Well, here we are, my third assault on the bastion of fanfiction

They say third time's the charm, and I really hope they're right. And if not, well at least I'm having fun writing and playing. I'm pretty sure I've avoided making the same mistakes I did with my previous attempts, so any mistakes I make this time round will be all new ones. If I'm lucky

As ever, comments, criticism, suggestions, and nitpicking are all welcome, and as before, don't feel you need to pull your punches!

Since we have a thread for character trailers, I thought "why not write one?":

Trailer

Here goes nothing...


Prologue

As the sun sets on Cyrodiil, washing the sky with its myriad gentle hues, forces gather within the Imperial City.

As the shadows deepen across the city figures swathed in hooded robes make their way to access points to the sewers. Others, clad in the same robes, conceal themselves in shadowed alleys. They have been arriving in the city for days, and will quit the city tonight, through forgotten passages beneath the streets. For months they have prepared, finding secret ways lost to memory, and tonight they will exploit them to terrifying effect. They speak as little as possible to each other, though most intone prayers in near-silent whispers as they ready themselves for what is to come. The citizenry carry on about their business as usual, blind to goings on that didn't concern them, and those few that did catch a glimpse of the figures are quietly dealt with.

The heart of the Imperial City, White Gold Tower, buzzes with activity. A score of heavily armoured men and women prepare themselves for battle, checking the buckles of their armour and the edges of their blades. They are silent and serious, grim countenances dwelling on the thought of what is to come. Word has reached them that their brothers and sisters have failed in their duties, and each of them swears anew the oaths they took when they were granted their posts. They know the weight of responsibility that falls on them, heavier than the armour they bear, but they take pride in knowing that they are trusted beyond all others with this duty. They know too the cost of failure, and that thought weighs upon them heavier still, letting fear and doubt gnaw at the edges of their minds.

The Imperial City Prison, on the other hand, is still. The only sounds to be heard are the guards drilling outside, the gentle lapping of the waves from the lake, and the whispering breeze. The prisoners are oblivious to the preparations throughout the city, though one among them has been patiently waiting for such events, not that he imagined they would be so severe. He sits calmly in his cell, on a rough stool pulled towards the far wall of his cell, leaning back against it. His arms are folded across his chest, and he rests his feet casually upon the rickety table, beside his jug of water. The feeble torch by the gate fails to light the cell fully, leaving his corner darkened, his face swathed in shadow. Only his eyes are visible, gleaming crimson in the darkness. Though his face is cloaked in darkness, robbing it of expression, the prisoner exudes an air of calm, the surety of one who knows he is exactly where he needs to be, even if he doesn't know why.



And above him, in the dark corner where walls meet ceiling, a spider sits in its web, patiently waiting for flies to blunder into it and become ensnared...

I like the build up...The bustle of all the various parties comes across excellently...

And then there's the nicely contrasting picture of the quietness and beauty of the world outside of the prison walls....

Even if he knows he wants to be there... ...



I like that line a lot...

It's swaggy... ... ...

Nah, fair dues...Brilliantly done...

Nice one!!!...

*Applauds heartily*...

I’m so pleased to see you engaged in a new story!

This very mysterious prologue does a great job of quickly pulling the reader in! I gather that events here seem to be right before Uriel’s assassination and that our crimson-eyed prisoner is somehow involved.

Between your trailer, the title of this story and your final paragraph, the spider/web metaphor is wonderful. It is deliciously uncertain as to whether the ‘web’ implies simply intrigue, an inescapable fate, involvement with the Mythic Dawn, or even foreshadows the hand of the webspinner, Mephala.

Nit-like comments:

‘His feet rest upon the rickety table that holds his jug of water and cup, and the feeble torchlight fails to reach the corner, leaving his face in shadow, only his eyes visible, gleaming crimson in the darkness.’ - - There is too much going on here for this to work well as one sentence without seeming overly complex. A good idea is to limit the clauses/thoughts/bits of info imparted in one sentence to two or, at a maximum, occasionally three. I’d recommend this be broken into three sentences.

Writing in the present tense can be tricky but, with great care, can be done for short segments when there is good reason. A prologue can certainly be a great opportunity to do so when it suits your purpose. It is challenging to pull off though, as most writers can’t help but drift into past tense at some points. You did so during the final sentence of your second paragraph.

Edit: I see you did some tweaking in both areas - very nice!

Welcome again, Callidus, to our wonderful fanfiction section.

Truly a mysterious beginning, this. From what I've gathered I do see something relating to the Main Quest. Failed duty does sound familiar. Reading more it does seem we will be dealing with a certain prisoner that's been caught in a web. I do look forward to more.

Once again, welcome back.

McB: Swaggy? Heh, I hated that line about the spider, took me five attempts to get it to sound right.

Acadian: I'll be honest, not even I know the full extent of the web Thanks for the advice.

DE: Glad to be back here.

Well, I've started spinning a web of my own, now to keep it going


Chapter 1, Part 1

The cell stinks. It's cold, damp, and filthy. The bed is little more than a blanket over stone, and the table and chair provided for civility are poorly made and covered in splinters. None of this bothers Tarvyn. He sits amid the squalor as if he were relaxing in a tavern, much to the bewilderment of the guards. Tarvyn has been in the cell for five days now, and by this point the guards have given up on insulting and beating him. Even Valen Dreth, the spiteful Dunmeri prisoner in the cell opposite, failed to make an impression on the enigmatic prisoner. Were it not for the shadows concealing Tarvyn's face his smile would mock them all. He leans back against the wall, as if oblivious to his surroundings, and watches the thin shaft of light as it saunters across his cell.

Time passes...

The sound of armoured footfalls echoed down the stairs. Tarvyn's eyes flicker open, and he strained his ears to make out the faint voices accompanying them. He couldn't hear the words clearly, but he heard the voices. The first was female, her voice taut with tightly reined fear and anxiety. The other was that of an old man; tired, and carrying an undertone of resignation. The voices grew louder as they made their way down the stairs, but Tarvyn had stopped paying attention to them. Instead he listened to the footsteps, counting the steps, the timing, trying to discern how many approach.

Two ornately armoured figures appeared before Tarvyn's cell. The first was a woman, Breton or Imperial, Tarvyn couldn't tell, but she was too short and slender to be a Nord. Beside her was a Redguard, brow furrowed and eyes filled with anger. And behind them, in robes even more ornate than the armour of his companions, stood the old man. This close Tarvyn saw the weariness in him; the tired eyes, the resigned slump of his shoulders. Before him Tarvyn saw a man who knew he was marching to his death, and that all hope has fled.

The door above slammed shut, and a third pair of heavy boots thundered down the steps. Another Redguard, breathing heavily and sweating from exertion. “Captain, the rearguard hold the gate, and will fall back to the bridge when they need to, but they cannot hold for long.”

“Understood.” She looked to the other Redguard. “Glenroy. Get that door open.”

It wasn't until Glenroy opened the door that they noticed Tarvyn, half concealed by shadows and still as the wall at his back. The Captain drew her sword. “What's this prisoner doing here? This cell is supposed to be off-limits. Never mind. Glenroy, make sure he doesn't move.”

Glenroy immediately stepped forward, drawing his blade and levelling it at where he guessed Tarvyn's throat to be, “Don't move prisoner. Try to stand and you'll hit the floor before you find your feet.” Tarvyn made no response, but his smouldering crimson eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and Glenroy spat at the indifference he found there.

The Captain slammed the pommel of her blade against a nondescript stone in the wall of the cell, and a section of it behind Tarvyn's 'bed' swung away on hinges, creaking and groaning from disuse. The Captain waved the other Redguard forward, along with the old man. “Sire, we haven't much time.”

The old man's gaze, however, was locked on Tarvyn. “Who are you, prisoner? And why are you here, of all places, on this night?” The old man stood between Tarvyn and the torch, leaving his face as shadowed as Tarvyn's, only his eyes visible. Tarvyn met his gaze, and beneath the sorrow and resignation that filled those blue eyes, caught a flicker of something else. For an instant Tarvyn could have sworn he saw fire in those eyes, as if they looked upon flames and reflected them.

“I am, like you, caught in the web of another. My crime is murder. I killed a soldier of the Legion.”

Glenroy scoffed. “How could a wretch like you kill a Legionnaire?”

“With ease. I walked up behind him and slit his throat.”

“Hmph. So you're a coward as well. How far did you run before you were caught, craven scum?”

“I didn't run. I stood over the body until I was arrested and brought here.”

Glenroy was completely thrown by that, and his face crumpled in confusion as he tried to make sense of it. Before he could reply the old man asked “Why would you kill one of my Legionnaires, and then wait to be caught?”

Tarvyn did not meet the old man's gaze as he replied. “Because those were my instructions.”

The Captain cut off any reply the old man might have had. “Sire. We don't have time for this, we need to get out of here now. Glenroy, execute the prisoner, he knows about the passage.” Glenroy smiled coldly as he raised his blade to strike.

But the old man caught Glenroy by the arm, arresting his swing. “No, Glenroy, do not kill him. He is not here by chance, some agency guided his steps. Perhaps to help, perhaps to hinder, perhaps simply to watch. Until we know, Glenroy, stay your blade.”

Despite the obvious deference of the three to the old man, Glenroy tried to argue the point. “But sire, he might be working with the enemy. Why else would he be in this cell, on this night?”

“Will you kill any whom you do not trust, Glenroy? I'll not have my Blades stained with the blood of innocents.” He turned to the Captain. “He comes with us.”

“Your will, sire. On your feet prisoner.” Tarvyn rose from his seat and stretched languidly, shaking the lethargy from his limbs while the Captain spoke to the others. “Sire, follow me, Glenroy, Baurus, You come next. Let the prisoner follow, but keep him behind you.” She threw a dark glance Tarvyn's way “Is that understood, prisoner?” Then she turned and started off down the tunnel, not waiting for a response. As they passed through the doorway the Captain slammed the pommel of her sword into another nondescript stone, and the passageway swung shut behind them, slowly enough for Tarvyn to get through without rushing.

The darkness swallowed them. The rough rock tunnel gave way to a corridor of well finished white stone, and light seemed to filter down from above. Instinct and training screamed at Tarvyn to move with stealth, to cling to the shadows and hang back from the heavily armoured guards. Tarvyn smiled and fell back on his training, his footfalls no more than whispers drowned out by the clash of armour ahead. He stuck close to the walls, almost scraping along them as he went, to minimise any silhouette he might cast. He did not know what might await them, but his teachers had spent hours drilling into him the knowledge that caution was its own reward.

The passageway led out into a larger chamber, with raised platforms to either side and a pair of short staircases leading down towards a door. The pale stone of the walls caught the feeble light that filtered in from above and threw it about the room, seeming to deepen shadows rather than dispel them. The Captain raised a hand and Glenroy and Baurus stopped, one standing before the old man, the other behind. Tarvyn stopped also, throwing a quick glance over his shoulder, checking that the wall behind did not leave him silhouetted. If there was a threat here he wanted it unaware of his presence. The Captain advanced towards the stairs alone, her head turning this way and that as she searched for potential threats. Finding none, she turned to wave the others forward.

That was when the shadows fell on her.

Three figures leapt from the darkness above, bodies wreathed in magic as armour congealed around them, called forth from the waters of Oblivion. Maces likewise materialised in their hands, and the three pounced upon the Captain, laying her low in a flurry of frenzied blows. Her cries of pain and rage were all but lost amidst the hammering of maces on steel, but the sharp crack of the blow that snapped her head round rang out above the din. She fell limply to the ground, dead long before she hit. Baurus and Glenroy surged forwards, their blades flowing through graceful, powerful strokes that left the attackers reeling backwards under the assault. The training of the Redguards showed as they outclassed the assailants, battering aside their maces and laying them open from shoulder to hip with smooth, sweeping slashes.

Glenroy didn't bother checking to see if the Captain was still alive. “Baurus, take point, I'll cover the rear.” Baurus opened the door below and stepped through, followed a moment later by the old man. Glenory waited by the door as Tarvyn approached, and as Tarvyn approached the door, struck him across the face with the pommel of his sword. Tarvyn fought to keep awake as blackness gnawed at the corners of his vision, and heard the Redguard speak. “I hope you rot in here, murderous scum.” Tarvyn heard the door close, and the squeal of a key turning in an ill-treated lock, and knew he was trapped.

The mysterious Tarvyn meets the royal party attempting to flee the city in a wonderfully familiar scene, but with your own distinctive twists. Confessing to the murder of a Legionnaire certainly had the predictable effect of endearing Tarvyn to the Blades (Not! ).

‘The darkness swallowed them. ....’ - - This, and the whole paragraph that it led into was very atmospheric and well done. As they enter the darkness, we get a glimpse into Tarvyn’s background and training – clearly in stealth. And if his earlier words to the Emperor are to be believed, he is working for. . . someone. Plenty of mystery here!

Then the Redguard Blades show their skill and mettle as they put down those pesky assailants.

Not overly surprising, but still a nice twist that Tarvyn gets laid low by Glenroy and left behind to rot. We see now why he asked Baurus to lead the Emperor ahead.

Great story so far!


Nit - If you look at almost any example of written dialogue, you’ll notice that when writers change speakers, they always start a new paragraph. That is the ‘standard’ for writing dialogue. It helps shift the reader’s focus from one speaker to the next and helps avoid confusion about who is speaking. Highly recommended.

Oooh, I like that muchly...Very muchly...

I very fondly remember this start bit...Not just because - helpfully enough - I've just done it meself... ...But because we'd never played anything that seemed as awesome as this beginning bit...Like McDaughter said the other day, "Do you remember when this was actually scary?"...

Um...I sidetracked a tad...

Errr...Oh yeah!!...I definitely loved the way you subtly altered stuff to make it your own...

Brilliantly done...

Loved all the descriptive stuff to do with the environment...

That bit where the Mythic Dawn descend onto Renaud (Renault?) I forget...*Looks*...Oh, it doesn't say...Aaamywho...Ne'ermind...It was mightily well done anyways...It has always seemed a tad cold that neither soldier - or even The Emperor™ - goes and stands over the Captain and marks respect...*Shrug*...But I loved the way you do that...And Glenroy's (who was also excellently written) off-hand laying low of Tarvyn was brilliant...

Loved it Thorny...Excellent job!!...

Nice one!!...

*Applauds heartily*...

Callidus, I’m delighted that you’re writing Tarvyn’s story! As the others have said, you’ve put a new twist on a familiar scene and made it yours, or rather Tarvyn’s. I’m looking forward to this!

You've truly given us a fantastic description of the descent into darkness, Callidus. Truly, I liked the scene quite a bit. From this we can take that Tarvyn is familiar with sneaking. The captain's death was just the right touch. Gruesome, frightening and abrupt. Those Mythic Dawn assassins are terrifying. You bring us back to the memories of these fanatically deadly cultists. Well done, Callidus.

From where Tarvyn goes from here we can guess, but only you know. I'm interested in seeing him go to the outside world, and the Web he's caught in.

Acadian: Thanks for the nitpick. I got a little ocd and thought it looked too messy, then thought I could signpost my way out of it. Not a mistake I'll make again.

McB: Thanks. I've always thought Renault got shafted in the tutorial, one hit and she's gone, and then a quick question from the Emperor and they're on their way.

Grits: Thanks! It's most definitely Tarvyn's though, I'm just along for the ride

DE: Thanks. I've always thought both the Mythic Dawn and the Blades were a little weak in Oblivion. I've decided to beef them up, but I can't say anymore than that yet.


Right, I think it's time for a few answers, don't you?



Chapter 1 Part 2

Tarvyn slowly forced himself to his feet, still reeling from the blow, and staggered over to the bodies of the assailants. Their armour and weapons had disappeared, leaving them dressed in dark red robes. Tarvyn searched the bodies anyway. As he expected, they carried no weapons, not even daggers, though they did at least carry some potions, though most of the vials had been shattered during the fight. His hand itched for the feel of a weapon, so he moved on to search the Captain's body.

The Captain's blade had skittered away as she fell, but Tarvyn had no experience with blades of that sort. Long blades like that were harder to conceal, slower to swing, and relied on a different style of fighting. His search of the body turned up a weapon more to his liking. On the Captain's left hip was a second scabbard, which held a shorter steel blade. Either she carried it as a backup weapon, or she had been trained to fight with a blade in each hand, Tarvyn would never know. He removed the scabbard and belted it around his waist. Then, driven by an urge he couldn't explain, he picked up her fallen sword and placed it in her hands, closing her lifeless fingers about the hilt as best he could.

With that done, Tarvyn searched the chamber, pausing occasionally to lean against the walls and steady himself as the ground seemed to shift beneath him at odd intervals. The door before him was locked, and even if he could find the right stone to press to open the door to his cell, it wouldn't help much. He briefly entertained the notion of attempting to reach the door the attackers must have entered through, but though his dizziness was passing he doubted he could make the climb. The walls were immaculately crafted, the the only flaws in the stonework the product of age rather than poor workmanship. Desperation forced him to dwell on the idea even longer, until the sounds of something crumbling caught his attention. He turned towards its source just as, with a triumphant squeak, a section of the wall caved outwards and a rat burst through.

Again, Tarvyn's training leapt to the fore. Where his earlier actions had been guided by the teachings of the Morag Tong, now the lessons of House Telvanni made their presence felt. Magic surged down his arm, and fire leapt from his fingertips towards the rat. It was only a basic flare spell, designed as a signal rather than a weapon, but was still powerful enough to be used as such in an emergency. The rat was caught in the midsection before it could lunge at Tarvyn, and was hurled backwards by the flare, smouldering as it rolled to a halt. A second flare dispatched another rat that was scampering towards the hole in the wall, and Tarvyn moved through the hole in the wall, the only path left to him.

The darkness in the chamber was near absolute, only a thin shaft of light from above providing any illumination, and that only revealed a skeleton clad in old leather armour. Before Tarvyn could look closer, he heard a scuffling from behind him. He turned, but saw only blackness. He raised his hand to cast a spell of detect life, but each time he tried the spell slipped from his mind, no doubt the legacy of Glenroy's blow to the head. He was forced to launch a pair of flares to peel back the darkness momentarily, and then a third to char the rat as it threw itself at him.

Now free of distraction, Tarvyn returned his attention to the skeleton. Beside it lay an old bow, weakened by age and exposure, and Tarvyn smiled. They might be old, but could simple chance have left them there? Within an hour of leaving his cell he now had armour, a shortsword, a bow, and a quiver full of arrows. Mephala's Web, it seemed, was long in the spinning. A pouch on the skeleton's belt even contained some lockpicks, which Tarvyn immediately put to use; first on the battered wooden chest near the bones, then on the locked door, moving deeper into the tunnels.

Tarvyn stalked through the darkness, clinging to the shadows, and slaying all he came across. Rats, goblins, even a zombie fell to arrows and flares fired from within Tarvyn's sable cloak.

He had spent so long creeping through the darkness of the tunnels that when he stumbled back into the corridors above the relative brightness stunned him for a moment. Once more he was surrounded by pale stonework, on a platform overlooking the old man and his two remaining guards. Their armour was battered and plastered with blood, though little of it seemed to be their own, and several robed figures lay dead around the chamber. Smiling grimly, Tarvyn sat on the edge of his platform, and slid off to the floor below.

He landed softly, knees bending to absorb the impact, but Glenroy heard him and spun at the sound. “You again! I should have killed you, murderous wretch.” Blade in hand, Glenroy advanced on Tarvyn, only to come up short as the old man's voice rang out.

“Glenroy. I told you before that the prisoner is not to be harmed. You would disobey your Emperor?” Tarvyn's eyes widened a little in shock. He'd known the old man was important, but had figured him to be some wealthy noble fleeing the Capital. He shook his head ruefully, what had Mephala dropped him into?

“No sire. But this scum cannot be trusted. He might be working with-”

“Enough, Glenroy. I'll not have blood shed from suspicion alone. The enemy are all around us, they attack with no regard for their own lives, like fanatics. They know secret ways lost even to the Blades, and they have already slain my sons. What need have they for one placed at my side, when they have dozens willing to trade their lives for mine? This Dunmer is here with purpose, and I would know what it is.” The Emperor turned to Tarvyn, and continued. “What is your name prisoner? And why are you here?”

Tarvyn, suddenly feeling weary under the weight of that gaze, sat down on the floor, leaning his back against a broken pillar. “My name is Tarvyn Dralor. And as I said before, I am like you, sire, caught in the web of another.”

The Emperor smiled at that. “That does not truly answer my question Tarvyn Dralor, any more than it did back in your cell. How came you to be in that cell? Not your crime, but the reason for it.”

Tarvyn sighed heavily. “That will require a longer explanation sire. One I do not believe we have time for.”

“We have a little time left to us. And though my Blades would never speak it, they would welcome a break from the fighting. Tell your tale Tarvyn.”

“As you wish, sire. I came here from Vvardenfell, where I was a member of both the Morag Tong and of Great House Telvanni. I was only a low ranking member of each of them, so it was not frowned upon. Had I sought to rise through the ranks then a choice would have been forced upon me, but as long as I remained where I was my dual allegiances were tolerated. House Telvanni had long kept ties with the Morag Tong, having more use for them than all the other Great Houses save perhaps Hlaalu. And for their part, the Morag Tong discretely encouraged its members to learn a degree of magic, and preferred them to learn from a Dunmeri institution.

The Morag Tong worshipped Vivec, first and foremost. The Temple taught that each of the Tribunal was preceded by an Anticipation, one of the Good Daedra who shaped Dunmeri society before Almsivi. So the Morag Tong held Mephala in the highest regard, even if we did not worship her directly.

Then the Nerevarine came.

The Tribunal were revealed as false gods, and were cast down, save Vivec, who instead lent aid to the Nerevarine. Maybe Vivec recognised that he could not defeat Dagoth Ur. Maybe the stories whispered beyond the hearing of those of the Temple are to be believed, and he wished to atone for his past actions. For whatever reason he helped the Nerevarine, was spared the fate of Sotha Sil and Almalexia, and disappeared. Though he is still widely respected, even in his absence.

When the Nerevarine revealed the Tribunal to be false gods, some of us began to turn back to The Anticipations; Azura, Boethiah, and Mephala. In the six years since the fall of the Tribunal, word spread that the Empire had delivered the Nerevarine to Vvardenfell, and had played a role in events. I felt that a debt was owed to the Empire, though others said it was just the Empire looking for leverage in Morrowind. Whether the motives were good or ill, the Empire played a role in the defeat of Dagoth Ur.

For months struggled with my thoughts. The debt could not be repaid in Vvardenfell, but how could I leave blindly for Cyrodiil, not knowing what I could do there? Eventually I turned elsewhere for answers. I made my way to the shrine of Mephala, the closest and most accessible of the Three, and there sought guidance. Mephala spoke to me, and I followed her instructions, though they ended with my imprisonment.”

“And you know nothing of why she sent you?”

“What does a piece on the gameboard know of the mind that placed it? Or a dagger of the one who wields it? In this I am but a tool, placed in the web without guidance, to act as I feel I must.”

“And how do you feel you must act?” The Emperor asked, an enigmatic grin bringing a faint sparkle to his eyes amid the gloom.

“As I said, sire. I feel a debt is owed to the Empire.”

“Then you shall be given a chance to repay that debt, this very night, I think. Now come, our time here is nearly up.”

“Where are we going sire?”

The Emperor leaned in closer, his next words little more than a whisper. “You know the answer Tarvyn, at least as much as I do. I saw that in your eyes when we first met. You know I go to my grave, called by a tongue shriller than all the music. Where you go from here I cannot say. My dreams of days ahead end this night, and all that I see now is fire and death.” And with that the Emperor called over his Blades and they set off, Glenroy leading, Baurus remaining between Tarvyn and the Emperor.

OOoooh, nicely done that with the old concussion making it impossible to do the spells... ...

Loved hearing about Tarvyn's history, sounds a proper hard-ass... ...

Oh, I also enjoyed the side-step of most of the Goblin™ dungeon crawl bit.. ...

And Uriel's turning up in anyone's story is always an absolute joy...Loved that...

Nicely done Thorny-Boy!...

*Applauds heartily*...

I love that you are simply summarizing the game parts that you don’t need in the story.

You worked Tarvyn’s backstory seamlessly into the flow of now. Well done and very interesting!

You continue to do a great job with the tutorial. Like McB, I enjoyed the logical explanation as to why Tarvyn’s magic is limited at the moment to primarily a flare spell. And, as Grits said, good choices picking and choosing what to summarize and what to lavish attention on.

Again, the title you give this story is well-deserved as we learn more of why Tarvyn is placed where he is.

Good job of quickly establishing a rapport between Uriel and Tarvyn, even as you maintain the tension from the Blades.

This is all nicely done, and you have a very engaging style.

Nits:

‘The walls were immaculately crafted, the the only flaws in the stonework the product of age rather than poor workmanship.’ - - Double ‘the’ before the word ‘only’.

“For months struggled with my thoughts.” - - This is dialogue so, technically, you can have Tarvyn speak any way you wish. I would recommend, however, you consider adding an ‘I’ before ‘struggled’ as I suspect that is simply an unintentional omission.

First let me say that I've been enjoying this story, and revisiting the dreaded tutorial dungeon again, this time with a mysterious Dunmer character.

Now a nit:

This is something I see time and time again - the use of discrete vs discreet. I pick it out here because so many writers, on this forum and elsewhere, get the two mixed up. Not surprising, as the two sound exactly alike (at least to my tone deaf ears), but they mean entirely different things. Thorny, I hope you don't mind my getting up on my little soapbox here . . .

Here's what Merriam Webster Online has to say:


Discrete refers to a number of items that are separate from each other. On the other hand:
In the context of the sentence I quoted above, discreetly would be the appropriate word here.

I hope this helps more than just you, Thorny!

Back to the story. I've been reading it from the first post, and am liking it so far. In this latest post, as others have pointed out, I especially liked the concussion explaining why Tarvyn is not able to cast anything stronger than a Bic lighter, at least in the tutorial dungeon! I hope to see more of Tarvyn's character development as we progress toward the outside world (and perhaps the obligatory bath in Lake Rumare?)

McB: Thanks. I'm not sure Tarvyn's a hard-ass, he's a bit of an oddball really.

Grits: MY last attempt had me trying to write up everything, and it's not something I'd care to try again. Too much time writing and not enough gaming for me

Acadian: Thanks for catching those, and even more for the kind words.

HER: Glad you're enjoying it so far. Thanks for pointing out about discrete/discreet. I was thrown by discretion, that word's a nuisance.



And without further ado, part 3:

Chapter 1 Part 3

Time and again they were attacked by more of the would-be assassins, charging from the shadows in their infernal armour. And each time they were cut down by the Blades, their skill more than making up for their lack of numbers. Tarvyn hung back from the fighting, his rusted bow of little use against the attackers. The swift, fluid fighting style of the Blades left little opportunity for shooting into the melee anyway. He was more likely to hit a Blade than a foe, and while the arrow likely couldn't penetrate their armour, the distraction could prove fatal.

Even the Emperor had drawn his blade, a beautifully crafted silver shortsword that seemed to reflect more light than it should. Such was the skill of his Blades that he never had to shed blood with it, and the three made steady progress, Tarvyn stalking the shadows behind them.

But even as they advanced Tarvyn had the sense of a noose tightening around them. The Morag Tong didn't typically rely on trapping targets, but there were times it was necessary. And members had fallen victim to them in the past, so all were taught to recognise and evade them. But Tarvyn could see no way out of this one. The Blades were limited to a single path, while the assassins were able to attack from seemingly anywhere. Yet they seemed reluctant to press their advantage when they did, only a handful of them attacking at any one time. Tarvyn suspected the attacks were simply to hurry them along, rather than genuine attempts on the Emperor's life.

Nowhere did that become more clear than as they approached the entrance to the sewers, the last stage of the escape route. There they found the gate barred against them, and a metallic squeal from behind them left no doubt that they were trapped. There was only a single path open to them, leading to a single room, with no other exit. Tarvyn waited there with the Emperor while the Blades took up position before the doorway, resolving to hold out until help arrived. Or failing that, to take as many of the foe with them as possible before death claimed them.

Tarvyn stood at the entrance to the room, waiting for the subtle shifts in the darkness that revealed movement, watching the shadows out of the corners of his eyes. The attackers seemed to come from everywhere, dropping from upper levels all around the Blades. Clad in armour and wielding maces still dripping the magics that summoned them, they rushed to the attack. The Blades stood their ground, facing the mad rush with implacable resolve.

Tarvyn watched them fight, as much of it as he could make out in the gloom. Their blades flashed through swift slashes, catching what little light there was in a dazzling display of skill. But even such well trained guardians could not stand forever against the sheer weight of numbers their assailants brought to bear. Though more than a dozen lay slain at their feet, more and more rushed to join the fray, and the Blades were forced onto the defensive as the fight wore on. But still they stood their ground before the passageway, fighting back to back, their blades weaving a lethal web of razor-edged steel around them.

But for all their skill, blows still rained upon their armour, and when one lucky swing glanced off Glenroy's helm, he faltered for just a moment, missing a parry. The blow crashed into his shoulder, his armour screaming as the force of the blow tore it asunder. Glenroy roared, more from rage than pain, as the blade fell from his grip, his mauled arm no longer able to hold it. Fuelled by fury and adrenaline, his good arm shot out and gripped one of the attackers by the throat, crushing the life from him even as he was overwhelmed.

Tarvyn suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to face the Emperor, and was astonished by how calm he seemed. The Emperor reached into his robes and withdrew an amulet, a vast red jewel on a golden chain, and handed it to Tarvyn. “My time is ended Tarvyn, but there is yet one who may take my place. Take my Amulet to Jauffre, tell him to find my secret son. This is why you are here Tarvyn. Deliver the Amulet, and count your debt fulfilled.”

No sooner had he finished speaking than another of the attackers burst through the wall behind him, the truth of the trap finally revealed. Unlike the others he wielded a dagger, and in a single smooth movement darted forward and plunged it into the Emperor's back. The Emperor's final breath gurgled from his throat as his eyes fixed on Tarvyn, imploring him to follow his last command. The assassin withdrew his dagger and stepped towards Tarvyn. Before Tarvyn could even begin to move Baurus was there, knocking the dagger aside before his return stroke buried his blade deep in the assassin's neck. The body collapsed, taking Baurus' blade with it as the sight of the Emperor's body robbed him of his strength.

Baurus stumbled over to the Emperor's side before his knees buckled, almost pitching him to the floor, tears of shame and grief rolling down his cheeks. “We've failed.... I've failed.” He said, his voice barely above a whisper, as if he lacked even the strength to speak. Then a thought shook him from his torpor, and he began searching the Emperor's robes, before turning to Tarvyn. “The Amulet of Kings? Where is it?”

Tarvyn showed Baurus the Amulet and told him of the Emperor's last words.

“Another son? Then there's still hope. You must follow the Emperor's orders. Jauffre is the Grandmaster of the Blades, you will find him at Weynon Priory, near Chorrol.”

“I'm new to Cyrodiil, where's Chorrol?”

“It lies north-west of the Imperial City. The exit from the sewers will put you on the east side of City Isle, the main bridge leading to the city gates is on the west side. Use that to get your bearings, and look for the road signs, it's the best way to get avoid getting lost. But at all costs, stay off the roads, they will not be safe this night, for you more than any.” Baurus reached into a pouch at his belt and handed Tarvyn a key. “This will open the door to the sewers, but before you go there is something I must tell you. You must have wondered why there were only three of us to defend the Emperor? What you have seen this night is only a fraction of what has led us here. Listen well, Tarvyn...”

What a great job writing this epic last stand of the Blades trying to protect their emperor!

‘The swift, fluid fighting style of the Blades left little opportunity for shooting into the melee anyway.’ - - This sure is true. I’ve had terrible luck trying to shoot into a fast moving melee fight.

”Deliver the Amulet, and count your debt fulfilled.” - - A nice twist. No mention of closing the jaws of Oblivion or saving the world. Just a simple request. Hopefully this Jaufre fellow will be able to take things from there. Or maybe not. . . .

Ooh! And another twist as Baurus prepares to reveal som background that the game seems to have overlooked.

Nit: ‘...a beautifully crafted silver shortsword that seemed tp ref;ect more light than it should.’ - - Just a typo, spelling reflect.

And so, once more, passes Uriel Septim...*Nods*...

Awesomely done!!!!...Really enjoyed that, the whole Blades Kicking Behind For The Most Part™ was excellently written!!...

The demise of Glenroy was nicely handled, very epic...

So there's this bit done...Looking forward to seeing where he ends up after the sewer-grate... ...'cause if you're following your game, he'll be in no hurry to get to Chorrol... ...

Excellent stuff...

Nice one!!...

*Applauds heartily*...

Thanks guys!

Here's the next part, Baurus' Tale. I've always thought the game didn't do the Blades justice, and the thought kind of got away from me

Sorry it's taking so long to get out of the sewers.


Baurus' Tale

“The Blades are not mere bodyguards. Those of my order, the Order of Talos, are trained to defend the Emperor and his family. We are drawn from the Legion, chosen both for our skills and our loyalty, and sworn to serve the Emperor above all. With steel and sinew we defend the Dragon Blood, against any and all threats. Only the best of my order are chosen to serve in the Emperor's Guard, and there is no higher honour among the Blades, and no weightier duty. But we are not the only Order of the Blades.

The Order of Zenithar serve as diplomats and ambassadors, and the Orders of Kynareth and Julianos make up the remaining number of Blades; covert agents. Some to discover threats, others to remove them. These agents are spread throughout Tamriel, a clandestine net, ever vigilant for threats to the Empire. The agents report to the Spymaster, who in turn reports to Jauffre, Head of the Order of Talos, and Grandmaster of the Blades. Copies of those reports would then be sent to the Captain of the Emperor's Guard, so that we were not taken by surprise. It is only because of this that we knew the scale of what was coming.

Our agents began to find hints, minor things, but enough of them to suggest something was at work. More agents were sent to investigate, but they found little more before disappearing. Others were sent after them, but they too, vanished. Any agent that went looking for them, or for some clue as to those behind it, were never heard from again. Something was moving against us, and we couldn't even find out what it was. But while we knew nothing of them, it soon became clear they knew a great deal of us.

A week ago, we received word that the Spymaster had been assassinated. The grandmaster immediately had already begun to take action, moving the Emperor's heirs to secure locations, estates in the countryside where they would be easier to defend. Few knew of them, so prying eyes could be seen easier than in the cities. Grandmaster Jauffre decided nowhere in Cyrodiil was safe for the Emperor, save among the Blades, but he dared not move the Emperor, not yet. Leaving the Imperial City could not be done discreetly, not without preparation. Messages were sent to trusted Legion Commanders, patrol routes were adjusted, but we were running out of time. While the Grandmaster arranged this, our covert network in Cyrodiil was shredded, and within four days nearly all our agents had been eliminated.

That was when they went after the Emperor's sons. One by one they were murdered, along with the Blades who defended them. It was only the last remnants of our network that brought word to the Grandmaster, but word did not reach us of this. Until tonight not one message reached us. Captain Renault knew something was wrong, but did not want to act blindly. But when a messenger reached us tonight, half dead and carrying the news of the deaths of the Emperor's sons, her hand was forced.

'The time for discretion has passed', she told us, and so we escorted the Emperor from the Palace. A score of heavily armoured figures surrounding the Emperor, a steel-clad wall of bodies marching through the streets of the Imperial City, swords drawn. The citizens fled at the sight of us, and Legionnaires raced to report to their Captains. By the time we reached the Talos Plaza district, half the city likely knew the Emperor was departing. Not that it mattered, not once we reached Talos Plaza.

They came out of the shadows, silently darting from darkened alleyways and striking without warning. A dozen of them fell upon us from the rear, and three of us fell before we slew the attackers. From that moment on, every step carried a price in blood, ours or theirs. When we saw the main gate held against us, the bodies of Legion Soldiers in pools of blood before it, the Captain ordered us to the Elven Gardens District. We cut our way through, losing two more of our number, but gaining a dozen Legionnaires along the way.

The Elven Gardens were no safer than Talos Plaza had been. They harried us constantly, anywhere from three to six of them at a time. Four of us; the Captain, another Breton named Jhared, Glenroy, and myself kept back from the fighting, shielding the Emperor with our bodies in case they had archers with them. Following the Captain's orders, we fought our way across Elven Gardens, leaving a crimson trail studded with bodies, both ours and theirs.

The Market District was even worse. Half the Legionnaires were cut down within moments, lacking our extensive training, and still more attackers charged us. They grew more and more frenzied as we pushed onwards, harrying us from the sides and rear. At the time we thought we were succeeding, but now that seems folly. They herded us towards the prison. The Captain ordered the rest to stand rearguard, and hold as long as possible, while we escorted the Emperor inside. From there you know our tale. I doubt any of the others survived, not against those numbers."

As Baurus' voice trailed off, Tarvyn remained silent. Baurus had the look of a man stretched to the point of breaking, and he simply didn't know what to say. For long moments Baurus stared at the Emperor's body, as though it were the only thing in the world. Perhaps to him, it was. Then without warning Baurus surged to his feet, scooping up his katana, and turned to face Tarvyn.

“Nearly a score of us, all dead, and still we failed. Yet you survive, when so many fell. The Emperor was right to spare you, Tarvyn Dralor. Now go, I will wait with the Emperor, and should any seek to follow you, I will do what I can. Go.”

What a fabulous illumination of events that led the Emperor’s entourage to the secret escape tunnel in the prison. It all fits nicely with the facts as we know them – and helps explain how the situation became so dire. After hearing Baurus’ impassioned account, I know I would certainly feel obligated to try and deliver that amulet. I look forward to learning if Tarvyn will complete this task.

Nicely done! I’m so glad you added this to the prison sequence.

You're welcome, always... ...

Oh, I know exactly what you mean... ...


Right, this is where I give my "Unqualified to talk really"™ lecture...

This story is yours...And yours only...How long you take to tell it is entirely down to you, and should never be cut short, altered to fit, sequence shortened steps removed etc for any reason other than YOU WANT TO...It's not up to anyone else...

Had you wished to follow the entire dungeon crawl exactly, with musings on the masonry of the under-city; who created the zombie; who put the stuff in the chests; where the Goblins came from, their smell, and the sound of their squeal they make as you drive your sword through their back...Wait...Hang on...*Makes notes*...

My point is, if you'd wanted all that in, because writing it really appealed to you, then that would have been absolutely fine also...

Getting out of the sewers takes a while in the game...You've not exactly hung about, you know?... ...

Everything has been written amazingly well, I've been massively enjoying it...So there's no need to apologise to me about it...I'd have been just as happy, and likely very impressed with the writing had you kept everything else in too...*Shrug*...

Anyways, "loved" the whole sad tale of the utter destruction of the Blades and their spy network...That was brilliantly worked out and written...

The desperate flight across the city was epic and tense...You did excellently there!... ...

Brilliant stuff Thorny-Boy...

Nice one!!...

*Applauds heartily*...

I like the description of the Emperor’s sword. I also like that he drew it to defend himself but the Blades kept that from being necessary. The Blades’ last stand was a treat to read. You did great justice to the fall of Glenroy.

I loved Baurus’s account of the events leading up to the assassination. Very well done. I’m really enjoying this story!

Thanks once again guys, glad you're enjoying it.


Sorry about the delay, had a couple of issues with the writing, and a rather nasty week of next to no sleep, which rather put a crimp on things.

Chapter 1 Part 4

By the time Tarvyn crawled out of the sewers, spattered with filth and goblin blood, night had fallen. Before him stretched Lake Rumare, its dark reflection of the night sky crazed by the rippling waters, as if the stars themselves shivered at the Emperor's death. Tarvyn looked out across for a long moment, savouring the first view of freedom he'd had in days. Then his thoughts turned to his task. Swimming the lake was out of the question. Tarvyn was a weak swimmer, and if there were anything akin to slaughterfish in the water, he'd have a hard time seeing them at night. And then there was the evening chill to consider. Tarvyn didn't want to find out how cold that water was.

Instead he hugged the shoreline, never straying more than two or three strides from the lake, and made his way around the City Isle. He moved in short spurts, dashing forward a few strides before falling into a crouch, bow in hand, alert for any sign he'd been spotted. Nothing saw him but mudcrabs, and Tarvyn laughed whenever they started moving towards him. Vvardenfell had mudcrabs that could tear your leg off if given the chance, these Cyrodiilic creatures were pitiful by comparison. Though after torching one with a couple of flares he conceded that the Cyrodiilic variety were tastier than the ones back home.

Somewhere on the northern side of City Isle he found a wooden bridge across the lake, and, after crossing, continued heading what he believed to be west. He remained as close to the lake as possible, still moving in the same pattern of dashes and halts. Each time he strained his ears for signs of alarm, and each time heard naught but the wind, insects, and the gentle music of the lake.

After a time the vast bridge that led to the Imperial City became visible against the night sky, as much through the stars it blocked out as the braziers that burned on it, and Tavyn moved with more confidence knowing that he was headed in the right direction. The shoreline turned towards the bridge, and Tarvyn continued to follow it, hoping it would bring him close enough to the road that he might be able to spot a road sign.

Soon after a flickering light came into view, which revealed itself to be carried by a Legionnaire on horseback as it drew nearer. Tarvyn dropped into a crouch, hoping to avoid being seen by the patrolling soldier. The last thing he needed right now was some Legionnaire asking too many questions. If anyone found out he had the Amulet of Kings, the Legion would have him back in a cell so fast his feet wouldn't touch the ground.

As the Legionnaire drew nearer, following his patrol route along the road, Tarvyn dropped even lower, stretched out on his belly to provide as low a profile as possible. So intent was Tarvyn on the Legionnaire he almost didn't see the signpost illuminated by torchlight. He was too far away to read it, but as soon as the Legionnaire was out of sight Tarvyn was on his feet again, creeping over to the signpost. It was difficult to read by starlight, but one of the arms pointed in the direction Baurus had described, or so Tarvyn thought. A few moments of close study confirmed it, and Tarvyn darted back off the road.

He moved far enough away to be out of sight of anyone on the road, but kept close enough that he could find it easily. He mimicked the path as best he could, creeping back into view of the road occasionally to gauge its direction. It was hard going, trying to remain stealthy as he struggled through tall grass, skirted wild-growing bushes and even a few times climbed over the trunks of fallen trees. Tarvyn was no woodsman, and night was no time to learn. Even animals were a danger to Tarvyn, as more than a few times he was forced to draw his bow to defend himself from berserk rats or wolves. Each fight made keeping track of the road harder, and he once lost it completely, rediscovering it again only through luck.

Last Seed 28

It was shortly after dawn that he reached Weynon Priory, with not one person having seen him since he left Baurus. He made his way inside, and after asking one of the monks about Jauffre, headed upstairs. Despite the early hour, Jauffre was already sat behind a desk, with another chair placed before it, going through a small stack of papers. He glanced up at Tarvyn and sneered, though it lasted only a moment, as if he'd forgotten he was a monk. Without saying anything, Tarvyn reached into a belt pouch he'd taken from one of the Emperor's attackers and drew out the Amulet of Kings, placing it on the desk. Jauffre's face ran through a gamut of expressions; from astonishment to outrage before settling on stunned fascination. “Who are you? And how did you come by the Amulet of Kings?”

Tarvyn sat down, grateful to be off his feet for a time. “ My name is Tarvyn Dralor. The Emperor gave me the Amulet, moments before he was murdered.”

The blood drained from Jauffre's face, and for a moment Tarvyn thought he was going to collapse at his desk. His hands shook briefly, and Tarvyn could see the strain in the monk's features as he fought to master himself. When he spoke his voice was thick with emotion held barely in check. “Then the enemy have succeeded, damn their hides. Tell me what happened, all of it.”

“First, I must explain why I was in that cell. It was not by chance. I was meant to be there, though I do not yet know why.” Tarvyn told Jauffre everything; his reason for leaving Vvardenfell, the murder he committed upon arrival, and Baurus' tale of the Emperor's Guard in the Imperial City. One of the monks brought up a tray of breakfast for the two of them, cups of water with slices of cold meat and bread. Jauffre ate none of it, but Tarvyn ate ravenously. After days in prison even such simple fare was like a banquet for him. Jauffre's expression darkened as Tarvyn told him of the death of Captain Renault, and Glenroy's heroic end. As he spoke of the Emperor's murder, Jauffre looked as though he was torn between nausea and despair, only for the two to be swallowed by grim resolve.

“Then all is not yet lost. As long as one Septim lives, there is still hope. And for the moment, we hold the advantage, tenuous though it may be. Nearly a score of my best may be dead, but from what you've told me the enemy may well have lost hundreds. I'll have a force of Blades sent to retrieve the heir before sunset. Speed may yet save us all, if they need to rebuild their numbers.” Jauffre tossed Tarvyn a key from a pocket in his robes. “This key opens the chest over there, supplies I keep for travelling agents. Take what you will, I'll also see that you're pardoned. I'll let you know when I have need of you.”

Tarvyn was moving towards the chest before Jauffre had finished speaking, but pulled up short. “Have need of me? My debt to the Empire is repaid, by the Emperor's own word.”

Jauffre's expression grew colder, and Tarvyn had to fight down a shiver. This was no feeble old man sat across from him. Though age had taken it's toll, at heart Jauffre was still a warrior. Tarvyn could hear the steel in his voice, and see the fire in his eyes. And from the way Jauffre spoke, Tarvyn suspected that if you were to cut his heart in two, you'd find the word 'Duty' carved through it. Jauffre's next words seemed to prove Tarvyn right.

“You've paid off one debt, Tarvyn, but what of the others? You took the life of a Legionnaire, do you not owe the Empire for that? And if delivering the Amulet of Kings repaid the debt that brought you to Cyrodiil, do you not owe the Empire for the pardon you're receiving? Two lives you now owe the Empire, one you have taken, and one you have been given. In time, you shall repay both. You would not be the first to aid the Blades under such circumstances. More than a few men and women have joined the Legion rather than face the hangman, and gone on to become Blades. I myself was once given that same choice, by the Emperor himself.”

Tarvyn could hardly believe his ears. The Grandmaster of the Blades had once been sentenced to execution? Before Tarvyn could ask, Jauffre spoke again, “Take what you will, Tarvyn, and leave. There is much I must do. In time you might hear from me. If you receive a letter, speaking of repaying a debt, then come here as soon as you can. Until then, act as you will, but do not leave Cyrodiil, or your pardon will be forfeit.”

Tarvyn grimaced, but did not argue the point. The Morag Tong instilled in its members a sense of honour, and though Tarvyn's was a little more twisted than most, it was still present. He nodded his acceptance and opened the chest, finding a surprising array of equipment within. He replaced his old iron bow with a steel one, and swapped out his cracked leathers for a new set. He also took as many potions and scrolls as the chest held, intending to sell what he couldn't use. Before donning his new armour he went outside and poured a few buckets of well water over himself, washing away most of the filth.

Tarvyn left the Priory, running the events of the last day through his mind. The debt he felt owed had been repaid, but Jauffre had had a point. To repay the debt that brought him here, new debts had been incurred, debts that trapped him in Cyrodiil, at least for the moment. Was Mephala simply toying with him? Was she a manic spider in a crazed web, watching Tarvyn dance as she tugged at the strands of the web? Was there some purpose to her making him further indebted to the Empire, when some mysterious force assailed it? What cause could Mephala have to place him beside the Emperor, in the hour of his death?

Tarvyn shook his head and continued on the road to Chorrol. Trying to guess the designs of the Webspinner was a sure path to the Madgod's side.




This puts Tarvyn's story to rest for a short while: the narrative demands a shift in focus, for a brief mini-series.

Next time: The Fall of Kvatch

First- I simply love the way Tarvyn acts like an escaped prisoner. Of course he avoids Legion patrols and, for that matter, any other travelers.

Your Jauffre is also quite excellent- a man with a past, and not all of it savory.



Had to highlight that one. Tarvyn may (rightly) be concerned about Mephala- but he is finding there are many powers in the world- all with demands and expectations.

Excellent work all around!

Your opening sentences were fabulous. Within moments, we knew exactly where we were, and you did a great job of painting the scene outside the sewers.

I enjoyed Tarvyn’s very tense trip, scampering and hiding all the way to Chorrol.

I cheered when Jauffre said he was going to send a force of Blades to fetch the heir. Finally he gets it! It makes vastly more sense than assigning the task to some unknown stranger just out of prison. Good for you!

Brilliant!!...Loved this so much...

Jauffre was awesome!!...I loved how you wrote him here...Proper excellent...

I thought the way you got Tarvyn to Chorrol was wonderfully done too...

Looking forward - very much - to the Kvatch bit...And seeing what lies in store for Tarvyn too...

Nicely done Thorny-Boy...

Nice one!!...

*Applauds heartily*...

Thanks again guys. I've really got to find something better to say than that...

Anyway, I'm afraid I have to put this on hold for a while while I reevaluate a few things. I'm running into issues on pretty much every level, and need to work out some ways through or around them.

Sorry to hear this one's going on hold for awhile. But this fiction writing stuff can get complicated, can't it?

What counts is having fun. Are you perhaps overthinking things too much? I know that can deliver me right into the jaws of inaction when trying to write.

Anyway, best of luck. You are a talented writer and I look forward to you continuing this, or starting off in a new direction.

Well, this got put on hold for a couple of reasons, but I've dusted it off again. Hopefully I can keep it going.

I've made a few tweaks to some of the parts. Nothing major, just a few changes due to Tarvyn's modified skillset. Now he's specialised in stealth(rather than magic), has his magic options limited(destruction, mysticism, alchemy, minimal illusion(just light and nighteye basically)), he also wears light armour now and can pick locks. The setup he had originally could have covered two characters(in fact, it did), so I figured he needed to be more focused.

The whole "Fall of Kvatch" idea has been scrapped. No matter how many times I tried it, I just can't keep the focus where it should be. I invariably end up covering events across Kvatch during the invasion, rather than focusing on the important character. So now it's going to be a cut-down prelude to the invasion, with the character delivering their take on events at a later point. Or at least, that's the plan.

I hope to have that up in the next couple of days, Monday at the latest.

*Crosses fingers*

That's good news, CT! Make sure when you do put up your new episode that you make a new post here in the thread - if you simply edit the above post, I'm afraid folks will miss that you've added the new episode. Good luck and I'm looking forward to it.

I’m glad you’re writing some more of Tarvyn’s story, Callidus. I look forward to the next part. In the meantime I’ll go back and enjoy the beginning again with the changes you’ve made. This is great news!

I was beginning to think you abandoned this story for good. It is a relief to see another fanfiction returning, and by the looks of it, improved and better than ever! We'll be on standby, waiting for some good storytelling

I wouldn't hold your breath on that front. I'm a little rusty, and this part's been an unholy bitch to write.


So here's the next part, and I feel I should stress a few things: All the previous parts were written, then revised and edited two or three times, often changing substantially with the second draft. This part has not been through this process, because the damn thing's been fighting me all week, and frankly, I'll be glad to be done with it. So it's rough, it's kind of rushed, and I'm certain it needs some more work, but if I didn't get it out of the way I'd never get anywhere.



Kvatch

As the sun gave up its struggle against the horizon, and night began to coil its shadowy arms around Kvatch, a weary Captain Matius made his way back to the barracks. It had been a long day, at the end of an even longer week, which had dropped several unwelcome mysteries on him. First; the murders of the Aurilies, a Breton couple found dead in their homes four days ago. Then there was the matter of Crassius Ancrus, found dead at the bottom of the stairs in his home, an empty bottle of Cyrodiilic Brandy beside him. Yet all of his friends were adamant that not only did Crassius never drink, but he didn't even keep alcohol in for guests. And finally, there was Alusannah, a Redguard woman who ran a popular bookshop, apparently the victim of an attempted mugging that went wrong.

His thoughts were brought to a halt as an unnatural sound tore through the air. Something partway between a scream of agony and the sound of tearing cloth, something that ran fingers of fear up and down his spine without him understanding why. A wave of heat rippled across the city, and veins of crimson twisted the night sky, bathing the city in a bloody red light. Sweat pricked his brow even as he turned, and his mind reeled at what he saw.

Towering over the city, nearly as high again as the wall, and as wide as the city gate itself, was what looked like a curtain of fire. Girded with dark stone columns shot through with crimson traceries, the flames flickered and wept energy, like pus from a wound. Even from where he was, halfway across the city, he could feel the heat from it as if he stood before a blacksmith's forge, and just looking at it turned his stomach. Weariness forgotten, he raced across the city towards the gate, joined by more and more guards, fighting against the tide of civilians fleeing towards them.

As he arrived he heard the voice of his second, Captain Calidia, directing the archers from atop the wall. With legs of lead he scaled the nearest fortification ladder to the battlements. Without the wall shielding him the full force of the inferno washed over him, the sheer heat rolling from it forcing his eyes closed. “It's a portal! That Nine-damned thing is a bloody portal.” He heard Calidia shout at him, between directing volleys from the archers. Forcing his eyes open, he looked out from the wall, and had to cling to the battlements to keep himself from falling as the sight left him weak at the knees.

The portal stood on the open ground before the city, and before it stood an ever-growing horde of daedra. Some of them, tall and humanoid, armoured in black plate edged in crimson, formed up in disciplined ranks. Other daedra; lizard-like creatures large and small, sorcerous wretches that hurled fire at the wall, unarmoured figures wielding heavy weapons with ease, and monstrous blendings of woman and spider, formed in loose clusters. Those with great-weapons were almost as ordered as the ranks of armoured figures, while the rest were marshalled by more of those same figures, wielding barbed lashes. And behind them all, the portal, through which was now being dragged some vast and arcane engine, a siege weapon of some sort. Captain Matius felt an icy current of fear run through him, setting his heart racing, and his grip on the stone tightened until he wondered if it might crumble beneath his fingers.

Then a voice came to him, echoing across time, from when he had been promoted to Captain: A leader must not show weakness, he must be as stone, the foundation from which others draw strength. That was what you were, and that is what you will be again. Though the words had been said a decade and more ago, he heard them as clearly as if they were freshly spoken, and with them came renewed resolve. His fingers eased their grip on the stone, his knees regained their strength, and he buried his fear deep inside himself, where those under his command could not see it.

“Captain Calidia, stay with the archers. Take down as many of those bastards as possible, and do what you can to stop that siege engine.” Not waiting for her response he raced back down the ladder, grabbing the first guards he found. “Dahlia. Get to the Mages Guild, tell them I want every mage who can hurl a lightning bolt on the wall, and everyone who can wield a weapon down here with me. And tell them to bring any healers they have too, we'll need them. Astius. Get to the Fighters Guild, we're going to need every fighter we have.” The two raced off towards the Guildhalls, and he turned his attention to the others gathered before the gates.

He saw the fear in their eyes, magnified by the crimson light that tainted everything, but he had nothing to say. Some men lead by words, others by example. Matius was one of the latter. He had stood when others had lost their nerve, fought when it had been deemed hopeless, and inspired others by doing so. Rousing speeches to give heart to those under his command were as unknown to him as the portal before his city. But he knew he had to say something, so settled for what little he knew, raising his voice to be heard over the noise of bowstrings from above. “The daedra are attacking the city, an army of them has come from that portal. I don't know why, I don't know how, but those questions don't matter. What matters is that we deny them, and we will deny them.”

Astius came jogging back to Matius, notably lacking in reinforcements. “I'm sorry Captain, but the Fighters Guild has been celebrating the anniversary of their branch being founded. Most of them have been drinking since mid-afternoon.”

“How drunk are they?”

“Well, if we propped them up and gave them a torch they could probably belch out a few fireballs, or give them an hour and a torch and they could rain fire from the battlements, the men anyway.” Despite the situation, Astius couldn't help letting his usual levity slip through. The fact that three of the women (and two of the men) had been dancing on the tables in varying states of undress hadn't helped matters.

He was spared from having to reply by the arrival of the mages, half of them racing up the ladders to join the archers, the rest coming to a halt before him. He recognised the three at the front; Arnand LaRouche, a Breton, Norionil, an Altmer, and Miara Felas, a Dunmer. All were aspiring Battlemages, who trained regularly with the guards. Each of them was clad in steel armour, wielding a warhammer, a battleaxe, and a claymore, respectively. Behind them were three robed figures: an Altmer, an Imperial, and another Breton, each wielding smaller, lighter weapons than the Battlemages. Captain Matius guessed them to be the healers.

“Hail, Captain Matius! The Mages Guild stands ready to aid you.” Arnand shouted, even as the crackle of lightning bolts began to accompany the sounds of archery. “What's the situation?”

“Daedra have opened some manner of portal before the city gates. A horde of them has assembled, and they're bringing through some form of siege engine.”

“A portal? That's impossible.” Norionil butted in, his expression a mixture of anxiety and curiosity.

“Impossible or not, it's bloody well happening. Once that siege engine starts working on the gates, I want them reinforced with shield spells. The longer we can keep them out, the more the archers can thin their ranks. When they break the gates it's going to be bloody.”

“But-”

Captain Calidia's shout cut him short. “Captain Matius! The Daedra are retreating!” Matius wasted no time in joining her at the battlements, arriving just in time to see the siege engine disappear back into the portal. The archers and mages continued to fire on the retreating Daedra, though Matius could see how little effect they'd had. Perhaps one in thirty of the Daedra lay dead between the gate and the portal, though many of those retreating were visibly wounded by arrow or spell.

“Something isn't right” He turned towards the voice, finding the statuesque figure of Sigrid, head of the Kvatch chapter of the Mages guild, standing beside him. A detached part of Captain Matius wondered how her hair could be so artfully arranged at this time of night, and why it was that mages seldom dressed appropriately for battle. She was looking out, as he had been, watching the retreating daedra, the confusion clear to see on her face.

“Norionil already told me that opening a portal like that shouldn't be possible”

“It's not that. Those armoured daedra down there, the ones herding the others through the portal, they're Dremora.. They're a warrior people, reputed to be honourable, even though most of them worship Mehrunes Dagon. To assemble in such numbers, only to retreat without even launching an attack, would bring dishonour on their leaders. Not to mention enraging Mehrunes Dagon.”

“So why would they retreat? They're not going to be able to catch us off guard, now that we know they can open portals like that. Why waste an advantage like that just to flee without attacking?”

Sigrid turned to answer him, but as she opened her mouth a chorus of hideous screams sang out behind them. Terror crystallised in their stomachs as they turned, both knowing what they would see, but unable to ignore it. As they looked out across the city, the sky turned crimson once more, and a half-dozen lesser portals tore their way up from the ground. From them emerged the same hordes of Daedra that moments before had stood before the city, and the night air grew thick with screams of horror and cold, bestial laughter...

Great to see you back and continuing this!

Wow! I was white knuckled and sweating even as I read this. Showing the Daedric invasion of Kvatch through the eyes of Savlian Matius was a masterful choice. I’ve said countless times that when it comes to a noble selfless hero, he is the gritty real deal – and you certainly did him justice here. As you did with Sigrid – that she was perfectly coiffed was just the small touch of light humor that was needed.

I'm with the Paladin regarding Savlian Matius and Sigrid's portrayal here. I really loved that you chose to bring us to Kvatch just as the Gates were opening. Being inside Savlian's head as things are happening around him adds depth to what is typically a done deal in the game.

I share Acadian's admiration for Savlian Matius an epitome of the selfless real deal - maybe the only one - in all of TESIV. He is certainly my hero.

As the sun gave up its struggle against the horizon, and night began to coil its shadowy arms around Kvatch.

Great image you painted for us!

This chapter was gritty, dark and scary as we've been given a glimpse of the horrific Daedric invaders to the mortal realm. Seeing Matius as the pov character in this chapter was a great touch and it was such a good thing to see everything unfold through his eyes. For certain, he is a brave and selfless hero. Things doesn't look too bright with the sky darkening red and more Daedra pouring in. I can't wait until we see the battle unfold . . . and if, by chance, we see our hero(es) venture in Oblivion!

I love that you showed the beginning of the invasion through Savlian Matius’s eyes. It was great to see the Mages Guild show up ready to defend their city.

Perfect! Just like a mage.

Well, I'd originally planned to bounce over to Tarvyn for a while, but following some advice in another thread I decided to cut it. I was having trouble getting into it enough to write, and it's pretty much a sideshow anyway, but the story will shift back to Tarvyn for the next part.

For now, other characters hold the spotlight...


Kvatch, the fourth day after The Fall

Captain Matius awoke with a groan, besieged by the aches sleeping in his armour left him with. It was the fourth day since Kvatch had fallen, and he had yet to remove his armour. None of his command had, unless it was in need of repairs. More than one of the camp's defenders wore ill-fitting armour, taken from a fallen comrade and hastily repaired, because their own was too damaged and the smith too busy. The hard ground and thin bedroll only made the aches worse.

He sat up, only to choke down a cry of agony and fall back, clutching at his ribs where a Dremora mace had broken them three days previous. Only one healer had survived The Fall, and she had more than she could handle with those more seriously wounded, so the bones were only half-healed. As he fought back the pain he felt a nagging sense of wrongness, but between the aches and pains of waking and the lingering grasp of sleep, he couldn't work out what was behind it.

Managing to get to his feet on his second attempt, he left his tent and made his way back to the hasty fortifications, still being added to whenever possible. More than once, he noted the survivors looking even more grim than the day before, and the feeling of wrongness once more assaulted him. He was still trying to figure out what was different when he reached the plateau, where Leond Aerius, his second in command, was waiting to be relieved.

“Something's wrong, Leond, something's different.”

Leond looked at him for a moment, his expression somewhere between shock and sorrow. “Aye Captain. It's the screaming. It's stopped.”

Matius almost reeled in shock. How could he have failed to notice something so obvious? Now he understood the looks of the survivors, the resigned slump of the defenders' shoulders. He nodded. “Then that means-” His voice broke, and he couldn't force another word past the sudden lump in his throat. He knew nobody had said it, that nobody wanted to say it, but that they were all thinking it.

There were no more screams from inside the city, because there was no-one left alive.

Weye, the same morning.

Baurus had never been so glad to leave the Imperial City. He had spent most of the four days since the Emperor's death meeting with various members of the Elder Council, in open meetings or private audiences. Three days without an Emperor, and already the Elder Council was paralysing itself, squabbling amongst themselves over morsels of power and influence while Chancellor Ocato tried to maintain order.

He was glad to be back in his armour too, freshly repaired, the Legion armourers efforts were such that no trace of the damage it had taken could be found. His Akaviri Katana and shield had been similarly repaired, and though he was grateful for their efforts, he felt a nagging sense of unease about his equipment. That feeling only intensified as he reached the crossroads just beyond the village, and before setting off towards Bruma, he hesitated.

Could he return to Cloud Ruler Temple, sole survivor of the Emperor's Guard? Would his brothers and sisters of the Blades wonder at his survival, when more experienced Blades died? Would they ask, in whispers behind his back, how the assassins had known of the secret passage, unknown to any but the Blades? Did he even have a place in the Order, having failed so?

He found neither answers to these questions, nor further time to consider them. He heard the dull thunder of approaching riders, and turned northwards to the sight of a score of riders, every one of them a fellow Blade, bearing down on him. He recognised the Breton woman leading them, Sabine Ernarde, who brought her horse to a halt before him and dismounted. “Captain Baurus, I have a message for you from the Grandmaster.” As she spoke she handed him a roll of parchment, sealed with wax.

“Captain Baurus? I'm no Captain, Sabine.”

“You are now sir. Grandmaster Jauffre sent us out to find you. He said further orders will come from you, after you've read the message.”

Baurus looked at her for a long moment before turning his attention to the scroll. The wax bore the Grandmaster's seal, and showed no signs of having been tampered with. Breaking it, he opened the rolled parchment and began reading.

Baurus,

Firstly, do not blame yourself for the Emperor's death. That such a plot came to fruition makes it my failure, and that of the late Spymaster, long before it is yours. Let the blame fall on those who most deserve it, rather than those who did all they could to prevent it. In my eyes you did not fail, nor did any of the Emperor's Guards who gave their life that night.

Secondly, you did well in sending Tarvyn to me. The Emperor's trust was well placed, as was yours in the Emperor. Tarvyn served his role, and will likely be given another before the end.

Finally, I must entrust you with a new task. The last heir to the Septim line can be found at Kvatch. His name is Martin, you will find him at the chapel of Akatosh, where he serves as a priest. Bring him to me at the Priory as soon as you are able. You are now Captain of the Emperor's Guard, and Sabine and those with her are under your command.

Though the enemy scored a victory in assassinating the Emperor, it cost them dearly. Our only hope lies in swift action, while the enemy is weakened by their losses.

Baurus folded the parchment and tucked it inside his armour. Sabine gestured to one of the Blades, who led over the riderless horse that they'd brought with them. Baurus climbed into the saddle, a little awkwardly, before turning to face his Blades. He thought for a moment about how much to tell them, and decided that if time was of import, then explanations could wait.

“We ride for Kvatch.”

A chilling moment indeed when we associate the lack of screams to mean no survivors inside Kvatch. Bone-tired, Matius’ crew has just changed from rescue to containment.

In the meantime. . .

You portrayed Baurus’ guilt perfectly. And I love how Jauffre also blamed himself. Wise choice of the grandmaster to promote Baurus and put him in charge of fetching Martin. If anything can redeem Baurus’ confidence, this assignment from Jauffre can.

Let's ride, knights!

I truly loved this review of two of my favorite paladins from the MQ - Baurus and Matius. They have always held a special place in my heart ever since that first play through (right up there with Captain Steffan at CRT).

I especially loved how you delved into the aftermath of the first Gate opening - Matius stiff and sore from sleeping in his armor, dealing with half-healed injuries and half-repairs ill-fitting armor thanks to the scarcity of healers and blacksmiths. I also felt the same chill as Matius when we realized there were no more screams from the ruins of the once-glorious city on the mesa.

I especially liked the missive from Grandmaster Jauffre where he blames himself for the Dragonguard's failure. It holds to the credo that the superiors are ultimately responsible for the actions of their subordinates.

On to Kvatch, indeed!

“Something's wrong, Leond, something's different.”

Leond looked at him for a moment, his expression somewhere between shock and sorrow. “Aye Captain. It's the screaming. It's stopped.”

Oh, that’s just heartbreaking.

Great to see Baurus in the days following the assassination. I liked the contrast between his cared-for gear and the dire situation outside Kvatch. Excellent choice to send Baurus with a score of Blades to fetch Martin!

The scream part was well-done! Goes to show how relentless the Daedra are and just how important it is that they must be stopped. I was on edge! It creeped me out. You did good to jump into another character's head. It gives us more vantage points from the story, too. It also gave us insight and more understanding of our known characters!

Right, time to kick this back to life, again.

NaNoWriMo kinda left me a little burned out where writing was concerned, but now I'm back to it.

This is the last part of it that I wrote before NaNoWriMo, and I'd intended to add to it but didn't get the chance. So I've edited it, added a little, and I'm pretty much using it as an excuse not to write up some of the Mage's guild quests again.

So, we're back with Tarvyn briefly, we'll be bouncing off again for the next part.


Cheydinhal Mages Guild, basement, seven days after the fall of Kvatch.

Tarvyn sat back in his chair, feet resting on what had been, until yesterday, Falcar's desk. The treacherous Altmer had terrorised the guildhall that was his responsibility, had killed at least one apprentice, and had tried to do the same to Tarvyn. It had taken every other mage in the Cheydinhal guildhall to oust Falcar, while Tarvyn had been completing his assignment. But while the others had been relieved, Tarvyn was disgusted.

House Telvanni and the Morag Tong had a few qualities that they shared, and foremost of these was self-reliance. The Morag Tong might send a backup on assignments, but only to ensure completion, not to aid the primary. And the aspiring member of House Telvanni who stopped watching their allies as keenly as their enemies found little difference between the two. To be a Magister of House Telvanni was to be a wellspring of personal power, able to stand alone against your peers, at least to the extent of making any conflict too expensive or risky to pursue. And to be a Master of the Morag Tong was to be a solitary, unstoppable, knife in the dark, whose presence was marked only by the body left behind.

The Mages Guild on the other hand, were inept simpletons bought together by dependency. Teekeeus at Chorrol; unable to settle a matter with an old rival. Frasoric at Bruma; so magically inept that she was tormented by a pair of pranksters. And now Falcar at Cheydinhal; traitor and murderer, necromancer and fugitive. And he had only been deposed because the entire guildhall stood up to him. Three given authority that they should never have had, and two of those should not have been in the guild to begin with.

Had he a choice, Tarvyn would not have continued with the guild, but the services which should have been freely available were locked away inside the Arcane University. Clearly the guild leadership was as paranoid as it was inept, but Tarvyn had no choice but to labour under their farcical rules, at least until he gained access to the University. A rueful chuckle forced its way past his lips as he considered how that had almost become his motto of late; “no choice”. Then again, where Mephala was concerned, choice was something of an illusion anyway. Others were no less caught in her webs because they didn't choose to serve her directly, but having done so, Tarvyn fancied he could all but feel the strands woven about him.

But perhaps that was the web, he mused.

Read that last one. Good stuff there, Thorny. I see you haven´t lost your inspiration

The Mages Guild on the other hand, were inept simpletons bought together by dependency.

The northern chapters don’t make the best impression, I suppose. Of course, neither do the southeastern ones.

Great to see Tarvyn back!

Hauling this out of its grave once again. It'll probably take me a couple of posts to get things right, but the story goes on.

Kvatch, the seventh day after The Fall

Baurus' skin crawled beneath his armour. The horses were becoming unmanageable, trying to turn away from Kvatch more and more frequently the closer they came to the city. And the men and women following him spent as much time staring up at the sky as looking where they were riding. And in truth, Baurus couldn't blame them. They'd ridden hard, for as long as the horses could stand, driven by the urgency of their mission. But once Kvatch had come into sight, or rather the thick cloud of smoke above that carried a crimson hue, as if reflecting the fires that must have birthed it, each step had come harder than the last.

But they had their orders, and had ridden onwards. But then the thunder had begun, the air had dried and soured, and the wind carried the scents of smoke and brimstone to them, with a nauseating undertone that couldn't quite be identified. Then, as they rode ever closer to Kvatch, the sky had changed. It had been sudden, the blue sky overheard replaced in an instant by a crimson sky shot through with jagged streaks the colour of blood. That was when the horses had begun to get nervous, and started trying to shy away from their course. One of the Blades, Baurus wasn't sure who, had muttered something about the horses being smarter than they were, the unnatural air carrying the mumbling to all the riders, even over the hoofbeats.

The weary animals trudged reluctantly up the hill towards Kvatch, their riders shocked at the sight of the refugee camp that had sprung up alongside the road; singed tents that had seen better days, wounded people lying on bedrolls on the hard ground, and not one person was wearing clothes unsullied by blood or scorch marks. Baurus turned to Sabine, seeing his own horror reflected in her eyes. “Something terrible has happened here Sabine. Something linked to the Emperor's death, it must be. I'll need to send word to Jauffre; the enemy has beaten us here, we may already be too late.” He spotted a man wearing a torn and charred surcoat emblazoned with the black wolf's head insignia of Kvatch, and called out to him. “You there, I am sent by the Grandmaster of the Blades, I need to speak to whoever is in charge here, as soon as possible.” The man looked at Baurus for a moment, his eyes focused on some distant point behind Baurus, who was about to call to the man again before he turned and hurried away. Baurus dismounted from his horse and turned back to Sabine. “You and I are going to talk to whoever is in command here. Bring five with us, the rest to guard the horses. I don't think they will last long if left unattended.”

Sabine barked out a series of orders, and five more Blades formed up behind Baurus as they waited for the guard to return. The guard didn't return, but a trio of Kvatch guards came down the hill to meet them. The central guardsman caught Baurus' eye; battered and bloody, limping heavily and clutching at his ribs, torn chainmail visible through the rents in his surcoat, more black and red than white. Baurus gawked in disbelief. The man didn't look fit to stand, let alone able to fight. He limped over to the Blades, and saluted gingerly, wincing as he did so. “Captain Savlian Matius, Kvatch City Guard. Or at least, what's left of it.” Matius couldn't keep the bitterness from his tone, and not just for weariness.

Baurus returned the salute. “Captain Baurus of the Blades. What happened here?”

“The Daedra. They opened some kind of portal, larger than the city gates, right in front of the city. We rushed to the wall to defend the gate, but it was a trap. They opened smaller gates behind us, inside the city. Kvatch was lost before we knew it..”

Baurus' jaw dropped. “Daedra? But how?” Captain Matius didn't reply, and Baurus knew not to push for details. Then a thought struck him. “It happened seven days ago, didn't it? During the night?” Matius nodded, and Baurus continued, his first words barely audible. “The Dragonfires. Captain, I need to speak to you in private. The Empire needs your help.”

Something in Savlian snapped. Seven days of pain and rage and grief, of fear and battle and sleepless nights filled with dead faces, had taken their toll. He launched himself at Baurus, with more speed and grace than the startled Redguard had thought possible, and threw a thunderous right hook into the Blade's jaw. “Bastard!” Savlian screamed as Baurus reeled and fell. “Where was the Empire when the Daedra came, when Kvatch burned, when it's people died? Where were you?” He moved to kick Baurus in the ribs, but had forgotten his wounds in his rage, and his leg buckled beneath him as he swung. His fellow guards dashed forwards to catch him, to pull him away from the Blades as they drew their swords.

“Hold!” The Blades stopped, their swords half out of their scabbards. Baurus pushed himself back to his feet, spitting blood and shaking his head against the ringing in his ears. He worked his jaw a few times, wincing as it clicked, before removing his helmet and swordbelt and passing them to Sabine. When he spoke, his tome was deathly cold. “Where was I when Kvatch fell? I was standing guard over the body of the Emperor, in a secret passage beneath the Imperial City. I am the last of the Emperor's Guard, and we failed to protect him, as the Blades failed to protect his sons. The Empire is in turmoil Savlian, the Elder Council fights amongst itself as Chancellor Ocato tries to maintain order. The Empire needs our help Savlian, because it cannot help itself.”

As Baurus spoke, Savlian had pushed himself, with the aid of his companions, to his knees, but seemed to lack the strength to stand. “And what help can I be to the Empire, Baurus? My duty was to defend Kvatch, to safeguard the lives of its citizens. And how completely have I failed. The city burns, its citizens either dead within its walls or barely surviving out here, terrified refugees huddling in the shadow of my failure.” Savlian slumped, his head bowed, as if his reply had drained him of what little strength remained to him.

When Baurus spoke, his voice had lost its hard, cold edge. “None of us chooses to fail, to fall, Savlian.” Baurus knelt beside him and placed his hand on his shoulder. “But to not rise again, that is a choice we make, that is down to us. You and I have both failed, and no matter how many people tell us that it was not our failure, we know that doesn't change anything. But if we fail again, if we choose not to rise now, then it will not be Kvatch that burns, but the whole of Cyrodiil, possibly the whole of the Empire. The Empire is attacked Savlian, but it is not yet defeated. There is one last heir, one last son of Uriel Septim VII, and he can still be saved.” Baurus rose to his feet, the hand on Savlian's shoulder now extended towards him, to help him to his feet. When he spoke again, Baurus voice carried a ring of authority. “Only in death does duty end, Captain Matius. On your feet, the Empire needs us.”

Arriving to find that Kvatch had fallen was a huge shock that came across very well. Baurus knew from recent experience how to get Captain Matius on his feet again. What a great speech!

Good to see you continuing this.

A very gritty and poignant meeting of two brave men who both feel they have failed in their respective responsibility to defend their charges. Well done!

The state of Kvatch is evident when even the horses shy away from approaching the doomed city.


Beautifully written. Just how I remember it from Oblivion.

Savlius attacking Baurus in rage showed just how depressed he was and how the siege had taken its toll in even the bravest of men. It shows the horrific actions of the Daedra and of war and battle itself. Like Acadian mentioned, this passage shows just how two men did not do their duty as they would have liked, and it brings up opportunity for them both to relate to one another. Baurus' speech was enough to stir something in me and I believe it shall inspire something in Captain Matius!

Thanks guys.

Well, it's not dead, but this part's been putting up as much of a fight as Captain Matius It's been through three complete rewrites, including two changes of character perspective, but it was a part I felt that I had to write, so here it is:

Kvatch, the tenth day after the Fall

Baurus stood behind the barricades, casting a wary eye over the portal. It had been a quiet night for once, only a handful of daedra had emerged from the portal, and Captain Matius' guards had used their bows to good effect. The Blades sharing guard duty with them hadn't even needed to draw their katanas. He sighed and rolled his head, trying to work out the kinks in his neck. It had been three days since he and his Blades had arrived, and he'd been awake for most of that. Matius and his men had been relieved, and had spent two days recovering from their ordeal, at least in part. They'd gotten some sleep, but injuries were still a problem. Only one healer, an Imperial woman named Luniala Horatius, had survived the Fall. She had been so overworked in the days since that she spent much of her time sleeping, and ate better than anyone else at Kvatch, in an attempt to recover her strength.

“It's Menien, right?”

Menien jumped, having been so intent on the portal that he'd not noticed Baurus' approach. “Yes Captain, Menien Goneld.”

“Call me Baurus. You were in the Legion weren't you, just like your Captain?”

Menien nodded proudly. “That I was. Twenty years, and fifteen more in the guard. Served the Empire nearly my entire life.”

“I was in the Legion myself, before I was recruited into the Blades. There are times I miss it, even now.”

Menien grinned wryly. “But not mealtimes, I'm guessing.”

For the first time since Baurus had come to Kvatch, he smiled. “Heh, we did eat better, but they made us train twice as hard for it. We like to joke that the only reason the Blades are so loyal is that we're all too tired to disobey orders.”

Menien's smile flickered wider for a moment, then fell from his face.“Well then Captain Baurus, now that we've bonded, why don't you tell me what you want?”

“I need to know what happened the night Kvatch fell. I need to know what could be waiting for us inside the city.”

“Then you should talk to Captain Matius.”

“You know as well as I that he isn't ready to talk about it, not while Kvatch still burns. And not for a long time after that, if I'm any judge. You don't carry the same burden that he does Menien, that's why I'm asking you. Because I need to ask, and you know that. Call it an order, if that makes it any easier.”

Menien crumpled. His shoulders slumped, his hand slid from the pommel of his sword, and his chin sunk almost until it touched his chest, and he said nothing for long moments. Baurus felt his gorge rising at the sight of Menien's duress, half expecting the man's knees to buckle. He didn't want to do this, but knew that he'd have to do worse before things got any better. And if the memory of the daedra could defeat the surviving Kvatch guard, better to learn that before they try to retake the city. When Menien spoke, his voice was harsh, his every word forced past the city-sized lump in his throat.

“We assembled at the gate. We had maybe a hundred with bows on the wall, and half as many again in the plaza in front of the gates, expecting the daedra to break their way through. But they retreated through their portal, and smaller ones opened across the city. Captain Matius had a hard choice to make: Flee the city, hold the gate for as long as possible in the hope that the citizens could reach it, or send us into the streets to save those we could. He chose the third. A third of us stayed to guard the gate and hold the plaza, supported by the archers on the wall. The rest of were sent into the streets in groups of half a dozen, with orders to grab any civilians we found and escort as many as possible to the gates.

The streets were a nightmare. There was screaming everywhere, cruel laughter, and the sickening sounds of weapons striking flesh, the air thick with the smell of smoke and blood. The gates had barely been opened, but a horde of daedra had flooded the city. People were racing to the gate, some chased by daedra. Those we left, to focus on people who were trying to hide, who wouldn't last long after we were forced out. We all knew that was how the night would end. My team didn't get far from the plaza before we came across a half dozen people huddled in a bookshop, closed since the owner's death. I considered sending them alone to the gate, since it was only a couple of streets away, but each one of them had a child with them. I knew for a fact that half of them didn't have kids, and were saving someone else's. I got them on their feet and moving for the gate, my team taking up positions around them.

We'd barely gotten moving before we were attacked. Some monstrous lizard-thing, taller and broader than an Orc, smashed it's way through a wall. It grabbed Ladeiaia Palenix, a woman I'd known for fifteen years, and introduced to her husband, in one massive claw and clamped its jaws around her head. It happened so fast, we couldn't have helped her. She didn't even have time to scream. There was no way we could fight something like that, and we weren't supposed to try. The civilians ran for their lives, their screams lost amidst the desperate chorus that was Kvatch. We did our best to keep up, but they were fleeing in terror, and weren't burdened by armour. They were lucky.

Before we'd gotten halfway to the plaza, a group of smaller lizard things, all teeth and claws and scales, fast as lightning but smaller than the thing that killed Ladeiaia, caught up to us. My wife's brother, Tyroni Scerius, slashed at the neck of one of them, killing it. But there was some foul magic in the creature, and the mail on his arm burst open as the bones in his sword arm shattered, blood dripping everywhere. I had to half carry him back to the plaza. The rest didn't make it. They fought to buy us time. Jayred the Unwavering, Millona Lannus, and Kelvyn Rackham. I'll never forget those names.

By the time Tryoni and I reached the plaza, we were horrified. The daedra had organised. Some of those Dremora had gathered some of the daedra into a firing line, hammering the archers with volleys of fireballs, lightning bolts, and glowing orbs of cold. Half of the archers were already dead, and the battle on the ground was going even worse. It looked like of those of us sent into the streets only a handful had returned, and most of them were wounded. Something screeched horribly behind us, and Tyroni and I raced for the gates. He was in no state to fight. I almost followed him, but as I glanced back for one last look I saw Captain Matius.

He stood alone, fighting against a trio of Dremora, and more were coming. I shoved Tyroni through the gates, then ran back towards the Captain. And I wasn't alone in that. Almost everyone on the ground ran towards him. The apprentice Battlemages got there first. I thought the daedra were scary, but they were nothing compared to those three. They didn't stop for anything: Their every movement was a strike at a daedra, a spell thrown into an enemy's face, a step towards the foe. I've seen men and women in the Legion who could best them with weapons, and I've seen mages throw more powerful spells, but the Battlemages were dangerous enough with both that it didn't matter. They fought and cast spells as easily as I walk and talk. But even they were nearly too late.

Captain Matius was fighting like I'd never seen before. His shield might have been a wall on his arm, for all the daedra were able to get past it. His sword flashed out like an arrow, sharp stabs that the eye had a hard time following in the foul light of those damn portals. He slew one of the three Dremora, and for just a moment his blade caught in the bastard's ribs. One of the others brought his mace down on the Captain's arm, breaking it, and a second swing caught him in the ribs. He fell, but before the Dremora could finish him the Battlemages arrived and drove them back. Me and a half dozen others lifted the Captain to his feet and carried him out of the city, guards dying around us as they fought to shield us from the daedra. Some of those that were left stayed to close the gates behind us. The ladders the archers had used had been moved to the opposite side of the wall, so those that still lived were able to escape as well.

I don't know how many people got out of Kvatch alive, but if one in ten was spared, then Captain Matius is the greatest thief ever to have lived. Aside from Martin he was the only one who seemed to keep his head that night.”

Baurus fought to keep his nervousness form showing. “Martin?”

“A priest of Akatosh. I saw him leading some people towards the chapel, as we carried the captain out. By that point he couldn't have reached the gates, but the chapel might keep the daedra out. If so they'll be the last people left alive in Kvatch.”

They were both silent for a moment. “Menien, in a day or so we'll be sending a team through that portal, to see if we can close it somehow. Some of the Kvatch guard, and some of the Blades. If you're interested, I'll request that Captain Matius put you in charge of the Kvatch contingent.”

Menien smiled, a cold, grim smile, laden with the promise of vengeance. “Those bastard's owe us a lot of blood Captain, it's about time they paid up. Count me in.”

What a gripping account of the fall of Kvatch. I can imagine it was difficult to choose a perspective for this part. Very well done!