Finally getting around to reading again.

That was a nice, sweet scene between Arnand and Lattia. Especially good was the very last line.

the butterflies that resided in Arnand’s stomach were quickly transformed into cliff racers.
This was a skillful turn of phrase.

In so doing you unwittingly violated a pact that has been in place for nearly a thousand years.
I was so hoping Lattia might reply with "Well maybe you should have clued the rest of the world in about that boatmaster."

So this is the what you alluding to before when you mentioned why the Daedra never invaded Nirn while the Amulet of Kings was lost. I was half-expecting you to go with the theory that the towers (White Gold Tower, Adamantine Tower, etc...) were what kept them out. From the Nu-hatta Intercept. The deal that Sotha Sil brokered always reminds me the Munich Treaty, and seems even less likely to be as effective as that was, since the Daedra have less reason to honor it than Hitler did Munich. But that is just an entirely personal opinion.


nits:
“Your have a wife?”
I think the King of Worms slipped in an extra "r" there.


her life spent emerged in the history of those halls.
This sounds a bit odd, did you mean merged by chance?

Another excellent part. This piece is very slick and well put together. You have plenty of hooks laid too, how has Arnand gotten ashore and how will he avoid notice. What are the details of the treaty which is broken and how did she unwittingly manage it. And what's about to happen with old Herma (who is by far my favourite of the daedra).


Another of those great little observations which sit so well with real life they they lend the story and characters a greater reality.


Great metaphor.

Nit:
For the entire time they traversed the placid water he never made a sound. - never said a word might be better, not making a sound suggests he wasn't rowing or had muffled oars (not that they're that quiet) or something.

mALX – Unfortunately for Lattia, she simply cannot say no. Prepare to cue the WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT!!!!!!!!!!! The first part of this next chapter is for you.

hazmick – After reading of Haa-Rei’s brief sojourn through Apocrypha, I think it will be fun to compare notes to see how much of it we see the same, and how much of it we see differently.

haute – That is infatuation that you detect in Lattia and Arnand. Unfortunately you will have to wait to see if it grows into something else. The good news is that I think you will like this chapter. It answers one of your burning questions.

I was thinking of both immersed and submerged when I wrote that sentence, hence ‘emerged’ . . . ARGH!! Thank you for pointing it out.

And please sing out anytime you see something of mine that needs to be re-written. Your rewording of that passage is better than what I wrote. I have changed it to your version but I have tweaked it to maintain the fact that Akatosh threw himself into Mundas. ‘Plunged’ sounds to me like something that was done to him, not something he did himself. Thanks again.

Acadian – You have no idea how gratifying it is that you pointed out that portion of the story. I wanted that sequence when they are in sight of the island of magic to have an almost dreamlike quality. I took great pains to evoke the peaceful nature of their surroundings and the growing fondness that Lattia and Arnand feel for each other. It is all a prelude to the storms yet to come.

bobg – Welcome to Chorrol. Wow! Just, wow. I don’t know what to say. I’m speechless (something for which you have just earned the undying admiration of all my family and friends!). ‘Thank you’ seems inadequate to express my gratitude. The fact that you registered just to say how much you are enjoying this story is like giving me a miniature sun that will warm me through those cold nights of self-doubt. I can’t think of a better endorsement (lacking two commas and several zeroes) that any writer could receive. Again, thank you.

Oh, PLEASEPLEASEPLEASE say that this means that we will see Angel over here soon!

SubRosa – You have done it again!! As the story continues you will see aspects of Michael Kirkbride’s interpretations postulated within the text. For now let me just say that all is not as it appears. I agree that Sotha Sil’s ‘pact’ bears less weight than the parchment needed to print it. Comparing it to Munich is appropriate. I would say that, given that the daedra measure time differently than mortals, it is not unreasonable to assume that such a pact could be sustained for a thousand years or more. Yes, I know that reasoning appears weak. Would Mehrunes Dagon or Molag Bal really feel bound to respect the terms of a truce brokered by a Chimer sorcerer in a cave on Artaeum? But there is also the fact that, when Sotha Sil brokered this ‘truce’ there was still an Emperor on the throne wearing the Amulet of Kings.

This brings me to my only problem with the theories put forth by the Nu-Mantia intercept: It makes Akatosh look like either an idiot or an a-hole to give Alessia the Amulet of Kings knowing that the towers are already protecting Nirn. Of course, writing that brings to mind that our only knowledge of those events comes from books written by mortals after the fact, which makes them subject for debate and interpretation.

Okay, now I have a headache!

Thank you for pointing out the nits. I am glad to see that you remain vigilant; we don’t want the King of Worms ‘slipping’ anything anywhere!

Olen – As always, your nit is well observed. I think it was the noiseless variety of oar made only from the oassom tree that he was using. I have gone back and fixed his silence.

As for the rest: Patience, my friend. All of your questions will be answered in the course of time. For now we must shift our gaze a thousand and more leagues north by northeast . . .





4th First Seed, 2E 854
Main Gate, Imperial City
Dusk


The spearman stood his post on the side of the Main Gate and longed for the shift change. He had been there since dawn, when the new light made the long shadows dance away from him, and the sun hitting the Main Gate behind him provided ample shade. By mid-day the high sun cast short shadows that made shade a memory to be longed for. He had nearly cooked in his armor then, but as the sun fell towards the west and the day dragged on the shadows lengthened both in front and behind him, cooling him like a spit boar over burned out embers.

During his watch, the affairs of the city played out around him. Artisans, workers, and those who had chosen toil over the harsh conditions of the dungeons set to the task of rebuilding the portions of the city that an older generation had destroyed. The sounds of hammers, picks, strained rope, and straining horses assaulted the spearman’s ears. Below him every manner of craft, from simple rafts and fishing boats to gondolas and ornate pleasure barges filled the canals and the clear blue water of Lake Rumare. They weaved amongst the bridges that connected the Imperial City to Cyrodiil’s coast.

By the time the sun disappeared over the tree tops of the Great Forest the traffic at the Main Gate was limited to those returning to the city after a long day of fishing, hunting, or farming. Some carried bundles of slaughterfish and mudcrab, their muscles straining under the weight. Others carried naught but bait and tackle, with envious looks on their faces. For every wagon and bow-legged horse loaded down with pelts and bloody meat, or fresh vegetables, flowers and fruits there were wagons empty, and horses unburdened. Very few looked satisfied with the day’s catch. But with the first cold winds of nightfall coming in from the north and the plaintive howls of wolves to the east, they all found reason to make their way behind the safety of the Main Gate.

The spearman stole a glance to his left. It was met by the blue eyes of another dressed in identical armor. The other guard nodded once, and the spearman suppressed a smile. He didn’t know the name of the other guard, but the two of them had stood their watch well. With the shadows lengthening in the twilight, that made them as close as brothers.

A small group of figures left the bridge and began to climb the easy rise toward the Main Gate. They looked as if they had formed from the deepening shadows. They were four in number, wearing flowing black robes that dragged along the ground in their wake. Their faces were invisible behind the shadows of their hoods, and they glided with soundless grace over the cobblestones. The spearman heard the scrape of a heavy boot against stone to his left, and knew that the other guard had seen them. He brought his own spear to rest in both hands.

“We are here to relieve you.”

The booming voice came from behind and nearly caused the spearman to jump from his skin. He turned and saw the fresh shift waiting.

“It’s about time,” said the guard to his left, but he kept his eyes on the cloaked figures approaching.

“Trouble?” asked one of the new guards.

“We’ll soon know,” said the spearman. He stepped forward and lowered his weapon. The lead shadow stopped a few scant feet from the point, and the three behind him fanned into what looked to the spearman like a battle formation.

“State your business,” said the spearman.

The lead figure bowed his head. “We seek an audience with the Emperor.”

The clipped, measured tone of the voice bespoke of someone highly educated and comfortable with the weight of authority. But something about the way he rolled the ‘S’ sound caused the hairs on the back of the spearman’s neck to stand up.

“Who seeks an audience?” asked the spearman.

The figure lowered his hood. Behind him the spearman heard the other guards rush forward. He felt his own sudden intake of breath. A thousand thoughts cancelled each other out in his mind. He felt as one charmed, hypnotized, rooted to the spot, and in that moment he knew why the mouse doesn’t run from the snake. The figure before him spoke, and the spearman heard clipped, measured tones coming from behind golden scales.

“I am the Chevalier Renald,” the figure said.





4th First Seed 2E 854
Reman Plaza, Imperial City
Evening


Captain Alorius opened the door and showed Zurin Arctus inside. He led the battlemage across the room. General Talos lounged on a couch near the stairs leading to the second floor. A spearman stood at attention opposite the couch. The room was well-lit, and as Arctus reached the couch he noted the distinct lack of smoke. General Talos motioned him into a chair.

“Ysmir?” asked Acrtus.

“Sent to Vvardenfell,” said General Talos, “he is scouting potential routes for our invasion.”

Arctus took the offered seat; he looked at the General and raised an eyebrow.

“Of course not,” said Talos, “but his absence improves the room’s décor, and I grow weary of burning incense.” He nodded to Captain Alorius, who turned to the spearman.

“Spearman,” said Alorius, “tell the General what you told me.”

“Yes sir,” said the spearman, “I spent the day on duty at the Main Gate, sir. At dusk, with the shift change, a group of Tsaesci stopped at the Gate and requested an audience with the Emperor.”

“Tsaesci,” said Arctus, “you are sure?”

“Yes sir,” said the spearman, “it is hard to mistake one, sir.”

“Go on,” said Talos.

“Yes sir. As the shift being relieved, it was left in our charge to escort the Tsaesci to the Palace. When we arrived the Palace Guard refused to escort the Tsaesci through the doors. A runner was sent to inform the Emperor.”

Inform the Emperor? Arctus thought to himself. Not Farenenre?

“We were told by the Palace Guard to usher the Tsaesci into the throne room,” the spearman went on, “the Emperor met with them there.”

“Just the Emperor?” asked Arctus.

“No sir. Lord Farenenre was present, as was Lady Direnni and her bodyguard.”

Direnni, thought Arctus, curious. This cannot be a coincidence.

“Were you dismissed at that point?” asked Talos.

“No sir. We were kept to protect the Emperor, I presume. Though I’m not sure why sir, given the attitude of the Palace Guard. We had disarmed the Tsaesci at the Gate. Had their intent been hostile, they would have been set upon by the whole of the Palace long before they gained the Ruby Throne.”

“So you heard their conversation?” asked Arctus.

“Yes sir. The Tsaesci Captain introduced himself and his . . . well, men isn’t the right word. He called them his ‘syffim’.”

“Of course he did,” said Arctus, “do you remember their names?”

“I do sir. The Captain called himself Renald, but he said his name was once Vershu. Those of his syffim were called Xarsien-Ves, Eesham-Sha, and Chirasch something. I’m sorry, sir, I can’t remember his second name.”

Arctus was no longer listening. Vershu, he thought, Vershu?

“What else did they discuss?” asked Talos.

“This Renald complimented the Emperor on his strength,” said the young spearman, “I heard him mention an ancient vow, something like Pale Pass, and Reman I. He spoke of a debt owed to the line of Dragon Emperors that he and his syffim had come to pay.”

Arctus’ eyes met those of General Talos. Wheels within wheels, he thought.

“You have a good memory, spearman,” said Talos. “Captain Alorius, this man looks hungry. Take him to my table and give him his fill.”

“Yes sir,” said Alorius. He motioned for the spearman to follow and led the way across the room. Arctus waited until they were out of earshot before turning back to the General.

“Vershu? Pale Pass?” asked Talos

“Unlikely,” said Arctus, “but it is possible. Tsaesci are immortal.”

“Tell that to the ones who died at Pale Pass. Why did Lady Direnni’s name affect you so?”

The man missed nothing! “A message I received yesterday from one of our operatives along the Reach. A representative of Clan Direnni left Jehanna to seek out the King of Worms. He hired the two knights as guides.”

“What two knights?” asked Talos.

“The two I suggested,” said Arctus, “to tie up that loose end from Sancre Tor.”

Talos nodded. “I suppose it was too much to ask that Clan Direnni sit out this contest. At least now we know that they are on the move, though I fail to see what they hope to gain from the necromancer.”

“I think our immediate concern should be with the Direnni getting close to the Emperor,” said Arctus, “curious that we received no warning from Farenenre.”

“Curious indeed,” said Talos. “I think you should have a talk with Lord Farennre, remind him where his loyalty lies.”

“Yes General. What of the Tsaesci, should we be worried by their arrival?”

Talos took a sip from an ornate silver goblet. “I would be very surprised if Cuhlecain didn’t put them to use immediately.”

“To assassinate you,” said Arctus. It was not a question.

Talos nodded, “it is the smart play. If they succeed he can hail them as heroes come to protect the line of Dragon Emperors from my ambitious machinations. If they fail he can condemn them as heirs of the Potentate who seek to usurp the Ruby Throne by isolating the Emperor. Either way, he loses nothing.”

“Then you should leave the city,” said Arctus, “we need to play for time to put our own plans into effect.”

“If I leave then Cuhlecain knows he has an informant in his midst. We would lose Farenenre, who is too valuable to us right now.” He took another sip from his goblet. “The Tsaesci didn’t just materialize on Nirn. Doubtless they have heard the talk of who is and is not of dragon blood. Soon they will realize that the Amulet is too big for Cuhlecain’s neck.”

“Are you willing to bet your life on that, General? Even if we double your bodyguard they may not be enough to stop these Tsaesci. I have in mind one whose sword we could add to your personal guard but still, I almost wish you hadn’t sent Ysmir away.”

“Who is this one you have in mind?” asked Talos.

“A Redguard acquaintance of mine, I used him to set the two knights to purpose.”

“You trust him?”

“I trust his word, General. He is, was, a Knight of the Moon. He left his Order rather than compromise his honor. However, he is currently in Sutch receiving treatment for an arm injured when he left Sentinel. I fear he may not arrive before these Tsaesci make their attempt.”

“You are a good friend, Arctus,” said Talos, leaning back on the couch, “and your concern is noted. But my course is set; I will not leave the city.”

“Very well,” said Arctus. He looked past General Talos at the young spearman eating at the table across the room. “What of this spearman, what motive does he have in telling us all of this?”

“The same motive that all young people have, Master Arctus, ambition. Alorius tells me that this young man is wasted on guard duty. After hearing of our activities at Fort Black Boot he has spent the last month pestering Alorius for a transfer to my staff.”

“Does he have a name, General?”

Talos turned on the couch. His voice carried across the room, “spearman!”

The spearman rose from the table as if poked by a branding iron. He stood at attention. “Yes sir.”

“What is your name, son?” asked General Talos.

The spearman kept his back straight, and his eyes forward. But he could not help the smile that formed at the corners of his mouth.

“Spearman Rielus, sir,” he said.

The first paragraph is a simply brilliant bit of description seen through the eyes of one of the ubiquitous Guard family. I wonder if his first name is “Imperial?” ETA- Ah, I see it is something else.

You weave such a wonderful, bustling picture of the day dwindling to somnolence and then- the reveal!

Things are getting even more interesting than they were, which is saying something. Woo-Hoo.

Nits:



Loses, I think.



Lose, again.

What an entrance!!!!!!!!!
WooHoo! They are not dragons, but nevertheless, Buffy and I stared at each other as chills ran up my back and down hers. A masterpiece of an effective passage!

Political intrigue. It seems Talos is a target for Tsaesci assassins - I can pick that up. Obviously lots more mystery of swirling pieces here that I shall have to wait for you to show me. No worries. I don't normally solve mysteries until I ask Mrs Acadian during the closing credits.

Nit? I guess it would be bridges that connect to, while waters separate from. Since the boats weaved among the bridges, I would stay with bridges, simply changing two words as follows: 'They weaved amongst the bridges that connected the Imperial City to Cyrodiil's coast.'

hooray! I've been waiting in the shadows for this chapter and I'm not disappointed. I love your descriptions of the Tsaesci, they are my favourite characters You're story continues to be rich and full of...awesomeness! More, please?

Your description of the Imperial City is very powerful. The line about rebuilding the dungeons of course made me snap to my memories of Oblivion's tutorial, and the ancient-looking ruins beneath the prison. Likewise with the finale of the Thieves Guild questline, where you actually get to play in the old Ayleid city beneath the human one.

However, it sounds a little different from the place we see in Oblivion as well. Canal's? Pleasure boats. This hearkens me to the Aztec capital of Tenochtitlan. I take it you are drawing on ideas from the earlier ES games, when Cyrodiil was a jungle rather than merry old England? Not a problem, it makes it feel more interesting of a city, like Venice, or the aforementioned Tenochtitlan.

And Spearman Rielus I see! About time our forth Blade reared his not yet ghostly head. Using him to describe the city was a good touch. Likewise showing the reintroduction of the Tsaesci through his eyes. Your description of Rielus being rooted to the spot by the Chevaliar's gaze brought back memories of watching Riki-Tiki-Tavi as a child, and the hypnotic glare of the evil cobra.

The machinations of Talos and Arctus were once again most intriguing. I have the distinct impression that Farennre will not be with us much longer, and that when push comes to shove, the Tsaesci will not be allying themselves with Cuhlecain. I am sure it will not take Reynald long to notice that he is not wearing the Amulet of Kings...


Nits
Either way, he looses nothing.
Ysmir might be in Morrowind, but he left an extra "o" in loses before he left.

Wheels within wheels, indeed!

Everything read fine, except for the looses/loses that trey and Sage already pointed out.

I loved the description of guard duty, especially this line: This is something that completely captures the feeling of being out in the sun in full plate for far too long!

And welcome back to Chevalier Renald and his syffim!

And a cheery to my fourth Sancre Tor Blade, Rielus!

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT!!!!!!!!!!


ARGH !!!!!! GAAAAH !!!!!!! Chevalier Renald - That scene is one of my favorite in the whole story !!!! It is like an unveiling of a masterpiece when he says his name!!!!!!!!!! I love that !!!





Sancre Tor here we come !!!!! WOO HOO !!!!!!

trey – Thank you for your wonderful comments. Your place near the hearth is always kept open, and it is a pleasure when you choose to drop by. Mea culpa on loose/lose. It is a mistake that I always seem to make, no matter how much I try to guard against it.

Acadian – What would I do without the Acadi-editor? Your observation about bridges connecting and waters separating was well-observed (as always). I have gone back and changed that passage as per your recommendation. The mysteries herein deepen in this chapter. In anticipation of the confusion that this may cause, I have included a brief note below. After all, Mrs. Acadian has to rest sometime.

hazmick – You and I share a fondness for the Tsaesci. I see them as incredibly complex figures. On the one hand, they are capable of the atrocity of hunting the dragons of Akavir to near extinction. On the other hand, they are willing to lay down their lives to fulfill a vow made to a foreign Emperor.

And your wish for more is my command.

SubRosa – I wasn’t aware that the earlier ES games portrayed Cyrodiil as a jungle. I was simply of the mind that the IC of the second era would bear some striking differences to the IC of the third era. I incorporated canals because I think any major city built on the water would inevitably contain them (though I am sure you can find many examples of cities that do not). They provide an easy way to move goods through the city without the use (or expense) of horses, oxen, and wagons.

Your mention of Riki-Tiki-Tavi brought back a lot of memories. I think I was maybe five or six years old when I first saw the animated version of the story. That mongoose became my personal hero for at least three years. I spent many hours and many tears trying to persuade my parents to buy me one, even after my mother astutely pointed out that cobras were not indigenous to Cleveland!

And I took that wayward ‘o’ and shipped it back to Ysmir.

haute – Now that all of your ghosts from Sancre Tor are assembled, what pray tell shall we do with them? I confess that the idea of an all out battle between the four knights and the four Tsaesci still plays about the corner of my imagination. Maybe I could persuade Lattia to project them nearly five hundred years into the future to properly welcome Julian into their ranks while discretely slapping Jauffre around.

mALX – I love that scene with Renald as well. I got little goosebumps when I wrote it. The initial idea was to show Rielus escorting the Tsaesci to the Palace, and all that occurred within. But after Renald’s line the rest of the scene seemed anticlimactic, better shown through narration than action. Hence the scene with Talos and Arctus, which also served to get Rielus into Talos’ employ. Thank you so much, mALX.



This chapter has given me more trouble than any other. It has gone through so many versions and re-writes that I have lost count. The one you read now is an expansion of what I posted on the other forum, and I believe it is far superior. In it we encounter things that go beyond the lore usually discussed within Oblivion. If you’re curious, this book formed the main inspiration.





???
Apocrypha, Oblivion
???


Her world was a gray fog. It was all around her and inside her. She felt herself falling within it, yet not through it. The many whispered voices that surrounded her pressed in closer. Their words were unknown to her, a language never heard on the plane that mortals occupy. Yet in her mind she understood their meaning. They regarded her as one of their own. With every whisper she felt her self being stripped away, becoming one with the Gray Maybe. She held her eyes tightly shut, and in her mind she shouted to herself so that she could be heard above the whispers.

I am Lattia Direnni. I am Lattia Direnni.

The voices grew insistent; one above the rest exploded in Lattia’s head and shattered her feeble attempt at self-control. It was a male’s voice, expressive in a way that she had never heard before. It was like an urge filled with both longing and promise that raised itself over the others to be heard.

“A new plane,” the voice was saying, “a Mundas in which we create souls that might interact with one another.”

“Why?” asked a female voice, and in that one simple word Lattia felt herself overwhelmed by the sense of compassion which sprang from its source.

Lattia heard a chorus of voices echo this sentiment, but the first speaker was not dissuaded.

“Because thanks to the Dragon time now exists, all of us have settled into our current forms. Eternity looms over us as a weight that even we cannot move. How will we pass through eternity? Will we spend it adrift in the Aurbis? Or shall we spend it in the creation of a plane that is ever-changing, ever-entertaining?”

“Change,” said a voice deep with authority and heavy with the weight of time, “is a Padomaic concern. Why bring this plan before us? Why not ask those more in tune with the will of change?”

“Because they are interested only in chaos and destruction, what I propose is a plane of order and creation. I admit that this plane would possess some of the nature of Padomay, but its light is that of Anu. Besides, isn’t the nature of time itself Padomaic?”

“Be careful, Lorkhan,” said the deep voice. “Do not question outside of your province.”

“Apologies Auri-El,” said Lorkhan, “I meant no insult.”

“How exactly will this proposed plane be constructed?” asked the compassionate voice that Lattia realized could only belong to Mara.

“I believe Magnus can answer that question better than I,” said Lorkhan.

A new voice was heard, one that echoed throughout the In Between. “First I shall form a pocket in Aetherius. Then we shall need Kyne to provide the space for this new world in the void; the rest of you will then need to lend a portion of your aspect to form the substance of this new plane.”

Another voice spoke in the Aurbis. This one was female, and seemed to be formed of wind and rain and treacherous seas. “If this new plane be a place where my winds might roam free, then I would see its construction done.”

One by one Lattia heard the voices in the mists agree to this, each motivated by its aspect and each like a lightning strike until only Auri-El’s voice had not been heard. There was a silence that reminded Lattia of long, cold days in Direnni Tower when she and Varla sat huddled near a beaded window, waiting for the peal of thunder that always followed the lightning.

“Then let it be done,” said Auri-El.





She was back amongst the shelves which rose like mountains all around her. Pages floated past her vision on a wind which could not be felt. She sat cross-legged on a floor without substance, yet a floor all the same. A large, black, leather bound tome sat heavy in her lap. Around her she felt the presence of souls, ancient, desperate, yearning souls that had lost themselves within the pages of identical tomes which filled the shelves and spread without number throughout the realm.

She closed the book with a consuming sadness. For a brief time she had stood among the ancestors who had been tricked into the creation of the world. For a time she had been made whole, given back the aspect that should have been hers save for Lorkhan’s foul treachery. Tears streamed down her face as she realized how easy it would be to lose herself in this place.

I am Lattia Direnni, she told herself, I am Lattia Direnni.

She was still telling herself that as she reached for another book.





5th First Seed 2E 854
Red Mountain, Morrowind
Evening


From ash he had come, to ash he now returned. The wanderlust was upon him again, unbidden, ungovernable. Now, as always, it kept his eyes trained ever east, to this mountain, and the Heart that lay beating within. He began to climb.

Time held no meaning for him. For those of his kind the ages of mortal existence are viewed as a simple glance to the left or to the right. Memory plagues the gods as death plagues the mortal, omnipresent, inescapable, and inevitable. In this time he called himself Ysmir, but there were other times when he wore other faces, and other names. His true name he kept hidden, for that was the aspect of him that had been lost. He gazed inward, for the heavens were always silent to his plea. Though he knew that Kynareth still wept, she would not defy the others. How long must I wade amongst the sheep? Have I not suffered enough? Mundas has taken from me far more than from any of you, was my crime so great?

They would not answer; silence greeted him as it always did. He continued to climb, dispatching the creatures that appeared through the ash with an ease that marked his true station. Above him Masser and Secunda shone down as eloquent testimony to the continued rage of those he had betrayed. The tiny points of light that kept him from climbing in darkness were a mute reminder of the followers of Magnus who had escaped into Aetherius.

The Heart would restore him. Even corrupted by the Chimer lords the Heart still beat within the mountain, so he climbed. He could not claim it now, weak as he was. The Tribunal would destroy him without much effort. To reclaim what was his he would need an army. So even if it meant fulfilling the ambitions of a half-breed Atmoran. Even if it meant taking the man’s form to give his troops the illusion that he possessed the thu’um, it was a price that he would gladly pay to visit his vengeance on those who had corrupted the Heart. For now he could only gaze upon it, but that was enough.

So he climbed.





???
Apocrypha, Oblivion
???


A light brighter than any in her experience cut through the gray mists and flooded her vision. Aetherius, she thought to herself. Familiar scenes could be seen both through her eyes and in her mind. They shifted and swirled against and into each other. Blue skies over white-capped seas, green fields leading to majestic snow-filled mountains in the distance, a torrent of ice that swirled amidst stunning sunlight caused her to shield her eyes out of reflex, even though the act did not mute the glare.

The sound was deafening. It started as a low whine at the edge of hearing, and grew with the churning violent formation of Nirn. Around her the sound grew in pitch and crescendo, a part of this new formed world yet separate from it as well. She was filled with the fear that realization brought her, the sound suddenly identifiable in its intensity.

Screams.

I am Lattia Direnni, she thought, I am Lattia Direnni.

Movement drew her attention to the left. Her eyes were met by a field of heather and lavender stirred to gentle movement by a caressing breeze. In the center of the field Lattia saw what appeared to be an old woman; tall, frail, and cloaked. The woman spoke into the breeze. Her voice told of wind and rain and treacherous seas. At her command the gentle breeze grew into a gale which swirled around her and caused the folds of her cloak to flap like banners caught in the storm.

The screams grew louder. Lattia covered her ears and endured through strained jaw and closed eyes. Nothing she did could mute the pain and terror carried by those sounds. When at last she opened her eyes the field and the woman were gone, but the screams remained. She floated in a world that was plunged into darkness. It was so absolute that only the countless number of dim lights below reassured her that she had not been consigned to the void. Those lights began to rise all around her, covering her in a warm embrace that alleviated the cold that, until then, she was not even aware that she had felt. She was visited by a profound sense of peace that quieted the screams around her. For a time she bathed in the lights, reveling in the warm penumbra that washed over her. But, all too soon, they lifted above her and rose until they reached the canopy of stygian darkness overhead. There each of the dim lights tore a hole through the shroud and disappeared into the brilliant light of Aetherius, still visible just past the darkness. The tiny holes that marked their passing remained, allowing small, shimmering points of Aetherius into the darkness of the world.

I am . . . Direnni . . . Lattia . . . Direnni.

She fell. Time was lost as she rolled and twirled through the blackened sky. An anguished scream revisited her senses only to be lost to the sound of rushing wind that pulled at her hair and made her close her eyes against the blinding tears. It took several anxious moments to realize that the scream had come from within, born of a pain that went beyond any in her experience. It felt as if the talons of some fierce and hungry beast had torn through her chest and removed a large piece of her soul.

I . . . am . . . Lat . . . tia . . .

Her eyes opened to blood-red skies. She lay naked on a barren field amongst the broken bodies of men and mer, so many that they blocked her view of the horizon. The air smelled of ash and blood and filth. In the distance she could just make out the silhouette of a Great Dragon with a long neck and mighty wings. What was left of her mind marveled at the beast's apparent size that she could see it from so far away. For some reason the fact that it was moving toward the far horizon filled her with terror. Laughter filled the space that was left by her screams and a voice resounded within her ears.

“This Heart is the heart of the world,” it said, “for one was made to satisfy the other.”

She rose to her knees sobbing, her eyes riveted to the receding Dragon until it faded from view.

I . . . am . . . I . . . was . . .

She could no longer remember.





5th First Seed, 2E 854
Akulakhan’s Chamber, Red Mountain, Morrowind
Evening


He felt her in the rain that began to fall as he gained the summit of the mountain. He raised his head and allowed himself to drink the cool, swollen droplets. She watches me still, he thought. He fought through the corrupt creatures that guarded the Citadel with the taste of the rain sweet on his tongue. Her presence permeated the maze of winding corridors within. By the time he reached the central chamber it was as if she stood there with him. Despite all he had suffered a smile graced his features, for it was not often that a god felt surprise.

“I did not expect to find you here,” said Ysmir.

The Heart still lay encased in the chest of a Dwemer construct, which rose defiantly from a sea of molten rock in the center of the chamber. Movement behind it betrayed her position. She emerged into the light cast by the lava below. Ysmir looked upon her, tall, frail, and cloaked. Even without eyes she had no trouble negotiating the thin span of bridge that separated them.

“Where else should I be?” she asked as she reached him. Her voice spoke of wind and rain and treacherous seas.

“At his side,” said Ysmir.

“Then you remain a fool,” she said.

He dropped to his knees. His arms encircled her slender waist and pulled her close. He buried his head in the folds of her cloak. For a time only his muted sobs could be heard in the chamber.

At last he looked up toward her. “Kyne . . .”

She placed an almost skeletal finger over his lips. “No. As you now call yourself Ysmir, I would have it that you call me Erinwe.”

“I do not care what you call yourself. I care that you are here. Why?”

“Why? Did you truly think that I only wept? We are one, beloved. I would see you restored to all that you were.”

He stood and wrapped her small hand in a powerful squeeze. “How? By remaining silent to my desperate pleas? By remaining by his side, doing his bidding?”

“Yes!” She placed her other hand against his cheek. “You cannot outlast one who has dominion over time itself. He will not waver, nor shall he bend. I seek to restore his covenant with those you have left for him to rule. I have even sent powerful agents to guard the dragon blood you have allied yourself with. But I exacted a price for my service.”

“What price?” asked Ysmir. He felt himself ease the grip he had on her hand. Through her hood he could see the tears that trailed down from sightless eyes. He pulled her in close, and held to her with a strength that surprised him once again. “What price?”

“Your freedom,” she whispered.

By Mara! Lattia walking among gods! I am . . . Lat . . . tia.

This is quite the rich experience to read! I say experience, because that is how I think of reading your writing. I simply relish the feeling and mystery of it.

You would be proud of me to realize that I have poked around in lore enough to recognize almost every player you featured. In fact just last week, we chose Aetherius as the name for Carandial's bay horse in BF.

APOCRYPHA!!!!! I think that your Apocrypha kicked my version's a..s..s. However, Haa-Rei's Apocrypha was only a dream-version and not the real thing. (Excuses excuses ) Good job with this chapter, you've made Gods feel like Men (and Mer) to me as a reader. More please? (Or should I say...Mora? )

Well this certainly ratchets the story up another notch! Before we were only looking at the plots and counter-plots of mortals and the occasional Daedra Lord. Now we have the plots of the gods themselves thrown into the stew. It makes me wonder what is going to bubble up from this cauldron you are are brewing!

Memory plagues the gods as death plagues the mortal, omnipresent, inescapable, and inevitable.
This really sums up the weight of immortality. Once again, I really enjoyed your depiction of Lorkhan. I have always suspected that he was Pelinal Whitestrake, given the latter's godlike abilities and psychotic hatred for elves.

And Lattia, my poor Lattia, lost in Apocrypha. It is funny, because on the surface it seems the most benign of all Daedric Realms, but in reality, it is probably the most dangerous to its visitors. Your description of the creation of Nirn was lovely (if one can call making an abattoir of gods lovely). I have always thought of someday playing a character who sees Nirn in the same way that Magnus and the others must have seen it - not as peaceful green fields and rolling oceans, but as a nightmare of mutilated divinity. It would seem perfect for an Altmer assassin.

Your effort shows- or rather, it doesn't- which is the true mark of a well-crafted story.

Everything about the first section has a “monumental” feel; it is easy to understand and empathize with Lattia’s need to remind herself of her “self” in the midst of all that power.



Wow, just- wow.



Eep!

Brilliant and beautiful images from start to finish.

One nit:



Misplaced apostrophe- there is only one “beast,” so “beast’s.”

The expanded version certainly works, and is much more powerful than what I read initially over on the other forum.

It really resonates with me in the manner of the most timeless of myths - the story of Creation. Lattia's struggle to hold on to her self in the midst of the gods is humbling.

A nit:I think the lightning scared the 'a' into squishing into a second 'e' in peal. Thunder doesn't peel like oranges, but rather peal like bells.

Back to what I liked/loved about this chapter. Again I am reminded of the images of Dagoth Ur as presented by others writing MW fiction, but I realize now that this is the Lost God, Lorkhan. The interchange between him and Kyne is both heartfelt and terrifying. Yikes!

You have done very well with this chapter - I really found myself caught up in it along with Lattia.

I get goosebumps every time I read that last chapter too, and on each re-read.

I haven't had time to read the referenced Morrowind book yet, but will get to it ASAP. Once I do I will re-read this chapter too.

Your version of Apocrypha is stunning, and I am so glad I didn't tackle it in my original !!! After reading yours mine would pale terribly !!!

I remember Lattia's day in Apocrypha from your original story, this version is so much more powerful - I love them both, but would choose this one instantly as my fave of the two - AWESOME WRITE !!!!!!

Lorkhan is Ysmir?? hmmm.....
wow Destri... I swear that if this hadn't been a fanfic, you should have had it published. It truly is among the best fantasy I have ever read.

Acadian – Aetherius! You will have to forgive me if I steal that name for my Arch-Mage’s white stallion. It’s perfect! I promise I won’t use it if I ever get around to writing about her. I am so glad you have taken to poking around in the lore. But be warned, it can become more addictive than skooma! I will be interested to see how this might inform Buffy’s story in the future.

hazmick – Don't sell your version of Apocrypha short. I like the mystery of not knowing too much about it.

As for gods, the thing I love the most about the Greek pantheon is that they are motivated by the most human of emotions. Love, pride, rage, jealousy; all have their place, especially amongst immortals. I am glad that I have been able to infuse some of that into this story.

SubRosa – I admit that it all seems a bit complicated. I see this as THE watershed event in Tamrielic history that shapes everything that follows it. Given what happens to Talos later, it seems illogical to think that the gods and the daedra wouldn’t play a part.

Like you I believe that Pelinal was a manifestation of Shor/Shezzar/Lorkhan. I think that his relationship with Morihaus bears this out. Early on in the planning of this story I fell in love with the idea that the gods use manifestations to walk amongst the mortals of Nirn. Through the lore we know that Lorkhan is doomed to walk through eternity wearing many guises. We also know that you can encounter Mara, Zenithar, and even Talos himself in Morrowind. I thought it might be fun to characterize Kynareth’s manifestation, and give her a minor roll to play.

And you have just described the world view of my de-frocked former Psijic assassin and necromancer, Amairgen.

trey –

Wow! I can think of no better compliment than this! Thank you so much!

I also thank you for helping me wrangle that wayward apostrophe. It has been fixed.

hautee – The more I think about it, the more I question my handling of Lattia’s situation. Like most Altmer, she believes that godhood is her true aspect, stolen from her when Lorkhan tricked the gods into the formation of Nirn. Given that, would she really be so quick to hold onto her ‘self’ when given the opportunity to regain that which was lost? I had hoped to convey that inner struggle through the device of her constant mantra within the chapter, but I’m not sure it worked the way that I wanted it to.

*Shut up, Destri! Stop second (and third) guessing yourself!*

Thank you for delivering the ‘a’ back to ‘peal’.

mALX – Are you kidding?! I can just see Janus and Melissande waltzing through Apocrypha. He standing eight feet tall, holding Alix the mouse, and scaring anything that moves into submission. Her muttering incantations while clutching Maxical’s soulgem to her breast. There would be thousands of lost, wayward souls scrambling over each other to give them wide berth. And, over in the corner, Hermaeus Mora curled in the fetal position repeating over and over again:

“Please, just make them leave. Please, just make them leave.”

Remko – Thank you so much. Ysmir is a manifestation of Lorkhan, I know it is a semantic difference but it is still a difference. Lorkhan’s ‘body’ was sundered and cast into the night sky to form the twin moons, Masser and Secunda (at least, that is my understanding of events). A manifestation is like an avatar. It is a representation of the original, without being the original. I imagine it would be a lot like having to experience eternity in Cyrodiil as your Oblivion avatar. It might be fun for awhile, but it would be torture after, say ten years (or a couple of thousand if you’re stuck in Morrowind with Zerina ).

Everyone – At last! This marks the final post of the ‘old’ material that many of you have read before. After this every new post will be just that, NEW!!! Thank you all for staying with me through this sometimes tedious process. I appreciate all of your support and comments more than I am able to adequately express. Thank you again.





6th First Seed, 2E 854
Unmarked Cave, Somewhere Along the Western Reach
Morning


Nolquinn could still feel the warmth of the morning sun on his face. He could feel the occasional breeze that stirred the bandages that covered him from head to toe. He could feel the pull of the stitches along his throat that kept his head from flopping backward like a lowered hood. And, as he lumbered in front of the cave, he could feel the sodden ground that the melting snow had left under his desiccated feet.

The coming back was worse than the dying, he thought to himself. Thinking was all he could do now. Someone had cut his vocal cords before the ritual, unless they had been severed by the cut that killed him. Either way it no longer mattered. All he knew for certain was that the salt they used to preserve his body still lingered on his tongue. He would have spat it out if he could, but he couldn’t. Although his soul remained his own, his will was bound to another. There are worse things, he thought. He had been a tool of the master in life, why not remain one in death? No, the only thing that Nolquinn considered bad about the whole situation was sharing the watch with that idiot Lorian again.

Looking over at the Breton would have made Nolquinn laugh if he were still able. At least they took their time with my preparation, he thought, perhaps because I am a fellow Altmer. They could have given the Breton some clothing at least. The condition of Lorian’s animated corpse was positively shocking. His once pale skin was now the color of tanned leather, and bits of it fell from his body whenever he moved. The carrion eaters were quick to discover that fact, and now paid him the attention due a moveable feast. Somewhere along the way he had lost an arm. They had not bothered to close his neck wound, which was now a haven for scavenging insects. The crown of his head flopped against the back of his shoulders, which caused him to perpetually stare glassy eyed towards the firmament.

I wonder if he can still think and feel? Nolquinn thought. No, he couldn’t think and feel before, why would it be different now? At least now Nolquinn didn’t have to tolerate his stupid jokes or listen to his drunken wheezes as he slept through the watch. There was a lesson to be learned in that, and it warmed Nolquinn more than the morning sun and filled this new day with promise. It was obvious that Lorian’s incompetence had sentenced him to an eternity as a Worm Thrall. Yet they preserved my body, perhaps they seek to make me an Eremite.

Nolquinn banished the thought from his mind. They would do nothing of the sort if his inattention allowed another intruder into the cave. With legs made stiff by the bandages he turned his back on Lorian and continued his patrol around the perimeter.

The clump of boots on soft ground caught his attention and caused him to make a slow turn toward the sound. Lorian was lumbering toward a man bedecked in light mail. With the only arm he had the former Breton swung toward the head of the intruder, and missed.

Stupid Breton! Nolquinn willed his legs to move but the bandages that preserved his skin caused his legs to be slow to respond. The intruder drew a silver longsword that whined from its sheath, and before Nolquinn could cover half the distance between them he swung it in a shimmering arc that culminated at Lorian’s neck. There was a sound like the tearing of old parchment, and Lorian was absent a head. It hit the ground with a muffled thump and rolled glassy eyed away from the mouth of the cave. Lorian’s body sank to both knees, and then pitched forward onto the sodden ground. Most of the scavengers were thrown clear upon impact save those that still clung to the body like rats to driftwood.

There was a sound behind Nolquinn. He tried to turn but he was just too slow. The right side of his head exploded. Thankfully there was no pain, that was a thing of the past. But cold blood and the jagged remains of teeth replaced the taste of salt in his mouth. The impact was such that it knocked him several paces off his course and left him disoriented. He could not see out of the right side of his face, so it wasn’t until he brought his head completely around that he saw the battered head of the silver mace coming towards him, held in the steel gauntlet of the largest Nord he had ever seen. Not again! He thought.

It was the last thought he had before the world went black.





“Zombies,” said Alain. He pulled a cloth from inside his tunic and began wiping the sticky, congealed blood from his sword. “This must be the right place.”

Valdemar grunted and set to the distasteful task of pulling bits of what had once been Altmer from his mace. “It better be. This is the fourth cave we’ve marked since leaving Jehanna. I do not intend to spend the entire season slogging through the Reach. Volunteering us as escorts to spoiled nobility was not one of your better ideas.”

“Quiet,” said Alain, “lest they hear you.”

“Let them hear me,” said Valdemar, pulling an embedded tooth from the head of his mace, “I’d sooner face live Altmer than dead ones.”

“You may get your wish if you’re not careful, Nord.” The brush near the severed head of the other zombie parted and Hecerilar emerged with his sword in hand. He led a contingent of mer that surrounded the armored and cloaked Castellan of Balfiera, Aran Direnni.

“Do not mind Valdemar, my lord,” said Alain, bowing to the Castellan, “he has always been unsettled by necromancy.”

Hecerilar sheathed his sword and made way for the rear guard leading the horses. “We have all seen how Sir Valdemar wields his mace. I do not know whether to be encouraged by the thought that there are still shadows in this world that unsettle him, or terrified at the thought of meeting those shadows.”

Aran Direnni waved a dismissive hand and looked toward the mouth of the cave. “The Nord’s attitudes do not concern me as much as the knowledge that this is the right cave.”

“We believe it is, my lord,” said Alain.

“So you have said thrice before,” said Aran, his off-hand caressed the amulet of Clavicus Vile that adorned his neck. “I am beginning to doubt your competence as guides. Perhaps I should have left you both in Jehanna’s dungeon. Well, I suppose there is nothing for it now. You will have to search the cave of course.”

“That will not be necessary,” said a voice behind them.

Even the horses jumped. Fists closed around the handles of weapons. Both men and mer stood poised, ready. Every eye turned toward the cave, and the distinctly female voice that had spoken.

She stood near the opening, though none of them could remember her presence there even an instant before. She was framed in the halo of light cast by the torch that she carried. Her slender frame was obscured in the folds of a black cloak that fell into a puddle at her feet. The skin of her hands was the color of the melting snow, and her cold blue eyes dismissed each of them in turn before lingering with a startling insolence on Aran Direnni. When she spoke the voice that exited her blood-red lips carried the unmistakable accent of High Rock.

“Lord Direnni, my master bids you welcome.”

“How do you know who I am?” asked Aran. Hecerilar kept his hand on the pommel of his sword and slowly circled toward the woman’s flank.

Her eyes followed Hecerilar. “You will find that there is precious little that my master does not know.” She returned her gaze back to Aran. “However, he expected you to arrive yesterday.”

“I was subject to the knowledge of my guides, which was sadly lacking,” said Aran. The amulet gently smacked against his cuirass as he spread his arms in front of him. “But at long last I am arrived. If your master knew of my coming, then doubtless he knows that I am not here to do battle. I seek an audience with him.”

“He has sent me to collect you,” said the woman. “He offers you safe passage through the cave.”

Aran raised his right hand to a point even with his jaw. Hecerilar took his hand away from his sword and backed away from the cave. When he reached the Castellan’s side the other mer allowed their hands to fall away from their weapons. Hecerilar led Aran toward the entrance. Sir Alain released his sword and fell into step behind them. Sir Valdemar followed with his hand white-knuckled around the handle of his mace.

“No,” said the woman, raising a delicate alabaster hand, “my master’s offer extends to you alone, Lord Direnni. Your retainer must wait here.”

“My lord,” said Hecerilar, “this is folly. What is to stop them from holding you to ransom except us?”

“I agree, Lord Direnni,” said Alain, “we cannot just watch you walk into what could be a trap.”

The woman’s laugh was like the crack of a whip. “I assure you that if ransom were our aim, the meager force you have assembled wouldn’t stop us. Now come, Lord Direnni, my master awaits.”

Aran placed a hand on Hecerilar’s shoulder. “Make camp here, I shan’t be gone long.”

“But my lord. . .”

“Do as I say, Hecerilar.” He turned toward Sir Alain, “I release you and your companion from my service. We have no debts between us. You may keep your mounts as payment for services rendered, such as they were. I suggest that you move on, forget the location of this cave, and strive to put as many leagues between it and yourselves as possible before nightfall.”

“Fine with me,” said Valdemar. He released his mace, turned on his heel, and strode toward the horses.

Alain lingered, his eyes locked onto the Castellan. He opened his mouth to speak, and then thought better of it. He set his jaw, made an awkward bow, and then turned and followed Valdemar toward the horses.

Aran watched as the two knights mounted and spurred their horses back into the brush. When the sound of the hooves faded into the morning air he gave a last look to his bodyguard, and then followed the woman’s flowing black robes and the flickering torchlight that disappeared into the shadow of the cave.





The light of the torch cast bent reaching shadows along the walls of the tunnels as she led him deeper within the bowels of Nirn. Ghosts whose tangibility allowed them to move like wisps mingled with animated skeletons who sauntered through the tunnels, their bony claws clutching the hilts of swords or the handles of axes. Zombies moved amongst them, the stench of their rotting flesh was overpowered by the sweet, cloying smell of the incense burning in braziers placed at regular intervals. The combined smell was pungent enough to bring tears to Aran's eyes.

He stayed as close to the torch as he could without seeming a coward, his hand clutched around the amulet of Clavicus Vile. For luck, he thought. The undead denizens of the cave recoiled and cowered before the light. For the first time in his life Aran understood the human preoccupation with Arkay and he found himself giving silent thanks to a deity that he did not believe in before entering the cave. If not for the light of this torch, he thought. He knew why the woman had found humor in the bravado of his retainer, even without the score of black cloaked figures that they passed in the tunnels there were enough undead to kill them all many times over. Have I made a mistake coming here?

No! The King of Worms himself has extended safe passage. The thought gave him some comfort, and allowed him to move through the cave with his head high and his chest forward in some semblance of his Direnni bearing that remained with him as long as he stayed within the cone of the light.

In the lowest chamber of the cave the woman came to a stop before a large door made of stained oak. She moved to the side of the door and held the torch up as she bowed.

“My master waits,” she said.

Aran stepped forward. His jaw ached from the interminable moments of tension felt on his tour through the shadows of the cave. And his hand cramped painfully from how tightly he had held to the amulet. The door opened inward at his approach. He passed through a threshold of darkness, as if all of Nirn had suddenly faded away. While enveloped in that darkness he was aware that the door behind him had closed. He tried to continue forward, but his feet could find no purchase within the void. Fear took hold of him even as his hand renewed its hold on the amulet. He could not tell if he were swimming, falling, or flying. Before him the darkness shifted and parted like the drawing of a curtain, and it was only then that Aran allowed himself to breathe.

What magic is this? He felt himself transported. The room he was in could not exist in a cave. It was paneled in oak and as well-appointed as the Castellan’s study at Balfiera. He stood on red carpeting so soft and thick that he swore he could have stood upon a cloud. The shelves lined two entire walls and housed books of every shape and color. Yet one would have had an easier time finding an Altmer in Falinesti than a speck of dust amidst the covers.

Two figures were engaged in a conversation across the room. The first was male with an Altmer’s height and dressed in an ornate flowing red robe. The matching hood hid even the barest hint of any features, and cast the face within to the same darkness as the void that Aran had just passed through. Twin points of intense blue light escaped from the darkness under the hood, and told of unspeakable power and threatened madness to any who would stare into that abyss for too long. The power of his presence was astonishing. There was no mistaking his identity. The King of Worms, Aran thought with a reverence he had not known himself capable of. Fear of his own weakness in the presence of the Worm King forced him to pull his eyes toward the other figure.

It was like something from a child’s nightmare. It was bent to a little more than half the height of the robed figure, but it easily matched that height in girth. Its head was the size of an orc's chest with two small, rheumy golden eyes placed too far to either side. In the center of that massive head a pulsating maw loudly sucked in air and swallowed it like water. Its gray skin matched the pallor of a corpse, but it glistened with a substance too thick to be perspiration. It wore a soiled brown robe and a gnarled cane protruded from something that was more stump than hand. Aran was struck with a memory from childhood, when Emero had tutored the young generation of Direnni elves on the subject of the Thrassian plague. Could this be a Sload?

“You will find no shortage of souls on Stros M’Kai,” the King of Worms was saying, “but make haste, despite their immortality the Daedra are notoriously impatient.”

He sounds Altmer! Aran did not trust his legs to carry him across the room, so he remained where he stood.

“This one shall not fail you, master,” said the other.

“See that you don’t,” said the King of Worms, “else the All Flags Navy will seem as nothing compared to my wrath.”

“Yes master.”

“Then away with you,” those blue eyes locked on Aran’s from across the room. “Welcome, Lord Castellan. Please enter and make yourself comfortable. The food is plentiful, the vintage is excellent, and we have much to discuss.”

Through a profound act of will, Aran’s legs carried him unsteadily across the room. He barely registered passing the repulsive creature who was in the act of exiting, so intent was he on the robed figure before him.

The King of Worms spoke, and his voice lifted Aran from his trance. “One last thing, N’Gasta.”

“Yes master?” asked the creature as he paused at the door.

“Try not to draw attention to yourself.”

This was one of my fave chapters - the return of Nolquinn and Lorian as zombies, the KOW - really huge chapter to me that shows just how subtly you are weaving this tapestry - and NEW CHAPTERS !!!!! ARGH !!!!! WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT !!!!!!

Ahh, my favorite zombies. I always liked how you brought them back in this form. Just seeing a scene from the pov of a zombie is delicious. Nolquinn's major regret being that he was stuck with Lorian was just priceless. What I really liked however was how this underscores the fate of all those who become necromancers. They join up thinking they are going to be the ones who gain great power. Yet in the end, they are nothing but worm-food. The weak ones die, and the strong ones eventually become so much so, that they might be a threat to the boss, who has to kill them. Either way, their lust for power destroys them all.

Our first good look at the KoW as well. The godlike version of him from the older games is much more interesting than the high elf who was so easy to kill in Oblivion. He resonates with power and madness, just what you would hope for in a necromancer king.


nits:
Although his soul remained his own, his will was bound to another.
Perhaps adding a comma where I inserted it will give a timely pause for breath when reading this sentence?

“Fine with me,” said Valdemar.
Not a nit, but as I was reading this, I thought spat Valdemar. would come across with more emphasis on the Nord's disdain for Aran, and what he and Alain have been doing.


Edited to Add: I knew I had seen N'Gasta's name somewhere! !!

Oooh, boy, the atmosphere of the cave!

Starting with the zombie's viewpoint was fascinating, and it only became better.

And that last line was priceless!

As others have said, the zombie POV scene was stunningly good! Well, really all of this was. The attention you assigned the the black robed alabaster skinned escort as well as the King of Worms himself - wow!

I was pleased to see our two brave knights freed of their service to this . . . expedition.

And the sload. See, I'm not so deeply into lore that I can't chuckle and steal quite the enjoyment from an image of . . . Jabba the Hut! WooHoo!

I lovedlovedloved the part of the zombies. "not again...."
The Sload's name was interesting too....
can't wait till you have another update.

oh my. this was an exciting chapter! The Zombie-Vision, the Sload and The King of Worms. I love your KoW in particular, you show him as a figure of massive power and a brilliant necromancer. MORE! SOON! please.

First, let me reassure you regarding Lattia and her “ascent.” What she is holding on to is her identity- her personality- her “self.” All of those are the “god-like” part of her in her Altmer belief system. So, while she might willingly shed her mortal flesh, she would definitely try to hold on to her “immortal” essence- her identity. Short answer- I believe you got it exactly right.

The entire zombie-POV was brilliantly written, especially Nolquinn’s last(?) thought.



There, you begin to hint at the power of the KoW. And the eventual meeting delivers on that hint in full. Every part of this was spot on- the descriptions, the atmosphere, the incredible tension. Loved it.

The sload was an inspired touch- especially his identity. I wonder when he will have time to write his newsletter…? And of course the last line was perfect.

Nits:


“Carrion” refers to the dead flesh…. “Carrion feeders” would work.



Apostrophe wrangler at your service- “orc’s”.

"Scavengers" would be the term of art, methinks.

Ahem. Destri, your historical fiction continues to be very, very fine. Love how you weave all these disparate machinations together.

mALX – New chapters to you. I have been waiting since March to post this one! I hope you like it.

SubRosa – The fate that you ascribe to those who engage in necromancy will become apparent to Aran as the year continues. And that is the N’Gasta that I intended (as if there is another one).

hautee – Thank you so much! That last line was one of those happy accidents that occur during the writing. I am glad that you enjoyed it.

Acadian – The similarities between the Sloads and the Huts never occurred to me until you mentioned it. I may have to address that at some point. And it is funny you should mention our two brave knights . . .

Remko – You finally get to see a chapter you haven’t already read three times! N’Gasta’s part was intended to be a cameo, but thanks to Acadian’s comment it may turn into more.

hazmick – As always, thank you for the kind words. Here is the more you requested . . .

treydog – Okay, so we can add Altmer theology to the long list of subjects at your command! Thank you for the vote of confidence regarding Lattia, and thank you for the clarification of 'carrion'.

canis216 – Thank you for the compliment. I didn’t use the word ‘scavengers’ because it would have given me a repetition within the same paragraph, but I do appreciate the suggestion.





6th First Seed, 2E 854
Somewhere Along the Western Reach
Mid-Day


“Stop sulking and spur that horse,” said Valdemar, “I’d like to be halfway to Dragonstar by nightfall.”

“We should not have left them,” said Alain.

“They needed nothing more from us. I, for one, am glad to put that place to my back.”

“We are knights, Valdemar. What good are we if we run in the face of evil?”

“I do not run,” said Valdemar, “I was ordered to leave. There is a difference. As for this evil to which you refer, it existed before our time, it exists now, and it will continue to exist long after our bones are dust. Fight it if you wish, but it is a battle you cannot win.”

“All the more reason why it must be fought,” said Alain.

“Then by all means, go. I will not stop you. For my part, I plan to stop at the first tavern I see and drink until I forget all about caves and zombies.”

They rode in silence.

“What is it about the undead that unsettles you so?” asked Alain.

Valdemar turned in the saddle and shot a sidelong glance toward Alain. “I am not unsettled.”

Alain drew back on the reins. “And I am not stupid, Valdemar.”

Valdemar slowed his horse to a trot. “What difference does it make?”

“It makes a difference to me. We have spent a great deal of time together, yet I know precious little about you.”

“You know the important things.”

“Yes I do, but I would know the rest.”

They continued to ride toward a cluster of trees in the distance. For a time neither man spoke. Valdemar broke the silence with a long sigh through the nose.

“Bretons,” he said. He looked over at Alain, “I was born in Riverwood . . .”

“I am serious,” said Alain.

“So am I. Now do you want to hear this or not?”

The only sound was the soft clump of hooves sinking into the melting snow.

“As I was saying,” continued Valdemar, “we were a small village near Cyrodiil’s border, about thirty leagues south of Whiterun. Do you know where I mean?”

“Near the foot of the Jeralls,” said Alain.

“Not so near as that. We split the distance between the Jeralls and the halls of Castle Whiterun, about twenty leagues north of the valley that contains Pale Pass. What do you know of the fort that was built there?”

“Very little, it was used by the Akaviri who fought one of the Reman’s, wasn’t it?”

“Reman the first,” said Valdemar. “I have heard stories of that fort since childhood. The elders used the legends of that place to frighten unruly children.”

“Of which you were one, no doubt.”

Valdemar’s eyes were far away. “I thought you said you were serious.”

“Sorry,” said Alain.

“In winter the wind blows out of that valley and carries north, freezing the river and covering the whole of Riverwood in a sparkling blanket of snow and ice.”

“It sounds beautiful.”

Valdemar shook his head. “It hisses, Alain. That wind is like a snake coiled in those mountains waiting for winter’s chill. When it strikes it cuts through fur and skin, it blinds and it chokes. It drives the game and the fish away, starving us for months at a time. And, because of it, my village remains poor even now.”

He lapsed into silence. The two of them rode through trees newly bloomed with the sun high above their heads, yet Alain could still feel the cold of receding winter. When Valdemar spoke again it was through a voice made quiet by the weight of memory.

“The Akaviri built that fort to launch their sack of Cyrodiil. But they were undone by winter in the Jeralls. A piece of those mountains fell upon them, burying the fort and the pass under mounds of snow. The elders used to say that the dying screams of those snake-men were carried by the wind.” He paused in his remembrance, and then his voice rose as he began to recite:

“East to Akavir with Spring,
Fall South to Colovian plains,
Summer to the Western sea,
North in frozen Winter remains.”

“An effective legend to scare unruly children,” said Alain.

“That it is,” said Valdemar. “Just after my seventeenth name day a stranger came into the village. He boasted of the farsight, what your people call prophecy. He claimed to have learned it at the feet of the Graybeards of High Hrothgar. Do you know much about them?”

“They are reported to be oracles of the Nords. I have heard that they possess great power,” said Alain.

“They do. You must understand the mind of a Nord, Alain. We revere magic that serves useful purpose in battle. It is why so many of my countrymen jumped into Talos’ service when he displayed the thu’um at Sancre Tor. But magic that conceals and confuses is looked upon with disdain. And magic that looks beyond the veil of time is the province of the Graybeards alone. To profess knowledge of such is considered the worst form of hubris, and he who claims it is not to be trusted.”

“So you turned this stranger away?”

Valdemar nodded. “The elders did. They banished him south to the base of the mountains, but not before my friends and I stoned him under the village tree.”

Alain could not hide the revulsion that furrowed his brow and set his mouth to a grim line.

“I am not proud of it,” said Valdemar. “I even sought to make amends. My friends and I, the eight of us who threw the stones, journeyed to his wagon camped at the base of the mountains. We sought to do whatever service he deemed just to atone for our actions. He greeted us without rancor, gave us warmth by his fire, and fed us from the meager stores of his own wagon. He told us tales of the Akaviri treasure that lay buried in Pale Pass. And, after we had spent many hours in his company, he saw each of us in turn and cursed us with death at the hands of the undead. I alone still survive.”

“Valdemar,” said Alain.

“Let me finish. Another year passed. A year spent scratching for survival in the shadow of those mountains. It was our time to be young, when the days are long, filled with wonder, and marked by small victories and setbacks. In youth the shadow of death is easily forgotten. What we could not forget was the promise of treasure buried within the pass of those mountains. That treasure would sustain us all through even the coldest of seasons. Winter was bearing down on us. Each day that the air grew colder, the desire to claim the treasure grew warmer. It became a longing that we were helpless to deny.”

The trees above cast shadows that darkened the path before them. Alain kept to his silence.

“We left during the night,” said Valdemar, “in the days after the trees had shed all their leaves. The hunt that morning had produced scant game for our bows. We knew that time was short before the wind uncoiled and froze the world around us. Our hope was to reach the fort, claim the treasure, and return before the advent of snow. Eight of us crept from the village to fulfill dreams of glory with the strains of imagined bard-song ringing in our ears.”

He leaned back in the saddle and cast his eyes skyward. The sound of falling water could be heard from somewhere in the distance.

“We made our way up through the growing cold to the first summit of the Jeralls, and from there we looked down into the valley below. The pass and the ruin were there just as the elders and the stranger had claimed, but they were not buried. Years worth of spring and summer thaws had exhumed the fort for our eager eyes and we set upon it like the wolves we fancied ourselves to be.”

He grew silent again, his gaze pulled from the trail through the corridors of time to a long forgotten ruin. Alain thought better of prompting and left him to his memories.

“We found no treasure in those halls,” said Valdemar. “No buried Akaviri gold or trophys. The entire place, all five levels, was barren of anything save deadly traps and undead defenders.”

“The snake-men?” asked Alain.

“No, we met no serpents. They were human skeletons, armed with Akaviri swords. You know the ones I mean; long and thin, with a slight curve? They bear a name that sounds like a woman’s weapon.

“Katanas,” said Alain.

Valdemar nodded. “They wielded them with purpose. Maybe they were mercenaries charged with guarding the fort, but they were once as human as you or I. Eight of us entered that ruin. Only three made it to the lowest level. There we encountered a ghost that again bore a human aspect. He claimed to be the Commander of the Akaviri force. The name he gave us escapes me now. He looked upon us as messengers bearing official orders from Akavir. When we confessed we had none, he set upon us with a two handed . . .” he looked to Alain for help.

“Katana.”

“Yes, katana. Both of my friends fell before his might. I alone made it back to the sunlight.”

“Then you proved the stranger’s prophecy wrong,” said Alain. “You did not fall by undead hands.”

“No I did not,” said Valdemar. “But it is not because of fortune or my prowess in battle. I ran Alain! I fled from that place as if the forces of Oblivion itself dogged my heels.”

“You are no coward, Valdemar. I know that better than any. You withdrew in the face of a foe you could not defeat. You showed discretion, and in so doing you now live to honor the memory of your friends.”

“You do not understand. I do not regret leaving that foul place. I regret leading them there in the first place. They all looked to me, Alain. I led them in throwing those stones and I led them to the stranger’s wagon where he pronounced judgment on them all. I told you he saw each of us in turn.”

“Yes.”

“Well, as the leader, he reserved a special curse for me. He told me that I too would fall to an undead hand, but that would not be the end of my curse. He doomed me to walk as one of them. I shall never see the halls of Sovngarde. I shall never drink of the golden mead at Shor’s table. I shall spend eternity roaming the darkened halls of some cave or forgotten ruin.”

“You cannot believe that,” said Alain.

“By the time we reached the lowest level of that fort the two friends I had left believed it. They fell believing it. I am a Nord, Alain. I can think of no more glorious fate than a righteous death in battle. My fear is reserved for what lies in wait for me beyond it.”

The warmth of the western sun gave neither man solace as they rode together in uncomfortable silence. Whether it was the length of rest, the lateness of the hour, or some intuitive understanding of the mood, both horses were ready to run.

“You are now the only other person who knows the tale,” said Valdemar. “If you are intent on going back to face the evil in that cave, I will go back and stand with you.”

Alain looked over at his friend. “No. Whatever evil exists in that cave shall be for some other knights to vanquish. Your tale has awakened my thirst. I say we spur the horses, stop at the first tavern we see, and drink until we forget all about caves and zombies.”

Valdemar's story was bonechilling. Great write Destri, I could almost feel the cold wins whip- no, hiss by me.

I pulled this early in my reading of this story to quote. By the time I was well into the story, I felt too affected by the powerful tale to believe that quoting the humor in this was appropriate. Yet, I do quote it now:
Much wisdom contained here.


This is what changed my mind and let me decide to offer the quote after all:


A very powerful story, and expertly told, my friend!

In your hands Valdemar has shown unexpected depth and strength of character. And I loved your tale of Pale Pass - it remains (along with Sancre Tor) one of my favorites of the quests involving undead. Probably it's so because the undead are freed, not just destroyed. Knowing what awaits them at Sancre Tor, hearing the prophecy/curse that Valdemar carries with him adds even more tragedy to the story of the four greatest Blades. My mind is already thinking how I can borrow from this for Julian's encounter with Casnar, Rielus, Valdemar and Alain . . .

May I?

A wonderful story! Valdemar's tale brings some very welcome depth to his character, all done with a very strong viking Nordic influence. The story itself stands up strongly in its own right. The traveling mage, the young, pig-headed men and their foolish act, and finally the terrible doom that fell upon them.

Also, I see you went with Oblivion's depiction of the defenders of Pale Pass as being human rather than Tsaesci. That, plus some mentions of the survivors of the Akaviri host interbreeding with Imperials lends a great deal of weight to the belief that the term 'eaten' in Mysterious Akavir was not meant literally, but rather figuratively. Or perhaps it was literal, and the Tsaesci only ate the men, but not the women, who then had kids who grew up to serve the Tsaesci in their armies.

nits:
Fall South to Colvian plains,
I think you meant Colovian.

I am loving this story! Valdemar is awesome--he appears to be the classic Nord (Tough, big guy) and he is but under the surface he is sensitive and deep.





This part made me chuckle but at the same time I kinda feel sorry for Valdemar's obvious hatred for and discomfort about the undead. I will have the usual please, more!

Throughout this episode, I was furiously taking notes, hoping to learn how to give my characters a past that informs their present… And how to write like this:





There is a perfect touch. You do not “tell” that Valdemar searched for the name of the weapon- you “show” him admitting he does not recall it, even as he describes the sword.



I feel the need to pull my furs closer around me to shut out the sudden chill.

First: WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT !!!!!!!

I love the way you slid in references so the reader could picture the location of Valdemar's home - the minute you said twenty leagues north of the valley that contains Pale Pass - I could envision it in my mind. I actually went off-map out of Pale Pass and may have crossed through his town, lol.



I expected the name of the weapon to be Regina or maybe ...berry sundae... ARGH!!!!

OOOOOH! That curse...foreshadowing !!!

Sorry it took so long, I started reading this before going to work, but had to savor it. This was no chapter to rush through! I had to work till late and crashed when I finally did get home. This was worth the wait...I knew it would be !!!!


*

Remko – Bonechilling huh? What a great choice of word given all that Valdemar goes through! Thank you.

Acadian – Valdemar’s experience has given him a fatalistic optimism, he is quite certain that the worst is going to happen! Because of that he tends to display a form of gallows humor without even realizing it. The fact that you picked up on it is gratifying indeed.

hautee – Valdemar’s tale was something that came almost fully formed with his character. Like I said before, he just kicked the door in, sat down, and put his feet up on the table. I haven’t had to do much with him except listen. I think a lot of what you see now will be echoed in the future when he is confronted by Akaviri, and their weapons, again.

And I can’t wait to see how you treat all this in Julian’s story.

SubRosa – I have always been of the mind that ‘eaten’, as expressed by Mysterious Akavir, was not to be taken literally. 'Assimilated' is probably the more accurate term. I think the fact that the Tsaesci who stayed in Cyrodiil were able to rise to such lofty heights in the Empire gives ample evidence of their adaptability.

Then again, maybe the Tsaesci ate the men in front of the women, and then conceived kids for their armies!

Thank you for finding that ‘o’ in Colovian, it must be the one that Ysmir sent back.

hazmick – I am so glad that you are enjoying this story. I wish that I could take more credit for Valdemar. But, as I told hautee, he is one of those characters who just hijack the keyboard. I always feel like I’m taking time off when I write his chapters.

trey –

High praise from the master of immersion and atmosphere!

I think that Athlain brandishing a sword to get Egnatius to put out to sea accomplished your aim nicely. I still remember Carbo’s expression when he took away the last one!

mALX – I forgot all about berry sundae!!

I had a girlfriend named Regina once. Thinking of her has just given me the perfect name for my new character’s weapon: Regina, an ebony warhammer with a hefty drain health enchantment!

I am sorry you had to work so late. I hope your job is something that you love. I know that real life comes first, but rest should come second. This story is content being a diversion rather than an obligation.

Everyone – The 7th of First Seed is the longest day that we have experienced so far in Interregnum. There was no way to adequately cover everything that happens in one post, so I have broken the day up into what I hope will be four (maybe five) segments of my usual length. I hope you enjoy them.





7th First Seed, 2E 854
The Hotel Juilek, Imperial City
Pre-Dawn


In a dimly lit corner of the lobby, past the untended front desk and the Imperial couple locked in an embrace before the hearth, two Altmer sat in high-backed chairs and engaged in quiet discussion.

“She asks too much of me, Emero,” Farenenre said.

“She would disagree,” said Emero. “She merely wishes to know the Emperor’s plans for these Tsaesci.”

“I imagine that she is not alone in that regard.” Farenenre’s eyes darted once again toward the couple by the fire. The man was young, handsome, broad in the shoulders, and dressed in burgundy linens. The woman was comely as Imperials went, with long brown curls and green eyes. She was dressed in blue suede with leather boots that rested easily on the young man’s legs. Their attentions were devoted to each other. If they were eavesdropping, they hid it well. He turned back to Emero. “Tell Lady Direnni that the Emperor has not divulged his plans to me.”

“Not yet, but he will. When he does . . .”

“The Tsaesci surviving the day is not assured. You already know this. Any thoughts of future plans are premature.”

Emero leaned back in his chair. “Milady has faith in Tsaesci prowess.”

“Your lady has a habit of building her faith on unstable ground.” Farenenre rose from his chair, “I receive regular reports from Alinor. The Dominion is failing. Soon there will be war between Summerset and Valenwood. That letter she possesses will then be of little account. There was a time when I enjoyed your company, Emero, but that time is long past. I expect we shall not meet together like this again.”

He moved to walk away, but Emero’s hand locked upon his wrist.

“Unhand me!” said Farenenre.

“Soon perhaps,” said Emero. “But right now Milady’s letter still bares teeth. The Dominion’s retribution carries little weight this far from Northpoint. You should be more concerned with the fact that you remain within Cuhlecain’s grasp.” Emero released his grip.

“He needs me,” said Farenenre. He pulled his arm across his chest and inspected his wrist for bruises as he sat back down in his chair.

“Not once he gains the services of Zurin Arctus,” said Emero.

“Arctus?” Farenenre began to caress his offended wrist. “Arctus is fiercely loyal to Talos.”

“You are so certain? Now who builds faith on unstable ground?”

One could almost see the calculations going on in Farenenre’s mind. He rubbed his wrist with renewed vigor, his eyes darting back and forth as if over a page.

“What do you know?” asked Farenenre.

“Are you proposing an exchange of information?” asked Emero.

“I am,” said Farenenre, with a haste borne of desperation.

“Very well, my instructions upon leaving you are to go to the home of Master Arctus and invite him to dine with Lady Direnni in the palace this evening.”

“In the palace?” Farenenre grew pale; his jaw began to shift from side to side. “The Emperor uses your mistress to do his bidding?”

“You cannot fail to notice that the two have become close of late,” said Emero.

“Yes, but . . .” Farenenre clenched both fists, “why are you sharing this information with me?”

“I suppose I could tell you that it is because we share a familiarity that goes back many years. Or I could tell you it is because I do not approve of Lady Direnni’s actions in this regard. But the simple truth is that we cannot count on Master Arctus’ . . . friendship as we have come to count on yours.”

“Tell your mistress that her faith is well-placed. I do not know the specifics of the Emperor’s plans, but I do know that they involve the celebration today. The Emperor is keeping the lead snake out of the sands. Talos himself will share the Emperor’s box, as will Arctus and Lady Direnni. One does not need to be a smith to see that the forge is hot.”

“The snake-captain will not participate? That is news indeed.” Emero rose from his chair.

“You go to seek out Master Arctus?” asked Farenenre.

Emero smiled. “It is a bit too early for that. I go to tell Lady Direnni that she can continue to rely on your friendship.”

“We have an agreement, an exchange of information. I would know the substance of her meeting with Arctus.”

“And we would know the specifics of the Emperor’s plans,” said Emero. “It is my fondest hope that neither of us shall be disappointed.” He bowed, turned, and strode with purpose across the lobby and through the door.

Farenenre sat with his elbow on the arm of the chair. His hand slowly rubbed along his chin. The only sound was the crackle of the fire in front of the young couple, and the soft, gentle music of their kissing. The sound of a door closing upstairs awakened Farenenre from his meditation. He stood and cast a final glance toward the couple. Then he crossed the lobby and left the hotel.

As the door closed behind him, the couple disengaged. The young man stood, reached into his trousers, and produced a small silk purse that jingled when he placed it into the woman’s hand.

“I can’t remember an assignment more enjoyable,” he said, “Miss . . .”

“Trentius. Alma.” She opened the purse and peered inside. “Tell Master Arctus that I expect fair compensation if his assignments are going to be this labor intensive.”

“It was not that bad, was it?”

She smiled. “It beat sitting at the desk all night. You better get going; you’re going to lose him.”

He turned and started toward the door.

“Wait,” she said, “what do I call you?”

He flashed a crooked grin back over his shoulders.

“Rielus,” he said.





7th First Seed, 2E 854
The Elven Gardens District, Imperial City
Dawn


Dawn brought new light into the world, but it did nothing to brighten Farenenre’s mood. He walked through the streets with purpose, his head down, and his mind churning.

He seeks to supplant me, he thought to himself. But what have I done to offend? Could this be Lady Direnni’s work? They had indeed grown close of late. She was spending more of her time in the palace. Has she shown him the letter in order to place herself near the throne?

He shook his head to dismiss the thought. The act made him aware of his surroundings. He hesitated for a moment, unsure of which direction he should travel. No it could not have been her. Cuhlecain lacks the subtlety for subterfuge. If he had knowledge of the letter I would now be a tenant of the dungeons, or worse. Besides, if Lady Direnni covets my position, what does she gain by giving me this information? That decided, Farenenre turned toward the gate leading to Green Emperor Road.

What of Talos? Could his hand be pulling the strings? My reports to him have become lax since the arrival of Lady Direnni. Could this be the beginning of an elaborate play for the throne? Emero said that they wish to keep me close to the Emperor because they can’t count on Arctus’ friendship. But if tonight she was able to somehow lure him into her confidence . . .

He stopped at the gate to Green Emperor Road. There were no guards present to open it. Damn the shift change! He pressed his weight against the door until it opened grudgingly before him. He stepped through to the other side.

Arctus! It all comes back to him. His loyalty to Talos has never before been questioned. Was that assumption a mistake? He could see the spire of White Gold Tower looming before him, framed by the new day’s sun under a cloudless sky of sparkling blue. Thankfully there were no guards or peasant rabble cluttering the entrance to the palace. There was no one waiting to solicit favor or engage him with inane chatter. Events were moving too quickly. He needed to be alone with his thoughts. Ironic that with the whole city celebrating the first day of spring I would have cause to be so alone.

He stopped. Alone! He looked again at the palace entrance. Then he turned back toward the gate through which he had just passed, and all of the gates leading to the various districts. No guards. No people. Stendarr’s mercy!

He felt a sudden pressure in his back that drove him to his knees. His gasp was involuntary; the pain was so sudden and intense that he could not cry out against it. A warm, coppery liquid rose like bile in the back of his throat. He pitched forward, and vomited dark thick blood on the grass in front of him. As he looked down he saw the tip of an arrow, painted red with his own blood, protruding from the upper part of his stomach. Out of the corner of his eye he saw three pairs of leather boots.

“Compliments of Master Arctus,” a voice said from above him.

He felt the sharp impact of their boots as they began pummeling him. He tried to turn from their attack, yet each way he swung sent waves of pain from the arrow lodged within him. His screams filled the silence of the plaza, but there was no one to come to his aid. He heard and felt the breaking of his own ribs. For several moments, an eternity it seemed to him, all thought was set adrift in a turbulent sea of pain and blood. One thought rose to the surface, and he grasped hold of it with everything he had left and clung to it like a man drowning. Arctus. Arctus.

“That’s enough,” said the voice above him.

There was more pain from the arrow as he was turned onto his back. He cried out again as he felt pressure against the tip. He was thrown to his stomach and treated to more waves of agony as the arrow was drawn through his body and yanked free. With blurred vision through swollen, half-closed eyes, he looked up and saw his tormentors. All wore hoods save the one who had spoken. The one who was still speaking, reading from a scroll that he held in one hand. I’ve seen him before. Where?

He felt himself bathed in light. The pain began to diminish. He felt his ribs reforming and the closing of the wound in his stomach. The dark bile in his throat disappeared. Presently his vision focused on the handsome face of a young Imperial squatting in the grass in front of him.

“I’ve seen you,” Farenenre whispered, his voice hoarse with the effort. “The hotel.”

“I carry a message from Master Arctus,” said Rielus. “This duplicity of yours will not be tolerated. You would do well to remember where your loyalty lies. Next time there will be no healing scroll, and we will not be as polite.” He straightened and walked slowly back toward the gate leading to the Elven Gardens.

Farenenre lay on the blood soaked grass. Gradually his faculties returned. He rose to a seated position and looked down at the state of his clothing and the darkened grass around him. I must leave before I am seen. He rose unsteadily, and found that his legs still functioned when he tried to walk. He tested his lungs by taking a deep breath of crisp morning air. The words of the young man’s warning still lingered. But they were like a whisper against the screaming insistence that his own words made in his ears and mind, words that threatened madness unless they were acted upon.

Zurin Arctus must die!

*drooldribble* WOOOOOOOOO!!!

AAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!! This has to be counted among the most powerful chapters written - and that is saying a lot !!!!!!!!!!!!! WHEW !!!!!!!! It is not even the words of this chapter, but the implications of it and anticipation of what is coming !!!!!!!! MORE !!!!!!!!! MORE !!!!!! Don't wait and be polite, MORE !!!!


Oh, and obligation? ARGH !!!!! NEVAH !!!!!!!!

This one has almost rendered me speechless. There are no passages to pull out and quote, because the whole is so tightly written...

Wonderful descriptions, incredible intrigue, and several turns of the tension.

One particularly imaginative (and frightening) touch was the beating (and healing) of Farenenre. How much clearer could the message be? "We can hurt you- and heal you- only to hurt you again. And we can do it as often as we feel the need."

Two wonderful scenes.

I. Here I was mentally taking copious notes as I envied your powerful mastery of dialogue to move the story. The realization that the kissing lovers were spying was delicious.

II. A dangerous warning. How brilliant to make your point with an arrow (ok, pun intended), then deliver your message, heal your victim and leave them alive in a puddle of blood (and possibly pee? Lol). Brilliant - a tactic equally suitable for warning or extortion that I shall have to remember.

After reading, I smiled that the continuity between the pair of scenes was the pair of kissing 'lovers'.

And we get to see what a smooooooth operator Rielus is! Typical Imperial.

This is sooooo good - and the thickening of the plot is almost palpable.

I can't pull any one thing out either, like treydog. I can only say that this was a superlatively enjoyable segment of a chapter. The day promises to be a long one, yet I have a feeling that it will go by very quickly.

Looking forward to more!

Bond, Rielus Bond, in his excellency's secret service! I have seen so many spy movies that I knew the couple making out had to be spies. Cuhlecain is too dense to think of it, so it had to be Talos/Arctus. Emero's declaration that Arctus is going to work for the Emperor is a good ploy to keep Farenenre in line, at least until he is no longer useful. I suspect that moment is coming very soon now.

A truly inventive use of magic, mortally wounding Farenenre and then healing him before it was too late! I bet the Corleones wish they could do that! I was a little surprised to see it was Arctus who was actually behind it. I would have expected Emero/Varla to be the ones behind it, only making it look like Arctus was responsible to bring him more firmly into their camp. But I really doubt that Rielus is a double agent.

This looks like the first truly major blunder Talos/Arctus have made, because it can only prompt the reaction we saw in Farenenre. The threat of violence is a much more powerful motivator then violence itself. Because the threat instills fear. While the actual act creates hatred instead, which only prompts people to resist. As Machiavelli said: "Let them fear you, but not hate you." Unless Talos/Arctus really want Farenenre to stop spying for them and instead try to kill them?

WOW! Rielus is smooth indeed, a super secret agent.

farenenre is also a marvelous character, you've done a great job!

This story maintains it's intruige and ecxitement levels every time I read a new chapter, hooray for Destri!

Sorry to go back over the old stuff, but with your writing I just have to!


I shook my head in amazement at how well you crafted this line. It was the perfect connection between the bridge of horror that the zombies had become and the well of fear that lurked on the other side.


Wow!! That is an amazingly well crafted sentence. I loved the way you slowed down the scene at the mid-point of the description. Ah, if only we can all write with that talent....


Lol. I have always thought that the reason the chapel of Arkay was positioned at Cheydinhal was because the Elder council was scared that the dark dealings of Vvardenfell might corrupt and destroy the minds of Cyrodiil. There is nothing like holding a trinket against the dark. Humans have done it for millennium.

I love the way you wrote the KOW. You gave him the command and presence that he demanded. Awesome!!


Ha, ha. That is exactly what I was thinking too!!

A special thanks must go to Remko, Acadian and mALX. I remember a time at Beth when they encouraged your writing of Interregnum when few others took any notice.

Your tale, Destri, is the finest writing I have EVER read.

Remko – Thank you for the drool! (Did I really just say that?) That ending was a whole lot of fun to write.

mALX – I wasn’t waiting to be polite. I had to drag this next one kicking and screaming into the world! Sometimes in re-writing you can ‘fix’ a thing until it’s broken. Going back to re-fix it has not been fun. Thank you so much for all the kind words.

trey – The fact that this last chapter rendered you almost speechless is as ringing an endorsement as I can imagine. To (badly) paraphrase Joel McCrea:

Your assessment of the message being sent is precisely what was intended. Thank you.

Acadian – Thank you so much. Is it strange that I actually thought of including pee for your benefit? The kissing ‘lovers’ bridging the two scenes never even occurred to me until you mentioned it. Thank you for that too. I look forward to the time that this extortion tactic is repeated in Buffy’s story.

hautee – Rielus is just a young man trying to make his way in the big city. I didn’t see Alma complaining (well, actually she did, but you know what I mean ). I hope this segment of the story does go by quickly. I am eager to get back to Artaeum to continue Lattia’s story . . . and Arnand’s.

SubRosa – What can I say? You’re right on all counts. I hope that this chapter answers some of the questions that the last one raised.

I find it telling that Machiavelli wrote The Prince in an effort to secure the favor of the Medici family, the same family that tortured him and forced him into exile. I imagine he knew all about fear vs. hate.

hazmick – Thank you for the vote of confidence. I hope you enjoy this next chapter just as much.

Winter Wolf – Welcome back, brother! You have been missed. Your idea for why the Elder Council placed the Chapel of Arkay in Cheydinhal raises a number of story possibilities (especially since Cheydinhal has such a high Dunmer population).

Your comments are as appreciated as they are humbling. Thank you so much for the continued support.





7th First Seed, 2E 854
The Imperial Palace, Imperial City
Morning


In the royal suite of the Imperial Palace, the Emperor Cuhlecain bathed in a solid gold tub and gave distracted audience to a snake.

“. . . our home in Akavir,” the Tsaesci was saying. “We train the syffim to move, to act, to think as one unit. The sum is greater than each part, but each part is vital to the sum.”

The Emperor was not listening. He was transfixed by the snake-man in front of him. He was mesmerized by the Tsaesci’s height and regal bearing. He marveled at the savage fangs and the forked tongue that tasted the very air around them, and told of mysteries beyond a human's understanding. He was dazzled by the way that light reflected off those golden scales, and the undulation of powerful muscle underneath. With an army of such creatures, Cuhlecain thought to himself, all of Nirn would be within my grasp.

“Your majesty?”

Cuhlecain pulled his mind from thoughts of conquest, but he made himself hold the snake’s gaze. “What is it you wish of me, Chevalier?”

Perhaps it was the suppleness of frame that made the Tsaesci’s bow so graceful. Cuhlecain could see the truth in the legends of Tsaesci diplomacy.

“I would have your leave to join my syffim in the battle to come, your majesty.”

Cuhlecain rose from the tub. Even standing he was still submerged to the belly. The Reman Dynasty used Tsaesci as advisors, he thought. This one would doubtless serve better than that fop, Farenenre. He climbed from the tub with a distinct effort and covered himself with a robe that dragged on the floor behind him as he walked over to the window. His eyes never left the Tsaesci. He hoped that the pause in conversation gave the illusion that he was considering the snake-captain’s request.

“No,” he said at last, “Your place is by my side. You are far too valuable to sacrifice on bloodsport.”

Anger flashed like lightning in Renald’s slitted eyes, but he mastered it quickly. Even so, his voice hissed when he spoke. “And my syffim; is their value less?”

The cheek! He would challenge me in my own bedchamber? ”You forget yourself,” said Cuhlecain. “I have accepted your oath, they are my syffim now. I alone shall decide when and how they are deployed.”

Renald bowed again, but this one was different. Gone was the grace that marked his first bow, replaced by a forced civility, a grudging acquiescence. His voice still hissed when he spoke.

“Of course, your majesty,” said Renald.

What courage! He bows to me, not out of fear, but because honor demands it. “Is there anything else?”

“Yes your majesty. If I am not to join them, might I conduct them to the Arena? I would wish them good fortune in the coming battle.”

Cuhlecain continued to stare. He nodded.

Renald bowed again, gracefully. Then he turned and slithered from the chamber.

As the door closed behind him, a smile spread across the Emperor’s face. Could even Talos stand before such courage? These are no army of broken kittens, who cower in the face of a cavalry charge. These are Tsaesci! They eat kittens. If given the order, Talos would surely fall.

A faint knock interrupted his train of thought.

“Come,” said the Emperor.

The door opened and Farenenre entered. He was dressed in a blue silk robe and trailed perfume like a Waterfront harlot. But there was something different about the way the elf carried himself. There was fervor in the eyes that Cuhlecain had never seen before.

“You are late,” said the Emperor.

“My deepest apologies, your majesty,” said Farenenre. “I saw the serpent leaving your chamber, is there something amiss?”

“No. He wanted leave to stand with his unit in the sands later.”

“A reasonable request, perhaps you should consider it. After all, we want to keep these Tsaesci pliable.”

Cuhlecain smiled. “They will bend to my will, Farenenre. Their honor demands it.”

“As you say your majesty,” said Farenenre. “If I may say so, this morning finds you in good spirits.”

“It is First Planting, an auspicious day to learn something that gives me great hope of success in the trials to come.”

“And, if I may be so bold, what is that your majesty?”

“Snakes don’t blink,” said the Emperor.





7th First Seed, 2E 854
Reman Plaza, Imperial City
Morning


“We have a problem,” said Zurin Arctus.

General Talos nodded. “Have you broken your fast, Arctus? Please, join me.”

Arctus crossed the room and sat at the general’s table. A servant filled the plate in front of him with a thin slice of roasted boar and diced potatoes sautéed with onions. A sweetroll still hot from the oven bore a chewy blackberry filling, and a boiled kwama egg was served in a large bowl on the side. Arctus waited until the servant removed himself from the room.

“I have just received Rielus’ report,” he said.

Talos used a small hammer to crack the shell of his egg. “Eat first.”

Arctus bowed his acceptance and set to the task. For a time the two men ate in comfortable silence. Outside the window, the sounds of growing activity filtered up from the street below. When the plates were emptied and carried from the room, Talos leaned back in his chair.

“Rielus’ report,” he said.

“He performed his task to the letter,” said Arctus. “But our timing could not have been worse.”

“Go on.”

“Rielus followed Farenenre to the Hotel Juilek, where he met with Lady Direnni’s manservant. During the course of their conversation it was suggested that I might be convinced to replace Farenenre, and that Lady Direnni was inviting me to dinner to discuss it under orders from the Emperor.”

“Rielus overheard this?”

“He did. That memory of his makes him extremely useful as a spy.”

“And then he attacked Farenenre?”

“Yes.”

Talos leaned forward. The servant returned bearing a tray with two silver goblets, a small stone cup, and a bottle of Cyrodiilic Brandy. He placed the tray down on the table and poured. He then raised the cup to his lips and drank deep. After a moment, he looked to General Talos and nodded. He turned and left the table, still bearing the cup. Arctus waited until the door closed behind him.

“Farenenre’s usefulness is at an end,” said Arctus. “We should take steps to eliminate him. General?”

“Lady Direnni’s reputation is well-earned,” said Talos. He lifted one of the goblets and handed it to Arctus.

Arctus shook his head. “She simply benefits from our mistake. I find it difficult to imagine what use she has for Farenenre when she has gained proximity enough to define the Emperor’s plans without him.”

Talos smiled and sipped from his goblet, “exactly.”

It took a moment for realization to dawn on Arctus. When it did he almost laughed. “She seeks to eliminate him.”

Talos nodded. “More accurately, she seeks to force us to do it. She has played her position well. Farenenre now sees you as an enemy that he must destroy. But he cannot move against you as long as he believes that you carry the Emperor’s favor. Moreover, with you alive, he must now feel distrust toward the Emperor whom he serves. His only recourse is to now embrace Clan Direnni. Have you received Lady Direnni’s invitation?”

“Not yet,” said Arctus.

“Accept it when you do.”

“Shall I express an interest in advising the Emperor?”

Talos shook his head. “I doubt that it will come up. Clan Direnni is no friend to the Empire. Lady Direnni is not working in Cuhlecain’s best interest. She plays at something else. It may turn out that our goals are not at cross purpose.”

“Clan Direnni’s hatred of the Empire extends to you as well.”

“Perhaps,” said Talos. “But, despite Cuhlecain’s lack of subtlety, he is no man’s fool. She had to offer him something to make him open his home to her.”

“My guess would be you,” said Arctus.

“That was my guess as well,” said Talos, “until Farenenre. Lady Direnni is an intriguing mystery, one that we would be wise to solve quickly.”

“The palace harbors sharp ears,” said Arctus. “I doubt Lady Direnni will be free to speak her true purpose.”

“True, but she does not seek idle conversation. Hear her out, I would know if her apparent subtlety is a happy accident, or a small sample of what we can expect from her in the future.”

Arctus nodded, “and Farenenre?”

“Spared for now,” said Talos. “Killing him at this juncture serves her ends, not ours. When Farenenre leaves the stage it will be to our benefit.”

Arctus took the second goblet on the tray. He raised it to his lips. “He is a loose end.”

“Indeed, a loose end who wants to kill you.” Talos smiled, “perhaps we can make use of that.”

Arctus lowered the goblet. “General?”

“You should return home, Arctus. Doubtless by now Lady Direnni’s representative is waiting.”

Arctus bowed and turned toward the door.

“On your way out, tell Alorius that I have need of him,” said Talos.

Pfff..... And then they call the Tsaesci snakes......
Have I said before how much I like the intrigues and conspiracies in your story? Well, I do

ARGH !!!!! I'm following Arctus to see what plot you are hatching with him, will he become the Underking? GAAAH !!!!!!! This story should be in book form so we don't have to wait between chapters !!!!! ARGH !!!!

Or posted in its own entirety on its own website

I loved how you are continuing to tighten the weave here. We see the syffim, and the way Cuhlecain is so inconsiderate of their honor and their skills. I seriously doubt Talos would throw them away on the Arena sands, let alone separate them. I have a feeling this won't turn out well for our stunted Emperor.

You had me going for a moment in the previous post about Arctus's loyalty to Talos, but now I'm reassured (slightly) that he hasn't turned. Yet.

And like General Talos, I am waiting to see what Lady Direnni is up to.

Two scenes. I enjoyed both of them, especially the first.

Scene I. What magnificent contrasts among characters! Look at the stark differences among these three: I'm puttin' my gold on the Snakes; they don't blink.


Scene II. Some of the political intrigue excapes me I'm sure, but I'll tell you what did not escape me:
Only our fair Lady from Anvil feeds me so well!

The way you describe the audience with Cuhlecain is a lesson in effective writing. You never say “The Emperor is a small-minded, narrow fool, unfit to command the Tsaesci or anyone else.” But that is the inevitable conclusion from that small scene. It is compact, dense, and incredibly powerful.

Talos, on the other hand, comes across as more than fit to sire a line of Emperors worthy of the title. The dance between Lady Direnni and Talos is wonderfully complex.

Emperor Cuhlecain bathed in a solid gold tub and gave distracted audience to a snake.
Right out of the gate you give us this brilliant line! It says so much, with so few words, in such an attitude, that it spells out volumes!

And I can see Cuhlecain royally blew it with Renald. Exactly as I expected. One thing you have made very plain is that he really does not have what it takes to rule. He lacks both the charisma and the cunning. If Talos did not depose him, someone else would have.

Likewise, I really like how you portray Talos. He really is like a Caesar come right from the pages of history and into Tamriel. He has the cool, the grace, the nerve, and sheer brilliance that make a great leader. It really is no wonder he made himself Emperor, and was the first to conquer all of Tamriel. As Remko said, you really do write intrigue quite well, and he is the perfect spider to be manipulating everything from the center of his web.


nits:
the forked tongue that tasted of the very air around them
The of sounds a little odd, like Cuhlecian was eating the tongue and describing what it tasted like (and not chicken for a surprise!). I think if you just delete the of, the sentence will flow more directly.