The paragraph mALX1 so rightfully quoted was art. Truly inspiring! Oh btw, the rest is pretty good read: mindblowing as well

Yay, more polenta! Mmmmmm polenta! :foodndrink:

Once again I echo the statements that others have made. Julian's philosophical mood following everything she has been through is done with the perfect level of even-handedness. Her interaction with the children is both heartbreaking and inspiring, as is her speech to the townspeople. If ever anyone deserved the title 'Hero of Kvatch', it is she.

I loved this sentence:

I always lost far too many of the Kvatch guards and Imperial Legion troops fighting for the castle? And, in the end, it is a vain hope- the Count has been dead all along. You capture both the chaotic nature of the battle and the despair of the aftermath here. Your choice to have Savlian voice the futility of it all was perfect.

And then afterwards, you reveal new facets of Julian's personality (and your skill as a writer). I love the quiet moments of conversation and introspection- it was so real that I felt transported to that muddy camp on the road to Kvatch. Wonderful.

@SubRosa: I wanted a way to describe the weirdness that is a Sigil Stone. It reminds me of the Tesla coils (a la Frankenstein's lab), and I wanted to describe the electricity coming off of it in a TES way. I figured tortured souls screaming would be an apt way to describe it. Thanks for noticing. :shocking:

@mALX: The original speech was much more rhetorical, more Obama-esque, if you will. I edited it heavily because I felt it didn't fit with Julian's personality. She's always to the point, and not very melodramatic at all. She is, after all, an old soldier, not a politician. And she may find your son something to do - after all, she used to be a pilus. :rolleyes:

@Acadian: That little girl is actually based on my brother's wife's daughter from a previous marriage. The first time we met, I took her over to see my old mare (she was horsecrazy, an exception in both her family and mine), and that's what she did, just take my hand as we were walking along. It caught me completely by surprise, and I know it did Julian, too. When kids choose to trust a stranger, it's something special.

And you're right, Julian doesn't have much of a magical background. Her forte has always been the blade. :flamethrower:

@bobg: Thanks for your comment. I was worried that it was verging on smarmy when I posted that chapter. Your comment tells me it was balanced just right. That makes me very happy. :twirl:

@RemkoNL: Thanks for your comment. Your Rales and Zerina continue to inspire me in writing Julian's relationship with the people she meets. :dance:

@Destri: Polenta may be bland, but the Roman Legion conquered much of Western civilization on polenta. Respect the polenta! :toughninja:

As for being the Hero of Kvatch, she will continue to deny it for a good long time. She knows she has nothing invested in the city, it is relatively easy for her to leave it behind. She also understands that such is not true of the citizens that have to remain behind. Her attitude is actually inspired by O'Reilly in The Magnificent Seven (my second favorite movie of all time). :goodjob:

@treydog: You continue to inspire me with your description of Solstheim and with your two characters. As for Savlian, reporting the death of the Count was the hardest part for me, the player. After all that effort to regain the castle, he's been dead the whole time. I'm glad that I was able to convey the futility of that quest. :shrug:

Now Julian is finally able to carry out the task Jauffre set her. But how to convince Martin? I took a major departure from the in-game dialogue here, and I hope you find it more satisfying than the options the game developers gave our PC's.

****************
Chapter 4.8 Martin


The children shared breakfast with me, mostly quiet and subdued. Afterwards, they trailed behind me to gra-Sharob's fire. The big Orc was working on a mail cuirass. She grinned at me when I paused.

"Good morning, Julian!" she said heartily, shooting a mock glare at the kids. Grouped behind me, they responded with giggles. "I've got your weapons here," she nodded at the two swords stacked against the tent flap. "How do you find your armor today?" As she had yesterday morning, gra-Sharob had left the leathers and mail cuirass folded just inside the pavilion where I had spent the night.

"They're fine," I answered, shrugging the leather cuirass over my shoulders. "I appreciate the work, ma'am."

"Good!" gra-Sharob put the hammer down and stepped to the tent. Picking up the shield, she held it out to me so I could see the Kvatch Wolf. "Good as new. You'll find it more durable than that leather thing."

"I think I will, ma'am," I took the round disc, hefting it thoughtfully. There was a flat hook on the back of it, that would allow me to attach it to a loop on the outside of my pack. Taking the iron longsword, I noticed that gra-Sharob had made a new sheath for it. Black leather capped with a dark iron ferrule, it had fancy script on one side. Daedra Slayer. I smiled. A good name for this weapon - it has killed a fair number of those creatures. Pulling the hilt upwards, partway out of the scabbard, I evaluated the blade in the morning light. Its keen edge caught the roseate sunlight, tossed it back with a slight red shimmer.

"This is beautiful, gra-Sharob," I commented, putting it next to my pack. "It will be useful as a backup weapon."

"Well, then, I think you'll like this for your primary sword," gra-Sharob handed across the steel longsword Matius had given me. The plain brown scabbard, with the small Kvatch Wolf insignia, gleamed with fresh cleaning. Heavier and wider than the iron blade, its hilt snugged into my hand as if coming home.

It has been a long time since I held one of these, I thought to myself. Moving the sword through the air in a figure-eight caused the rising sun to flash off the tapered blade. Good balance, solid weight. Sliding the sword back into its sheath, I noticed silver script gleaming on the leather. Hero of Kvatch. Frowning, I looked up at gra-Sharob.

"Savlian was standing behind you last night, when you were, ah, educating the kids," the Orc smith said. She shrugged. "He told me to add the name to the sheath. I wasn't about to argue with a real hero."

Neither would I. Shaking my head, I buckled the sword belt over the leather cuirass. "Thanks for all your work, gra-Sharob," I said. "How much do I owe you?"

"You closed the Gate," gra-Sharob picked up the mailed cuirass she had been working on. "You helped Savlian clear the city and drive the daedra out. It's more a question of what we owe you."

"It doesn't feel right, ma'am," I insisted, "taking advantage of your skills without fair recompense. It's going to be difficult for you, all of you, with so much loss. You need as much income as you can get in the days to come."

"I was poor once," gra-Sharob grunted. "It's not so scary, once you know what you can live without."

Her implacable expression told me further argument would be futile. "Well, this one time, then," I said finally. "Thanks, again." Picking up my pack, I turned to leave. "Have you seen Martin?"

"Yes, I think I saw him walking towards the meadow, where your horse is," gra-Sharob returned to her hammering. The children jumped up.

I can't have them following me. Shaking my head to them, I looked at Avik. "Why don't you stay and tend the fire for gra-Sharob?" I suggested to him. He stared, wide-eyed, from me to the Orc, who had shot me a glance.

"And I was just thinking it would be nice to have an apprentice -" her growl trailed off, her black eyes sliding over to the young Redguard. After a moment, he nodded. While the smith pointed him to the bellows over the fire, I looked at the other children.

"Irinwe, Melissada, why don't you go look for wood for the fires," I added. "And Dalen, Falisia," I led them to Sigrid's campfire, where the Nord woman sat tending her retort. "let's help Sigrid gather ingredients. She can show you which ones to pick." The woman glanced up at me in surprise, then regarded the youngest pair.

"Well, I suppose these ragamuffins can be of some use," she admitted, mock-grudgingly. Rising to her feet, she showed them a pair of empty sacks. Turning to me, she stopped me with a hand on my arm. "Julian, I know you're leaving," she said quietly. "There are many of us who would like you to stay," she shook her head. Reaching into a pocket of her skirt, she handed me a small volume. "Take this, you'll find it of value in the days to come, I'm sure."

The Pocket Guide to Cyrodiilic Flora. Looking up from the book, I met Sigrid's gaze. "Thanks, Sigrid. I think it will be very helpful."

As gra-Sharob had said, I found Martin with Boldon in the meadow, stroking Paint's neck as the gelding nuzzled his shoulder. Boldon cinched up the saddle, then gave the horse a final pat on the rump. He turned to me when I reached them.

"Hullo, Julian," the Redguard greeted me. "I've got Paint ready for you, as you asked."

"Thanks, Boldon," I responded. "I really appreciate it. But it seems," I looked down, toeing the shorn grass of the hayfield, "I may just have apprenticed your son to gra-Sharob."

"Oh, you did, did you?" Boldon responded, his tone warming. Hesitantly I looked up at his smiling eyes. "I've been trying to think up ways to keep that boy busy," he continued. "But what about Falisia? He's kind of taken her on as his responsibility."

"I sent her and Dalen to Sigrid," I admitted. "Where I'm going, I can't have the children following me, sir. I've got Irinwe and Melissada gathering wood for the campfires."

"Good, keep them all busy," Boldon nodded in approval. "Better than dwelling on -" his eyes darkened. "- losing their families." I looked away from the grief in his eyes. He's doing the same thing for himself, too. Shaking his shoulders, he turned to the priest standing quietly next to Paint's head. "Martin, this is Julian. Julian," he glanced at me, "Martin."

Studying the other silently, I found him to be about my age. His dark brown hair framed a high-browed face, his hazel eyes an echo of the Emperor's own. Yes, he is indeed the Emperor's son. He has the same eyes. Already tired and weary. "Hello, Martin," I greeted him, as Boldon walked away.

"Hello, Julian," he responded. Gods! His voice is so like the Emperor's. "I hear you've come looking for me," he continued while I struggled for my breath. He frowned, the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes deepening. "Why?"

Turning to Paint and hanging my pack from the cantle, I tried to recover my composure. How to tell this priest that he is the Emperor's son? He just survived two very scary nights in a destroyed town. He waited patiently as I settled my weapons and the buckler on the saddle, securing them to the rings attached to the cantle. When the tears that threatened to emerge in my eyes and voice faded away, I turned back to Martin.

"I came looking for Martin the priest, sir," I said quietly, looking around the hayfield. Except for Paint, whose discretion could be counted on, we were alone.

"Have you need of a priest, ma'am?" Martin was skeptical. "I'm not sure what good I would be to you." He shrugged, his eyes turning dark and his voice bitter. "I'm not much good as a priest."

"The Emperor sent me to find you, sir," I said finally. Here it comes. He's not going to believe me, Jauffre. Martin's level brows, so much like Uriel Septim's, rose in surprise.

"Find me?" Martin repeated. "Why? The Emperor is dead, ma'am."

"I was with him when he -" I faltered momentarily, "died. He gave me a final task in the last few moments, sir." Now I locked gazes with Martin. "Find his last surviving son."

"Surviving son?" Martin stared at me. "But all three of the princes were assassinated, too -" his eyes unfocused as he caught his breath. "A bastard son, ma'am?" He turned from me, stepping two paces away. "I never heard anything about the Emperor having an illicit affair -"

Standing at Paint's head, I rubbed his long nose while Martin muttered under his breath. He turned back to me. "But the Emperor would need to be very discreet about such affairs, no?" he asked me. I nodded silently. He considered me for a few moments more. "Then why are you looking for me, ma'am? I know of no such bastard. How am I supposed to help you find him?"

Holding his gaze, I shrugged. "I already found him, sir," I replied. "Now I need to get him to Brother Jauffre at Weynon Priory."

"Oh, you found him then?" Martin returned to Paint's side, rubbing his hand along the gelding's shoulder. "Where is he?"

Saying nothing, I only waited, watching Martin. He met my gaze after a few moments, puzzled by my reticence. Then his eyes widened, and his face paled. "Me? I'm the bastard son?" He took a step back, raising his hands in a warding motion. "No, no, there's been a mistake, ma'am. My father's not the Emperor, he's just a simple farmer."

"I wouldn't believe it, either, sir," I said quietly, turning my gaze to Paint's bridle. Checking the fit of the headstall as I had been taught, I continued, "But I've met the Emperor, and I see him in you, Martin." Again, I rubbed the gelding's nose, tucking his forelock beneath the browband. "You have his eyes, his nose, his - " I swallowed the lump in my throat, "voice. There's no mistake."

His stunned gaze remained on me, his hands dropping to his sides. "Somehow," he frowned at me, "I believe you, ma'am. But my place -" He looked past me, at the camp beyond.

"Come with me to Weynon Priory, sir," I said. "Brother Jauffre can explain things better than I." Watching him, I could see the conflict between the obligation to stay and help his fellow refugees here at ruined Kvatch, the people he had known for most of his life, and my request to accompany me to Weynon Priory where his destiny waited.

"Well," Martin's tone took on a quiet determination. "You destroyed the Oblivion Gate. You helped the guard drive the daedra back. You helped us." His hazel eyes returned to mine. "You didn't come here to do all this, and yet you did, ma'am. I'll come with you, and hear what this Brother Jauffre has to say."

Oooh, really Awesome how you handled Martin's reaction - and the way you worded it doesn't contradict the existence of Calaxes Septim, since he was created before Uriel VII's marriage or any of his legitimate sons - you have made the known scenes come to life with your unique angles on things!

Julian shows a mother's patience and wisdom in the way that she gets rid of the children. Not by telling them to scram, but rather by finding useful them things for them to do.

I liked how you described the aura Oblivion puts around magic items:
Its keen edge caught the roseate sunlight, tossed it back with a slight red shimmer.

Quoted for truth here:
"You helped Savlian clear the city and drive the daedra out. It's more a question of what we owe you."



Nits:

I think you want a comma in the speech tag here, rather than a period, since the sentence continues in the second half of dialogue.
"Better than dwelling on -" his eyes darkened. "- losing their families."

The last two chapters were awesome. Children and horses come alive in your talented hands like no other can. :bowdown:

The dialogue with Martin was great. I could almost hear the sorrow and tiredness in his voice. The way Beth drops it straight on him after the battle was callous.

As always, this was fun to read. I just love Oblivion stories and you did a wonderful job with this one.

Nice touches as you discussed the armor and weapons. I really enjoyed that!

Funny, I never would have pegged you as a Charles Bronson kind of woman. As for the Seven, when I was a kid I was partial to Vin. But as I've matured I find myself leaning toward Brit (knife fight FTW). If that's your second favorite movie, what's the first? The Great Escape, maybe?
*

A melancholy end to Julian's time in Kvatch. I was right there with gra-Sharub, Sigrid, and Boldon in that I didn't want to see her leave these people, but I know that she must.

You handled Martin's reaction to the call of destiny with the same effective, even-handed approach that informs all of your writing. And it was nice to get the subtle clue to Julian's age in this chapter (I think she's younger than I envisioned).

Well Done. The severe lack of options in the game at this point makes it more difficult to keep the narrative interesting. We all kind of know what happens next. Your personal touches got me through it without even noticing the railroad tracks.

EDIT: BTW, Julian, it was definitely not smarmy. That's from one old grunt to another.

You absolutely strike the right "Magnificent Seven" note with those scenes. As soon as you pointed it out, I though "Of course!" Although I have been accused of sentimentality, I do not detect any overdose of such here. It just seems that Julian has dealt with (and lost) enough bright-eyed young recruits that she knows how to handle these kids...

The scenes with Martin were also outstanding- esp. in contrast with Julian's apparent ease with the children. I don't need a crystal ball to predict great things for this story- the quality is already there.

O Julian, how hath thou enslaved my imagination! I am glad to be back and reading again!!! :clap:

@mALX1: When I first started this story a couple of years ago, I wanted to find out Martin's age. I was not pleased to find a question mark for the date of his birth. I kind of shoehorned him in between the youngest prince Ebel and the start of the Imperial Simacrulum.

@SubRosa: Thanks for calling my attention to your nit. I will fix it next!

@Winter Wolf: I just kind of put myself in his place. What they went through at Kvatch is pretty traumatic. Those people, Martin included, are going to have nightmares for years. Telling him that he is also the son of the Emperor is just a bit much to get his head around, I think.

@Acadian: Thanks for continuing to read this. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: it was Buffy and Teresa that got me writing again!

@Destri:
YES!

And no, I'm not Charles Bronson kind of a woman, but I liked how his character in the movie told those boys who the real heroes were, their fathers. His passion in that scene just stuck with me through the years since I first saw it.

Chris and Vin were more my type. Laconic and to the point. The ultimate of cool. I especially loved Chris's responses to "Where are you from?" (points his thumb backwards over his shoulder). "Where are you headed?" (points forward).

As for ages, maybe it's Martin who's older than you thought?

@bobg: Well, I'm glad to keep this old grunt happy reading Julian's story.

@treydog: Thanks for picking up on Julian's dichotomy - she's used to dealing with recruits, and never fully at ease around officers. Guess it's the same thing all over again for her.

@D.Foxy: Welcome back! You've been missed! One of the flashbacks in this upcoming chapter is dedicated to you. :foodndrink:

Chapter 5.1 Musings in Skingrad

It was very late when we reached Skingrad. Tilmo, the ostler at the Grateful Pass Stables, was happy to take Paint in hand for the night. Martin wanted to see the Chapel of Julianos, so we trudged our way through the cobblestoned streets toward the church. The only souls we encountered were the City Watch, taciturn men clad in gleaming mail covered by quilted dark red surcoats. They did not speak to us, but I was aware of their wary eyes following us from beneath steel helms.

The caution on their part was easy to understand. After all, how do we appear to them? A bone-weary, haggard priest in sooty, tattered robes, and a gimpy old Redguard in light armor carrying two swords and a bow? Are we a threat? Will we cause a disturbance? Or are we merely travelers seeking shelter after a rough day on the road? Carefully avoiding returning their gazes too directly, I kept my hands away from my weapons.

The chapel was quiet, dark in the corners, with soft lantern light throwing long flickering shadows away from the central altar. The stained glass windows typical of such places showed only hints of color, backlit only by the overcast night. Setting my gear on the floor beside one of the pews, I walked the perimeter of the chapel, looking at the designs. Finding the one I sought, I stopped before it, looking at the bearded sage depicted within the tall pane. Julianos, God of Wisdom and Logic, says: Know the truth. Observe the law. When in doubt, seek wisdom from the wise. The words of chapel-school wound through the years since my childhood.

"You were named for Julianos," Mother said, stroking my hair back from my heated face, "before you were even born. I just knew you would always seek knowledge and truth."

"But Julian is a boy's name!" I exclaimed, tears still hot on my cheeks. A couple of the pretty girls in town had made fun of my name behind the priest's back. "I'm no boy!"

"Julianos doesn't care if you're a boy or a girl," Mother answered, her voice calm as always. "He only cares that you live by his code."

Have I lived up to his code? I wondered, returning to the present. I've served Akatosh, not Julianos.

"You were in the Legion?" Martin asked from behind me. Realizing I had spoken my thoughts out loud, I turned away from the window to meet his shadowed gaze. Nodding, I limped to the pew and sat down, easing the ache in my right knee. "And you were named for Julianos?" he continued, taking the pew in front of me and turning sideways so he could look at me over its back.

"My mother told me I would seek knowledge and truth," I looked down at my clasped hands resting on my thighs. "But all I know is how to fight, how to kill, sir." Hearing the slight tremor in my voice, I took a breath to steady it. "She wanted me to follow in her footsteps, become an alchemist. But I wanted to be a fighter. Now I wonder if I took the wrong path."

"Who's to say you did?" Martin responded softly. "If you didn't know how to fight, how to kill, would you have been able to close that Gate?" He shook his head when I kept my silence. "I grew up the son of a farmer," he remarked, looking away from me. "But I found it dull, quite boring. I didn't want to spend the rest of my life working the land. So I joined the Mages Guild."

Recalling how he had utilized potent frost-flares to help me bring down a bandit we had encountered at dusk, I considered his words. "Is that where you learned how to cast those spells, sir?" I asked.

"Yes," he answered, his voice becoming dry. "I thought it would give me more adventure and power. Instead, I found it quite tedious - studying, studying, practicing, practicing, then studying some more, and so on. It seemed to take too long to advance. I never made it beyond apprentice level."

"What happened, then, sir?" Martin didn't meet my gaze. "If I may ask, sir," I added hastily.

"You may ask," Martin looked at me, a faint humor in his eyes. "Like-minded friends and I," he continued after a moment, "left the Guild to explore other ways of gaining power. We were reckless, and I made some - mistakes. People died. My friends died."

"I'm sorry, sir," I murmured when he paused, averting his eyes again. "It's hard, losing friends."

Still not meeting my gaze, Martin nodded, sighing. "It all seems so hubristic, now," he remarked. I frowned at the unfamiliar word.

"Hubristic, sir?" I repeated.

"Hubristic," Martin confirmed. "It means excessive pride or defiance of the gods, to the point of being one's own nemesis."

"Hubristic," I muttered to myself. Have I ever been hubristic? I've been over-confident at times. But have I ever defied Akatosh, or even Julianos?

"You are the last person I would consider to be hubristic," Martin's voice warmed with good humor. Chuckling silently, I shook my head.

"You didn't know me in my younger days, sir," I remarked. "In hindsight, I'm sure I caused my mother no end of grief growing up."

"And you've learned from your mistakes, I'm sure," Martin responded, smiling at me. "Now you're older, experienced, and you seem to know better."

"Huh," I felt my mouth lift on the right side. "There are days when I doubt that I do, sir." Like when I went into that Gate.

"We all do, Julian, we all do," Martin agreed. His smile faded. "When we met that Legion rider, what was his name -?"

"Hugh Berennus," I answered, thinking back. We had encountered him near Mortal Camp. He had remembered me from a few days before, and we had exchanged news.

"Hugh Berennus," Martin repeated. "Why didn't you tell him you were the one that closed the Oblivion Gate?"

Leaning back in the pew, I stretched my spine. "Why should I, sir?" I said after a moment. "It doesn't matter who closed the Gate, only that it was closed." He frowned at me. "It doesn't apply to you, sir," I continued, trying to find the words to explain. "But for most soldiers, there is something called 'need-to-know.' We only need to know that something needs to be done, not necessarily why or who. If my century is assigned to perform a task, we do it, we don't ask 'why is it necessary,' or, 'why us? Why not the other century?'"

"When I order you to jump," Carius, my first pilus, growled at us, pacing along the first rank, "you don't say 'Yes, sir!'"

"No sir!" Lariat piped up from somewhere behind me. "We ask 'How high, sir!'"

"Don't waste my frickin' time with that bull talk!" Carius roared back. "You just frickin' jump!" Now he glared at each of us in turn. I managed to keep my spine straight under that fierce stare. "Recruits! Jump!"

We jumped.

"Without question?" Martin asked, bringing me back to the present. "What if it is an immoral order? What if it is treacherous to the Emperor, or Akatosh himself?"

"It is the officer's job to question such orders, sir," I answered. "He or she must do so respectfully, and very carefully. The officers have sight of the greater picture, not the soldiers in the ranks themselves." Looking down at my hands, I avoided Martin's gaze. "Soldiers have to kill, and sometimes the civilians suffer. They may be caught between two opposing forces, or they may be harboring the enemy against their will, or their leaders may refuse to cooperate with us. Most people think we don't care about the innocent, but the truth is, we do." Taking a breath, I thought about the soldiers I had served with through the years. "Most of us, anyway," I continued. "If we were to challenge every order, not only would wars be lost, but more people would die in the ensuing confusion."

"It's hard to govern by committee, I suppose," Martin mused. "I suppose the same is true for the Legion."

"The ranks are asked to do the dirty job in war, sir," I continued. "All we can do is trust that our officers and leaders are working toward a higher goal." I shrugged. "It is sometimes the only way we can survive as a unit."

Martin rose to his feet and walked away, hands clasped behind his back, head bowed in thought. "And since you serve the Emperor," he mused, so quietly I could barely hear him, "you must always obey his order, correct?"

Eyeing him, I wondered where he was taking the conversation. "Yes, sir." Now Martin turned halfway towards me, his gaze sidelong at me.

"And the Emperor ordered you to find me?"

Blinking, I considered his words. "It was more a request of a man facing his death, sir," I said finally. "But I accepted it as an order."

"Why?"

Why, indeed? "Old habits, I suppose," I answered. "That, and he was courteous and respectful to me, when I was so wretched."

"Wretched?" Martin repeated. "You?"

"Just -" I did a quick count, seven already? "seven days ago, I was in a cell in the Imperial Prison. I had been in a brawl, though about what I don't remember. I had been drunk, and off skooma just a little too long -" I trailed off, avoiding Martin's gaze. He returned to the pew and sat down again, facing me.

"Go on, Julian," he prompted quietly. "You were in the Prison for drunk and disorderly."

In the dim lighting of the chapel, I saw again Uriel Septim's visage in front of me. Shivering, I blinked away the memory. Speaking in almost a whisper, I told Martin of how the Emperor had come into my cell on the last night of his life. The tears came when I told him of Uriel's courage and acceptance of his fate, how he had laid the Amulet in my hands, just before his death at the hands of an assassin.

Martin stared at me. "Uriel gave you the Amulet of Kings?" he muttered, incredulous. I nodded.

"I realized now how important it is," I responded. "But at the time, all I could see was how he grieved for the death of his sons, how prepared he was for his own death -" again my voice failed me. Taking a deep breath, I recovered my composure enough to continue. "I did not have the heart to refuse him."

This is so good it's magic! The moonlight through stained glass just makes it more so.

The ground you covered, largely through dialogue was important and wonderfully presented. You bring Martin's and Julian's decisions to life in a way that makes wonderful sense.

Ahah! Named after Julianos. Well, makes perfect sense. How neat was that?

The brief flashbacks to Julian's childhood are ALWAYS welcomed and relished.

I loved the touch of Martin explaining hubristic to Julian.

The use of references to events on the road between Kvatch and Skingrad was brilliant and very well done. It added some wonderful touches of depth to the time that passed between scenes.

Its hard to pin down exactly why, but this was one of my favorite chapters of Julian's so far. What a wonderful story, and you have made Julian such an endearing old soldier.

The way you did the last few paragraphs was so touching !!! Awesome Write!

I think think this moment of quiet introspection between the two is my favorite post so far. Probably because it so illuminates Julian. Not only do we see the source of her name (and here I thought it was to toughen her up ), but more importantly we see her reflecting on her own actions and motivations over the last week, and how the Emperor affected her. The entire thing is woven with such a light touch, that it all flows out like a gentle stream (hmm, how many metaphors can I throw in one sentence...).

I thought the third paragraph was the best thing of yours that I have read yet. Imagine my delight when things only got better from there. I think Acadian hit the nail on the head when he called this chapter 'magic'. Everything from your descriptions to your dialogue to your use of flashback flowed in a captivating dance with words. I was hypnotized by this chapter, even now I can't wait to finish these comments so that I can go back and read it again. Excellent!

@Acadian: Though Julian considers herself as Martin's bodyguard for the time being, she knows he is more educated than she is, especially in the area of magic and the arcane. She wants to learn more from him so she can begin to understand the things she saw in the Deadlands. In the past, she's fought against flesh-and-blood enemies, but she knows the first two rules of war - Know your ground, and Know your enemy - apply to the Oblivion Gates as well, though the rules of engagement may have changed.

And learning from Martin is Julian's way of living up to Julianos's code, only she doesn't realize it just yet.

@MALX1: I'm glad you found the last few paragraphs effective. The Emperor's assassination will haunt Julian forever, but she'll come to terms with it eventually.

@SubRosa: When I first played Julian in Oblivion, she wanted to learn everything she could. Like me, she read every book she came across, talked to as many people as she could, explored as many places as time and her sense of duty allowed her. Writing this story has allowed me to recapture that feeling of wonder. Julian's name did come from Julianos - as I have a science background, I'm drawn to knowledge. I'm a perpetual student, and so is Julian. It made sense to name her after the God of Wisdom and Logic.

It's interesting that you and others felt this is one of the best chapters I've written. I didn't feel that way, and scrapped and rewrote it at least three times before I said enough is enough and posted it. I guess all that hard work paid off. I did like the end result better than what I had originally written, though, and that ultimately matters, I guess. I do have other chapters coming up that I like better; it is my hope that all of my readers will find them better as well.

@Destri: You wanted to read it again? Now you know how I felt after the last two chapters you wrote of Alain and Valdemar! I'm glad to return the favor.

Speaking of being named after the God of Wisdom and Logic, Julian gets to learn another new thing:

***********
Chapter 5.2 Convalescence

A gentle touch on my arm rescued me from a maelstrom of uneasy emotion of loss, of fear. I lifted my head, blinking at the bright light from the altar. A small-boned Breton woman stepped back as I straightened up, her hand dropping from my shoulder. Her gaze held concern and wariness. Rubbing at my eyes until I saw stars, I looked around. The stained glass windows glowed with daylight. Beyond the Breton, Martin watched me patiently, the dark circles under his eyes still present.

"It's just past dawn, Julian," he said softly. "We should eat breakfast and go, if you're ready."

Taking a deep breath, I nodded. After the day yesterday, I felt stronger, refreshed. "We spent the night here?" I exclaimed softly.

"You fell asleep," Martin responded. "And I spent the night in meditation."

"I'm sorry, ma'am," I apologized to the Breton. "I didn't mean to fall asleep here."

"If you found some measure of peace here," the woman responded, her light voice nearly musical, "then that is all that matters." She frowned at me, and leaned forward to take my chin in a surprisingly strong but gentle grip. Turning my face this way and that, she traced the parallel slashes on my right cheek, now healed into raw scars.

"That's from no wolf or rat," she said quietly.

"Scamp," I muttered, tilting my head back out of her fingers and turning my head away.

"I'm Marie Palielle," the Breton woman volunteered, stepping back to let me out of the pew. "I'm the healer here. If you ever get injured in these parts, don't hesitate to see me."

I remembered something one of the Legion riders had said to me. "I'd like to learn how to cast a convalescence spell," I met her gaze uncertainly.

"See Tumindil," she pointed out the tall Altmer near the altar. "He's a little snobbish, but a good man. If you ask, I'm sure he'll teach you a spell, for a price."

Martin nodded when I glanced askance at him. He remained next to my gear, still stacked at the end of the pew. The Altmer lifted his head as I approached the altar uncertainly.

"Yes, what can I do for you, stranger?" he asked, his high brows arching higher at my patched leather cuirass and my scarred face.

"I'd like to learn a convalescence spell, sir," I murmured hesitantly.

"Do you know how to cast a healing spell on yourself, then?" When I nodded, he gestured impatiently. "Well then, show me."

Momentarily off balance, I wavered. Thinking about pain and blood, I felt the white energy surge down my arm, and I raised my fist and opened my hand to let that surge cascade around me.

"As I thought," Tumindil mused to himself. "You're a novice. One must be an apprentice in restoration magic to be able to cast a convalescence spell. Hmm, can you do it again?"

His tone irritated me, and I took a deep breath to calm myself before repeating the spell. "How do I become an apprentice?" I asked him.

"Ah, you can join the Mages Guild," Tumindil responded. "But if that is not your style, then simply practice this small spell of yours and gain experience. Then you will be able to cast a convalescence spell on your friends. It will cost more of your magicka." He regarded me a moment longer, then smiled. "Your desire to heal others is admirable. And I believe you are close to becoming an apprentice of restoration. I will teach you the cheapest convalescence spell." He named a price that made me blink.

Counting out the septims, I looked up at him. "If I'm not ready to cast this spell, how can you teach me?"

"Oh, knowledge and ability are often two separate things," Tumindil's smile grew wider. "I can teach you how, so when you can, you will be able to do so."

Dubiously, I handed over the septims. He drew me off to one side, near Mara's window. "Tell me what you do to heal yourself," he said. Slowly, I shook my head.

"I don't think about it," I said. "It's something that comes when I'm in pain, or bleeding."

"What do you feel then, when you cast it?" Tumindil asked, nodding encouragement.

"I'm not sure how to put it into words," I faltered, taking a deep breath. "It's a power that comes from down my arm from here," I touched my briastbone with my knuckles, "and builds up in here," I held up my fist, "and escapes around me when I open my hand like so."

Tumindil was nodding vigorously. "You're well on your way to understanding," he murmured. I stared at him. Was that excitement in his voice? "Have you ever tried, well, holding that power in?" he clenched his fist to demonstrate. I shrugged.

"Is it supposed to hurt when I hold it?" I asked him.

"That is how you make a stronger spell," he confirmed. "Hold it in as long as you can. Of course, it will build up, and take more of your magicka, so you will take longer to recover." Again that impatient gesture. "Try your spell again, but hold it in as long as you can."

I obeyed, keeping my fist clenched above my head. The energy I could feel built up in my hand, fighting to open it against my will. My forearm and wrist ached, then a sharp, silver pain shot down my arm into my shoulder. I gasped, my fingers flying open, and the magic surged up then cascaded around me. The pain disappeared almost immediately, but I was left gasping and dizzy. Tumindil caught my shoulders as I staggered, steadying me easily.

"Did that hurt?" he asked. Blinking away the tears, I nodded. "Now you understand more," he continued. "Don't hold it in so long that it hurts like it did just now. Let it go before that pain comes." His gaze sharpened on me. "Does that make sense, Redguard?"

I nodded. It did make sense! The comprehension must have been clear on my face, for Tumindil smiled in satisfaction. "So how is a convalescence spell different from a healing spell?" I asked him.

"Ah, I'm glad you asked that!" he exclaimed. "You are quite an apt pupil, indeed." He held up his long-fingered hand and started ticking off his fingers as he continued. "A spell is made of three components, first the effect," he tapped the first finger, "in this case restore health. Secondly," he indicated the second finger, "the means of transmission - self," he tapped his own chest, "touch," he reached out and laid his palm gently against my shoulder, "or target," he flung his hand out toward Martin, still waiting beside my pack.

"And the third thing," he continued, touching the next finger, "is strength or duration of the effect. That is most dependent on your amount of magicka and the strength of your willpower. As you practice, this third effect will increase." Tumindil touched my shoulder again, murmuring softly. White light passed from his fingers into my shoulder, and I felt my shakiness disappear. He nodded at Martin again. "Try casting this energy of yours at your friend."

Regarding Martin dubiously, I imagined him injured, hurt and bleeding. For some reason, the memory of the Emperor lying dead came into my mind. The white energy surged down my arm rapidly, and I barely kept the presence of mind to cast that energy toward Martin instead of letting it cascade around me. The magic, however, fizzled as soon as it left my fingers.

"You see," Tumindil laid a hand on my shoulder as I stared at my fingertips. "You do not yet have the will to throw your magic. But it will come, I can see that." He shook me gently, drawing my attention back to him. "What did you think of when you made that attempt just now?"

"I imagined Martin hurt," I said, my voice unsteady. "Then I remembered a - a friend who was killed recently," my voice broke. Tumindil squeezed my shoulder in sympathy.

"You are a Protector," he leaned down to me. "You want to keep harm from your friends, and from those who are innocent, no?" After considering his words for a moment, I nodded. "Ah, yes, and you can not bear to see them hurt, yes?" Surprised at the Altmer's assessment of my own heart, I nodded again. "That alone bodes well for your ability. There," he tapped my chest, "lies your secret, your power. The desire to protect others from harm, and to heal them when they are injured, drives your restoration spells. Don't deny that desire."

I looked down at my hands, thinking over his words. That was worth the price. I met Tumindil's gaze. "Thank you very much, sir. I will not forget."

The Altmer's smile belied the arrogance Palielle suggested he possessed. "It is not every day I get such an apt pupil. It has been my pleasure."

Martin lifted an eyebrow in askance at me as I returned to my gear. "I learned something," I answered the unspoken question. "Now I must practice to use it."

Altmer reaches out and taps chest - Wooot (just beating Foxy to it, ROFL!) I loved the healing lesson!

Oh no! At first, I thought Julian was going to get 'taken' for her septims. No wonder she was dubious. I'm so glad we were wrong!

A wonderful view of magic that you portray. Close to what the game depicts, yet you make it seem and feel very real and natural.

Something about the way you introduced and described Palielle - I could LITERALLY hear that soft lilting Breton accent - whatever you did, it was amazing!

This was just a delightful chapter! :celebration:



A question for you:
I nodded. It did make sense! The comprehension must be clear on my face, for Tumindil smiled in satisfaction.
This seemed like a jump to present tense that didn't feel right. I would have thought 'must have been clear'. Did I miss something or do I not understand?

Who needs a Foxy when there is a REALLY Foxy female around...

...


... I really liked that explanation of how Magika works, Haute. Perhaps in later chapters you can write an episode of the Arcane University with a lecture? You are an excellent teacher and lecturer - it shows through your writing.

I enjoyed this chapter thoroughly! Very fun! It was a very refreshing illumination of how magic works, that is completely in keeping with the mechanics of the game. I find writing like this that builds the setting by showing us how things in the world works are among my favorites. The reason being that they illustrate how people live their lives. Just as when it comes to history, I am far more interested in learning things about the daily life of people than memorizing a litany of wars and battles.

I am not sure if you are aware of it, but you even worked in some real world mechanics of using magic. Namely you described what is often called building the 'cone of power', which is a fancy way of saying drawing energy up and building it into a highly charged unit before directing it.


nits:
I think that tricksy Altmer inserted a space after your quotation mark here:
" is strength or duration of the effect.
Never trust those Altmer, they are always up to something...

A very interesting chapter that moves things forward while hinting at things just beyond the reader's sight at this point. I wonder, will Julian eventually find her way into the Mage's Guild? Even though Julian was raised in Anvil, she must know how we of the Ra'Gada feel towards Nudri-hi!

Back on topic: I thought that conducting a lesson on healing under the stained-glass painting of Mara was an especially nice touch.

A very intriguing expansion on the spell casting process. I'm glad you are taking the time to work on the things the game doesn't do well.

@mALX1: I'm glad you enjoyed it! I hope I made it more interesting than high school Biology!

@Acadian: Oh thank you, thank you, O Master of Verb Tenses! This was one part of grammar I never quite mastered! Past present. Future present. Future past. Past future. ARGH! Fixed!

@D.Foxy: Well, a vixen enjoys having a fox around . . .

Have patience, and your wish may be granted!

@SubRosa: Magic is energy, of sorts. And energy is ruled by physics. Leastaways, that is how I've always regarded it. Electricity and nuclear energy (fission and fusion, both) come closest to describing what happens in magic, I believe. I've always subscribed to the proverb "Yesterday's magic is tomorrow's science." To hear some of the mages talk about their research, I do think that is the way it works.

I'm glad you enjoyed the restoration lesson!

@Destri: Hmm, not all Redguards are against magic. Borissean is one of the more powerful mages in the University, as I recall. They are limited by their magicka, I believe, but more so by cultural mores. Still, it's interesting to see how Julian considers magic. That will continue to evolve as the story goes on. I think you will see that Julian learns it is invaluable in combat when she is alone, rather than as part of a highly trained unit.

And what about the Way of the Spirit Sword? Yes, I've been hitting Hammerfell lore!

@bobg: Magicka is something that I found to be interesting for the first time in Oblivion. In other games where I've used magic, it's been mostly in combat, as advanced (or maybe not so advanced?) weaponry in the player's arsenal. Oblivion is the first game I've played where it's used for other things, such as healing. It's the first game where the physics of magic became very interesting, nay, intriguing, for me. Guess I'm like Julian in that way.

Thanks to all my readers. I hope you continue to enjoy this thread!

Now Julian introduces Martin to a friend of hers and Paint's. I'm sure you all remember him, hopefully as fondly as I do.

***************

Chapter 5.3 Lunch and Stories

The walk through the West Weald east of Skingrad was quiet. The imps I had encountered on my way to Kvatch still lay beside the road outside Greenmead Cave. It reminded me of something that had been bothering me.

"There's this flare spell," I said, "but my problem with it is that it only comes when I'm angry, sir."

"Well, of course, anger and rage are the driving forces for destruction spells," Martin explained. "But we must always keep it focused, or the spell will not be effective."

"In other words, don't lose my temper, sir?" I asked. He nodded in response. Thinking about it for a few moments, I glanced at him. "I never could cast a destruction spell before, sir," I remarked. "That's pretty new, only since I left the Prison. I'm not sure why I can do this now."

We walked along in silence, Martin's eyes unfocused. He shook himself and returned my gaze briefly. "Julian, are you as strong now as you were when you served in the Legion?"

"No, sir," I answered. "Those wounds, and the past four years, took away a lot of my strength, and my skills."

"Would it be fair to say that when you're in combat now, you're scared more than you were before?"

Combat was pretty scary then. "Yes, sir, I guess so," I said slowly. "There's been a couple of times I've been glad these greaves are dark brown -"

Martin shot me a startled glance, then laughed shortly. For a second there, his cares and tension melted away, and I smiled at his humor. Then he grew sober again, though his hazel eyes still sparkled. "There's a pretty fine line between fear and anger," he said. "Likely you're scared, then you get angry that you're so scared -" Again he glanced at me.

"I guess I get pissed a lot quicker than I used to, sir," I commented. "And that's why I can cast flares all of a sudden?"

"Well, it doesn't come spontaneously," Martin responded thoughtfully. "Like your healing spell, it's something that most people learn as very young children. You may not remember learning it, but you always knew how to cast it." He shrugged. "But it would explain why it's come back to you now."

********************

The high sun was being chased by gathering clouds when we reached the Red Ring Road. Paint began walking slower as we crossed the bridge across the draw. He returned my gaze steadily, but I thought he looked tired.

"We have been walking a long way," Martin commented, looking at Paint as well. "He will keep going as long as we do, but he needs a rest soon." He sighed. "As a matter of fact, so do I."

Feeling the growing dampness in the balmy air, I surveyed our surroundings. "There's Weye," I pointed out the hamlet to Martin. "I know someone there."

"If you are sure we wouldn't impose on his hospitality," Martin remarked. "I would be glad of a short rest, and I think Paint would, too."

As I hoped, Merowald was in his garden, tending the beautiful blooms. He heard Paint's hoofbeats on the cobblestones and straightened up to look in our direction. Recognizing the gelding and I, he moved to the little paddock and opened the gate for Paint. "'ail, good Julian!" he greeted me cheerfully, working to draw water for the horse. "Bring your 'orse over here, and sit down there," he pointed at the garden bench near his front door. "Take a load off, and tell me what news ye 'ave, friends," his friendly gaze included Martin.

The Imperial seemed a little relieved by Merowald's hearty welcome. As we sat down side by side on the bench, Merowald set the full bucket down in front of Paint.

"Well, we have walked from Skingrad," I began, when the aged Breton returned to the garden.

"Ye must be parched after walking all morning!" Merowald exclaimed. "Let me fetch you some food and water. The road is dusty today." He held up a finger. "Just a moment."

Leaning back with a sigh next to Martin, I watched the cloud shadows cover the land. The warmth of the sun disappeared, replaced by the chill of impending rain. "It's nearly fall," Martin commented. "We are turning toward winter. The days are getting shorter and colder."

Merowald returned with a tray full of bread, cheese, and smoked mutton. He handed us tumblers full of water, and set the tray on the bench between Martin and I. Merowald pulled up a stool. "Now, good friend," he said to me, sitting down, "the last time I saw ye, ye were alone and poor. Now it seems ye 'ave moved up in the world," he gestured toward the hilt of my steel longsword at my left side. "With a new friend," he nodded at Martin. He met the Imperial's gaze as Martin assembled a sandwich of mutton, cheese and the wonderful bread.

"This is delicious, Merowald," I commented, taking a bite out of my own construction. "Thanks for this." Seeing the curiosity in the Breton's eyes, I nodded at my companion. "This is Brother Martin. He is a priest of Akatosh. Martin, this is Aelwin Merowald, retired fisherman."

"My pleasure," Martin offered around a mouthful of his sandwich. "This is good food, sir. Thank you for your hospitality."

"Did Julian ever tell ye 'ow we met?" Merowald asked. Martin shook his head. As I squirmed, Merowald told an overly flattering tale of our encounter, his offer to care for Paint, and my payment of twelve Tamriel Barracudas. "A stranger, on the road to somewhere, not in great 'ealth 'erself, took on the burden of 'elping me, a poor, crippled old fisherman! And all I 'ad to give 'er was a little ring -" his voice trailed off as his eye fell on my right hand, where the brass pearl ring encircled my little finger.

"All you gave me?" I countered, swallowing the grub first. "You gave me an enchanted ring, and more importantly, your friendship, the value of which you are proving right now."

Merowald shrugged. "Aye, it's the least I can do," he remarked bashfully. His eyes sharpened on us. "But now, dear Julian, tell me 'ow ye came to return in just a few days with fine gear, and a fine friend," he nodded at Martin.

"I traveled to Kvatch -" I began, and that was as far as I got.

"Ye were at Kvatch?" Merowald interrupted, interested. "Is it true? The 'ole city is destroyed?"

"Yes, pretty much," I answered grimly. "An Oblivion Gate opened in front of the city, and daedra invaded the place. I'm told they had a siege engine that came right over the walls and killed most of the people there. The Count was killed in the Castle, the Guard decimated, and very few civilians left." A glance at Martin showed him sitting quietly, downcast eyes on the half-eaten sandwich in his hands. "Martin managed to get some of the civilians into the chapel. I guess Akatosh was in that chapel that night, for the daedra could not gain entrance, though only two of the Guard were left to hold the place."

I thought again of the guardsmen, of Matius. "Savlian Matius, one of the Guard, managed to get other survivors out of the city. He had the remaining guardsmen set up a barricade at the top of the road in front of the Gate to keep back the daedra. Their bravery saved the survivors."

Merowald turned to Martin. "I am sorry, good sir," he spoke quietly. "Ye must 'ave lost many good friends on that terrible night."

"So I did, good friend," Martin responded, his calm tone belying the grief I knew he still felt. "And yes, Savlian was very brave to hold the road against the daedra. Tierra and Berich Inian were the two guardsmen in the chapel with us, they too gave much courage to hold out until Savlian and Julian could get to us."

"Ah," Merowald's voice took on a note of satisfaction as he regarded me. Ducking my head, I focused on my sandwich. "I knew Julian 'ad more good deeds in 'er. So tell me, Brother Martin, 'ow did good, brave Savlian and Julian rescue ye?"

Martin glanced wryly at me. "She closed that Oblivion Gate."

"By 'erself?" Merowald exclaimed, astonishment clear in his voice. "And that is why," he pointed at the scabbard of my steel sword, "she is named 'ero of Kvatch?"

"Aye, that is why she is the Hero of Kvatch," Martin's tone was firm, though a little amused. "One thing I've noticed, traveling with Julian, is that she is quick to speak of bravery and courage in others, but says next to nothing of her own."

"Why, I never -" Merowald declared, regarding me more intently. "I knew Julian 'ad a good 'eart, but to go into Oblivion alone, why, that is a true 'ero!" He smiled at my growing discomfort. "Ah, my good friend," he leaned forward to grasp my right shoulder in his still-strong hand, "I will always remember ye as the stranger who 'elped me find a comfortable retirement. Ye are always welcome 'ere, friend."

Paint wandered over to the stone wall separating the garden from the paddock, clearly refreshed. Martin licked the last of his sandwich off of his fingers, finishing the water and sitting back with a replete sigh.

"More water, or food, per'aps?" Merowald reached for the empty tray.

"No, thanks," Martin shook his head. When Merowald glanced at me, I, too, shook my head.

"We have far to go before we are done, and the day is growing late."

"Very well," Merowald rose, taking the tray under one arm. "I'm glad ye took the time, then, to visit an old man and tell 'im stories."

"It seems you told us a good story, yourself," Martin responded, rising to his feet and bowing slightly to the shorter Breton. I stood too, but found myself being hugged by the old man.

"Do come by again, Julian, Brother Martin," he said to us. He clasped my upper arm in his free hand. "When ye are a great and famous 'ero, do not forget the old fisherman of Weye!"

"I'll never be great, or famous," I responded. "But I will never forget you, Merowald."