Hello Destri,

I just caught up with your fan fic - it is amazing! I had always considered this period in TES Lore as a fascinating time, full of heroic characters and sweeping events with consequences that echo even in TES IV, hundreds of years later.

I'm mesmerized by how you have taken historical figures that have only been dusty names on crackling parchment to me and breathed the power of life into them.

Applause, applause, and a hearty cheer to you! :clap:

I'm looking forward to more!

* taps foot * looks at watch * looks at calandar * ARGH !!!!

@RemkoNL ? I knew I gave away too much when I discussed the 'death' of Arnand for the fertile minds on this board not to pick up on it. I'll rejoin that storyline after we check in with a few other characters.

@mALX ? Thank you so much, I think I went through withdrawal for those two weeks when I didn't post. It's amazing what one can get addicted to.

@Acadian ? 'Stand alone masterpieces' huh? That's high praise indeed coming from you, and a lot to live up to. The fan fiction format reminds me of the serials of the 19th century. The way dikeens, Twain, and Austen wrote their novels each chapter had to be a self-contained whole because each was read and digested before the next chapter was even seen. It makes for great practice in the art of engaging your reader with each chapter.

@hauteecole rider ? Thank you so much for catching up! I agree with you that this era of TES is fascinating. I can't tell you the number of hours I've spent reading the in game books. (How twisted is the idea of turning on a video game so that I can get some reading done?) :hehe:

Stephen Crane once said that he wrote The Red Badge of Courage because reading the cold history wasn't enough; he wanted to know what it was like to be there. In order to live it, he had to write it. I've written this story with that idea always in the back of my mind.

@mALX(again) - * types furiously * checks spelling * re-writes furiously * Here you go!


* * *


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


The door behind Aran was thrown open and a bearded Nord marched into the room. His ruddy face was stained crimson with rage. He passed through Aran as one would pass through a column of smoke. A giant claymore swung to and fro across his back as he walked, and his heavy footfalls caused the wine to spill from the silver goblets on the table. He was trailed by a tall, slender, graceful figure hidden behind the folds of a dark hood and cloak.

The Nord reached the table and slammed his gnarled fist knuckle-first against its surface. All at the table flinched, their voices trailed to silence. The Nord’s eyes bore into those of Aiden Direnni and spittle flew from his beard when he spoke.

“While you conduct this little council the campfires of the enemy light the moors, and the finest warriors in all of Tamriel bleed from the eyeballs!”

Aran looked to his guide, his eyebrows lifted.

“Hoag Merkiller,” said his guide in an impatient whisper, “new crowned Chieftan of Skyrim.”

The cloaked figure reached the table. Graceful golden hands removed the hood. Aran needed no one to tell him that he looked upon the face of Raven Direnni.

“Plague has hit the Skyrim camp,” she said, “less than ten men are afflicted, my art cannot help them. They have been isolated, but I fear we may have been too late to halt the spread.”

Hoag snatched a goblet from the table and quaffed the wine in a single tilt. “Stay your tongue, woman. I need no translator.”

“Watch yourself, Nord,” said Ryain Direnni, rising from his chair, “you speak to the Lady of Clan Direnni.”

“And you speak to the Lord of Skyrim, elf.” Hoag’s hand sought the hilt of his claymore.

“Peace,” said Aiden, his voice so quiet that an effort was necessary to hear it. “Ryain, please sit down. I am truly sorry for those afflicted, Hoag.”

“That’s ‘Your Majesty’, elf, and spare me your sympathy. I would wish a pox on your whole damned clan, but disease doesn’t touch your kind as it does mine.”

“It has touched me,” said Rislav the Righteous. He was seated across the table from Hoag. “My own father was taken by the plague, so no one here understands your grief more than I. I know that your father was slain by the army that awaits us on the moors, so I understand the need to avenge yourself upon them. But inciting a quarrel with your allies does nothing to solve either matter. Clan Direnni’s presence here is the reason we have a chance to rid ourselves of the Alessian Reform, you would do well to remember that.”

Hoag spat wine on the table. “You may be friendly with these treacherous elves, Colovian, but do not presume to lecture me.”

“Enough!” Aiden Direnni’s voice cowed all in the room, his green eyes sought out Hoag’s. “Merkiller, they call you? Make one more remark against my clan and I will force you to earn that name. If you would be a part of this council then sit down, and keep a civil tongue in your mouth.”

A wave of pride surged through Aran, warming him more than the hearth-fire could. He squeezed the hand of his guide as a smile spread across his lips.

“Sino na gravia buro,” muttered the King of Nenalata.

Every head at the table turned in his direction. Colovian, High Rock, and Skyrim faces looked to each other in confusion. Rislav suppressed a smile. Ryain Direnni smacked the table with an open hand and laughed out loud.

“Sepredia, pelinal,” said Aiden, “sou bala racuvar. Balagua sila, ni shanta hilyat.”

“If I may,” said Raven Direnni. She placed a soothing hand on Hoag’s forearm. The Nord seemed to deflate. He slumped into a chair and reached for another goblet.

Aran looked to his guide. “What did they say?” he whispered.

“Nenalata’s King insulted Hoag Merkiller,” she whispered back. “Aiden Direnni reminded the King that it is not his place to issue insults.”

“Why is it that Clan Direnni knows the Ayleid tongue?” asked Aran.

“Better you should ask why is it that you do not,” she said.

“I suggest we move the forces of Clan Direnni into camp next to the Skyrim forces,” Raven continued, looking at Hoag. “As you say, Your Majesty, disease doesn’t touch our kind as it does yours. Perhaps our presence between the armies will keep the plague from spreading to the forces of Colovia and High Rock. At the very least, it should buy us the time necessary to finalize plans for the battle.”

Hoag slowly nodded and slammed the goblet on the table. Some around the table began to shrink from the sound. Hoag winced and opened his off-hand in apology. Raven sat down next to him.

“What news do we have of this Alessian force?” asked Ryain Direnni.

“They arrived a fortnight past,” said Rislav, “in numbers that match our own. Their ships were loaded with heavy siege engines, but they’ve had trouble bringing them over the moors. The only high ground is a rise too far for the archers to be effective. If we venture out we will meet them on equally treacherous footing.”

“Equal footing is all that I ask for,” Hoag said.

“If we give them the time we could be looking at a siege that lasts for months,” said Ryain, “with disease spreading amongst our own, my vote is to meet them on the moors.”

“Seconded, with reservations,” said Rislav, looking at his friend, Ryan. “It doesn’t appear that we have much choice.”

“I would know the mind of the King of Nenalata,” said Aiden.

The Ayleid stiffened before regaining his regal bearing. “Abagaianye nagaseli.”

Aran’s guide leaned in closer, “he votes for the moors.”

“The moors,” Hoag Merkiller said, rising.

“The moors,” said Ryain Direnni as he placed a firm hand on his brother’s arm.

“Aye, the moors,” Rislav the Righteous nodded.

“The moors,” said Raven Direnni, “And I believe that the honor of leading the van should go to the Skyrim host.”

Aiden Direnni looked into each pair of eyes seated at the golden table. Near the door, Aran found himself holding his breath even though he knew the outcome.

“So be it,” Aiden Direnni said, “we shall meet them on the moors.”


_____


8th Sun’s Dawn, 1E 482
Glenumbria Moors, High Rock
Dusk


“So much death,” said the spirit who wore his sister’s form.

Aran knelt at her feet. Tears ran down his cheeks. From the rise the moors spread below them. A blanket of gray smoke still hung in the air and separated the red sky of eventide from the deeper red of the war scarred battlefield. Tens of thousands of bodies littered the putrid glade. Men and mer lay with their limbs intertwined. Now they were known only by the bloody, torn, and soiled insignia’s that they wore. Their life’s blood stained the bog red and carried out into the darkening surf of the Eltheric Ocean.

Aran felt the beating hooves churn the ground behind him. Three horses gained the top of the rise and passed through them before stopping at the overlook. The riders dismounted, Aiden and Ryain Direnni removed their helmets. Raven Direnni pulled the hood off of her head.

“A glorious victory,” said Ryain, “this battle will be remembered throughout all the ages of Tamriel.” He slapped his brother’s shoulder. “We are immortal now, brother. You should be proud.”

Aiden’s face was a mirror of Aran’s, separated by a few feet and thirty centuries of distance. “Proud? Do you feel pride when you look upon that field? Do you see only glory? This battle was won by Raven’s magic, not our swords. All we managed to do was hack each other to death. Do you know what I see when I look upon that field, brother? I see the flower of Clan Direnni withered and spent. Yes, in the battle of Glenumbria Moors we have been victorious, but it has cost us the future. I fear Clan Direnni will never rise again.”

“Nothing is written,” said Raven. “It will take time, I grant you. But if the future of Clan Direnni can learn from our mistakes, perhaps we can rise again.”

“That is no consolation,” said Aiden. “What of our allies, what casualties did they suffer?”

“The Skyrim host was decimated,” said Ryain, “Hoag Merkiller among them. He will not be missed.”

“Do not judge him, brother,” said Aiden, “he fought with honor. Hoag left no heir, the Nords will convene a King’s Moot. Their choice may not look favorably on Clan Direnni. What of Colovia and High Rock?”

“The Colovian losses were not as bad as our own. Rislav is already marching his troops back to Skingrad. No one knows what happened to the Ayleid and his slaves. Slain, taken, or retreated, I believe they quit the field. I did not receive a report from the forces of High Rock.”

“That does not surprise me. I imagine our hold over High Rock is at an end.” He turned away from the battlefield. “Nothing but death awaits us back at the palace. We sail tonight for Balfiera. I am sorry, Raven, I fear that Daggerfall is lost to you.”

A single tear filled Raven Direnni’s eye. She fought to keep it from falling. “I know.”

Aran moved forward to comfort her, but he was checked by his guide’s icy grip.

“You have seen all you need,” it was not a question.

Aran nodded. He would learn from the mistakes of his ancestors. “I have.”


_____


9th Sun’s Dawn 2E 854
Glenumbria, High Rock
Dawn


The first sensation she felt was warmth. It burned her skin as it filled her body and made every muscle ache. Her mouth felt like brittle parchment. She felt the pressure of the light on her eyelids, holding them shut despite her best efforts to open them. She tried to cry out, but only a soft moan escaped her cracked lips.

“Lattia?” She heard Aran’s voice as if he were speaking to her from above the surface of water. She drifted, and then her world was darkness again.

The second time she felt the light on her eyelids she was stronger. With an effort she was able to lift her eyelids open, but keeping them open was like trying to hold sand with a fork. She felt the darkness pulling her back and, though she fought hard, it was not long in reclaiming her.

The third time she heard birds whistling, and that kept her mind from drifting. Her eyes stayed open but it took time for them to focus. She lay in a bed with white silk sheets. Aran held a small rolled parchment and sat in a chair near the window which let in the golden sunlight. Through the window she could see past the rooftops to the Eltheric Ocean, and storm clouds that loomed on the horizon. Aran saw her open eyes and rushed to her side.

“Can you hear me?” He asked.

Her voice didn’t work. She nodded once, and the effort sent pain in sharp lances through her neck, shoulders, and back. She winced.

“You warned me,” Aran said, “and you were right. I did not take into account the toll it would take on you. I apologize for that. But I did find the answers I sought.”

She did not trust herself to nod again. He placed the rolled parchment upon her briast.

“I have held this for you for months,” he said. “It is from the Isle of Artaeum. You have been invited to join the Psijic Order. I have decided to send you to them. You will take the ship and sail as soon as you are able.” He leaned in close, his breath smelled of mint.

“Varla had the right of it,” he whispered, “armies are not important. Magic won the battle of Glenumbria Moors, and magic will win our battles now. You must get up soon. The men are restless after what they witnessed on the moors. The sooner you sail the better. The Captain says that a storm is coming. If you sail today you should reach Stros M’Kai before it hits.”

Please excuse me while I lay my scruffy, canine paws down upon a boulder and happily watch this amazing world that you have created pass by.

Simply lovely writing !!
I feel like I am reading the Knights of the Old Republic (the game set 4000 years before the Star Wars movies). You have wonderfully transported us back to a rich and historic time.
Please keep going, the morsels are delicious.

Did you write this whole thing prior to December, or are you writing it up as you go?

Whew! Your descriptions, every minute detail covered, Whew!!! This was an emotion-packed write from beginning to end, and how perfectly you portrayed it for us!!! Awesome !!!! I have been left speechless, I may have to come back once I regain my ability to speak and post something that doesn't sound like a gobbling turkey ... Whew!

Masterfully done Destri! Allow me to lift closed my lower jaw.


I knew this was significant and quickly realized it was a vision type sequence that tied in to your last story. What a beautiful way to 'show' this, yet with perfect clarity. Just as Scrooge looked at the visions provided him by his ghostly escort.



Again, 'showing' with a beautiful imagery.



As I have mentioned before, I'm not sure of your inspiration, but you clearly 'get it' about large scale combat and timeless despair. Triumph perhaps, but at what price?


Oh my. :trophy:

Destri,

I'm with everyone else above. It is good to see something so truly epic, yet so personal, as this writing.

I kept flashing back to the little I know of Scottish history, when the clans fought the British, and the aftermath were fields of broken, mangled bodies laying on bloodied ground.



This line right here captured Hoag Merkiller's personality in a single sentence. You can feel his pride, his scorn for the mer, his impatience with their methods of warfare, his imposing physical presence, and his visceral agony at the suffering among his men, which become clear in the sentences that follow. That was evocative of Beowulf right there. And I mean the original Beowulf, not the CG version, which isn't shabby in itself.

And this:


Don't mess with the Elf. This shows the sheer force of personality that Aiden possesses, which explains why he is the de facto leader of Clan Direnni.

Combine those above scenes with the ones Acadian pointed out, and I felt like I did when I read "The Lord of the Rings" the first time - caught up in the story, cheering on the protagonists, breathless by the epicness of it all.

And yes, Stephen Crane has the right of it. And yes, I have often wasted hours of game time reading books. The Mystic Archives, people's private libraries, every book I pick up, I've read. I mean, really read.

At the risk of sounding like mALX1, I'm looking forward to more, more, more.

@ Winter Wolf ? I have read your comments posted on other threads. Believe me when I say it's an honor to have you drop by. I never really thought of KOTOR as an influence before you mentioned it, but I can definitely see the similarities.

To answer your question I have a basic outline (brief character bios, major events, notes on lore, special days on the calendar and so forth), and I consult UESP or The Imperial Library when I am stuck. I am posting the chapters as I write them.

@ mALX1 ? There is no resemblance to a gobbling turkey that I can discern. (But the image made me ROFL!) It's funny you should mention detail. I feel that there are more than a few little things in this chapter that I missed. I'm glad to hear that it played well for you, but if the urge becomes too overpowering I will go back and re-write this chapter again.

@ Acadian ? The image of old Ebenezer and his ghosts was one of the principle inspirations for this section. Thank you for noticing the parallel. Once again your comments about my depiction of the nature of war humble me.

I am not sure if you are familiar with a film called The Americanization of Emily, but if you would like to check out a study of war written by one of the greatest screenwriters of all time I highly recommend you check it out.

@ hauteecole rider ? Hoag Merkiller turned out to be one of those characters that just hijack the keyboard. I think he worked well because I didn't have to tweek him at all. I just opened the door and got out of his way. I was genuinely sorry that he had to die at the battle.

I agree with you that the CGI version of Beowulf isn't too shabby, even though I prefer the original poem. I can definitely appreciate the changes that Gaiman and Avary made to the story. Their version seems to make Beowulf more of a tragic figure than a great hero, doesn't it?

If you do, let me know and I will pop in and re-read your re-write (and gobble some more, lol)

Tell me about characters hijacking the keyboard! I agree with opening the door and getting the heck out of the way when dealing with some of these larger-than-life characters. It has happened to me on more than one occasion. Sometimes I've ended up giving these characters their own stories (if they survive, that is).

And yes, the CGI version was a whole different interpretation of the Beowulf legend. I had read the original poem (translated into English) when I was in high school many winters ago, and it just stuck with me. I thought the CGI movie captured some of the epic feeling of the poem, but the second half/ending was more of a Greek, or maybe Shakespearean tragedy to me.

I am really really enjoying your interpretation of the Interregnum tremendously. It's great to see someone flesh out that fascinating period of TES lore. To follow in Winter Wolf's line of thought, I will curl my feline tail around my little feline paws and wait patiently for the next chapter.

Oh my Destri... you've outdone yourself! :goodjob:
I really, liked this sentence:

AWESOME!

I wish to thank everyone for their comments and support.



9th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Abandoned Cave, Somewhere in the Valus Mountains
Morning


For a month they were trapped in the cave. They huddled together at first to preserve what heat their cold blood could provide. Their only contact with the outside world came in the form of gusts of icy wind that blasted through the cave entrance as the mountain was buffeted by a series of blizzards. After the first week the drifts covered the entrance. Darkness claimed their hold on each other, for they did not want to waste air to fuel a torch. They grew weak from the endless days without feeding. Tongues froze inside their mouths, which stopped conversation. The only sound was their shivering and the muffled shrill howl of the wind.

While his syffim drifted into hibernation, the Chevalier Renald kept the watch even in darkness. He remained those long weeks alone with his thoughts, listening until he could identify each of them by the sound of their breathing. Eesham-Sha’s breath was quick, shallow, clamoring for what little air remained in the cave. For every one breath of the others, Eesham claimed two. For Chirasch-Xun breathing was a duty that he performed as dispassionately as any other. Each exhale sent a low rumble through the cave that fought with the sound of the outside wind for dominance. Xarsien-Ves did not breathe at regular intervals. When he did the sound often escaped Renald. When he could be heard the breath was cautious, deliberate. Have I doomed them to a fool’s errand? Renald thought in the darkness, I will not let them die here. They will not suffer like Akal. When we leave this mountain my syffim will still be four.

On the thirty-second day a tenuous shaft of light entered the cave. Renald nearly wept at the sight. The sun melted a small hole in the drift that plugged the entrance. Weak as they were it took a full day to cut the hole large enough to breathe the cold, thin air. There was no need to persuade them to leave the cave. Each had seen his fill of snow. They followed Renald down the mountain.


_____


11th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Shadowgate Pass, West of Kragenmoor
Dusk


“Goblins,” Eesham whispered, his forked tongue tasting the air.

Renald’s tongue caught the scent, it came from over the tree-lined ridge in the distance. With the setting sun in their eyes conditions were not ideal for a hunt. The relative warmth of the lowlands had returned a semblance of their former strength, and feeding was a distant memory for all of them. Goblins were mana from Nirn.

“We shall take them,” said Renald, unsheathing his katana.

Eesham grinned and twin katanas leaped from the crossed scabbards on his back. Chirasch reached for his dai-katana. Xarsien stood armed with his blade and shield. Without a word being spoken they spread into battle formation and slithered on their bellies up the ridge.

The goblins were three in number, barely visible in the shade of the trees behind them. They led four tethered sheep slowly north through the pass. Xarsien’s head bent to the side, his questioning eyes found Renald.

They must have raided a farm, thought Renald, but since when do goblins favor lamb? He shook his head to Xarsien. Using hand signals, he ordered his syffim to follow them. Chirasch and Xarsien slid down the ridge silently, and crossed the path behind the goblins. On the opposite side they took to the trees. Renald led Eesham up into the trees on their side of the path. They hemmed in the goblins and followed them from the bows above.

The path began to climb back into the mountain. The fading light made the goblins harder to see. Daylight would soon be spent, thought Renald, if they were going to feed, it would be better while there was still light to see.

The lead goblin stopped and tested the air with his nose. Renald tensed, but the wind was still right. There was no way that his syffim was compromised. The lead goblin turned and walked up a dirt rise toward a low overhang of rock directly beneath Renald’s perch. His companions stayed with the sheep on the path below. Now is the time, Renald thought. He used his hands to give his orders, and his syffim moved as one.

Eesham used his tail to push off into space. From across the path Chirasch and Xarsien followed. For a brief instant all three Tsaesci hung suspended in the air over the hapless goblins. Each found his target simultaneously, knocking all three goblins to the ground. Their screams pierced the still air. The startled sheep felt the hold on the tether give way, and bolted back down the path. Each of his syffim used their arms and tails to engulf and pin a goblin. Their necks bent as one, and sharp fangs broke the skin on the goblins’ throats. The green bodies twitched in the folds of the Tseasci tails as their lifeblood was drained from them. The shrill screams faded with the last dregs of sunlight as the pass was plunged into darkness.

Renald left his perch and slithered down the trunk of the tree. He could hear the almost gentle svcking as his syffim fed. Xarsien lifted his head from the still twitching goblin. His eyes showed red in the light of the new moon. Blood stained his fangs and dripped from the side of his mouth.

“My Lord,” he said, “you must feed.”

“I shall, but not yet. Gather your strength.” Renald pulled a branch from the tree. He pulled a piece of cloth from the goblin under Eesham and fashioned a makeshift torch. Eesham produced a flint from a pouch worn around his neck and returned to his feed. Renald lit the torch and amber light fell on what lay below the overhang.

A rusted mine car lay on its side, next to a weathered wooden door which led into the side of the mountain. The trees and the overhang made the door nearly impossible to see from the trail. Goblin tracks marked the soil leading both to and from the door.

Xarsien appeared at his side, and then Chirasch. Eesham finished draining the goblin and uncoiled his tail from the limp corpse.

“This makes a fine lair,” said Xarsien.

“Look to those tracks,” said Chirasch, “more goblins dwell inside, and you have not yet fed, My Lord.”

“I could stand another goblin myself,” said Eesham.

“As could we all,” said Xarsien, “there should be campfires inside. To be warm, fed, and away from the elements . . .”

The decision wasn’t difficult, “Fashion torches,” said Renald.


_____


They coiled around a fire built near the entrance to the mine. More than a dozen goblin corpses lay strewn haphazardly around them. Renald savored the warmth flooding through him, as his blood was quickened by the feeding. For the first time in months, since before they left for Black Marsh, he felt his former strength returned. Around him his syffim laughed quietly and joked with each other. Renald’s thoughts strayed to Akal, and his irrepressible optimism. These last months would have been easier had he survived, he thought.

“My Lord?” Xarsien stoked the fire with a rusted iron shortsword.

“Speak,” said Renald.

Xarsien hesitated. “This woman you saw at the ravine. . .”

Renald nodded. “I know it is a difficult thing to understand, but I trust her word.”

“As I trust yours, My Lord,” said Xarsien. “What I mean to say is, what happens when we reach the Imperial City?”

The other members of his syffim looked to him for an answer.

“We seek out the new Emperor. We honor our oaths.”

“Yes, My Lord,” said Xarsien, “but which Emperor do we seek. The one who holds the throne, or the one with the blood of the dragon?”

There was a faint hint of a new scent in the air. Renald’s tongue captured it, and his insides turned to liquid. A wave of fear gripped him like nothing he had felt since childhood in Akavir. Instantly his tail propelled him erect, his katana held in trembling hand. His syffim reacted to him, rising with their weapons drawn. The scent hit their tongues, fear and confusion shaped the contours of their faces.

“It cannot be,” Xarsien whispered.

“It is,” said Renald, “the scent comes from deep within the mine.”

“How is that possible?” Xarsien held his shield close to his chest, as if to ward off the scent.

Eesham’s voice was a panicked hiss, “I do not recognize the scent, yet it causes me fear. Why is that?”

“You were little more than a hatchling when we left home,” said Chirasch, “you are too young to remember.”

Xarsien shook his head. “We should leave this place and never return.”

“No,” said Renald, “it is an omen, one which we must face. I will not order this of you. Each of you must search within yourself for the will to continue.”

“You are Captain, My Lord,” said Chirasch, “my life is yours.”

Eesham studied the dark tunnel leading into the pit of the mine. “I follow you, My Lord, to the death and beyond, if needs be.”

Xarsien lowered his head. “I followed you to this land because it was my duty. I follow you now because it is my desire. Lead on, My Lord.”

Renald felt a rush of pride in his chest that armed him against his fear. He lit a torch from the fire, his syffim followed suit. Single file, Renald led them deeper into the mine.

The tunnel led into the bowels of the mountain. The air grew warm and close. The torches began to dim, barely lighting the stone walls of the shaft. Renald felt the weight of his decision with every forward undulation. Its presence here must be more than coincidence, he thought. Have I made the right choice, or am I leading us only to our deaths?

One by one they lost the torches. Burned out clubs would be of no use so they dropped them on the warm stone. Renald used his off-hand to feel his way through the darkness. The others used their off-hands to hold the tail of the one in front of them. They made their way down the empty mine shaft in the dark.

A distant light filled Renald with equal parts fear and dread. By the time they reached its source the oppressive heat in the tunnel had sapped most of their new won strength. A dimly lit cavern opened in front of them. The ceiling and walls were lost in the darkness. The only clue to the size of the chamber was the echoed scraqes of their tails.

Piles of bones littered the ground, high enough to be lost in the darkness of the chambers upper region, and spread out in every direction that they could see. Xarsien lifted one and examined it, “sheep,” he said. He lifted another, “bear,” and a third, “goblin.”

The scent was overpowering. Renald’s hand signal spread them into battle formation. “We know you are here,” he said, “show yourself!”

In answer a plume of fire forty feet high lit the cavern in the distance. It was followed by the sound of mighty wings. A gust of hot wind knocked them all slightly off balance. His syffim recovered quickly, their grip on their weapons tightened. Deep hot breaths came from something large just outside the range of their vision.

A voice from the darkness spread more hot air over them. “What is it that you seek here, Tsaesci?”

Renald moved forward. “I would speak with you, wise one.”

“You have slain my goblins,” said the voice, “now you wish to speak with me. Say your peace, then I will destroy you.”

“You are familiar with our race,” said Renald, “you know that we do not fear your kind.”

The cavern shook with each step forward the creature made, the heavy claws on its feet scraqed against the ground. Its head poked into view, larger than Renald, red-scaled, spiked, and glistening. The mouth opened revealing a row of sharp teeth longer than a man’s arm. It sniffed Renald from the top of his head to the tip of his tail. His syffim stood poised, their weapons ready should their Captain give the order. It had been centuries since any of them had seen one, but even in the dim light of the cavern there was no mistaking a dragon.

“Your words betray you, snake,” said the Dragon, “I can smell your fear. I know all too well of your race, what words could you have for me that I would trust?”

The heat from the Dragon’s breath hinted at the inferno to come should Renald’s answer prove false. Renald laid his katana at the Dragon’s feet.

“I made a vow to protect the blood of dragons,” said Renald, “not to spill it.”

His syffim followed his lead and placed their weapons on the ground. The Dragon’s head cocked to the side, its bifurcated tail played around the edge of Renald’s katana.

“You four swore oaths to the Dragon Emperor?”

“We did many years ago,” said Renald, “him and his heirs.”

“That line is dead,” said the Dragon, “your oaths are useless now.”

“It was dead, it has been reborn. We travel to the Imperial City to honor our oaths. It occurs to me that one such as you would be better served as a loyal subject of the new Empire than scratching out an existence enslaving goblins.”

Flames played about the Dragon’s nose. “I will not live as an object of curiosity.”

“Nor should you,” said Renald, “I cannot speak for the new Emperor. If I bring back those who can, will you speak with them?”

There was a moment when Renald thought that his words had fallen on deaf ears. We are too close, he thought, in the first blast of the Dragon’s breath we will all be returned to the Dreamsleeve. I have doomed us all.

“I shall,” the Dragon regarded Renald with a look that might have been respect, “It appears we have an accord.”

“Good.” The sigh that escaped Renald then was as filled with relief as it was lacking in dignity. “I am the Chevalier Renald, and this is my syffim. How are you called?”

The Dragon raised itself to its full height. Its voice echoed through the cavern. “I have had many names, but you may call me Nafaalilargus.”

Whoohoo!! A dragon! Been fond of anything dragons related ever since I've been a young boy so you are really doing me a favour here!

Woo Hoo! Nafaalilargus, is there a soul gem coming? Awesome descriptions and detail, the paragraph on breathing made it feel like the reader could hear each!

Thanks for the kind words you wrote on your post. Much appreciated. :foodndrink:

I have finally got up to date with your writing, and wow, I must say it is amazing stuff. Very few writers are able to broach a topic that is as broad it its spectrum as this is, yet still sings with finely tuned characters. Most writers can touch either the micro or macro but never both at the same time. This, my friend, is very high quality work.

The part that made my woofy jaw drop open was the death of our brother at the hands of the pirate woman. RemkoNL was spot on when he pleaded for a continuation of this story line.
I do have a feeling that we haven't heard the last of that story..... More, more, please !!

I really enjoy the humor that you inject into the story. You play upon a perspective or a circumstance, rather than outright humor, and that makes it all the more enjoyable.
The way Raven Direnni changed position when she sat down was a masterpiece!!

One suggestion I might make is to create a link to your story in your siggy. That should help more people come across and discover this amazing piece of writing. :spotted owl:

Cheers.

Oh my. Destri, this was a full-on jaw dropper!

Wowser!

Magnificent from beginning to end.
Once it became clear we were facing a dragon, the rest of the world became irrelevant. Before that happened however, I did take some notes:

These two passages are not only brilliantly done, they vividly remind us of the reptilian nature of our hosts-




Here, the syffim no doubt scared away a letter, 'r' I believe-


After a nail-biting build up. . . Enter the dragon - :flamethrower:
Like many of us, I adore them. Your presentation of the ancient Akaviri race was nothing short of masterful.
I'm sweating, scared and in awe. To be sniffed by a dragon at point blank range - the wood elf on my shoulder almost peed her greaves. Can one say - immersion?

As I said at the beginning of my comment, Oh my!

You have introduced me to an aspect of the Tsaesci that I had never imagined before. Somehow you managed to bring them to living, breathing life in my imagination, and that is an amazing thing to do. I have a pretty fertile imagination, but the Tsaesci was something I could never wrap my head around. You've made it possible.

And oh, the Dragon! Truly impressive! Being sniffed all over by it, wow!

You continue to leave me breathless by your ability to follow so many different characters and plotlines simultaneously. I'm looking forward to when you bring them all together.

Just a nit or two:


I think you meant hole.



Showed would be better.

And not a nit:


This is an awesome piece of writing. It demonstrates what we dressage riders jokingly call a downward transition in a very distinctive manner. Your use of description is consistently high in quality, and passages like these are pure gold.

Love it, love it, love it! :woot:

RemkoNL- You do me the favor by reading and commenting on this thread, thanks. I really wasn't sure how the dragon was going to play. I'm glad you liked it.

mALX- Thank you for pointing out the paragraph on breathing. I rewrote it several times and I still wasn't sure about it. It's nice to know that you liked it. Since my story takes place ten years before the events of Redguard, I thought it might be fun to play with the story of how Nafaalilargus comes to be a soldier of the Empire.

Winter Wolf- You are the first person to comment on the humor. While subtle, I do try to play upon a perspective or circumstance. (well put btw.) Thank you for the suggestion, you can now find a link to this thread in my sig.

Acadian- Your eyes are as sharp as ever. Thanks for catching the typo.

"the wood elf on my shoulder almost peed her greaves." - This made my day! :lmao:

hauteecole- The Tsaesci have fascinated me ever since I first read Mysterious Akavir. In fact, one of the original ideas for this fanfic was a biography of Versidue-Shaie. Thank you for catching my spelling errors. To spell hole wrong twice in one paragraph is humiliating. :facepalm:


* * *


16th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
The Pelladil, Docked at Stros M’kai
Dawn


The storm passed during the night. The sun would light clear skies when it rose under the twinkling stars of the Lover hanging in the east. This was Captain Valion’s favorite time, before the new day banished the shadows of night, when the whole world was sated and still. Even the violent Abecean was calm. From where he stood on the deck of his beloved Pelladil he could see the growing glow that emanated over the horizon, fading the Lover’s shine to pleasant memory. Presently he could feel the gentle warmth that caressed his face and the light that surrounded and purified the rain-swept deck like apologies from Kyne to those who had suffered through the storm. Any other time the clear blue skies and the shimmering sunlight would be a welcome sight to Valion’s eyes. But today they served only as an insistent reminder of the obligation of his commission, and of the duty too long postponed.

With a sigh of resignation Captain Valion left the starboard rail and lifted the hatch amidships. He descended the stairs and ducked his head through the narrow hallway to knock on the door that led to his own quarters.

“Come,” said a female voice.

Valion opened the door. Lady Direnni sat at his desk, surrounded by all of his charts and maps. She wore a red velvet dress that complimented her golden skin. A large mirror was placed in front of her, an open book lay nestled face down on her lap. Her handmaiden stood behind, brushing her platinum hair with long, graceful strokes.

“Good morning, Captain,” said Lattia.

Valion bowed in the doorway. “Good morning, Milady, it is good to see you looking well.”

“Thank you, Captain, I do feel stronger. Maybe it was seeing the sun this morning after so many days of rain. Will we sail today?”

It was the question that Valion dreaded most. “I’m afraid not, Milady.”

“Oh?” Lattia tried to hide the disappointment in her voice, but failed.

Valion bowed again. “My deepest apologies, but today is Heart’s Day. Most of the crew are off-ship, partaking of the islands hospitality.”

“I see,” said Lattia. She held up two golden fingers. “That is enough, Irinde, please leave us.”

“Yes, Milady,” Irinde stopped brushing and bowed. She turned and left the room, leaving the scent of wildflowers in her wake.

Lattia waited until the door closed behind her. “I assume you know how important it is that I reach Artaeum.”

“Yes, Milady,” said Valion, “I do.”

“Yet you don’t seem to be in any hurry to get there. Your crew has spent more than enough time on the island. This is the first good weather we’ve had since we left Glenumbria. Why shouldn’t we sail today?”

“I . . .” Valion’s voice faded to silence, the only sound in the room was the surf caressing the hull of the ship.

“We are alone now, Valion,” said Lattia, “no need to stand on ceremony.”

He bit down hard on his lower lip and walked across the room. He opened the portal and stared at the whitecaps on the Aebecean Sea.

“How can I explain myself,” he began, “I am a simple sailor, Lady Direnni, it is all that I have ever strived to be. Early in my life I discovered that I am one of the few Altmer without the head for magic, so I have confined my efforts to being the best sailor that I can. I leave the pursuit of magic to those with a talent for it, like you. I look to my maps and charts, and I don’t trust what I can’t see and touch.”

“I don’t understand.”

The words tumbled out of him, “Artaeum moves, Milady. It never resides in the same place for long. For many years it disappeared entirely. That sea is treacherous, five times I have tried to reach its shore and five times I have failed.” He turned from the portal, “I would sail through the Sea of Ghosts without falter. I would traverse the Topal Sea in full view of every pirate in Senchal, but Artaeum . . .”

His voice trailed into silence. The scowl that marked his features told of his fear, and his frustration. Lattia watched him wrestle with the implication of his statements. A knowing smile spread across her lips and she held up the book in her lap. “Is this your copy of Father of the Niben?”

“It is,” said Valion, “why do you ask?”

“It is heavily annotated,” said Lattia, gently leafing through the pages, “your hand?”

Valion started to count the planks of wood in the floor. The scowl gave way to a sheepish smile. “A vestige of youth, Milady, Topal the Pilot is a personal hero.”

“Forgive me for reading it. The time that I spent indisposed would have been unbearable for want of something to occupy my mind. Your notations are very perceptive; I have learned much from reading them.”

“Thank you, Milady.”

Lattia closed the book and placed it gently on the desk. “You are anything but simple, Captain. Do you think that the Pilot felt as you do, upon that first sail from Northpoint?”

For a moment the scowl returned to mark his confusion. Then the smile on Captain Valion’s face broadened. “I imagine that he did.”

“Yet it did not dissuade him.”

“Your point is well taken, Milady. Whenever you are ready, we will sail.”

“Let your crew have the holiday, Captain. I would not think of inciting mutiny by pulling them from their cups. Perhaps I will take a turn through the town myself, and partake of the island's hospitality.”

“Then please allow me, Milady.”

Valion opened the door and called to the deck. Lattia heard the sound of scurrying feet. Seconds later two eager young Altmer ducked their heads through the doorway.

“This is Lorundil,” said Valion, “and Sinyail. Two of my best, they will serve as your escort.”

The two mer bowed and said “Milady” in unison.


_____


16th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
The Draggin Tale Inn, Stros M’Kai
Mid-Day


“We should not be here, Milady,” said Irinde, standing near the door, “this place is not appropriate.”

Lorundil nudged past the handmaiden and held the door open for Lattia. “We can protect you should the need arise, Milady.”

Sinyail stood behind her. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, impatiently. “It would be a shame to visit Stros M’Kai and not partake of the local tavern.”

Lattia suppressed a smile. Upon leaving the Pelladil they had traveled north, through the well appointed town garden to the waterfall. From there they headed east, stopping to shop in the silversmith near the bell tower. Then it was north again over sandstone bridges to the palace, where the name of Clan Direnni secured them an interminable tour. Leaving the palace they swung to the east, walking over cobblestones baked by the sun until the town wall loomed. Turning south, they stopped to browse the maps set outside by the local cartographer. Lattia wandered into the bookstore, where she bought Captain Valion a new copy of Father of the Niben. Through it all, Lorundil and Sinyail answered any questions put to them, when they weren’t preserving a respectful silence. Now they were at the door to the inn, and the eagerness of the two Altmer was the most enjoyable thing that Lattia had seen all day.

“It would be a shame, indeed”, said Lattia, “I think our escorts have earned a drink.”

She led them through the door. Inside the dim light could not hide the members of the Pelladil’s crew. Their loud voices and slobbering songs assaulted the ears while their busy hands fumbled at the pretty young girls. The girls, for their part, pretended to laugh at jokes that they had doubtlessly heard before while keeping one eye on the sailors’ purses.

Lorundil found a relatively quiet table away from the drunken toasts and yelled threats that were easily forgotten in the wake of another drunken toast, or song.

An Argonian held court behind the bar. His green scales glistened and his small sharp teeth flashed often. Goblets and tankards flew from his hands with dizzying speed. As their party sat down the Argonian produced a soiled linen cloth and wiped the spilled dregs of mead, ale, and worse from his arms and chest. He slid from behind the bar and made his way to Lattia’s table. He raised his voice to be heard.

“Lady Direnni, an unexpected pleasure, you and your companions are most welcome. My name is Dreekius, good Heart’s Day to you all. If you require accommodations I would be honored to provide them free of charge.”

“Well met, Dreekius,” said Lattia, “how do you know who I am?”

“Your crew has been kind enough to favor my establishment. They have spoken of you with great affection. That is why I have come over here.”

Lorundil stood, his hand moved toward the hilt of his cutlass. Sinyail followed, his cutlass half-clearing the scabbard.

Lattia placed her hands palms down across the table. “Peace, both of you. What is it that you want of me, Dreekius?”

Dreekius sidestepped past Lorundil and knelt at Lattia’s side. He spoke quietly, for Lattia’s ears alone. She could smell the ale on his breath.

“It is a matter of some urgency, Milady, one best discussed in private.”

Lattia hesitated.

“I know how that must sound,” said Dreekius, “rest assured that I mean you no harm. In fact, I am hoping you can help me. Bring your bodyguard with you.”

Lattia nodded, Lorundil and Sinyail stood when she did, their eyes never leaving Dreekius. Irinde gained her feet, a nervous flush coloring her cheeks. Dreekius rose and led them through the crowd to a spot on the opposite side of the bar. With all of the commotion none of the besotted crew noticed as he shifted a small rug on the floor to reveal a trapdoor. When he opened it, dim candlelight revealed a set of steep wooden stairs leading to a small room below.

“Down here,” Dreekius said as he led the way down the steps.

Lorundil placed his hand on Lattia’s arm. “Let me go first, Milady.” He drew his cutlass and followed Dreekius down the stairs.

Lattia followed with Sinyail close behind. Irinde gingerly tested each step before deigning to lean her weight on it.

A pair of worn candles lit the room. Several casks and crates were stacked against the far wall. A woven pallet lay to the side. A thin, wide-eyed Argonian with skin the color of molded bread stood in the middle of the room.

“Your crew told me that you intend to sail to Artaeum,” said Dreekius, “for that you will need someone who has been there.” He motioned to the Argonian. “This is Earns-His-Keep. He is the finest navigator I know, and he has made the trip before.”

Another brilliant chapter.

Earns-His-Keep is back!! Oh no, we are in trouble now. :facepalm:
I have a feeling this story is about to get VERY good!!



That beautiful humor again. I love it.
If an Aussie girl said that you would just run. :bolt:

I really liked this! Wonderful interactions.

Wait - Earns-His-Keep? Uh Oh. Wasn't he the navigator on that pirate ship tha. . . . Oh my.

Your writing continues to demonstrate an amazing range and power.


Holding court, flew from his hands, dizzying speed. . . This is such a vivid and creatively descriptive passage - well done!



'Most of the crew are off-ship, partaking of the islands hospitality.'
'Perhaps I will take a turn through the town myself, and partake of the islands hospitality.'
Would you prefer 'island's' here?

Acadian obviously had the same thought as I had when I read "Earns his Keep." uh-oh... I smell trouble.
How much is known of the biology of Argonians. Are they warmblooded like men and mer? If not, they won't sweat. It's little thing but it did get me thinking.

I thought Argonians were cold blooded, but didn't want to know badly enough to look it up, lol. This is one of those chapters I know we will be coming back to later, digging for clues hidden in the text! Awesome Write Destri, I see some plot setting up in the works!

Remko- You're right, it does get one to thinking. Here is the conclusion that I have reached.

On the subject of Argonian sweat:

The only thing we are told through the lore is that Argonians are a 'highly evolved' race of reptiles about who 'little is known and less understood.' While at first glance they appear cold-blooded, it is my understanding that cold-blooded creatures are dependent on the environment to provide them with heat. The one thing we know about Argonians is that they are highly adaptable. It's what makes them such perfect slaves to the Dunmer. We know of at least one Argonian (Right-Wind) who lives and works in Bruma and there are laborers who are slaves of the Drothmeri army mining iron ore in the Valus Mountains. I realize that these may just be isolated cases, but to me that adaptability indicates that Argonians are blessed with some mechanism which allows them to generate heat internally. If that is the case, then it follows that they would have a mechanism for cooling themselves internally . . . sweat.

The above is just my opinion and is certainly open for debate. If it is too much of a distraction I will be happy to go back and edit the story accordingly.

It is NOT distracting me!! (And I am about as ADHD as you can get!)

Dear Destri,

I met an Argonian named Right-Wind when I accidently stepped inside the Fighters Guild in Bruma. Since then, I have seen him outside, even in the snow! Brrr! He seems to move around just fine, despite the cold. I dislike Bruma. I can barely move in all the ugly furs I have to wear, and the pointed tips of my ears get cold. Oh, and I'm sure I saw Weebam-Na sweating when I threatened to impale his mate, Bejeen to the wall of their home in Leyawiin. I was just kidding of course, but he didn't know that. Does that help? I know sometimes it's good to get an opinion of someone who lives in Tamriel.

Love, Buffy :dance: