boot has not yet been approved for study. When it is I will tell you how the balance was maintained and how it contributed to an Imperial victory. That is enough for today. I advise you all to reflect on what you have learned. Your recollection may prove vital in our next session.” Better to keep them afraid than questioning.

He stepped from the podium into the soft grass of the garden. The apprentices rose around him and moved on to other pursuits. The palace guard stepped forward.

“Master Arctus,” he said, “a message from the Emperor.” He placed the rolled parchment in Arctus’ hand, then turned on his heel and left the garden. Arctus turned the parchment in his hand and ran his finger over the Emperor’s seal. I suppose his silence couldn’t last forever. He broke the seal and read the message.

“Master?”

This time Arctus recognized the voice of the apprentice who had spoken out of turn. He turned and regarded her with a critical eye. She was small, wide-eyed, swimming in her robes, and irredeemably Breton.

“What do you wish to know, apprentice?”

“Fort Black Boot, Master,” she said, “I do not understand how you were able to balance the arcane and the mundane when the numbers were so vastly against you.”

“You forget the first disposition of war,” said Arctus. A flare spell ignited the parchment in his hand. He allowed the wind to sweep away the embers. “The moment to prepare your offense is the moment the enemy becomes vulnerable to attack.”





22nd Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Palace District, Imperial City
Mid-Day


The high perched sun had burned off the morning mist and cut the shadow from White Gold Tower. Those citizens visiting the graves along Green Emperor Road were able to remove a layer of clothing in the welcome heat that hinted at winter’s end. Among the honored headstones a team of artisans bent hammer to chisel. Their labors tamed the cold marble slabs and produced from them the likenesses of past faces who had sat the Ruby Throne.

At the entrance to the Tower a harried pair of guards stood proxy for the Emperor, absorbing the threats and spittle of the sullen, pushing, murmuring crowd that gathered at the stairs.

Varla watched the crowd from a bench near the entrance. “Cuhlecain plays at a dangerous game,” she said, “each day he remains in hiding they grow angrier, and larger.”

“Even when we are summoned it will not be easy to pass through those doors in full view of the crowd,” said Emero. “We may be forced to make other arrangements.”

Varla nodded her agreement. Her eyes wandered to the artisans reproducing the face of Reman II. “He goes to great lengths to associate himself with the line of Dragon Emperors, when he could remove all doubt by simply donning the Amulet of Kings.”

“I do not believe that there is anything simple about donning that particular piece of jewelry.”

“Perhaps not,” said Varla, “but even an inept ruler would know enough to create a fake that he could wear in public to sate the superstitious masses. It would quell any rumors about Talos and his claim of dragon blood.”

“Would this be the same Talos that you now plan on aiding?”

Varla’s look would have given a Minotaur pause. “You forget yourself, old man. I am no longer your student.”

“No, Milady,” said Emero, “you long ago surpassed my teachings.”

He returned his attention to the crowd. Frustration with and proximity to the seat of power within the new Empire was causing the volume of their shouts to rise with the day’s heat.

Varla’s patience gave way; her voice was punctuated by the ring of an artisan’s hammer. “Speak your mind, Emero. Do not punish me with silence.”

“Very well, Milady,” said Emero, “I was wondering how this new course of action affects our impending audience with the Emperor.”

“It doesn’t,” said Varla, “I came here for the purpose of removing Cuhlecain from the Ruby Throne. That has not changed. It is simply a matter of deciding who should replace him.”

“Does that mean that I should turn my investigations from the Battlemage to the General?”

Varla’s brow furrowed, she absently bit down on her lower lip. “No,” she said, “continue looking into the Battlemage’s affairs. Whichever direction this goes, I will need his loyalty.”

“The Battlemage is crafty, and his network of spies is impressive. Cuhlecain is not the only one who plays at a dangerous game, Milady.”

Before Varla could answer, a surge in the crowd announced the emergence of a retinue of palace guards from the Tower. Their drawn weapons caused the throng to retreat from the stairs and reform into two smaller groups on opposite sides of the entrance. The captain of the guard marched down the stairs and past the angry mob, now held in check by the threat of his naked blade. He stopped at the bench before Varla and Emero. He sheathed his weapon and held himself erect before he spoke.

“The Emperor will see you now,” he said.

An excellent installment. I take note of two particular parts of the story that I find most enjoyable.

First, Varla's decision to aid Talos against her brother's plots, so as to save her sister.

Secondly, and more impressively, the dynamic that is embodied by none other than Talos himself, his ambition, Zurin Arctus, and the role that Ysmir Wulfarth plays in the rise of Tiber Septim. You take the premise of the Arcturian Heresy, and flesh it out into a great piece of writing.

What is the story of Polydor and Eloisa? All I have ever been able to find is a tiny blurb in the Daggerfall holidays.


yet for centuries it was lost and we were not overrun with daedra.
I have always wondered about that. I suppose it is because Bethesda only pulled it out of their english ship when they did Oblivion, and not surprisingly ignored all the history they had put down before.


past the gate to where the giant statue of Morihaus stood armed with a sword in one hand and stone shackles in the other.
That is Morihaus? I thought he was a cosmic bull?


An excellent installment. I have always liked political thrillers, and this is most certainly that. Especially exciting is Varla's intention of betraying her brother Aran for the sake of her sister. The visceral side of me says "you go girl!", while the writer in me finally sees elements of plot coming into shape. Varla offing Ryan (or otherwise neutralizing him) and backing Talos. That explains why the timeline mentions High Rock offering no serious resistance to Talos' conquests (only Hammerfell), which Ryan clearly intends to make.

Most delicious is at the end we see Talos, Zurin Arctus, and Varla all converging upon the Imperial Palace (and to a chance meeting?) all due to none other than Cuchelian himself. How ironic!

btw. I have my eyes peeled for an unopened bottle of flin...

What a rich morning in the Imperial City! Lots of intrigue here. As always, your description and dialogue are simply amazing.


POV question for you. You seem to be writing with a consistent POV within each scene of this episode, yet it seems to perhaps change within your first scene. Your writing is so darn good, that I like to study it. I suspect my confusion stems from my inablility to understand something. On one hand, it seems the scene is from Emero's POV, as evidenced by these examples:

But, I'm not quite sure because of these passages seem to reflect Varla's perspective. . . or does Emero just know her so well that he can pick up on her likely thoughts by her actions?

I loved this chapter the first time I read it, and I love it even more now. The threads you've created in past chapters are starting to come together here, and I can feel the plot developments to come are going to be so worth the wait.

I love intrigue! It's a challenge keeping things straight at times, but that's exactly what appeals to me about such stories/plots. It's sort of like chaos theory, how a butterfly flaps its wings in Japan and a hurricane strikes the East Coast of the United States. All these little unrelated characters and events we have been witnessing so far are starting to come together and play on each other in ways that are both predictable and unexpected.

I am looking forward to more. If I recall correctly from the previous read, what follows next is some of the best high drama in this story so far.

I second Hauty on the feeling of coming together and many threads making a whole that you have produced. This was a most interesting part plot-wise, you certainly manage to have plots within plots and all sorts of complexity and over a vast scale, I can't imagine what you're planning looks like.

The next part certianly promises drama and along with such mysteries as Renald who as yet I can't see the position of lay pleanty of hooks to keep me in.

Only one nit on the otherwise very clean writing:
a pair of wayward urchins ..... not overrun with daedra.”

Emero brushed a wayward leaf
and
shut the door.

Alorius stood near the door and allowed
The second is less noticable than the first but I found both repetitions somewhat jarring, especially as wayward is a relatively unusual word.

I am trying to catch up, Buffy, Destri, Hauti, and Remko - you all have posted so many chapters since I was last on here that it will take a while to catch up - just letting you know "I'm on it!" Lol.

Captain Hammer – Thank you for your comments, and welcome to Interregnum. I am fascinated by what the Arcturian Heresy puts forward as the story of Talos’ rise to power, and how it differs from what the official scribes of the Empire accept as the truth. It reminds me of what the Dissident Priests believe vs. Temple doctrine. I think that the truth might lie somewhere in the middle. This story is my attempt to deal with that question.

SubRosa – I will try to answer all the points you made in your comments:

The only other reference I can find on Polydor and Eloisa comes from Sun’s Dawn, Book Two of 2920:

The story itself is never told.

There is a reason why the daedra did not overrun Tamriel while the Amulet was lost. It is lore specific (after a fashion), but I won’t spell it out for quite a few chapters yet.

I think Morihaus was a cosmic bull. I personally imagine that he was the progenitor of all the minotaurs running around Tamriel.

Ah, I should have known that you would notice that the timeline mentions that High Rock offered no serious resistance to Talos’ conquest. I caught that too, and I will try to incorporate the reasons for that in this story.

As for your unopened bottle of flin . . . I know exactly where it is, and when it will make an appearance. But that doesn’t happen for quite a while.

Acadian – You got me! My intention was to remain in Emero’s POV during that portion of the story, but the example you gave about Varla’s eyes being pulled from the statue does read like I have switched points of view. In the second example you cited my thinking was that Emero had seen that anger in Varla throughout the trip from Balfiera. He was just seeing it again. Reading it back now I can see how it might have looked otherwise. I have gone back and changed it to better reflect Emero’s POV. Thanks again for the editorial eye.

haute – Chaos theory is exactly how I would describe the writing of this story! Sometimes even I have trouble keeping all of the strands of this web together. I am extremely excited about what’s to come. I don’t want to give too much away, let’s just say that it is going to be a hot summer in Tamriel.

Olen – I think you would be surprised at the simplicity of this story’s outline. It is just a calendar with the relevant dates highlighted. The research behind the writing was extensive, but a lot of what happens in the writing is an organic by-product of what has come before.

I have re-read the repetitions that you pointed out. I agree that ‘wayward’ does seem a little jarring. I have gone back and changed it. Thank you for catching it.

mALX – YOU’RE BACK!!!! You have no idea how much you have been missed. I haven’t had a single gobble and I feel like I’m going through withdrawal! I don’t envy you the task of catching up on everyone’s stories. Take your time getting to mine. There are a few new chapters, but most of it you have read before.

Everyone – I broke this segment into two parts when I posted it before. I decided to make it all one large chapter for this incarnation of the story. I just feel that it reads better this way. I’m sorry for the length.





22nd Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Imperial Palace, Imperial City
Mid-Day


The Emperor granted audience inside a vast circular chamber on the bottom floor of White Gold Tower. The floors were heavy cut stone festooned with paintings of the Imperial standard at regular intervals. The ceiling was opened to the floors above. What illumination there was came from gold lamps set in sconces along the walls, and from ornate iron framed windows stained green. In the middle of the sunken floor a round stone table held dignitaries from the seven cities of a united Cyrodiil, and those unlucky enough to have business before the throne. The throne itself was forged in gold and decorated with more than four thousand rubies to mark the passage of years from St. Alessia’s founding of the Empire. It was raised above the table to allow the Emperor to look down upon his subjects. Fifteen marble columns lined the perimeter of the chamber and served to hold up the floor above. And on this high floor a gallery of furtive palace workers and those with favor or fortune enough to gain entry looked down on the proceedings with great interest.

Zurin Arctus sat in his chair at the round table and noted the faces of those around him. Some of them were familiar. To his right the emissary from Kvatch, a tonsured Breton named Prior Sanne, wore the robes of a Temple priest. He sat in quiet conference with the Duke of Skingrad’s silk swaddled representative, an Imperial firebrand named Synnius Carbo. Chorrol’s Regent was a large man who looked as if he possessed Nordic blood. His name was Miles Galenus and he had made the trip personally, only to find himself seated on the right hand of the Emperor’s Chief Advisor, that oily elf Farenenre. General Talos sat by himself several chairs to the left of Arctus, as far from the throne as possible while maintaining attendance at the table.

Others were not so familiar. The Count of the new city of Leyawiin had sent his court mage, who was not only female, but Khajiit. She tried to remain inconspicuous while fending off the overt advances of the new representative of the Baron of Sutch, who already seemed too far into his cups to suit Arctus. No one paid any attention to the envoy from Bravil because he was not a man of great wealth or importance and he was, after all, from Bravil.

Conversation around the table stopped as the door to the chamber opened and an honor guard entered. They marched across the room and stood on each side of the Ruby Throne. They were followed by a herald whose abbreviated stature caused smiles and stifled coughs from the table, and overt laughter from the gallery above. His stunted legs came to a stop at the edge of the recess and, in a surprising tenor that carried to the bell at the very top of White Gold Tower, he announced for all to hear:

“All Hail His Majesty, Akatosh’s Chosen Vessel and Emperor of all Tamriel . . . Cuhlecain, the First of His Name!”

All at the table stood and turned their attention to the door. The Emperor of all Tamriel barely stood a head taller than his herald. He swept into the chamber flanked by more guards and dressed in silk robes that matched the Imperial Standard while they dragged on the floor behind him. What little hair he had was shot with grey and served to help prop the Red Diamond Crown that sat upon his pointed head. Despite his stature he carried himself with the bearing of a knight, and the look in his grey eyes indicated that he was not a man to be trifled with. Still, he had to lift himself onto the Ruby Throne and when he settled into the seat his boots dangled.

Once the Emperor was settled, everyone returned to their seats except Farenenre.

“Your Majesty,” he said, bowing to the Ruby Throne. “Honored Lords and Lady. We are here to sit in judgment of the actions taken by General Talos on the night of twelfth Morning Star last, known to you all as the Battle of Fort Black Boot.”

“I do not understand,” said the Regent of Chorrol, Miles Galenus. “We judge a man for achieving victory? Honor him with a statue and let us move on to more pertinent business.”

“I believe this is pertinent,” said Synnius Carbo, the Skingrad representative. He stared across the table at General Talos. “You Nords revel in battle, but this battle should have been won for the glory of the Empire, not for the vanity of a single man.”

“Vanity is a sin against the Eight,” said the priest from Kvatch, Prior Sanne. “The victory was gifted to you because the Gods looked down and they judged our cause worthy. All hail Cuhlecain, rightful Emperor of Tamriel.”

Several “hails” were shouted around the table as those who curried favor stood to applaud the Emperor whose feet did not reach the ground. They were joined in their adoration by the many in the gallery who knew that the Emperor’s spies were always watching.

“Master Arctus,” said Farenenre as the tumult faded. “On the night in question you were aware of the General’s refusal to use the Skyrim reserve as ordered.”

Arctus met Farenenre’s stare and held it until the Altmer looked away. “Was that a question, Lord Farenenre?”

Chorrol’s Regent suppressed a smile. The Khajiit from Leyawiin could not.

Farenenre turned a deeper shade of gold. “Were you aware, Master Battlemage?”

“I was aware of no such order,” said Arctus.

“He is the General’s lackey!” said Synnius Carbo. “Tell me, Arctus, what did the General promise you for lying to this Council?”

A wave of hushed voices flowed from the table to the upstairs gallery. Farenenre held his hand in the air to quiet the whispers. He turned to the guard near the door.

“Show in the first witness,” he said.

The guard saluted and left the room. There was the sound of activity from the hallway, and the guard re-entered leading an armored Nord with a jagged vertical scar that dominated the right side of his face, claimed his right eye, and disappeared into the folds of a heavy grey beard. An ebony warhammer was strapped to his back, and the winged helmet he held was made of silver. He stood at the base of the table near General Talos and directed his gaze past the Ruby Throne.

Prior Sanne rose from his seat. “Do you swear by the Eight Divines that you shall give true testimony to this Council?”

The Nord’s laughter filled the chamber. “You can take your Eight Divines and shove them up your robe, woman! I swear to Shor and the Gods of men!”

The look on the Prior’s face would have been the same had the Nord told him that Mehrunes Dagon was relieving himself in the fountain of the wayshrine of Akatosh.

“Then swear to Shor,” said Farenenre, “and let us proceed.”

“I do so swear,” said the Nord.

“What is your name and occupation?”

“I am Hjolfr, Commander of a Skyrim militia sworn to serve the Emperor of Cyrodiil.”

“You mean the Emperor of Tamriel,” corrected Carbo, rising to his feet.

Hjolfr gave him a look that caused Carbo to search the table for an ally. When none was forthcoming, Carbo sheepishly regained his seat. Hjolfr returned his gaze to Farenenre and did not amend his statement. Arctus thought he saw amusement in General Talos’ eyes.

“What were your orders in the weeks preceding twelfth Morning Star last?” asked Farenenre.

“I had no orders,” said Hjolfr, “the militia was camped in the Jerall Mountains. We were requested to hold the privates of the Cyrodiil Legion in some skirmish near the border with Elsweyr.”

“Did you receive orders to move down to the border?”

“No. We froze our arses off in the mountains.”

“Thank you, Commander,” said Farenenre, “you are dismissed.”

“Just a moment,” said Arctus. He directed himself to the Ruby Throne. “May I question the witness, Your Majesty?”

Silence pervaded the chamber. For several seconds even the air was still. Cuhlecain’s eyes narrowed but he answered with a nod. Arctus bowed, rose, and turned to Hjolfr.

“Commander,” he said, “it is your testimony that you were ‘requested to hold the privates of the Cyrodiil Legion’, is that correct?”

“Yes it is.”

“Requested by whom?” asked Arctus.

“There was a letter sent from White Gold Tower,” said Hjolfr, “it was forwarded to us by a messenger from Falkreath.”

“Are you in possession of this letter?” asked Arctus.

“I carry a warhammer, Master Battlemage. I am not in the habit of carrying letters.”

“Does this line of questioning bear any relevance?” asked Farenenre.

“You claim that General Talos disregarded an order,” said Arctus, “yet I submit to you that neither I nor the General were ever given an order to use the Skyrim reserve. The fact that this ‘request’ for the Skyrim militia came as a missive from White Gold Tower instead of from Fort Black Boot proves that neither I nor General Talos had a hand in its conception.” Arctus turned his attention back to Hjolfr. “Thank you, Commander. I have no further questions.”

Hjolfr bowed awkwardly, it was not an act he was used to performing. “General Talos, Master Battlemage.” He turned and exited the chamber.

“I told you they all aid each other,” said Carbo. “Never trust a Nord.”

Galenus slammed his fist on the table. “Be careful, Lord Carbo. My mother was a Nord.”

“Show in the next witness,” called Farenenre.

The guard at the door repeated his salute, left the chamber, and returned leading the gleaming armored form of Captain Alorius into the room. Alorius made his way to the foot of the table and bowed to the Ruby Throne.

“Your Majesty,” said Alorius, “my Lords.”

It took an effort for Arctus to keep his face impassive. Could Alorius have been a spy all along? He thought to himself. He remembered their conversation on the road from Fort Black Boot. He looked to General Talos, but if he were thinking the same thoughts as Arctus his face gave no indication of it.

Prior Sanne rose, “do you swear by the Eight Divines that you will give true testimony to this Council?”

“I do so swear,” said Alorius.

“What is your name and occupation?” asked Farenenre, rising.

“Titus Alorius, my lord, captain of the Imperial Legion and adjutant to General Talos.”

“In the days leading up to twelfth Morning Star last,” said Farenenre, “were you made aware of any orders involving the disposition of the Skyrim reserve?”

“I was aware that there was a reserve force from Skyrim waiting to assist us should the need arise.”

Farenenre smiled. “And was it your opinion that the situation warranted . . .”

Arctus was indignant, he rose from his chair. “Please do not tell me that we are seeking to solicit opinion and calling it testimony.”

Farenenre bowed, “I withdraw the question.” Arctus returned to his seat. Farnenre turned back to Alorius, “Captain, as the General’s adjutant, any orders he gives come through you, do they not?”

“No my lord,” said Alorius. “My duties are to assist the General in the dispensing of orders, but the General is free to give orders however he sees fit. Many times he does so without my knowledge or aid.”

“Captain Alorius,” said Farenenre, “I am not interested in the semantics of your position in the chain of command. Did General Talos send an order through you to deploy the Skyrim reserve?”

“No my lord,” said Alorius, “he did not.”

“Thank you, Captain. I have no further questions.” Farenenre sat, every eye at the table turned to Arctus.

“This entire line of questioning regards the disposition of troops on the night of twelfth Morning Star last is that correct, Lord Farenenre?” asked Arctus.

“It is,” Farenenre offered, regarding Arctus through narrowed eyes.

Arctus turned back to Alorius, “Captain, in your recollection, what was the result of the events of twelfth Morning Star last?”

Alorius smiled, “an Imperial victory, Master Arctus.”

“No further questions,” said Arctus.

The silence in the chamber was broken by the booming voice of Miles Galenus.

“You see,” he said, “There you have it, an Imperial victory. Now, can we suspend this mummer’s farce and get about the task of getting some real work done?”

There were nods of approval by the Khajiit mage sent from Leyawiin and her would be consort from Sutch.

“This hearing is not yet completed,” said Farenenre, “Captain Alorius, you are dismissed.”

Alorius saluted in the direction of General Talos, turned on his heel, and left the chamber.

“Show in the next witness,” said Farenenre.

The guard performed his obligatory salute and re-entered the hall, returning moments later leading a shined and polished Captain Itinius. Itinius strode to the foot of the stone table and his salute carried to everyone seated. He held himself at attention.

Prior Sanne rose to his feet, “do you swear by the Eight Divines that you will give true testimony to this council?”

“I do so swear,” said Itinius.

Farenenre leaned back in his chair. He absently stroked the side of his face with the feather from his quill. “What is your name and occupation?”

“Captain Quintus Itinius, officer of the Imperial Legion and commanding officer of the garrison at Fort Black Boot.”

“Do you recall a conversation you had with Master Arctus regarding the Skyrim reserve on twelfth Morning Star last?” asked Farenenre.

Arctus saw fault with the question, but he elected to hold his tongue.

Itinius kept his eyes on the wall behind the Ruby Throne. “Yes, my lord. Before the battle I asked the Battlemage if he had received any message from the Skyrim reinforcements.”

“Was this because it was your understanding that the garrison would be reinforced?” asked Farenenre.

“My lord,” said Arctus, addressing himself to Farenenre, “if you are going to both ask and answer the questions then the presence of the witness is superfluous.”

“Agreed,” said the Khajiit mage from Leyawiin, “this hearing is irregular enough without straying from the letter of the law.”

There was silence around the table, as if the soft voice of the Khajiit had breached some form of protocol.

“I agree with the Lady from Leyawiin,” said the quiet, high-pitched voice of the representative from Bravil, ”if not for General Talos, the fort would have been taken. It is less than two days march from the fort to the gates of Bravil. Who knows what would have happened to the city had it fallen to those monsters. . . with no offence meant, Milady.”

“None taken,” said the Khajiit.

The representative from Bravil looked at General Talos, “I was of the opinion that we were gathered to honor this man, not haggle over the methods he used to achieve his objective.”

“Lady S’Kaassi, Lord Mido, I shall rephrase the question,” Farenenre bowed in their general direction, and then he looked to Itinius, “Captain, Why did you ask Master Arctus about the Skyrim reinforcements?”

Itinius’ eyes remained on the wall, “The Khajiit host was larger than our reports indicated, my lord. I believed that the garrison was lost unless we were reinforced.”

“And what was Master Arctus’ response to your query?”

“He told me to assume that we were on our own.”

Farenenre smiled, “meaning that there would be no reinforcement?”

“That is how I took his meaning, my lord.”

“Thank you, Captain, I have nothing further,” Farenenre turned to Arctus, the smile still stretched the width of his cheeks. “Do you wish to question the witness, Master Arctus?”

“Yes thank you, Lord Farenenre,” said Arctus. He rose and faced Captain Itinius. “Good day, Captain.”

“Good day, sir,” said Itinius

“Your power of recollection does you credit. I wonder if you recall the rest of that conversation with such clarity. Do you remember the order I gave you after telling you to assume we were on our own?”

“Yes sir,” said Itinius, “you ordered me to prepare the men for an impending attack.”

“And what was your response?”

Itinius looked away from the wall. He could not meet the eyes of the Battlemage or anyone else around the table, so he let his gaze fall to his boots.

“I tried to dissuade you, sir,” he said, “I believed that the Khajiit force was bedded down for the night. You convinced me otherwise.”

“Do you remember what day General Talos and I arrived with our force, Captain?” asked Arctus.

Itinius straightened and returned his gaze to the wall, “I believe it was the sixth of Morning Star last, sir.”

“Correct,” said Arctus. “According to your testimony concern for the garrison prompted you to ask me about the Skyrim reinforcement, is that correct Captain?”

“Yes sir.”

“You are quite fond of the men under your command, are you not?”

“They are my responsibility, sir.”

Arctus smiled, “of course they are, Captain. How many are in your garrison?”

“Five hundred legionnaires, sir,” said Itinius.

“Did you accompany the garrison to the post or were you assigned to a post that was already manned?”

Farenenre stood, “I fail to see the relevance of this line of questioning.”

“I agree,” said Synnius Carbo, “perhaps Master Arctus should stop wasting this Council’s time.”

“I did not realize that it was I who wasted the time of this Council,” said Arctus. “I have not had the advantage of interviewing the witness as Lord Farenenre has. I hope that you will indulge certain latitudes in my line of questioning.”

Miles Galenus turned to Farenenre, “let him ask his questions.”

“I wish to hear where this leads,” said S’Kaassi. She was joined by murmurs of approval from both Lord Mido from Bravil and the inebriated representative from Sutch. Farenenre relented and returned to his seat.

Arctus turned back to Itinius, “shall I repeat the question, Captain?”

“No sir,” said Itinius, “I led the garrison from the Imperial City to the post.”

“How long did that take?” asked Arctus.

“Nine days, sir.”

“Thank you Captain,” said Arctus. He directed his remarks to the Council, “I beg your indulgence a moment longer. Captain, it is your testimony that General Talos and I arrived with a force of five hundred men on sixth Morning Star last. It is also your testimony that it took you nine days to escort a garrison of five hundred men from the Imperial City to Fort Black Boot. Given those two facts, if General Talos had sent a message to the Skyrim reserve encamped in the Jerall Mountains on the day that we arrived at Fort Black Boot, would they have been able to arrive in time to reinforce the garrison?”

“No sir,” said Itinius, shaking his head, “they would not have.”

“Thank you Captain,” said Arctus, “I have no further questions.”





The gallery waited in silent anticipation. Their numbers swelled with the arrival of several off duty guards still wearing their Legion armor. Prior Sanne slowly rose to his feet and cleared his throat, “do you swear by the Eight Divines that you will give true testimony to this Council?”

“I do so swear,” said General Talos. He stood in front of his chair opposite the Ruby Throne.

Farenenre was standing next to the Throne. He gently placed his quill on the table.

“Despite the testimony elicited by Master Arctus,” he said to General Talos, “there remains the fact of your refusal to send for the Skyrim reserve in direct opposition to an Imperial order. Do you have anything to say before this Council renders judgment?”

“I do,” said Talos, “I have a question for the Throne.”

“His Majesty is not a sworn witness,” said Farenenre.

Arctus stood, but a gesture from General Talos rendered him silent. Talos leveled his gaze at Farenenre, and for a moment it appeared that the Altmer’s time on Nirn had come to an end. When Talos finally spoke, Arctus heard the same authority in his voice that he had heard at Sancre Tor.

“I have spent the better part of the afternoon listening to you and your allies question my judgment, second guess my decisions, and impugn my honor,” said General Talos, leveling his gaze at Synnius Carbo and Prior Sanne, “That is not something that I am likely to forget. I have a question for the Throne, and unless one of you honorable gentlemen wishes to unsheathe a sword to stop me, I intend to ask it.”

Silence engulfed the table, no one dared to move. It was as if Sheogorath himself had fallen upon them with his staff.

“Your Majesty,” said Talos, “did you not commission me as commander of your armies?”

Every eye in the chamber sought out the Ruby Throne. Cuhlecain leaned forward, “I did.”

“And did you not order me to secure Cyrodiil’s southern border with Elsweyr?” asked Talos.

“I did,” was the answer from the Throne.

“And have I executed that order?”

“You have.”

“Then by your leave, your Majesty,” Talos turned and strode toward the door to the chamber. The two guards stationed at the door held it open and bowed at his passing. When they closed the door behind him the sound carried up into the gallery. Miles Galenus leaned back in his chair and allowed his smile to be seen by all.

“I think we should put this matter to a vote,” he said.





22nd Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Imperial Palace, Imperial City
Dusk


The chamber was deserted, the delegates had tendered their votes and retired, allowing the heavy doors to close behind them. The gallery had been emptied by the palace guard. Farenenre remained in his seat at the stone table. The Emperor paced through the chamber like a man expecting to be hit by a stray arrow.

“This was a disaster,” said Cuhlecain, “instead of casting Talos as the villain who would usurp the throne, we have made him an even bigger hero. Now he controls both the Legion and the Council.”

Farenenre kept his eyes on the table, “he should not have won at Fort Black Boot, your Majesty. We gave the Khajiit every advantage. The Skyrim reserve could not have arrived in time. . .”

“But he did win!” said Cuhlecain, “at Fort Black Boot and here today. In truth I should make Zurin Arctus my Chief Advisor. He certainly seems more qualified for the position than you!”

Farenenre’s head found a way to dip even lower, “I am sorry, your Majesty.”

“You’re sorry?” spat the Emperor, “sorry doesn’t give us a solution to this problem. You had better contribute a lot more than ‘you’re sorry’ or I might decide that the myrmidons in the Arena need someone else to practice on!”

“I do have an idea, your Majesty, if you would indulge me.”

Cuhlecain gave an impatient wave of his arm. Farenenre rose and made his way over to the door to the chamber. Using both hands he was able to open the door just enough to whisper into the hall. He backed away as the door swung open, admitting a pair of Altmer, a man and a woman, dressed in a silk robe and a silk dress, respectively.

Cuhlecain took his seat on the Ruby Throne as the three elves walked across the room.

“More elves,” he said, “I have just about had my fill.”

Farenenre bowed before the Throne, “your Majesty, may I present the Lady Varla Direnni of Clan Direnni.”

Varla bent her knee to the Ruby Throne. She suppressed a smile at the sight of the Emperor’s dangling boots.

“Your family is no friend to Cyrodiil, Lady Direnni,” said Cuhlecain, “why should I listen to anything you have to say?”

Varla’s knee remained bent, “because I believe that I can deliver something that you want, Your Majesty.”

“What could you possibly have that I could want?”

Varla straightened to her full height and allowed the smile to light up her face, “High Rock,” she said.





22nd Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Reman Plaza, Imperial City
Dusk


A grinning Captain Alorius opened the door and saluted, “good evening, Master Arctus.”

Arctus nodded a greeting, “You performed your testimony well today. You told the truth but did not give away more than you had to.”

“Thank you, Master Arctus. You know where my loyalty lies.”

“I do,” Arctus allowed himself a smile, and then he crossed the room through the fog of skooma smoke while being careful not to look at Ysmir in the corner. He climbed the stairs to the second floor and crossed the hall through the haze of incense to knock on the door to General Talos’ quarters.

“Come.”

Arctus entered. General Talos sat in a chair close to the fire. He had replaced his armor with a blue silk robe and he held a silver glass of Cyrodiilic brandy.

“Four to two in your favor,” said Arctus, “Farenenre and Carbo voted against you. Galenus, S’Kaassi, Mido and the one from Sutch whose name I don’t recall voted in your favor. Prior Sanne abstained, he did not look well when he left the chamber as I recall. The Emperor chose to uphold the vote.”

“Of course he did,” said Talos. He poured a second glass and motioned Arctus into the chair beside him. “Farenenre keeps telling him that he needs the Council’s approval before he can act against me. The purpose of this hearing was to see if he could gather support against me with the Council.”

“I would say that it backfired,” said Arctus, leaning back in his chair. The brandy was excellent.

“Indeed,” said Talos, “I now have a majority of the Council in my favor. Farenenre played his part well. See to it that he is compensated.”

“Yes General,” said Arctus, “what are your plans now?”

“My plan is to enjoy a good meal,” said Talos. He rose from his seat. “I think you should join me. After all, we will need our strength if we are going to kill an Emperor.”


The Year Continues in First Seed

Oh, bloody excellent!

I particularly liked all the pompous fanfare that accompanied Cuhlecain. Despite all that, he's still not wearing the Amulet of Kings, and it looks like he knows it.

Of course, you leave it on a cliff hanger, but what can we do about that. Excellent work.

That said, my nitpick: The Red Diamond is the Chim-el Adabal, the central large gem in the Amulet of Kings.

Hence, the War of the Red Diamond was the war between Septims for the Amulet of Kings, and the obvious associations with Red Diamond Jewelry indicates that in-game, it's probably a marketing ploy by the proprietor.



Thus, it strikes me as odd, that Cuhlecain, who does not have the Amulet of Kings, would possess something like the Red Diamond Crown. It just calls attention to the fact that the genuine article is possessed by his general.

Granted, the apocryphal tales state that Reman Cyrodiil I wore the Red Diamond upon his brow, but that was as an infant when newly given to the world as the founder of the Second Empire.

But what appears to be the common thread throughout the lore-books, as well as the game experience in Oblivion, that it is in fact the Amulet of Kings which is considered to be the equivalent of Tamriel's Crown Jewel, and that the amulet is the sign of the Emperor and the Imperial line.

Granted, it is a minor issue, and honestly it's the only thing that stood out as contradicting other material.

Cuhlecain was an interesting one. I was not sure what to expect of him (given the name, I was half-wondering if he would be a tattooed Celt riding a chariot!) I suspect his choice of herald's was not simply based upon the merit's of the man's voice, but also of his stature.

This was an interesting scene. Once more, it reminds me very heavily of the final days of the Roman Republic, when the Senate and Pompey ordered Caesar to report to Rome to stand trial for war crimes against the Celts. While the Council Chamber was not quite the Rubicon, Talos crossed a very dramatic line before the eyes of the leaders of the Empire, from which there is no turning back. He may as well have thrown down his glove before Cuhlecain and called him out! (but I think he plans to have Arctus slip some dog meat into Cuhlecain's dinner first... )

“You can take your Eight Divines and shove them up your robe, woman! I swear to Shor and the Gods of men!”
This gave me quite a grin!

Then Varla returns. And shows that she still has quite the stones:
Varla straightened to her full height and allowed the smile to light up her face, “High Rock,” she said.


nits:
No one paid any attention to the envoy from Bravil because he was not a man of great wealth or importance and he was, after all, from Bravil.
This seems to run on a bit repetitively. Perhaps breaking it into two sentences?
No one paid any attention to the envoy from Bravil, as he was not a man of great wealth or importance. He was, after all, from Bravil.


“the militia was camped in the Jerall Mountains. We were requested to hold the privates of the Cyrodiil Legion in some skirmish near the border with Elsweyr.”
This left me confused. It sounds like the Nords were imprisoning the footsoldiers of the Cyrodiil Legion. Or fighting a battle against them. But the Nords were camped in the Jerall Mtns, which are at the north side of Cyrodiil, and the legionaries they were holding at the other end of the province. So how could the Nords hold them?

Now we have one of my favorite courtroom dramas ever! I enjoyed the verbal sparring here.

One thing:
While I agree with Sage Rosa about the geographic confusion here, I also had a smile thinking of "holding the privates . . ." Were the Cyrodiil Legion so inept that the soldiers of Skyrim had to hold their privates during a battle? I'm sure Foxy sees it the same way I do!

Get your mind Out of the Gutter!

You are undoubtedly the master of courtroom drama.

The following passage is just one of countless examples where you so perfectly immerse us:

Interregnum contains several scenes that are indelibly etched in my memory. The errant sweet roll making its rounds in the tent. The Argonian bartender slinging ales. And who could ever forget being sniffed by a DRAGON? Well, here is another that I remember well from your first telling. Neither time nor retelling have lessoned its impact:

As always, simply, wow!

Captain – But Cuhlecain does have the Amulet of Kings (or Chim-el Adabal if you prefer). It was recovered by his forces under the command of Talos at Sancre Tor two years before the events in this story. You can blame me for artistic license, but I just don’t see Cuhlecain keeping Talos around if he refused to give up the Amulet. You have to remember that at this time Talos was just one of Cuhlecain’s generals, any thoughts of his place as rightful heir to the Empire were the province of vague prophecy laid forth by the Greybeards of High Hrothgar, and in whispered rumor amongst the Nords who had witnessed his thu’um at Sancre Tor. Either way it was not a widely held opinion of the average citizen of Cyrodiil.

The problem that Cuhlecain has is that, because he is not of dragon blood, he cannot wear the Amulet. To compensate for this he wears the Red Diamond Crown of the Cyrodiils that the Pocket Guide to the Empire says that he possessed. In my opinion this symbol of monarchy would have been more concrete to the citizenry of the time because the Amulet had been lost for centuries, and no one (human) alive at that time had ever even seen it outside of a representation within the pages of an old book.




'Rosa & haute - That is exactly how Hjolfr meant it! I see him as somewhat disdainful of the military arm of this supposed Cyrodiilic Empire. Hence he refers to the Battle of Fort Black Boot as 'some skirmish near the border with Elsweyr'. His loyalty is to the tenuous alliance that his countrymen have entered into with General Talos. If given his druthers, I imagine that he would just as soon invade Tamriel and put all of those Elf-God worshiping fishwives to the sword.

Echoing the above: "wow!". A fine courtroom drama well woven into the fantasy setting, most enjoyable verbal sparring and convincing too. I agree that it put me in mind of the end of the Roman republic (or perhaps a couple of decades prior) in therrms of political manouvering. It also reminded me (somewhat) of some of Colleen McCullough's writings (her books dramatise the last few decades of the republic in great detail).


Now there was a twist, I knew he wasn't really with the emperor but is there a side he's not playing? And he played it very well after the courtroom thing. I suspect we'll be seeing more of hm hedging his bets.


Brilliant.

Nit:
You misspelt Chorrol as Chorral near the beginning (at least I assume it was accidental).

I was also slightly confised at the Skyrim milita holding the privates of Cyrodiil (while I did think of it as you meant I assumed it was meant to be something else, possibly holding a bunch of raw privates (as in the rank) out the way or something.

So then Hjolfr was not imprisoning Cyrodiilic soldiers in the Jerall mountains, but was making a statement about holding their testicles because he saw them as cowards? You might want to reword that. The way you use modern rank names like captain, it makes one think that private means a individual, grunt soldier, rather than genitalia.

let's put the genitalia aside for a moment as I say, Hello!. I've spent all day reading through this story and I am not disappointed. There are many characters which at first glance appear to be completely separate from one another but as the story has progressed, the characters stories are becoming interwoven. Bravo!. I also wish to congratulate you on the ability to make a courtroom feel as exciting as a battle field. more please.

Acadian – I’m happy to hear that you enjoyed Talos’ scene during the hearing. The passage that you quoted was the one that gave me the most trouble in the writing. I wanted Talos’ appearance ‘on the stand’ to be brief, yet unequivocal. In the initial draft his testimony, which included questioning by both Farenenre and Zurin Arctus, covered three full pages. In the end I decided that a man like Talos wouldn’t tolerate being second guessed by those he viewed as subordinate.

Olen – I have always looked upon Talos as Tamriel’s version of Caesar. His part in this story is heavily influenced by the relationship and eventual conflict between Caesar and Pompey. I am glad that you can see the parallel.

Faranenre is interested in only one thing, his own prosperity. It is the only thing worthy of the application of his superior intellect. He will enter into an alliance with anyone that he feels can be used to further his own ends. You will most definitely be seeing more of him.

Thank you for spotting the nit with Chorrol (Chorral?). It has been fixed.

SubRosa – I agree that I should reword Hjolfr’s statement about the Imperial Legion. I am actually glad that you brought it up because I never liked the word ‘privates’ coming from Hjolfr. It struck me as too respectful from a man who has no respect whatsoever for the Empire. The problem is that I want to do it in a way that fits the speaker. Hjolfr is not a man to mince words, but I don’t want to get smacked by the forum’s swear filter. No honored users or Belgian boats for me, thanks! I toyed with the idea of saying ‘private parts’, but that just doesn’t sound right to me. And ‘hold their hands’ doesn’t give you a sense of Hjolfr’s vulgarity in the setting of an Imperial council chamber. I notice that testicles passed the swear filter, but that doesn’t sound like something that Hjolfr would say. I will continue to think about it, any ideas that you may have would be appreciated.

hazmick -



Welcome to Interregnum! Thank you very much for the kind words. I am particularly glad that the courtroom felt like a battle field to you, that is exactly what I was going for. I hope that I haven’t overwhelmed you with all the different characters. Trust me; they all have a part to play in the events ahead.

Book Three: First Seed


2nd First Seed, 2E 854
The Reachman’s Tavern, Jehanna, High Rock
Evening


The young man’s lineage could not be told easily at first glance. On his face was writ the history of the Western Reach. He had a Nord’s height to be sure, but his lean silhouette and pointed ears told of his Aldmeri heritage. His pale skin and small, close-set blue eyes were framed by an unruly shock of blond hair that further marked him for a Breton. He sat with his legs akimbo, well into his cups, and listened with drunken fascination at the venom spilling from the stranger who shared a table and a tankard with him.

“I was at Sancre Tor,” said the stranger. He was a short, choleric Breton gone to fat who waved his tankard to emphasize his point, spilling half his mead on the tavern’s stone floor. “It wasn’t the ‘genius’ of your General Talos that won the battle.”

The young man’s head had drooped during the diatribe, but at the invocation of the name ‘Talos’ he roused himself and focused on the stranger through squinted eyes. “What are you saying?”

“What am I saying?” the Breton lowered his voice. His darting eyes searched through the tavern. Most of the patrons were Reachmen who were too far, or too drunk to hear their conversation. A small group of armed mer, Altmer from the look of them, drank at a nearby table. They were as out of place as he was along the Reach but the Breton relaxed. He had nothing to fear from the Elves.

He turned his attention back to the young man, who sat with his legs splayed and his eyes indignant. The Breton savored the moment; there was a perverse thrill to be had in destroying the delusions of youth.

“Refill my cup and I shall tell you,” he said.

The young man raised two fingers and swayed from an excess of mead. An attentive wench brought two bottles that she placed on the table. The young man pressed some gold coins into her hand and the two exchanged a private smile. Then he turned his attention back to the Breton.

“Now,” he said, “what were you saying?”

“I’m saying that your precious Early-Beard. . .” whatever was to follow became caught in the Breton’s throat. The door to the tavern was flung open and a sudden lightning flash lit the armor of the two figures framed in the doorway. Conversation stopped as they entered the tavern, dripping rain onto the stone floor. Their eyes began to move through the tavern and, as they scanned the faces within, the Breton just knew.

The young man paid no mind to his drinking companion. His eyes were agog and trained on the two armored men whose presence filled the tavern. The first was as tall as any Nord the young man had ever seen. Though soiled and battered, his steel armor still glistened in the lamp light. He bore a heavy tower shield that was slung to his back and a weathered silver mace hung from his hip. The second man was smaller though in no way slight. He was encased in light mail, and his worn green tunic clung to his chest and dripped into a puddle between his boots. He carried a light iron shield comfortably in his left hand, and when he shifted his stance the young man saw the pommel of a silver longsword on his left hip.

The smaller man’s scan of the tavern stopped at the table where the young man drank with the stranger. He threw an elbow into his companion and the Nord’s gaze followed. The young man shifted uder their scrutiny.

Thunder broke the silence in the tavern and shook the empty tankards gathered on the bar. The tall Nord shut the door behind him, muffling the sound of the falling rain, and joined his companion near the young man’s table. They stood to both sides, blocking the exit and the stairs behind the bar. They ignored the young man and glared down at the Breton, who kept his eyes on the table in front of him.

“Sancre Tor,” said the tall Nord, through a voice made hoarse with rage. “I am Valdemar of Skyrim.”

“And I am Alain of Wayrest,” said the smaller man, through a set jaw in a face flushed crimson.

Valdemar kept his eyes on the Breton, but made his comments to the tavern. “Being the craven braggart that this man is, doubtless by now he has made it known that two years ago he stood in stout fellowship with the Nord/Breton host at Sancre Tor. He probably filled his cup at your expense telling you how he fought valiantly in the face of certain death and that, when the fortress was taken, fate or divine providence alone allowed him to escape the kiss of the axe that claimed the heads of so many of his poor lamented brethren.”

“Lamented brethren,” said Alain.

“We were at Sancre Tor,” continued Valdemar, “and what he didn’t tell you through all those tankards of mead is that by his own hand he condemned to death all those whose only crime was calling him ally. What he didn’t tell you is that he alone removed the wards that allowed the invaders to take the high command unawares, and that his reward for this treachery was the right to walk free of that valley when so many others did not. Not to mention enough gold in his purse to buy his own damn mead, and the tavern that it was served in.”

Alain shifted impatiently. Valdemar’s eyes shone with unshed tears, a sight more frightening than the scowl that he wore.

“Two years we have spent on the chase,” said Valdemar, “the wheel stops spinning here.”

“Stand and draw your sword,” said Alain, “or die a coward’s death, whimpering into your cup!”

The young man rose so suddenly that his chair flew back against the hearth. He backed away from the table with his eyes as white and wide as mother pearls. The Breton kept his eyes on the table, but his hands eased down to his lap.

“You’ll be keeping your hands where we can see them,” said Valdemar.

“This is a mistake,” the Breton said, eyes still firmly on the table.

“The mistake was yours,” said Alain.

“So I am to face two knights?” the Breton looked into Alain’s face, he held his hands out to the side. “I am alone, and unarmed. What odds are those?”

“The odds are as fair as those you gave when you opened Sancre Tor to the invaders,” said Valdemar.

Alain drew his sword, the blade whined as it cleared the sheath. He placed the point near the Breton’s throat and held it with a steady hand.

“Have no fear,” he said, “it was the Breton host that you condemned to slavery and death, and it will be a Breton alone who exacts retribution. Now get on your feet.”

The Breton slowly rose from his chair. The point of Alain’s sword rose with him. Without taking his eyes off of his adversary, Alain raised his voice to be heard by all in the tavern.

“Someone give this man a sword,” he said, “I’ll not have it known that I slew an unarmed man.”

The tavern was silent; the only sound was the muffled rain tapping on the roof. From behind Valdemar one of the Altmer men-at-arms pushed past his fellows. Valdemar spun at the sound, his hand seeking the hilt of his mace. The Altmer froze; he raised both hands and shook his head once. The big Nord relaxed and motioned the Altmer forward. The Altmer drew his elven longsword and offered it hilt first to the Breton.

“Take up the sword,” said Alain.

The Breton hesitated. Alain placed the tip of his sword against the Breton’s throat and pushed forward enough to draw blood.

“Take it up,” he repeated.

The Breton took the sword in hand. Alain lowered his sword to the floor and handed his shield to Valdemar. He faced the Breton, both men on their guard.

“If I am victorious?” asked the Breton.

“Then I shall mourn my friend,” said Valdemar, “and after I have finished mourning I shall have one more death for which to hunt you down.”

The Breton roared and lunged forward. Alain shifted his weight to meet the attack, but it was a feint. The Breton changed his position and aimed his slash towards Alain’s exposed flank, but the knight was younger and quicker. The two blades met with the clang of silver on steel, and then the duel began in earnest.




The young man stood near the hearth transfixed. For several moments the flight of the two swords shimmered and trailed in the lamplight. Silver rang on steel, with the occasional flash of lightning framing the combatants. Great rumbles of thunder shook the tavern and momentarily drowned out their curses.

And they were both cursing. The knight was the best swordsman that the young man had ever seen. But the older man was canny beyond reason, well versed in sword-craft, and possessed of that diabolical luck that graces evil men. Thrice he had been left open, his weakness so apparent that even the young man could see it, and thrice he had been rescued from the killing blow by some unseen agent that moved him to the one spot whereby he could re-gather himself and duel on.

The curses grew louder. To the young man it seemed that the knight’s sword was slowing, while the sword of the other man grew swifter, bolder. He had taken the knight’s measure and found him wanting. He began to drive the knight back. With each grudging scrape of the knight’s boots the sneer across the Breton’s face grew.

With a bellowed curse the knight went down, his boots sliding on the rain wet stone. The young man’s breath caught in his throat. The Breton’s sneer grew into a smile with no hint of warmth. With the elven sword raised high above his head he rushed in for the killing blow. The young man turned his head from the duel as a flash of lightning exploded against his closed eyelids.





Alain lay dazed on the floor where he had fallen. My sword! He thought. And there it was, still firmly gripped in his hand. He saw his opponent coming forward, sword upraised, framed in the flash of a lightning strike. Instinctively he raised the nicked silver blade but, even as he did so, the thought slammed down on him like a hammer, No time!

The older man’s momentum carried him forward. His blade whistled downward in a blow meant to sever flesh and bone. Alain rolled to his right. For the space of a heartbeat the world in front of his eyes exploded with the sparks from the sword’s impact with the stone. There was a stab of pain across his cheek, and for a brief instant he imagined that the blow had landed. Then through his hazy vision he saw the exposed left knee of his enemy. Alain lifted his boot and kicked out with everything he had left in him.

There was a distinct crack, like the breaking of dry timber that caused everyone in the tavern to gasp, but to Alain the sound was sweeter than all the music in Tamriel. His boot had broken the other man’s knee at the joint and pushed the stressed bones to an impossible angle. The Breton went down with a groan as Alain struggled back to his feet.

In the same way that his code would not allow him to attack an unarmed man, he could not attack a man who was down. So Alain circled his opponent, waiting. The Breton began to push himself backward with his sword held in front of him. His left leg remained straight, but his left foot dragged along the floor on its side. He reached the hearth and slowly struggled to his feet. All of his weight rested on his right leg. His sword was held weakly in his left hand. Alain lowered his sword.

“Yield,” said Alain, “and submit to the King’s justice.”

“What King would that be?” asked the Breton, the sneer returning to his face, “the one in want of a head, or the one bowing to the Ruby Throne? I should have made sure that you were both put to the axe before I left.”

Alain charged with all thoughts of mercy forgotten. The Breton made no move to escape, nor did he raise his sword to defend himself. He stood there in defiant resignation waiting for the killing blow to fall. Alain began his thrust, the momentum of his charge and his bodyweight behind it.

The Breton moved. His right arm shot out to the side, locking onto the wrist of the young man who had shared his table. He yanked hard to his left; the young man lost his footing and stumbled into the path of Alain’s oncoming sword. Alain could not check his thrust.

There was a sound like a faint hiccup, the young man’s breath smelled like honey and mead. This close, Alain could see past the wide eyed shock to the first sense of recognition on the young man’s face, and the draining of the light from his eyes. Alain drew back as if he had touched a blacksmith’s forge. His sword was buried to the hilt in the young man’s chest. A tavern wench screamed, and the young man fell to the stone floor.

Alain stood rooted to the spot. All of his anger and all of his pride had been spent in the young man lying at his feet. The Breton faded to a dim memory beyond the edge of hearing. He stared down at the body of the young man and at the hilt of his sword which comically protruded from the chest.

The Breton raised his sword and set his one good leg for a final swing. Alain did not even react. With a turn of the hip and a roll of the shoulders the elven sword cut through the air. . .and was repelled by the tower shield that seemed to materialize in front of Alain’s neck.

The impact caused the Breton to loose his balance. He went down in front of the hearth. He looked up in time to see the head of a weathered mace coming toward him, held by a giant Nord with murder in his eyes.

I remember how this chapter kept me on the edge of my seat, and I'm pleased to find that on the second read-through it still does!

Ah, Alain and Valdemar! Two of my Sancre Tor heroes! These two, along with Caspar in Hammerfell, have really come to life here, as opposed to their appearance in Oblivion. I really appreciate how you have really made their ultimate sacrifice (as witnessed by the NPC during the MQ) so much more tragic by giving these men voices of their own. Rielus will make an appearance later, as well, if I recall correctly.

The tragedy of the young man's death really brings home the risks of dueling in close quarters with an audience. It amplifies the craven nature of the fat Breton, and adds to the sense of tragedy haunting Alain. First his Breton comrades-in-arms, then an innocent bystander. Valdemar's reaction, as exemplified by this line: only serves to highlight the kind of ruthless, unforgiving honor that drives many a seasoned warrior.

This chapter can stand alone as a short story in itself - so much is said in so few words, and it is so complete in and of itself. The fact that it slots so seamlessly into the rest of Interregnum is a testament to your skill in the writer's craft.

I recall this one vividly.

Descriptions, dialogue, pacing, the storm, the twists. . .

Simply magnificent Destri. I don't know how better to put it.

About Hjolfr's holding, why not just go with balls?

Ahh, this blood-pounding battle is what I remember best of Interregnum 1.0! Action, suspense, and treachery! I loved the Breton as much as I did the first time. That guy really is a good villain.

At the same time this segment also gives us some background on Alain and Voldemort Valdemar. I might be wrong, but I think this was the first mention of them being at Sancre Tor. I wonder how it is that they escaped? Either death in the battle, or a life of slavery after being captured. Most of all I keep wondering how these two might end up serving the same man who slaughtered so many of their comrades and sold the rest into slavery. I cannot wait to see it all!


nits:
You have some heads being hopped:
The Breton savored the moment; there was a perverse thrill to be had in destroying the delusions of youth.
This makes it seem like we are in the pov of the fat Breton.

The young man felt the saliva vacate his mouth and skitter down the back of his throat.
Now we are clearly in the young man's pov.



The tall Nord shut the door behind him, muffling the sound of the falling rain, and joined his companion near the young man’s table.
This long sentence needs either a pair of commas where I inserted them, or hyphens (I find I am using the latter more and more in these situations).


The Breton made no move to escape, nor did he raise his sword to defend himself.
This also needs a comma.


I think you ought to give a name to "the young man". It gets repetitive after while, and seeing that some parts are told from his pov, he ought to have one and be a full character rather than just be a stand-in. Also giving him a name makes him seem more real, like a person. This will add more weight to the tragedy of his death. Just have someone say it early in the story. Perhaps the Breton could ask it? Likewise, all the same can be said for "the Breton".

Another great chapter, I particularly enjoyed the character of the Breton. Your description of the tavern really set the atmosphere for the mysterious Breton and the fight scene was fast paced and energetic A good chapter all round.

That was an interesting part which would almost stand alone. Opening with the young man (I agree a name might have been wise, though equally not giving him one prevents the reader trying to file away another) as the pov character was a good idea and worked well to make it matter that the breton then had him killed. I wonder if it will bother Alain in the long run...

Well written action throughout, very exciting and sustained.


The rather astute things like this really add a lot to this story. They really sit well with the people involved (and with reality).

Nits:

the chest of the young man lying at his feet. The Breton faded to a dim memory beyond the edge of hearing. He stared down at the body of the young man and at the hilt of his sword which comically protruded from the chest. -- 'the chest' jarred the second time, possibly something like 'the potruding sword' would flow better.

“it was the Breton host that you condemned to slavery and death, and it will be a Breton alone who exacts retribution. Now get on your feet.”
The Breton slowly rose from his chair. The point of Alain’s sword rose with him. Without taking his eyes off the Breton, -- the first three were fine because they were different Bretons but the final one somehow jarred them all. Giving the breton a name would sort this. And yes I do seem obsessed with repetitions.

of his poor lamented brethren.”
“Lamented brethren,” said Alain. -- I don't quite see why he said that, it seemed like he was correcting but he said the same.

Your characters are a great blast to read. Lattia, Earns-his-keep, Dreekius, Arnand, they all just sing off the screen. Epic writing brother!!


That is what I love about Lattia. She is always straight to the point. Lookout guys!


I really enjoyed your take on Stros M’Kai. Each time I read the way you describe the city it always reminds me of Lut Gholein, from Diablo II. Awesome!! The sandstone, the sun looming across the walls, ahhh, the good old days of gaming.


The way you write a dream sequence is a delight to read. You have wonderfully mastered the ‘steps of consciousness’ that a person goes through as they try to collate their thoughts. As always you underpin it by the rational thoughts that are going on outside the dream. Epic!!

Your courtroom drama is building to a crescendo. Though how you keep all the storylines straight is a mystery to me.

However you did it, you found a way to improve upon the part in the bar with Valdemar and Alain and the fat Breton and the poor young man getting the sharp end of the stick (literally)
Loved it Destri!

SubRosa, has a point, changing privates for balls gets the message through and it seems to me, Hjolfir would way balls. That; or nuts.

Still catching up, ARGH !!!!! But LOVING it !!!!

SubRosa and Remko – With apologies to our younger readers (who probably avoid this thread anyway), here is the problem with using the word balls:

I don’t have to explain this to Remko, but for 'Rosa’s benefit a (straight) man only lays hands on another man’s, well, balls when he is looking to intimidate, degrade, or otherwise coerce compliance from said individual. It ties into an old joke:

In the situation that I have presented Hjolfr is complaining about having to nursemaid the Cyrodiil Legion, something that a (straight) man does by holding the Johnson of another man. Again tying into an old joke:

In the situation presented balls simply doesn’t work for what Hjolfr is trying to say. But I must say that this discussion is even more fun than the speculation of whether or not Argonians sweat!

Then there is the discussion of Rod vs batton...

Oh, so you want to say hold on to the penii (the forum turns the exact work I am trying to use into something else) rather than the testicles. Why not go with pricks?

Although it seems to be that if a man is holding another man's penii, that is hardly a declaration of his being straight! Sounds a lot more like Alexander and Hephaestion to me! Mutual masturbation is the most common form of sex between gay men in fact.

Something else that comes to mind is that in Dark Age Scandinavia (i.e. the Viking Era, which the game seems to portray the Nords as being in). Male homosexuality was only frowned upon on the part of a man receiving anal intercourse from another man, as that was seen as being 'womanly'. There was no stigma associated with the man who was 'driving'. In fact, male on male rape was a quite common way of humiliating defeated enemies.

haute – You nailed it. I think that all four of their stories are tragic, but with Alain I wanted there to be something more behind his actions. It took me a long time to figure out how to portray each of these four men. In the end I remembered the Nord/Breton alliance at Sancre Tor, and I thought it would be interesting if Alain and Valdemar were a part of that force.

Acadian – Right up until the moment I posted this part of the story I debated whether I should include the storm. I didn’t want to lay things on too thick, but I liked the atmosphere that the storm creates inside the tavern. In the end I decided to go with it. I am so glad that it worked for you.

SubRosa – If I had known that the Breton was going to come across as strongly as he did I would have found a way to use him more. The genesis of the character comes from reading about the Battle of Sancre Tor:

Kind of reminds you of Ephialtes, who led Xerxes forces down a small path behind the Greek lines at Thermopylae, doesn’t it?

As far as the head-hopping and commas are concerned you are absolutely right on both counts. The beginning of the scene is told from the Breton’s POV, but I liked the saliva line so much that I thought I could risk leaving it in. Just goes to show what happens when you don’t edit something that you know you should! The lack of commas stems from my tendency to write the way I speak. I generally talk fast, and I don’t take the time to take breaths as much as I should (believe me when I say that I have heard this complaint before). Both issues have been addressed.

hazmick – Thank you again. Please read my comments above for insight into my thinking of the Breton, and for the atmosphere that I tried to represent within the tavern. I don’t do fight scenes as well as some (Acadian, haute, Olen, I am looking at you), I am glad that this one worked for you.

Olen – This next chapter will answer some of your questions over whether the boy’s death stays with Alain. And I am grateful for your obsession with repetitions, though I admit that re-reading them after you have pointed them out is a slightly painful experience . I have addressed both of the examples you cited.

On the subject of ‘lamented brethren’: Alain repeated that statement of Valdemar’s to 1) underscore the fact that the men who died at Sancre Tor really are lamented (by him and, to a somewhat lesser extent, by Valdemar), and 2) to comment on the irony that the Breton would be falsely mourning the deaths of those he condemned. I had hoped to convey a bitter tone in his comment that I thought would be apparent, given the context.

Winter Wolf – Welcome back! And I see that you have updated Aradroth’s story. I have never played Diablo II, but now I feel like I should. Just the name, Lut Gholein, sounds interesting! Your comments are, as always, a treasured source of confidence that I draw upon in the continuation of this story. Thank you once again!

Remko – Another welcome back! How are Rales and Zerina doing in Mournhold? I have always wondered, do you use a companion mod for Zerina, or is she strictly made from imagination? I hope you saw my comment above answering yours and SubRosa’s suggestion.

mALX – Take your time, this story isn’t going anywhere. Oh yeah, what’s a batton? Is it a baton that is so large that it needs two t’s to hold it (like Kurdan’s axe in hautee’s story)?

SubRosa and Olen – The young man is given a name in the chapter that follows. The Breton will remain as history remembers him, nameless.





3rd First Seed, 2E 854
The Fortress of At-Stuhn, North of Jehanna
Dawn


At-Stuhn, called ‘Old Stuhn’ in Jehanna, clung to a peak of ice and stone that commanded views for miles throughout the Western Reach. It was built in the First Era by the Nords under King Vrage, and named for their deity who fought the Aldmeri pantheon. An appropriate name considering that the fortress was used as a staging point for the liberation of High Rock from the Elves.

Later, during the War of Succession, the fortress changed hands so many times legend holds that the stone walls still bleed. In Jehanna they say that Old Stuhn is haunted by vengeful ghosts in Nordic mail, and that the howling wind from the mountain is testament to their continued suffering. It is a legend that is upheld by the stronghold’s current tenants, the mysterious Witchmen of High Rock.

At the base of the pass leading to the fortress gates Hecerilar waited with his band of mer. This high up their breath froze on the thin air before falling to the snow at their feet. Conversation was scarce, the mer still half-drunk. The horses threw their heads and dug into the snowy trail, their eyes wide in the unnatural stillness.

Hecerilar ran a whetstone over his blade, or what was left of it. For the seventh time since leaving the tavern he questioned his decision to lend it to that foul Breton. Dishonor now clung to the sword like a stain; as soon as they reached home he would exchange it in the armory.

While he entertained thoughts of home with the scrape of the whetstone in his ears, the gate to the fortress opened. The pitched whine unhinged the skittish horses and it was all they could do to calm them. A hooded figure emerged through the gate, his cloak flapping like a banner in the wind. Hecerilar returned the whetstone to his pouch, where it scraped against the heavy bronze amulet he now carried. Those still mounted climbed from their horses and joined with their fellows on bended knee as the cloaked figure drew closer. Hecerilar sheathed his ruined blade and knelt in the snow.

“Get off your knees and fetch my mount,” said the voice inside the hood.

“Yes, my lord,” said Hecerilar.

He rose and signaled the others to follow suit. One of the mer led a white stallion forward and the cloaked figure mounted. As he adjusted his weight in the saddle the hood fell from his head revealing the features of Aran Direnni.

Hecerilar climbed into the saddle. “Back to Jehanna, my lord?”

“South,” growled Aran, “and quickly.”

“Yes, my lord.” Hecerilar held his tongue. Since leaving Glenumbria he had noticed a change in the Castellan. Whereas before the Direnni patriarch had barely acknowledged his presence, in their journey across the Wrothgarians he had been downright chatty. Whatever the Witchmen had said to him inside that fortress had produced a cloud that it was not Hecerilar’s place to try and remove. He would be there to provide his sword or his counsel if the Castellan required. Otherwise he would perform his duties in silence.

They retraced their path down the mountain. The falling snow had erased the evidence of their ascent, so it seemed as if they marked the trail for the first time. Hecerilar’s hand sought out his pouch, and the heavy bronze amulet within. Running his fingers along the raised surface was a habit recently acquired and still too new to question. As an Altmer, he could feel the pulse of magic within the bronze, and he recognized that the raised symbols on the surface held some significance. But neither his skill nor learning was such that he could define its purpose. If he felt any regret for lifting it from the Breton’s mangled corpse he had not found reason to address it.

“You were sharpening your blade when I approached,” said the Castellan, “did you have trouble in the tavern?”

“No, my lord,” said Hecerilar. He closed his hand around the amulet. For a brief instant he calculated his options; he could retain his treasure, or he could seek the Castellan’s favor. The decision was not an easy one.

“Two Bretons fought a duel in the tavern,” he said, “I lent my sword to the vanquished. When I went to retrieve it,” he pulled the amulet from his pouch and held it up by the chain, it rocked like a pendulum with each step of his horse, “I found this on the body.”

Aran held out his hand. Hecerilar hesitated before presenting the bronze to his master. He prayed that the Castellan didn’t notice. Aran held the amulet up to the light, rubbing his fingers along the raised symbols. His eyebrows lifted and a smile spread across his face.

“Where did you find this?” he asked.

“On the body of a dead Breton in the tavern, my lord, I could feel the magicka pulsing through it, and I presume those symbols are lettering of some kind.”

“The man who wore this is dead, you say?”

“Yes, my lord, killed by the mace of a very large Nord.”

“A Nord?” said Aran, “I thought you said it was two Bretons dueling.”

“It was, my lord, the Nord was seconded to the other Breton.”

Aran regarded Hecerilar with a bemused expression. For a moment the only sound was the crunch of hooves into new snow. Aran turned his eyes back to the amulet.

“This first Breton,” he said, “the one who wore this amulet, did he have a second?”

“No, my lord, when we arrived at the tavern he was drinking with a young Reachman. But, alas, that lad is dead now.”

“This sounds like some duel,” said Aran.

“That it was, my lord.”

“Take me to this tavern.”

“Yes, my lord.”

They rode in silence for a time, winding down the trail from the mountain. Aran continued to study the amulet. The sun shone bright in the eastern sky and reflected off the snow all around them. Last night’s storm had drifted north to fall on the Sea of Ghosts, and as the dazzling white trail gradually faded into mud curiosity got the best of Hecerilar.

“Can you determine what the charm does, my lord?” he asked.

He knew that he had overstepped, and the look that the Castellan gave him confirmed it. He was about to apologize when the Castellan spoke.

“It has a fortify luck enchantment,” he said, “very powerful if I’m not mistaken, curious that this Breton was slain while wearing it.”

Hecerilar could have left it at that, but he couldn’t help himself. “And those symbols, my lord, are they letters?”

“Daedric letters,” said Aran.

Hecerilar relaxed, downright chatty, he thought to himself. He nodded to the Castellan but he needn’t have bothered. Though his eyes were on Hecerilar, his gaze was someplace else.

“They spell out the name of Clavicus Vile,” he said.





3rd First Seed, 2E 854
Castle Dungeon, Jehanna, High Rock
Morning


Behind cold, damp iron bars Valdemar chafed in sack cloth clothing.

“Ho guard,” he called out to the sullen Reachman who passed in front of his cell.

The guard turned. He had sagging jowls, a lazy bottom lip, and both of his filmy eyes drooped. His hand caressed the handle of a truncheon that he carried in a loop on his belt.

“What do you want?” asked the guard.

“My friend and I,” said Valdemar, “what are we charged with?”

“Take me for a magistrate, do you? How the ‘blivion should I know? I just watch the prisoners.”

“Then we’d like to speak to the magistrate.”

“Oh sure,” said the guard, “I’ll just go fetch him for you, wait here.”

The guard chuckled at what he perceived was a good joke and disappeared down the corridor. Valdemar waited until he heard the heavy door close and lock.

“Alain,” he called loud enough to be heard in Northpoint, “are you awake?”

There was no answer from the cell across from him. Valdemar pressed and pulled against the iron until bits of rust stained his palms, yet still the bars remained firm. The candles in the hall cast scant illumination to the cells. Beyond the iron bars of the cell across from him was a space as dark as a cloudless night. And in that space he knew that his friend rested with heavy heart.

“Alain!”

“I hear you,” a hoarse voice answered from the darkness.

“Well, thank Tsun for that. I was starting to think that you hanged yourself with these prison issues, of course, that would alleviate the smell.”

No answer came from the shrouded depths of Alain’s cell. Keep him talking, Valdemar thought to himself.

“When do you think they’ll let us out of here?”

There was no answer from the darkness. Somewhere inside the walls, a restless rat skittered.

“Alain!”

“I don’t know,” said Alain, irritation straining his voice, “maybe never.”

“What do you mean never?”

“They don’t usually let murderers go.”

“Who’s a murderer?” asked Valdemar. “Not I, or you either. That Breton dog got what he was owed.”

“I murdered that boy,” said Alain.

“No!” said Valdemar, “no. He murdered that boy, not you. He put that boy in front of the sword, not you. If you allow this to be your end, then he will have murdered two people in that tavern, not one.”

“I know that,” said Alain, “I’ve been telling myself that very thing all night. But it was my sword, Valdemar, my hand. It was my eyes that watched the light leave his, and it is my soul that has to carry this weight.”

“Then carry it with honor. That boy was a Reachman, not some wine-swilling poet! If it is meant to be, his soul will find its own way to Sovngarde. All that you can do is live on, fight well, and keep to your honor. Otherwise, what did he die for?”

There was a soft scrape in the darkness, and Alain appeared at the bars of his cell. “You are a good friend, Valdemar.”

“I know this,” said Valdemar, “I also know that I saved your life last night, so now it belongs to me. I will not have it wallowing.”

Alain almost smiled, but then the door down the hall opened and voices filled the corridor. The guard appeared and stopped in front of Alain’s cell. He fumbled for the proper key. Behind him stood the Altmer that both knights recognized from the tavern the night before.

“Your lucky day, your release has been secured,” said the guard. “The Castellan of Balfiera wishes a word with you.”

The lock clicked, and the door opened with a whine along its hinges. The guard turned and tried to simultaneously watch Valdemar while making a futile attempt to fit the right key into the lock of his cell. Alain stepped into the corridor and bowed before the Altmer.

“Lord Castellan,” he said, “you have our gratitude.”

The Altmer’s laugh nearly drowned out the sound of Valdemar’s cell door opening. The big Nord stepped into the corridor. The guard backed away wide-eyed, and his hand moved toward the handle of his truncheon.

“That mail they issue you is not very thick in the rear,” Valdemar said. His eyes bored into the guard, “if you pull that stick I will make you regret it.”

The Altmer laughed again, then turned and faced Alain.

“Save your gratitude,” he said, “I am Hecerilar, Captain of the Castellan’s bodyguard. He awaits us in the tavern. Let us retrieve your things and be off.”

He turned toward the exit, the two knights followed. The guard remained where he was, watching the three of them fade down the corridor while a steaming puddle spread around his boots.





3rd First Seed, 2E 854
The Reachman’s Tavern, Jehanna, High Rock
Morning


Scrubbing blood stains from the floor was definitely not what Sosile had signed on for. As she leaned into her brush she cursed her lot in life yet again and wondered how she had come to this place. It wasn’t her fault that men found her pretty, or that they tended to be more generous with their coin when she was around. She had not asked for an agile mind or a good memory, and she had not honed those two attributes learning her letters so that she could wipe blood from the floor of a tavern along the Reach.

She felt the eyes of the Altmer lord upon her and she shuddered. He had the eyes of a wolf eyeing the sheepfold. It was Sosile’s experience that eyes like that were always dangerous, because no matter how much they took in, they always yearned for more. She kept her eyes on the floor.

I will make Gaston pay for this, she thought; his little thing will shrivel and fall off before I share his bed again! She had been at it for hours, using steaming water heated in the hearth, and copious amounts of sload soap. Yet even now, with her arms raw with fatigue, the foam on the floor was still pink. Thetrick’s blood, she thought, all that is left of him is being scrubbed away with sload soap. The tears reformed in her eyes at the thought. She looked at the second stain near the hearth. The sneering Breton’s stain had not been touched, nor would it be as long as Sosile held the brush. If not for him Thetrick would still be alive. I hope he rots in Oblivion! I hope the skin is flayed from his bones, and I hope the daedra use his little seeds for dice!

The Altmer lord was still watching her. Sosile could feel his eyes from across the room. She risked a glance in his direction; his cup held the finest vintage in the house, yet it remained untouched. He was handsome by any measure, but the hunger in his eyes made Sosile’s skin crawl. His bodyguard was scattered throughout the tavern, bored mer feigning alertness. They would react quickly enough to any threat to their lord’s person, yet they would not presume to share his table. Sosile leaned into her scrubbing.

To keep from thinking about what she was doing, she allowed her mind to wander upstairs to her room above the hearth. Her birds would be active now, longing to spread their wings. They were not so different from the goats she once tended, the goats she wished she were tending still. The birds were no substitute, but they helped fend off the loneliness. She would see to them when her work was finished.

The door to the tavern opened and the captain of the Altmer bodyguard entered. Sosile recognized in him what she knew all guard captains possessed; hard eyes, rough hands, and a face that was cold and humorless. Sosile saw the glint of light off the soiled steel armor behind him and her heart jumped into her throat. The guard captain preceded the two knights whose handiwork, even now, Sosile addressed.

The smaller of the two, the Breton, still had the haunted look to his face that Sosile had seen the night before, when his blade had impaled Thetrick. Her heart went out to him for that. In her mind she knew that Thetrick’s death wasn’t his fault, and she could see how much he suffered for it. But that did not make her fear him less, and it did not assuage her grief.

Of the giant Nord Sosile could not say. He was standing right next to the Breton. Sosile knew that his head rested high up on those broad shoulders, but like everyone else in the tavern she could not tear her eyes from the mace that he wore at his hip. She had seen first hand what he could do with that cold, battered piece of silver. The stain near the hearth was a grisly reminder.

The two knights were brought before the Altmer lord. Sosile pulled her eyes back to her brush and the faded remnant of the stain on the floor, but she craned her ears to hear every word.

“My lord,” said the Captain of the bodyguard, “these are the two men you wished to see.”

She recognized the Breton’s voice from the night before, “Lord Castellan, thank you for your generosity. I am Sir Alain of Wayrest, and this is my comrade-at-arms Sir Valdemar of Skyrim.”

“You are every bit as Hecerilar described you, gentlemen,” came the cultured voice of the Altmer lord, “I am Aran Direnni, please join me.”

Castellan, Direnni, Sosile’s mind reeled, What is Balfiera’s interest with the Reach?

“Wench!” the voice of the guard captain cracked like a whip, “bring drinks for the table.”

Sosile stood and hurried to the bar. She used the basin to wash the pink foam from her hands while Gaston prepared a tray that he filled with wine, ale, and mead. When he gave it to her his hands shook, his face was gray, and the whites of his eyes shone like searchlamps.

Sosile took the tray and carried it to the table. As she came within earshot she heard the voice of Lord Direnni:

“. . . friend does not seem to share your gratitude, Sir Alain.”

“Sir Valdemar speaks with his weapons, my lord,” said Sir Alain, “in that respect I am sure he would be happy to express his gratitude.”

Sosile emptied the tray on the table. She kept her eyes on her work, and tried to be as invisible as she could short of a spell. When the tray was empty she backed away from the table, laid down the tray, and returned to the bloodstain on the floor.

“In that case,” said Lord Direnni, “I find myself in a position to allow him to express his gratitude, unless you are both bound by some other obligation.”

“Any obligation we had died last night on the end of Valdemar’s mace, my lord,” said Sir Alain.

“Good, then I shall do you the courtesy of being direct. Hecerilar tells me that you tracked your quarry for two years throughout the mountains of High Rock. I have recently been directed to a cave that lies to the south. A ride of two or three days I have been told. You may both show your gratitude by guiding us to this cave, and helping us deal with any difficulties that may present themselves on the road.”

A cave to the south! Sosile’s hands began to shake worse than Gaston’s.

Sir Valdemar’s rumbling baritone sounded for the first time. “You were told wrong, Lord Castellan. Alain and I chased that traitorous cur, sure enough. But we did not track him down, we were told where to find him.”

“Told by whom?”

“That we do not know,” said Sir Alain. “We were contacted through a third party, an old friend of mine from Hammerfell.”

“Is it not curious that your mysterious benefactor chooses to remain anonymous?”

“I suppose it is, my lord,” said Sir Alain, “but since his information proved good we saw no reason to press the issue.”

“I see,” said Lord Direnni, “and since you have no idea who this person is I trust you feel no burden of obligation?”

“It does not come before our obligation to you, my lord,” said Sir Alain.

“Good, then finish your drinks and meet us outside the main gate,” said Lord Direnni.

Sosile heard the sound of coins bouncing off the oak table and the scrape of boots trailing out the door. Then the tavern was quiet except for the sound of her gentle brushing.

“They are gone now,” said Sir Alain, his voice so close that Sosile jumped from the sound. “You can stop pretending not to listen.”

Sosile turned, he was standing over her. She saw the hilt of his sword, the same sword that had spit poor Thetrick. She dared not move.

He knelt beside her. “Peace, girl,” he said, “we aren’t going to hurt you. And your curiosity is a secret we shall gladly keep if you will but answer a few questions.”

Sosile saw kindness in his eyes. “What do you wish to know, my lord?”

“I recognize you from last night,” he said. “The boy who I . . . the boy who was killed, did you know him?”

She nodded.

“Who was he?”

“His name was Thetrick, my lord,” she said. “He was no one important, just a simple boy from Jehanna who should not have died last night.”

“On that we agree. Tell me more about him.”

“He was kind, and he was sweet. He wanted to be a knight.” She felt the tears in her eyes and did nothing to stop them. “He came in last night to say goodbye. Today he was supposed to venture south to join the army of his hero, General Talos.”

Sir Alain turned and looked at Sir Valdemar.

“Bloody Oblivion!” said the giant Nord.

“You said we should honor his memory,” said Sir Alain.

“No,” said Sir Valdemar, “I said you should keep to your honor. How would the dead at Sancre Tor feel were you to continue down this path?”

“The dead feel nothing,” said Alain, “but I do. Our friends died in battle, and we honored their memory last night. But this Thetrick was innocent, and his memory begs to be honored as well.”

The two men stared at each other, further discussion went unspoken. Sosile’s knees began to ache from such long contact with the stone floor. Sir Alain broke the silence.

“General Talos is half Nord.”

A smile formed on Sir Valdemar’s lips, “and half Breton. Damn.”

“South then?” asked Sir Alain.

“Aye,” said Sir Valdemar, he held out a hand and helped Sir Alain back to his feet. “After we finish holding little lord Castellan’s hand.”

Sir Alain turned back to Sosile. He reached into his purse and produced a small stack of gold coins. He pressed them into her palm.

“For your trouble,” he said, “and your toil.”

Sosile knelt on the floor for a long time after the two knights left the tavern. Her skirt was wet with pink foam, and the gold coins rested light in her hand. She closed her fist around the coins and got to her feet. She walked past the bar and Gaston and climbed the stairs to her room.

Inside she was greeted by the insistent squawk of doves and ravens in a light iron cage. She ignored the birds and went to her desk under the frosted window. She tore a thin strip of parchment from a roll and scratched a hasty message with her quill. Then she reached into the cage and scooped her swiftest raven, who perched on her shoulder with a triumphant squawk towards his fellows. She laid the strip flat on the desk and checked her message:

Clan Direnni seeks the King of Worms. They have secured the services of the two knights toward this end. Please advise.

Satisfied, she rolled the message and attached it to the leg of her raven. Then she opened the frosted window and tossed the raven into a cold wind heading south.

You can still give "the Breton" a name in the story. Just because history did not record it, does not mean he never had one,or that your readers cannot learn it. For example, I do not believe Aran, Varla, and Lattia are anywhere in the history books, but you still gave them names. Same for Arnand, he only appears in the history books as "a High Rock nightblade". You seem to have an aversion to giving characters a name. I know I hate coming up with them myself, as I am so anal about it being just right, but the truth is that it makes the character become much more realistic.

Very neat history behind At-Stuhn. Knowing the story behind an area always adds more depth to the setting. However, it all comes across as telling, rather than showing. I suggest trying to make it more plain that Hecerilar was ruminating about this history. That would make it flow more naturally from the story.

OTOH, I loved how you used Hecerilar to link the previous segment with the new one. That was a very elegant way to maintain a steady flow through the scenes.

So the mysterious Breton had a fortify luck enchantment going for him. I was wondering about that during the fight, with the way you described him always being able to slither his way out of danger. That it is an artifact of Clavicus Vile is intriguing, considering how Interregnum started.

How the ‘blivion should I know.
This is a nice lore-friendly phrase. But perhaps it should end with a question mark?

Sosile was wonderful. Her feelings of frustration at being reduced to scrubbing floors in a tavern ring so true. Likewise her impression of Aran's ruthless ambition. Finally her birds which at first seem to be just pets. All add up to make her a rich, breathing character. I was not surprised to learn that she is a spy, given all the things you had shown us about her. Nicely done.

Also, excellent use of Thetrick's death to lead Alain and Valdemar to Talos's army. As I just said the last time, I have been wondered how they of all people would end up as Blades. Now I see! Brilliant!

I truly love what you have done with Alain and Valdemar (and Casnar, and eventually, I hope, Rielus).

This rings very real considering what I know of various warrior-cultures, including Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Native American, Bedouin, Norse, etc. Having an Altmer express distaste at the dishonorable man who held his sword and caused the death of an innocent bystander is even more powerful.

The exchange between Alain and Valdemar in the prison is outstanding. I really enjoyed getting to know these two characters. So far they have remained true to their personalities in the Sancre Tor quest of the MQ line in Oblivion.

One nit: I believe you meant whose.

You have introduced yet another intriguing character in Sosile. Her part makes me want to know more about her. And the exchange between Alain and Valdemar when they learn that Thetrick intended to join Talos' army, the general who slaughtered hundreds (thousands?) of their own comrades at Sancre Tor, and when they realize that Talos himself is half Nord and half Breton is the stuff of which legends are made.

"a steaming puddle spread around his boots." It's always good to see a guard pee himself.

Oooh, the king of worms? An amulet from Clavicus Vile? Sounds exciting.

I like the character of Solise, there is a lot to be discovered. will she be playing a major part in this story?

I take back my comment about giving the young man a name previously, you used it's revelation in this part to great effect in demonstrating the affect it had on Alain. As for the Breton, if it expressly says he had no name I can see why you didn't give him one.

The way you show Alain was good, he has the guilt but also the knowledge that it wasn't really his fault, though he has trouble believing it. Certainly his joining Talos now makes rather more sense and is a logical progression.

And as ever the twist at the end... perhaps she won't be the throw away character I expected, and another subplot is tied in. The amulet sort of joins another too, I'm amazed you can keep track of it all with the story's 'simple outline'.

Very nice Destri. Loved Alain's feeling of guilt and Valdemar's assessment. "I saved your butt, so it's mine. Now, stop whining."

About Zerina; she only exists in my imagination. I kinda misplaced my MW game

Wonderful again.

So, with the discovery that the amulet possesses a strong luck enchantment, I see now why that pesky Breton was such a challenge for Alain.

This is beautiful.

What a magnificently crafted entrance!

I recall the brilliance of you incorporating carrier birds into this the first time. No less brilliant this time.

Wow!

Sosile is still scrubbing floors, she is such an interesting character for having such a bit part in the story - does her sending that raven with the message mean you are going to expand her role? If so...YEAH !!!!! Awesome write !!!! (as usual, lol)

haute – I think the consideration of how honor not only affects the user of a weapon, but the weapon itself is in keeping with the Altmer sense of superiority. I am so glad that Alain and Valdemar’s personalities ring true to you. I think you will like the chapter that follows this next one.

Thank you for exposing yet another nit. It’s all fixed now.

hazmick –

Well, we can’t let Buffy have all the fun!

The King of Worms is about to become a prominent fixture in this story, and Claivicus Vile’s amulet has an important part to play.

Olen – I am so glad that you pointed that out! My intention was to use the boy’s name to make him more real to Alain, which in turn drives him to an action that he would never have considered otherwise.

Remko – Like this response, you encompass Valdemar’s feelings in ten words!

Acadian – As ever your words are a great source of encouragement. Thank you for the PM, and for the impeccable timing with which it was sent.

mALX – Actually Sosile stopped scrubbing floors to send off her bird. I don’t imagine that she will be going back to it anytime soon. I have missed your ‘Awesome writes’ so much you have no idea! Welcome back (again)!

Everyone – It seems Sosile stole the show in this last chapter. Fear not, her role in these events, though small, is just beginning.

I also wish to say a very special thank you to SubRosa. Her gentle prodding (now I know how cattle feel ) and her well-worded arguments have resulted in my re-visiting the decision to name the Breton in the last chapter. Unfortunately, ‘Rosa, I am as anal as you are when it comes to finding the perfect name (or word). Mark Twain once said that the difference between the ‘right word’ and ‘almost the right word’ is the difference between Lightning . . . and the lightning bug! It may take me a while to get there, but it will eventually be done. Thank you again.





4th First Seed, 2E 854
The Pelladil, within sight of Artaeum
Dawn


Arnand stood at the rail and looked out on a sea that was as calm as glass. Beneath the smooth surface he could see the rolling undulations of sea life that moved like muscles under skin. The eastern sun was a hazy golden orb half cut by the horizon, and the air around him was damp with the mists of dawn. To the south he saw a tiny boat push away from the coast; its oars dimpled the still water and propelled it ever closer. Now is the time, he thought to himself, I have taken advantage of their hospitality long enough. Here is where we part ways.

“That Argonian of yours is a wonder,” said Captain Valion. He was standing so close that Arnand was irritated with himself for not hearing his approach. “Fifteen days from Stros M’Kai to Artaeum and here I stand, looking at that elusive shore. I doubt if the trip could have gone any better.”

“’Keep knows what he is doing,” said Arnand. “Although I don’t think he would take kindly to being called ‘my Argonian’.”

“I meant no offense,” said Valion, “I was only saying that the two of you have provided good fortune to this voyage, I will be sorry to see you go.”

“’Keep’s life is his own. You have seen the value he brings as a navigator. If you offer him a position with your crew I’m sure you will find him agreeable. As for me, I am not going, not to Artaeum anyway.”

“You’re not going?” asked the clear, musical voice of Lattia Direnni.

Arnand turned, cursing himself again for his inattention. Lady Direnni was emerging from below deck with Irinde in tow. Her golden skin shone like sunlight in the new dawn, and the butterflies that resided in Arnand’s stomach were quickly transformed into cliff racers. It must be now, he thought, before the boat arrives.

“May I have a word in private, Lady Direnni?” he asked.

She nodded. Irinde took her mistress’ lead and wrapped her arm around Captain Valion’s. She steered him towards the stern, leaving the rail to Arnand.

Arnand struggled. This is harder looking into her face. Where do I begin? How much do I tell her? Honor binds her to the Order; if I steal from them then I am stealing from her. By the Eight, why is this so hard?

“Is this when you tell me your true purpose in coming to Artaeum?” She asked.

Arnand’s reverie exploded like a soap bubble. “You knew?”

“I suspected,” said Lattia, “you don’t act like a mage, and you certainly don’t carry yourself like one.”

“How do mages carry themselves?”

“Deliberately,” said Lattia, “as befits those who have spent a lifetime in study. You are too much a man of action, Arnand Desele. If I had to venture a guess I’d say that you were closer to a nightblade or an assassin than a true mage.”

“You were not concerned by the thought of bringing an assassin into the midst of your Order?”

“Are you an assassin?”

“No,” said Arnand, “I’m not.”

“Then I needn’t be concerned.” Lattia leaned against the railing. The small boat in the distance left a trail of its brief journey, like a finger drawn across a still pond. She turned to Arnand.

“You are not an evil man,” she said, “I have known evil men. Still it begs the question, why go to Artaeum? As much as you risked getting here there must be something on the island that you want.”

“There is,” said Arnand.

“Why?”

Why? Not what. Arnand smiled. “You don’t want to know what?”

“I suspect the why is more important,” said Lattia.

How much do I reveal? She is a Direnni Elf and a Psijic initiate, how much can I trust her? “It is for my wife,” he heard himself say. Strange, that is the first I have thought of Elissa since leaving Stros M’Kai.

“You have a wife?”

He must have imagined the dark cloud that shadowed her face when she said it, because when he looked to the sky it was as still and hazy as he remembered. When he turned back to her the shadow was gone, but her eyes still held the question.

“I did,” he said, “I do. She was corrupted by a vampire, and is now cursed to walk undead through the night. In order to find a cure, I met with a sorcerer willing to lend his aid. But to do so he requires a service of me.”

“A service that brings you to Artaeum,” she said.

“Yes, and I will speak no more of it. I have burdened you with too much as it is. That is why I’ll be leaving the ship. I will find my own way to the island.”

She tried to speak, but he stopped her with an upraised hand.

“Please,” he said, “I am loathe to ask, Lady Direnni, considering how much kindness you have already shown me. But I do ask you not to reveal my presence or my intent.”

She reached out and covered his hand with her own. His hand closed around hers before he could stop himself. Her hand was soft and warm, yet it clung to his with a curious strength that quieted the cliff racers in his stomach. An energy that was both soothing and terrifying flooded through him. Their eyes met, and she smiled.

“Call me Lattia,” she said, “and I shall call you Arnand. I do not know your intent, so I have nothing to reveal. As for your presence,” she paused and turned toward the approaching boat, “I too know what it is to enter into an unholy alliance for the sake of another. Your secret is safe with me.”

Arnand’s gratitude was interrupted by the arrival of the small boat which heaved to and bumped gently against the hull of the Pelladil. Lattia bid her farewells to Irinde and the crew. Lorundil and Sinyail appeared to help lower her over the side. As she settled into the boat, she cast her eyes back to the ship. All those she had come to know through her voyage stood at the rail to watch the boat depart.

All save one.





4th First Seed, 2E 854
The Isle of Artaeum, Summerset
Mid-Day


The boatman was dressed in the grey cloak and hood of the Psijic order. He kept his back to Lattia and bent to the task of rowing. For the entire time they traversed the placid water he never uttered a word. The only sound was the gentle play of his oars. As the boat drew closer to shore, Lattia could see more greycloaks waiting on the beach. This is really happening, she thought. She felt an intoxicating mix of exhilaration and fear, as if she had climbed to the top of a mountain, and from her vantage point on the summit she could see a higher peak in the distance.

There were three greycloaks on the beach. They waited in eerie silence among the half-hearted smoke and embers of long-spent torches stuck in the sand. The tide was so gentle that it barely disturbed the azure water with its rise and fall. The boatman jumped into the surf, and with his cloak wet from the waist down he dragged the boat to the shore.

The boatman offered a hand covered in green scales to help Lattia from the boat. Recognition flooded through her as she was taken back to that secret cellar under The Draggin’s Tale. Her eyes searched past the hood for a glimpse of the boatman’s face, and she wondered if this was one of the hatchlings that Earns-His-Keep had brought with him on his last visit to the island.

One of the greycloaks came forward to greet her. Slight of build and small in stature, the figure’s head was barely even with Lattia’s stomach. Slim golden hands pulled the grey hood back from the kind face and welcoming smile of an elderly female Bosmer.

“Good day, initiate,” she said, “Welcome to Artaeum. I am the Chief Proctor for the Order. You may call me Gelwaen.”

Lattia bowed a greeting, “thank you, Chief Proctor. I am Lattia Direnni.”

“Gelwaen,” said the Bosmer, “we all know who you are, initiate. Your reputation precedes you. Follow me, the Loremaster wishes to speak with you.”

Why would the Loremaster wish to see me? Lattia thought.

Gelwaen turned from the shore; Lattia fell into step behind her. They crested a rise and the ocean mists and white sands surrendered to a rolling green meadow under a sparkling cloudless sky. A path that seemed to be part of the meadow led into the distance. Lattia followed Gelwaen onto the path. Everywhere she looked there seemed to be some new gift for her eyes. To her left a shaded wood of oassom trees with their long trunks and high branches dropped ripe fruit to the shimmering grass. To her right a carpet of proscato flowers, pale purple in the mid-day sun, stretched and fell towards the deeper blue of the sea. As they walked the trees and flowers fell behind them and were replaced by moss-covered brown rock, and the crystal waters of a still and silent lagoon where a group of greycloaks held quiet council. By the time they had gained the base of Ceporah Tower the only word Lattia had left to describe it was ‘eloquent.’ She stopped and bent at the waist to catch her breath.

“I never dreamed,” she managed. Her breath had been taken by so many sights that she no longer trusted her mouth to speak. Tears rolled down her cheeks, but she could not recall ever being happier. “The island is so. . .”

“Yes,” said Gelwaen smiling, “and it is such a rare privilege for us to see it through new eyes. Thank you, initiate. Now come, the Loremaster waits.”

By the time they reached Iachesis’ Palace Lattia was spent, her mind afire with inspiration. The Palace melded into the landscape in such a way as to suggest it was formed when the island was shaped by Akatosh hurling himself into Mundas. Gelwaen led her through warm halls that seemed to be the arteries of some majestic creature that lent its wisdom and temperance to all within. She was used to the opulence and mystery of Direnni Tower, her life spent immersed in the history of those halls. But, as she followed the quick silent steps of the greycloaked Bosmer, Lattia felt with all her being that she had finally found her way home.

She was led into the Loremaster’s quarters, a well appointed egg-shaped room that was dominated by the towering rows of bookshelves that climbed up all around her. Tomes of varying shades and weights covered every bit of wall space from the floor into the rafters and attested to the knowledge of the room’s single occupant.

He was an Altmer whose hair was whiter than the snow on the Jerall Mountains. Each furrow and line in his face spoke to Lattia of experience earned, and wisdom won. He was seated at his desk and he regarded her through soothing brown eyes that she instinctively knew had seen the end of the First Era.

“Loremaster Celarus,” said Gelwaen. Lattia had forgotten she was in the room. “May I present our newest initiate, Lattia Direnni.”

“Thank you, Chief Proctor,” said Celarus, “would you please prepare temporary quarters for this initiate?”

“Yes master,” said Gelwaen. She bowed to the Loremaster, nodded once to Lattia, and quietly left the room.

“Would you like to sit down, Lady Direnni?” asked Celarus, “I know the walk from the beach can be taxing to those unprepared.”

Temporary quarters? Lattia took the offered seat. “Thank you, Loremaster. And thank you for your kind invitation.”

“I should thank your brother for accepting on your behalf. We are very happy to have you here.”

So that’s it, Lattia thought bitterly, it always comes back to my family. “I imagine that it is unusual for an initiate to be greeted by the Chief Proctor, or to have a private meeting with the Loremaster.”

“Unusual yes,” said Celarus, “unprecedented no. Yours is a special circumstance.”

“I suppose Clan Direnni’s reach still extends to the Isles. My brother will be happy to know that.”

“Whether it does or not is for others to say. Our interest in you has absolutely nothing to do with Clan Direnni.”

“It doesn’t?”

The warmth in the Loremaster’s eyes faded, replaced by something that caused the room to shade and grow noticeably colder.

“You opened a gate to Oblivion, and conversed with a Daedric Prince,” he said. “In so doing you unwittingly violated a pact that has been in place for nearly a thousand years. How could the Order not be interested in you?”

“I. . .I did not know.”

“No you did not, nor did you consider. You were only interested in what you could acquire from the attempt. We brought you here to give discipline to this wild natural talent of yours. And in so doing perhaps we can mend some of the damage you have already caused.” Celarus leaned back in his chair. The weight of untold years could be seen in the droop of his shoulders and the burden could be told through the pain in his eyes. “You have no idea how fragile our existence on this plane is. This fragility forms the reason that the more destructive of the daedra covet this world. Whether or not you subscribe to the Eight Divines, the Chim-el Adabal is a powerful artifact whose sole purpose is to shield us from the hordes of Oblivion. With it lost our security lay in a pact brokered many years ago on this very island. Your actions have broken this pact, and I fear that all may suffer as a consequence.”

Lattia could not find the words. In her mind she had made a tentative peace with the price that her communion with Clavicus Vile had cost her. While it did concern her, she was content with the fact that the price was hers alone to pay. It never occurred to her that it might have to be shared with this entire plane of existence. She suddenly knew exactly how small she really was.

“It is customary for an initiate to be tested before being accepted fully into the Order,” continued Celarus. “In addition to testing your abilities you will also apply them to the task of gleaning knowledge that can aid us in finding some new way to shield ourselves from the daedra. I trust you know the significance of tomorrow’s date?”

“I do, Master,” said Lattia, “the Fifth of First Seed is the summoning day for Hermaeus Mora.”

“Indeed,” said Celarus, “you will be shown to temporary quarters where I suggest you get some rest. Tomorrow you shall be tested at a place that we call the Dreaming Cavern.”

No! Don't do it Lattia!!!! ARGH !!!!!

Wow. The opening paragraph was beautiful, as were all of your other descriptions. The dialogue of the characters was amazing, the characters seem so real and I can see that you put a lot of effort into your story. I'm glad to the the king of worms will be back, he's such an intriguing character. I am also glad the everybody's favourite daedric prince will be making an appearance, Hermaeus Mora is great. I can't wait to see what Lattia has to do next.

Again I'm swept up in the wonderful place that is Summerset Isle, at least in your fiction. Beautiful!

This seems a little awkward. As you have helped me in the past with similar sentences, forgive me for trying to return the favor. Maybe rewording like this (CAUTION: rough draft quality!): The Palace melded into the landscape in such a way as to suggest it was formed when the island was shaped by Akatosh's plunge into Mundus.

This word kind of jars me - don't you mean merged or perhaps immersed?.

Overall a wonderful chapter. I remember being spellbound when I first read it, from the beginning and Arnand's POV, his interaction with Lattia (is that infatuation I detect?), to her POV and her arrival on the island. I loved it the first time and I still do!

Each of your stories strikes me differently in unpredictable manners, as you well know. I am not familiar with the port of departure, sea they sail or the destination. I am, of course familiar with Arnand and Lattia.

What struck me here was simply the jaw dropping quality of your writing and the way you paint with words. This ripples throughout your writing of course, but what really stood out for me in this was, well, everything about the portion at sea. The sea, the ship, the interaction between the characters. Quite magical to read in fact.

Despite playing Daggerfall and Morrowind for years, I lack the patience and discipline needed to work through most lore and had difficulty in getting into your original thread on that other forum (my shortcoming not yours.) At last the sun shone through the murk of my tiny brain. Vague memories, and the knowledgeable responses from your fans brought back snatches of scenes in dungeons and the words of tomes thought long forgotten. Having been away from fan-fic for a while, today I read the first post in this thread. I registered just to let you know you have another fan.