The trooper rubbed his hands together, leaving his spear against the wall. A cold mist ate his breath, and the water in his boots seemed to be rising. Across from him, an Imperial in chain mail was doing much the same.

“Come on, let’s get moving. Before the snow buries us alive,” he said, picking up his spear.

“Right,” said the Imperial. “Worst storm of the season.”

They kicked on through the street, feet sinking deep into snow, breaking mirrorlike collections of ice on the cobbles, eyes kept directly on the path in front of them. Snow fell in drifts from the rooftops, clustering the sidewalks with great piles taller than either of the guardsmen, and so they walked on the street, bathed in the light from the many lampposts that dotted the cityscape.

“Maybe we should drop by Martha’s. She’s open all night, right?” said the Imperial, his teeth pvssyring so loudly that his partner secretly wondered if any had broken.

“Fine. I doubt anyone’s out and about tonight, anyways. They’d freeze to death. And so will we if we don’t get a move on. Martha’s always had the best cider.” His teeth were pvssyring, too.

Snow continued to bellow by as they walked in silence, the night’s tranquility pressing in on the pair like the darkness of a cave.

“I hate nights like this,” the Imperial said, removing his helmet to massage at his ears. “I hate patrol.” He snuffled quietly, rubbing at his nose.

“Just shut up. Complaining only makes the walk longer,” he said, using his spear to shatter the patch of ice in front of him.

They wound about the city blocks, even navigating through the complete darkness of alleyways when one of them remembered a shortcut, and eventually they were greeted by the warm noise of other living beings. Laughing, the troopers dashed across the street, forgetting the pins and needles that picked at their toes and fingers, and stopped abruptly just outside the door. They paused, the Imperial removing his helmet to help him catch his breath, regained their composure, and entered.

“Martha!” the leader of the pair said as he strode in, removing his own helmet. “You wouldn’t have a few cups of warmed cider left for a pair of law enforcers, would you? That storm’d kill a Nord.”

“I wouldn’t know. I have cider for the customers,” an old woman said, walking towards the pair from the fireplace. “Of course, if you’re going to stay and keep trouble away, well, I suppose I can fit you two with a drink.”

Martha was a Breton, and an old one at that. Her face was beyond description, and the guard wondered if a face like hers ever could have been beautiful. The white hair that draqed around her less than amorous features was straight and dry, looking more like strands of bleached steel wire than hair.

“Many thanks, Martha,” the Imperial trooper said, striding up to the bar and setting his helmet on the wooden sill. He was trying to grow a moustache, but unfortunately for his pale face, the stubble of black hair that lined his lip was patched and sparse—much like the top of his head, where his hair was giving way to premature baldness. “So, partner, what do you say, we stay here the rest of the night, protect this establishment and keep warm?”

His partner, a Breton the same as Martha, smiled. “That sounds like a better plan than freezing to death for no reason.” He was growing a moustache as well, but with a matching goatee, and it was coming in well. He’d even waxed the tips of his mustache into fine curls, like many of the nobles had begun doing.

“So, Maxim, Jean, any trouble recently?” the old woman said, smiling broadly.

“Not really,” Jean said, curling his moustache absentmindedly. “There was the trouble with a horse thief a few months ago, but nothing that we’ve been involved with recently. Trouble likes to avoid us, I guess.”

“Oh, the horse thief? Hah, that was a chance encounter,” Maxim said, feeling at one of his bald spots with an ungloved hand. “Funny story, though. Always gets a laugh back at the house.” He paused, slipping his hand back into his glove, a dejected look on his face. “Anyways, Martha, where’s the cider you said you had for us?”

“It’s right here, you impatient bastard,” she said, setting two mugs on the counter.

Jean smiled, picking his up with a casual grace, letting the warm steam pour over his face. It almost felt like a miniature sauna. “I’m sure Maxim doesn’t mean any offence, Martha.”

“Too polite. If you two weren’t guards I’d say you were confidence men trying to scam me out of my business!” she said, walking out from the sill to return to the roaring fire.

The guards smiled together and raised their glasses in a cheer, turning around to face the crowd.

“Tonight is going to be a good night,” Jean said, just before taking a deep swig from his mug.

“For some reason, I have the feeling something bad’s about to happen,” Maxim said, setting his mug down.

“You always think that. You’re just going bald. It’s not the end of the world.”

A scream broke out over the sound of the patrons, coming from the blizzard. In a quick movement, both of the guardsmen were on their feet, helmets firmly placed over their skulls. Maxim had already drawn his hammer, a crude tool he’d bought from a blacksmith, but a tool he’d shown was devastatingly effective against kneecaps. Jean, spear in hand, pushed his way out the door, slamming shoulder-first into the wooden frame, sending a great pile of snow flying into the street as the two ran out into the darkness. A second scream sounded, and Jean’s head snapped towards its source, and the pair took off. Panting hard, Maxim followed up close, head swiveling about. After a long jog, the pair stopped.

“It had to have come from somewhere around here,” Jean said, turning in circles.

“I can never hear a damn thing with this helmet on,” Maxim said, ripping off his helmet and dropping it to the street.

His ears perked, his head snapping to face the alley in front of them. “In there,” he said. “Someone’s coughing. Hacking.”

“I can’t hear it, are you sure?” Jean said.

“Maybe you’d hear it, too, if you took off your damned helm.”

Jean didn’t respond, but there was the distinct clang of shaped steel striking stone. The two advanced slowly, weapons held at the ready, eyes slowly adjusting to the ever decreasing light. And there it was. Someone was coughing, gurgling and hacking—it was a sound neither of them would ever forget, or ever want to hear again. They drew deeper into the darkness, the walls disappearing from view, melding in with the snow and the shadows. The coughing stopped, finally, but they progressed. And then Maxim tripped, hitting the ground with a loud thud, his chainmail making an unearthly racket.

“I think I found the source,” he said, retching.

There was a body in a field of red snow.

Well, very good to see another story from you, Dirk Very good indeed.

Hmm, first I think I'll bore you with what I thought you did well at :read:

First, your flow and description were- for the most part- good. Description more so than flow, but both still above the common fan fic. The dialogue was much the same: good, but not the best. Don't get me wrong, I liked it a lot, but it can still improve. The chapter fit nicely as an introduction as well; we get to meet the characters and their setting (notice the implied and hinted things- very nice) before the beginnings of the plot sets in. Though I think you could have done more to convey the friendly, comfortable atmosphere, it read well nonetheless.

One thing that stuck out to me was how you steadily seperated your similar characters. When they are both human male guards, it can be difficult to distinguish between the two. You, however, added in little things like facial hair, weapons, and Maxim's baldness (nice touch, by the way). Though their personalities remain similar, I can tell them apart, and that is enough for the introduction.

A common enough problem with writers that begin to master description: you add in almost too much charecteristics about your characters (usually it is the scene as well, but you didn't go overboard there). I begin to tire of reading all the subtle nuances of two character's facial hair.

Another thing, I think it would have been better if they had stayed at the bar a little longer. Their conversation was short and a little stereotypical; I really hope that horse thief thing was foreshadowing, otherwise it seemed really pointless. Never waste words if you can help it; write everything with a purpose.

However, the time you spent getting them from the bar to the scene of the crime was good. Your description of what they heard and saw could have been a bit better, but it was overall good.

I have a bit more to say, but nothing I can cohesively string together. All in all a very good story; thanks for it. And never forget to keep writing :goodjob:

I enjoyed this alot! I wanted to grab my warm coat and a cup of hot coffee.

Nicely done, and I look forward to learning more of the story. ^_^

A warm fire greeted Jean’s eyes, the brute heat on his face drawing beads of sweat on his hairline. He looked out through a vignette of frost and saw the multitude of men and mer carrying on with their daily lives, shoveling snow and hawking their wares, bluntly unaware that a murder had occurred. Maxim stood next to him, leaning against the hearth by an arm, facing away from the massive desk that occupied the room. Neither of them said a word.

The dismal silence continued for a few more minutes, sweat welling up on Jean’s now very damp neck, trickling into the leather padding under his chainmail. He opened his mouth, about to complain, but thought better, and closed his mouth. He’d seen a corpse on the streets he should have been patrolling. Before he could brood any further, however, the door to the chamber opened with a crash, and through it strode another Breton, his hair graying, but well trimmed and tied back behind his head with a red ribbon.

“Sir!” Jean and Maxim said together, snapping to attention.

“At ease. I only know about this body from what your Captain has told me, officers. But I want your side of this story. Don’t bother with the events leading up to it, just start when you said you heard a scream,” the graying Breton said, his voice drawling like someone unused to giving orders that lasted more than two words.

“Well, Commander,” Jean said, noting the insignia on the Breton’s half-plate armor, “It’s like we told the Captain—we heard the scream and we went running to find it like a proper copper should. We would’ve never found it had Maxim not heard someone coughing.” He stopped, swallowing hard.

“Yeah, and so we went into the alley—that’s where I heard the hacking come from, and it was too dark to see. So we kept on, and eventually they must have died because the coughing stopped, but then I tripped over the body,” Maxim said, continuing the story, his gaze lowering back to the fire. “So Jean told me to stay there, and I did. He went running, and came back a half hour later with back up and torches. Sir.”

“Maxim had nearly frozen at that point—he had a great big icicle clinging to his nostrils—so I had two men escort him back here and draw him a hot bath. But I stayed and gave the corpse a look over and—”

“Very well,” the Commander said, interrupting without warning. His gaze shifted to the window before he continued. “This isn’t the first body that’s been found this month. Three weeks ago there was one found up in the North Quarter, near a brothel. Last week, there was a second one, found by the boys over at East Yard.” He stopped, gaze shifting back to the two guards. “Trouble is, none of these bodies can officially exist.”

“I’m confused, sir,” Maxim said, raising his hand as though to ask a question. “How can they not exist? We’ve already filed the reports to the Captain and everything.”

“And that’s why I’m here, officer. Your Captain takes orders from me, and if you ask him about the body you found, you’ll see he has no reports at all. These murders never happened. Do you understand?” the Commander said, lips curled into a vicious frown. “Now, you’ll see that the both of you have earned yourselves a bonus. I hope that it is enough to cover your wants.”

“But sir—” Jean said, and then stopped, nearly swallowing his tongue.

“These murders never happened. And I would not like to have a pair of troopers spreading false accusations around, either,” the Commander said, and then, with a quick step he turned and proceeded out the door, and was replaced with a fidgeting Imperial in a rather shiny briastplate.

“You’re dismissed,” he said, motioning towards the door.

“But Captain,” Jean said, his cheeks a burning red color, “How can we do this? We’re sworn to uphold the law, but we’re just going to let someone walk around murdering people?”

The Imperial sighed, scratching at his chin. “Listen. I like both of you, understand. You’re good troopers—you know when to stay out of trouble and when to do your job. Please, listen to me and keep your necks clear of this. It’s more trouble than either of you want. Now, you are both dismissed. Take the week off.” He smiled at them weakly, failing to look either of them in the eye. “Oh. And here’s the bonus the Commander had promised you,” he said, procuring two sizeable purses and handing one to each trooper.

They left the Captain’s office in silence, neither of them daring to take their eyes off the floor. Confused and betrayed, they stepped in tandem towards the lockers, discarding their chains for a more sensible set of furs and wool, and left the Watch House in silence.

Finally, Jean glanced over at Maxim. “I know. I feel dirty, too,” he said.

“Yeah,” Maxim said, casting a glance over the crowd.

“Maxim, why did you join the force?” Jean said, trying to break the icy tension.

“To support my mom. She was sick, and I guess the only thing I’d realized about myself by that point was that I wanted to help people. Protect them.” The Imperial spat before continuing. “I didn’t want to fight, so I guess the obvious choice was the Watch. Decent pay, from what it looked like, but these days, I wonder if you only get a decent salary if you make it your job to look the other way.”

“I know the feeling, Maxim,” Jean said slowly, turning his gaze away from his partner.

“And what about you, Jean? Why’d you want to be a copper?”

“No reason, really. My family was well off, but I never managed to land myself an apprenticeship. I wanted to be a blacksmith, actually. So I guess it wasn’t that I wanted to help people—that just happened to be one of the side benefits for me. I just needed a job, and my father always told me, ‘Son, there’s always a job in the army or the police.’ So I took his advice, and I guess I was too much of a coward to pursue any dreams of grandeur or heroism, so I chose the police instead of the army,” Jean said, shaking his head. “Let’s get to Martha’s. I could use a drink. Or two.”

“That sounds like a solid plan,” Maxim said, nodding his head in agreement.

The rest of the trip was spent in silence.

Wow! I'm still with you Dirk, even more entranced. :goodjob:

I like the story very much, but I am amazed at your ability to advance it through dialogue. You used almost exclusively dialogue to develop your characters and their story here. I'm pretty much a novice writer, but I know what I want to try and emulate and I thank you so much for a beautiful example.

I anxiously await your next installment.

I'm sorry this isn't an update--I'm not sure if I'll be getting around to writing one tonight. But I would like to just say thank you.

Darkom, your critiques aren't lost on me--for the most part I admit it's just that I'm rusty (I haven't written anything new in over six months or so!) and this story's purpose is little more than getting me back in tandem with my language. (As well as my hopes and dreams, but that's a story for another day.) So thank you for the encouragement and the anolysis, I'll keep them in mind.

Acadian, your posts make me smile. It's good to know that someone likes your story. But for the time being, I'd advise against taking my writing as an example of things done right--this story is completely unedited, and is just practice to get back in the swing. (For example, I'd probably go back and add a few descriptors and actions into the last post.) The key thing for me is realizing what's better characterized through action or dialogue, and explaining that the two coppers aren't on the take was easier done through dialogue.

Anyways, I have food to cook and eat so I can hurry up and get to writing a post for tonight.

Thanks again to everyone who's reading this story.

So YOU'RE behind the song! Just kidding! Hehehe.
Really good, I really liked it. I look forward to reading more...whenever I have the time.

I haven't seen you around the forums (I've only been here three months), are you new?

Ok, I'm hooked. Enough said as long as you keep it coming.

OK, I'm hooked. Two of my favorite things- mysteries and Bretons. Well, three actually- TES being the third. Your vivid descriptions make me feel as if I am in the room or on the street with the characters- feeling the cold wind seeking the gaps in my clothes, tasting the first swallow of cider.

Pain was the entirety of his world. His skull ached like it had been struck with a brick, his eyes burning so horribly they refused to focus, leaving the room around him in complete obscurity. The thick sheet that clung to his sticky, wet body burned every inch of his skin, refusing to peel away to grant him a comforting relapse into sleep. The Breton struggled for a moment, rolling onto his side, hands grasping his ears as though they were going to pop, and then vomited, the thick, brown bile pooling on his bed.

“Damn it,” he cried, tears leaking involuntarily.

He rolled out of bed, opposite the puke, pulling his sheets with him as he hit the floor and vomited a second time. The bile burned his mouth and lips, clinging in his moustache. He looked down, his eyes finally focusing, and saw his arms covered in vomit.

“Just kill me already,” he said, letting his head fall to the floor, directly into the putrid pile.

Jean closed his eyes, trying to imagine a world without the pain that ate at his body, but it wouldn’t come. He smelled the thick vinegar and acid, the night’s liquor, and vomited a third time. He struggled with his arms, raising his body off the floor, and reached under the bed, dragging out the small chamberpot that serviced his apartment. The stench of feces struck his nose like a knife, and he immediately retched a fourth time, heaving the last of his stomach over the pot. He struggled to his feet, trying to remember last night. How much had they drunk? He couldn’t remember. He didn’t remember how he had returned home, or anything, for that matter.

He walked to the pile of dirty clothes that sat in the far corner of his room and grabbed a tunic, using it to wipe the bile from his face and chest and arms, then proceeded to his bed, stripping it of the sheets and throwing them in with the rest of his laundry. They stank of urine, and so he stripped off his undershorts and proceeded to the undecorated dresser next to the door and dressed himself in a fresh set of garments.

Sighing, he stepped out the door and walked down to the street, stepping out of the apartment into the cold. He shut his eyes, letting his boots guide him through the drifts of snow and ice. Trying to drown out the pain, he imagined the spring, the green of the grass poking through the last remnants of winter, but the image blurred, and winter resuming its icy grip. His feet plodded on in the winter as he shrugged off the vision. Martha’s was just around the corner.

Pushing his shoulder into the door, Jean entered the tavern, his hands massaging his temples. “Martha. A beer, please,” he said, collapsing into a stool at the bar.

“Right,” she said, tapping the drink from one of the large kegs behind the bar. “You and Maxim didn’t seem so well last night. Never seen the two of you drink so heavily.”

“It wasn’t anything important,” Jean said, dropping his gaze to the hardwood floors.

“Alright, Jean. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want,” the old Breton said, placing a mug of beer on the bar. “It’ll be three septims.”

“Thanks.” He threw a handful of coins on the sill, not bothering to count them. “Here’s some in advance.” Turning from the bar, he noticed two other guardsmen, sitting at a table close to the fire.

He took his mug and slid off the stool, sidling across the room to the two men. One was an Orc, built like a horse and dressed in chain, and the other, like himself, was a Breton, wearing simple clothes and a steel briastplate.

“Hullo,” Jean said. “You two from the East Yard?”

The Orc spoke first. “Yeah. Name’s Grobak Gro-Grobak.”

“And you? From the Dock Garrison? Or are you with the West Yard?” the Breton said, stroking his clean-shaven chin.

“The docks, yeah,” Jean said, noting the insignia on the Breton’s armor—he was a lieutenant. “My name’s Jean Rosseau. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Grobak,” he said, sitting at the table.

“I’m Lucas Baudet. Grobak’s the newest member of our force, so I’m showing him the ropes,” he said, smiling widely.

“Good choice, showing him this place. Best cider on a cold night.” Jean took a deep draught from his mug before continuing. “Plus, Martha’ll generally give you the first drink free if you’re on duty. Keeps the place quiet.”

“Is that why you’re always here, Jean?” the Breton said, raising an eyebrow.

“Keeps your head on your shoulders, and I’d much rather that than a funeral procession,” Jean said. “Of course, there’s also the off chance you’ll meet a pretty girl.”

“You’ll never make anything more than constable with that kind of an attitude,” Lucas snorted, taking a sip of his own drink.

“Not many Orcs in Daggerfall. Let alone a pretty Orc woman, Jean,” Grobak said, smiling wide.

“Yeah, well. There’s always the many brothels to strip you of your hard earned gold,” Jean said, smiling. His head had finally stopped aching.

“That’s the worst idea I’ve heard out of your mouth in a long time, Jean. We get paid so little a trip to the brothel would take a month’s savings.”

Jean turned, smiling broadly as Maxim strode across the tavern to join the table. “Yeah, but it’s always worth the month.”

“Hullo,” Maxim said, greeting the Orc and the lieutenant. “I’m Maxim. If I don’t know you.”

“Grobak,” grunted the Orc.

“Lucas. We’re from the East Yard.”

“Wonderful,” Maxim said, smiling broadly. “Would you all like drinks? They’re on me.”

“Well, if you’re offering, it would be impolite to refuse,” Lucas said, scratching his chin.

“I would gladly take a drink,” the Orc said, smiling. He lifted his mug in a salute, and then drained it of its contents. Jean and Lucas followed his example.

“Jean, come with me. I’ll need a second set of hands,” Maxim said, turning quickly and trotting off to the bar.

Standing, Jean gathered the mugs from the table, and followed the Imperial to the bar, where Martha was busying herself pouring fresh beers for the four guards.

“What do you want, Maxim?” Jean said.

“They’re from the East Yard, right? So maybe they know something about that murder that happened there. Maybe we can learn something, Jean.”

“No, Maxim. I’d prefer we not lose our jobs, and I’d prefer living, at that. Whoever those bodies belong to, they were apart of something with a lot of resources. How much gold do you think they had to bribe the Commander with?”

“I think the vernacular term is lots, Jean. But it doesn’t make a difference. They’re losing men, and if a war breaks out in these streets then it really won’t matter if we’ve got our heads stuck in it or not.”

“Fine, Maxim. I see you’re too stubborn to back down on this. But you can deal with all the questioning. You know I’m piss poor at subterfuge.”

“Then just carry the drinks. It’ll be fine,” Maxim said. He dug out his purse and turned to face Martha, who set the last of the drinks on the bar. “Here’s a few rounds in advance, Martha. If we don’t take them all, you can keep the change.” A fistful of coins glittered on the bar.

Ol' Dirk? Naw. He hasn't been on in quite a while though. I remember his name from a few rp's and maybe a fanfic or two. But he's from the Christo, DEFRON, Uglius Maximus era. haha. Hats off to ya Dirk. Enjoying the read.

Quality work I really enjoy this story, and can hardly wait to read more.

Another good update. I particularly like the descriptive passages and the fact that the "action" of the story is more emotional than physical. We are getting a better understanding of your characters and the tension is being tightened nicely.

I commented how much I liked your use of dialogue previously.

Here it was your opening description that I enjoyed. Well, enjoy is a poor choice of words - more like messy and smelly and a few other unpleasant things.... :yuck:

But a darn crisp and vivid description. :goodjob:

I'll be stickin' around for more of this story and your writing!