It's been far too long since I've posted anything up here. In 2005 I joined these forums, and started posting a fanfic called Poisonous Garden. I posted about 40,000 words, realised I wasn't happy with it, and removed it. In 2008 I tried again, managed about 6,000 words. Same end result. I've never stopped writing, but I did give up on the idea of writing fanfics, purely because starting a new one seemed like admitting defeat. And this one simply wouldn't go away. This is my final attempt. This is going to be posted, and completed this time. Or else I'll end up breaking things and drooling in a padded room, gibbering about a bloody Altmer named Tusamiel, and how his story simply COULD NOT be told...


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POISONOUS GARDEN




Three hundred and eighty two days. That's how long I was in jail for. What my life had been worth. Not too bad really. People died for far less. Jailed for attempting to steal “sensitive information and for the murder of upstanding guards” as I tried to make my escape. Not that the "sensitive information" had been there when I broke in. Had probably ever been there, I suspect. I suppose I could have pleaded my innocence, begged for mercy or forgiveness. That's not really me though. Especially when I was guilty as hell of everything they accused me of, and a whole lot more they didn't know about. So, I kept my tongue, acted dumb. Took whatever punishment they dished out, some of it, even I had to admit, impressively creative. Learned what I could, and kept on thinking. What would I do if I ever saw them again? How would I act? The future is not yet written, a lot can happen in a few days, and I've always been kind of a gambling man. A weakness some say.

So I'm here, sitting on a damp wooden bench on the lower level of a boat, tied up to the oars, along with all the other slaves. Heading to who knows where. Not that it matters. All that matters is now. The water sounds deeper now than before. The ship seems to be moving slower. Waves sound like they're getting heavier. Maybe a storm brewing. Not much I can do but listen now. But I'm still alive, and who knows what surprises can come. Lot of men lost at sea over the years. Life is still full of opportunities.


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Sun's Dusk, 3E 427


The storm was unrelenting. Overhead the sky was dark and ominous with visibility down to a minimum. A few feet into the murky fog was as far as the eye could see, until an angry rumble of thunder gave warning of the next brief blinding flash of lightning. For a few seconds each time the shadows lifted, giving just enough light to see the next colossal wave attacking. The waves themselves crashed into one another, the resulting spray arching ferociously into the sky before returning to its source. The sea was as a raging beast let loose on an uncontrolled rampage, determined to wreak destruction and havoc before its power was diminished. In the midst of this tempest, a ship sailed, seemingly tiny and defenceless, as the elements heaved it around with abandon. Each enormous wave, which crashed heavily into the ship, caused it to tilt dangerously to one side, looking as if it were sure to capsize, before somehow managing to balance itself. On numerous occasions, for several seconds at a time, it disappeared as a wave covered it. Then just as it seemed swallowed by the sea, it re-appeared. The name on the side seemed inappropriate; The Harmony was not in its natural element. As it regained equilibrium once more, the sound of wood creaked violently as the ship's bows struggled against the relentless pressure. Although it had been a veteran of many voyages, and had seen all manner of different climates and weather conditions, The Harmony was struggling like never before.

Three figures were visible on the top deck, two of them slipping and sliding across the treacherous water drenched floor, as they struggled to keep The Harmony afloat. All three were Nords, two men and a woman, all dripping wet. Their clothes had long since given up the battle, and were now torn and ragged. Whatever garments remained were pasted onto their flesh, guaranteeing a painful removal procedure if they ever made it back into the safety of indoors. The Nordic race was renowned for producing brave and hardy sailors, but even with their skill and experience, they were finding it gruelling. The two men were frantically pulling a rope connected to the main sail towards them, straining against the might of the wind. Their efforts were in response to instructions shouted from the female as she wrenched the wheel of the vessel. Her voice was barely audible over the sounds of the storm, and she had resorted to indicating with large gestures with her hands the direction she wanted the sail pointed, before grabbing the wheel urgently once again. Waves were crashing over the top of the ship with alarming regularity now, each time the force of the water caused the sailors to lose their balance and cling on to the rope for dear life to avoid being swept over the side. The storm seemed to be growing in intensity. The thunder was louder and more menacing, and the lightning flashes more severe and coming at much shorter intervals.

"Pay attention, we're tilting again! Aenar watch out for the boom, it's going to knock you over if you aren't careful," Captain Hjotra shouted. The salt in the spray coated the inside of her mouth, causing her to grimace. Spitting the bitter taste out, she motioned towards them again.

The men just stared at her, uncomprehending. Hjotra shouted it again, but the words were lost in the gale. One of the men cupped his hand to ear, and gestured in frustration. With a muttered curse, Hjotra let go of the ship's wheel with her left hand, and waved him over impatiently.

"Sorry Captain, I can't hear you in this wind," he said when he reached her side, still wiping water out of his eyes.

She grabbed his arm and pulled his ear closer to her. "Pull the rope to the mainsail towards the port side; get Frakig to hold the boom steady, it keeps coming close to hitting you."

"I got it Captain."

Aenar staggered back to the mainsail, and shouted in Frakig's ear. As they moved to their respective stations, a wave viciously swept over the hull and smashed straight into the two men. Aenar hastily grabbed the rope, then watched in horror as Frakig disappeared behind him, and sighed in relief when he managed to grab onto the windlass as he was washed backwards. When the wave had passed, he ran back across to the Captain, almost losing his balance when the ship sharply leant to one side.

"Condition's are too strong Captain," he shouted. "We can't move the sail and stay onboard at the same time."

"Well we aren't going to remain upright for very long in this," Hjotra said. "We need to get the wind working with us, not against us."

Frakig reached them, still walking unsteadily, his face as white as a sheet. Blood trickled out of a gaping cut on his cheek, the rest of his skin already discoloured in patches from the bruises. Aenar shrugged helplessly. "We've only three people Captain, it's not possible. All I..."

They looked forward in horror at was coming. A gigantic wave, three or four times the height of the boat was heading straight for them. The three sailors made a collective grab for support, and got as close to the floor as possible. A heart-stopping boom heard a second later, as the wave hit the front of the ship head on. The entire front of The Harmony lifted vertically, the mainsail making an ear-splitting wail as it protested. For what seemed like a lifetime, the ship remained in that position before passing over the crest and landing back with a resounding thud.

Hjotra gingerly pulled herself back to her feet, looking around her. Frakig and Aenar remained crouched down, eyes still tightly shut. She took a deep breath, and reached across, tapping them both on the shoulder. "We can't just keep reacting to what happens, we won't last another ten minutes."

Frakig nodded in heartfelt agreement.

"I'm not disagreeing with you,” said Aenar. “But what can we do? Without more..."

"We've got more men downstairs," Hjotra said. "Go down to the lower deck and tell Valius that we need him and the slaves help, or else we're going to bloody well sink! Now Aenar!"

Aenar nodded, and scurried as quickly as he dared over the slippery deck to the door leading below. The stench hit Aenar as soon as he had opened the door. The room reeked of vomit. It filled his nostrils and caught in the back of his throat, causing an involuntary gag. With a pinched face, he attempted not to breathe too deeply and surveyed the room.

The spectacle confronting him did not fill him with confidence. Slaves sat on benches, chained to oars, in various states of distress. The majority of the armed slavers guarding them fared no better. Buckets had been placed on the floor for the nauseous slavers, and rapidly been filled. The slaves were sick on themselves, staining the rags they wore, and dripping down to pool around their feet. Each time the boat tilted to one side the sick spilled out of the overflowing buckets and dribbled across the floor, staining the wood. Next to one of the buckets hunched a slaver on all fours, seemingly oblivious to the mess he knelt in, as he raucously puked his guts up. For a second there was no other sound than the retching echoing back off the walls of the confined space. The oil lamps hanging from beams at each end of the room swayed with the boat's movements, illuminating pale queasy faces staring back at him.

Leaning against the wall behind them was Valius, watching him intently as he made his way gingerly across the slippery floor.

"Commander Valius," Aenar said, as he stood in front of him. He wasn't sure whether he was supposed to stand to attention himself or at the very least call the commander, sir. Of course, he wasn’t a commander anymore, but that’s still what everyone called him. Once a Legion officer, always a Legion officer.

"What is it?" Valius asked. Tall by Imperial standards and broad shouldered he cut an imposing figure. His face showed the scenes of a life spent as a soldier, faded scars crisscrossing his forehead, and a particularly vicious scar across the width of his neck. His eyes looked grey and cold, not displaying much emotion as he looked back at him.

"We've got a problem Commander. The storm is getting worse. With just the three of us on the top deck we can't cope," said Aenar.

Valius raised an eyebrow, and pushed himself off the wall. His voice was deep and warm, suggesting many years of experience and practise of speechcraft to rally his troops. "You need the slaves?"

"I'm afraid so. Without more manpower the ship has no chance." As though noticing the plight around him for the first time, Aenar asked, "Are they alright?"

"They're seasick. First time on a boat in turbulent seas for some of them. How many do you need?"

"As many as can help, the rest to keep rowing the oars."

Valius nodded decisively. "Right, we’ll be up in a minute. I’ll grab the best of them."

"Thank you Commander.”

Valius watched Aenar depart, then walked resolutely into the middle of the room, and slowly turned. The expressionless face and urbane voice were gone. In their place was a fire in the eyes, and a voice that was used to being obeyed without question. When he was sure he had their undivided attention he began. "Right, you all heard that. I’m going to pick any man I think capable, those who remain, stay at the oars. Those topside will have to have their shackles unlocked. Try anything stupid and I’ll teach you pain you never dreamed possible, assuming you even survive the storm. Are we clear? Good. You look like you can help, you too...”

Nobel goal who have their Sir Burnt of Sierra, I ever so hope you succeed.

Care if I offer a couple of suggestion?

Well I'm going to do it regardless.

First one is to space your dialogue, when reading on a screen it makes it hard to follow when it's all squished together. It would be better if you spaced dialogue like this;

"Hello," she said.

The man his hands back into the hat,

"How ya doing, miss."

Besides the spacing, did you see the comma after hello? When denoting who says what (he shouted, he exclaimed, he said, etc) then you replace the period with a comma unless it ends with an exclamation mark (!) or a question mark (?). Also, I would put the ships name in italics to make it more clear.

Nice story though, a good opening and await for you to hopefully finish this adventure. I'll try focusing more on the story itself next entry. Good Luck.

Moesring Mountains, Solstheim
Hearthfire, 3E 426

Peering through the heavy snow that was falling, Tusamiel watched the Snow Bear cautiously sniff the dead wolf. He wondered if it could smell anything. His own nose was so cold; he doubted he could have smelt a three-day-old fish. It paused, stepped back, and lifted its head, looking around. After a moment, seemingly confident that there was no threat nearby, its body relaxed, and it continued its examination. Underneath the white cover he had placed over himself, Tusamiel could barely feel his legs from having remained stationary for so long in the freezing cold. Slowly and carefully, he changed his position, afraid that any sudden movements would alert the bear to his presence. He looked behind him, at the way he had come. No footprints left now, the snow had filled them in. No sign anyone had been this way. He had been careful not to draw attention, even though the only sign of life had been a small group of Riekling Raiders, riding past on those strange wild boars they used. The snowstorm had been gaining in intensity even then, and the Rieklings had shown no great desire to be outside any longer than necessary, passing by at speed, peering straight ahead through the falling flakes. Nobody else stupid enough to be out here, just the bear and me. Everything had turned white. The distinctive green and brown pine trees that littered the island where completely covered with snow, and any Belladona plants and Holly Bushes had disappeared in drifts some time back. It made the Snow Bear even harder to spot. It’s almost futile. Trying to see white fur against a white background, through heavy white flakes. Almost as if the Gods themselves had intentionally removed all colour from the world.

He had been staying at the settlement at Thirsk for almost a month now, recovering from injuries he had suffered on his last mission. Rest and recuperation Caius had ordered, probably assuming he would find a nice fishing village in the sun, and spend his days lazily staring into the water. No, he decided, Caius wouldn’t have thought that. Caius knew him as well as anyone. After all, it was Caius who had offered him a position in the Blades, almost eight years ago now he realised with surprise, after the break up with Helende had gone south and made Sadrith Mora and the Guild a little less friendly. Instead, he had gone straight to Khuul, and come by boat to Solstheim. After the debacle in Vivec, he had felt the need to regain his sharpness. He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a small package. Cold, dry wolf meat, cooked the other day, salted, then hung outside to keep fresh. He pulled the paper covering it down, took a bite, rewrapping the package carefully, and put it back in his pocket. The salty taste did not mix well with his chafed and frozen lips, and he had to force himself to keep chewing. Keep eating, even if it does taste disgusting. It’s too easy to lose your strength when it’s this cold.

The armourer in Thirsk, noticing his frequent trips out hunting, had offered payment for the fur of a Snow Bear, if he happened to come across one. Supposedly, they possessed magical properties, which made for superior armour. Given that Tusamiel had enjoyed their hospitality, he had agreed to bring one without the need for payment, although he sensed that he would not have to pay for another drink for the duration of his stay if he was successful. He had made the right decision, he thought, when he had imagined that Thirsk would make the ideal location for his recovery. Far enough away from the Imperial fort in the south to feel secluded, yet not close enough to the intolerant to outsiders Skaal settlement to be wary, and with the added bonus of an impressively stocked mead hall. Tusamiel smiled at the thought of living amongst the Skaal. They were well known for distrusting Imperials, and were rumoured to have problems with the Falmer, though he suspected they were nothing more than local superstition, having never seen one, so he could just imagine how they would have received an unknown and uninvited Altmer.

Thinking of Helende still made him maudlin. After they had ended, she had started to date Hecerinde of the Guild, a move he had been convinced was designed to make him jealous. It had worked too; he still could not stand the man. That had not worked out either though; Hecerinde was in Balmora now, whilst Helende remained in Sadrith Mora. Tusamiel had seen him a few times, sticking out in his pretentious silk shirts, leaving the South Wall Cornerclub.

Keeping a close eye on the bear, as it continued its examination of the wolf, he reached under his blanket, and slowly pulled out the Bonemold longbow he carried, and carefully rose to a crouch, holding his breath as steady as possible. A work of art, he thought, as he admired it. Given to him on his last birthday, a gift from Rithleen, made by her own hands. The first birthday he had celebrated since he was a child back in Lilandril, well over thirty years ago. Caius had managed to bring every Blade based in Vvardenfell to Balmora for the night, even Sjorvar and Elone had made it, and they very rarely ventured into the city. It wasn’t just the bow, the arrows were handcrafted too, he thought proudly, as he pulled one onto the bow’s string. A fine gift and one I would never have expected. His hands were cold, snow had found its way in over the top of his gloves, and was melting on his skin. He resisted the urge to take off the glove. No more movement than necessary.

The bear had lost interest in the wolf, and was looking around again. The wind was picking up, blowing from the east, making one side of Tusamiel’s face feel raw. He saw the bear turn, and watched as it started ambling unhurriedly toward where he crouched. Tusamiel waited until he was sure the bear must see him, pulled the string taut, and released.

Rock on Burnt! I have two things to say and I really do apologize for the first one. I'm no sailor, but in the movies I'm used to seeing the crews taking down the sails so that the wind won't snap the mast off. Could a reason be added why they're trying to speed through the storm such that they need the sails and rowers going at it?

Secondly, you might want to mention somewhere that Tusamiel has giant brass balls. This guy attacks snow bears to get free beer, that's pretty epic motivation. I love it.