PART 1
Othroktide

Darkness falls across the land.
The Midnight hour is close at hand.
Creatures crawl in search of blood.
To terrorize your neighborhood.
And whosoever shall be found.
Without the soul of getting down.
Then stand and face the Hounds of Hell.
And rot inside a corpses shell.

The foulest stench is in the air.
The stunk of many long years.
And grisly ghouls from every tomb.
Are closing in to seal your doom.
And though you fight to stay alive.
Your body starts to shiver.
For no common mortal can resist.
The evils of the dead.

3E 253, 16th of Morning's Star
Meir Darguard, High Rock

Othrok patted his mother awkwardly on her shoulder as she sobbed into his shoulder. He knew that he would have been unable to avoid this tearful farewell, and he knew, to, that this could very well be the last time he saw his mother's tears, for earlier that year, his Majesty of Sharnhelm had raised his Black Bear Standard, declaring war upon the neighboring kingdom of Camlorn, and all the towns and cities within the kingdom had been compelled to provide men for Sharnhelm's army. Othrok himself had been exempt from the recruiting, owing to his noble blood and his father paying the scutage tax.

But Othrok wanted fame, and the riches that ransoming knights could give. So, going against his family's wishes, Othrok had joined the Count of Meir Darguard's household, and was expecting to ride to war within the day.

While a farewell with his mother was the forgone event, obtaining a blessing and farewell from his father would be much more difficult. The man hadn't forgiven his son for going against his wishes, and he had yet to make an appearance at the family's modest house, having said that he had had business in town, and though that had occured several hours ago, he had yet to make an appearance. Othrok thought that it was certainly be one of Life's great tragedies if he was to ride of to war and die without seeing his father just one more time.

The clock hanging on the wall of the Drawing Room went off as the hour struck four, piercing the silence of the household, grating on Othrok's frayed nerves. "I'm sure your father will be back in time to bid you farewell, Othrok. He is just busy." Othrok regarded his mother with thinly veiled skepticism. Sniffing, she said hotly, "Do not look at me that way, young man, I know that man better than any that lives, and I know that he will be back in time." He continued to be unconvinced until, fifteen minutes before he was due to depart, his father entered into the Drawing Room. His red hair was matted and his clothes were splattered with blood, but his eyes were holding back tears.

"My son, come with me." Leaving the comfort of the Drawing Room and into the courtyard, Othrok was shocked by what his father had brought back with him. There, being handled by one of his father's trusted grooms, was the finest horse the young man had ever seen. It stood at least fourteen hands high, with a coat of glossy brown. Seeing his son's shock, the man slapped Othrok on the back, "I know that those tales your mother read to you when you were young always told of the knight and his great white steed, but I've learned in my years that it is the quality of a horse that matters, not what color it is."

"Papa....I don't...I don't know what to say. How much did he cost?"

He shook his head, "It doesn't matter. What matters is that you will being going to war on the best horse in the army." Stepping forward, he took the reins of the stallion from the groom and handed them to his son. "He is my gift to you, Othrok, a farewell gift if you will. And once you get back from war, then I can think of no finer steed to take to the tournaments."

As Othrok and his father embraced one last time, the bell ringing five was sounding. "That would be the call to war," Othrok's father said lightly, trying to hide the sadness he felt, "you'd best not keep the Count waiting." Othrok, wiping the tears from his eyes, strode over to the horse, looking it in the eyes. A moment passed between them before he swung up into the saddle. His mother had come out to join them, and Othrok thought that this was a truly fitting sight. His father and mother, standing together, witnessing with tears in their eyes their only son riding off to fight in a war that had nothing to do with him.

*

Somewhere in Greater Bretony

Angharad leaped over a fallen tree, almost crassing down into the underbrush of the forest. She could hear the shrieks and moans of the abominations chasing after her, and the thought passed through her mind that she could very well die, only a few yards from the safety of the Vale of Kynareth. Getting back to her wind, she continued sprinting, refusing to look back and see how close the beasts following her were, but she had the feeling that if she didn't reach her home soon, that she would certainly join her pursuers in their foul undeath.

She could see the Vale, and a grin spread across her face as she finally broke through the last tangle, crashing into the great fur that formed the center of the Circle. She breathed a sigh of relief when, when she turned to look at her foes, the shambling corpses were already turning away, and the poltergiests couldn't pierce through the wards set up around the Vale.

This relief was shortlived however, when she felt a wind brush against her face, and then a clamy hand clamped across her mouth. Another hand came down under her chin, and tilted her head up, so that she could see her tormenter. The ashen skin, milky eyes, sharp teeth, and stench of death denoted that she was being held by one of the Enemy's lieutenants, a vampire.

"So the little girl thinks she can escape me? Ha!" The creature gave a hoarse laugh, "No one escapes me, girl, no one! You should have given yourself up, for I always need a slave, and you would have made a good one. But you had to run, bring me to this unholy place, where my skin burns, even though no light does fall upon me. For that, I cannot forgive you." He leaned in and sniffed her, "You smell good, girl, your blood will fill me well." Twisting her neck, the vampire brough his teeth down onto Angharad's neck. She likely would have been drained right there, but just as the beast began to drain her blood, she felt his hands come flying off, and his teeth being ripped out of her neck. A terrible shriek went up into the night sky as the vampire reeled back.

Turning her head, relief spread through Angharad's body when she saw Fychan, her teacher and Grand Druid of her Circle, had entered into the Vale and had brought pure light to bear against the undead abomination. "Get ye hence out of here, foul creature, we want none of your stains!"

"Foolish man! No one deprives me of a kill! NO ONE!" The vampire had dropped down into a leaping stance, and sprung at Fychan, only to be blasted back when the druid through another bolt of light at the vampire, sending his airborn target flying against a tree.

"I said leave!" Getting shakilily to his feet, the vampire snarled, but instead of attacking again, he back out of the Vale, his form soon dissapearing into a cloud of fog and then fading into the darkness. "Are you alright, child?" Fychan had come over and knelt next to Angharad, casting a minor spell of healing upon the wounds on her neck. "You shouldn't leave the Vale so shortly before nightfall, you know the woods become dangerous then."

Angharad shook her head, then said in a quivering voice, "How did it get through the wards, Fychan? How?"

Fychan smiled sadly at his young student. "As nature weakens, so do I. And as I weaken, so to do the wards. Soon, if the Gods do not aid us, then we will be wiped out, and that creature that rules at his fortress will turn his attentions elsewhere." Silence reigned after that, as Angharad clutched at Fychan, seeking solance in the comfort of his embrace.

"When will aid come?"

"I do not know, child. I do not know."

Very nice. I've always been interested in the history of High Rock more than anything else in TES lore, and the year and name both give out the plot. Although the story of Othrok's deed is much a frame... Can't wait to see what'll you fill it with.

High Rock is one of my favorite provinces of Tamriel, I love the medieval style, so when I read well written, and very interesting fan fics like this, I simply love them. A lovely read, Verlox.

Just dived in here for a quick look...Nice use of MJ's Thriller at the start...

I shall read the rest in more depth when I have time ^_^

Thanks for the comments, guys. I'm almost done with the next installment, so that should be up in a hour or so maybe.

Personally, I thought that the poem from Thriller was remarkably appropriate for the entirety of Part 1.

As promised, I'm back. ^_^

I enjoyed what you wrote, very different to other fanfics around here at the moment. I like the fact that yoe're going to have two characters/story arcs to follow, makes it interesting, and more complex.

As for constructive criticism...I didn't really see any spelling/grammar mistakes, but there were a couple of word omissions/typos:

"Getting back to her wind" - I think that should be "getting her back to the wind".

"he back out of the Vale" - should be "he backed out of the Vale"

I look forward to reading the next part. ^_^



Indeed. But you should have put a small reference otherwise people might think you wrote it. Also, you got some of the words wrong:


...
Must stand and face the Hounds of Hell.
And rot inside a corpses shell.

The foulest stench is in the air
The funk of forty thousand years
And grizzly ghouls from every tomb
Are closing in to seal your doom

And though you fight to stay alive
Your body starts to shiver
For no mere mortal can resist
The evil of the thriller

Unless you changed them on purpose :shrug:

:)

Yeah, I changed it to make a little more sense in a TES world. I don't think Tamriel would understand Funk.

--------------------------------------------

3E 253, 18th of Morning's Star
Outside Eagle Brook, High Rock

Skirmishes with Camlorn's forces had been going on since Sharnhelm's entering into the Eagle Pass that led from Sharnhelm down into the foothills of Camlorn's vassal, Koegria. While not descisive, skirmishing was the preferred method of warfare, for even though it was a long, drawn out process, it was better than risking all on one throw of the dice, trusting to Fate and the Gods. Soon, if the rumours were true, then the army would soon be laying siege to Camlorn occupied Eagle Brook, which would give them a perfect base from which to launch raids into Koegria, then on into Camlorn itself.

Othrok's illusions had so far not failed him, and he thought that war was great fun. Not even the howling wind and dustings of snow had been able to damper his mood as he blithely volunteered for every skirmishing party. Having bloodied his sword for the first time against men from Eagle Brook, who had sallied out in a foolish attempt to drive off the invaders. Truly, Othrok thought to himself one night as he lay within his tent, listening to the snoring of the other men that shared his quarters, War is the greatest adventure a man can engage in.

*

The night silence was broken as a roaring ball of fire crashed into Eagle Brook's walls, sending screams of fear in pain up into the night's sky. Dazed and confused by this sudden attack, the sentries had no time to defend themselves as men swarmed over the paraqet and onto the walls, and a one-sided fight was soon over, as the soldiers of Sharnhelm butchered the guards atop the walls.

While night-attacks were not entirely unknown, they were not very common either, for in the event, an army could easily turn upon itself, cutting down their own allies in the confusion that the shadows bring. Luckily, the men of Sharnhelm knew exactly who they were fighting, and as another ball of fire slammed into the walls, illuminating it briefly, the knights and soldiers down below were able to make out the forms of their allies scurrying across the walls to the gatehouse, and when they heard the gate creaking open, a great cry went up and the soldiers poured through the portcullis and into the town.

Far from dettered, the men that had been tasked with defending Eagle Brook rallied and brought the fight to the gate, attempting to block their enemies advance rather than flee. The Sharnhelmians that had opened the gate were quickly killed, and the defenders sought to close the gate once again on the invaders, only to find that it was too late, for more and more of Sharnhelm's army entered into the city, either throug the fierce melee at the gate, or over the walls.

Swords rent into flesh, and hammers cracked bone, as the brave defenders fought a doomed defense. Hours passed, and as the Sun crested over the mountains, the defenders of Eagle Brook were fighting a retreat back to the castle that stood at the southern edge of the town. They were not to get there, for, when the King of Sharnhelm had entered the town with his knights, he had maneauvered around the fighting at the gate, placing himself in ambush on the road to the castle. So when a group of cavalry appeared from the bisecting road, brandishing Sharnhelm's royal standard, the fighting retreat broke into a full rout.

A soldier was never so vunerable as when he attempted to flee from a combat, putting himself at the utter mercy of his pursuers. Mercy was not a word to describe how the army of Sharnhelm slaughtered the fleeing troops, and when the battle finally winded down, the men of Sharnhelm celebrated their total victory over the dead defenders of Eagle Brook. Houses and stores were soon ransacked, coffers plundered, and respectable wives and daughters drug into bedchambers by their insatiable conquerors.

The Siege of Eagle Brook was over.

*

The smells of fire and death nauseated Othrok. The atrocities that he was witnessing, good women being plundered by the common soldiers that had destroyed their homes and killed their husbands or fathers. This was not what Othrok had expected, or wanted. He had been lead to believe that this war was to be a chivalric quest to triumph over their barbaric foe to the south, but now it seemed as if the roles had been reversed. Sharnhelm was taking something wasn't there to take.

He was jarred from his thoughts when a knight, his surcoat and sword splattered with blood, rode up to the stunned Othrok, a jubliant smile across his face. "I've never seen such a fine battle! We hardly lost any men at all, and now the city is ours." His smile faded when he noticed Othrok really wasn't paying attention. "What's the matter with you," he queried, "Never seen a siege before?"

Othrok turned his head and looked at the knight, saying quietly, "No, I have not. I did not think it would be like this though."

The knight snorted, a flicker of annoyance now present on his face. "What did you think would happen? We'd ride south, bypass Eagle Brook and Koegria, and meet Camlorn's army face on? That's not how war is waged, boy. We want to avoid a pitched battle at all costs, for I'd rather not have our lords wager our lives upon one throw of the dice."

"Then how is war waged?"

"You destroy your enemies food supply, ransack their villages, burn their crops and salt the fields. Deprive your enemy of everything that they need. Lay waste to their cities, and loot the empty shells. That is how war is waged."

Othrok's illusions were finally crushed. He had ridden off to fight for the glory of Sharnhelm; to defeat the tyrants in Camlorn, and bring honour to his family. Instead, he was a participate in the slaughter of innocent people. "How many died?"

The knight tilted his head to the side, "Quite a few I daresay, and many more will die once before we end our havok. For that is the way of war."

The knight rode off then, obviously uncomfortable in Othrok's presence. Tilting his head down, Othrok said under his breath, "I do not like war."

Oh, I don't know. I could see http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NwdAGPrqIRU singing Thriller and turning into a werewolf.

All in all, this is a very nice fan fic. I don't see very much wrong with it, except for maybe a few words or so like the others mentioned before.

3E 253, 19th of Morning's Star
Somewhere in Greater Bretony

The column of horseman rode confidentely through the dense forest. The sun was high overhead, but still shadows remained in the recesses of the trees and foliage. To the riders, it seemed as if the entire forest was held under some kind of spell that kept it gloomy and dark, even if the sun's rays of light struck it directly. Clad in bright colors, the light of the sun shone from the horseman's garish clothing, and even if the sun couldn't banish the shadows from its perch in the sky, these men could.

At the head of this body of horseman rode a dark man. His skin was sun-browned until he looked almost like a Ra Gada. His brown eyes and jet black hair, aquiline nose, and clothing directed to the conclusion that this man was one of the Breton people that dwelt close to the Iliac Bay. His bearing seemed Imperial, but his form was still that of the Bretons. He had a grin pasted on his lips, and he was constantly turning his saddle to observe the scenery, savoring it like a man coming home from a war or far off land. It was obvious to any passerby that this man was the leader of these horseman, and he knew exactly where he was going. Most of the other people traveling the road on that bright day, unusual for Morning's Star, were heading the opposite direction, in an attempt to escape the gloom and darkness that had descended over the center of the forests.

*

Angharad knelt down by some flowers in the Vale of Kynareth. The young woman loved flowers, and she was constantly tending to the blooming Winter plants. The Grand Druid, Fychan, was absent from the Vale on that day, leaving his young charge to attend to not only the Vale itself, but any worshippers of Kynareth that happened by. Not many of them had been appearing through the trees in the past months, and the sad thought was constantly crossing her mind that soon the little worshipping place would be forgotten by all.

She was just standing up when the snapping of undergrowth caused her to whirl around, her long red hair obscuring her vision. What she could see through the strands of fire was a great body of horseman, and one of them was dismounting and moving towards her. Her first feeling was panic, but then reason crept into her mind, and she knew that if these people wished her ill, she could already be dead. A gust of wind blew her hair into an even more tangled dissaray as the figure reached her. Her pulse was starting to race.

"Now if I didn't know you better, I could swear you were using your hair to hide from me, Angharad."

How does he know my name?! "Do I...Do I know you, sir?"

The man frowned. "It's only been two years, Angharad. Am I so easily forgotten?"

The young woman cleared the hair from in front of her eyes and was struck dumb. At first she couldn't recognize the man, but it slowly came to her. A dark youth riding off with all the confidence of a knight-errant, vowing to her to come back and free the land from the darkness that, at the time, was just starting to make its presence known. "Rhodri...." She whispered, and the man's smile got even wider, "Rhodri, is that you?!"

"You can bet your shoes it is!" Rhodri wrapped his arms around Angharad's waist and pulled her into a possessive embrace. He didn't think he would ever know a joy akin to the one he was feeling right now. It had been two years since he had left the forests, and Angharad, and traveled south to find his fortune so he could take his lover away from her boring excistence and into the fast-lane of the more prosperous and settled regions to the south. He was now coming back to his old stamping ground to make good on his promise. "Are you happy to see me?"

Angharad nodded, tears starting to come her eyes. "Of course I'm happy to see you, Rhodri! Especially now of all times."

"What has happened in my absence, love?"

"Oh, it was terrible!" Angharad then related her miserable life of the last two years. Watching the darkness of Wightmoor Castle spread throughout the forests until it was no longer safe to enter the forests, even in the daytime, for fears of attacks of some foul creature. The sun was was starting is descent when she finally arrived to her tale of the vampire attack, and how it managed to pierce through the wards of the Vale itself. This seemed to trouble Rhodri to no end, but he did summon up a wane smile when she told him how Fychan had saved her life.

"He is growing old now."

"He'll be sixty-and-four come Sun's Dawn. Oh," she hid her face in Rhodri's shoulder, "But that is so very old!"

"Fychan is a good man. I respect more than I do any other. But his faith is misplaced."

Angharad pulled back a little bit and stared up into Rhodri's eyes with a confused face. "What do you mean, 'faith is misplaced'? He is the Grand Druid of this Vale. Kynareth's Vale; could he worship any other being?"

"A vampire breached the wards, Angharad!" He detached himself from his lover and moved towards the standing stone in the center of the Vale. "I have seen things in the south. Great things, terrible things. But they were all powerful. One of them has given me a task."

"Rhodri...Rhodri, what are you talking about?"

The young man whirled around to face Angharad, a wild look in his eyes. "Meridia herself came to me a in a dream! She told me to come back to where I began, rid it of the creatures of that castle! She has even given me my own group of warriors! Do you not see, Angharad, I bear Meridia favor! I am the favored of a god!"

Angharad had stepped back a few feet when Rhodri had launched into his reasons for being in the Vale of Kynareth, and now she could only look at her loved one in horror. She had always heard that the Lords of Oblivion took a perverse pleasure in corrupting devout followers of the Nine, but those had always been tales, Rhodri, however, was very real. She was suddenly sad when it popped into her mind that the only reason he was exposed to Meridia's teaching was his love for her, the love that had sent him from his home so that he could give her a better life. Tears came again into her eyes as she shouldered the burden of Rhodri's foolishness.

"My love," the dark youth moved towards her, apparently not noticing how she almost flinched from his touch, "Let me take you away from here. Things will get terrible soon, and I don't want you to be in danger." He reached out to take her arm but she jumped back away from him. Rhodri was utterly shocked that the woman he had been holding only minutes before could now be purposely avoiding him.

"I think you should leave, Rhodri."

"But-"

"Please...Rhodri, please leave. Do what you came here to do. But please, leave this place."

First it was hurt that came into his heart. He hadn't been expecting Angharad, who had always had something of a rebellious spirit to match his own, to harbor such strong feelings against the worship of the Daedra Princes. He had even half-expected for her to join him in Meridia's worship once he had slew the lich at Wightmoor Castle. But apparently that wasn't to be. Now he felt only anger that the woman he loved could so cruely spurn him so. Everything he had done he did for her!

"Fine," he said tartly, "I will leave. But do not expect me to come back for you! You may not be able to see it, but your goddess is weak, while mine is strong! It will not be Kynareth that saves you from the monsters that roam this land, it will be me, with Meridia's favor backing me!" He shoved past Angharad, stepping on her toes accidentally, and all but ran to leap back onto his horse. With one last look at his lost love, Rhodri turned his and galloped off into the forest, leaving Angharad alone once again.

:clap: Nicely done, im love it

3E 253, 23rd of Morning's Star
Eagle Brook, High Rock

Smoke wafted into Othrok's nostrils, causing the young knight to cough. As he recovered from the fit, his blue eyes surveyed the scene before him. The town's palisade has long since been burned to the ground by the attacking forces of the Duke of Koegria, and even now that fell force was wreaking havoc in the streets that had already been stained with the blood of the innocent by Sharnhelm's force. It seemed to Othrok that the great lords cared little for the common people they were, by the Chivalric Code, sworn to protect.

The events that had led up to Koegria's attack still managed to fill the young knight with a bit of grim humour, though he was stuck in a cramped keep, the remains of Sharnhelm's garrison battered and broken as they were. The King of Sharnhelm, and most of his lords, had returned to the capital to await the Spring Thaw because, as the Lord Seneschal had bluntly put it, "the King would not deign to have his dignity affronted by camping in that awful keep." With the king's departure, his lords went with him, and with the lords went their knights and men-at-arms. Othrok had elected to stay behind, with the Lord of Meir Dargaurd's approval, so as better to protect the king's new possession. With the way that his view of war had been destroyed, compounded with the departure of the king and his nobles, it surprised Othrok little that, four days after the army's leaving, the Duke of Koegria had showed up with a strong force. The duke's battle mages wasted little time in opening up great holes in Eagle Brook's defenses, and the defenders had been able to do little more than flee to the keep, burning the stair well to assure that no Koegrian would be able to get at them.

The besiegers had now become the besieged.

"Othrok," Othrok turned at the sound of his name. Joachim, a gruff member of the Nordic mercenaries that had been hired by the king was standing at an unshuttered window, looking out to the flaming city. "Othrok, you'd better come look at this. They're sending a rider up under a white flag." Intrigued, Othrok complied and moved to the Nord's side, gazing out onto the Southern side of the city where the forces of Koegria had made their camp.

"Seems they're sending an emissary. Think you they will let us go?"

The Nord laughed, "Yeah, if we yield the castle to them. Doesn't matter to me," he stepped back from the window and shrugged, "The affairs of you Bretons only pad my pockets. I don't see any reason to hold this musty keep. They already have the town, and they refused the castellan's request to send a plea to the king in Sharnhelm for aid. If they will give us our lives and let us leave unmolested, then by Shor, I intend to do just that."

"But what of the people?"

"What of them? Our army butchered nearly half the population," Othrok hadn't known the number of deaths had been so great, and he was filled with great pity, "And then when the Koegrian's came, it looked as if they made sure to make the streets run red. What people are left I'm sure will be fine. I can foresee more than one Eagle Brook man having his battered wife's or daughter's belly swelling up pretty soon. Though whether the babe will be of Sharnhelm or Koegria remains to be seen."

The mercenary laughed, a sound that grated on Othrok's ears. The young knight could not understand, though the Nord had made it almost clear, how someone could care so little for the plight of people. Wanting to escape the Nord, but seeing little alternative in the morose keep, Othrok attempted to pilot the conversation in a different direction. "How do you think they got an army here so quickly? The pass is well snowed, four days seems like a miracle."

"They were probably on the march before, probably setting out the same time we did. Only, we managed to reach the city first." The conversation was interrupted by the blast of a great horn. Returning themselves to gaze outside the window, they could see now that the emissary had been the one to cause the noise.

"By the rules of war," he called out in a thundering voice, "My lord, the Duke of Koegria had tasked me with informing you that, in the event that a keep is not yielded when all hope of relief is gone, that the garrison is allowed to be hanged. My lord does not seek your deaths, and if you wish to yield, the offer will be accepted." The emissary was silent for a few moments, as if allowing the keeps garrison to mill the offer over. Soon, he spoke again. "We will allow you till sunset to discuss our offer," and with that, he turned his horse and cantered off back down to the Koegrian camp.

Inside the keep, a heated debate was going on. The mercenaries and the common garrison were greatly in favor of yielding a keep while the remaining knights, except Othrok, were adamant that any attempt to yield the castle would be traitorous to the King of Sharnhelm, and would sully their honour. The feelings of being pent up in a derelict keep, surrounded by an enemy army, were finally coming out. Accusations were made by the knights that the mercenaries had been working for Camlorn and Koegria the entire time, which was countered with a similar belief that the knights were playing both sides of the fence. The sun was slowly going down as the discussion continued, and, as the sky began to turn orange, swords were drawn, and it seemed conflict was inevitable.

Blood being spilt was headed off by the return of the emissary, accompanied by a routine of forty mounted men and a dreaded trebuchet. "Have you made your decision," came the booming voice of the man below, "I will remind you once again that your lives are forfeit if you do not yield." This acted as a catalyst for the conflict inside the keep. Joachim, taking the initiative, drew his dagger and lunged for the nearest knight. This set off an explosion of violence between the two groups.

Othrok drew his sword, backing himself into a corner so he could better defend himself. Though he was half-way on the side of the garrison and mercenaries, they still saw him as a knight and two of these fighters approached him. One of them couldn't have been much older than Othrok himself. Fresh faced with lanky black hair and a slight build, he was certainly a son of High Rock. His other combatant was of that vile race, the Dark Elves, who called themselves Dunmer in their own tongue and worshipped strange man-gods, or so Othrok had been told by his lord.

The youth seemed hesitant to attack one who he had been taught from boyhood to obey, but the Dunmer had no trouble at all. He lunged at Othrok, his scimitar whistling through the air to be met by the knight's blade. The force of the blow knocked both fighters off-balance. The elf was the first to recover, and he made the most of this by tackling Othrok. Luckily, the Breton's mountain muscles allowed his to wrestle his opponent off him, and acting quickly, delivered a blow to the Dunmer's sword arm, almost severing the elf's wrist.

By now, the Breton youth had become convinced that Othrok was his enemy, and not thinking his actions through, charged the knight with the only weapon he had, a shortsword. Othrok by now had the Battle Rage on him, and as soon as the mercenary was within reach, Othrok used the greater reach of his sword to run his attacker through. The gasp of blood from the youth's mouth, and the look of utter terror in his eyes brough Othrok out of his haze. Starring down at the dying Breton, Othrok couldn't help but feel ill.

The melee going on within Eagle Brook's keep was stopped instantly when a massive stone crashed through the walls, killing more than a few combatants and cowing most of the others. Rushing to the gaping hole that the stone had made, Othrok leaned out, waving his arms and crying, "We surrender! We surrender!"

I'm gonna be starting this little puppy back up.

Hooray! Inspiration come back?

3E 253, 23rd of Morning's Star
Eagle Brook, High Rock

Masser and Secunda dominated the sky, blotting out all but the brightest stars with their brilliance. It was under these two moons, the attendant spirits of Nirn, that the forces of Koegria accepted the formal surrender of the town of Eaglebrook from the occupying guard left by Sharnhelm. Under the night sky, the common soldiers were disbanded, told to return to their homes. The knights, who had defiantly tried to hold the castle against the Koegrians, were offered three choices. They were told they could either send a letter to their families; ask for them to scraqe together ransom money. They could forswear their allegiance to the crown of Sharnhelm and be absorbed into Koegria. The final option was to have their arms painted black, their spurs struck off, and to accept exile in Greater Bretony. They were given until the morning to decide.

While sentires prowled the walls, and the ravaged town settled into a eerie night, light still burned within the prisoners' tent. Within, the knights that had surrendered the castle to Koegria were deep in discussion.

"I see no reason to reject Koegria's offer to join them. At least we wouldn't be treated like prisoners."

"Would you rather be treated like a spy instead, Adelbert? We should just hunker down here for a time until ransoms can be put together."

The knight named Adelbert snorted in disgust. "That's all well and good for you. You likely have a rich family just aching to have you at the hearth. However, some of us don't have that. Not all of us are rich coxcombs!"

With that remark, the discussion turned into a heated arguement. Both Adelbert and the other knight had their supporters. Of course, none of them even thought about accepting exile. To do so would be to forsake everything. Their homeland, their family, and their precious titles.

Othrok forbore to take part in the arguement. Sitting apart from his fellow knights, the young Breton was thinking about his own options. His father had amassed a small fortune over the years, wisely choosing to dabble in trade rather than devoting his life to war. Othrok knew it was not dishonourable to be ransomed, but it was indeed shameful. He could not bring shame to his family. And joining Koegria's army was certainly out of the question. That only left one option open to him. Exile.

The word alone was enough to bring a lump into Othrok's throat. To accept exile from his homeland was to incur both shame and dishonour, but it would be born only by him, would not rebound onto his family. That Othrok could withstand. With this in mind, the lump left Othrok's throat. Knowing that his mother and father would not be dishonoured was balm to his wounds. Illogical his choice might be, he actually felt somewhat happy about the current forecast. The war had been an adventure from him, but that had quickly proven to be bad entertainment, the siege of Eagle Brook had cemented that within his mind. But Othrok still wanted adventure, and what better way to obtain it than to leave his homeland, and find his fortune elsewhere. He had studied the rules of warfare quite extensively during his time as a page and squire, and when a man was forced away from his homeland, the people doing the exiling were compelled to yield up whatever the person needed. In Othrok's case, that would likely be his armor, sword, and horse, along with enough food to last a few days.

Even though he knew that he would be facing dishonour and shame on the morrow, Othrok couldn't help but feel a little bit of excitment as well. The chance to go out into the world, like the questing knights from the romantic ballads, was certainly his idea of a grand adventure. Better to fight and die for himself and his own goals than to kill or be killed so that some other man might rule.

*
The sun was reaching its zenith when the knights of Sharnhelm were paraded out into the bailey. There, the Duke of Koegria accepted the homage and fealty of those knights of Sharnhelm that had decided they would pledge their swords to Koegria and Camlorn's cause. The others that had chosen to await a ransom were ushered into the damaged keep so that they could write letters to their families, asking for money. After they had been led into the castle, and the other knights had joined their new bretheren, Othrok alone stood before the duke.

The duke was an old man in his fifties. Heavy-set and with lank gray hair, he certainly looked each and every one of his years. His most striking aspect, however, was the rakish eye-patch that covered his left eye. It was all Othrok could do not to stare at it, for that would have been impolite, and the Duke of Koegria was not known to have a friendly nature. After the duke had conferred with one of his courtiers, he turned his one-eyed gaze onto Othrok.

"My seneschal tells me that you have chosen to accept exile. I would ask you why."

"I would not drain my father's coffers," Othrok stammered, "Neither would I forsake my lord to join another."

The duke's eyebrow shot up. "To choose exile is also to forsake one's lord, as well as his land, you do know that, don't you?" Othrok nodded. "Hmph, are you sure a rock didn't clock you on the head during that bombardment?" The duke shook his head and sighed. Signaling to a group of men, the duke watched as the young knight's spurs were struck off, and his shield painted an unseemly black. Once this was complete, the duke said, "No longer are you a knight. By the power given to me by his Grace, the King of Camlorn, I take from you the honour of knighthood, and cast you out into the darkness. Only in death will your dishonour be taken away from you. Now go, leave this land."

The thought came into Othrok's head that he had made a very bad choice. He was close to saying that he took it back, and would accept a ransom. But that seemed childish, and he held his peace as the duke continued to lambast him. Once he was finished, Othrok's arms, armour, and horse were returned to him. With an escort of ten men-at-arms, he was led to the south gate of Eagle Brook. There, he mounted his horse, and with a nod of his head to the Koegrian soldiers, he kicked his horse and began to canter off down the moutain pass, into the foothills of Greater Bretony.

**

I really dislike this particular chapter. It doesn't seem right to me. Oh well, that can't be helped. I hate the kinda writer's block where you CAN write, but it just doesn't feel right.