[Kyra]

I'd prefer waiting for the published work to be made, read that, and then continue reading this when you take it up again.

[Nomee]

Good luck with that, although you probably don't need it from what I've read of the fan fic, I'm sure it will be brilliant. I hope once you get it published and can find the time that you will finish the fan fic.

[Marie]

Eheheh... yeah.

See, the thing is, I'm currently working on an original work I hope to get published within the year. Starting this up again would be project suicide for that, and that takes priority. So this probably won't get started up again.

I think I still do have my plot summary, though, if you guys really want to find out what happens. It'd just be more of a synopsis than a proper story, more's the pity.

Whaddayaknow, thought we had heard the last of you. Pity you're not finishing it although I understand why. Good luck with your original work, I keep hearing I should too but I don't consider myself a good enough writer to attempt that already.

Maybe you can pm the synopsis to someone else so he/she can finish it properly? It would be a shame to not see this most amusing work finished.

[ladyflames]

Whaddayaknow, thought we had heard the last of you. Pity you're not finishing it although I understand why. Good luck with your original work, I keep hearing I should too but I don't consider myself a good enough writer to attempt that already.

Maybe you can pm the synopsis to someone else so he/she can finish it properly? It would be a shame to not see this most amusing work finished.

No thanks. I wouldnt trust anybody but Bsparrow to do justice to this excellent piece of work.

[Stephy Beck]

I was just thinking out loud.
Although I have to say I think Rumpleteaza could pull it off. (in theory)

[Silvia Gil]

Okay, I'm still probably not going to finish this story, but I've been in a writer's block with the original work, and I've had this existing in bits and pieces on my hard drive for a year. You all have effectively peer-pressured me into it. Nya.

But yeah, you can probably see why writing this one intimidated me so much.


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


Sam did his best not to fidget, but it was difficult. He could feel a red-eyed stare boring into the right side of his face, and that alone was enough to keep his eyes locked on his bare toes.

The Hero of Kvatch was a very scary mer.

It wasn't just her reputation that had him intimidated, nor was it the guard cuirass that had the thief on edge. It was her. She exuded the sort of coiled energy that you found in a ready-to-pounce cat, even while she sat cross-legged on the inn's double bed. She glanced around with unintentional intensity, as if everything she looked at was a thing to be scrutinized. Worse, her stare was unflinching, and her natural expression was one of such gravity that the Bosmer felt stifled. He didn't think she'd blinked once since he'd entered the room.

Then again, he was staring at his own feet, so he could have been wrong.

He'd been summoned to Baurus' room at Luther Broad's that night through the beggars. He'd come straight there, creeping through the inn's main chamber and up the stairs like the Thief he was. When he'd knocked, Baurus had opened the door with an excited grin on his face, and there had been a Dunmer in a Kvatch guard cuirass sitting on his bed.

Right away, he'd been afraid of her, especially when she pinned him with an expression that was probably supposed to be neutral (it felt like she was mentally peeling his skin off). But Baurus had ushered the Bosmer inside and shut the door, introducing the Dunmer as Vira Redoran. The same one who had rallied the Kvatch people and shut the Gate? Why, yes, in fact. No need to be intimidated or anything.

Baurus had introduced Sam as "an acquaintance," but there was little doubt that the Hero of Kvatch knew from his beggar-like clothing that he wasn't exactly a Blade like Baurus.

The Redguard had since settled into the desk on the opposite side of the bed, eyes traveling between the two mer with what might have been veiled amusemant. He let them sit like that for a couple minutes.

Meanwhile, Sam darted glances up at the Dunmer, waiting for her to blink.

Finally, Baurus cleared his throat, and the Hero's attention shifted to the Redguard. Sam let out a sigh of relief. "So, we know where the Mythic Dawn base is, and we've got all the reinforcements we're going to get. I think it's about time we do something about it."

Sam glanced up, unsure. He flicked a glance at the Dunmer, but her face was expressionless. She didn't seem to be hiding an expression? it was as if there were none for her to wear. It made him shiver.

"We don't have as much help as I'd hoped, but that just means we'll have to be careful. We're not waging an attack against the place; we're infiltrating it." Sam nodded his understanding; he already knew all this? but maybe the Dunmer didn't.

Then, Baurus caught his eyes. "Sam, much of this rests on you, and, as much as I hate to give you more to worry about, we need you to do something else."

Sam tried to ask, "What?" but when the Dunmer's eyes swung around toward him, it came out as more of a squeak.

"There's a particular Amulet that was recently stolen from us; a large red jewel cut in the shape of a diamond, inset on a gold chain. I need you to retrieve it, even if it means compromising your cover."

Sam was startled by the request, but his puzzlement gave way to curiosity. "I won't be compromised. I'm better than that." He flashed the Redguard a mischievous smile, and it was returned.

"We'll see. You're sure your cover wasn't blown in the sewers, right?"

It was a discussion they'd had before. "Yeah. Raven thought I was one of them. He wouldn't have told his father."

The Dunmer looked between them quizzically. Sam was happy to see some expression on her face.

"Good. Go get ready, then; we'll meet you by the stables after midnight."

Sam nodded and ducked out, happy to be out of the Dunmer's direct line of sight. He did his best to move quietly down the stairs, then moved swiftly back to the Waterfront. He only had a couple hours.

The guards had begun returning to their posts that evening; most of the city gates were back to two guards per door. Either they'd finally closed the Gate, or they'd given up on guarding it. Sam hoped it was the first one.

He got home and threw a pack together. The Bosmer didn't have much that would be useful?he wasn't exactly the adventuring type?but he tossed in the essentials: food, thieves' tools, and the fancy robes he had used to impersonate Gwinas in the sewers.

When he was finishing up, he heard a familiar insistent rapping at his door. He smiled as he opened it, not surprised to find Methredhel on the other side, making a face at him as she leaned on her crutch.

She glanced over his shoulder at the pack on his bed and crowed, "Ha! I knew it!" He could do nothing to stop her as she shouldered past him and plunked herself unceremoniously on the bed next to his bag. He closed his door as she dumped it out and started pawing through his things.

"Tch. Is this all you have? No armor or weapons? No scrolls or potions?"

Sam shrugged. "I don't own a lot of that stuff, and we probably won't need it. This is just disguise work."

"Hmm?" She frowned as she looked down at the items she'd strewn over his bed. "Still, this is pretty weak, Sam. Here." She reached down toward her uninjured foot and pulled a steel knife out of her leather boot. "Hide this somewhere on yourself, just in case." She placed it among his things, meeting his eyes as if daring him to refuse.

He knew better. Instead, he leaned back against the door and smiled playfully. "Why are you carrying hidden weapons? You can't go anywhere dangerous until your leg heals."

She didn't return the smile. "Force of habit. Sam, are you really going to plunge into the middle of the Mythic Dawn like this?"

He shifted uncomfortably, eyes fastening on his toes. "Baurus will be there."

"But he can't protect you all the time." Her voice was rising in pitch. "I saw how close Raven was to cutting your head off, and let's not even start on what state Avidius left you in! One of these days, your luck's going to run out, and no one will be there with a healing potion handy. You can't keep walking around in your na?ve little world; you're going to be forced to fight for yourself. And when that happens?" Her voice trailed off, and Sam was alarmed to see tears gathering in her eyes.

Sam froze as the world dropped out from under him. Methredhel was supposed to be the strong one. It was her confidence and spunk that gave Sam what little courage he had, and seeing her buckling under her own distress was like watching a mountain suddenly topple. On top of him.

He sat down on the bed beside her, leaning against her comfortingly as she got control of herself. She leaned back into him for a couple seconds, then sat up again, flicking a hand across her eyes. "Sorry. I know it's not fair to expect you to be something you're not..."

"But you're worried, because you won't be there," Sam finished.

"You're pretty helpless without me, Sam." She finally gave him a tremulous smile, and he returned it.

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

The Hero of Kvatch wasn't quite as scary once you got her talking.

Close, but not quite.

"It is not a matter of whether you need it. It is a matter of whether you've earned it," she said stiffly, managing to be eerily motionless even while bouncing in the back of a cart.

"It's not exactly an easy job," Sam mumbled, being jostled along across the bed of the cart from her. He averted his eyes and felt her piercing gaze boring into the side of his head.

The three of them had rented a horse and single-axle cart at the Chestnut Handy Stables. Baurus was driving by the light of a dim lantern hanging off the front corner, having apparently picked up the skill at some point in his twenty-odd years in the Blades. The two mer rode behind, bouncing along with their supplies. All three were dressed simply: the males wore the coarse linens they both favored for their cover identities, and Vira wore the soft brown cotton tunic she evidently wore under her armor, covering it with her burgundy cloak. Both Baurus and Vira had packed their bags, armor, and weapons in crates, but were trying not to attract unnecessary attention for now.

Which didn't work out so well when Sam got in an argument with the Hero of Kvatch, because her voice carried in the still night air. Luckily, their cart was now circling the woody north-west shore of Lake Rumare, so there weren't many people around to hear it.

He wasn't even sure how it had come up in the first place. He'd been idly fumbling for conversation, and his way of life had somehow slipped out. The next thing he knew, she was practically biting his head off.

"You take that which does not belong to you. That is... utterly reprehensible! Do those people you take from not have a right to that which they've earned?"

Sam shrunk further into himself, looking out at the starlight reflecting off the lake below. "Yeah, I s'pose so..."

"Then how do you justify doing it?"

"I... I don't know..."

Baurus glanced over his shoulder at them. "With all due respect, Vira, it's not a good idea to give our thief an identity crisis at this time."

"But he is a criminal!"

"And you've committed no crimes yourself?"

There was a pause. "That is entirely different."

Sam glanced up at her, startled. Baurus turned back to driving without responding, unaffected by her stare. Then, her attention switched back to the Bosmer, and Sam "eeped" on reflex.

After a long time staring at him without blinking, she said, "My crimes do not excuse his." And that was that.

Not for the first time, Sam felt like he was in over his head.

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

As the sky lightened with dawn, Baurus beckoned Sam up to the front and gave him an off-the-cuff lesson on driving. Then, the Redguard handed the reins to him and hopped into the bed of the cart. There was something empowering, yet frightening, about having the leather in his hands. The cart seemed to be trundling along much faster from the perspective of the driver's seat, where he knew a twitch of his hand might send them careening off the trail and into a tree. He hoped the horse was trained not to do that.

For the first twenty minutes, he hunched in the driver's seat, staring straight forward with his brow furrowed in concentration as he made sure not to accidentally run them off the road. The horse was kept at a constant trot?Baurus intended to get them to Lake Arrius Caverns as quickly as possible, so they were traveling faster than they probably should have. But as time passed and no unluckily placed bumps in the road flipped the cart over, he relaxed. After a while, he found himself enjoying the colorful sight of the sun cresting over the hills a little to his right. He smiled, relaxing back on the wooden bench and stretching out his bare feet.

Breathing easy, he glanced over his shoulder at the back of the cart. Vira had wrapped her cloak around herself and curled up to sleep. Baurus relaxed against his bag with his arms thrown casually behind his head; Sam thought he was asleep too, until the Redguard said, "Eyes forward, Sam."

Sam snapped his eyes to the road again, but not without stifling a snigger.

In the afternoon, they stopped at a small village just long enough to grab a warm meal and trade for a fresh horse. Then, Baurus took back the reins and they moved on.

While they rode, Sam wondered why Vira didn't have to drive. Then, he noticed the way she was hunched under her cloak. She no longer seemed the coiled, forbidding Dunmer she had before... instead, she looked miserable. And a little sick.

"You okay?" he asked hesitantly.

Her eyes flickered toward him, her expression tight. After a moment, she nodded. "I am well enough. I have a chronic health condition; that is all."

Sam studied her for a long moment. He'd been a Thief long enough to tell when someone was being deliberately obscure. He'd never have expected the Hero of Kvatch to have anything to hide, but maybe even she had a skeleton or two in her dungeon.

But it didn't feel right to pry, so he said "Okay" and let it be.

He began feeling restless in the late afternoon, squirming in his spot in the back of the cart. He hopped out and ran alongside it for a while, just to get rid of his energy. When he started to get winded, he hopped back onto the cart until he was ready to run again. He entertained himself like that for a while, making a game out of hopping on and off the cart and trying to keep up with the horse. He caught glimpses of Baurus shaking his head to himself, but couldn't see from that angle what the Redguard's expression was. Vira didn't seem to notice him at all, having assumed a new, but still disconcerting, sort of stillness while she huddled under her cloak.

Then, as he was running alongside the wagon, he stumbled as his nose informed him of something that put a rock in his stomach, and all amusemant fled.

He climbed up into the driver's seat beside Baurus. "Do you smell smoke?"

The Redguard's expression was guarded. "I can't say I do."

"Oh." The mer dropped himself on the bench next to the man. After he'd caught his breath, he sniffed again. Now, he only smelled the crisp late Frostfall air. "Guess I imagined it."

Baurus gave him a concerned look. "Something wrong?"

"I guess not. It's just that last time I smelled smoke in the middle of nowhere, it was at that Oblivion Gate thing outside Weye. What if the Mythic Dawn opened one near here?"

It was Baurus's turn to furrow his brow. He sniffed the air himself, then threw a quick glance back at the Hero of Kvatch. "Whatever you smell, I don't think it's an Oblivion Gate. You were probably just smelling a bandit camp."

"Bandits?" Sam squeaked.

For some reason, Baurus smiled. "You have nothing to fear from bandits as long as I'm around, Sam. Why don't you hop in back and get some sleep?"

Sam nodded and did so, nimbly hopping over the back of the driver's seat to the bed of the cart. He found a clear spot on the wood and stretched out. Between all the running and driving he'd done that day, he hadn't realized how long he'd gone without sleep: he'd skipped an entire night.

His body seemed to realize that at the same time as his mind. Suddenly exhausted, he curled up against his bag and didn't so much fell asleep as leap into it.

When he woke up, it was dark out, and Masser hung large and red in the starlit sky. Vira was driving, leaving Baurus free to rest in the back next to Sam. The Bosmer sat up and was seized by a wave of wooziness. When it passed, he glanced over at the Dunmer.

She sat up straight in the seat, watching the road with her piercing eyes. Her hood was down for the first time since that morning, revealing white hair pulled up in a coil against her head, except for a couple wisps that fell out to brush against the back of her neck.

She sat as poised and forbidding as she had seemed the night before, but now Sam knew better. After seeing her in such a state that afternoon, hunched under her cloak as if enduring a winter storm, he knew that she was a living, breathing mer under this mask.

It made her much less intimidating.

"You look much better," he offered tentatively.

For a while she didn't give any indication that she'd heard. Then: "I feel better."

"That's good." Sam scratched his head, looking around but unable to place where they were, at first. One winding woodland path looked much like another, especially at night.

Then, he saw a familiar pair of white Ayleid arches glimmering in the moonlight ahead, and grinned in recognition. He climbed over the back of the driver's seat and dropped onto the bench next to her. "We're near the fork to the Silver Road, aren't we?"

She looked perplexed by his change in demeanor. Sam grinned in response. "Yes, I believe it's just up ahead." She paused. "You've traveled?"

"Just to Bruma and back. Because that's where my... um... never mind."

Her lips pressed together, telling Sam that she had an idea what he was about to say. She didn't push him off the cart, though, so he changed the subject.

"Do you travel a lot? I've heard about Kvatch and something about a haunted house in Anvil. Have you been to a lot of other places?"

"Chorrol and Skingrad," she said. "And a temple near Bruma."

"But you're not from any of those, right? Your accent..."

"Is from Morrowind," she finished when he hesitated. "And by your accent, you are from High Rock."

Sam grinned, delighted. "Yeah, that's right. Everyone always assumes I'm from Valenwood, just because I'm a Bosmer. I've never even been to Valenwood."

"Would you like to?"

"I dunno. I've never really thought of it."

She shifted her grip on the reins. "I don't understand how you could not have. It's your ancestral home."

Sam shrugged. "I guess ancestry just isn't important to me. Who cares who my parents' parents were? It's who I am that matters, y'know?"

Looking at her expression, one would have thought he'd said he didn't believe in the sun. Then, her lips quirked thoughtfully. "And just who are you, then?"

He wiggled his toes, then shrugged and grinned sheepishly. "I'm not good with deep philosophical questions. What about you?"

"Me?"

"Yeah. Who are you?"

She blinked at him, her expression searching. "You truly mean that question, don't you?"

"Uh... yeah. That's why I asked it." He smiled uncertainly.

She turned her attention back to the road and stared at it in that unblinking way she had. After a couple minutes of silence, Sam wondered whether he'd made her angry. He slumped back in the seat, stretching out his legs. To his right, he could just barely make out the dark silhouette of the White Gold Tower against the stars.

"Uriel Septim thought I was a tool of a divine plan, but I have difficulty believing that."

Sam sat up, startled.

"I don't see why the Nine Divines would pick me for this. Why was I the one to free Kvatch and find... someone important? Am I nothing but a weapon to be shaped to their whim?"

Sam was confused. "But you're a hero."

"I am not. I am... a weak creature, a slave to my physiology. Anyone else would have been better qualified."

"I wouldn't have been."

She gave him a look that might have been vaguely questioning (she was getting a little easier to read, at least).

Sam shrugged. "I don't know what your 'health condition' is all about, but everyone's got faults, right? But you still saved Kvatch, and now you're helping save the world. I don't think a lot of people could do that." Sam felt a self-depreciating smile spread across his face. "I probably would have turned and ran the other way as soon as I saw the first Daedra."

"And yet you're here now, about to delve into the enemy's stronghold. Perhaps that makes you a hero as well."

"Me? Nuh-uh. I'm just a thief."

"Replace 'thief' with 'alchemist' and you will have my state of mind as of two weeks ago."

"That's different."

"We will see after this crisis has passed."

Sam was thinking of a retort when she suddenly stiffened in her seat. Her head snapped around, eyes searching the darkness.

"What's wro-?"

"Quiet."

Sam obediently snapped his jaw shut with a clack.

"Take these." The reins were abruptly thrust into his hands.

He fumbled to get a good grip on the leather. "Hey, wait-" He looked up just in time to see Vira grab her silver sword from behind the driver's seat and jump off the cart. With a swirl of her burgundy cloak, she disappeared into the night.

"...okay. I'll just stay here." He slumped onto the seat, then sat up straight again as he heard the nearby twang of a bow. Something streaked through the air ahead of them, barely visible in the light of the lantern.

Bandits.

Now that he was aware of it, he heard the sounds of shouting in the trees to his left. A bowstring twanged again, and an arrow thunked solidly into the side of the cart.

Then, one of the shouts was cut short with an almost imperceptible squishing sound, and Sam's hands began to shake.

"Hey, easy," a voice said at Sam's shoulder, making the Bosmer jump. The cart veered, and Baurus reached over Sam to right the horse with a swift tug on the reins. He had his own sword ready in his free hand.

"Calm down," the Blade said. "Just keep the cart moving."

Sam swallowed past a dry throat and nodded. He spurred the horse on faster. The sounds of fighting echoed against the trees as they moved. Another arrow streaked past them, bouncing off a crate. A striped, leather-clad Khajiit bearing a steel hammer burst out of the trees and ran for the cart.

Sam's hands clenched around the reins, and his breath began coming harsh in his throat. He cried out and shrank back as the Khajiit reached them and tried to leap up onto the driver's seat next to him. An instant later, Baurus was there, impaling the Khajiit with his Akaviri katana and propelling him off the cart with a solid kick.

"Just keep going," said the Redguard, rising to stand protectively over the Bosmer, his sword raised against the hidden threat. A Nordic woman ran out and started climbing onto the back of the cart. Baurus smashed his pommel into her temple, and she went tumbling back onto the road.

Then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over. A final gargled cry pierced the night behind them. A moment later, Vira emerged from the darkness, loping next to the speeding cart as easily as its shadow. Baurus held a hand out to her and pulled her onto the cart. Sam averted his eyes as he glimpsed the dark splatters on her tunic in the dim lantern light.

"You all in one piece, Vira?" Baurus's voice asked.

"Nothing a potion won't fix. You?"

"Not a scratch on me." Sam heard Baurus sit down behind him, followed by the sound of metal being set on the wooden cart bed. "You should probably take back the reins, Vira."

A bag opened, and a vial was uncorked. "I think Masser is bright enough to let the thief drive."

"I'm not worried about the lighting."

And then Vira climbed over the seat and sat on the bench next to him. She held out a hand for the reins, and he couldn't tear his eyes away from the blood splattered across her skin. He didn't protest as she pulled the leather out of his shaking grasp and signaled the horse to slow down.

She leaned over and peered into his face, looking concerned. He tried to smile, but dropped it as his stomach gave an unpleasant lurch.

Why wasn't she wiping the blood off?

A cool hand landed on his shoulder. "Don't worry," Vira said softly. "You will get used to it."

Even more softly, Samlir said, "I hope not."

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

"First priority?"

"Retrieving the Amulet of Kings."

"Second priority?"

Sam winced as Vira gave the comb a particularly harsh tug. "Getting the names and locations of any other agents."

Baurus nodded, turning to pace in the other direction. "And if things turn sour?"

"Hide in the nearest shadow and get my Bosmeri butt out of there."

"Good." The Redguard stopped pacing a rut in the mountainside and turned to face the Bosmer that had been Samlir an hour ago (Now, he was a well-groomed, uncomfortable-looking noble that vaguely resembled the Thief). "Remember, the Empire is resting on you to get what we need and get out of there alive."

"No pressure," Sam mumbled.

The journey had taken just under four days, half of which had been spent trekking through the wilderness on foot, since no cart-worthy road conveniently led straight from the Imperial City to the Mythic Dawn's secret hideout.

A twilight fog hung in the air around them. They were just down the slope from the caverns, able to hear a rushing waterfall somewhere above them.

The Redguard's strong hands grabbed his shoulders and gave them a swift shake. "Don't fold on me now, Sam. You can do this."

The thief took in a shaky breath, then another. "I don't know if I can. There will be so many of them, and all able to summon armor and weapons like the people in the sewers. By the Shadow, what they did to Methredhel-"

"Don't think about that. You're better than you think you are. Just stay calm, and do what you do best."

"Right. Okay." Sam bobbed his head up and down, but it didn't feel like nodding as much as it felt like the spasms heralding a panic attack.

Vira pointedly tugged at his hair with the comb, and Sam stilled his head.

Baurus moved away and started pacing all over again. He was nervous too, Sam knew; he'd been around Baurus enough to recognize the signs. But the Redguard's nervousness tended to turn into restless energy, whereas the Bosmer's turned into... more nervousness.

At long last, Vira pulled away and stood back to study the mer she had helped transform. "I think the illusion will be more than convincing," she said after a moment. "Once he stops twitching."

"Time to put on your war face, Sam," Baurus prodded.

The Bosmer swallowed. He felt like something had snuck into his belly and let loose an entire colony of tiny bats. This was too much, it was too big. He was in over his head, and he was going to drown.

But people were counting on him. He'd stuck with the Blade this far, so it wouldn't be right to abandon him now, when they were so close to meeting his goal. This was for the safety of everyone; he needed to do this.

Telling himself that didn't stop the bats, though.

He wished Methredhel were here. She was his good luck charm, and he felt like he really needed some good luck right now.

Finally, he straightened up and pulled away from the Dunmer. Right now, she had a comb in one hand, and a flask of soapy water at her feet, but that was the only thing remotely domestic about her. Both she and Baurus had changed into their armor for the wilderness trek; Sam took comfort in the sight now. They had promised to wait nearby, and to come running to the rescue at the first sign of trouble.

If all went well, he wouldn't need their protection. Unfortunately, around him, things had a tendency to not all go well.

He took a breath and closed his eyes. He could feel the silk of his robes, and the slight weight of the jewels sown into the cuffs and collar. His shoes were soft and snug, and were balanced oddly where they were trimmed with gold. His hair was combed back and lightly oiled, leaving it feeling cool and a little painful from the unfamiliar style.

Gwinas.

He breathed deep, and, like donning the fancy new shoes, so did he don 'Gwinas'. His own fear and foreboding was pushed down and back, temporarily forgotten under the facade. Gwinas wasn't afraid to enter the Mythic Dawn. In fact, Gwinas was excited. Gwinas was also a little ignorant about what they were trying to do, but that was okay, because Sam didn't need Gwinas to know everything. The real Gwinas had fled when he'd found out anyway.

It was like being back in the Main Ingredient, getting Avidius arrested. There was a thrill in having power over others' perceptions. It was like a game of cards, and he just had to bluff well enough to win with an easy hand. In the back of his mind, it was also a little unnerving. But he couldn't afford to dwell on that now.

He nodded to Baurus, who nodded back with an unreadable expression. Then, Sam took his bag--laden with the copies of the Commentaries and little else--and swept up the hill and into the caverns.

As he first entered the darkness, Sam felt a stab of fear. A wall of impenetrable blackness was in front of him, and he had no torch. Images of all sorts of monsters that could be lurking in the dark flickered through his mind. Maybe he should just turn around...

He gave himself a mental shake and composed himself, then began the descent. After about thirty steps, he noticed that there was actually light up ahead. Encouraged by the sight, he sped up. He turned a corner, and was greeted with the sight of a lit brazier, a door, two sunburst tapestries like what he'd seen in the sewers, and a red-robed guard.

Sam set his disguise firmly in the forefront of his mind, then strode forward into the island of light with an eager step.

The cowled Imperial eyed him for a moment, his face betraying nothing of his thoughts. "Dawn is breaking," he said.

"Greet the new day."

The guard's face took on a look of mild recognition; he'd probably been told to expect a Bosmer noble at some point. "Welcome brother. The hour is late, but the Master still has need for willing hands." He turned and started through the door behind him, beckoning for the Bosmer to follow. "Do not tarry. The time of Preparation is almost over. The time of Cleansing is near."

He followed the guard through a winding corridors to a large chamber with a broad stone platform. There, the Imperial instructed him to wait. "The Master is speaking right now, but I will fetch Harrow for you. Only he may prepare you for your initiation into the service of Lord Dagon."

The guard disappeared down one hall, leaving Sam alone. He looked around, noting the hanging banners, and the dusky light filtering through a hole in the cavern ceiling high about him. Again, the darkness around felt stifling and scary. Sam thought he heard things moving around in the shadows, scuffling along the earthen ground, but knew it was just nerves.

He was a Thief. He was supposed to like shadows.

Not when he wasn't the one hiding in them, though.

Presently, the guard returned with a Dunmer in tow. The Imperial promptly left to return to his post, and the Dunmer introduced himself as the one called "Harrow."

Harrow gave Sam a well-practiced speech which the Bosmer paid little attention to, then instructed him to hand over all his worldly possessions and change into a set of red robes to match the rest of the cult. Sam, in the guise of Gwinas, followed the directions eagerly and without question. Although he doubted Gwinas would have slipped Methredhel's knife into his boot.

"Very good. Follow me into the Shrine."

And so Sam did, walking behind Harrow through more winding corridors and out into a chamber with a deep pit in the center. A gigantic four-armed statue that could only have been Mehrunes Dagon was at the back of the pit, looking for all the world like a Daedric Prince who would have a lot of fun destroying Tamriel. In the pit, under the gaze of the statue, milled dozens of cultists, all listening raptly to a figure at the podium. Judging by the speech the Altmer was currently giving, Sam guessed that the figure was Mankar Camoran.

"...be to your Brothers and Sisters! Great shall be their reward in Paradise!"

There was a chorus of "Praise be"s from the spectators. Harrow led him down the stairs to stand among them. Camoran's voice was confident and powerful, drawing everyone's attention through his sheer presence. Sam could kind of see how he'd amassed such a following; Camoran was one of those people that had a way of taking up a room without even trying. Kind of like Vira. People respected people like that.

Sam was more the kind that no one really noticed entering a room at all, and that was how he preferred it.

"Hear now the words of Lord Dagon: 'When I walk the earth again, the Faithful among you shall receive your reward: to be set above all other Mortals forever.'"

Sam's eyes narrowed as he noticed the rather conspicuous amulet Camoran wore around his neck. It was large and deep red, cut in the shape of a diamond, and inset onto a gold chain.

Sam wasn't exactly loyal to the Septim dynasty, but it still didn't seem right that Camoran could wear the Amulet of Kings. It seemed like some sort of perversion.

"'As for the rest: the weak shall be winnowed; the timid shall be cast down; the mighty shall tremble at my feet and pray for pardon.'"

"So sayeth Lord Dagon," chorused the cultists. "Praise be."

"Your reward, Brothers and Sisters!"

At then, Sam's stomach flipped as he felt like reality was tearing near him. It was the same feeling that he'd gotten from the Oblivion Gate outside the Imperial City?like he was suddenly straddling two speeding carts.

"The time of Cleansing draws nigh. I go now to Paradise. I shall return with Lord Dagon at the coming of the Dawn!"

A bright white rift in the air opened behind the leader of the Mythic Dawn, crackling and rippling. Through it, Sam could see colorful fields and a blue sky. Camoran stepped smoothly backwards through the portal with a final "Dawn is breaking." Then, in a flash of light, both mer and rift were gone.

"Rats," Sam whispered. The mer had taken the Amulet of Kings with him. Had he known Sam was coming to take it? That thought did not sit well with the Bosmer.

The sermon finished, most of the red-cloaked figures turned and started heading up the stairs, out of the shrine. Meanwhile, Harrow set a hand to Sam's shoulder and propelled him closer to the dais. A cluster of about nine cultists remained on the floor under the podium, chatting softly about what they had just seen.

A hush fell over them as a female Altmer ascended the stairs onto dais with the grace of a queen to her throne. A pair of cultists followed behind her with an unconscious Argonian slung between them. They tied the poor guy to a stone slab in back, right at the feet of the horrific statue. Sam half-expected the statue to come alive and finish the current swinging motion of its twisted axe, slicing the Argonian in half.

"We have a new brother who wishes to bind himself to the service of Lord Dagon," Harrow said, pushing Sam forward.

When the female Altmer called him up onto the dais, Sam's heart began beating like a galloping horse. He roughly shoved his fear aside. He was fine. He was Gwinas, and Gwinas had nothing to fear from these people.

Wearing an excited expression, he trotted to join the Altmer on the dais. She greeted him with a warm smile that still managed to be cold, and Sam was suddenly struck by the resemblance.

Raven. She looked like Raven.

She greeted him with words about pacts and red-drink, which Sam half-listened to with a slightly vacant smile on his face. He could feel eyes on him from below the podium, watching him, testing his disguise, and ready to smash him to pieces against that statue if it slipped.

This wasn't nearly as much fun as the last time he'd played someone else.

The Altmer finished speaking and waited for some sort of response from Sam. Sam's mind swiftly backtracked, repeating the last thing he'd heard.

"Take up the dagger and offer Lord Dagon the sacrificial red-drink as pledge of your own life's blood, which shall be his in the end."

"Wait... what?" His eyes widened, and he noticed the silver dagger and heavy tome on the podium. Sacrifice?! This had never been part of the plan!

"You must slay the sacrifice to bind yourself fully to Lord Dagon's service," she repeated calmly, as if this were a point when a lot of initiates panicked. Sam wouldn't have been surprised. "Lord Dagon thirsts for blood."

Sam looked out over the crowd, seeing their watching eyes. They were an audience, and he was an actor in a play that was swiftly turning macabre. He was Gwinas... Gwinas wanted to join the cult. The audience was waiting for the bloody climix.

He stepped up to the podium and picked up the silver dagger. It felt... dirty. Evil, somehow, thought that was probably just fancy on his part.

Dagger in hand, he walked to the back of the platform like a mer caught in a dream. He had to do this. The entire empire was depending on him.

"Lord Dagon thirsts for red-drink," the Altmer prodded. "Sate him."

But Sam wasn't really paying attention to her. The Argonian had just opened his eyes, and was blinking up at him with the bleary look of someone who had been drugged. The reptile was completely naked, and tied on his side by a length of hemp rope strapped to his wrists, his head lolling. His scales were red and burgundy, with two bright spots of turquoise around his eyes. Spikes circled his head like a crown?though there was nothing regal about his current predicament.

The Argonian's red eyes met his own, confused and disoriented. He was completely helpless... how could Sam be expected to hurt him in this state? What kind of people were these that they could do something like this?

"Initiate, Lord Dagon waits."

Sam turned to her, caught between bringing the bloody play to its climix, or breaking out of his role. One choice would let him infiltrate the Mythic Dawn?their best chance of getting the information they needed and retrieving the Amulet?while the other would probably get him killed. He was outnumbered and surrounded; he had no hope of fighting them off, and he doubted he could get away before they strapped him to that sacrificial altar. The Argonian would die either way, and not going along with it would mean that the Blades would lose the lead that Baurus had worked so hard to acquire.

Still, he couldn't kill. He just couldn't.

He turned back to the Altmer, letting his face show his defiance, and took a breath to refuse. But before he could, there was a thunk and a cry on the ledge above them, and a red-robed cultist tumbled over into the pit. A moment later, someone on the ledge near the back of the chamber cried, "Intruders!" before being hurled bodily over the pit into the Dagon statue.

The cultists that had been watching the initiation moved into action immediately?except one who hung back and slipped into the shadows.

Then, Sam was grabbed by the front of the robes and he suddenly had an enraged Altmer in his face. "Do you know anything about this?" she hissed.

It was just like back in the sewers, when Raven had found out Sam had been followed. He remembered being terrified as he'd been shoved up against the wall, struggling to keep his facade in place. This time, though, Sam didn't blubber and shake and fret about being found out. This time, he stared defiantly back at the Altmer. "Yes. I brought them."

Her face twisted in anger. "Then Lord Dagon will dine on your blood tonight!"

Yeah, he'd pretty much figured as much.

The Altmer shifted her grip on his robes, letting go with one hand so that she could cast a spell with the other. Before she had a chance to, though, a lightning bolt leapt out of the shadows below and behind her, catching her square in the back. Sam yelped as some of the shock magic passed through him, jerking back and falling against the altar with an "Oof."

He didn't get it nearly as badly as the Altmer did, though. She rolled on the ground, jerking and spasming, her eyes wide with pain and terror.

A shape peeled out of the shadows and ascended onto the dais, chuckling darkly. It was another red-robed Altmer, walking with the lazy stride of a large cat savoring a kill. The male mer sent another bolt of shock into the female and drawled, "Tut tut, Ruma. I thought you of all people knew better than to turn your back to me."

Sam picked himself up slowly, blinking. He knew that drawl from somewhere, but couldn't place it.

He could hear the sounds of battle on the ledge above them. He flinched every time he heard someone cry out, each time wondering whether the garbled cries belonged to Baurus or Vira. It probably wouldn't be long until someone came back down the stairs to protect the female Altmer, but for now, the four people on the dais seemed to be on an island all to themselves.

The male Altmer bent over the female, smirking. "Altmer weakness to magicka certainly is a [censored], isn't it, Ruma? I wonder if your dear daddy has the same problem."

Then, the voice matched a memory. "Damendrel?"

The Altmer turned a startled glance over to him, then narrowed his eyes in concentration. After a long moment, recognition crossed his aristocratic features, and his lips twisted into a smug smile. "The apple thief. I must say you've certainly done well for yourself."

"Obviously not that well," Sam replied, tossing out a hand to indicate the noisy cavern.

"I'm hurt that you didn't take me up on my invitation for tea when you got out."

"You didn't exactly leave an address." Since Damendrel showed no intention of killing him, and the one called 'Ruma' was still lying on the stone in a groaning heap, Sam took the chance to do something about the fourth member of their little island. He started slicing through the Argonian's ropes with the dagger that was supposed to have killed him. "Are you with these people?"

"Not anymore." Sam heard the other mer walk lightly across the stone and stop at the podium. "I've now got all I needed from them."

"No!" Ruma burst out, voice tight with pain.

Sam jerked his head around in time to see Damendrel grab the book from the podium. The Altmer flashed him a cocky grin and said, "I'd run, were I you," before vanishing from sight.

Immediately, the statue above him began rumbling, and a piece of stone broke loose above him and landed next to his foot. Sam eeped and gave the ropes binding the Argonian a desperate tug while the statue of Mehrunes Dagon began cracking up the middle. One of its arms fell off and landed next to the platform with a resounding crash.

As dust began raining down on him, Sam cut the last thread and grabbed the Argonian by the wrist. He braced himself against the altar and used all his meager weight to yank the Argonian bodily off the slab, just in time to avoid being flattened as the statue's broken axe crashed to the stone where they had been a moment before.

The two of them tumbled off the dais to the ground, rolling until a stalagmite stopped them prematurely. Sam had the air slammed out of him, and laid there for a moment, upside-down, gasping for breath, and with a scaly leg thrown across his shoulders.

"You traitor!" a Dunmer voice cried. "You're with the Blades!"

Sam blinked pained tears out of his eyes, and saw a man in summoned armor standing near them. It was Harrow, he realized, recognizing the voice.

Harrow stalked over to his prone form and raised his Daedric mace over his head. "Lord Dagon will slake his thirst in your blood!"

Sam closed his eyes, resigned to his fate. But when he heard a clang, there was a distinct lack of pain.

Wait... clang?

Sam opened his eyes again, only to look up at a rather miffed-looking Redguard holding an Akaviri katana.

"I thought I told you to get out of here at the first sign of trouble. What are you doing; taking a nap?"

Sam gave the Blade a shaky smile and pushed himself up. The Argonian next to him groaned and rolled over. Harrow was at Baurus's feet, his helmet smashed in.

There was a shout from near the stairs, and another red-cloaked figure ran towards them. Baurus hefted his sword. "Get that civilian out of here," he shouted as he ran to meet the attacker.

Sam scooted over to the Argonian, wincing as the pain from their tumble faded. It was better than the alternative, though: the dais was now a tumbled ruin. They would have been crushed if they'd stayed there.

"Hey," Sam whispered, shaking the Argonian by the shoulder. "Hey, wake up. We have to go."

The Argonian's eyes snapped open, wide with fear and lingering disorientation. Sam fell back with a cry as the Argonian sprang to his feet. His lizard-like head swiveled wildly, looking for an escape route. He apparently found one, because the next thing Sam knew, the lizard was sprinting for the stairs.

"Hey wait!" Sam reflexively grabbed onto the Argonian's tail, and was thus pulled along as the panicking reptile jetted up the stairs, past a bloody and tired Baurus and a circle of red-robed attackers, and through a tunnel in the back of the shrine. Sam clung on for dear life as the Argonian ran deeper into the Mythic Dawn base. Shouts rose around him as they burst through sleeping areas and another shrine, and startled cultists in their wake began taking up the chase.

It was like being on a horseless wagon hurtling down a rocky slope. He bounced off walls and was whipped around dizzily with every sharp turn, but he knew that if he let go, the trail of cultists behind them would catch him. The Argonian was completely panicked, so none of Sam's shouts for him to stop penetrated the frenzied haze.

Not that he blamed the Argonian for that.

And then, the Argonian tripped, and the two tumbled into a dip in the ground that served as a firepit. It had nothing but a small cookfire with a bucket of some noxious stew boiling over it. They were in a large chamber set out with tables and barrels. The firepit was cut off from the rest of the chamber by a line of crates and barrels, but with clear paths on either side.

The people milling around the makeshift dining area jumped up as a trail of five people chased Sam and the Argonian into the chamber, shouting. The cultists already in the room moved closer to cut off their escape route, summoning their armor and maces.

The Argonian jumped up, looked around, and shrank back against the line of crates. Sam joined him, careful not to burn himself in the fire. He still had the silver dagger, and waved it in front of himself uncertainly.

"Lord Dagon will revel in your deaths!" cried one of them as they were effectively surrounded. The cultists surrounded them in a semi-circle, backing them against the crates,

"By all that is holy..." the Argonian whispered brokenly.

Sam swallowed. The Argonian was helpless and afraid. Sam was well acquainted with those emotions himself, but he'd never seen them from the outside like this. Was this what it felt like to be Baurus, or Methredhel? Did they feel this wave of protectiveness? Did they need to see the victim to safety as badly as Sam now did? Was this what courage felt like?

Whatever it was, it gave him the strength to shove his own fear down and away?a thing to be dealt with later. Suddenly, he didn't see an overwhelming wall of cultists, tightening around him like a noose. Instead, he saw nine individual people that were blocking their escape route: armed and armored, but capable of being beaten. And he also saw other things within an arm's reach. Useful things.

He switched his dagger to his left hand, then yanked the boiling bucket of stew off its hook, ignoring the slight burn of his fingers from gripping the heated handle. As the cultists charged, he leapt backwards onto a crate and dumped the hot liquid onto three of them. That slowed them enough for him to jump down to the other side of the barrier and run around behind the group.

His Argonian friend wasn't doing so well. He'd already been knocked down, and was now cringing on the ground as a group of four stood over him. Fresh blood seeped down the scales on his shoulder.

Sam acted without thinking. He had shoved down all his fears and anxieties, only aware that he had to protect the Argonian. He took a running leap, landing square onto one of the cultists' backs, knocking him down. Sam slammed the dagger blade-first into the back of the man's neck.

A mace blow caught him in the side, and he was thrown off the cultist, the dagger still embedded in his spine. The woman who had hit him ran around the corpse with a maddened shriek, swinging wildly.

Sam skittered back, suddenly feeling a lot less brave. His breath caught in his throat as the bats returned to his stomach in full force. Then, a scaly hand landed on his shoulder, steadying him and reminding him that he wasn't the only one here.

Wait, he wasn't helpless yet! He still had Methredhel's knife!

He dodged the woman's next swing, jumping back into a stack of barrels. He grabbed the lid off one and threw it at the woman, then crouched to draw the knife out of his boot. A mace slammed into his back, and he tumbled to the ground with a cry, but he kept his grip on the knife.

When he stopped skidding, he rolled over in time to get a mace in the gut. He grabbed the mace with his free hand, and stabbed the wielder's arm, harshly yanking the blade along bone. The attacker jumped back, and Sam turned to duck the next attack. His breath was coming harshly now; he wondered if one of those maces had cracked a rib.

He ducked under another mace swing and jumped forward to stab his current attacker in the knee. Someone else kicked him in the thigh, and he slashed at the offending foot a little too slowly.

Then, one of the wicked Daedric maces caught him squarely in the side of the head, and he toppled. No! he mentally shrieked, feeling his consciousness rushing out of him.

He heard an inhuman roar and shouts, and a scaled hand grabbed him by the wrist.

Then, nothing.

[Tom Flanagan]

I spent pretty much all of last Sunday reading this, from very first post of thread one to the last post of thread two, a virtually uninterrupted eight hour fanfic delight. When I reached the end, my overriding thought was, "I really hope this is continued." Then, when I read your post the other day, indicating that you had put this to bed, I will admit, I was disappointed.

Imagine both my surprise and delight to see this!

Seeing as how I have never before commented on this, I do not feel capable going into detail on individual scenes, primarily because of the sheer length that you have posted over the last couple of years. As such, my comments will have to remain on the vague side, expressing my overall impressions of the story to date. First up then, I can see why this has gained so many devoted followers since it began. You detail events that we know from the game, as has been done many times, but you add so much life and depth into the characters as to how and why they make those decisions. It is honestly like going through events for the first time, and in a way, it is. It is certainly the first time I have seen events through the eyes of these characters, and Damendrel, Sam and Vira are three great characters, and it is terrific fun to see the world of Tamriel through their vision. You have done an excellent job of making them seem like living, breathing peop... erm, Elves.

It is a joy to read and I really hope this is continued. Even if it were to only be updated when writers block strikes you on other projects, well I think people will accept that, and seeing as you have left us with the mother of all cliffhangers...well, it would be excessively cruel to stop there!

So, to sum up, a thoroughly entertaining and well-written story, and my thanks for sharing it with us. Here's hoping your return to the forums will gain you a new legion of readers to enjoy it!

p.s.

Damendrel seems to be the character you have the hardest time connecting with, as his chapters are typically the shorter ones, the ones you seem to have more difficulty writing, and the ones you often warn us may not be the greatest. His personality doesn't show as much in his chapters as Vira's and Sam's do in theirs.

I disagree actually, although I stress that I am not trying to be argumentative. Damendrel is my favourite of all the characters. He is the classic anti hero, and wheras the other two (brilliant as they are) are starting to put others before themselves, he is remaining firmly and gleefully in the "grey" zone. That morally amiguous zone where all the coolest characters live. Snake Plissken, The Man With No Name, Riddike...maybe we can add Damendrel to that list of characters that will always be cooler than me.

[LittleMiss]

Hello and greetings to BSparrow.

I have just copied and pasted the entire story, starting from the now closed first thread, from chapter one all the way up to chapter forty four, into a microsoft word document. According to Microsoft the story is 139,960 words long at present and even with custom wide print margins on my document and space-saving single line spacing and Arial 10 point, it is still 243 pages long.

I now intend to read it. All. If possible, at one sitting.

Then I intend to read it. Again. This time, with another MS word document open at the same time, and make notes while reading.

And then...

If you will permit me, BSparrow, I hope to make a two to twelve page MS word critique on your epic. I suspect it will be at least 2.000 to 12,000 words of critique.

But this poses a problem...

Because there's a well-established saying: "Those who can, do, and those who can't, critique." You are a writer - never mind if you are published or not, you are a writer - and in many respects, far ahead of me (see my own fanfic, 'Fountain of Youth' for example) and this is why I hesitate to critique.

Yet if I honestly thought you were too far ahead of me for me to offer any critique at all, I certainly would not be offering to do so. I believe, from the snippets that I have glimmered through glancing through your epic while cutting and pasting, that there are a few things you should ponder on regarding the craft, the philosophy, and the magic of writing.

But this poses a problem - even if you were as broad minded as I suspect you are, and I am as good a critic as my ego thinks I am, there is still the fact that certain critics simply do not fit certain writers. Especially if those critics are writers themselves. To borrow an anology from the world of the martial arts, there are great champions who can defeat any other fighter around, except one - and that challenger can be whipped by any other fighter around, except the champ, whom he can defeat. The way I see characters is radically different from yours - again, take a quick peek through my story, and you'll see what I mean - and therefore it is entirely possible that each and every one of my criticisms could be totally true, and yet at the same time useless to you from the point of growing as a writer. I think you will understand me.

Therefore: should I or not? I shall read your story, prepare my notes, and perhaps even write - for myself, at the very least - the critique, but as to whether I post it or not, that will depend on you, BSparrow.

But before I end my post...here is my congratulations, in the form of an extempore rhyme:

Not a sparrow falls, but the mind of all will see:
Nor shall a word be lost, for love of knowing thee -
I shall remember all the wonders that you have made me see:
And treasure all the secrets you crafted and have set free:

And rising from the light, I shall walk into its fire,
And burn my soul to the marrow with its deep desire,
Call it by name, that one portal we seek:
It is the door from which the divine essence leaks -

For tho' we live and die in realm of the mundane,
there is magic to bring us beyond the realms of the sane -
From the first story heard in wonder in dark stone cave
To this, your magic, from the games that we crave-

the craft of mythmaker ever flourishes anew,
from words on slate to graphics electrons renew,
from this, the mundane, to the mystic is the bridge
we strive to build with words our poor bricks.

[Lyndsey Bird]

@ burntsierra:

:wub:

Thanks so much for the kind words. It was comments like that that made me start again. I just might have to get working on the next chapter now. :dance:

The whole Lake Arrius scene is a hefty project (spanning 4 chapters, if you can believe it), so I wouldn't have started it if I didn't intend to finish it. Because that would be cruel, and I like to think I'm not that. Harsh, occasionally, but not cruel.

And I liked the way you described Damendrel as "gleefully in the grey zone." I'd never thought of it like that, but the word choice is uncannily apt. Awesome.

If you will permit me, BSparrow, I hope to make a two to twelve page MS word critique on your epic. I suspect it will be at least 2.000 to 12,000 words of critique.

(+poem)

...dude. :blink:

By Mephala, yes! If you're really willing to slog through this monster twice, and write a deep critique about it, I'd be more than happy to accept it. Heck, I'd be honored! It's not often you get offers like that; I had to take a couple minutes after reading that post, just because I was so blown away.

Like I've mentioned before, I'm really serious about my writing--it's pretty much my raison d'etre, at this point. So yeah, I'll take all the help I can get. Feel free to be brutal.

I know what you mean by 'awesome critiques that don't really apply.' I've gotten quite a few in my fiction classes, and I'm sure I've given more than a couple on these forums (at least, people tell me my critiques are "awesome" :shrug: ). These critiques can sometimes be difficult to take, since I usually feel like I'm taking my work in the wrong direction afterwards. But even then, I learn something about what I want, and can hopefully draw plenty of good advice and insight from them. So don't worry about what my personal intentions are; just give the critique your all, from your point of view. You are part of my target audience, so your input is very much appreciated, even if your writing style is vastly different from mine.

And that poem is absolutely amazing. I've never had much talent for poetry, myself. I can understand meter and rhyme schemes, but the substance always comes out sounding like a crayon-drawn birthday card done by a six-year-old. Therefore, I doubt my opinion is worth much--and biased to boot--when I say that that, right there, is absolutely beautiful. :touched:

[Nichola Haynes]

Now, of all the posts you've posted in my previous works, I feel ashamed for not looking this up and saying something about it.

I, myself, enjoy MQ stories. This is unique and awesome; as well as your characters. I don't, and think I can't, critique very well so I normally give praise to what I like in stories (even though that's is what critiquing is naturally ). So I hope to see another chapter soon, Sparrow.

[Ownie Zuliana]

Oh so this is being continued then? Well that's awesome, I better get me readin' cap on then

[Kyra]

Damn, I can't for the life of me remember what has happened so far.

*sigh* Back to page one I guess.....

[Chris Jones]

I disagree actually, although I stress that I am not trying to be argumentative. Damendrel is my favourite of all the characters. He is the classic anti hero, and wheras the other two (brilliant as they are) are starting to put others before themselves, he is remaining firmly and gleefully in the "grey" zone. That morally amiguous zone where all the coolest characters live. Snake Plissken, The Man With No Name, Riddike...maybe we can add Damendrel to that list of characters that will always be cooler than me.

Oh no, I was not saying I dislike Damendrel. I like him very much. I was simply making an observation concerning her writing.

I will have to like start reading this from square one now.... I just hope I have the time to do so.

[Stacy Hope]

Of Craft. Criticism and...yes, ambition

This is the critique I promised. As promised, I have read the entire story - twice, yet - and if side trips and back tracks are counted, nearly thrice. And again as promised, this will be a long and in-depth critique, and in some places even, perhaps, painful. But I hope - though I can't promise - that there will be much more insight and pain, and in some places humour and quirkiness as well. Ah well. Bear with me. And let's start our journey, shall we?

The Precooked versus the "Pristine" Plot: Lessons from Hollywood

This is a precooked plot in the sense that the game has already given much of the main storyline, with of course a few innovations by the writer such as the origins of the destruction of Kvatch. This being so, there can be no critique of the plot as such: Bethesda is, for sometimes worse but frequently for better, the plot writer and thus responsible.

However, I really do think you - and also all on this forum who follow a precooked plot - should take lessons from Hollywood on how to make a precooked plot original. How many times have we seen a movie that is based upon a book or a comic - ooops - 'graphic novel' - that we know by heart, and yet in the movie we find changes, twists, elides, and extensions that makes us mentally grunt 'Hmmm, didn't see THAT coming!" even as we reach for more popcorn?

The art of the screenplay writer in reverse, is what I mean: for just as the good screenplay writer takes a book's plot and creates images that conform to the plot we expect to see, and yet still has the power to surprise us with the unexpected, so too I believe that the good fanfic writer follows the plot that has been precooked for us - yet still has the ingenuity to create a twist that, while not destroying the warp of the story, weaves seamlessly into it a new theme that enables us, the readers, to enjoy the story in an entirely new way.

There is much potential in the basic storyline: its branchings and sub plots offer fertile ground for those who would mutate the storyline into an evolution that still showed its DNA from the original, and yet was not only different but more...exciting, and innovative. Do try it, BSparrow and all others who would rewrite game stories!

Writing for a living: craft or gimmicks?

Now, BSparrow, I am criticizing your work on the premise that you intend to write either entirely or partially for a living. Writers, of course, never write just to buy their dinner and pay off their mortgage - even the most dreadful hack in writing history, I am sure, hankers a desire for the applause of both the general readers and the elitist reader, the literary cretin. Ooops. The literary critic. I'm mean - ahem, I mean.

Seriously, though, in spite of the cretinism we sometimes see in 'literary' criticism, all of us who write do seek in some way their approval. As indeed we should. For we take pride in our craft, and the hard-won praise of those who see more than us is hoped for not only as balm for our egos, but also as the opportunity to perhaps gain new insight ourselves: and to gain sight that enables us to achieve more insight into all the aspects of writing is something to be well proud of.

And if we can at the same time win the applause of the wider reading public in general, then that is more than just the icing on the cake - that's the cake itself.

All who write for a living know that you have to keep your audience. And how do we do that? Let us never forget the basics, even if we frequently find them trite and clich? - for they have become so because they were successful. The story must have a plot that is both innovative yet utterly plausible: the plot itself must capture our attention: the characters in that plot must excite our emotions - love them or hate them or all the shades in between, they should never leave us cold or yawning.

The craft of the true writer lies in the writer's manipulation of the dynamic interaction between the characters and the plot. You create a character, to advance the plot: the actions and words of that character in his interaction with other characters, and the environment of the story, move the plot forward: the plot in turn creates new opportunities for the characters... and so on. Frequently the writer finds unexpected opportunities cropping up even as he writes: the gifted writer will weave these opportunities seamlessly into the plot as it develops, taking advantage of this serendipity.

And here is where my criticism starts. I believe there have been quite a few missed opportunities in your story already...in the words of the departed famous actor Richard Burton, you did not milk the drama udderless!

Understand that this is not definitive, as I am sure you will. Changing a part of the story, any story, creates a dynamic that ripples down in large or small measure all the way down to the end: some changes are too small to even notice, others create a tsunami that forces a substantial rewrite. And as such it may well be that the changes I suggest may even detract from the story as a whole, and make it lesser than it was before: such is criticism, which can destroy as much as it has the potential to build.

On unmilked cows and unfulfilled promises

I use the term 'unmilked cow' to refer to a writing situation where a plotline, a descriptive passage, or a character in description or dialogue has - at least in my eyes - potential that is left unutilized.

Let's start with the basic plot. I fell that there is a lot of potential to develop characters, particularly the interaction of the characters with their environment, and the description of the characters state of mind. Just as the graphics guys use 'eye candy' to add to the richness of a scene, so too the writer should use 'mind candy' to set the scene vividly in the reader's mind.

Now at the very beginning of the story (Chapter 1 ) I find

They passed a couple hours like that, Sam and the Altmer speaking quietly while the Dunmer occasionally made nasty comments down the hall. Sam found out that the Alter was named Damendrel, and he'd been brought over straight from the Summerset Isles. He wouldn't say what he had been arrested for, although he'd been in captivity for a couple months, so it had to have been something bad. Sam similarly told Damendrel about his own upbringing in High Rock, surrounded by orc farmers and with a witch coven nearby, and the nasty runs of bad luck that had characterized his youth. Then, he bitterly recounted the tale of his journey to the Imperial City and subsequent arrest over an apple? which he didn't even get to eat. That last comment made the Altmer laugh.

This is a straightforward description...no problem with that, except that the entire preceding part is of the same piece, and this tends to slow down the interest that the beginning generated. Instead, why not - for example -

As the time in the dungeons passed slowly, the prisoners began to learn - warily - about each other.
Sam and the Altmer spoke in whispers, their voices sometimes rising and falling like the murmurings of the sea heard distantly through a window, occasionally counterpointed by the sharp snap of the Dunmer's nasty comments. Sam found out that...

Just one little metaphor tossed in, but see how that relieves the monotony of the writing!

And instead of just

That last comment made the Altmer laugh.

Why not

That last comment provoked an Atlmer laugh - dry, caustic, and cut off after two sharp syllables.

See how this description brings to life the sardonic character of Damendrel? IMHO it's important to establish the character in the first few chapters: you can add in the light and shade later, but the broad brushstrokes need to be drawn early on.

These are 'tricks' it's true - tricks of writing - but they are there to be used, and why not use them if it adds life and colour to the story? Leaving all those willing cows unmilked makes for fewer milkshakes, and adds to the thirst of the deserving. Milk them. And make milkshakes. Yum!

They live! Characters and their creation, and their relationship with the creator

Vira - why not fulfill the fate of this fierce femme?

Vira is the character with which, I think, you feel the most intuitive rapport with. In your description of her character, her speech, and her thinking she is not only fully fleshed out, but also vivid enough to engage the reader's interest, sympathy and attention.
And yet, here, too, there are many potential developments that IMHO went unfulfilled. One of the most obvious is the potential dramatic conflict between Vampire Blood and Redoran Blood - the conflict between the raw, elemental, earthbound hunger of the vampire and the refined, ethereal, aristocratic pride and disdain of the Redoran blood.

Thus, in chapter ( 6 ) we find

The next hour was a blur as the hunter in her took over. The next thing she knew, she was crouched on the road somewhere southwest of Chorral, the corpse of a Breton woman a pace away and a skittish black horse prancing up the road. The woman's blood was all over Vira's face and hands, the ground, and the woman's neck. The woman's bag lay half-opened down the road, papers tumbling out and drifting away with the breeze.
Vira stood up slowly, taking stock of herself. In that short time, she'd lost her shortsword and her left sandal. Other than that? she seemed to be fine. Most astonishingly, she was once again self-aware. It was as if her consciousness had, upon feeling that short breath of freedom afforded by the amulet, gained the courage to leap up and grab for it again as soon as she'd fed.

She looked down on the corpse of the woman, feeling a pang of something. Regret? Perhaps.

The whole idea of 'blacking out' the vampiric episodes in Vira's life is, I think, a very great missed writing opportunity. Rather, the portrayal of the depth of Vira's vampiric hunger - and her vampiric nature as well, which should be more than just the one-dimensional 'I hunger for blood' caricature - offers the writer a greater chance to contrast it with the fierceness of her Redoran blood, and a background for the real struggle that she must initiate to regain at least a part of her humanity.

So instead, may I suggest...perhaps something like this?

The hunger trembled and rippled through her like the vibration of one elemental chord, straight down to the sinews of the force of mind that still was holding it in check. With a conscious act of will she unlocked the barrier, and unlife's shadow surged up to occupy the throne of will vacated.

Once again the Vampire's mind looked out into a world made for its touch of predation : night, wind, and the scarcity of wakened human minds. Colours are different. The red of day is now, in the heightened vampire hunting night sight, a pulsing, deep purple: white is ivory-yellow while green is almost black. Scents drift in and out as the wind teases its pulse in sharp, popping flashes of recognition into a feverishly questing mind's eye: fennel: grass: day-old human, now gone and useless: boar, far off: horse and human, near by...

Shadows ripple as she runs to the prey, their dark shape shifting as swiftly as she flashes over the ground. She sees the prey long before it can be aware of her, a horse and rider coming toward her on the road: the horse skitters nervously, its own sense of scent picking up a faint whiff of the dry ash and singed blood of vampire. Even before the human on the horse can register a frown the vampire moves around, her senses unerringly moving her body and scent out of the breeze.

The moon shines on the hair of the Breton woman riding the horse, reflecting a glint of silver onto the steadily pulsing hindquarters of the horse eating up the miles. The woman's head nods, too, in rhythm with the horse's gait, forming a counterpoint to the increasing rhythm of the shadow gaining from behind. The moon glints on the sprinting shadow behind, also - on its hands, its pumping feet, and on its mouth, with the bone - white of fangs revealed, a glint that grows larger as the shadow nears and its mouth gapes wider, lips drawn back, the pink of gum from which fangs protrude now exposed.

Close. Closer.

Time slows to sensual languor.

Vira now hears the pulse of her prey as well as feels it, the soft, damp DA-THUMP...DA-THUMP...DA-THUMP...

Neck above collar, white column of bone and blood-life. The glint of sweat on one slowly rising equine haunch, framed by a creaking leather saddle on which one blond Breton hair nestles forlorn. The head of the prey beginning to start a right hand turn...

Vira swerves and launches herself at the prey from one side, knocking the completely surprised woman off the horse. Even as they both fall Vira positions her fangs above the fragile and exposed neck, and braces herself for the shock of impact: as they both hit Vira uses the force to snap her fangs into the jugular. In one corner of her consciousness she can hear the horse braying and bolting in fear.

The waterfall of blood down her throat explodes in her mind like a blinding light. and from the very depths of her soul a titanic voice roars its triumph.

Dying, the prey stares at her, the speed of her demise not even giving her time to transition from surprise to horror: blue human eyes glaze over to stare sightlessly at red eyes glazed in hunger sated.

Sated.

Vira looks down at the dead and drained Breton woman, feeling a pang of something...regret?

Two emotions simultaneously.

The Redoran mind keening regret.

The Vampire spirit thundering one thought only, I AM.

That was quite a long, long rewrite, but I did it to show what might have been the potential of a vampire that held both the soul of an brutal egoist and the soul of a honour-code warrior in its undead flesh. And I added writer's "touches" to bring the scene to life, and bind the audience to the story by stamping the reader's imagination into the awe and horror of a vampire attack.

Vira is a writer's dream vessel, she has the potential to be filled with all manners of conflicts, tensions, and descriptions arising from the situations she is put in. So why leave them unused? Let's try to fulfill her potential! After all...it's her fate to be fulfilled as a vampiric character, isn't it...heheh, sorry, couldn't resist that.

Damendrel's Damnation - draw it to definition!

Damendrel, too, IMHO is a character half-drawn and left unfinished. If there is one thing we know about Damendrel, it is that he is a character capable of murder - in chapter 23 he murders to be initiated, and he does it without remorse. Furthermore we know from the beginning that he is ruthlessly ambitious.

The problem is that his egotism is not fully developed enough by you, his creator, to convince the reader, or at least this reader, that the act he performs in chapter 23 is part and parcel of the man he is, a man of overweening egotism and lack of compassion. I understand why this is so - you are struggling to create a state of grey regarding Damendrel's moral colour: and so you would probably find it hard to draw him as the psychopathic monster capable of killing in cold blood, and at the same time make other parts of his personality appealing enough to keep at least one warm spot for him inside our hearts.

Yet I think that it must be done, because only then will Damendrel fit as smoothly into the 'ambition' part of this triptych you're creating. I could - again - as above give examples of what I mean, but I won't, for I think you know well enough what is needed. Besides, I could well be accused of trying to rewrite your entire story from beginning to end, a sin for which I may well have provided enough ammunition already.

Actually, I think the best way to do so is through portraying Damendrel as a monster, yet a fascinating one. If Thomas Harris could do it with his Hannibal Lecter in "The Silence of the Lambs" I see no reason why you can't with Damendrel! Here's an idea: like Harris, give Damendrel's past in flashbacks, and in one of them give a plausible explanation of why he is not a total, cold blooded villian - with Lecter it was his love for Mischa, his baby sister horrifyingly cannibalized during WW II. Why don't you do that with Damendrel? I'm sure it could be done.

Sam is everyone's everyman

Short, cute, innocent, loveable goofball, what's not to like? And with a delightful 'hook' too - bad luck, coming into play at just the right moment to be the Deus Ex BSparrow to make the plot go one.

Except that..,.

He ends up being a two dimensional comic relief when - IMHO - with just a LITTLE rewriting, just a LITTLE tweaking of the Sam character, he could become like the Samwise Gamgee in the "Lord of the Rings" - the character who grows from the simple farmer sidekick to Frodo to a strong and deep character in his own right.

Sam is amusing, and loveable - but just not believable as a real, living, flesh and blood character. We laugh at his pratfalls, we chuckle and smirk as he hides in combat, we feel oh so superior...

May I suggest a plot twist? Let Sam's character, and luck, change after he discovers his love for Mehedrel - but not before he has killed for the first time, not by choice, but because he was forced to...it would be logical in terms of character development if Sam was forced into a situation where he had to kill to protect Mehedrel's life. Thus we now have one character forced to kill though fate: another character who kills through ambition: and completing the cycle of dramatic unity, a third character who kills for love, and in doing so changes both his luck and his fate. We would see a more thoughtful, stronger, sometimes brooding Sam, still with his carefree boyish foundation, but with a more mature overlay.

If it were up to me, I would link those three deaths in some way...but again, this is but one of the many branching possibilities that the basic plot allows. I am sure you can think up your own.

Again, I will not do another example rewrite. But the potential is there.

Physician, heal thyself

I freely admit that while giving advice to others, my own writing is full of weaknesses and flaws. See my own "Fountain of Youth" for example! (By the way, BSparrow, if you do have the time, visit that thread and give me your opinions on it. I am at present in a writer's block on that damned story!)

Envoi

Take ambition and temper it ever in the scales of Fate:
We who craft stories, know this of all strivings we make -
From the mud we dream of per ardua ad astra,
And at times luck makes our dreams appear faster,

Be ye the sisters three, weave the fabric of fate -
Three in your one, and on the tapestry you make,
Weave the story that comes from the mind itself,
But know that fabric too, has its own sense of self.

Create the story: and, too, let it create you,
From scattered words create the thing that is true,
Call on your heart to light the way through the dark,
And find the minotaur in its beauty most stark -

Yes, a quest of dread. Now breathe deep, and sing -
"Luck be a Lady, and Luck be a thief
Luck gives the lightning that drives away grief,
Luck finds the joy both unexpected and brief...
Luck guide my heart to the one I'll not leave."

[Trent Theriot]

I gave an embaressingly girlish squeek when I saw this thread again on the front page of the forums. I started to sink into sorrow when you told us of how the story would be discontinued, and I pegged the rest of the posts to pleas of continuation and explanations of why that would be impossible.

And then, BAM! New chapter! (very close to my actual reaction)

Even if the story isn't finished for a while, I shall be content on the hope that you will keep posting here when you have writer's block on your original story. Of course, let's hope that doesn't happen often! A book by you? I'm giggling like a schoolgirl. Maybe I should get a head start on the competition and start the first BSparrow fanclub...

Also:

After seeing her in such a state that afternoon, hunched under her cloak as if enduring a winter storm, he knew that she was a living, breathing mer under this mask.

I lol'd

[Adam Porter]

Thanks, Moroni et al.

I've got the next chapter mostly written, so hopefully I can get it up this weekend. If I don't, I'm not stressing... but yeah, I guess I am working on it again. Apparently, I lied when I said it was dead.

Of Craft. Criticism and...yes, ambition

*snip*

SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE :ahhh:

Thank you, thank you, thank you! That's exactly the sort of criticism I need. And delivered so kindly and, dare I say it, poetically.

You're definitely right. I tend to take shortcuts when a difficult passage comes up, plunking in summaries and whatnot, and my descriptive skills are sorely lacking of the vibrance you display in your examples. I'll definitely try to work on that--it won't happen overnight, but it's something to aim for.

I get what you're saying about the characters too. Damendrel, in particular, you hit right on the head; writing him feels like I'm trying to play both sides of a tug-of-war (FC4 made a very similar observation, about which he was also right). I'm not sure I want him to go fully psychopathic, but the flashback idea to pull him back to the "empathetic" side is a good one. I'll just take what I did in his last chapter a bit further. Hmm...

Vira, too. I've been trying to pit the two sides of her against one another but... yeah, I can't make excuses there. It's laziness and lack of imagination on my part, which I shall have to keep an eye on in the future. (Unfortunately, Sam just made his first kill in the last chapter... but that doesn't mean the rest of that section isn't valid; he's about as deep as a rain puddle right now).

Again, thank you very much. These are the sorts of comments that I can keep in mind both here and in other writing projects. I shall keep a constant eye out for "opportunities," lest I miss one that would make the story come alive like you've shown.

And yes, I'll pop over to "Fountain of Youth" when I have a couple hours free. It's the least I can do for that awesome feedback. :hugs:

[Eliza Potter]

I've got the next chapter mostly written, so hopefully I can get it up this weekend. If I don't, I'm not stressing... but yeah, I guess I am working on it again. Apparently, I lied when I said it was dead.

:woot: Huzzah!

[Rozlyn Robinson]

"So, what did you not tell him?"

Baurus glanced over at her, his expression still veiled. Vira caught and held his eyes meaningfully, and he nodded in acknowledgement. On the slope above them, the Bosmer disappeared into Lake Arrius Caverns.

"We're going to tail him," Baurus said.

She rounded on him sharply. "What? After giving him that speech about underestimating himself?"

The Redguard pressed his lips together, but nonetheless began gathering their supplies. Vira stood five paces away while he picked up and folded the coarse linens that the Bosmer favored. She did not understand why Samlir insisted on dressing like a beggar when it was obvious he was capable of getting his hands on anything he wanted?and had small compunction about doing so.

Traveling with the Blade and the Thief had been an educational experience, to say the least. Baurus was unlike any of the other Blades Vira had gotten to know?there was a particular impassioned quality about him that shadowed the others', and the fact that he had pursued his mission for so long without aid from the rest of the Blades was testament to his determination and resolve. He was someone Vira would do well to emulate.

The Thief was another matter entirely. During her brief stint as a traveling merchant, she had learned to dislike thieves for the damage they did to business. As if that weren't enough, she found the very idea of stealing from others to be morally repugnant. What sort of person must it take to so casually disregard the rights of others? There was no need to steal what could be earned through a little hard work. Certainly, if a vampire could make an honest living, anyone could.

Thus, she had been ready to keep the Bosmer under unwavering observation from the moment she first suspected what he was, at Luther Broad's. Yet, Samlir was not what she had imagined a professional thief to be like. He was not greedy, or shady; he did not seem concerned with money at all. He hadn't even looked at her possessions sideways. How could someone so gentle-hearted be a career criminal?

But perhaps it was unfair to expect him to fit into black or white categories. Vira certainly didn't.

"This seems a violation of trust," she pressed, crossing her arms.

"I know it sounds bad." Baurus grabbed Sam's discarded thieves' tools and hid them under a bush next to their travel supplies. "But I've been working with Sam for three weeks. In that time, I've learned a thing or two about how he functions."

"And you do not believe he can pull this off on his own?"

"Oh no, if nothing were to happen, I'm sure he could."

"That is a peculiar phrasing."

Baurus finished stashing the supplies and stood up, brushing dirt off his gauntlets. "Sam has a... particular quality about him. It's difficult to describe." At her questioning look, he waved a hand vaguely. "Ten minutes into my first mission with him, he slipped and fell into a pile of crates, alerting a murderous mob of smugglers to our presence. He ended the encounter impaled by a longsword. He then spent the rest of the day scouting ahead, out-sneaking both myself and a fellow Thief through sewers infested by bandits, goblins, and vampires."

Vira blinked. "What does that mean, exactly?"

"It means we're tailing him." Baurus picked Vira's swordbelt off the ground and held it out to her. "Do you have any invisibility potions in that alchemist's bag of yours?"

"Not at the moment." She idly buckled her belt as her eyes cast around. They fell upon a nearby cluster of Motherwort, growing sparsely out of the mountainside. "But I can mix one."

"How quickly?"

"Grab an empty vial from my bag and fill it halfway with water." As Baurus reached for her pack, she walked over and plucked a sprig from the earth. Running her hands through the plant's lush leaves, she returned to Baurus's side just as he finished filling a vial with his waterskin.

"I'll need a knife," she said.

She gently took the vial from the Redguard's hands, then used her thumbnail to shave off bits of the Motherwort stem. She handed the vial back to Baurus, and then took the knife he proffered in her right hand. She held her left hand palm-up over the vial and set the blade's tip to her skin.

"Hey, wait... what are you doing?"

She deftly peeled off a strip of her own skin, then curled her hand to crush it. The papery substance quickly disintegrated as she worked it. She tipped her palm and poured it into the concoction, then handed him the knife and took the vial back.

"Vampire dust," she said simply as she corked the vial and shook it vigorously. Once she was satisfied that it was mixed enough for the magical properties to emerge, she held it out to her companion. "When you drink this, you will not be able to talk or cast spells. It's a small, rushed dose, good for ten minutes at the most."

"We'll make it count." Baurus took the potion in his hand and started up the slope toward the caverns. She followed after, her hand drifting to the hilt of her sword. They ducked into the cave, and Baurus gulped down the potion and vanished.

As they descended into the darkness, Vira attuned herself to her vampiric instincts. She was immediately poignantly aware of the thrumming in the back of her head: blood... blood... blood.... She could hear the Redguard's heartbeat in front of her, and detected his earthy scent on the stale air. If she wanted to drink from him, she knew exactly where to reach out her hand to catch him.

But she had fed the night before, so the urge to do so was entirely manageable.

She extended her senses, using the built-in Detect Life that made vampires such deadly hunters. The Redguard's form sprang into glowing existence in front of her, and she could sense other living beings deeper in the cave. She also adjusted her movements to slink more quietly?although there were limits to how quietly someone in chainmail armor could move?and melded into the shadows.

They passed through a doorway lit by a brazier. Baurus was moving swiftly, his steel armor creaking conspicuously to Vira's sensitive ears. She could sense a humanoid lifeform up ahead; it was behind a wall for now, but growing larger as it approached them.

Vira reached out and grabbed Baurus by the arm, stilling his invisible form.

A moment later, the lifeform rounded a corner in the corridor and strolled toward them. It was an Imperial man in red robes, his head bowed thoughtfully. The man shuffled up the corridor at a leisurely pace, his hands tapping a light tune against his thigh.

Vira heard Baurus's heartbeat speed up, but the Redguard otherwise remained motionless. Vira was frozen next to him, her hand still on his steel-plated arm. She delved deeper inside of herself, pulling her inner beast closer to the surface to access a far more complex natural ability.

She vanished as surely as Baurus had; however, her invisibility had an unpleasant side effect: Baurus's quickened heartbeat suddenly seemed much more tempting. If he hadn't been wearing a helmet and gorget, she might have gone for it.

The robed man walked up the corridor toward them, and it seemed for a moment that he would collide into them. Then, he turned slightly to the left and passed by, close enough for hem of his robe to brush the side of Vira's shoe.

The robed form left through the doorway behind them and disappeared behind the jamb. Baurus's form relaxed under Vira's hand. The invisible Blade took a cautious step forward, but stopped when Vira's grip on his armor tightened.

The vampire saw the Redguard's form stop and turn toward her equally invisible form, his outline vividly coursing with Life. She heard his heartbeat increase again, and her hand tightened further. Her inner beast thrummed in anticipation, but for some reason hesitated, caught in an intangible indecision.

A bit clumsily, the Redguard reached his free arm back and found the vampire's form, his gauntleted hand brushing against her forehead. She automatically snapped at it, catching the metal-covered thumb between her fangs. The hand twisted, unpleasantly jarring her teeth, and two fingers abruptly prodded her in the eyes.

She jumped back with a hiss, the invisibility dissipating as she slapped her own palm over her face. Then, she blinked, realized what she'd been about to do, and let the hand drop. Her shoulders slumped.

"I apologize," she whispered in the direction of the Redguard's shoes.

Baurus didn't speak?he couldn't?but nodded, then beckoned for them to get moving again. And so they did, continuing through the corridors with only the echoes of their armor to signal their presence.

She couldn't read the Blade's reaction to what had just occurred. This was the second time he had witnessed her lose control?what's more, he'd brought her back both times. It did not even seem to faze him; he bore each incident with the cool efficiency of a seasoned warrior. She wondered how he viewed her: was she an ally to be trusted, a duty to be endured, or a danger to be supervised?

They reached a large chamber that forked in two directions, dominated by a platform in the center. Baurus paused, uncertain. Vira, however, could sense a large group of people off to the right. She pressed his shoulder, leading him down the right-hand path. As the path split off again, she kept them both on the left, sensing the large group of people growing closer through the wall in that direction.

They crossed through an open portcullis on the left, and entered into a large shrine. Vira shivered at the sight of the Dagon statue at the front, overcome by an aversion for the House of Troubles so ingrained by her Tribunal upbringing that it was almost instinctual.

In this case, though, the aversion was likely quite justified.

The chamber was large and deep. An upper ledge formed a semi-circle around the central pit, the two levels connected by a staircase on the left. There was another exit in the far left corner of the room.

They crept forward, to lip of the ledge overlooking the shrine. Two red-robed cultists stood nine paces away from them, watching a blue-robed speaker on the dais below. On the floor of the pit, dozens of cowled heads also watched the speaker.

Vira clenched her fist as her unnaturally sharp eyes noticed a familiar amulet draqed around the speaker's neck. The last time she had seen it had been at Weynon Priory, while she'd been balancing on the edge of a feral haze. That glittering piece of jewelry had pulled her out of her years as a mindless monster, its protection the task that had brought her back to herself. To see it now, around the neck of someone speaking the words of Mehrunes Dagon, tore at her heart.

The last man to wear it had died right in front of her. She strongly suspected that the mer wearing it now was the one responsible for that death. What a cruel twist of fate that was.

She was startled out of her thoughts as a familiar reality-warping feeling wrenched her gut. She exchanged an alarmed look with Baurus... he recognized it too.

Then, she did a double-take. Baurus was visible again; the potion had run out. She yanked the Redguard back away from the edge, and into the shadows along the chamber's back wall.

"The time of Cleansing draws nigh," cried the speaker. "I go now to Paradise. I shall return with Lord Dagon at the coming of the Dawn!"

A white portal opened on the dais, and the mer stepped smoothly into it. With a final fizzle, the portal snapped shut around him.

The majority of the cultists began climbing up the staircase toward the chamber's upper level, and the two intruders backed into the far corner.

"Did you see it?" Vira whispered.

"See what?"

"The Amulet of Kings. That mer was wearing it."

Baurus cursed. "I think our chances of retrieving it just got much worse."

They fell silent as a crowd of cultists passed their hiding spot. Fortunately, they were too caught up in discussing what they'd just witnessed to pay attention to their armor glinting dully in the shadows. The crowd passed, leaving the upper part of the shrine empty of cultists.

Baurus and Vira crept back to the ledge to watch the podium: about a dozen red-robed figures still milled around below. Two were tying an Argonian to a blood-soaked stone slab under the statue. Two more who were comically mismatched in height spoke near the podium. It took her a moment to recognize the smaller figure as the Bosmer she had been traveling with for four days.

Vira had had her doubts that the meek little thief who trembled at the sight of bloodshed would be at all reliable for this mission. No longer. Now, with his back held confidently straight and with a rapt expression on his face, he seemed to be an entirely different mer. She might not have recognized him if she had not done his hair.

Vira was just thinking that perhaps she and Baurus need not interfere after all, when she heard the Altmer talking to Samlir say, "You must slay the sacrifice to bind yourself fully to Lord Dagon's service."

Sam's face went blank, and he glanced around as if looking for an escape route.

"[censored]," said Baurus.

"He's not going to do it," agreed Vira.

"And they're not going to like hearing 'no.'" Baurus nudged her to catch her gaze, then pointed over to the other side of the chamber, where two cultists lurked near the top of the staircase.

She nodded in understanding, silently drawing Septim's Rose, and the two crept along the wall to where the two cultists stood.

"Lord Dagon thirsts for red-drink," the female Altmer's voice echoed around the cavern. "Sate him."

Vira did her best not to make noise as she crossed the ledge. Aided by her condition as she was, the only sound to mark her passing was a light shuffle of chainmail. Baurus moved much more slowly in his steel plate. She slowed her pace so he didn't fall behind. They needed to act together.

"Initiate, Lord Dagon awaits." There was impatience in the voice now.

Vira and Baurus drew up behind the two cultists, their swords drawn and flickering in the light of the torches.

Suddenly, Baurus leapt forward, raising his sword above his head. He brought it down and around to smash the pommel into a cultist's temple. The man went tumbling off the edge.

Vira was a step slower in getting to the other one, who dodged her swipe and let out a shout of alarm. While still in her follow-through, Vira let go of her sword with one hand and grabbed the cultist by the belt, then used her momentum to swing him around and throw him off the ledge after his partner.

And with that, the battle was joined. Shouts filled the chamber as a wave of red-robed figures ran up the stairs toward the two intruders. Baurus and Vira backed up to a defensible position against the wall, standing shoulder-to-shoulder and facing outward in defensive stances.

The cultists had summoned armor?complete with masks?and weapons, all of which pulsed with Daedric magic. As they surged forward, one of them cried "For Lord Dagon!"

Vira sidestepped to dodge a thrusting dagger, and raised her sword to deflect a mace coming at her head. She twisted her elbow, sending her sword in an underhand slash at the mace-wielder. It connected just below the cultist's ribs, a bolt of shock magic leaping off the blade and scorching a black hole in the red robes. The injured cultist stumbled to the side, and another bearing a shortsword instantly took his place.

Baurus's Akaviri katana was a metallic blur in her peripheral vision as he fought off his own opponents. Already, one figure lay groaning at his feet. To her, it felt as if they were back in the Oblivon Gate, fighting side-by-side against the Daedric hoard.

However, something was different about him this time. He attacked his opponents with a fury she hadn't seen in him before, his blade whirling in an irregular rhythm: [b]block, block, swipe, parry, slash, block...[/i] It never stopped moving, as if caught in a beautiful, chaotic dance.

No, that was wrong. She had[ seen him like this once before, when he had born down upon the emperor's assassin under the Imperial Prison.

And now, he was facing many more of the Dagonites, all who wore the same masked face. It must have recalled him back to that night, each slice of his blade like cutting into the assassin's flesh once again. Vira couldn't help but wonder whether this was a dream or a nightmare for him.

A stab in her arm abruptly pulled her from her thoughts. She had been fighting mechanically, her body responding with blocks and parries and little else. She chided herself for losing her focus, and leapt into the fight with a ferocity she hoped matched the Redguard's.

Fortunately, none of the cultists had been formally trained in combat: a bit of concentration was enough to discern their weaknesses. The Dunmer took various hits when she failed to move her blade around fast enough to block; she apparently needed to work on guarding against multiple opponents. Within thirty seconds, her arm was bleeding, her Kvatch guard cuirass was speckled with blood, and four different muscles had been tenderized by glancing mace blows.

She knocked one woman back, giving herself enough room to impale another, a jolt of shock leaping off the blade upon impact. When a sword bounced off her pauldron, she kicked the offending weapon out of its wielder's grasp. She yanked Septim's Rose out of the corpse and spun it to take the first woman through the neck. The disarmed cultist cast a simple fireball spell at her; she winced through the pain and lashed out with her left fist to knock the man out.

After that, she found she had time to rest. There were five cultists left standing, all hanging back out of range. Baurus caught his breath beside her, his Blades armor no longer as shiny as it had been that morning.

The prevailing scent in the chamber was that of blood. The beast inside her hummed in excitement, but she knew better than to loosen her hold of it. The ledge was strewn with bodies, some of which groaned and moved feebly. Down in the shrine, she could see four figures on the dais?two of whom were prone. One of those standing was Samlir. The other...

A spike of rage went through her as she recognized the figure. It was the same Altmer who had been in Kvatch: the one who had had a hand in destroying the city.

At the time, he had extracted a promise from her to spare his life for Martin's, and she had granted him that, as little as she had wanted to. She was not one to break her promises.

Incidentally, she had also vowed that the next time she saw him, he would die by her sword.

The Altmer below grabbed a book off the podium, and several things happened at once.

A tremor went through the chamber, originating from the statue of Mehrunes Dagon. The shaking increased, and the statue began to crack and crumble. Unbalanced, one of the nearby cultists slipped off the ledge, while two others fell to the ground. The portcullis at the front of the chamber clanged shut, and Baurus fell into a crouch, his sword still drawn against the potential enemies.

Vira, however, didn't pay attention to the crumbling statue. Her eyes were narrowed and focused on something no one else could see.

The Altmer had activated an invisibility spell, and was running up the stairs, right for her.

She raised her sword as his glowing blue form ran toward her. He was clutching something to his chest?likely the book. As he neared, though, she couldn't help but recoil. She had been around Daedric magic enough to recognize the metaphysical feel of it... and the Altmer reeked of it. It was stronger than any mere summoned weapon or armor; it was even stronger than the Sigil Stone had been.

Her brief recoil was enough time for him to sprint past her--easily in and out of sword range--and head for the door in the back of the chamber. As the sense of Daedric magic faded, she cursed herself for her hesitation, then turned and gave chase.

"Vira, where are you going?"

The Dunmer heard Baurus curse some distance behind her as heavy crashes echoed around the chamber, emanating from the statue. She paid none of it any mind: she had targeted her prey, and she intended to make good her vow.

The invisible form darted through the caverns in front of her, whipping around corners and dodging crates and braziers. Vira easily matched his pace, and slowly began gaining. Surely, he knew she was following him...

And then, he ran through a door and skidded to a stop. She followed him through, and had enough time to register the lack of exits in the small chamber before the door slammed shut behind her, the tumblers in the lock clicking into place by themselves. Magically.

The Altmer stood in front of her, a smirk on his fully visible features.

She was in a small room that seemed to be some sort of bedroom. There was a stone column in the center, with crates and a barrel stacked from the column to the wall by the door. Behind the crates, Vira could see a bedroll in one corner, and a table and sparsely-decorated shelf against the adjacent wall. A skull sat on the shelf, amongst tan pottery and dusty books, its empty eyes perfectly aimed to gaze at her with its deathly grin.

The stolen book lay on the table, still emitting that sense of reality-twisting evil. So that hadn't been him after all, but rather the book. What was that thing?

The Altmer noted her stare and his smile grew wider. "If you're wondering, that is a Daedric Artifact, with a capital 'A'. Reputedly penned by the big four-armed wonder himself. Who knew the Prince of Destruction was such a poet?"

"That is... It must be destroyed!"

"You're welcome to do that... if you can get it from me." His gaze was openly challenging now. "It's nothing personal, she-cat, but I don't much appreciate being chased while making my dramatic escape."

She nearly bared her fangs, but stifled the impulse. "I have every intention of running you through for what you did to Kvatch, you loathsome piece of guar dung."

"Ooh... righteous anger. This should be fun." The Altmer flashed her a cocky grin. Then, he made a broad, circular gesture, and a chilling fog began surrounding him, obscuring his form.

Vira felt the tendrils of fog touch her, a frosty sting crawling up her sword arm. She backpedaled until her back softly hit the locked door. The fog crept through the air to fill the room; she could feel the temperature drop. While cold did not affect her the way it would affect a living person, she was nonetheless alarmed. Being trapped in a small space with a mer who was apparently a spellcaster seemed like a very dangerous situation.

She tried to think about what she knew about fighting spellcasters... but came up short. The only mage she had fought alone like this was the lich in Benirus Manor; and she hadn't been in a state then that she wished to repeat now.

Then again, the basic tactic she had employed in Benirus Manor seemed sound: she had to get close?eliminate his range advantage?and disrupt the spell.

Locating him in the fog was only a matter of Detecting Life, so came easily. However, as she moved to ready her sword, she noticed that frost was slowly making its way up her arms, tiny pieces of ice glazing her wrists with a delicate white webbing. Her hands moved stiffly, showers of ice breaking off as she flexed her hands around the grip of her sword. Her fingers barely moved at all.

There was no time to waste, then. Making due with her somewhat clumsy grip, Vira ducked her head and leapt into the fog. Cold instantly bit at her exposed skin, but stinging skin was something she had learned to endure years ago. Three steps later, she was on top of the Altmer, bringing her sword down in a powerful overhand slash, throwing her entire weight into it.

The Altmer gave a yelp and threw his hands in front of his face as if to catch the blade with them. Vira's blow bounced off a hastily-constructed Shield, jarring her arm and throwing her back a couple steps. The Altmer was knocked back in the other direction, nearly losing his balance as he stumbled into the shelf. The fog that had been filling the room swiftly dissipated, leaving a fine coat of ice on the walls and floor.

Vira regained her footing and moved in to press her attack, keeping her sword swinging lightly in front of her. One of her feet slipped on a patch of ice, causing her to overstep and letting the other mer dodge around her. He spun away to stand above the bedroll, raising his hands to cast another spell. She didn't let him, dogging after him and swinging low.

Her blade connected with his red-robed leg, cutting deep, and a bolt of Shock leapt up the blade and into the Altmer. The mage cried out and spasmed as the electricity ran through him, throwing his head back and falling against the wall. Vira was momentarily surprised by the intensity of his reaction, until she recalled that Altmer did not have much natural defense against magical attacks.

Her brief hesitation was enough to grant the other mer enough time to regain his composure. The Altmer slumped against the wall with his head bowed?obviously weakened and in pain?but nonetheless glared at her with a renewed fire and raised his hands.

"My turn," he rasped.

Vira moved out of the way just as bolts of lightning shot out of his hands and zapped into the wall that had been behind her, melting the film of ice and leaving a charred black spot. She ducked behind the room's central column as bolts of Shock magic shot through the chamber, leaping chaotically around the room to land on walls, crates, and the floor. One crate burst apart on impact.

Vira hugged the column while Shock magic as deadly as the Frost spell filled the room around her. She couldn't get close to him while he was conjuring this small-scale lightning storm. But he had to run out of magicka eventually, and then she would get her chance.

"You know," the Altmer drawled above the noise of his magic, "there's something I've been wondering ever since our last meeting." Vira peeked around the column toward him, only to jerk back as a bolt passed a handspan from her face. "Just what was a fine upstanding citizen like the 'Hero of Kvatch' doing in the Imperial Prison?"

He paused, apparently expecting her to answer. She didn't.

"Then again, you didn't look like much of a hero then, did you? What a mess of a wild-child you were back then... the phrase 'raised by wolves' springs to mind. Quite different from your current nobility and poise." He paused, as if for effect. "I wonder... which is the real you?"

Vira clenched her teeth together, her fist tightening around her sword. Wait... the shock bolts had stopped!

"I think both of us know the answer to that question, as much as you pretend otherwise. Poor Hero, having to lie to herself to maintain her precarious sanity... Who would guess that the noble, brave Vira Redoran is nothing but a hissing, spitting beast at heart? Your adoring public will be so disappointed when I tell them."

"Don't you dare!" Vira burst out from around the column, swinging angrily with her longsword. The Altmer was ready for her, slipping to the side and zapping her in the back with a shock bolt.

He smirked triumphantly. "Oh, but I do dare. I've got it planned out and everything. First, I'll go to the Black Horse Courier and spill to them all the tasty details of what I saw in the Imperial Sewers." He backed away swiftly as she swiped at him again, one of his feet slipping on a patch of ice and causing him to slam against the wall. Vira slipped on the same patch a moment later, and ended up bouncing off the column. She ended up on the opposite side of the crate stack from him.

"Then," he continued, smirking from above the stack and sending another shock bolt arcing over it. Vira ducked behind the pile, shielding her face from a shower of debris as another crate burst open. "...After word of your scandalous state reaches every corner of Cyrodiil, I'm going to start the rumor?anonymously, of course?that you're part of a secret apocalyptic Hircine cult. I'm thinking underground lairs, ritual sacrifices... the works."

"No one would ever believe you." She snuck around the pile of crates, coming within jumping distance of the Altmer's left side.

"Not the most extreme versions, no. But it'd be enough to sully that pristine reputation of yours. And sadly, you wouldn't be around to defend it."

"The pristine-ness of my reputation is not something I am concerned about; I fail to see the point of this taunting!" Vira burst to her feet and charged him. Her slash caught him squarely in the small of the back.

He yelped as a bolt of shock leapt into him, but was apparently more ready for it this time. An instant after she yanked her sword out, the soft glow of Restoration magic surrounded the wound. The Altmer retreated out of her sword range and turned to smirk at her, as good as new.

This could prove to be a long battle.

"But you obviously are concerned about it, my dear. Unless you're upset that I thought of going to the Courier before you did."

She stepped forward, thrusting toward his chest. "I'm 'upset' because you are a foul s'wit who murders and lies-"

"And you're a self-righteous hypocrite." He ducked to one side and shot off a globe of frost. It caught her in the right upper arm, making the limb painful to move.

"You murdered an entire city!" She switched her sword to her left hand and moved in with an underhanded-slash at his side. It bit deep, but Restoration magic closed the wound a second later.

The Altmer stepped back out of sword range, holding his hands up defensively. He looked irked, which seemed an odd expression given that they were dueling to the death. "Hey, if I hadn't done it, someone else would have!"

"Is that supposed to be an excuse?"

"As if I'd need to justify myself to you."

"That's what you tell yourself, then?" She stepped forward and swiped at his belly.

"What's with the interrogation? What happened at Kvatch happened, and nothing more." He hopped back. When she followed through with a second slash, he spun behind her and shot a shock bolt into her legs. "Do I look wracked by guilt, to you?"

She winced through the painful tingles, spinning and arcing her blade toward his neck. He hit the floor and awkwardly rolled away. "How could anyone ruin so many lives and not feel anything?"

"Because I don't care. I'm a clinical sociopath. Those people mean about as much to me as an average mudcrab." He rolled back under her blade and shoved a handful of frost into her ribcage. She grunted through the pain (it felt like he'd frozen several organs; thank goodness they were all but vestigial) and slammed her pommel down on the top of his skull.

He slumped to the ground, curling into a painful ball while clutching his head. She switched her grip on her sword so she could make the finishing blow. "It seems I'm not the only one who must lie to myself to maintain my sanity," she said quietly.

"Going to kill me, then?" he asked, squinting up at her through his pain.

"I vowed I would, and I intend make good on that vow."

"And how does that make you any better than me? Is it really your right to say who lives and dies?"

"That is entirely different. You killed for selfish reasons. I kill you to avenge your victims."

The corners of his lips twitched upward. "And that is not, for some part, selfish?"

She wavered over him, too caught in his words to strike him down just yet. "Of course not!"

"So your fixation on guilt... that's not selfish?" Judging by the sly look in his eye, he could sense her hesitation. "You say you want to kill me for them... but it's not about them, is it? This is about you. I'm a symbol... of your failure to save them, your guilt, your wish to live up to an ideal that you could never possibly reach. Killing me would do nothing for them; they're already reunited with the Dreamsleeve. This little vow of yours is entirely about you. At least I admit that I'm a selfish bastard; you're stuck in a self-imposed delusion of altruism."

Vira felt a seed of doubt enter the back of her mind. Could the Altmer's words have merit? Were her reasons for attacking him entirely noble, or was there something darker and more personal behind it?

She violently suppressed the seed before it could sprout, then turned her hardest glare down at the Altmer. "Enough. I know what you're doing... you're trying to talk yourself out of your entirely deserved demise. It may have worked in Kvatch, but I won't let you slip away from me this time, you oily-tongued serpent!"

Much to her chagrin, he smirked. "Oh, my dear..." he said silkily, patronizingly. "What in Oblivion makes you think you've won? I was just making conversation."

And then, a Dremora longsword plunged into her back.

Vira jerked forward, stumbling over the still-prone Altmer and feeling the Daedric metal break several chinks in her chain cuirass. She spun in place, raising Septim's Rose to a guard position against the new threat.

A Dremora stood where she had been a moment before, its dark mask and armor stark against the frosted and burnt backdrop of the room. It held a thick, wicked blade that now dripped with her blood. The Altmer pushed himself to his feet to stand beside the Dremora, dusting off his robes as if he'd merely taken a stumble while out for a walk. Then, he gave Vira a toothy grin.

"Hero, this is my trusty Dremora Kynval. Kynval, this is the Hero of Kvatch. You may commence destroying one another now."

The Dremora apparently took that as an order, stepping forward and waving its longsword in an arc. Vira's own weapon looked like a delicate twig in comparison.

"You have already lost, churl," it gargled, swinging the blade on a level to decapitate her.

Vira blocked the blow, feeling the impact travel up her arm and through her shoulder, all the way to her stomach. The Dremora was strong than Vira, and it was probably fiercer and more skilled than her, too.

Fortunately, this wasn't the first Dremora she'd fought. By now, she considered herself something of an authority on killing Dremora.

As the Dremora blade arced at her head again, she ducked under the swing and stabbed at its hip, where the interlocking plates left an opening. The tip flicked against flesh, and that well-loved bolt of shock leapt into the creature. The Dremora gave a garbled roar and tried to pommel-bash her, but she twisted so that the blow only hit her pauldron.

Then, a bolt of electricity slammed into her back. Both Dunmer and Dremora cried out. Apparently, the Altmer didn't intend to just watch.

The Dremora channeled its pain into aggression, swiping downward and catching Vira in the lower leg. She took the chance afforded by its follow-through to stab it deep in the armpit. It twisted away, its free fist coming around to knock her in the temple. She stumbled sideways, her head ringing, but still got her blade up to deflect its next blow.

Another bolt of shock cut through the room, hitting neither of the fighters.

Vira fled behind the stack of crates to try to regain her balance. The Dremora gave a roar and plowed right through them. She was knocked to the ground by the upset barrel.

The Dremora walked heavily over to her and wasted no time in swinging its sword downward for a killing blow. She blocked the obvious swing and kicked its kneecap with both feet. The Dremora fell to one knee, and Vira thrust her sword into its throat. It jerked and fell to the ground, roaring in pain.

Vira yanked her sword out and scrambled to her feet, just in time for the Altmer to meet her on the way up. He grabbed her upper arms, and roughly pulled her close. For a long, suspended moment, all she could see was a pair of cocky hazel eyes.

Then, frost magic bit harshly into both her hands, and she cried out. The sword dropped from her frozen fingers and clattered to the ground.

A moment later, the Altmer had pushed her away, and the Dremora was nearly on top of her again. Its own blood streaked its armor, but its weakening state only seemed to feed its rage. She instinctively backed away and raised her hands to defend herself, but they could do nothing against the Dremora's wicked weapon. She felt helpless for the lack of her sword.

The Dremora gave one last powerful thrust, taking Vira clear through the chest. Her back hit the earth-cut wall hard, even as the sword's handguard hit the front of her broken cuirass. She curled painfully around the blade impaling her, her paralyzed hands vainly scrambling to extract the weapon. Her feet dangled a foot off the ground.

With a last whistling breath, the Dremora finally collapsed and dissipated in a puff of smoke, its weapon unfortunately left behind.

Vira fought to concentrate through the pain. Yes, her internal organs were very near vestigial, but this nonetheless hurt terribly. Her collapsed lungs kept telling her that she was drowning in her own blood, and her entire weight was uncomfortably held off the ground by her ribcage.

She flexed her hands feebly against the pommel of the Daedric sword, wincing as their stinging renewed, despite the fact that they barely responded.

"You're not dying."

Vira snapped her head up, suddenly very afraid. For the first time in living (well, unliving) memory, she was alone and helpless against a known enemy. The Altmer had her pinned against the wall; if he wanted to kill her, now would be the perfect opportunity.

The mage stood in front of her, and, to her surprise, there was no hint of cockiness, nor triumph in his demeanor. In fact, he appeared transfixed by the sight of the sword pinning her to the wall, his eyes wide with unconcealed awe.

"You should be dying, yet you're not."

His eyes ponderously moved up to meet hers. In this position, they were of an even height.

"Why is that?" His voice was soft and naked.

She remained silent, unable to form a response through the pain. She could taste her own blood in her throat... and the beast inside her was beginning to complain about all the blood loss.

The Altmer looked down at the blade again, stepping forward until he was within an arm's length. As if caught in a trance, he reached out a hand and ran a fingertip through the blood that was oozing out of her wound and staining her Kvatch tabard. He brought the blood close to his face to inspect it and rolled it between his fingers, seeming to note its odd color and consistency. Then, he started to bring it toward his mouth.

"...don't," Vira croaked, her voice wheezy from the collapse of her lungs.

The Altmer paused, glancing at her curiously. "Why not?"

She shook her head helplessly.

The harsh shrewdness was returning to his visage. "Why don't you want me to taste this? What will happen if I do?"

She tried to answer, but ended up spitting up blood instead. The Altmer's eyes flickered from her, to the Dremora sword, to her blood still on his fingers. She prayed silently?to whom, she wasn't sure?that he didn't lick the blood. Blood was the carrier of her disease.

She couldn't stand the idea of anyone else catching this disease from her... not even this Altmer. It was a fate worse than death.

At long last, the Altmer reached forward and wiped his fingers off on a clean spot of her tabard. Then, he primly turned on his heel and walked toward the table. He picked up the Daedric tome (the only object in the room that had no hint of either frost or scorch marks) and held it to himself like a beloved pet.

Then he turned back to Vira, his cocky smile once again in place. "Well, this has been educational. However, I have a dramatic escape to get on with, and, as I'm in a hurry, and as it seems killing you may be a great deal more complicated than initially anticipated, I'm afraid we'll have to pick this up another time." He sauntered toward the door, unlocking it with a touch. The mage turned toward her one final time and executed a mocking bow. "Until then, my dear... farewell."

With that, the Altmer slipped through the door. The lock clicked shut behind him.

Vira slumped around the sword, feeling something inside her break into pieces as the bloodthirsty beast railed against its cage.

[Hayley Bristow]

First....


CONGRATULATIONS!!!


This is so much better written, and since it coincidentally comes one post after my critique...and since it appears, at least to me, to have made use of the critique which I gave.... perhaps..

(gives self a sharp rap over knuckles, and marches over to mirror and wags finger at reflection)

"You (BLEEEP BLEEEP BLEEEPNG BLEEEP) egomaniac, who the (BLEEEP) hell do you think you are, taking CREDIT for ANOTHER WRITER'S PROGRESS??? AS....IF!!! CONtrary to what you might think, my dear delusions-of-grandeur Foxy of Folly's Fuliminations, the world and all intellectual progress thereof does NOT revolve around you. Now let some air out of that inflated head of yours and give some USEFUL criticism for a change, you pettifogging pompous prat of parsimonious and pernickity praise!!!"

OWWW. Owww. Okay...

I felt AND fell for this chapter in a way that I have never fallen or felt for any other chapter. Part of the reason is combat - this chapter has much better, and Oblivion style gritty-realistic combat than any of your other chapters.

And another reason is .... the development of Damendrel's character. YES! YES!! YES!!! At LAST we begin to really get a grip on his C & C character - Callously Cruel, Coldly Cunning, and Charimatically Charming at the same time. The dialogue and his reactions, to pain and his cunning and claculated swerves out of the sticky situations that he finds himself in, are all so IN LINE with his described character and past actions, that one wants to shout for joy at finding the perfect description for this character. It fits him like a well-used leather glove, snug and slick.

The touches of

"...So your fixation on guilt... that's not selfish?" Judging by the sly look in his eye, he could sense her hesitation. "You say you want to kill me for them... but it's not about them, is it? This is about you. I'm a symbol... of your failure to save them, your guilt, your wish to live up to an ideal that you could never possibly reach. Killing me would do nothing for them; they're already reunited with the Dreamsleeve. This little vow of yours is entirely about you. At least I admit that I'm a selfish bastard; you're stuck in a self-imposed delusion of altruism..."

is very good writing indeed.

You have discovered one of the tricks of craft - of using your words to multitask. In that soliloquy in the middle of battle you have, at one and the same time, delivered an anolysis of Vira's character, and at the same time used the mocking yet highly intelligent words of Damendrel to develop his character at the same time, showing him to be both highly intellectual and at the same time almost ' gay - [censored]y ' in his biting use of language to mock. This type of economy of expression is the mark of good writing, and I highly commend it.

You also have developed even higher your ability to project dramatic tension. Will or will not Damendrel drink, and become a Vampire too? And did or did not he grasp, at the end, the secret that Vira is a Vampire? And just how is Vira going to recover from her extensive wounds? And while she is recovering, will her Vampire nature surge and overwhelm her?

Oh, the anticipation!

LADETTES and GENUINE PUNKS, .... APPLESAUCE!!!

Er er er...

I meant APPLAUSE. Apparently my twin brother the joker got loose again and seized the controls briefly. Pardon me while I kick his posterior back into the pokey.

And with that paen of profuse praise given, may I also interject some suggestions? Practical ones?

COMBAT

While the world of Oblivion can, and does, allow for quite a bit of latitude in combat, I for one think that the more we can describe the combat scenes in terms of real life combat, the better the writing. If that is accepted, let me suggest that - no, I have to do some explantion first. OK. It goes like this...

With SWORDS in slash mode and MACES, you have to understand that the top third of those weapons are to be used for Striking, the middle third for parries, and the lowest part, the part nearest the hilt and your hand grasping it, for blocking. And when you parry, you dodge at the same time in the direction opposite to your parry, but when you block, you stand as rigid as possible.

Furthermore, with a sword you do not, if ever possible, try to block a mace. You stand a strong risk of getting either a broken sword or a broken wrist. Or both. You dodge, you parry, but you should never try to block a mace.

When you thrust at an enemy and your sword goes into his body, you should always twist it as it goes in, both to enlarge the wound and to facilitate drawing out the sword: otherwise your sword can remain stuck in his body - especially if it slices through a large muscle. This of course will not apply to Dremora.

At very close range, you should strike at the enemy with your pommel, then slash at an exposed flesh with the base of your sword - this will only result in a a shallow wound, but this is the only option in such restricted quarters - then spring backwards and draw your sword back: not only will this give you room to fight, but it will make your sword saw along the shallow wound, deepening it greatly.

And never forget your feet are weapons too. If an enemy rushes at you and overshoots, a sweeping kick to the back of his knee will, even if he is wearing armour, have a devastating effect and may well cause him to fall on his back: and falling down while wearing armour is much more painful than without.

In fighting multiple enemies, remember that timing is everything - the most efficient way is to duck under or into his strike and slash (never thrust: you can have your sword or dagger lost in his body) him as he comes in. The combined forces of your momentum and his will create a huge wound that should kill him instantly while leaving you on balance for the next enemy.

Ahhh! Enough Bloodthirsty technique already! Let me finish with a encore of

CONGRATULATIONS!!!

P.S. I noticed you reading my own story, but so far you haven't posted in it. Ah well....

[Matthew Warren]

YAY! your back! One of my favorite writes, lol. between you and Peleus your both gonana make me spend money and rebuild a computer so I ca play oblivion agian . haha ok I'll shut up and go read, YAY!

[Chrissie Pillinger]

However, something was different about him this time. He attacked his opponents with a fury she hadn’t seen in him before, his blade whirling in an irregular rhythm: [b]block, block, swipe, parry, slash, block...[/i] It never stopped moving, as if caught in a beautiful, chaotic dance.

No, that was wrong. She had[ seen him like this once before, when he had born down upon the emperor’s assassin under the Imperial Prison.

made a few mistakes, the underlined part, and I like it so far, I missed this story, haha

[Tiffany Carter]

I've never been much a fan of combat sequences in Fanfiction but.. that... well that just took the cake. Outstanding!

Best chapter so far!! ^_^

[hannah sillery]

D.Foxy... seriously, have you considered writing a "combat tips for fanfic writers/rpers" thread or something? You're more knowledgeable about these things than any of us, and it could help to have all your know-how in one place. :dance:

Thanks for the catches, OldSparta. Yeah, for all my bluster, I'm terrible about catching my own typos.

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

Damendrel was, among many things, a mer with an obsession. For years, he had chased after that personal unicorn of achieving immortality in the least painful way possible.

As such, he considered himself well-versed on the many different conditions that enabled immortality. There was the mage classic, lichdom... a possibility Damendrel had swiftly relegated to the "maybe" pile after a short while dabbling in Necromancy. The black arts were a great deal smellier than the old tales indicated.

He'd considered Restoration mastery... learning the ins and outs of Restoration could preserve one's youth forever, at least in theory. However, the upper extremes of Restoration started feeling disturbingly like Necromancy... which, again, was something Damendrel would rather avoid, to spare his sense of smell.

Daedric death and rebirth was an aspect he found particularly compelling. All he knew was that when one of the Daedra was bodily destroyed, it returned to some sort of "waters" to be reborn. If he could find a way to harness that power, he could never be killed, even if he were to be--physically--killed.

He'd also heard some interesting rumors in the past couple years, regarding the origin of Morrowind's Tribunal gods. It seemed that mortality, at least in their case, was a cage that one of sufficient power and means could very well break out of. It was a pity no one in the Tribunal was willing to elaborate on the specifics, what with being in denial about their gods' humanity themselves.

However, one of the conditions that Damendrel had never really considered viable was vampirism. Like Necromancy, there were a great deal of unpleasant aspects to it, not the least of which was the fact that one had to die to achieve immortality. It seemed... well... counter-productive.

Besides, he'd always thought being a vampire would mean living a stunted existence... always hiding from the sun, fleeing from the odd hunters, and seeking the next fix of blood like an addict after Skooma. What good was living forever if one spent that eternity doing nothing but ambushing hapless travelers and seducing fair-skinned maidens (which, while not unpleasant, would be entirely wasted if the only thing one sought from her was blood)?

He had never before considered that there was more to vampirism than the occasional nests one encountered in the wilderness. He had not known that it was possible for a vampire to function in society, nor had he considered that perhaps the bloodlust wasn't as strong as hearsay indicated.

Either that, or Miss Vira Redoran, "Hero of Kvatch," had a great deal more willpower than he'd given her credit for. If so, it didn't speak well for his future, given her resolution to kill him. Stubborn people had a nasty habit of following through on such things.

He held the Mysterium Xarxes close to himself, pressing the recognizable Daedric "oht" against his robes, in case one of his "Brothers" or "Sisters" spotted him. He could only hope that none of the cultists still alive would recognize the book... at least until he regained enough magical energy for his invisibility spell.

That fight with the Dunmer spitfire had taken more out of him than he'd let on. He had been operating at the end of his magicka for the second half of the fight, requiring him to gather up what he could as it slowly regenerated and budget it into a handful of smart spells.

It served him right for trying to channel everything he had into a handful of straightforward Destruction spells at the beginning like that. What had he been thinking? He was supposed to be intelligent! It was only after she'd gotten a good bop on the top of his head that he'd remembered he was a conjurer.

Apparently, adrenaline was the antithesis of a mind suited to scheming.

Fortunately, a bit of fast talking had given him time to regenerate his magicka, as well as granting him control of the situation. Who knew the Hero was so ashamed of her own baser instincts?

Then again, given what he knew now, he supposed it was rather understandable.

The illusion was perfect; he never would have guessed her little condition had he not seen her survive being hung from a wall by a Dremora sword through her ribcage. Her skin was perhaps a shade lighter than an average Dunmer, but that was no indication of anything, as Dunmer were notorious for their varying skintones. And perhaps her eyes were a shade lighter than the Dunmer red, but very few people could shake off the discomfiting experience of meeting a pair of red eyes long enough to notice either way. Perhaps she was somewhat gaunt, but Damendrel was no plump ham himself.

The only two true indicators of her condition were her prominent canines and her relative indestructibility. The former seemed to be something she was careful not to show; he'd never seen her bare her teeth; even while shouting at him, her mouth had never stayed open long enough for him to notice her long canines... not until he knew about them, anyway. The latter indicator was actually likely something that had gotten her this far in the first place. As far as he could tell, she was relatively fresh with the blade; it was her tirelessness, her ferocity, and her ability to shrug off pain and injury that made her so dangerous an opponent.

In short, she was a hero because she was a vampire.

It made Damendrel want to start laughing and never, ever stop.

And yet... what would happen to Damendrel, were he to become a vampire? He'd be stronger, faster, tireless, and a great deal harder to kill. Minus the whole "drinking blood and unable to walk in the sun" aspect, it wouldn't be entirely unbearable.

Then again, that sort of immortality wasn't a sure thing. There were many hunters around who made a hefty profit out of the business of killing vampires. Vampires were difficult to kill... but not impossible. Shoot a couple fireballs into them, and even one that had once been a Dunmer would eventually turn to dust.

It was something he'd have to think about, when he wasn't in the heart of the lair of an apocalyptic cult.

Damendrel activated his invisibility spell just as he entered the cavern's alternate shrine. A trio of cultists were pvssyring among themselves in front of the candle-strewn altar, pointing at the other exit. Apparently, a naked Argonian had recently run through.

The Altmer was about to pass them, but paused.

If he'd counted correctly in his haste, there were only three people infiltrating the shrine. One was a skinny little apple thief, and he'd just pinned the second against a wall in a locked room. Either the third would have to be a phenomenal fighter, or there would likely be quite a few cultists surviving this attack.

Well, he couldn't have that. Besides, the cultists he'd gotten to know had professed their excitement over spending eternity in Paradise... why not help that along? He was overdue a good deed.

Closing his eyes, he dipped into his magicka, gathered everything he had regenerated so far, and reached across the liminal barrier with it. There, he bound the thickest, toughest soul he could muster and yanked it through, dropping it right in the center of the red-robed trio.

A reptilian roar reverberated through the chamber, and the Altmer's invisible features twisted in a smirk. By the time he'd opened his eyes, the Daedroth he'd summoned had already grabbed one of the cultists in its jaws, to much shouting and scrambling from the other two.

Damendrel hummed contentedly to himself and resumed his trek through the chamber. By the time he made it up a set of stairs to the right and out of the chamber, the Daedroth had finished throwing the three around and lumbered up behind him.

He dodged to one side as the Daedroth charged past him and disappeared into the passage leading to the dining area. He ambled after it, smiling as the walls shook with another unearthly roar.

To enter the dining chamber was to enter a scene of carnage. The Daedroth rampaged indiscriminately, scattering red-robed figures and a would-be sacrifice before it. The Argonian had a limp body tossed around its shoulders, but was apparently panicked enough to still be faster than all the cultists as he sprinted down the passage toward the exit.

A handful of the cultists had turned to fight, but most followed the Argonian out. Damendrel walked after them. After some squishing sounds and a handful of screams, the Daedroth once again lumbered past him, chasing the fleeing figures.

Up ahead, there was a fork in the passageway. The Argonian, unfamiliar with the caverns and therefore unfamiliar with the fastest way out, turned right. The cultists broke away and turned left, heading through the door into the antechamber where Harrow liked to lurk.

As it turned out, the Argonian and his hapless passenger were uncommonly lucky, because they were the ones who escaped the Daedroth.

At some point between Mankar Camoran's escape and the topple of the Dagon statue, the portcullis leading into the antechamber had dropped shut, as it was so wont to do. The cultists didn't even have time to pull the lever to open it before the Daedroth dived into their midst.

Damendrel tossed a disintegrating spell at the lever, just for good measure. Then, after spending a moment to maintain his invisibility spell, he moved on, shouts and growls echoing thinly along the corridor after him.

The Altmer reached another fork. If he turned left, he knew he'd reach a small storeroom that had a false wall leading down into the entry chamber. However, something occurred to him: all his things were still in the locked storeroom, and the only one who had the key was the storeroom guard.

A guard who, as it happened, liked to shirk sermons and linger in his tiny bedroom, which happened to be down the corridor straight ahead.

Damendrel smoothly stepped, heading toward a scuffling sound reminiscent of a large rat, accompanied by a onward heavy whooshing sound. He turned a corner and looked upon the Argonian prisoner, scrambling around a large Imperial swinging a Daedric mace with some competence. The man had a keyring jingling on his belt.

Staying just out of range of the mace, Damendrel shifted his grip on the Mysterium Xarxes to his left hand, in order to free his right. Jovially, he called, "Brother Jerrol!" and let his invisibility spell drop.

Startled, the Imperial spun on his heel to face him. An instant later, Damendrel stepped in and stuffed a fireball into the eyeholes of his summoned mask. The Imperial shrieked and dropped his mace, clutching at his eyes. Damendrel stooped and picked up the discarded weapon, then slammed it into the back of the man's head as hard as he could. His forearm twinged as the mace bounced off the helmeted skull, reminding the Altmer why he detested physical labor.

As the Imperial turned blindly to face him, raising his fists in defense, Damendrel threw the mace disdainfully to the side. He backed away as Jerrol took an experimental swing. Quietly, he moved around behind the Imperial. Then, he grabbed the man around the back of the neck and sent in the most powerful shock spell he could muster. The man spasmed and stiffened, then went completely limp and dropped to the ground, his armor disappearing from whence it had come.

What Damendrel was left with was an utter, eerie silence, as if he were the only one left standing in the entire complex. That was simply not true... the Argonian was quite obviously standing, gawking at Damendrel from above the unconscious apple thief.

The mage felt along the tenuous magical link toward his summoned Daedroth. It was injured, but well-gorged; it wanted to lay down and take a contented nap. Damendrel smiled and let the connection break, sending it back to Oblivion.

He sent one last glance over at the Argonian, briefly considering tossing the lizard a fireball to shoo it away. But when the lizard shrank back, obviously no threat, Damendrel dismissed his existence. He stooped to snatch the keyring off the corpse, then headed down toward the hidden exit.

As he strolled through the secret door and into the entrance chamber, he was feeling pleased with himself. He had the Mysterium Xarxes at long last, and had just wiped out a quarter of the local Mythic Dawn agents with a single summon (ha, a Daedric cult, decimated by a Daedroth... how poetic). It was enough to make him feel almost a little heroic. It wasn't that he had much interest in fame or scrounging up a squeaky-clean reputation... but the fewer of these idiots survived now, the fewer there were to harass him in the long run. Therefore, it had been a productive night.

His good mood was his only excuse for missing the danger until a lightning bolt connected right with his ribcage. Everything flashed hot and white, and then he found himself sprawled on the ground, struggling to breathe but somehow still clutching the book to his chest.

"You foul, interfering traitor!"

Ruma Camoran, looking battered (as if a ridiculously large statue had fallen on top of her, or something), stepped out from behind a tapestry and advanced toward him. She leveled her staff at him and glared with the deepest ire, the dim light of the single brazier flickering off the sharp corners of her face.

"Ruma, dear!" Damendrel coughed, struggling to regain control of his twitching limbs. "So you survived Dagon's little temper tantrum, did you?"

"Do not speak the name of Lord Dagon! You are not fit to speak it!"

He manage to sit up, and lifted the Mysterium Xarxes to form a shield between them. This made Ruma's eyes widen with fury, but she nonetheless seemed hesitant to attack.

"Oh please," he drawled into the quiet. "You can't tell me you're surprised. You knew I'd do something like this weeks ago."

"I never thought you'd dare to steal the Mysterium Xarxes." She circled around him slowly, like a prowling mountain lion carrying a lightning staff. "I hope that Lord Dagon tears you apart himself, and that you are aware the entire time that you have only brought it upon yourself!"

"You know, you're surprisingly vicious, for a spoiled daddy's girl." He got his feet beneath him and stood, still keeping the Xarxes raised.

"Insolent filth! Put that down immediately!"

"And give you the perfect shot? Yeah, that's not happening."

He could practically hear her grinding her teeth. He sent her a cheeky grin over the book, evoking a low growling sound from the other mer. He scooted a foot experimentally toward the hallway that led to the storeroom, but she swiftly glided sideways to block his route. He then scooted toward the exit, and she narrowed her eyes and took a step toward him. He skittered three paces back. Various aches that Restoration magic had not completely alleviated were making themselves known. Worse, he was utterly exhausted: physically, mentally, and magically.

"Do not even try to escape," she said in a voice that was no less threatening for its softness. "It will do you no good. I will send every loyal agent after your hide. As long as you walk free on Nirn, you will know no moment's rest. The air will be rent with cries for your blood to sate the rage of Lord Dagon!"

"Ruma, Ruma... do you really have the authority to speak for the Prince of Destruction?"

A wince? Aha.

Damendrel sent the other mer a smirk over the book-shield. "Your father... now he could claim to know the mind of Lord Dagon. Better than any other mortal, anyway. But you... how do you know that Lord Dagon will be enraged by my actions?"

"You've obliterated half the shrine!"

"Thus sending a good chunk of his followers to Paradise. More manpower on their end, and the Dawn can just recruit more on ours." He slid a step toward the side corridor.

Ruma moved to block him again. "You've stolen the Mysterium Xarxes off the altar!"

"But it's not like it was going to be much good where it was. The only person who was allowed to touch it has literally disappeared from the face of Nirn for the duration of the invasion."

"You... you've betrayed the Mythic Dawn and violated your oath to Lord Dagon!"

"A pittance, to the Prince of Destruction! For all you know, I'm beneath his mighty notice. Face it, Ruma, you can't speak for the mind of Mehrunes Dagon. The only authority you could claim was due to your father, and now he's gone and left you here."

"He trusts me to lead the Mythic Dawn in his absence!" There was a tightness in her voice that had not been there before.

"He's safely ensconced in Paradise, being waited on by the lesser servants, your brother at his side. Meanwhile, you get to do the dirty work, scraping up a meager existence here, in Tamriel, while the Empire falls to ruins around you. Not very fair, is it?"

"Shut up! You know nothing!" The last syllable came out as a squeak.

"It makes one wonder... why did your brother get to go out and do Lord Dagon's work in the Imperial City, effectively running his own base, while you were kept here, close to daddy's apron strings? Could it be that he didn't trust you as much?"

Her staff was lowering, her eyes haunted. "I am an important part of the Mythic Dawn! Father trained me alone to run the rituals-"

"A position that kept you conveniently under his eye." Damendrel inched toward the side corridor, but she didn't notice. A couple more inches, and he could hit her in the side with a shock bolt and finish this. "Face it, Ruma. You're not cut out for this, and your father has always known it."

"No! I am! Lord Dagon remade me!"

"Did he? I've read the Commentaries, Ruma. I know what it says about you, and I also know enough about Daedric magic to know it's utter tripe. Your father hurt you, didn't he, Ruma?"

Her staff arm fell to her side, and her head drooped downward. "It was for the best. I am stronger now than I was."

"Is that what you tell yourself? We both know it's a lie. Before, you believed in something." He shifted the tome to his left hand to free his right. "Before, you were strong in spirit. You hated what your father was doing, but you loved your father, didn't you? That's why you let him do it; you wanted his approval more than anything." He pooled shock magic in his hand, holding it behind his back until it was ready. "Before, you were strong... now, you're just a sad little tagalong with daddy issues."

He brought his arm around to cast the shock bolt, only to be hit with a screen of pure force. He stumbled back, the shock magic flying wildly around the room and then fizzling out.

Ruma glared at him from behind a powerful Shield spell, her eyes wide and her face red. "You're one to accuse another of 'daddy issues'!" She shoved her magic Shield out again, sending him stumbling as if pushed. He retreated behind a stalagmite at the edge of the chamber.

"Ah, but we're not talking about me, Ruma dear-"

"ENOUGH!" A warning bolt?at least, he hoped it was a warning; certainly, as long as he held the Xarxes, it was just a bluff!?slammed into the top of the stalagmite, exploding the tip into dust and sending it tumbling down on top of his head. "You're right; I did know you would do something like this! Jearl told me all about you and your casual dismissal of everything we stand for! After hearing of that, I did some research of my own on you."

Another shock bolt zapped past his right ear, and Damendrel began to fear that Ruma was not bluffing after all.

"The rotten apple does not fall far from the tree, does it, Damendrel? You're not the first in your family to draw the wrath of a religious organization, are you? Did you really think this would turn out any better than that did?"

Damendrel's throat tightened. This was not something he needed to face while on the wrong end of a mage's staff. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Like Oblivion you don't! Why else would you be so obsessed with not dying? Why else bind your soul to a Daedric Prince you don't actually worship? I know exactly where your spirit is going to spend eternity if it doesn't make it into Paradise!"

He forced out a thin laugh. "You have to admit... it's better than the mindlessness of the Dreamsleeve."

"'Is that what you tell yourself?'" she mimicked. Judging by the sound, she was flush against the opposite side of the stalagmite. He backed away from it, but was inexplicably unable to muster himself enough to strike. He was... frozen. Numb. "If it really was better, why would you spend your entire life making sure it didn't happen? And who could blame you? Living for the rest of time in someone else's prison, reminded with every passing minute for all eternity what he did to you? Confess: it terrifies you." She paused, her voice echoing in the silence, with only the hollow sound of a distant wind for company. "Repent now, Damendrel, and return that which you've taken. Perhaps Lord Dagon will yet spare you from that fate."

His breath hitched, then stuttered out. A wave of... something... washed over him. He took another breath, only for it to burst out...

...in a laugh.

It was harsh and tight at first, but then loosened until he was throwing his head back and roaring his bitter mirth to the stalactites. His control and his sanity fled as a tightness unwound from his chest and swirled out through his lips, never to be heard from again.

Then, as suddenly as it had started, it faded, and reality returned. Ruma had actually stepped from around the stalagmite, her staff lowered and an expression on her face that said she rather suspected he'd lost his mind.

Shamelessly wiping tears from his eyes, he sent her an easy smirk. "You're good," he wheezed. "You actually had me for a moment there, but you stepped just a bit too far and broke it. Pity... I think I was on the edge of a personal epiphany."

"You're mad."

"Now now, there's a fine line between madness and genius. Or so Eldamil told me." He pooled his magic and reached through the liminal barrier, as he'd done twice that night alone. "You and I are alike in many ways, Ruma dear."

"Don't insult me, filth."

"In many ways," he breezed on, finding a soul in Oblivion that made his stomach knot in anticipation. "Except for one key difference. See, I do actually know something about Daedric minds. Enough to know that your Lord Dagon is completely of [censored]."

He yanked harder than he'd ever had to, and a puff of smoke materialized behind Ruma. At the sound of a summoning, the other Altmer whirled to face it, lifting her staff in alarm. The smoke dissipated a moment later, revealing a Dremora in pointed plate of black and red, bearing a claymore before it in its gauntleted hands. To the ignorant observer, it looked no worse than the Kynval he had summoned earlier.

But Damendrel was no ignorant observer, nor was Ruma.

Her eyes widened, and she backed away from it. "A... a Markynaz? Since when can you summon a Markynaz?"

"Since you tried to psycho-anolyze me." He forced his smile to stay cocky, fighting to stay standing around a wave of dizziness. "Makes me feel a tad touchy, you understand."

"Sic it at me, then, like a huntsman hiding behind his dogs. A true believer in the Mythic Dawn has no need to fear death."

"Ooh, was that a jibe against me? Rest assured I'm hurt." He nodded toward his summon. The Dremora responded to his silent order by stalking toward her, more power in its step than most people had in their entire beings.

A shock bolt leapt out of Ruma's staff and connected with an armored shoulder, but the stalking Dremora Lord didn't even slow down. Its sword cut heavily through the air, cutting the staff cleanly in two. Shock magic burst out of it, dangerous bolts flying out in all directions. All three beings present leapt back from it, covering their eyes against the light. They found cover behind stalagmites and the brazier until the burst of magic passed and the staff lay broken and useless on the ground in the center of the chamber.

The Dremora recovered first, its armor clanking ominously toward Ruma. Damendrel vainly blinked away the afterimages of the lightning, squinting into the darkness.

"Think about it this way, Ruma," he called. "I'm sending you to your daddy's side. You should be thanking me."

"Jump off a cliff and die, unbeliever." The Dremora's sword whooshed repeatedly though the air, and her clumsy footsteps stumbled across the chamber. There was more heavy clanking and another swoosh, and she cried out.

"Better that than living forever under a man who only sees me as a means to an end." He could see silhouettes, now, circling the brazier. Ruma was trying to keep it between her and the Dremora. "If you researched me, you know I know something about manipulative bastard fathers. I don't want to spend my eternity with what mine did to me... and I don't think you want to do the same."

She hesitated: a fatal mistake. The Dremora Lord leapt through the flame of the brazier, its sword swooping straight through her neck just as it had her staff a minute before. Her head and body toppled in different directions. The Dremora flicked blood off its blade and turned toward Damendrel for its next orders.

The Altmer considered sending the Dremora into the corridor before him, to clear his path... but he was still fighting waves of vertigo. It was all he could do to keep the summon on Nirn.

And so, with a regretful sigh, he snapped the connection, dismissing Dremora Lord. He sighed again, this time in relief. He made a mental note that that little trick was for emergencies only, at least until he gained a bit more magical stamina.

He patted the book still ensconced in his arms, then started down the corridor toward the storeroom. He was rather surprised when he didn't encounter any cultists along the way.

Come to think of it, where had the doorkeeper been?

Come to think of it, how had Ruma gotten out of the Shrine? Hadn't the portcullis at the entrance slammed shut? Apparently, someone had opened it.

He shrugged and twirled the keyring around his finger. When he reached the storeroom door, he unlocked it and stepped through.

The room was cramped and full of boxes, and that hardly set it apart from the rest of Lake Arrius Caverns. The only difference was that there were actually objects of note among all the useless paraphernalia. Various weapons, books, bits of jewelry, and other discarded belongings were scattered haphazardly around the room, stuffed in crates and chests in no particular system. It was painful to behold.

The mage dug around until he found his bag. He tossed the Commentaries to the side?happy to never again be forced to carry them?and filled the vacancy with the Xarxes. He considered liberating a couple of the more expensive items in the room, since the original owners would hardly have need of them, but dismissed the notion a moment later. He was many things, but a petty thief was not one of them. Perhaps it was part of some twisted sense of honor, or perhaps he was simply not all that concerned about wealth. He'd done enough personal reflection that night to dismiss this one without further thought.

He closed his pack and hefted it. He was disappointed?but not surprised?to see that his black soul gem was nowhere to be found. He hadn't detected it in Ruma's room, either, which was the last place he'd left it.

Chances were, Mankar Camoran had taken the blasted thing into Paradise with him. The Altmer fought down a spike of annoyance at the thought. The thing was probably not worth following a mad mage into a Daedric realm... but he had half a mind to do just that. It was the principle of the thing. He'd taken that black soul gem out of a defected mage's dresser, as was had been his right. He was damned if he'd let Mankar Camoran take it away from him.

Well, he was damned, in several ways.

As Damendrel headed toward the exit, he heard armored footsteps down the corridor. Immediately, he activated his trusty invisibility spell, vanishing in a wave of magicka.

The Redguard that had accompanied the Hero of Kvatch limped out of a side corridor, his shiny steel armor splattered with blood and other unpleasant things. He leaned heavily against the wall, his dai-katana dragging against the ground. The Altmer thought that the Redguard was disoriented enough to sneak past, until the Redguard's head turned toward the spot where Damendrel stood.

The Altmer froze. Had he made some sort of noise? Or was his invisibility spell somehow incomplete? What would happen if this man saw him, dressed in Mythic Dawn robes and carrying the cult's instructional tome in his bag? The mer didn't fancy finding out the hard way.

The Redguard's brows furrowed, and he lifted his sword. The man's every movement screamed of exhaustion, but so did the Altmer's. As the Redguard took a wary step toward him, Damendrel broke into a run. He sprinted past the Redguard, who gave a hoarse shout at the sound and tossed his head to and fro to pinpoint the source of the noise.

By then, the mage was long gone. He ran through the winding hallways, and didn't stop until he had burst out of the caverns, into the night. The stars twinkled serenely above him as he fled down the slope from the cave, his breath cutting sharply in the cool air. He lost his footing and stumbled, then slid downhill about ten paces, landing in the edge of the lake with a soft splash.

Only then, with his cult-issued knee-high striped stockings soaking up the chilly water of Lake Arrius, did the rush of adrenaline fade. All his energy fled, and he collapsed back against the bank, his invisibility spell dispersing on its own. He was too exhausted to do anything but stare up at the stars, marveling at the way his breath fogged lightly in the cool mountain air.

Slowly, a realization crept upon him, like the cold seeping up his legs: he had just stolen from a Daedric Prince. Worse, he had just stolen from a Daedric Prince who had an active plot in the works, and heavily committed followers scattered across Tamriel. Ruma's threat, he realized, was far from empty. They would be out for his blood; he'd be running from the Mythic Dawn until either they all died or he did.

He had no intention of dying. Logic therefore dictated that they would have to. All of them. And Damendrel had no idea how to even begin making that happen.

Blast. It seemed he'd have to let the Hero of Kvatch run around doing her thing unharassed for a little while longer. As far as he knew, she was his best chance for finding peace from these nutcases.

Until then, he needed to lay low in someplace secure against attacks. And so far, Damendrel had encountered only one place he actually felt both secure and comfortable.

It was time he returned to the Arcane University.

[Isabel Ruiz]

Dear BSparrow - I think I will open that thread you talked about!

But more important than that...


Y.I.P.E.E!!!!


THIS IS WHAT I READ YOU FOR!!!

I shall reply to you in full later. Right now I have some explanation to do to the Emperor of Dreams, I hope he will understand it.

[Anne marie]

This is it - the thread where we see Damendrel burst forth in all his complexity...

I knew you were going to add quite a bit of light and shade into his characterization, but I had not expected this depth of complexity, which at the same time you have integrated seamlessly into the plot.

All aspiring writers, look here and LEARN! THIS is how it's done. You want to explain the psychological complexity of a character - most would do so with a long explanatory passage, like even I do from time to time, but how many, like BSparrow here, can do so while at the same time ADVANCING the plot, and do it with an integration so smooth that we don't even see the seams? VERY few.

And that's not all, either.

While the devil may be in the details, writers know that it's not just the devil - it's the divine as well.

Small touches, here and there, like the delicate touch of the great footballer that sends the ball past a bewildered defender, show how great the power of just the right word or phrase at the right time will do.

Look at this.

The black arts were a great deal smellier than the old tales indicated

Ohh... the wit in that one word! I couldn't help a huge guffaw there! :rofl:

His forearm twinged as the mace bounced off the helmeted skull, reminding the Altmer why he detested physical labor.

Excellent! You've absorbed the physics, the nitty-gritty of combat, and sneaked in a bit of characterization of Damendrel at the same time!

His breath hitched, then stuttered out. A wave of... something... washed over him. He took another breath, only for it to burst out...

...in a laugh.

It was harsh and tight at first, but then loosened until he was throwing his head back and roaring his bitter mirth to the stalactites. His control and his sanity fled as a tightness unwound from his chest and swirled out through his lips, never to be heard from again.

Then, as suddenly as it had started, it faded, and reality returned. Ruma had actually stepped from around the stalagmite, her staff lowered and an expression on her face that said she rather suspected he'd lost his mind.

Shamelessly wiping tears from his eyes, he sent her an easy smirk. "You're good," he wheezed. "You actually had me for a moment there, but you stepped just a bit too far and broke it. Pity... I think I was on the edge of a personal epiphany."

"You're mad."

"Now now, there's a fine line between madness and genius. Or so Eldamil told me."

This is, in my opinion, the finest part of your writing - a little jewel I shall return to fondle, and - yes - copy, from time to time.

Readers, see how BSparrow has hinted, but never openly spoke, at the demons infesting Damendrel's mind, demons connected to his parentage, hinted and flirted with our imaginations of those demons being similar to Ruma's? THIS is the craft of 'show, don't tell' that BSparrow was kind enough to impart to me in her critique. And we are drawn in both horrified and gloating fascination to the smooth talking, demon haunted, ambitious and yet quirkily honest ( ah, I haven't put in that part yet! I think the part where Damendrel scorns to steal for mere profit is another little touch of genius!!!) character of Damendrel...

I can say more, much more, but I have to run. But BSparrow, as I have said before, you and Rumpleteaza, Helena, and Moroni are the reasons why I am here so often.

Long and deep may you write!

Bye...for now...