MASTERFUL!!!

Wonderfully wow, with a whole bag of superlatives on top!


This is so powerfully accurate that it gives me flashbacks my friend - you have captured the desparation of a failing defense so perfectly. Yet, against the odds, the defense did not fail - which is why professionals do not give up under those circumstances.

RemkoNL: Thanks, I wanted to draw the month of Morning Star to a close with a large scale battle scene. I'm glad you liked it. :twirl:

mALX1: I like to think that Sheogorath drew inspiration from watching this battle.


For an experienced paladin like yourself to say something like that to me. Wow! You honor me, Acadian. :touched:

I resisted it at first, but I have gone back and added an introduction to the first post of this thread. That way any new readers (and my cherished and appreciated current readers) won't feel that I am leading them around in the dark.

And he may have, reading it was like watching a film of it - Awesome writing!!

mALX1 and Acadian: As always, thank you for the support. It means a lot to know that you are enjoying this.


13th Morning Star, 2E 854
Fort Black Boot, Near Cyrodiil's Border with Elsweyr
Morning


At dawn the garrison was deployed policing the Khajiit bodies in front of the fort. They worked with a renewed energy and purpose, converting the ash filled trenches into mass graves. The sounds of stripped bodies stacked upon one another and the scraqe of shovels against loose soil marked the early morning hours. By the time the sun shone through the eastern storm clouds only the blood soaking the ground still told of the battle.

In a tent erected over the mass graves of his countrymen the Khajiit Shaman Ri'Dargo and his retinue met with General Talos and his staff under a banner of truce.

"We are here to discuss an end to hostilities," said Ri'Dargo. He and his retinue sat on cushions against the far wall of the tent. A table laden with sweetcakes, wine and cheese had been set on a table before them. "I have also been instructed by the Mane to inquire as to the intentions of the fleet you have outside of Torval."

Lord Richton disobeyed orders. Zurin Arctus thought to himself. He sat next to General Talos at the opposite end of the table. Captain Alorius stood guard near the entrance to the tent.

General Talos smiled. "An end to hostilities, not a Khajiit surrender?"

Ri'Dargo returned the General's smile. "Our attack was repelled last night, but we were not defeated. If we were to re-engage tonight I think you would find the outcome . . ."

"Re-engage with what, Lord Ri'Dargo?" asked General Talos. "My scouts tell me that the bulk of your host has fled halfway to Senchal. The rest lie under your feet."

The Shaman's retinue shifted in their chairs. Ri'Dargo stared at the stains seeping through the floor of the tent.

"Our terms are simple," continued Talos, "your army must remain in Elsweyr, and there can be no further hostilities anywhere along Cyrodiil's border. Tell your Mane that the fleet will be withdrawn once the border is clear.

"And what of your army?" Ri'Dargo took a sweetcake from the plate between them. He turned it over in his clawed fingers as if trying to glean from it some great secret.

Talos raised his eyebrows, "my army?"

Ri'Dargo placed the sweetcake back on the plate. "Indeed. Once we remove our forces, what is to stop your army from invading Elsweyr?"

"Need I remind Lord Ri'Dargo that any hostilities have been instigated by the Khajiit. We have no desire to invade Elsweyr."

"So you say now, but your people speak of Empire. At what point will the Khajiit be forced to acknowledge your sovereignty?" His eyes met those of General Talos. "Your name is known to us, General Talos, as is your ambition. You do your Emperor's bidding for now, but that won't always be the case."

That was unnecessary, thought Arctus.

"My ambition," said Talos, "is not a subject that is open for discussion. Considering the circumstances, Lord RiDargo, I would advise you to mind your tongue. You want assurances that I can not give you. Yes we speak of Empire, and yes there may come a day when we seek to annex Elsweyr. But when that day comes we will seek to do so by treaty, not force."

"I apologize, General, I meant no offence. Our ways are not yours. We of the Khajiit value ambition, in much the same way that we value courage and daring. We find it hard to distinguish between the three. I meant only to impress upon you that Imperial Promises have not always been kind to Elsweyr."

Talos lifted the sweetcake off of the plate and placed it in front of Ri'Dargo. "Then consider it a personal promise. And, as a show of good faith, I give the Khajiit leave to build a settlement somewhere along the border."

Ri'Dargo regarded the sweetcake. "A settlement?" His retinue began to whisper amongst themselves.

"Yes," said Talos, "a kind of 'border watch' that can act as Elsweyr's first line of defense in the event of any Imperial aggression." Talos leaned back in his chair. "Of course, I can always give Lord Richton the order to attack." He turned to Zurin Arctus. "With an army here and a fleet at Torval we can begin the annexation of Elsweyr immediately."

The Khajiit retinue fell silent. Ri'Dargo lifted the sweetcake and took a bite.

"There will be an end to hostilities," he said, "I must take this message to the Mane."


_____


Captain Itinius was left in charge of the garrison at Fort Black Boot. General Talos and five hundred men began their long journey back to the Imperial City. The General, aboard his white stallion, rode at the head of the column flanked by Ysmir and Zurin Arctus.

Captain Alorius reined his horse even with Zurin Arctus'. "Sir, might I ask a question?"

"What is it, Captain?" asked Arctus.

"This battle we fought, it wasn't against the Khajiit was it?"

Arctus reined his horse to allow their conversation to continue in private. "Explain yourself, Captain."

"Well, sir," Alorius stopped himself. He watched the General.

"Speak freely, Captain." Said the Battlemage.

"Yes sir. All of the General's dispatches go through me. He never sent for the reserve force from Skyrim."

Arctus turned to regard the young captain. "Why wouldn't he, Captain?"

"Sir, the Skyrim forces are already loyal to the General, sir. When word of this battle spreads he'll win the loyalty of a large chunk of the Colovian forces."

"You believe that the General works against his Emperor, Captain?"

"Sir, my loyalty is to my General." He lowered his voice. "I am not suggesting anything treasonous, sir. I'm just trying to make sense of what happened back there."

"I see," said Arctus, "and you've come to the conclusion that General Talos used this border dispute to win the loyalty of the legion away from the Emperor?"

Alorius straightened in his saddle. "Yes sir."

"An interesting theory, Captain, and a dangerous one were it to be repeated."

"As I said, sir, my loyalty lies with my General." He pounded his chest in salute and eased his horse down the ranks.

Arctus spurred his horse back into formation.

"Alorius is uncommonly bright," said General Talos, "he will have a very bright future in the years to come."

"If he can remain loyal, General," said Arctus.

"It's in his best interest to remain loyal. I'm more concerned with Lord Richton's disregard for orders."

"Yes General," said Arctus. "Do you believe the Khajiit will keep the peace?"

"It doesn't really matter," said Talos, "they'll be hard pressed to raise another force like that one. For now we've cleared our southern border and bought ourselves time."

"And maneuvered the Emperor into a corner."

"Yes. He cannot refuse this Khajiit settlement without antagonizing the Mane, and he cannot move against me after such a glorious victory. As you say, he finds himself in a corner."

"Yes General," said Arctus, "but don't forget. Animals are most dangerous when cornered."


The year continues in Sun's Dawn

That was the perfect conclusion after such a battle, the discussion between the Khajiit and General Talos was magnificent. As was the consequential conclusion of
Alorius. I love it, consider me an avid reader!

Magnificent follow up!


Your choice of terms here bespeaks a reality that is uncanny enough to suggest a familiarity with the subject gleaned through intensive research, reading or fist hand exposure. Regardless, like most of your terms and descriptions this was authoritatively effective.

Sweetcake. :liplick: I simply love the little sweetcake that ambled through the tent scene and observed the entire proceedings. I found myself becoming quite attached to the poor little morsel. Call me odd perhaps, but I simply adore the technique you used here.


Would you consider Elsweyr's here?


We've said it before, but you my friend are a real talent!

I can't say it any better than this, perfect conclusion, magnificent! (Thanks RemkoNL !!) - Destri your story and writing are magnificent; More, More !!

@RemkoNL - Thanks, I worried over both scenes for quite a while. I thought they might seem like too much unnecessary dialogue given the circumstances.

@Acadian -


The sweetcake was written into the scene partially with you in mind. I remembered your fondness for the dinner I described in an earlier scene and I needed a bit of business that my characters could do that would be both subtle and symbolic. I'm glad it worked for you.

As for Elsweyrs . . . well, that was a complete mistake on my part. I originally wrote Elsweyr's but, for some inexplicable reason, I changed it. Thanks for catching it.

@mALX1 - Thank you so much, mALX! If it weren't for you, Acadian & RemkoNL I probably would have shut this story down already.

NO !!! Especially not at this time of year, all the readership is down, and a lot of those that read don't have time to comment right now! Also, a lot of new fanfics came out at the same time. It takes a while for people to sort through them and figure out which they want to stick with. Please don't give up, your writing and story are too good for that!

Book Two: Sun's Dawn


2nd Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
The Draggin Tale Inn, Stros M’Kai
Morning


“Though the title is a bit macabre,” he said, “I am known as the King of Worms, and you come highly recommended.”

Arnand could only see his scarlet silhouette out of the corner of his eye. He still could not move, but he could imagine the void that existed where a face should have been, and the blue points of light within that regarded him in ways that eyes never could. The King of Worms drew closer.

“You find yourself in need of my knowledge,” he said, “I find myself in need of your abilities. Perhaps we can aid each other. . .”


* * *


His eyes opened and the dream was gone, but the feeling of helplessness remained. He lay in bed, his eyes focused on a dimly lit ceiling that seemed to close in upon him as his mind shifted from dream to reality. It’s so hot already, he thought. The linen sheet was soaked in his sweat. He sat up and placed his feet on the floor. Small tears of sweat fell from his damp hair onto his bare shoulders. A thick column of sunlight shone through the only window and illuminated the small, well-appointed room. Night’s candle had burned out, leaving a trail of hardened wax that hung from the small table near the bed, and dried into a coin-shaped puddle on the floor.

Arnand rose and crossed to the basin near the door. The water was cool on his hands. He washed his face and neck. I will find a ship today, he told himself. You’ve been saying that for weeks, was his answer.

He dressed in a white shirt and tan linens and secured his dagger to his hip. The sounds of revelry and the acrid smells of sweat, six and skooma were already thick along the stairs when he left the room. The bar was full, though it was not yet mid-day. Perhaps a ship had come in the night, Arnand thought.

Dreekius was doing a brisk business behind the bar. His green scales glistened, though whether that was due to effort or to a trick of the light Arnand could not say. Bottles of ale and mead flew from his hands into the waiting hands of the sailors who drank, sang and fought with each other, or anyone else unlucky enough to draw their attention. The Draggin Tale was transformed into the busiest market place in Stros M’kai. Working girls, each younger than the next, paraded their wares in front of the loud, brash clientele. Arnand waded through the crowd and sidled up to the bar.

“Ahh, Breton, you are awake. Good,” Dreekius said. Like all Argonians he smiled through his eyes, though his were red and filmy. “I have need of your room for a few hours.

“I’m paid through the week,” said Arnand.

Dreekius placed a bottle of mead on the bar and slid it toward Arnand. “I realize that, and I apologize for the inconvenience. You will not need the room for the rest of the day anyway.”

Arnand quaffed his mead. Warm. The Argonian’s words sunk in. “A ship . . .”

“One that suits your needs, perhaps.”

Arnand scanned the debauchery around the bar.

Dreekius laughed. “No, these men just docked. They aren’t going anywhere for as long as I can keep them happy, which will be longer with the use of your room. Don’t worry; I will have it cleaned by the time you get back.”

“Get back from where?”

Dreekius leaned in close, his breath smelled of ale and old cheese. “One of the sailors mentioned a smuggler’s ship docked at Saintsport. Apparently they have been there for several days.”

Arnand drained the bottle, “I’ll get my things.”


_____


He left the Draggin Tale and made his way toward the docks. Outside the heat was even more pronounced than inside. He walked through the cobblestone streets crowded with the hectic rush of sailors, guards, hustlers and children. All had eyes that seemed to hint at some desire unfulfilled. He traveled through the humid shade made by two story buildings built of sandstone, wood, or clay. He passed over the arched sandstone bridges. As the cobblestones began to give way to sand the smell of the bay caressed his nostrils, tantalizing him with his own unfulfilled desire:


* * *


“I am all too familiar with the power of the dark gift,” the King of Worms had said, “I have been told that one you love is so afflicted, that you seek a cure?” With a gesture the spell was removed. The King of Worms returned to the dinner table. Arnand had felt a spreading of sensation through his body as mobility was returned.

Told by whom? “I do,” Arnand had said.

The Necromancer sat. “I have heard that such a thing exists. For a price I would be willing to point you in the proper direction.” He motioned toward an empty chair and the second glass of wine.

Arnand joined him at the table. For Elissa, he told himself. “Name your price.”

“An artifact that was once my property has been recovered. I would have you return it to me.”

“Where is this artifact?”

His answer had caused the cowled head to tilt slightly. The voice that emanated from the void was bemused. “You do not ask what the artifact is.”

“All that matters to me is that you fulfill your end of the agreement.”

“I shall. Now, listen closely. You must travel to the Isle of Artaeum. In the halls of the Psijic Order you will find the Necromancer’s Amulet. I want you to steal it and return it to me.”

Arnand drained the glass. “Such a thing will not be easy . . . your Majesty.”

With a flourish of his cloak the Necromancer produced a red velvet purse. The gold inside jingled when he set it on the table. “For someone of lesser ability it would be impossible. For you, I suspect it will be a challenge. This gold will secure your passage, the rest I leave up to you.”

Arnand’s memory sprung forward. He left the King of Worms and nearly killed his horse riding north to Jehanna. There he sold the beleaguered animal and found a half-drunk Reachman with a small boat willing to skirt the edge of the Sea of Ghosts to carry him to Northpoint. In Northpoint he booked passage on a merchant ship that brought him to Stros M’Kai. For weeks he searched fruitlessly for a ship that would conduct him to the Summerset Isles.


* * *


Arnand passed beneath the heavy town gate and turned to the west. He began to walk around the bay, his feet sinking into the hot sand along the shore. To his right the palm trees cast retreating shadows in the grass that grew a few short feet from the beach. To his left the great statue of Hunding, sword raised high, invited visitors to Stros M’Kai. He veered to the south and the ornate Dwemer Observatory came into view. He left the beach and continued on the dirt and sand walkway, past the lighthouse, and into Saintsport.

He saw the ship immediately. It was a galleon, slightly worn along the stem, with rolled threadbare sails tucked near the mast. Several men were engaged in the hauling of casks onto the ship from wagons drawn by swaybacked horses whose sullen disposition was only matched by the crew.

“You there!” came a voice to Arnand’s right. “What do you want around here?”

Arnand turned. The voice was worn by a short, fat, shirtless Redguard with half-healed lash marks across his sunken chest. He sat in a squat wooden chair whose legs bent outwards with his weight.

“Where’s your Captain?” asked Arnand.

The Redguard used a whetstone to sharpen the edge of a rusty dagger. “What are you wanting him for?”

“My business, not yours.”

The Redguard’s smile showed half-a-dozen rotten teeth in gums stained black with age and neglect. He stood slowly, his weight redistributing itself on short, thick legs that were as bowed as those of the chair. The whetstone disappeared into his filthy green linen pants and the rusty dagger jumped from hand to hand.

“Suppose I look to make it my business,” he said.

“That’s enough, Delron,” A female voice said from the ship.

Arnand turned. The voice belonged to a Dunmer woman who stood above them on the gangplank. She wore a pair of wide black pants that ended well above her ankles. Her sheer silk shirt was unbuttoned, the ends tied into a knot well up on her mid-section. Her long sable hair was pulled into a bun at the back of her head, and secured with slaughterfish bones. A silver cutlass hung from her belt and flashed in the light of the mid-day sun.

Delron backed away, “aye, Cap’n.” He sat back in the chair and reproduced his whetstone, but his eyes never left Arnand.

“I’m Captain Shin-Ilu,” said the woman, “who are you and what is it that you want?”

Arnand bowed a greeting. “My name is Arnand Desele, Captain. I have business I wish to discuss.”

“Is that so? What sort of business?”

“The lucrative sort.”

“I guess you had better come aboard then.”

Inside the Captain’s cabin an elderly crewman poured them each a glass of wine. She removed her cutlass and leaned it against the arm of the red velvet couch upon which she sat. She motioned Arnand into the empty chair across from her.

She took a sip of her wine. “This business of yours?”

“I would hire your ship to take me to the Isle of Artaeum.”

“Artaeum? That’s a very expensive trip.”

Arnand removed the purse that the King of Worms had given him. He tossed it into her lap. “I am in something of a hurry.”

“So I see.” she lifted the purse and weighed it in her hand. “What’s to stop me from taking this, killing you, and throwing your body overboard?”

“I am difficult to kill.”

She squeezed the purse . . . then she tossed it back to Arnand. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“May I ask why?”

“Three reasons. First, one does not just sail to the Isle of Artaeum. That’s the home of the Psijic Order. Strangers aren’t welcome. Second, this ship is already overdue in Senchal. There is a certain cargo that I need to procure if I’m going to keep this crew paid. Third, and most importantly, this ship isn’t going anywhere without a navigator.”

“What happened to your navigator?”

“The stupid lizard is sitting in the jail at Stros M’Kai. He tried to kill a guard, if you can believe it.”

“I imagine that a crew such as yours has made the trip before. One could navigate the entire way by staying in sight of the coast.”

“One could,” she said, “if one were a merchant vessel which, I am sure by now you know, we are not. Speed and guile might be sufficient under ordinary circumstances, but word is there is a Colovian fleet anchored off Torval that we would rather not have to deal with.”

“This is a fair amount of gold,” said Arnand, “enough to pay for the inconvenience that my detour would create and enough to pay off your crew, I’m sure. I’m also sure that you can find another use for the profit from your cargo in Senchal.” He tossed the purse back into her lap. “If I can free your navigator, would you reconsider?”

“I told you, ships don’t just sail into Artaeum. You need an invitation or something.”

“Then what about taking me to Dusk? It’s near enough and ships go in and out of there all the time.”

She lifted the purse again and gently squeezed it between her fingers. She smiled. “The lizard’s name is Earns-His-Keep, if you can believe it.”

Sweet! :goodjob: Not much else to say..

:read: Destri, this is quite simply some of the best writing that I have seen - anywhere. I am in awe of your talent.

From the heat that wove throughout the entire story to the dazzling descriptions, to the superb use of dialogue, dreams, OMG I could go on. Mystery, perfect pacing, suspense, can't stop reading till finished . . . . I am not the most perceptive reader when it comes to sorting out plots; yet, you led me perfectly here, with just the right balance of clarity and mystery. I won't quote any of your brilliant passages for fear of not being able to stop.

WOW! Please don't give up. I am astounded by the light readership you lament. Be patient my friend, for your talent is absolutely top shelf. I am confident more readers will discover your brilliant light. :goodjob:

I'd say this is one of the most interesting things I've read in quite a while. Well done.

This guy is a beast!

I don't intend to do an "unproductive post" but this...

This guy is awesome!

Awesome write and storyline, More More!!!!

First, some shout-outs:

@RemkoNL - Thanks! It means a lot that you keep coming back for more.

@Acadian - Wow, those were some of the nicest comments I have ever read! Thank you. I think my 'laments' were more a product of holiday blues than anything else. Looking at the number of views on this thread I have absolutely nothing to complain about. Don't worry about me giving up, I have too much planned for this story. :hehe:

@Asgrahim - I appreciate that, thanks for reading it!

@woolymammoth45 - I'm not sure if there is such a thing as an 'unproductive post.' Any feedback at all is welcome.

@mALX1 - Your encouragement means more than you know. As you say . . . You ROCK!!


* * *


2nd Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
The Draggin Tale, Stros M’Kai
Evening


The spent bodies of several sailors littered the tiled floors, sleeping off the day’s debauch. Half-dressed girls exited the second floor rooms and negotiated the stairs on unsteady legs. They stopped and each produced a tiny fistful of gold coins that gleamed in the half-light when they set them on the bar. Dreekius collected the coins and dropped them into a purse that he kept tucked near his privates. The girls laughed and whispered, passing Arnand standing in the doorway as they left.

“You have returned,” Dreekius said, “did you find what you seek?”

Arnand stepped over the prostrate body of a drunken sailor and joined Dreekius at the bar.

“I don’t believe I’ll need the room any longer, Dreekius,” said Arnand.

“You are leaving us?” Dreekius opened a bottle of mead and passed it along the bar towards Arnand.

“At long last, it seems.” Arnand drank from the bottle.

Dreekius ran a finger over his purse, his soft pink tongue poked out the side of his mouth. “You don’t sound convinced.”

Arnand laughed. “I’m not asking you to refund my money, Dreekius.”

Dreekius smiled through his eyes. “That’s quite human of you. Why, then, are you so apprehensive?”

“I’m not sure I trust this Captain to keep her word.”

“This Captain is a woman? What is her name?”

“Shin-Ilu.”

The smile faded from Dreekius’ lips. “Ansu Shin-Ilu?” He opened a bottle of ale and drained nearly half of it in one pull.

“You know her?”

“Know of her, yes. Your instincts serve you well, Breton. She may well be the most ruthless pirate on the Abecean Sea.”

“If that’s the case, then I’ll have to be careful,” Arnand said, getting up. He paused on his way to the door. “Do you know anything about an Argonian named Earns-His-Keep?”

“I know that he is sitting in the jail.” The ridges above Dreekius’ eyes furrowed. “Is he your price of passage? Well, breaking him out of the jail should not prove difficult.”

“Why is that?”

“We are on an island, Breton, surrounded by waters that teem with life, most of it not friendly. If one escapes and does not have a boat, then there is not far that one can go. If one escapes and does have a boat, then that one is usually allowed to become the mainland’s problem.”

Arnand nodded. “Goodbye, Dreekius. Thank you for all the help.”

Dreekius grinned. “Thank you for all the gold.”

He left the Inn. Outside warm breezes stirred the humid air. Diaphanous clouds obscured Masser and Secunda, but could not dim their light. The moons reflected off the cobblestones which shone like mirrors in the night.

The borrowed wagon was where he’d left it. The old nag pulling it gave a contemptuous snort when she saw him approach. Arnand’s hand flashed a spell which calmed the beast and allowed him to guide her across the street to the jail.

The jail at Stros M’Kai was a two story sandstone structure with stone columns supporting a canvas awning in the front. Iron bars covered the windows and the thick wooden door was supported by iron hinges and locks.

The streets were nearly deserted. With the lateness of the hour, most citizens had settled into their beds, or their cups. Arnand’s detect life spell showed two pink blots inside the jail. He shifted the blanket in the wagon; then he found a spot against the wall opposite the awning and waited.

The night wore on. The clouds obscured the twin moons, taking their shine off the cobblestones. Darkness drifted on Stros M’Kai and Arnand crossed the street and stopped under the awning. The locked door was briefly lit in a purple glow that originated from his hand. The glow faded, and with it the lock. Arnand stepped inside while the shadows still lingered.

The jailor was asleep at his desk. He snored from the nostrils, drowning out the sound of Arnand’s movements. The bars of a heavy iron door led to the cells behind him.

Arnand cast a combination spell of calm and drain fatigue. An emerald mist enveloped the guard, forcing his snores deeper, into the diaphragm. By the time the mist faded Arnand could have beaten a drum next to the guard’s ear without effect.

Arnand searched through the guard’s clothing. Up close he smelled of crab meat and ale. He found the small iron key dangling from a string on the guard’s belt. Arnand cut the string with his dagger and liberated the key.

The key fit the heavy door easily and released the lock with a click that was loud enough to cause Arnand to clench his jaw in spite of himself. The guard’s rhythmic snoring marked the seconds that Arnand stood in the doorway, one hand on the hilt of his dagger, the other poised to cast an invisibility spell in the event that more guards were alerted to the sound.

When he was confident that his actions had not disturbed the peace, Arnand turned his attention to the cells. There were four, two on each side of the cramped hall. A detect life spell told him that all save the last on his right were unoccupied. In this last cell the pink blot of a life form remained horizontal, suspended above the stone floor.

The cell door opened with a turn of the key and a softer click than the main door. The pink blot faded with the spell and was replaced by the form of an Argonian who lay curled on a cot against the far wall. He was a male, thin as Argonians went. He had mottled skin the color of molded bread, and two needle-like horns that protruded from an equidistant point above his bottle-shaped nose.

Maybe it was the sound of the cell door opening, or perhaps it was Arnand’s proximity that caused the Argonian to stir and open his eyes.

“Who?” The Argonian whispered.

Arnand placed his index finger vertically over his lips. The Argonian nodded. Arnand moved into the cell and crouched near the Argonian’s cot.

“Earns-His-Keep?” Arnand whispered.

The Argonian nodded.

“Come with me . . . quietly.” Arnand whispered.

Earns-His-Keep was only too willing to comply. He positioned himself so close that with every exhale his breath fluttered the hair along Arnand’s collar. The two retraced Arnand’s steps through the hall, past the snoring guard, and out into the gentle breezes of Stros M’Kai.

“Who are you?” Earns-His-Keep asked when they were outside the jail.

“A friend,” said Arnand, “sent by your Captain.” Arnand helped lift Earns-His-Keep into the back of the wagon. The Argonian’s skin was cold to the touch.

“No,” said Earns-His-Keep as he lay down in the wagon, “blackmailed perhaps, forced most likely, but not sent.”

Arnand covered the Argonian with the blanket. The horse nickered half-heartedly when Arnand climbed on the buckboard and took the reins. But it conducted them both to the city gate without incident.


_____


They traveled the well worn path, in full view of the patrolling guards. Arnand kept his hood over his head and nodded sullen greetings to those he passed. Earns-His-Keep stayed under the blanket, and tried his best not to breathe.

The heat returned in the last dregs of twilight, as the sun’s distant aurora brought light back into the world. As they passed the lighthouse Earns-His-Keep threw off the blanket and rose sweating and sputtering into the new day.

“I am in your debt,” he said.

“Forget it,” said Arnand, “I’m being compensated.”

“I hope you received your compensation ahead of time. Still, I am in your debt. I shall not forget this.”

Arnand regarded the skinny Argonian. “Did you really try to kill a guard?”

Earns-His-Keep shrugged. “I was not successful.”

“Tell me about your Captain.” Said Arnand.

Earns-His-Keep stared at Arnand. “Since I am in your debt,” he began, “I will tell you this. Captain Shin-Ilu has spent her life taking advantage of men’s tendency to underestimate her. You should not make that mistake.”

“Is she good to her word?”

“That depends on what her word costs her.”

The ship came into view. Captain Shin-Ilu stood alone at the foot of the gangplank. The rest of the crew went about the business of preparing to sail. A half smile creased her lips as the wagon came to a stop.

“I was beginning to think you had failed,” she said to Arnand. She turned her attention to Earns-His-Keep. “You’ve cost us a week, you stupid lizard. What were you thinking, mixing it up with a guard?”

Earns-His-Keep jumped from the wagon. “Apologies, Captain.”

“Just get on board and look to your charts. We have to sail to Dusk now because of you.”

Earns-His-Keep scurried up the gangplank and disappeared onto the ship. Arnand removed his cloak and climbed from the wagon.

“You’re pretty resourceful,” said Captain Shin-Ilu, “I’m tempted to offer you a position on my crew.”

“I doubt you could afford me, Captain.”

She laughed. “You might be right. Why don’t we discuss it over another bottle of wine? Come, we are ready to sail.” She turned and walked up the gangplank. Arnand followed.

A light scraqe behind him caused his muscles to tense. No! He reached for his dagger. He felt the blade enter his kidney from behind. His back twitched from the pain. He felt his blood begin to boil. Poison, he thought. He tried to cast, but he was silenced. The blade twisted, causing his back to twitch again. He dropped his dagger and his legs gave way. Delron’s fetid breath was hot on his cheek.

“This is my business,” the Redguard hissed.

Ansu Shin-Ilu turned and approached him, unsheathing her cutlass. Delron twisted his blade again and stepped back, leaving the rusty dagger in Arnand’s back. She grasped his shirt with a strength that surprised him and kept him from falling. She leaned in close.

“You were right about one thing,” she said, “we can’t afford you.”

She stepped back, raised her blade, and lunged. Her thrust pierced Arnand’s chest. He felt the blade slide past his ribs, through his heart, and out between his shoulder blades.

He fell to the dock. Elissa, I have failed you, he thought. Captain Shin-Ilu stood over him, wiping his blood from her blade with a linen cloth.

“But you were wrong about something else,” she said, “you weren’t difficult to kill at all.”

Whaaat.... Now I'm really hooked.

Two small things:
I think it should be: "....had failed", she said

And another one here:
"... business," the Redguard hissed.

Wow!

Let me try this - I will tell you the plot impressions of this simple reader that you may gage how successful you are. Remember please, that I am not very good at following plots, especially complex ones. I believe this is complicated by the facts that I read several fanfics and there are often days between coming back to one - both peculiarities of the fanfic forum format. You have developed many characters in this thread; most of them quite thoroughly, and several to the point of being rather endearing. I am unsure if there is a 'protagonist' in the story - that is not necessarily a bad thing although I certainly profess a weakness for character-driven stories. The death of Arnand was more than quite a surprise. With each story you write I begin to 'get into' the lead character of that particular chapter. In a way, I suppose it is neat to realize that at any time, any of them can die - ups the stakes, as it were. I do not see a lot of tight connection between the stories, but each is fascinating in its own right. Yet. . . there is an elusive, almost frustrating feeling that it is all connected and I can't quite figure it out. As you get a moment in your next post, I would be interested to hear if I am close to perceiving your intent.

Ok. Now I mentioned that each of your stories is fascinating in its own right. OMG yes, and this was no exception. Your writing is amazingly versatile, yet with a constant thread of authoritative competence. It is certainly quite impossible to stop reading your stories. I find myself paying close attention to your descriptions particularly - in order to learn how to improve my own. The subtle, brilliant touches are woven throughout. I quote only one example, but could easily add a dozen more:

'He positioned himself so close that with every exhale his breath fluttered the hair along Arnand's collar.'

GAAAAH !!! I didn't see that coming! ARGH! Awesome write, you had me riveted from beginning to end! GAAAAH! I hope some pretty girl is hiding on the dock with a healing spell readied !! WAAAH! Your writing/story is very powerful!

@RemkoNL - Thanks for catching those. The proper use of quotations has always been a nagging concern of mine as a writer.

@Acadian - Given the sheer number of fanfics that you read and comment on, I think you underestimate your ability to follow plots. You are right, of course. I have tried to weave an interconnectedness between the stories thus far. I believe that the various subplots intersect as the overall story continues, but you will be a better judge of that than I. I hope the frustration you describe is subtle, like the unremembered words to a song on the tip of the tongue, as opposed to the overt frustration born of annoyance! Perhaps part of it comes from your familiarity with the source material. Some of the characters you have encountered here appear in the Remanada (chapter 2), The Battle of Sancre Tor, and The Arcturian Heresy. Without trying to give too much away, the 'death' of Arnand was a necessary end to that chapter.

_____

Note: I'm leaving town for the holidays so this will be my last post until 2010. Thank you all for reading and I wish you a Happy Holidays! :celebration:

Destri, Reviewing my comments, let me apologize for my choice of the words 'almost frustrating' - I meant it of course in the more gentle way that you mentioned. Perhaps 'mystified' would have been a better choice of words. Be no doubt though, I eagerly look forward to reading more of your wonderful story!

Ah, it feels good to be back!

@mALX - Sorry to keep you hanging from that cliff. Unfortunately we shift gears for this one so I hope you can hang on a little while longer.


* * *


8th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Glenumbria Moors, High Rock
Dawn


They stood on the edge of the moors surrounded by the cold mists drifting in from the Eltheric Ocean. Behind them the sunrise lifted the gray cast from the land and bathed the soggy ground in shades of brown and green. The house guard that accompanied them kept a respectful distance, but Lattia could tell that they were miserable. Standing knee deep in a cold bog when they could be in a warm tavern celebrating the Day of Release was not something that they should have been called upon to do. Lattia decided to make another appeal to the grim figure before her that wore her brother’s face.

“Aran, please do not ask me to do this,” she said, kneeling. “All of Glenumbria embraces our clan today. Let us join their feasts and celebrations instead of hunting for ghosts.”

Aran turned and faced his sister. “I know what day it is,” he said, “do you think we came all this way to prance and drink with the noisome rabble? Three thousand years ago the Alessians were stopped right here. I must know exactly how it was done.” He reached out and his strong fingers dug into her arms and shoulders. He pulled her to her feet. “I am not asking.”

Lattia stood her ground. “Magic is not a tool placed at your disposal, brother. What skill I have takes a heavy toll, not that you seem to care.”

“Spare me the self pity, sister. If you are not strong enough to perform the task then perhaps you are not strong enough to stand by my side. There are other mystics in the world, you know. Now, are they here or not?”

A rush of heat banished the cold from Lattia. Her face and neck flushed, her clothes felt heavy. Even the silk outer cloak seemed to chafe at her throat. She glared at her brother, fear and rage battled against love and devotion in an inner struggle that boiled the blood in her veins and flashed through her emerald eyes.

Aran smiled and touched his sister’s face. There was pride in his voice when he spoke. “Now I see a Direnni Elf before me.” He said. “Are they here?”

“Yes.” Lattia’s eyes closed, a tear tumbled over the mound of her cheek.

“Show me.”

Lattia’s sigh echoed throughout the moors. She arched her neck and shoulders, her eyes remained shut. A sudden gust seemed to pass through her. As close as he was to her, Aran felt the warmth leave her body. It was replaced by something that was both cold and ancient. The moors grew darker, as if the sun were a simple candle that had been extinguished. Noises that were equal parts wail and laughter carried in from the darkness. The house guards began to finger the pommels of their swords. Aran saw the faintest ghost of a smile spread across Lattia’s lips and he shuddered despite himself.

She lowered her head and looked at him. The green that had once made her eyes seem like twin pearls of jade had been replaced by a black that even ebony couldn’t match. All the pigment had been drained from her skin. She raised an arm that could have belonged to a cadaver.

“Take my hand.” She said in a whispered voice that sounded like the crunch of brittle leaves.

Aran’s hand rose slowly, tentatively. I must know, he thought to himself. He grasped her hand and all the warmth he felt dissipated like old memory. All around him the world began to blur and fade. He could not turn away from her. The endless void of her eyes became the sum of his existence. Time became irrelevant. At one point, before unconsciousness claimed him, he heard himself screaming.


_____


7th Sun’s Dawn, 1E 482
Glenumbria Palace, High Rock
Evening


Light flooded his eyes as he came back to himself. The moors were gone, replaced by the great hall of a long dead palace. A large fire crackled in the hearth, and for the first time since he had taken his sister’s hand Aran felt warmth.

He still held her hand. He looked down to her face. A semblance of her former color had returned, but her eyes remained black and trackless.

“We have arrived.” She said.

Aran’s eyes focused on those around him. The great hall was filled with activity and hushed, anxious voices. Men from Colovia, High Rock and Skyrim mingled amongst each other in uneasy alliance. They all wore leather armor, offset by chainmail, cloth, silk and fur. Each man’s chest was colored with the symbols and insignia of his house, province, or tribe. The many Altmer in the hall stood out in their ancient Elven armor, but the insignia that covered their hearts was familiar enough.

“They wear the standard of Clan Direnni.” Said Aran.

“Yes,” she said, “this is Glenumbria Palace on the night of 7 Sun’s Dawn in the year 482 of the First Era. Tomorrow these men will join their respective armies in the battle of Glenumbria Moors. Tonight they share accommodations in this castle.”

Aran stepped toward a Direnni retainer, but he was held fast by her icy grip.

“Do not break contact.” She said.

Something in the quality of her voice caused Aran to study her face. “You are not my sister.”

That smile played across her lips again. “No. But for this journey I am your guide, and it would behoove you to heed my word,” she regarded him as one might regard a tenaciously clinging insect, “unless, of course, it is your wish to remain here.”

Aran turned his attention back to the great hall. “They cannot see us?”

“We were not here. What you see tonight is what you wished to see, but these events have already occurred. The voices you hear are only echoes of voices that have long been silent. Come.”

She led him past the gathered soldiers toward a closed and guarded door leading from the hall. The guards were Direnni retainers armed with halberds made of silver and gold. They stared through Aran into the great hall and made no move to bar him from the door.

“Beyond this door lie the answers you seek.” She said.

Aran nodded and reached for the door, but in the reaching the door and wall dissolved in front of him and reformed behind him, leaving him and his guide in a large chamber.

The walls of the chamber were filled with tapestries that depicted ancient battles and the heroic postures of the heroes who fought in them. A raging fire burned in the cavernous fireplace against the far wall. The scarred oak floors were covered in rugs of red, green, and gold that featured detailed maps of all of the provinces of High Rock. A large golden table fit to seat a score of men dominated the room. Around this table those who would lead the battle congregated, their raised voices echoed off the walls of the chamber.

An Altmer sat at the head of the table wearing Elven armor plated with gold. His long platinum hair caught the light and made him look to Aran like a statue given life.

“That’s Aiden Direnni.” Aran whispered as if he were afraid that the sound of his voice would break the spell.

“It is,” she said, “His brother Ryain sits on his right hand.” She pointed to the figure with his back to them. “I do not see Raven, but I assume she is here. Her magic is vital to the coming battle, but I suppose you already know that.”

“Why are there so many men here?”

“Your knowledge of this event does not allow for the presence of so many men does it? Know you that Clan Direnni came late to a rebellion whose origin sprang in the world of men.”

She pointed toward a Colovian standing near the table’s center staring intently at a map unfolded before him. He looked to Aran to be a man in his mid-thirties, in the prime of his life. He wore leather armor with the ancient standard of Skingrad emblazoned on his chest. A hawk larger than a cat rested on his left shoulder and the handle of a heavy axe poked over his right.

“There,” she said, “is the man that your history will remember as Rislav the Righteous, King of Skingrad. It is he who defeated the Alessian Emperor Goerius, an act that inspired Clan Direnni to join the rebellion.”

She pointed toward the opposite end of the table where an elf larger than any that Aran had ever seen sat resplendent in solid gold armor. He held himself erect, as if the foundations of the castle were dependant upon his carriage.

“There is a lonely soul. The King of Nenalata, last of the Ayleids. He was born into an empire long bereft of glory. Even now he rules over a ruin. Yet he carries the pride of his kind, and will not appear as anything less than what he still believes himself to be. He has more reason to hate the Alessian Reform than any other in this room.” Her voice had grown quiet, almost reverent. Aran could sense a great sadness that emanated from her. “Sunnabe tarnabye av sou math, baune aran.” she whispered.

“What did you say?” asked Aran.

“Nothing,” she answered, “a simple benediction for the last of his line.”

“I heard my name in that.”

“Curious is it not? Have you never wondered why you and your sisters were not given the names of the Aldmeri?”

“Our loyalty to the Isles is tenuous at best,” said Aran. “What language was that?”

She looked at the table, into the face of the long dead King of Nenalata, “one that he would understand, if he could hear us.”

Aran looked about the room. He studied the harried faces of men and mer, of soldiers and kings. “I never realized there were so many.”

“No,” she said, “you never did. But you will.”

Good to see you back and updating! Loved it!
Can't wait to read what really happened to Arnand but now you left us hanging on this one...
AWESOME!

What an Awesome time in TES history to write about! Your writing is perfection itself, your detail to description brings everything to life! You have been very missed leaving us without the benefit of your talents !!!!!

A warm welcome back to you Destri! :foodndrink: Absence, if anything, has enriched your talent.

This was simply amazing. Your descriptions are mysterious, yet so vivid that the scenes come to life. What an amazing skill you have to be able to do that. I must raise my dropped jaw and go back to study how you can craft such beautifully descriptive passages.

The quality of your writing is as fine as it gets. What a pleaure to become lost in your words.

I become completely enthralled and immersed by each of your chapters as stand alone masterpieces.