Ah, the plot twists yet again!

As to the subject of Argonians and sweating: hmmm, well, let me pull on my Comparative Anatomy thinking hat here . . .

One thing that comes to mind is the recently proposed theory that dinosaurs (at least the ornithopods) were warm-blooded creatures. Their modern-day descendants are birds.

Birds don't sweat, not to my knowledge; but they use their feathers for thermoregulation.

Argonians don't have feathers, they have scales (and feathers are just highly evolved scales). So following that train of thought, I would imagine that Argonians use their scales in a similar manner - i.e. piloerection (scaloerection?).

It's hard for me to imagine sweat glands in Argonian skin - that is a purely mammalian evolution.

However, what's to say that Argonians are not true reptiles, but rather mammals that have evolved into reptilian forms to adapt to life in the marshes? Consider dolphins, whales, sea lions, seals, etc. They are not fishes, but mammals, and they have many of the same mammalian characteristics, such as briast and nipbles. Come to think of it, so do Argonians.

So, here's my conclusion: Argonians are mammals that evolved scaly skin and gills as adaptation to life in the marshes, but have retained the mammalian ability to sweat.

Clear as mud? :huh:

Back to the topic: enjoyable, enjoyable, enjoyable. As for misspelling "hole/whole" twice in one paragraph, I've done it too. Currently my worst problem is spelling "the" as "hte" - that's driving me nuts! :poke:

Winter Wolf ? Earns-His-Keep is one of those characters who never even made it into the outline for this story. He just showed up in the writing and now he refuses to leave. I don't have the heart to smite him outright so, for now, he's along for the ride.

Acadian ? Thank you for the kind words. And please thank Buffy for chiming in with her thoughts. Being an unabashed fan of her exploits, I know how busy she is.

Remko ? My brothers and I once spent two days debating whether Wookies were susceptible to dandruff! The subject of Argonian sweat would have kept us going for at least a week. Thank you for bringing it up.

mALX ? I can't thank you enough for your continued support. I am always humbled and amazed at the generosity you show when you mention my story in your thread. I hope that it doesn't distract people away from the extraordinary things that you are doing with Maxical's story. I would plead embarrassment, but I'm too much of a puppy with all four paws in the air to ask you to stop.

hauteecole ? If the subject of sweating Argonians ever comes up again I hope you don't mind if I simply repeat your argument since it was vastly superior to my own. As for "hte", I do that too.


* * *


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


“You have been to Artaeum?” asked Lattia.

“Yes,” said Earns-His-Keep, “long ago. I took three hatchlings there. I am willing to chart a course to the island again, if you remove me from my circumstances.”

Lattia turned to Dreekius, “What circumstances?”

“Earns-His-Keep is a fugitive,” said Dreekius. “Before he came to be here he was a guest of the Stros M’Kai jail.”

Irinde gasped and covered her mouth with both hands. “He is a criminal, Milady!”

“I am an Argonian,” said Earns-His-Keep.

“That is certain,” said Lorundil, “have you been bathing in a sewer?”

Sinyail snickered under his breath. Earns-His-Keep began to wring the bottom of his own shirt with both hands.

“Please, Milady,” said Dreekius, “take him with you. He is no criminal, strictly speaking, and he can be useful.”

“Why were you in jail?” asked Lattia.

“I tried to kill a guard,” said Earns-His-Keep, “I was not successful.”

“Not surprising,” said Lorundil, “I’ve seen spears with more weight than you.”

Sinyail suppressed the obligatory snicker. Earns-His-Keep kept twisting his shirt.

“Why did you try to kill a guard?” asked Lattia.

“He made sport of me,” said Earns-His-Keep.

Lorundil shifted his weight to his heels. Sinyail looked down and found fault with his own boots.

“I don’t think the Captain will appreciate a short-tempered Argonian on board, Milady,” said Lorundil.

Lattia ignored him, “so you escaped from the jail and sought refuge with Dreekius?”

Earns-His-Keep shifted his gaze from Lorundil’s throat. “After I was rescued from the jail I was taken to the Kynreeve.”

“What is the Kynreeve?”

“It is a pirate ship, Milady,” Dreekius offered, “they were his last employer.”

“He is a pirate!” Irinde’s hands flew back to her mouth.

“I am a navigator,” said Earns-His-Keep.

“If you were taken to the Kynreeve, how did you come to be here?” asked Lattia.

“I pay my debts,” said Earns-His-Keep.

Lattia turned to Dreekius. “What does that mean?”

“That ties into the other matter I need your help with, Milady,” said Dreekius.


_____


The Not-So-Distant Past
High in the Kurallian Mountains
Morning


“Today we shall discuss the properties of poison,” said Sage Vardengroet.

He was a boy again walking beside his master, his head even with the gold belt around the old man’s indigo robe. They were on a path, high in the Kurallian Mountains. The morning sun had yet to burn off the mist, so the trees all around them had an ethereal quality. Behind him the tall stone walls of the fortress cast lengthening shadows that preceded them. The air smelled of frost and pine.

The sudden sting of the old man’s staff across his shoulders brought his attention back into the moment.

“Arnand,” said the Sage, “stop daydreaming, lad! Pay attention!”

“Yes Master.” Arnand lowered his head to hide the tears welling in his eyes. He heard the crunch of their sandals on the path.

Sage Vardengroet cleared his throat. Arnand looked up, past the flowing white beard and under the tall pointed hat to the smile that played in his master’s eyes.

“You remind me of my youth,” said the Sage, “under Grundingler’s care. I also was a daydreamer, and had no patience for talks of poison.”

“Are they not . . . cowardly, Master?” asked Arnand.

The old man stopped walking and looked off into the distance. Arnand waited, scuffing his sandals in the dirt and kicking free the small pebbles that became trapped under his feet.

“Perspective, lad,” said the Sage. “Imagine there are ogres near your land, and all you have available is a bow with some arrows, a mortar and pestle, and your knowledge of poison, would you be a coward to use it?”

Arnand’s face compressed in concentration, “Ogres have a weakness to poison.”

“Precisely,” said the Sage, smiling, “in the example I gave, that knowledge could save your life or the lives of others. You would not then be hailed a coward, would you?”

“No Master.”

“No weapon or technique is heroic or cowardly, Arnand, only the heart of the one who wields it. Do you understand?”

“Yes Master.”

“Good.” The old man began to walk again. Arnand ran to keep up. “Now, if you are ever poisoned the first thing you must remember is not to panic. No matter how powerful, the effects are temporary and can be reversed. The Dreamsleeve is filled with mages who forgot that simple truth.”

Arnand listened, but his master’s voice grew harder to hear. The mists began to close in on him, the mountains and the fortress faded from view. He was alone, walking as if through a cloud. His footing gave way and he felt himself falling through space.


_____


He lay on the warm sand, his head nestled in Elissa’s lap. Slowly her delicate fingers combed through his hair. He felt the cool surf kiss the bottom of his feet before retreating back into the bay. A trace of heather made the air smell fresh, like a new dawn after a cold, rainy night. He didn’t want to open his eyes.

“Breton?”

The voice was coarse linen drawn across his ears, an interruption of a perfect moment in time. As far as he was concerned his world was held in Elissa’s soft hand. He sighed in peace and consigned everything else to Oblivion.

“He cannot hear me.”

But he could hear. He just chose to ignore. Elissa’s hand wandered down his face. This was where he belonged; with her on their farm, riding together to Alcaire for a meal or a drink in the tavern.

“Perhaps I should try.”

Another voice, one that could have been Elissa’s, but no, she was here with him. He felt her hands on the side of his neck, warm, caressing, massaging.

Memory played familiar scenes before his closed eyes. He saw her on the day when he claimed her for his own. She wore a borrowed silver dress with a waist that rode high and barely served to cover her knees. The wreath of morning glory in her hair could not hide her elven ears. Her green eyes seemed to shine with a light made for him alone, and the smile that lit her face still caused his heart to jump at the recollection.

“I will need a mortar and pestle.”

The voice that could have been Elissa again, faint on a breeze turned cold. Why had it become so hard to breathe? Her hands were still there, cold, squeezing, choking.

He could not open his eyes. The scenes in his mind darkened. He watched himself as a man in a fugue, searching for days and nights until the villagers closed their doors against the madness that burned in his eyes. He searched until he saw his Elissa through the cold driving rain. She lay broken in the tall grass like something discarded. He held her, his tears washed clean by the rain. The twin marks that defiled her neck told of her abduction. He placed his fingers over the wounds, cursing himself for his inattention when the old Sage tried to teach him spells to cure disease. He flooded her body with every restoration spell he knew as if he could erase the damage through magicka alone.

He opened his eyes. He lay on burning black sand that cut into his skin like broken glass. The sky above was on fire. Elissa pinned him to the ground, her long bony fingers clawed at the skin around his neck. Her skin was as pale and thin as parchment, lust and hunger lit her blood red eyes. He was too weak to hold her off. The last thing he felt was her fangs scraqe the skin of his throat.


_____


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


Pain was the first sensation that Arnand felt. It centered in his chest and lower back and played down the nerves in his legs. His eyelids fluttered, and opened. They slowly focused on a familiar room.

“He is awake,” a voice called out, “get Dreekius.”

Hurried footsteps faded from the room. Dreekius, thought Arnand, I’m back in the Draggin Tale? He heard the sound of a cart being dragged over the cobblestones on the street below. The room smelled of sweat and crushed aloe vera. A dark ample bosom appeared before his eyes, and a cool damp cloth was gently placed on his forehead.

“Can you hear me?” came from the soft voice of a young girl.

Arnand recognized the pretty young Redguard. She had been entertaining the sailors before he first left for Saintsport. “How . . .” his voice was a whispered croak. He felt the girl’s weight leave the bed. For a moment Arnand worried that he had scared her away, but she returned with a stone cup cradled in her hand.

“Let me help you,” she said. She placed her off-hand behind his neck and lifted.

The pain in his back made Arnand wince. She held the cup to his lips and poured the cool water into him. He drank until the cup was empty. She smiled and turned to refill it. Arnand heard footsteps coming up the stairs.

A second girl entered the room trailed by Dreekius and another Argonian who looked vaguely familiar.

“You are awake,” said Dreekius, “we thought that you had been lost to us.”

The girl returned with more water, she lifted his head and he drank. She lowered his head to the pillow. The croak was gone when he spoke, but his voice was still a whisper. “The ship?”

“Gone,” said Dreekius, “you were betrayed. Were it not for Earns-His-Keep you would have died on the dock.” Dreekius stepped to the side, the second Argonian stepped forward.

Earns-His-Keep, thought Arnand, and then it all came back to him, the jail, the wagon, the dock, Ansu Shin-Ilu and her silver cutlass.

“You were gone,” said Arnand, looking toward his savior, “how did you?”

“He boarded the ship,” said Dreekius, “and, when no one was looking, dove off the other side. He waited underwater until the ship was out of sight and then he came back to the dock.”

“You were slumped over a dead horse,” said Earns-His-Keep.

Arnand remembered being stabbed in the back. He remembered being silenced, the feel of the poison bubbling in his veins. He remembered Delron’s fetid breath and the look of unabashed joy on Shin-Ilu’s face when she ran him through with her sword. He remembered watching their footsteps rise up on the gangplank, and crawling hand over hand toward the wagon where a swaybacked horse looked down on him with such contempt. He remembered that his veins stopped burning, and that he formed an absorb health spell in his hand.

“But why?” asked Arnand.

“I was in your debt,” said Earns-His-Keep, “I told you I would not forget it.” He placed a hand on Arnand’s shoulder, “I pay my debts.”

Arnand smiled as best he could. He placed his hand over the Argonian’s. “And you earn your keep.”

“Rest now,” said Earns-His-Keep, “we sail on the morning tide.”

Arnand’s brow furrowed, he looked to Dreekius.

“The horse sustained you,” said Dreekius, “but it did not heal you, nor did we. Were it not for Lady Direnni and her potions you would not have survived. She has a ship bound for the Isle of Artaeum. She has agreed to take the two of you along. I assume that is where you still wish to go.”


_____


17th Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
The Pelladil, At Sea
Mid-Day


There was a knock at the door to the Captain’s quarters.

“Come,” called Lattia.

The door opened and the Breton passenger walked gingerly into the room.

“Lady Direnni,” Arnand said bowing, “it is an honor to make your acquaintance. I understand that I have you to thank for the speed of my recovery.”

Lattia looked up from the open copy of Father of the Niben in her lap. “I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced.”

“Forgive me,” said Arnand, “I am Arnand Desele.”

Lattia thought she saw the light of recognition in his eyes. As if the sound of her voice had triggered some memory within him.

“A pleasure to meet you,” she said, “I am Lattia Direnni. No thanks are necessary, it was the least I could do for a fellow member of the Order.”

“I . . .” Arnand stopped. Words failed him.

Lattia smiled, “Dreekius told me that you were bound for Artaeum. I assume, like me, you go to join the Order.”

“I see,” said Arnand, “in any event, I thank you for your hospitality.” He turned to go.

“I have grown weary of winter,” said Lattia. She looked through the portal to a point far away.

“Excuse me?”

Lattia eyes refocused on him. “You should thank Captain Valion and Dreekius. They reminded me that yesterday was Heart’s Day. If such kindness had been given the Lovers, it would always be springtime in the world.”

Whew! A girl did rescue him on the docks - YEAH !!! Very deep chapter - WHEW !!!!! AWESOME !!!

Wow. Destri, this is some of the most beautiful writing I can imagine. Your skill is amazing my friend. You can paint a scene so brilliantly with just the hints of a few images - a master that I see I can learn much from. Thank you.

Plotwise, I am delighted to see Arnand made it. Yes, I remember his quest to seek his vampiric love.



Arnand smiled as best he could. He placed his hand over the Argonians. "And you earn your keep."
Please do see if you wanted an apostrophe in there?

I was soooo conbfused. I had to re-read some chapters to realise it hadn't been Earns who stabbed Arnand
Now I have to re-read everything because I can't remember the reference to the vampire *sigh* What a bother, reading this terrible thing again

AWESOME Destri!

Oh, so enjoyable, and yay, Arnand survived! I was glad to see he did.

This little interlude with the Argonian Earns-His-Keep was priceless:



Can I say just how much I enjoyed this conversation? The three parts I singled out are outstanding examples of stating the obvious and being literal. And they endeared Earns-His-Keep to me!

And yes, you can use my sweating Argonian argument anytime!

A fun turn of events. The pirate woman hasn't got a navigator at the moment, so it will be interesting to see where she turns up....

If Arnand had died on some far flung dock, stabbed in the back by a pirate, then it would have made a mockery of everything that the King of Worms stands for.
Welcome back Arnand !!

I am pleased to see that the seperate character stories are joining up. That huge tapestry you wonderfully weave is starting to pull together.

mALX ? Thank you for the compliment. Can I just add how much I'm looking forward to seeing how you handle the problem of Maxical's resurrection!

Acadian ? Believe me, I'm learning as much from you and Buffy as you are learning from me. I'm glad that you remember Arnand's mission. It will come up on Artaeum, I assure you.

Remko ? If the last section remains confusing don't hesitate to let me know. I thought about using italics for the flashback and dream sequences, but I decided not to.

hauteecole ? The exchange with Earns-His-Keep is my favorite part as well. Congratulations again on your fanfic. I know Julian and I are going to be great friends.

Winter Wolf ? I agree with you. Mannimarco would look kind of stupid if his chosen agent dropped dead at the first sign of trouble. When are we going to see Aradroth in a fanfic?


* * *


22nd Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Arena District, Imperial City
Dawn


“Do you believe the legend, Emero?”

“Pardon, Milady?” Emero pulled his eyes away from the gate leading to Green Emperor Road. Already there were too many people coming through to count. Soon the lines to get into the Arena would make movement through the district difficult. Security concerns were foremost in his mind, but he dismissed his trepidation and focused on his mistress.

Varla stood framed in the morning mist, amidst the grass and rocks of the garden. She was gazing at the giant statue of St. Alessia. More specifically, she was staring at the stone shackles encircling the statue’s ankles. “The Amulet of Kings,” she said, “do you believe the legend?”

“I believe it is an artifact of great power.”

“Yes, but one gifted by the Gods? That seems unlikely.” She left the statue and joined Emero against the low wall. Behind and below them a pair of wayward street urchins swam with the sacred lotus blossoms. “The Amulet supposedly protects us from the hordes of Oblivion, yet for centuries it was lost and we were not overrun with daedra.”

Emero brushed a stray leaf from Varla’s shoulder. “It must be a condition of mortality that we believe our plane so desirable that daedra sit in wait for that moment when the barriers fade. The span of all the ages of mer means the same to them as the lifespan of the leaf I just brushed from your shoulder. Remember, your sister was permitted to enter a realm of Oblivion. That would not have happened if the Dragonfires still burned.”

Thoughts of Lattia pulled Varla’s eyes away from the statue’s bare feet. How could she have been so stupid? How could Aran have been so callous? “I fear for her, Emero. Aran won’t hesitate to sacrifice her to get what he wants. His ambition knows neither bounds nor propriety. Lattia has never had the strength to defy him.”

“Have faith, Milady. There is more strength in your sister than she shows.” Emero looked into the marble eyes of St. Alessia, “As for the Amulet of Kings, we acknowledge that the daedra exist. Why should we shrink from the thought that the Eight Divines do as well?”

His words barely reached Varla’s ears. She was lost in the same rush of anger that she had spent the entire voyage from Balfiera suppressing. “If the Dragonfires were relit,” she said to the statue, “then the daedra would not be able to act on this plane.”

“True,” said Emero, eyeing his mistress. The folded letter in his robe seemed to gain weight. And it may have been his imagination, but it seemed as if the clouds picked that moment to obscure the rising sun. “But for that to happen, Alessia’s heir must sit the Ruby Throne. You would defy your brother to save your sister?”

Varla looked to her left, past the gate to where the giant statue of Morihaus stood armed with a sword in one hand and stone shackles in the other. “I would,” she whispered.

Emero thought upon how this could impact their plans. His eyes wandered back toward the gate. He stiffened. “Then prepare yourself, our contact has arrived.”

Varla turned toward the gate. An Altmer, resplendent in a red silk robe and heavy with gold jewelry, emerged from the gate leading to Green Emperor Road. He flinched and twisted his way through the rabble until he found a quiet corner of the steps. From there he looked around the garden as if he expected a servant to attend him. When none was forthcoming, he dragged himself across the cobblestones to where Varla and Emero waited.

“Emero,” he said, extending a limp-wrist, “it has been too long.”

Emero straightened and grasped the offered hand. He bowed before the newcomer. “Lord Farenenre, allow me to present the Lady Varla Direnni. Lord Farenenre is the Emperor’s Chief Advisor, Milady.”

Lord Farenenre reclaimed his hand and regarded Varla as one would regard an especially rare flower. “Lady Direnni,” he bowed, “I am a great admirer of your family.”

“You are too kind, My Lord.” This advises an Emperor? Varla extended her hand. Farenenre took it and held it captive in his crossed arms. He led her away from the wall. Varla noted that they wore the same scent.

“Emero tells me that you wish an audience with His Majesty.”

Varla emphasized the innocence in her voice. “We have been here for weeks without an introduction, My Lord.”

“Yes,” said Farenenre stroking her hand with his own, “the Castellan’s sister should have been presented at court. I must apologize for that, my dear. The Emperor has been indisposed these last weeks.”

Indisposed as in hiding? “Oh,” Varla covered her mouth with the fingers of her free hand, “I hope he is well?”

“Of course,” said Farenenre, “do not be troubled, Milady. His Majesty has been dealing with important matters of the Empire. You have my word, as soon as we are able, you will be presented to the court.”

Simpering fop! Varla looked around the garden. Satisfied that they were away from any prying ears she dropped all pretense of innocence. “I’m afraid ‘as soon as we are able’ is not good enough, My Lord.”

Varla raised her free hand and Emero appeared at her side. He pulled the folded letter from his robe and held it before the startled Lord. Varla took note as the look on Farenenre’s face shifted from indignation, to irritation, and finally to calculation as the light of recognition came into his eyes.

“Good,” said Varla, “you recognize the letter. I don’t think your Emperor would be happy to learn that his Chief Advisor makes routine reports to the Aldmeri Council. Cuhlecain does not seem the type who would take such news in his stride.”

Farenenre blanched and seemed to shrink by half. His voice was a whispered croak. “Where did you get that?”

Varla’s smile did not touch her eyes. “Nothing is impossible to one with wealth and patience. I have had ample opportunity to exercise both while you’ve left us waiting. I think the question that should concern you is ‘what do I plan to do with it?’”

“But you are a fellow Altmer.”

Varla laughed out loud at that. “My clan left Summerset centuries ago. We have never been welcomed back. Truthfully, I hold more allegiance to Daggerfall than I do to Alinor.”

“Please, you must not . . .”

Varla’s eyes narrowed. “Do not presume to tell me what I must and must not do, Farenenre.”

She nodded to Emero. He returned the letter to the folds of his robe and returned to his place along the wall. She turned her attention back to Farenenre.

“The Emperor is mad with suspicion,” said Farenenre, “he sees enemies all around him. That is why he remains hidden in the tower. If this letter were to reach his eyes my life would be forfeit. I beseech you, Milady.”

“We shall keep your secret,” said Varla, “and in return you shall favor us. I wish an audience with the Emperor. Today.”


_____


22nd Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Reman Plaza, Imperial City
Morning


The Dragon statue of Akatosh bore mute witness to the crowds that formed as dawn brightened into morning. Servants appeared outside the more expensive manors and walked with purpose to execute their master’s bidding. The beggars were out in force, regaling any who would listen with tragic stories of starving children, or serving in far away wars long forgotten.

A palace guard in gleaming silver armor entered through the gate to Green Emperor Road. A rolled parchment peeked from his closed left gauntlet. He fought his way through the traffic before stopping at the heavy door to the manor on the southwest corner of the plaza. At his knock the door opened, and the smell of burning skooma assailed his nostrils and caused his eyes to water. The figure who answered the door was bedecked in identical armor, complete with the addition of rank. His eyes were blinking furiously at the sunlight, and the look on his face was not one to question.

“Captain Alorius, sir,” said the Guard, holding up the parchment, “I bear a message from the Emperor.”

Alorius loomed in the doorway. Smoke wafted around him as if he stood in the fog. Behind him the room was dark and silent. He snatched the parchment and identified the Emperor’s seal.

“Dismissed,” said Alorius. The Guard sent another glance into the dark room beyond the door. He opened his mouth to speak, but the look from Alorius made him think better of it. He turned on his heel and faded into traffic. Alorius glared into the plaza for any other curious eyes, then he re-entered the manor and shut the door.

Alorius stood near the door and allowed his eyes to readjust to the darkness. Already he felt giddy from the fumes in the air. He turned his attention to the far corner of the room, and the hulking shadow that had claimed it. He mustered all the authority he could into his voice before he spoke.

“Must you continue that?”

In response he saw the tiny embers in the pipe flare anew. A low, rumbling chuckle escaped from the mass in the corner.

Filthy Nord! Alorius thought, why does the General tolerate him? He crossed the room and found the stairs by tripping over them in the dark. He righted himself with all the dignity a career soldier could muster and climbed to the second floor.

The skooma stench could not break the incense that hung in the air. Alorius’s giddiness faded as he walked, his boots silent on the thick carpet. He reached the tall oak door at the end of the hall and knocked.

“Enter,” called a voice from within.

Alorius opened the door and entered an opulent bedchamber. The smell of incense was weaker, but still noticeable. General Talos stood at the far end of the room with his back to the door, adjusting the fall of his sleeve through the arms of a black silk brocaded coat.

“Sir,” Alorius announced himself with a salute, “a message from the Emperor.”

General Talos continued to adjust his sleeves. The sound of the crackling fire in the hearth was the only thing that kept the room from silence. Alorius waited, knowing that the General had heard him, but also knowing that the General was not a man to leave any task half done.

Satisfied with his sleeve, General Talos held out his hand. Alorius crossed the room and delivered the parchment. The General unrolled the message and read.

“At last,” said General Talos, “have my armor prepared, Captain. I’ve been summoned.”


_____


22nd Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Arcane University, Imperial City
Morning


“When planning a campaign,” said Zurin Arctus, “whether it’s against a single opponent or an army, always maintain a balance between the arcane and the mundane. Remember, a weight lifted by one hand is heavier than two weights lifted by both hands. Are there any questions?”

None of the apprentices raised a hand. The garden lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Arctus saw past the confused, eager young faces to the Palace Guard lingering near the stairs, and the rolled parchment in the Guard’s hand.

“Master Arctus,” said a small voice from the benches, “regarding the Battle of Fort Black Boot, how was there a balance maintained?”

From where he stood Arctus could not identify which apprentice had spoken, only that the voice was decidedly female. He saw the palace guard looking over the apprentices for the source of the voice. Damn the child for her timing, he thought to himself. He addressed his answer to all of them.

“Fort Black Boot has not yet been approved for study. When it is I will tell you how the balance was maintained and how it contributed to an Imperial victory. That is enough for today. I advise you all to reflect on what you have learned. Your recollection may prove vital in our next session.” Better to keep them afraid than questioning.

He stepped from the podium into the soft grass of the garden. The apprentices rose around him and moved on to other pursuits. The palace guard stepped forward.

“Master Arctus,” he said, “a message from the Emperor.” He placed the rolled parchment in Arctus’ hand, then turned on his heel and left the garden. Arctus turned the parchment in his hand and ran his finger over the Emperor’s seal. I suppose his silence couldn’t last forever. He broke the seal and read the message.

“Master?”

This time Arctus recognized the voice of the apprentice who had spoken out of turn. He turned and regarded her with a critical eye. She was small, wide-eyed, swimming in her robes, and irredeemably Breton.

“What do you wish to know, apprentice?”

“Fort Black Boot, Master,” she said, “I do not understand how you were able to balance the arcane and the mundane when the numbers were so vastly against you.”

“You forget the first disposition of war,” said Arctus. A flare spell ignited the parchment in his hand. He allowed the wind to sweep away the embers. “The moment to prepare your offense is the moment the enemy becomes vulnerable to attack.”

Ooohhh, I wonder in your story whether he will be the underking? Woo Hoo !!!! This story is AWESOME !!! Your descriptions/details bring history to life in the same way Rumpleteasza's does, that is more than talent; it is genius!

I'm sitting here trying to absorb all the different threads of your story.

How you keep them all straight is amazing to me.

Varla is a fascinating woman, and one that is growing on me as a character.

General Talos is back! He is another that is very interesting to me, for more than just being the first of the Septims - in the TES lore, his charisma just shines, and you've managed to take that charisma and give it mass that can be seen and touched and heard. Of what I've read in the lore, he comes across as larger than life itself, and you've kept that aura while making him mortal flesh.

Very good work here - the pacing is superb, and I liked the verbal fencing between Varla and Farenenre.

Just one little nit:


When used as a noun, 'limp wrist' is unhyphenated; in this context 'limp hand' might be better. 'Limp-wrist' is more of an adjective or adverb, a quality rather than an object, as in "extending a limp-wristed hand."

Just one of those tricky things that drive writers crazy!

Overall, love this chapter. Very good pacing, and I start to experience the Imperial City in a different sort of way. Fantastic!

Once again, WOW! What powerful, yet delicate writing. Quite amazing Destri. Forgive me while I quote some of your passages, mostly so that I may revel in them again:


Destri the philosopher. Beautiful.



Such a simple interaction, yet presented with an amazing mastery and perfect wording choices.



The following passages each jumped out to me as examples of creative and efficient imagery that I can only strive to emulate:






I find the beauty of your writing quite inspirational. Well done! :read:

Epic in scale and subtle in its mannerisms. Your writing is superb.
Undoubtably one of the best fan-fics going around.

Aradroth will make an appearance soon in his own story. Seven chapters done and a few more to go.
I have realized that it is one thing to comment on the writing of others and another thing to try it yourself.....

I apologize for not posting until now. I got caught up reading SubRosa and, as all of you know who have read her; once you start everything else seems to fade into the background. Now, it's on to treydog!

mALX ? I have definite plans for the mythology of the underking, plans that are not necessarily in keeping with the lore which, let's face it, is little more than Imperial propaganda. Thank you for the comparison to Rumpleteasza. I have only read the first chapter of her first thread and I was floored by the sheer weight of her talent.

hauteecole ? The problem isn't keeping each of the story threads straight, it's resisting the urge to continue one storyline to the detriment of others. Varla is a perfect example. This is the first time we have seen her since she left Balfiera even though, in the planning of this story, she emerged as one of my favorite characters. There is much more planned for her, believe me.

Talos, on the other hand, is difficult to write. He is the lynchpin character that defines the entire third era of Tamriel's history. How does one give that form? I am glad to hear that my portrayal of him is working for you.

Thanks for catching my error with 'limp-wrist'. You're right; I think 'limp-hand' is a better choice.

Acadian ? I stand in good company with so many others who find your writing inspirational. If you are able to draw inspiration from my writing then I have achieved my intent. Thank you.

Winter Wolf ? Wow, thanks for the compliment. A few more like that and I'll need to butter my ears to get through the doorway! I look forward to reading Aradroth's story when it's ready.

22nd Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Palace District, Imperial City
Mid-Day


The high perched sun had burned off the morning mist and cut the shadow from White Gold Tower. Those citizens visiting the graves along Green Emperor Road were able to remove a layer of clothing in the welcome heat that hinted at winter’s end. Among the honored headstones a team of artisans bent hammer to chisel. Their labors tamed the cold marble slabs and produced from them the likenesses of past faces who had sat the Ruby Throne.

At the entrance to the Tower a harried pair of guards stood proxy for the Emperor, absorbing the threats and spittle of the sullen, pushing, murmuring crowd that gathered at the stairs.

Varla watched the crowd from a bench near the entrance. “Cuhlecain plays at a dangerous game,” she said, “each day he remains in hiding they grow angrier, and larger.”

“Even when we are summoned it will not be easy to pass through those doors in full view of the crowd,” said Emero. “We may be forced to make other arrangements.”

Varla nodded her agreement. Her eyes wandered to the artisans reproducing the face of Reman II. “He goes to great lengths to associate himself with the line of Dragon Emperors, when he could remove all doubt by simply donning the Amulet of Kings.”

“I do not believe that there is anything simple about donning that particular piece of jewelry.”

“Perhaps not,” said Varla, “but even an inept ruler would know enough to create a fake that he could wear in public to sate the superstitious masses. It would quell any rumors about Talos and his claim of dragon blood.”

“Would this be the same Talos that you now plan on aiding?”

Varla’s look would have given a Minotaur pause. “You forget yourself, old man. I am no longer your student.”

“No, Milady,” said Emero, “you long ago surpassed my teachings.”

He returned his attention to the crowd. Frustration with and proximity to the seat of power within the new Empire was causing the volume of their shouts to rise with the day’s heat.

Varla’s patience gave way; her voice was punctuated by the ring of an artisan’s hammer. “Speak your mind, Emero. Do not punish me with silence.”

“Very well, Milady,” said Emero, “I was wondering how this new course of action affects our impending audience with the Emperor.”

“It doesn’t,” said Varla, “I came here for the purpose of removing Cuhlecain from the Ruby Throne. That has not changed. It is simply a matter of deciding who should replace him.”

“Does that mean that I should turn my investigations from the Battlemage to the General?”

Varla’s brow furrowed, she absently bit down on her lower lip. “No,” she said, “continue looking into the Battlemage’s affairs. Whichever direction this goes, I will need his loyalty.”

“The Battlemage is crafty, and his network of spies is impressive. Cuhlecain is not the only one who plays at a dangerous game, Milady.”

Before Varla could answer, a surge in the crowd announced the emergence of a retinue of palace guards from the Tower. Their drawn weapons caused the throng to retreat from the stairs and reform into two smaller groups on opposite sides of the entrance. The captain of the guard marched down the stairs and past the angry mob, now held in check by the threat of his naked blade. He stopped at the bench before Varla and Emero. He sheathed his weapon and held himself erect before he spoke.

“The Emperor will see you now,” he said.


_____


22nd Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Imperial Palace, Imperial City
Mid-Day


The Emperor granted audience inside a vast circular chamber on the bottom floor of White Gold Tower. The floors were heavy cut stone festooned with paintings of the Imperial standard at regular intervals. The ceiling was opened to the floors above. What illumination there was came from gold lamps set in sconces along the walls, and from ornate iron framed windows stained green. In the middle of the sunken floor a round stone table held dignitaries from the seven cities of a united Cyrodiil, and those unlucky enough to have business before the throne. The throne itself was forged in gold and decorated with more than four thousand rubies to mark the passage of years from St. Alessia’s founding of the Empire. It was raised above the table to allow the Emperor to look down upon his subjects. Fifteen marble columns lined the perimeter of the chamber and served to hold up the floor above. And on this high floor a gallery of furtive palace workers and those with favor or fortune enough to gain entry looked down on the proceedings with great interest.

Zurin Arctus sat in his chair at the round table and noted the faces of those around him. Some of them were familiar. To his right the emissary from Kvatch, a tonsured Breton named Prior Sanne, wore the robes of a Temple priest. He sat in quiet conference with the Duke of Skingrad’s silk swaddled representative, an Imperial firebrand named Synnius Carbo. Chorral’s Regent was a large man who looked as if he possessed Nordic blood. His name was Miles Galenus and he had made the trip personally, only to find himself seated on the right hand of the Emperor’s Chief Advisor, that oily elf Farenenre. General Talos sat by himself several chairs to the left of Arctus, as far from the throne as possible while maintaining attendance at the table.

Others were not so familiar. The Count of the new city of Leyawiin had sent his court mage, who was not only female, but Khajiit. She tried to remain inconspicuous while fending off the overt advances of the new representative of the Baron of Sutch, who already seemed too far into his cups to suit Arctus. No one paid any attention to the envoy from Bravil because he was not a man of great wealth or importance and he was, after all, from Bravil.

Conversation around the table stopped as the door to the chamber opened and an honor guard entered. They marched across the room and stood on each side of the Ruby Throne. They were followed by a herald whose abbreviated stature caused smiles and stifled coughs from the table, and overt laughter from the gallery above. His stunted legs came to a stop at the edge of the recess and, in a surprising tenor that carried to the bell at the very top of White Gold Tower, he announced for all to hear:

“All Hail His Majesty, Akatosh’s Chosen Vessel and Emperor of all Tamriel . . . Cuhlecain, the First of His Name!”

All at the table stood and turned their attention to the door. The Emperor of all Tamriel barely stood a head taller than his herald. He swept into the chamber flanked by more guards and dressed in silk robes that matched the Imperial Standard while they dragged on the floor behind him. What little hair he had was shot with grey and served to help prop the Red Diamond Crown that sat upon his pointed head. Despite his stature he carried himself with the bearing of a knight, and the look in his grey eyes indicated that he was not a man to be trifled with. Still, he had to lift himself onto the Ruby Throne and when he settled into the seat his boots dangled.

Once the Emperor was settled, everyone returned to their seats except Farenenre.

“Your Majesty,” he said, bowing to the Ruby Throne. “Honored Lords and Lady. We are here to sit in judgment of the actions taken by General Talos on the night of twelfth Morning Star last, known to you all as the Battle of Fort Black Boot.”

“I do not understand,” said the Regent of Chorrol, Miles Galenus. “We judge a man for achieving victory? Honor him with a statue and let us move on to more pertinent business.”

“I believe this is pertinent,” said Synnius Carbo, the Skingrad representative. He stared across the table at General Talos. “You Nords revel in battle, but this battle should have been won for the glory of the Empire, not for the vanity of a single man.”

“Vanity is a sin against the Eight,” said the priest from Kvatch, Prior Sanne. “The victory was gifted to you because the Gods looked down and they judged our cause worthy. All hail Cuhlecain, rightful Emperor of Tamriel.”

Several “hails” were shouted around the table as those who curried favor stood to applaud the Emperor whose feet did not reach the ground. They were joined in their adoration by the many in the gallery who knew that the Emperor’s spies were always watching.

“Master Arctus,” said Farenenre as the tumult faded. “On the night in question you were aware of the General’s refusal to use the Skyrim reserve as ordered.”

Arctus met Farenenre’s stare and held it until the Altmer looked away. “Was that a question, Lord Farenenre?”

Chorrol’s Regent suppressed a smile. The Khajiit from Leyawiin could not.

Farenenre turned a deeper shade of gold. “Were you aware, Master Battlemage?”

“I was aware of no such order,” said Arctus.

“He is the General’s lackey!” said Synnius Carbo. “Tell me, Arctus, what did the General promise you for lying to this Council?”

A wave of hushed voices flowed from the table to the upstairs gallery. Farenenre held his hand in the air to quiet the whispers. He turned to the guard near the door.

“Show in the first witness,” he said.

The guard saluted and left the room. There was the sound of activity from the hallway, and the guard re-entered leading an armored Nord with a jagged vertical scar that dominated the right side of his face, claimed his right eye, and disappeared into the folds of a heavy grey beard. An ebony warhammer was strapped to his back, and the winged helmet he held was made of silver. He stood at the base of the table near General Talos and directed his gaze past the Ruby Throne.

Prior Sanne rose from his seat. “Do you swear by the Eight Divines that you shall give true testimony to this Council?”

The Nord’s laughter filled the chamber. “You can take your Eight Divines and shove them up your robe, woman! I swear to Shor and the Gods of men.”

The look on the Prior’s face would have been the same had the Nord told him that Mehrunes Dagon was relieving himself in the fountain of the wayshrine of Akatosh.

“Then swear to Shor,” said Farenenre, “and let us proceed.”

“I do so swear,” said the Nord.

“What is your name and occupation?”

“I am Hjolfr, Commander of a Skyrim militia sworn to serve the Emperor of Cyrodiil.”

“You mean the Emperor of Tamriel,” corrected Carbo, rising to his feet.

Hjolfr gave him a look that caused Carbo to search the table for an ally. When none was forthcoming, Carbo sheepishly regained his seat. Hjolfr returned his gaze to Farenenre and did not amend his statement. Arctus thought he saw amusemant in General Talos’ eyes.

“What were your orders in the weeks preceding twelfth Morning Star last?” asked Farenenre.

“I had no orders,” said Hjolfr, “the militia was camped in the Jerall Mountains. We were requested to hold the privates of the Cyrodiil Legion in some skirmish near the border with Elsweyr.”

“Did you receive orders to move down to the border?”

“No. We froze our arses off in the mountains.”

“Thank you, Commander,” said Farenenre, “you are dismissed.”

“Just a moment,” said Arctus. He directed himself to the Ruby Throne. “May I question the witness, Your Majesty?”

Silence pervaded the chamber. For several seconds even the air was still. Cuhlecain’s eyes narrowed but he answered with a nod. Arctus bowed, rose, and turned to Hjolfr.

“Commander,” he said, “it is your testimony that you were ‘requested to hold the privates of the Cyrodiil Legion’, is that correct?”

“Yes it is.”

“Requested by whom?” asked Arctus.

“There was a letter sent from White Gold Tower,” said Hjolfr, “it was forwarded to us by a messenger from Falkreath.”

“Are you in possession of this letter?” asked Arctus.

“I carry a warhammer, Master Battlemage. I am not in the habit of carrying letters.”

“Does this line of questioning bear any relevance?” asked Farenenre.

“You claim that General Talos disregarded an order,” said Arctus, “yet I submit to you that neither I nor the General were ever given an order to use the Skyrim reserve. The fact that this ‘request’ for the Skyrim militia came as a missive from White Gold Tower instead of from Fort Black Boot proves that neither I nor General Talos had a hand in its conception.” Arctus turned his attention back to Hjolfr. “Thank you, Commander. I have no further questions.”

Hjolfr bowed awkwardly, it was not an act he was used to performing. “General Talos, Master Battlemage.” He turned and exited the chamber.

“I told you they all aid each other,” said Carbo. “Never trust a Nord.”

Galenus slammed his fist on the table. “Be careful, Lord Carbo. My mother was a Nord.”

“Show in the next witness,” called Farenenre.

The guard at the door repeated his salute, left the chamber, and returned leading the gleaming armored form of Captain Alorius into the room. Alorius made his way to the foot of the table and bowed to the Ruby Throne.

“Your Majesty,” said Alorius, “my Lords.”

It took an effort for Arctus to keep his face impassive. Could Alorius have been a spy all along? He thought to himself. He remembered their conversation on the road from Fort Black Boot. He looked to General Talos, btu if he were thinking the same thoughts as Arctus his face gave no indication of it.

Prior Sanne rose, “do you swear by the Eight Divines that you will give true testimony to this Council?”

“I do so swear,” said Alorius.

“What is your name and occupation?” asked Farenenre, rising.

“Titus Alorius, my lord, captain of the Imperial Legion and adjutant to General Talos.”

“In the days leading up to twelfth Morning Star last,” said Farenenre, “were you made aware of any orders involving the disposition of the Skyrim reserve?”

“I was aware that there was a reserve force from Skyrim waiting to assist us should the need arise.”

Farenenre smiled. “And was it your opinion that the situation warranted . . .”

Arctus was indignant, he rose from his chair. “Please do not tell me that we are seeking to solicit opinion and calling it testimony.”

Farenenre bowed, “I withdraw the question.” Arctus returned to his seat. Farnenre turned back to Alorius, “Captain, as the General’s adjutant, any orders he gives come through you, do they not?”

“No my lord,” said Alorius. “My duties are to assist the General in the dispensing of orders, but the General is free to give orders however he sees fit. Many times he does so without my knowledge or aid.”

“Captain Alorius,” said Farenenre, “I am not interested in the semantics of your position in the chain of command. Did General Talos send an order through you to deploy the Skyrim reserve?”

“No my lord,” said Alorius, “he did not.”

“Thank you, Captain. I have no further questions.” Farenenre sat, every eye at the table turned to Arctus.

“This entire line of questioning regards the disposition of troops on the night of twelfth Morning Star last is that correct, Lord Farenenre?” asked Arctus.

“It is,” Farenenre offered, regarding Arctus through narrowed eyes.

Arctus turned back to Alorius, “Captain, in your recollection, what was the result of the events of twelfth Morning Star last?”

Alorius smiled, “an Imperial victory, Master Arctus.”

“No further questions,” said Arctus.


_____


A/N: This section of the story was too long for me to post at one time. Therefore, I have cut this section into two parts, the first part which you have just read and the second part which will be posted next. The result is that the ending of this segment is somewhat abrupt. I hope that you don't find it too distracting.

Oh, my!

Stirring debate, subtle confrontations, a variety of personalities under one roof, a clash of wills, and tense moments galore. Verbal sparring is hard to write, and you have done this well. The wealth of description with just the right amount of words is incredible, like a brocaded tapestry telling a parable.

This ranks as one of my favorite stories.

And yes, I can see why General Talos is so hard to write. The guy literally straddles the world, he is so epic in TES lore. Where to start? How to make him human, and real, without losing the sense of destiny? I think you're doing well with that problem so far.

Thanks for writing this, and posting again!

This court martial style hearing is AWESOME !!! But still, this is my favorite paragraph of all:




ROFL !!! Another Awesome write, and I can't wait for the 'rest of the story' !!!!!

Well done, Destri!

Your descriptions are as rich as they come, and your dialogue precise and effective. You really know how to produce atmosphere.

What? :blink: Is my lovely fair town that bad??
And here I was thinking that it was a sunny sea-side resort situated only a stones throw from the IC. A place surrounded by rolling hills and meadows, where families and young children can be seen playing upon the sandy beaches of Niben Bay.


Spot on there brother!! And it still happens today. Sheep, I tell you, every last one of them....

I have just started reading and I am only sorry that it took me so long! Will have more to say later, but this is excellent writing.

I echo the statements of the dog from Tennessee. I am just a few of your posts in, but already I can see this is a good story. Your characters are interesting and engaging. I want to see more of them, always a good sign! Likewise, your writing is excellent, with very solid and vivid uses of description. I especially enjoyed how you described Clavicus Vile's mouth as being "well appointed with sharp teeth". :thumbsup:

I like the deviations you are making from the game, especially Tamriel being a larger place than it is in Oblivion. The maps I have looked at say it is hundreds of miles between cities like Chorrol and the IC. Not something you are going to walk in single afternoon as you can in the game.

hauteecole ? The question that continuously nags at me is how to portray Talos and Zurin Arctus as the two men who can effectively conquer all of Tamriel without making them too uber. I am glad that you think that I am doing that effectively. Thank you for ranking this as one of your favorite stories, it means a lot.

mALX ? The 'rest of the story' follows. Funny, the idea for this segment of the story was just to get several of the main characters together in the Imperial City. Somehow the 'court martial' emerged during the writing and I chose to go with it. As one who has so successfully developed storylines due to a happy accident in the writing, you of all people can identify.

Acadian ? The fact that I can almost taste the ambiance that you have created in Bravil makes the fact that you chose to compliment me on my atmosphere high praise indeed. Thank you, my friend.

Winter Wolf ? I am sorry to impugn your fair city, but when even the Count remarks on the smell, well. . .

treydog ? Welcome to Interregnum! It is a pleasure to have you here. I am up to chapter 9 of Blood on the Moon and there is so much I want to say , but I'll wait until I'm all caught up to post.

SubRosa ? I think you and I have been looking at the same maps. Too bad disk space keeps Bethesda from making the game to scale. Thank you for your comments, from a writer like you they are more than welcome.


* * *


22nd Sun's Dawn, 2E 854
The Imperial Palace, Imperial City
Mid-Day


The silence in the chamber was broken by the booming voice of Miles Galenus.

“You see,” he said, “There you have it, an Imperial victory. Now, can we suspend this mummer’s farce and get about the task of getting some real work done?”

There were nods of approval by the Khajiit mage sent from Leyawiin and her would be consort from Sutch.

“This hearing is not yet completed,” said Farenenre, “Captain Alorius, you are dismissed.”

Alorius saluted in the direction of General Talos, turned on his heel, and left the chamber.

“Show in the next witness,” said Farenenre.

The guard performed his obligatory salute and re-entered the hall, returning moments later leading a shined and polished Captain Itinius. Itinius strode to the foot of the stone table and his salute carried to everyone seated. He held himself at attention.

Prior Sanne rose to his feet, “do you swear by the Eight Divines that you will give true testimony to this council?”

“I do so swear,” said Itinius.

Farenenre leaned back in his chair. He absently stroked the side of his face with the feather from his quill. “What is your name and occupation?”

“Captain Quintus Itinius, officer of the Imperial Legion and commanding officer of the garrison at Fort Black Boot.”

“Do you recall a conversation you had with Master Arctus regarding the Skyrim reserve on twelfth Morning Star last?” asked Farenenre.

Arctus saw fault with the question, but he elected to hold his tongue.

Itinius kept his eyes on the wall behind the Ruby Throne. “Yes, my lord. Before the battle I asked the Battlemage if he had received any message from the Skyrim reinforcements.”

“Was this because it was your understanding that the garrison would be reinforced?” asked Farenenre.

“My lord,” said Arctus, addressing himself to Farenenre, “if you are going to both ask and answer the questions then the presence of the witness is superfluous.”

“Agreed,” said the Khajiit mage from Leyawiin, “this hearing is irregular enough without straying from the letter of the law.”

There was silence around the table, as if the soft voice of the Khajiit had breached some form of protocol.

“I agree with the Lady from Leyawiin,” said the quiet, high-pitched voice of the representative from Bravil, ”if not for General Talos, the fort would have been taken. It is less than two days march from the fort to the gates of Bravil. Who knows what would have happened to the city had it fallen to those monsters. . . with no offence meant, Milady.”

“None taken,” said the Khajiit.

The representative from Bravil looked at General Talos, “I was of the opinion that we were gathered to honor this man, not haggle over the methods he used to achieve his objective.”

“Lady S’Kaassi, Lord Mido, I shall rephrase the question,” Farenenre bowed in their general direction, and then he looked to Itinius, “Captain, Why did you ask Master Arctus about the Skyrim reinforcements?”

Itinius’ eyes remained on the wall, “The Khajiit host was larger than our reports indicated, my lord. I believed that the garrison was lost unless we were reinforced.”

“And what was Master Arctus’ response to your query?”

“He told me to assume that we were on our own.”

Farenenre smiled, “meaning that there would be no reinforcement?”

“That is how I took his meaning, my lord.”

“Thank you, Captain, I have nothing further,” Farenenre turned to Arctus, the smile still stretched the width of his cheeks. “Do you wish to question the witness, Master Arctus?”

“Yes thank you, Lord Farenenre,” said Arctus. He rose and faced Captain Itinius. “Good day, Captain.”

“Good day, sir,” said Itinius

“Your power of recollection does you credit. I wonder if you recall the rest of that conversation with such clarity. Do you remember the order I gave you after telling you to assume we were on our own?”

“Yes sir,” said Itinius, “you ordered me to prepare the men for an impending attack.”

“And what was your response?”

Itinius looked away from the wall. He could not meet the eyes of the Battlemage or anyone else around the table, so he let his gaze fall to his boots.

“I tried to dissuade you, sir,” he said, “I believed that the Khajiit force was bedded down for the night. You convinced me otherwise.”

“Do you remember what day General Talos and I arrived with our force, Captain?” asked Arctus.

Itinius straightened and returned his gaze to the wall, “I believe it was the sixth of Morning Star last, sir.”

“Correct,” said Arctus. “According to your testimony concern for the garrison prompted you to ask me about the Skyrim reinforcement, is that correct Captain?”

“Yes sir.”

“You are quite fond of the men under your command, are you not?”

“They are my responsibility, sir.”

Arctus smiled, “of course they are, Captain. How many are in your garrison?”

“Five hundred legionnaires, sir,” said Itinius.

“Did you accompany the garrison to the post or were you assigned to a post that was already manned?”

Farenenre stood, “I fail to see the relevance of this line of questioning.”

“I agree,” said Synnius Carbo, “perhaps Master Arctus should stop wasting this Council’s time.”

“I did not realize that it was I who wasted the time of this Council,” said Arctus. “I have not had the advantage of interviewing the witness as Lord Farenenre has. I hope that you will indulge certain latitudes in my line of questioning.”

Miles Galenus turned to Farenenre, “let him ask his questions.”

“I wish to hear where this leads,” said S’Kaassi. She was joined by murmurs of approval from both Lord Mido from Bravil and the inebriated representative from Sutch. Farenenre relented and returned to his seat.

Arctus turned back to Itinius, “shall I repeat the question, Captain?”

“No sir,” said Itinius, “I led the garrison from the Imperial City to the post.”

“How long did that take?” asked Arctus.

“Nine days, sir.”

“Thank you Captain,” said Arctus. He directed his remarks to the Council, “I beg your indulgence a moment longer. Captain, it is your testimony that General Talos and I arrived with a force of five hundred men on sixth Morning Star last. It is also your testimony that it took you nine days to escort a garrison of five hundred men from the Imperial City to Fort Black Boot. Given those two facts, if General Talos had sent a message to the Skyrim reserve encamped in the Jerall Mountains on the day that we arrived at Fort Black Boot, would they have been able to arrive in time to reinforce the garrison?”

“No sir,” said Itinius, shaking his head, “they would not have.”

“Thank you Captain,” said Arctus, “I have no further questions.”


_____


The gallery waited in silent anticipation. Their numbers swelled with the arrival of several off duty guards still wearing their Legion armor. Prior Sanne slowly rose to his feet and cleared his throat, “do you swear by the Eight Divines that you will give true testimony to this Council?”

“I do so swear,” said General Talos. He stood in front of his chair opposite the Ruby Throne.

Farenenre was standing next to the Throne. He gently placed his quill on the table.

“Despite the testimony elicited by Master Arctus,” he said to General Talos, “there remains the fact of your refusal to send for the Skyrim reserve in direct opposition to an Imperial order. Do you have anything to say before this Council renders judgment?”

“I do,” said Talos, “I have a question for the Throne.”

“His Majesty is not a sworn witness,” said Farenenre.

Arctus stood, but a gesture from General Talos rendered him silent. Talos leveled his gaze at Farenenre, and for a moment it appeared that the Altmer’s time on Nirn had come to an end. When Talos finally spoke, Arctus heard the same authority in his voice that he had heard at Sancre Tor.

“I have spent the better part of the afternoon listening to you and your allies question my judgment, second guess my decisions, and impugn my honor,” said General Talos, leveling his gaze at Synnius Carbo and Prior Sanne, “That is not something that I am likely to forget. I have a question for the Throne, and unless one of you honorable gentlemen wishes to unsheathe a sword to stop me, I intend to ask it.”

Silence engulfed the table, no one dared to move. It was as if Sheogorath himself had fallen upon them with his staff.

“Your Majesty,” said Talos, “did you not commission me as commander of your armies?”

Every eye in the chamber sought out the Ruby Throne. Cuhlecain leaned forward, “I did.”

“And did you not order me to secure Cyrodiil’s southern border with Elsweyr?” asked Talos.

“I did,” was the answer from the Throne.

“And have I executed that order?”

“You have.”

“Then by your leave, your Majesty,” Talos turned and strode toward the door to the chamber. The two guards stationed at the door held it open and bowed at his passing. When they closed the door behind him the sound carried up into the gallery. Miles Galenus leaned back in his chair and allowed his smile to be seen by all.

“I think we should put this matter to a vote,” he said.


_____


22nd Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Imperial Palace, Imperial City
Dusk


The chamber was deserted, the delegates had tendered their votes and retired, allowing the heavy doors to close behind them. The gallery had been emptied by the palace guard. Farenenre remained in his seat at the stone table.
The Emperor paced through the chamber like a man expecting to be hit by a stray arrow.

“This was a disaster,” said Cuhlecain, “instead of casting Talos as the villain who would usurp the throne, we have made him an even bigger hero. Now he controls both the Legion and the Council.”

Farenenre kept his eyes on the table, “he should not have won at Fort Black Boot, your Majesty. We gave the Khajiit every advantage. The Skyrim reserve could not have arrived in time. . .”

“But he did win!” said Cuhlecain, “at Fort Black Boot and here today. In truth I should make Zurin Arctus my Chief Advisor. He certainly seems more qualified for the position than you!”

Farenenre’s head found a way to dip even lower, “I am sorry, your Majesty.”

“You’re sorry?” spat the Emperor, “sorry doesn’t give us a solution to this problem. You had better contribute a lot more than ‘you’re sorry’ or I might decide that the myrmidons in the Arena need someone else to practice on!”

“I do have an idea, your Majesty, if you would indulge me.”

Cuhlecain gave an impatient wave of his arm. Farenenre rose and made his way over to the door to the chamber. Using both hands he was able to open the door just enough to whisper into the hall. He backed away as the door swung open, admitting a pair of Altmer, a man and a woman, dressed in a silk robe and a silk dress, respectively.

Cuhlecain took his seat on the Ruby Throne as the three elves walked across the room.

“More elves,” he said, “I have just about had my fill.”

Farenenre bowed before the Throne, “your Majesty, may I present the Lady Varla Direnni of Clan Direnni.”

Varla bent her knee to the Ruby Throne. She suppressed a smile at the sight of the Emperor’s dangling boots.

“Your family is no friend to Cyrodiil, Lady Direnni,” said Cuhlecain, “why should I listen to anything you have to say?”

Varla’s knee remained bent, “because I believe that I can deliver something that you want, Your Majesty.”

“What could you possibly have that I could want?”

Varla straightened to her full height and allowed the smile to light up her face, “High Rock,” she said.


_____


22nd Sun’s Dawn, 2E 854
Reman Plaza, Imperial City
Dusk


A grinning Captain Alorius opened the door and saluted, “good evening, Master Arctus.”

Arctus nodded a greeting, “You performed your testimony well today. You told the truth but did not give away more than you had to.”

“Thank you, Master Arctus. You know where my loyalty lies.”

“I do,” Arctus allowed himself a smile, and then he crossed the room through the fog of skooma smoke while being careful not to look at Ysmir in the corner. He climbed the stairs to the second floor and crossed the hall through the haze of incense to knock on the door to General Talos’ quarters.

“Come.”

Arctus entered. General Talos sat in a chair close to the fire. He had replaced his armor with a blue silk robe and he held a silver glass of Cyrodiilic brandy.

“Four to two in your favor,” said Arctus, “Farenenre and Carbo voted against you. Galenus, S’Kaassi, Mido and the one from Sutch whose name I don’t recall voted in your favor. Prior Sanne abstained, he did not look well when he left the chamber as I recall. The Emperor chose to uphold the vote.”

“Of course he did,” said Talos. He poured a second glass and motioned Arctus into the chair beside him. “Farenenre keeps telling him that he needs the Council’s approval before he can act against me. The purpose of this hearing was to see if he could gather support against me with the Council.”

“I would say that it backfired,” said Arctus, leaning back in his chair. The brandy was excellent.

“Indeed,” said Talos, “I now have a majority of the Council in my favor. Farenenre played his part well. See to it that he is compensated.”

“Yes General,” said Arctus, “what are your plans now?”

“My plan is to enjoy a good meal,” said Talos. He rose from his seat. “I think you should join me. After all, we will need our strength if we are going to kill an Emperor.”


The Year Continues in First Seed

Whoa! My mind is reeling!

This reads like a Robert Ludlum plotline - double crosses and triple crosses and so on - like the old Cold War spy novels I used to read 'way back in high school!

Well done! :bowdown:

That is my favorite line! Woo Hoo !!! Awesome Write !!!!!

Well done Destri!

You beautifully presented the drama, tension and formality of your 'court room', then powerfully brought down the house with this piece of perfection:

An epic conclusion. Talk about setting the stage!!

Eat, kill, eat again. Lol.