Wheels within wheels, within wheels, huh? I'm certain your characters have yet no idea! This phrase is the most apt description of your plot thus far.

So now we have Alain, Valdemar, Rielus, and hmmm, I wonder who's next?

It was good to see Chevalier Renald and his syffim again. :ninja:

A tiny nit (or two, depending on how you count):
I see you used "loose" instead of "lose" twice:



This is confusing for most people, but loose is more of an adjective (as in the robe was loose-fitting), while lose is a verb. Both pronounced the same. Gotta love the English language! :rolleyes:

Anyways, I really find myself enjoying each chapter of Interregnum. I think I'm going to have to download this and save it to my hard drive so I can re-read it at leisure, it's that good. :nod:

I am still working my way through, when I have time. I finished reading the fight with Valdermar & Alain and the traitor from Sancre Tor. That was absolutely fantastic! That was a well-done villain. Despicable to the last! :thumbsup:

Amazing writing, as always.

It is now that I am fully beginning to appreciate the elaborate field of chess you have constructed. What a delight to begin to see those developed characters and goals truely starting to interface. The ground you have set down is memorable enough to be readily recalled as you call up and back your characters. Great fun!

How neat is this?!? This is so good and so belonged here. Wow!

I smiled to myself when I read that your characters have taken a life of their own, with stories that chart their own course.

That is the only way to write. More, more, I say!!

Everyone ? This one was a b****! I went through several different incarnations of this portion of the story, but I wasn't really satisfied with any of them. The one that I present now is the one that I am least unsatisfied with.

Remko ? Alain, Valdemar, and Rielus are not main characters in the classic sense (I'm not sure if there are any 'main' characters). I use them as point of view characters because I feel that the demands of this story dictate an ever changing point of narration.

mALX ? I think you will find that the Underking is a different story than the one that I am telling here. However I hope that by the end of this story my theory of the Underking will be made somewhat clearer.

hautee ? As always, thank you for catching the spelling errors. They have been fixed. I take the fact that you want to download my story as the sincerest form of compliment.

SubRosa ? Thank you for reading so much of this thread already! It really means a lot! I love to write those who are irredeemably villainous. I find it perversely liberating in a way.

Acadian ? After such a long road with so many twists and turns the fact that you are starting to see the whole tapestry spread out before you is music to my ears. It feels like we have come a long way since my first post, when it seemed as if I was simply throwing characters at you.

Winter Wolf ? That is the only way to write until your characters write you into a corner! Don't think that I have forgotten that we are all still eagerly awaiting your fan fic.


* * *


???
Apocrypha, Oblivion
???


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

I am Lattia Direnni. I am Lattia Direnni.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then let it be done,” said Auri-El.


_____


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

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

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

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


_____


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


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

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

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

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

So he climbed.

_____


???
Apocrypha, Oblivion
???


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

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

Screams.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She could no longer remember.


_____


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


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

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

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

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

“At his side,” said Ysmir.

“Then you remain a fool,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your freedom,” she whispered.

Least unsatisfied? LEAST UNSATISFIED???!!! *&#@**@ That was awesome! I loved it. Ysmir is somewhat of a mystery isn't he? Did Magnus really help with Lorkhan's deceit or was that of your own construct?

ARGH!!!! Wonderful job on Hermaeus Mora's realm! I can't believe they just sent Lattia up there alone, did they go as well? ARGH!!! I love this!!!! Wulfharth, Red Mountain - ARGH!!! I can't wait till the next chapter !!!!!! Unsatisfied? Gobble gobble!! Nae !!!

Wow! You even took on ancient history/mythology/protohistory (the formation of Nirn)!

I can see how that chapter was tough to write. I'm impressed with the end result, though. I really liked how Lattia only 'overheard' the discussion to form Nirn, yet each of the speakers were so real, we could almost 'see' each of them.


That is exactly how I feel when I finish a good story. Well done!


And this leaves me wondering if there is more foreshadowing going on here! The beginnings of the events we know as 'Morrowind?' Hmm . . .

What can I say? :bowdown:

I know nothing of Morrowind of course, so much was swirling beyond my grasp here.

I was thankful to have the familiar face of Lattia as my guide, at least for the first portions of this installment, as I sat cross-legged with her, wide-eyed among the stacks of tomes.

Your craftsmanship with words and phrases continues to astonish.

I feel very small, and a bit bewildered, as I contemplate how big and complex the tapestry is.

I am lost in a misty forest, but I know your story will find me. It always does.

Lead on, Destri.

Lattia's glimpse into the creation of Mundus was marvelous! Most especially because of how she was not simply an observer, but was drawn into it, and in the end felt the same pain and rage at Lorkhan's betrayal.

This was beautifully written:
Memory plagues the gods as death plagues the mortal, omnipresent, inescapable, and inevitable.

The other realm experience worked a treat. mALX has set the standard on astral travel and it is hard to not be influenced by it.
The way you chose to have Lattia observing the realness of the entities around her was great, and then to 'wake up' surrounded by tomes, even more so.



Thanks for the kind words. Keep your eyes peeled.

Everyone ? Thank you all for the kind comments to my last post. I really had written myself out on it and I had no idea how it would go over. Just goes to show that we are never the best judges of our own work, eh?

Remko ? Magnus was the architect of Lorkhan's plan to form the Mundas. According to legend, Magnus withdrew from the creation of the world at the last second, though it cost him dearly. What is left of him on the world is felt and controlled by mortals as magic.

I like the idea that when he left he tore a whole so large in the Mundas that mortals perceive it as the sun. And that the stars were formed by the smaller tears in the Mundas that his followers caused when they joined him in Aetherius.

mALX - Lattia was indeed sent into Apocrypha alone. You'll have to wait just a little while longer to see what happens to her next. In the meantime, you should probably pray for her.

hautee - Isn't it weird that, given the location, Morrowind never even entered my mind until you brought it up. Now of course I'm going to have to play with that a little. Thanks.

Acadian - Knowledge of Morrowind aside, it is never a good idea to lose a reader. We'll bring you back to Nirn for this next installment. Thank you for indulging my tip of the cap to the lorephiles out there.

SubRosa - At first I was a little surprised that you see Lorkhan's actions as a 'betrayal'. But given your choice character, I guess I shouldn't be surprised to see you endorse the mer's view of that event. Thank you for the kind words.

Winter Wolf - You can imagine my anxiety reading Maxical these past few weeks knowing I had this coming in my own story. I felt like the comic scheduled to go on after Sam Kinison . . . how do you follow that?!

As a complete side not:

Am I the only one who doesn't mind the new forum format?


* * *


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


_____


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lord Direnni, my master bids you welcome.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But my lord. . .”

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

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

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

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


_____


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

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

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

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

“My master waits,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes master.”

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

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

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

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

“Try not to draw attention to yourself.”

I knew it was N'Gasta by your AWESOME description of him - but I have been digging all morning to figure out who the blue-eyed woman from High Rock is, lol. So the amulet must be the Necromancer's Amulet - ARGH! I need to wake up some before trying to think! I loved this, (even the gross descriptions of Nolquinn and Lorian - Before I ate breakfast, thank goodness!) - As usual I am left gasping and can't stand it when the chapters end !!!!!!!! Awesome Write !!!!!!!!

Test post - do not reply.

Excellent story, well written and I found myself getting into the flow of it at once. :tops:

bliviongate:

You have done it again.

Changed gears, changed POV's, and changed locales, all without losing the reader's interest, and heightening said reader's anticipation of "What comes next?" I loved this chapter, as I have with all the previous ones. Seeing Alain and Valdemar again was special, since I only know them as two of the four tragic ghosts of Sancre Tor.

Well worth the wait.

And no, I don't mind the forums as much with the changes that have been made since the debut last week. One thing I'm happy to see is the ability to reply in RTF, instead of typing [--] - [/--] every time I want to change the format of the text. Now I can just hot-key my bold and italics! Yay!

That aside, again, a chapter that I found fascinating, mesmerizing and all-around terrific.[img]http://static.zenimax.com/forums/images/public/style_emoticons/default/trophy.gif[/img]

Wonderful Destri! What an introduction from the zombies' pov. Wow! You are a master storyteller.

On the forum format. . . Yes, I find it flawed - fatally so I'm afraid. . . .

Thanks to the handy new Download button, which allows me to read this epic tale in Word, I am about a third of the way in.

And I am practically speechless. There have already been so many "WOW!" moments that I have lost count. You move so smoothly between characters, and from huge battlefield scenes to seedy taverns...

Brilliant descriptions, compelling characters, surprises... what's not to love?

Not only did I thoroughly enjoy seeing a scene from the pov of a zombie, but I think it was simply brilliant to reuse Nolquinn and Lorian, whom we saw killed earlier in the story!

Everyone - Sorry for the length of time between updates, but life has a way of spoiling the best laid plans. For any who are interested, an expanded version of this story can be found at the link in my sig. For those of you who have never read this before, I thank you for dropping in and I am interested in any comments you choose to make.


* * *


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They rode in silence.

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

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

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

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

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

“You know the important things.”

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

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

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

“I am serious,” said Alain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of which you were one, no doubt.”

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

“Sorry,” said Alain.

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

“It sounds beautiful.”

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

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

“The Akaviri built that fort to launch their sack of Cyrodiil. But they were undone by winter in the Jeralls. A piece of those mountains fell upon them, burying the fort and the pass under mounds of snow. The elders used to say that the dying screams of those snake-men were carried by the wind.”

He paused in his remembrance, and then his voice rose as he began to recite:

“East to Akavir with spring,
Fall south to Colvian plains,
Summer to the Western Sea,
North in frozen Winter remains.”

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

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

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

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

“So you turned this stranger away?”

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

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

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

“Valdemar,” said Alain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The snake-men?” asked Alain.

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

“Katanas.”

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

“Katana.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

“You cannot believe that,” said Alain.

“By the time we reached the lowest level of that fort the two friends I had left believed it. They fell believing it. I am a Nord, Alain. I do not fear righteous death in battle. I fear what lies in wait for me beyond it.”

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Unhand me!” said Farenenre.

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

“He needs me,” said Farenenre. He pulled his arm across his chest, kept his voice low, and sat back down in his chair.

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

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

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

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

“What do you know?” asked Farenenre.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Emero smiled. “It is a bit too early for that. I go to tell Lady Direnni that her faith in you is well-placed.”

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

“And we would know the specifics of the Emperor’s plans,” said Emero. “It is my fondest hope that neither of us shall be disappointed.” He bowed, turned, and left the hotel.

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

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

“Thank you for a most enjoyable evening,” he said, “Miss . . .”

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

“It was not that bad, was it?”

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

He turned and started toward the door.

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

He flashed a crooked grin back over his shoulders.

“Rielus,” he said.


_____


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


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

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

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

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

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

Arctus! It all comes back to him. His loyalty to Talos has never before been questioned. Was that a mistake we all made? He could see the spire of White Gold Tower looming before him, framed by the new day’s sun under a cloudless sky of sparkling blue. Thankfully there were no guards or peasant rabble cluttering the entrance to the palace, no one to stop and make inane pvssyr with. Farenenre needed to be alone with his thoughts. Ironic that on the first day of spring I would have need to be so alone.

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

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

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

He felt the sharp impact of their boots as they began pummeling him. He tried to turn from their attack, yet each way he swung sent waves of pain from the arrow lodged within him. He heard and felt the breaking of his own ribs. For several moments, an eternity it seemed to him, all thought was set adrift in a turbulent sea of pain and blood. One thought rose to the surface, and he grasped hold of it with everything he had left and clung to it like a drowning man to driftwood. Arctus. Arctus.

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

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

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

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

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

Farenenre lay on the blood soaked grass. Gradually his faculties were returned. He rose to a seated position and looked down at the state of his clothing and the darkened grass around him. Something inside told him to leave before the guards and the people arrived. He rose unsteadily, and found that his legs still functioned when he tried to walk. He tested his lungs by taking a deep breath of crisp morning air. The words of the young man’s warning still lingered in his ears, but softly. They were drowned out by other words, his own. They beat shrill and insistent against his mind, threatening madness until they were acted upon.

Zurin Arctus must die!

Read it all to page 4, its wonderful! The lines flow so smoothly, the descriptions are like candy for me! Keep em coming, and you know we love it!

EDIT:
Read it all now, and it is F A N T A S T I C!!!
Rielus, Valdemar and Alain... When will Casnar and the warden, Kastav be introduced, hm?

The story given about Valdemar is intriguing just in itself, and Lord Direnni meeting the King of Worms (one of my favvo characters after reading Rumpleteazsa′s Fanfic, seriously, that guy is the King!)

Tiber is fanatastic, I like how he actually just slowly, slowly moves his fingers and you see how his dolls move as he wish... And that Altmer... Farenarearea or whateverish Will be interesting seeing him get his revenge...

Overall, this is one of THE best Fanfics in this forum!

Thank you so much, Haresus. We share an admiration for the King of Worms (and for Rumple's Fanfic). I have a great deal planned that comes about as a result of his meeting with Aran Direnni. Also, Valdemar's story informs decisions that are made by him and for him later in the year. But first we must get past what is becoming the longest day in the history of Tamriel . . .


* * *


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


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

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

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

“Your majesty?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course, your majesty,” said Renald.

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

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

Cuhlecain continued to stare. He nodded.

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

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

A faint knock interrupted his train of thought.

“Come,” said the Emperor.

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

“You are late,” said the Emperor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


_____


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


“We have a problem,” said Zurin Arctus.

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

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

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

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

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

“Rielus’ report,” he said.

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

“Go on.”

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

“Rielus overheard this?”

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

“And he attacked Farenenre after this conversation?”

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not yet, general,” said Arctus.

“Accept it when you do.”

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

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

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

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

“My guess would be you,” said Arctus.

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

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

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

Arctus nodded, “and Farenenre?”

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

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

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

Arctus lowered the goblet. “General?”

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

Arctus bowed and turned toward the door.

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

Oooh... Using the loose end to kill Arctus? Interesting... Truly a absoloutely fixating story, worthy of a in-game novel!
I will eagerly await your next chapter!

GAAAH! When did you resume updating on here? I have some catching up to do !!!!