As a kid, my not so guilty vices were the Bourne novels of Ludlum, David Morrell's spy novels, Trevanian, Le Carre, some early Forsythe, and especially A Coffin for Dimitrios by Eric Ambler. How much these books influenced my own writing is difficult to say, but I know their influence is in there. Thank you for taking me back to those days, and thank you for continuing to support this story.


Funny you should consider Varla's line to be your favorite, because it was something that got added quite literally at the eleventh hour. Isn't it amazing how those happy accidents that occur during the writing turn out so much better than the things we sweat blood trying to plan?


I wasn't sure if the 'courtroom' scenario fit what I know about Elder Scrolls lore. I figured that since Cuhlecain's Empire is still in its infancy, a council of representatives of all the various districts (read cities) would be necessary to keep the Empire from degenerating back into a group of warring city states. This council would be governed by the rule of law which, of course, first means due process. Sorry for rambling, but political machinations have always fascinated me.


The stage has indeed been set, the major players introduced. The prize awaits whoever is smart enough, strong enough, or bold enough to claim it. Let the game begin. . .

Book Three: First Seed


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The smaller man’s scan of the tavern stopped at the table where the young man drank with the stranger. He threw an elbow into his companion and the Nord’s gaze followed. The young man felt the saliva vacate his mouth and skitter down the back of his throat.

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

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

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

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

“Lamented brethren,” said Alain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The mistake was yours,” said Alain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Take up the sword,” said Alain.

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

“Take it up,” he repeated.

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

“If I am victorious?” asked the Breton.

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

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

_____


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

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

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

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


_____


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My goodness. This was quite simply amazing. From the very first paragraph I was drawn into the tavern and could not leave until this story ended. Your gift for setting a scene and mood with your descriptions and dialogue forces me to only now be able to close my mouth. Wow!

Description, dialogue, action, reasons for the actions taken - all perfection. This was as good as your unforgettable introduction of a dragon that I remember oh so well.



This is just one small example of countless creative things that set you apart as a true master.

What a powerfully poignant and surprise ending.



'Alain drew his sword, the blade wined as it cleared the sheath. '
Did you intend perhaps whined here?

The last seven paragraphs tell the whole story - intense, the whole chapter is intense! I found myself holding my breath in several places, but that last seven paragraphs I held it through every word, and then re-read it - just AWESOME...gobble gobble...Write...gobble gobble...as usual, ...gobble gobble...and more, so much more! I am left speechless and gobbling like a turkey as usual, I will come back and comment when I can speak again - WHEW !!!!!!!

Oh. My. Gods.

This was truly stellar writing. The set up, the appearance of Alain and Valdemar, the dialogue and the duel itself are all brilliantly written. The emotions, the background of the thunderstorm, the expressions of the two antagonists, and the shocker at the end are all powerful stuff.

There is no one line to point out as my favorite - the whole post is heart-pounding, gut-wrenching, pure genius.

Oh. My. Gods. :bowdown:

Oh yes, we are rocking now !!

My enjoyment was bottled in the way you kept us guessing throughout the combat scene. We had no idea what could happen next, was it the hero who would come out the victor, the enemy who would vanquish the lesser man, a buxom wench who would accidently step in the way and suddenly cause a free-for-all, or perhaps a oil lantern knocked over and the whole place go up in flames???

Epic. :talk:

Twice, I've started reading this thread and simply could not get into it. Then tonight I tried again and from the moment I started, it was like a match that failed to ignite twice, now flared into an all consuming flame. I have just finished reading the whole thread in one sitting, unable to quit despite a mounting need for sleep.

I am in awe of your skill at creating a scene and a mood. Moreover you jar me with those marvelous moments that are the literary equivalent of extreme contrast in graphic art. Your place on my best-seller list is assured.

It took me a while but tonight I sat down and read through it again from the start. Now everything falls in place to me because it was much easier to see the big picture than with reading a new part every so often. Especially with a story as complex as yours with lots of great characters, all equally important.

Awesome Destri!

Acadian ? Thank you for catching the spelling error, it has been fixed. As always, I appreciate your continued support of this thread and your editorial insight. It is something that this story could not do without.

mALX ? As I've said to you, I know I'm doing something right when I make you gobble like a turkey. We could call it the 'gobble-gauge' I suppose. Thanks again for your wonderful pm.

hautee ? I was worried that it wouldn't be clear in this story who Alain and Valdemar are. I am so glad that you referenced them in your comments, because I have more planned for them.

Winter Wolf ? A free-for-all, a buxom wench, and an igniting oil lamp? You've been looking at my notes, I see.

bobg ? Thank you so much. One sitting, Wow! As I said on your thread I am just now becoming acquainted with Angel and, so far, I am thoroughly impressed. My hope is to be all caught up by the end of the week.

Remko ? I can totally relate to what you are going through. There are so many great fan-fics on this forum that it is hard to keep track of them all without dropping a stitch here and there. For you to go back to the beginning and re-read this beast again, well, Thank You!



* * *


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, my lord,” said Hecerilar.

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

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

“South,” growled Aran, “and quickly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where did you find this?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This sounds like some duel,” said Aran.

“That it was, my lord.”

“Take me to this tavern.”

“Yes, my lord.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Daedric letters,” said Aran.

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

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


_____


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


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

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

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

“What do you want?” asked the guard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Alain!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Alain!”

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

“What do you mean never?”

“They don’t usually let murderers go.”

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

“I murdered that boy,” said Alain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Altmer laughed again, then turned and faced Alain.

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

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


_____


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Told by whom?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She nodded.

“Who was he?”

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

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

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

Sir Alain turned and looked at Sir Valdemar.

“Bloody Oblivion!” said the giant Nord.

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

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

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

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

“General Talos is half Nord.”

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

“South then?” asked Sir Alain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This chapter is just as suspenseful as the last one.

I had recognized Alain and Valdemar from the Sancre Tor quest in the main quest, they are two of four ghosts guarding Tiber Septim's shrine. You did a wonderful job bringing them to life (pun intended)! In this chapter I see you have continued to do so. Though the pace is much slower, it is still as powerful as the previous one.

Telling the last part of the chapter from Sosile's POV is very effective - I was on my knees on that rough stone floor with her, listening to the conversation, feeling scared of these cold, heartless warriors. Brrgh! That makes the last bit, where she writes that message and sends it off to points unknown, all the more startling.

Just. Excellent. Writing.

:read: Masterful yet again! Each scene perfectly captured the intended mood and surroundings.

To use the term Oblivion here is very clever and TES. To familiarlize and slang it to 'blivion is a stroke of genius. :goodjob:

Oh noes. Buffy knows what that's like.

To translate 'Most of the big dudes in metal left.' to such delicate suggestion is why you are a master of description, my friend.

I agree with our vivacious vet that the last scene, from Sosile's pov was incredibly captivating.


"That mail they issue you is not very thick in the rear," Valdemar's {Valdemar?} said, his eyes bored into the guard, "if you pull that thing I will make you regret it."

Woo Hoo!

1. Guard leaves puddle at sight of giant Nord
2. Gaston, of the wee wee-wee and palsy
3. KOW - WOOOOOOT !!!!
4. Sosile - very interesting character build in such a short space!
5. I know Acadian already quoted this, but it deserves a second notice:



AWESOME WRITE !!!!!!! I have read this three times to absorb every nuance - and still know at the end I will want to read this cover to cover all over again!

The only thing I read that didn't sit well - Sosile was cleaning the blood off the floor and was called to bring drinks to the men - AND SHE DIDN'T WASH HER HANDS FIRST - GAAAAAAAH !!!!!! :rofl:

Alain and Valdemar are two of the ghosts at Sancre Tor? No wonder the names sounded familiar.. :facepalm:
Have I told you your writing acts as an example to me? :goodjob:

I have reached a point where I fully trust your writing. At the half way point of this chapter I was thinking- "Where are we going now?" then by the ending it was like- "Epic, awesome!!"
The finish was a wonderfully sharp dual-edge sword. It completed this chapter and also set up the future ones.
Bring it on!!

So cool to use the wench to move the story forward. Those we least suspect are the most dangerous of all.

Once again as I find myself settling in to the plot I am jarred by the unexpected. It creates a sense of the vastness of the world always interacting and connected despite the most glaring distinctions on it's surface.

Brilliantly written.

Since I have a little more time to be active on these forums at the moment, I figured that I'd give this story a look -- I do not regret it! I have only had time to read two chapters, but voth were excellent: I had a real picture of the scene in my head; the characters seem interesting and could be developed well; and they ended very well, wanting me to read on.

Keep it up, buddy.

hautee ? Thank you for, well, just 'getting it'. I knew that some of the lore buffs would pick up on Alain and Valdemar right away. For the others I hoped that they would be such interesting characters that the reader would want to follow them no matter where their destiny eventually leads.

I have to say, writing Sosile was a blast. I thought I laid down too many clues and that it would be easy to figure out what her purpose was before reaching the end of the chapter. The fact that it came as a surprise is really quite vindicating.

Acadian ? You know, I think I prefer 'Most of the big dudes in metal left.' As always thank you for keeping me honest with my punctuation. Another nit has met with the hammer.

mALX ? I don't think that the washing of hands is prevalent in taverns along the Western Reach. Maybe all the germs have frozen to death. Maybe, given the proliferation of healing spells, the common cold and flu are just not that big of an issue in Tamriel. Maybe I was just too lazy to have Sosile wash her hands. Thank you for the multiple reads, and would you please hurry up and bring Maxical back!

Remko ? Funny you should say that. Rales and Zerina are an example to me.

Winter Wolf ? Thank you so much Wolf! Your trust is not something I will take for granted.

bobg ? After reading eight pages of Angel's first thread I absolutely get why you have the nickname 'Master Po'. The description of Sarrah's battle with the Minotaur, from the point of view of the Minotaur, is something that I have been re-reading in my mind for days.

Chriso123 ? Thank you for the kind words. It's always heartening when one can impress the literary sensibilities of a Brit. Hopefully you'll find more to comment on in the chapters ahead.



* * *


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How do mages carry themselves?”

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

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

“Are you an assassin?”

“No,” said Arnand, “I’m not.”

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

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

“There is,” said Arnand.

“Why?”

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

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

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

“Your have a wife?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All save one.


_____


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you, Chief Proctor,” said Celarus, “would you please prepare a preliminary assessment of this initiate’s capabilities?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It doesn’t?”

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

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

“I. . .I did not know.”

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

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

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

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

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

Plot: I have surrendered myself to the complexity of your web. Things vaguely remembered return with clarity. Lattia, Argonian navigators, Clavicus Vile, wives who walk with vampires, yes! I am understanding more than I thought I would. This old paladin will happily follow where you lead Destri!

Writing: I would not have thought it possible that anyone could more clearly convey complex descriptions ranging from poignant to powerful to captivating to whimsical. I was wrong - you have outdone your own self it seems. From the opening sunrise, to walking through 'arteries', to how small Lattia realized she was. . . simply amazing. I am left wiping envious drool from my humble chin.

Amazing, wow and much more. :celebration:

This chapter just confirms why Interregnum is one of my favorite stories on this forum!

The descriptions, from the exotic to the mundane, leave me mesmerized and my imagination flying on this dull, dreary February day (well, at least where I live).


This sang to me, and reminds me of that morning I took a walk on the beach of the Pacific Ocean at Kalaloch last July. It was a foggy, misty morning, the sun was not yet visible, and there was only me, the sound of the tide running, the smell of the tidal zone, and just the entire world breathing and living in that instant. This passage, though not quite the same as my experience, took me right back to that magical moment.

The entire interaction between Arnand and Lattia that follows is but that wonderful, magical moment captured in human terms. It felt as if the power of the ocean entered their dialogue and their perception of each other.


Again you have captured the power of the land, the power to overwhelm those who have the open minds and hearts to really see it. I was walking with Lattia up that slope, and I, too, had to stop and catch my breath. This was another passage that set me free from this dreary February day.

And at the end, we begin to get a glimmer of the deal Lattia made with Clavicus Vile, and its far-reaching implications that extend beyond Clan Direnni.

"Eloquent." I echo Lady Direnni. :bowdown:

ARGH! Lattia and Armand - Breathtaking scene! ...but...he isn't...going to THAT island...is he? ARGH !!!!!!!! - Okay, I am going back to finish reading now.


Oh NO !!! LLLLAAAAATTTTIIIIAAA !!!! ARGH !!! Hermaeus Mora - if she goes she will never come back ... or maybe they just want her to open the gate so they can go in and get knowledge...and then THEY won't be back - hmmm. gobble....gobble.... MORE! MORE !!! ARGH !!!!

I can't wait!!!! - PS - I hope you get a chance to see the FeyFolken stores that are up and vote on your favorite - or critique - but I do know you had a busy week

I stand in awe at your writing ability. The combination of description and TES lore is absolutely second to none. And that includes writing outside the Beth forum too.


What blows me away about this sentence is how easily it is crafted. Every aspect to it is simple and basic, yet it is exactly for that reason that few have the ability to emulate the majesty of it.


Quick, check the shelf. I'll bet a copy of Interregnum is there.

Wonderfully painted. Yes, painted! :goodjob:

Acadian ? Thank you for staying with me here. The initial idea for this story was nowhere near this big. I thought for sure by now I would be approaching Hearthfire, or at least Last Seed. Somewhere in the writing these characters decided to tell their own story, and I am being led around almost as much as everyone else.

The good news is that in every way they have made this story better. There are things coming up that I think are going to be very cool.

hautee ? I am glad that I could give you some brief respite from your dull, dreary February day. Your comments, as always, made my day and make sitting down at the keyboard more enjoyable than it might be otherwise. The reason I joined this forum was for the incredibly supportive community that I found on this board. That encouragement has returned to me a sense of confidence in my writing that I had thought lost. 'Thank you' just doesn't seem adequate to express my gratitude for that, but really, thank you.

mALX ? When you speak of not coming back from Hermaeus Mora's realm, I think you are referring to Morian Zenas and The Doors of Oblivion, right? Funny you should mention it . . .

I did get a chance to check out the Feyfolken stories. :read: I wonder which one was yours.

Winter Wolf ? Once again I find myself slightly embarrassed by your praise (but not embarrassed enough to ask you to stop doing it). The passage you quoted was one that I rewrote six (yes six) times. I am so glad that it came across as simple, because it was anything but.

Remko ? When I envisioned this part of the story, I knew that the only way to communicate what Lattia was seeing on Artaeum would be to try and 'paint' with words. I am glad that you picked up on it.


* * *


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


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

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

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

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

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

“We are here to relieve you.”

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

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

“Trouble?” asked one of the new guards.

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

“State your business,” said the spearman.

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

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

“Who seeks an audience?” asked the spearman.

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

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


_____


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


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

“Ysmir?” asked Acrtus.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Go on,” said Talos.

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

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

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

“Just the Emperor?” asked Arctus.

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

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

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

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

“So you heard their conversation?” asked Arctus.

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

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

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

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

“What else did they discuss?” asked Talos.

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

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

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

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

“Vershu? Pale Pass?” asked Talos

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

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

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

“What two knights?” asked Talos.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you willing to bet your life on that, General? Even if we double your bodyguard they may not be enough to stop these Tsaesci. I almost wish you hadn’t sent Ysmir away.”

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

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

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

“Does he have a name, General?”

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

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

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

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

“Spearman Rielus, sir,” he said.

Ah, I was already wondering when Renald would make his re-appareance. Enticingly written!
Another lead-character? (spearman Rielus)
What, oh what, do you have in store for us next?

So you will create your own theory to the Underking - separate from either King Wulfharth or Zurin Arctus? I am on pins and needles till I find out what you have cooked up for this! With your brilliant imagination it is going to be AWESOME !!!!! MORE, More ... gobble...gobble !!!!