I am hooked on your story! Your characters come to life - really interesting! Awesome story and writing, detail, everything is perfect!

@D.Foxy - romantic! (I knew that already, lol)

We dined on scuttle and the last of the kwama eggs 'Thyna had brought from home. The return of my sense of taste was a welcome change from the stolid eating I had done previously- and the company certainly had something to do with that. I did not even mind when she insisted that I clean up the cabin, a task she summed up with the comment that:

"We should leave it in a fit state for habitation by people, not a family of bristle-backs."

Even so, it was still early when we turned north, and I was glad to leave the cabin behind me- my few clear memories of it were less than pleasant. More to the point, departing the workshop meant staying with Athynae, and I could think of no brighter prospect. The chill brought color to her cheeks and her breath frosted the air. She was altogether the most beautiful sight I had ever beheld. We moved quickly and with little conversation for the first fifteen minutes or so, and the silence was companionable. But my brain refused to be quiet or satisfied with things as they were. It kept producing difficult questions, most of which I would rather remained unvoiced. Unfortunately, an artifact of my Imperial heritage was a certain degree of verbosity?. To say it another way, I had a big mouth.

There were things I wanted to say, questions I wanted to ask- but I was more than a bit afraid of the answers. I wanted to ask her why she had come looking for me, what exactly she had meant when she accused me of "running from the people who loved me," what she had seen in my eyes that morning- and whether whatever it was had prompted her to change her plans and decide to leave immediately. Or whether that decision was brought about by what had- or had not- happened the night before. And then there was my proven history of babbling inanities and non-sequiturs whenever I was around her?. Given that we were on Solstheim, perhaps it would be better if I followed the apocryphal Nord tradition and rapped her smartly on the skull and threw her over my shoulder. The only problem with that plan was that I would more likely find myself stretched out again, and probably skinned into the bargain. The fact that she would heal me afterwards was small consolation. And still, my traitor tongue could not be silent:

"Ummm- so anyway, I just wanted to be sure that you knew that nothing happened last night. Well, I don't exactly mean 'nothing'?after all, you healed me and I truly appreciate that. And, and- we, err- kissed each other, which was wonderful, too. But, what I mean is, ah, ummm, ? I, that is we? you know?."

In the theater of your mind, your words are always perfectly scripted, and your fellow player cooperates by picking up her cues. In the real world, I stumbled to a verbal and physical halt and stole a glance at her from the corner of my eye. She stopped walking and turned to face me squarely, raised an inquiring eyebrow, and gravely said,

"Was there something you wanted to ask?"

The gesture and tone were so reminiscent of my mother that I nearly choked. Fortunately, I managed to keep the comparison to myself. But she was looking at me, waiting for a response, and even though the sight of her drove every coherent thought out of my head, I had to say something. From a wide array of available topics what I managed was:

"Why did you think it was necessary to hit me?"

I looked forlornly at the vapor of my question as it condensed before me, wishing that I could draw it back in, or scrub it out of existence, or that it at least did not sound as much like a whine as I suspected it did.

Athynae's mouth curved upward in a smile, and I gave silent thanks that she was amused rather than offended. She answered my question with one of her own:

"You know Mama spent some time with the Ahemmusa Ashlanders?"

I had no idea where this was going, but had learned that she usually had a point, no matter how circuitous might be her route. Therefore I nodded encouragingly. She went on:

"Well, the Ahemmusa are guar-herders, and Mama noticed that they all carry these heavy wooden staves. She assumed they were to defend against predators that might attack the herds and asked the wise-woman. The wise-woman explained it this way- 'Guar are very intelligent when they want to be, but they are also very stubborn. You can train a guar to do almost anything, but first you have to get its attention.'"

Athynae then smacked me lightly on the back of the head and added,

"I figured the same technique should work with you."

She raced away from me and added laughingly over her shoulder, "After all, you're almost as smart as a guar!"

I had no hope of catching her in a foot-race; even if I had not been given the task of carrying our gear, she had always been far swifter than I, ever since we were children. But, as I watched her feet kick up clouds of white powder, I recalled something Mother and Father had talked about when they tried to explain snow to me. Quick as the thought itself, I bent and scooped a handful and patted it into shape. Athynae had slowed when she realized I was not pursuing, and I made a perfect throw that caught her right between the shoulders. The snowball exploded in a satisfying spray of icy fragments, some of which, judging by the way she moved, found their way down her neck. My moment of victory was short- ever a quick study in all the martial arts, she grasped the concept immediately and pelted me with a storm of snowy missiles. I was getting hit three or four times for every one I managed in return, and decided that desperate measures were necessary. Senior Trooper Carbo had taught me that the best thing to do when confronted with an archer was to hold up my shield and charge. I had no shield, but decided my left arm would have to do. Athynae was so focused on lobbing snowballs at me that I had dropped the pack and gotten within reach before she recognized the danger. I did not stop my rush, but lowered my shoulder and tackled her, dumping us both into a drift. She protested this treatment by rubbing a handful of snow in my face, laughing all the while. I cleared my eyes and mouth and informed her that she made a quite comfortable couch and that I believed I would simply rest where I was, exhausted by my great triumph.

"'Great triumph,' is it? I'll show you a triumph, you great oaf!"

She twisted slightly and moved her arms and legs, then the blue sky spun over me and our positions were reversed. From her seat on my chest, Athynae spoke with mock thoughtfulness:

"Yes, I think you would make a fine pack-guar. I might even get you a harness with some nice bells. Would you like that?"

She poked me in the ribs and added,

"I don't know though; you seem awfully skinny. I want a guar with lots of muscle."

It was a scuffle like those that we had played out any number of times back in Ald'ruhn, and that was the problem. We weren't in Ald'ruhn.

When you fall in love it's the small things you remember
Like, say, that achingly poignant touch of snow in December-
Her giggle .... when she saw you slip and almost fall ....
A quip retained when its circumstances you don't recall -

Yes, when all is said and done, that's when you know love's won -
Dancing its light though memories bring, caressing each tender one -
Oh, that we all know. We who've loved. And each time we anew see
A story well told, so simple yet bold, talking straight to you and me -

Who will not read, and smile the while? Speak, then, Trey of hearts -
Tell us again the old dance of maid and her mesmerised man,
We know they'll tease, and flirt, and yet grow together again -
It's old, we know, yet still in our hearts it's ever new again.

I have loved to read the tease of Athyna in these posts anon
I have laughed and groaned and soared and roamed with your story's song
But best of the text is this one blessed, kissed by the touch of love -
In its deep mysteries from simple source, it flies with the wings of the dove.

And is it not true that it's you in that story? Surely the words I see
of the hero with speech skills of zero, tripping over words that freeze -
"In the theater of mind, your words are "... sublime! I love that prose's ease -
So simple, so true, so elegant, I construe it must be the Young Trey that we see!

Yes, Trey, we marry our parents (in metaphor) - Freud did get it right
For who has not seen Mother in Mrs., or Father in Mr. Right?
And so when 'Thyna's look reminds hero, ah that's the hook -
that captures the heart, from which we all start, one glance was all it took!

You have known women deep I'm sure, for part of their magic allure
Is that they'll go from Z to B through D, and then get there from here
So when 'Thyna replies to our Bumbler's question with one on Guar's mind -
that rang a bell with all who knew well the mind of womankind!

By the way, may I say, that you too are part poet?
"the vapor of my question as it condensed before me" -ah, sweeter than Moet!
And so true as well. For who has not wished and wished
To call back the words which already air has kissed?

And that scene in the snow...reminiscent of childhood aglow,
With snowfights of squealing suspense, silky in sensual show,
And the tackle as consumation, with Athlain at first victor -
Then the positions sweetly reversed - ah, what a delightful picture!

I once told Rumpleteaza that I was, an irrevocably hopeless romantic
and so I reply not in prose, but rhyme, don't think it just an antic -
For comments quizzical from emotes lyrical seen to demand the while
That I critique in poetry - so please understand, to rhyme be not a crime!

Your characters are so real, tangible - Awesome writing and story!

I have to read your stories twice. The first time is an emotional ride of being pulled into the very minds of your characters.

The second time through is to reflect in amazement at the brilliance required to craft it.

Thank for gracing us with this.

Thank you all for your kind comments and for reading my labor of love. It humbles me to hear such praise from others who paint such skillful pictures with their words.

mALX1- You speak of the reality of my characters, and that is high praise indeed from the one who has brought Maxical so wonderfully to life. So much so that we tremble when she fears, suffer when she is hurt, and smile when she is triumphant.

Acadian- Buffy has found a place in my heart alongside my own Trey and Athlain and Athynae. You have such a wonderful, light touch with her, and the dash of humor that keeps her from being melodramatic. I love the feeling of living the events as she does.

D.Foxy- Oh my. In so many things, you are correct. Yes, I am a (poor) poet, a lover of the sounds and shapes of words in all their multiple meanings. I am also the high-school debate captain and actor who became a tongue-tied fool when in the presence of a beautiful girl. And, to my everlasting surprise and joy, my own Athynae/Baria/Azura has seen fit to put up with my idiocy for over 20 years. If she is not a goddess, she must surely be a saint- especially since she rarely has to resort to violence to get my attention.

Argh! When do we get another chapter? And by the way, thank you so much for all your kind words, I appreciate that so much!

We should have died from our carelessness, in our happiness, in our childish play. And if our attackers had been reavers or other human predators we probably would have. But they were wolves, and that is what saved us. Wolves hunt cooperatively and with a particular method- they try to separate one animal from the herd and then they chase it until it is exhausted. An exhausted animal cannot fight, not even for its life. So the hunting pack howls. They do this to communicate, but also to start the prey. A running animal does not think about anything except running. So we knew the wolves were around us when they howled. But we did not run. I stood and quickly drew my mace, standing guard as Athynae pulled her bowstring from an inside pocket and strung her bow. Our movements were fluid and natural, as if we had always been a team. In Athynae's case, it might just have been the grace with which she did all things- for me, it was because of my training. Carbo had drilled me endlessly on the concept that one of a maceman's most important tasks was guarding the archers. I watched the wolves as they circled us, but I also watched Athynae as she stood relaxed, an arrow half-drawn, choosing her targets. Then she began to shoot, and it was as if a warrior goddess of old had come to life before me. She was like a statue except for the movement of her hands and arms, feet planted solidly, letting the wolves move into the killing zone. And the vision prompted a memory-

We were around ten years old, and Athynae had so far managed to avoid the "icky girl" label by being better at all athletic endeavors than any boy. We had recently discovered that, by climbing onto the roof of the Emperor crab, we could hide from Mae and Cai, who were, by dint of being my sisters, definitely "icky." As we basked in the sunshine, we saw cliff-racers wheeling over the foothills outside of town. Like all residents of Vvardenfell, we despised the foul beasts, but also knew to be careful of them. Their razor beaks and spiked tails meant danger to any unwary traveler. Efforts had been made to wipe them out, but no one had been able to find their nesting grounds. Some even speculated that they were a creation of the Telvanni, designed to slow settlement of the island. Normally, we would run inside if one approached, trusting the Redoran guards to handle the threat. But on this day, Athynae got a stubborn look on her face and told me, "Wait here." She scrambled off the roof and went inside, only to reappear with a rolled blanket, out of which she pulled a flask, a bow, and a sheaf of arrows. The bow was of bonemold, and custom-made for someone of Athynae's size. In fact, it had been a gift from the Ahemmusa, and she treasured it and practiced with it daily. She set the archery equipment down beside her and opened the flask. I waved a hand under my nose and piped,

"Phew, 'Thyna! What is that?"

She took on the look she got in the classroom when she was reciting: "Cliff-racers are scavengers. They eat carrion, as well as small or injured animals." She brandished the flask, and added, "This is bait."

She looked at me and amended, "Actually, you're going to be the bait as soon as I dump this on you. Do you think you can look small and injured?"

Afterwards, we were banned from ever again climbing on the roof; Athynae's bow was taken away for a month; and I got to go "camping" outside the house for a matter of several days, while Mother and Serene tried various soaps and other mixtures to remove the smell. We did get to keep all the racer plumes we had collected, however.

The wolves were canny enough to avoid a massed attack, and also wove in and out of the trees, preventing easy shots. The ones in front of us mostly acted as distractions, rushing forward to hold our attention while their mates closed from the sides and rear. The wolves of Solstheim had hunted people before, and knew that our noses were useless and our peripheral vision nearly so. Still, Athynae had killed or wounded several before the rest began the real attack. I turned so we were back-to-back, and stepped a few paces away. If she drew her katana, she was going to need room to use it. Howls rose from all sides and a smoky grey shadow, larger than the rest, lunged toward me, snarling and snapping. I batted it aside and set myself for the next. Others crowded in on me and things got a little vague after that. Time slowed as I battled silently, with my own puny teeth bared in imitation of the creatures I fought. My only thought was that I could not let a single one get past me, that I must account for them all. I wanted desperately to make sure Athynae was all right, but I could not spare the time. I whirled and dodged and bashed, never focusing too long on any one opponent. Finally, the last of the wolves that were able dragged themselves away, and I could look. She was still there, still standing, no wound or injury anywhere to be seen. In fact, she seemed completely relaxed, resting the bow against her thigh and looking at me with a peculiar smile. I realized that she had never drawn her sword, but had simply continued to shoot as long as there were targets. I caught my breath and asked, a bit crossly it must be admitted:

"Why didn't you change weapons when they got close?"

Her smile grew wider and she replied, "There was no need. I knew you were there."

That answer washed away my annoyance, and I felt myself flushing with pleasure and embarrassment. I also felt something else- the skooma craving that always seemed to strike after combat. I turned away, as if surveying the distant landscape, hoping to hide my weakness. But Athynae was as perceptive as ever and place a comforting hand on my shoulder.

"Is it bad?" I looked at her and she bit her lip and explained, "I was able to heal your stomach and to cleanse your blood of the physical effects of the drug- but there is still a? need. It will pass- eventually."

She shook me and continued, "But until then, you have to talk to me and let me know. Trying to keep it all to yourself is what got you in such a mess to start with."

I understood then, in a way I hadn't before, that love takes many forms. The moment passed, and Athynae turned to rummage in the pack for a couple of knives. She tossed one to me and said,

"We can collect the best of the wolf hides and take them with us to Thirsk. It helps if you don't show up empty-handed."

I wasn't sure what disturbed me more- her assurance with a skinning knife or her familiarity with Nord customs. As we worked, I asked what I hoped sounded like a casual question:

"So, you keep talking about Thirsk. What is that, exactly? Is it a town or settlement?"

Athynae replied without looking up from her work:

"Thirsk is mead-hall. Like what we would call a 'corner-club' or tavern back home. There really isn't much there- just the hall itself and Brynjolfr's smithy. The people are nice enough."

As we gathered our belongings, she elaborated, "There's a village, too, a bit north of Thirsk. The people there call themselves the 'Skaal'. As long as you're respectful, we shouldn't have any trouble."

Your writing is so good it feels like the reader is there, experiencing everything! Awesome read!

Thank you Trey for gracing us once again.

Reading your stories tugs at my heart. Your delicate understated power is stunning:



As always, you provide such an example to aspire to.
Superbly done again! :goodjob:

Nicely done. I see here is another thread I will have to be reading.

I do have a question though. Why did the wolves attack the two characters? I know in the game all animals are homicidal maniacs with absolutely no sense of self-preservation, but in reality wolves are not prone to attack humans, even packs of wolves. If you keep meat around in open containers (that the wolves can smell), they will come looking for it, the same as bears and other carnivores will. But even then they will generally shy away from people. Likewise, once they attacked, why did they continue to do so after several of their pack had been killed? That is again not normal animal behaviour. Animals want to live, and there is much easier prey around to eat like deer that will not kill them.

I know you did say that the wolves of Solstheim had hunted people before. But why would they have done so? Is there something special about these wolves compared to others? Are they of a different breed that is more bloodthirsty? Are they regular wolves driven mad from hunger or disease? Is there some diabolical mind control driving them to do so (say if the characters have an enemy who used them as assassins?).

I hope it does not seem like I am being overly critical. I enjoyed the writing and liked the two characters. I especially liked that fact that one is a recovering skooma addict. I will have to go back to the beginning to start reading it all through in a proper fashion. But to retain a sense of verisimilitude, I think you ought to add something that better explains the motivations of creatures such as the wolves. Every character, even animals, must act according to their personalities and motivations in order for a story to be believable.

X - cellent writing once again.

The combat...

Trey, hats off once again. I had been thinking that a poetic, gentle soul like you would not handle the nitty-gritty of combat so well, but once again you handled the 'touch' delightfully! The flashback was very good as well.

One small detail, though.

When guarding an archer, the correct procedure is to crouch, so that the archer can, if needed, shoot over your head. Perhaps you will want to add that detail next time. Also, while human peripheral vision is indeed, like you said, weak, it is weak as to details, but very sharp as to movement. A warrior in an enemies circling situation would probably roll his head from side to side to get as large a circle of vision as possible.

I think the touch where Athynae does not change weapons in the rush, trusting her lover, is delightful but...the problem is that the rush, as you have described it, comes from all directions, including directly in front of her. In real life she could have been overwhelmed as she reaches for the next arrow! If you make the rush come form the hero's direction, with him crouching and killing wolves while she shoots over his head, that would make things more realistic.

Rosa: one way out of your correctly-posed problem regarding wolf hunting psychology would be that they were following their leader - and so long as a pack leader does not give up, the pack doesn't either. Of course, we would need to write in a plausible explanation of why the pack leader didn't retreat once casulties were being taken. Trey, think about that the next time you do a wolf attack!

New update below. But since I (finally) added a picture to the "Real Pictures" thread, I thought I would also provide a link here to frighten people so you can see what your doggie writer looks like.

http://img372.imageshack.us/i/image0000019lh.jpg/

As to the color of the whiskers- they are.... Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

And now for the story

-----------------------------------

There was more wrong with me than the skooma-craving; Athynae's joking reference to my "needing more muscle" was based in truth. In the midst of the arduous work of skinning the dead wolves, my hands began to tremble so badly that I had to put down the knife before I sliced myself. I was beyond tired- our scuffle and the subsequent battle had pushed me to exhaustion. I knelt in the bloody snow, heedless of the melt water seeping into my clothes. Athynae came over and gave me a playful shove, saying:

"I don't pay you to sit around- let's see some work."

When I crashed to the ground, she was instantly contrite and began sorting through the small healer's kit she carried at her waist. She drew out a couple of vials sealed with Serene's personal mark and dosed me with them. While I waited for the full effects to take hold, she explained:

"Fortify potions. You really need more time to recover, but we can't stay out here. Did anything about that attack seem odd to you?"

I looked at her blearily, my tired mind trying to follow the convoluted logic of her words. Which attack- my attack of weakness or the attack by the wolves? If the first, I always seemed to go weak in the knees when she was around. If she was asking about the wolves, it had been my experience that everything that moved on Solstheim wanted to take a bite out of me. I was even beginning to suspect some of the trees of harboring homicidal thoughts. I summarized those concepts with a plaintive, "What?" That was enough to prompt a torrent of words from Athynae. Even as she gathered our scattered possessions, she kept up a running commentary:

"Wolves. Wolves rarely attack people, right? They have to be sick or injured or starving. The wolves I mean, not the people. Although a wolf would be more likely to go after a sick or injured or starving person if they did. Attack people, I mean. Which they don't. Except that they did. And then they didn't stop as soon as I- well, we- had killed and hurt some of them. They kept pressing the attack long after it was clear it had failed. That's not right, either."

Even though I had not made a sound, she held up a hand as if to forestall argument while she settled the pack on her shoulders:

"Fine. I know we're on Solstheim and these wolves are different than the wolves in Cyrodiil. But why are they different? If anything, they should be smarter?."

She stalked several more steps and ended with a phrase I had heard quite often over the years, delivered in a querulous tone:

"It doesn't make any sense!"

Her monologue had carried us out of the trees and I stopped in my tracks as I beheld Lake Fjalding. As I had heard, it was almost completely covered with ice, with only a few small patches of open water to show that it really was a lake. I noticed movement far out on the ice- low, white shapes that seemed to undulate rather than walk. Athynae saw where I was looking and explained,

"Those are horkers. They don't have paws, just these flippers. But they can get around fairly well on land, and are incredibly fast in the water. You can hunt them, I suppose, but it would be like clubbing baby guar. Anyway, we're almost there."

She pointed toward a large structure on the east side of the lake; a steady stream of smoke poured from the chimney, and I faintly heard the sound of a hammer ringing on an anvil. I did not bother to tell Athynae that I had already seen horkers; there was no reason to spoil her pleasure in playing "tour-guide." Now that we had almost reached our destination, I wanted to take a closer look at the ice-lake, so Athynae said she would meet me at Brynjolfr's forge and turned to go up the hill. I watched as she walked away, the low light of the afternoon illuminating her beautiful form, and it was like a vision of Dibella come into the world of men. I still dream of that moment, especially the part where she turned to look back and wave to me. I wondered how I had ever been able to leave her- and what I was going to do about our situation. Although she had cured me of my addiction and probably saved my life, little else had changed. I was still absent from the Legion without leave- even I knew the excuse of my "resignation letter" was thinner than the paper on which I had scrawled it. Apparently, from what Athynae had said, the commander assumed I was still working for Severia Gratius, but that could not last forever. No, my life was just as much a ruin as it had been- only now, thanks to Athynae, it would likely be a ruin that lasted much longer. If I loved her, how could I drag her down with me, especially now, just when she was seeing everything the world had to offer? The setting sun threw long shadows across the lake, and I knew darkness would come quickly. There was nothing to be done at the moment, I rationalized, and so I put off making a decision. The fact that waiting to decide also meant at least one more night with Athynae was simply a beneficial side-effect.

The smithy was set up in a small building to one side of the great hall, and I followed the smells of charcoal and hot metal to the open front. Athynae was seated on a bench inside the door, displaying our fresh wolf pelts to the smith. When my shadow loomed in the entry, he paused at his work and glanced up. His frown of concentration became a ferocious scowl and he spoke to Athynae:

"Come away from the door, lass. A skraeling has followed ye out o' the forest. I'll just see him off wi' my hammer."

Athynae turned to look and put a hand on his arm.

"That's not a- skra? skrat?skraeling," she said. "That's Athlain. He's my?."

Here she paused for a long moment, and her face grew flushed from more than the heat of the forge. It was a treat to see her, for once, at a loss for words. My pleasure was short-lived, however.

"He's my betrothed," she finally blurted.

Treydog! Thank you for gracing us with another installment. Wonderful. Your stories are a GREAT read. Further they are an emotional roller coaster - amazing, given the delicate subtleness of your writing. And, oh yes, an inspiration for this aspiring writer trying to learn the craft.

"it had been my experience that everything that moved on Solstheim wanted to take a bite out of me."
This says a lot about both the character and his environs. Efficient and creative.

"...I mean. Which they don't. Except that they did. And then they didn't stop as soon as I- well, we- had killed and hurt some of them..."
OMG, how real and confusing is this? :ahhh: Brilliant!

"I did not bother to tell Athynae that I had already seen horkers; there was no reason to spoil her pleasure in playing "tour-guide."
This is what I meant by emotional subtleness. Wow.

Thanks again Treydog!

Your writing has a delicate and intimate touch that speaks of an elegant soul. Thanks for sharing.

You are obviously a closet red-head from the color of your moustache, that can't be Louden or Douglas, is it Norris Lake?


I am blown away by your storyline! Awesome writing!

Actually, Little River embayment of Ft. Cloudy (inside joke). I used to live on Little River, about a mile above the confluence with the Tennessee. You amaze me with your estoric knowledge of E. Tennessee lakes!

On topic- thank you so much. Seeing the view count climb is good and all, but actually hearing from my readers is a treasure beyond price.

Now I see why you write so well, you are ginger!

Nicely done, especially Athynae's loss for words. I also liked how you portrayed the shakiness and exhaustion that comes after the letdown of adrenaline. It is something people often miss.

I would recommend that you put some sort of separator between your own words and the story though. When I first saw this: There was more wrong with me than the skooma-craving; I thought you were still talking about your picture, and was mighty confused.

Fixed. Thank you for the heads up. I must also thank you for the inspiration. Your thoughts on motivations are the direct cause of Athynae's rapid-fire discourse. Amazing how much better writing is when it is a cooperative enterprise.

@bobg and Acadian- Thank you both. That little bit about the horkers was one of my favorites, too. I want these young people to seem real and to be likable (usually). While it is obviously true that Athynae is my wife, I would have to say that Athlain- in his better moments is who I would like to be.

You are married to a Dunmer archer? W00T! (at least I was under the impression that Athynae and Athlain were Dunmer).

So are there many Mer women in Tennessee? I can never seem to find any up here in Michigan...

:facepalm: @ me

Hee Hee. No, I am actually married to the Great Rabbit. Athynae is based on her. As to the genetics, it gets interesting. Athynae is actually bleongs to minque, writer of Serene of Cyrodiil. She just let me borrow her. Serene is (apparently- spoiler territory for the story is not yet finished) an Imperial married to the Dunmer Athyn Sarethi.

Athlain is the son of a Breton father- Trey of High Rock and an Imperial mother (who is a redhead). Thus the inside joke of calling this story "TNG- or Trey the Next Generation."

I had meant to say something to you about this, but was so blown away by your pic (and then went immediately to the thread and looked at everyone elses) - that I forgot to post this.

Here is the line:



Acadian and I had a huge discussion over this line, and one in Bobg's latest story - about the absolute trust that the other one is there for you; the vulnerability that one never realizes because they don't have to.

I was reminded when I read this line, not just of my own experience with this, (which I wrote on Bobg's thread), but was also reminded of the Nascar driver Dale Earnhardt. Not sure if you have ever watched Nascar, but in the race that Dale Earnhardt was killed in, the three front cars were his team: himself, his son Dale Jr., and the newest young driver on his team Michael Waltrip.

Dale was usually ruthless against other drivers, but ahead of him were his son and a very young member of his own team, so he backed off and instead used his car to keep the other drivers from passing him. Michael Waltrip won the race, and they were interviewing Michael and Dale's son before they found out Dale had been killed in the race.

Dale Jr. said he never worried because he knew his Dad was back there watching out for his back.

When I read that line in your story, that brought back the memory of that day, plus my own experience with this.

You are an Awesome writer, to be able to put so much depth in so few words! - that one line conveys history of trust; just Awesome writing Treydog!

Thank you, mALX1. Way back in the Dark Ages, when I used to teach writing the narrative to my Composition I students, I would quote the opening of The Life and Times of Judge Roy Bean- "If this isn't the way things happened, it should have been."

In other words, don't let the facts or tactical considerations get in the way of a good story.

I wanted to "rehabilitate" Athlain just a bit- he had become rather a hapless buffoon- as we men so often do around strong, beautiful women. So he (and the readers) needed to see him through Athynae's eyes for just a moment- to understand why she came all that way to find him. Complete disclosure time- it was not as consciously calculated as all that- I simply saw a good place to write the line and I ran with it....

Now, enough with spamming my own thread- let's have some story!

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The world paused in its turning, and Time slowed to an imperceptible crawl, giving me a chance to contemplate the individual hairs on Athynae's head as they stirred in the slight breeze. Perhaps it was a trick of the failing light from the sun, combined with the glow of the forge fire, but I noticed a slight reddish tint among her tresses. It was not the true auburn my mother displayed, but more a tinge, similar to Serene's elegant locks. Oh by the gods! Mother and Serene! They would flip a coin to decide which one got to kill me. No, strike that; they were friends; they would come to an agreement. Perhaps Mother would kill me and then Serene would resurrect me. Even though she despised necromancy, she would make an exception in this case- probably several times over. That way they could take turns killing me. I needed a plan. Lying was a plan, wasn't it?

"Athynae? No, I haven't seen her since the day after the party. Why do you ask?"

That was no good; we had been seen together. Perhaps I could disguise myself as a boy and take passage on a ship to Akavir. Wait?I was a boy, well, a man- or at least I would be until Mother and Serene caught up with me. But I had no idea where Akavir was or how to get there. Maybe Divayth Fyr would tell me. But he was Father's friend. He would just hand me over to Father, who would hand me over to Mother, and we were back to the whole Matrons of Redoran Society for the Killing of Athlain enterprise. If I turned and ran immediately, I might make it to the lake, where I could drown myself. But Athynae would almost certainly save me- and then she would kill me for running away. Athynae? Athynae, who was still standing before me, her embarrassed flush changing to something else as an ominous light came to her eyes. Several centuries passed and still we stared at one another in silence. She stood- the girl I loved; the woman who had rescued me, only to now ensure that I would suffer a lingering and painful death; the person who, in her slender form, encompassed all my hope and terror. And I waited for her next words, for the syllables of my doom. What she said was:

"Well, then. Don't just stand there gawping; it isn't polite. Anyone would think you'd never seen a forge before. We'll just leave Brynjolfr to his work now, and see about accommodations. Right, dear?"

She linked her arm possessively through mine and led me away. When I could manage to form human sounds again, I choked out:

"B-, but? betrothed? Why did you have to tell him that?"

"Did you want me to let him whack you with a hammer instead?" Athynae hissed back at me.

"I'm not sure; let me think about it."

The silence which ensued was even chillier than the snowy air. I finally broke it with one of my usual irrelevant questions:

"What's a 'skraeling,' anyway?"

Athynae cast a guilty glance at me from the corner of her eye and mumbled something inaudible.

"Excuse me? What was that?" I prompted.

She looked everywhere but at me and finally said, "I think it's like a beggar or a wild man of the woods. Ummm- your clothes are a little ragged?. And then there's your hair- and the, ahh- beard. Plus, sweetheart?. How to say this?. It seems like maybe it's been a while since you?"

Her darting eyes fell on a small structure behind the mead hall and she spoke as if a thought had just occurred to her:

"Do you know, the Skaal have this marvelous thing called a 'steam bath.' It's warm and really helps loosen up your muscles. I imagine that would feel good- to you- after that long walk through the snow. Why don't I ask Svenja to get it ready for you? I? yes, I'll just go and do that now, shall I? And you can wait right here, right? ahh, outside."

She made to scurry away, but I was feeling more put-upon and surly than usual, so I tramped after her, showing only enough bad grace to stop outside the main door of the mead hall while she darted inside. As the doors opened and closed, a brief burst of sound wafted out. It sounded as if someone, or more likely quite a number of someones, was having a wonderful time. Lucky them.

After several minutes, the doors opened again, and Athynae emerged, trailed by a woman of obvious Nord heritage. If the ring mail and fur greaves had not been enough of a clue, there was her white-blonde hair, high cheekbones, and piercing blue eyes. She was really quite pretty, but seemed rather washed out standing next to Athynae. But then, most women did, at least to my eyes. When she spoke, it was apparent she had been returning my scrutiny and was less than impressed by what she saw:

"We can certainly heat up the stones for your? companion. In fact, I think the bath is empty at the moment, so he can go right in."

I was about to protest being discussed like so much livestock when she finally addressed a remark to me:

"By the way, I am Svenja Snow-Singer, Hunter of the Skaal. Just leave your clothes outside the door to the bath. I imagine we can find something that will fit. And I'll send along some shears."

She turned back to Athynae: "And will you be needing a room?"

Athynae colored nicely at the off-hand remark about our sleeping arrangements. I was becoming quite enchanted with seeing her blush for a change. She composed herself enough to say,

"That would be wonderful, Svenja. But make it two rooms, please."

At the Nord woman's questioning look, Athynae waved a casual hand, as if to say this sort of thing came up all the time, and explained in an airy voice:

"Oh, you know. Redoran customs. The betrothed couple have separate rooms until after the wedding."

She laughed and continued, "It's silly, I know- but- traditions and all that."

I should have kept still, but I was enjoying her discomfort too much, plus I was still a bit nettled at being made to wait outside. I put an affectionate arm around her waist and drew her close, giving her a leer as I said,

"Since we aren't in Ald'ruhn and there aren't any House members around, is tradition really that important?"

I made as if to nuzzle her ear and she jabbed an elbow sharply into my ribs, smiling tightly while she purred:

"You forget, darling, that I am a member of House Redoran." And then to Svenja, firmly: "Two rooms!"

If the Skaal hunter thought our actions were odd, she managed to keep any indication of it from her face. Athynae, on the other hand, had an expression that promised retribution- and in the near future.

Awesome Treydog!

My goodness. Let me compose myself after that.

Treydog, I am in awe. I was swept into Athlain's head with your first sentence and remained there until reluctantly reaching the end of the story.

Powerful, beautiful, delicately understated. The entire story is 100% show, not tell.

We all have preferred styles and aspirations for our writing. The definition of this for me is: Treydog.

When I read your writing, I do not dwell so much on the stark clumsiness of my own attempts; Rather, I see the epitome of what I aspire to.

Thank you for gracing us with your skill. We are all enriched for it.