lol, jeez, this thread is turning into a beatnick jam session.

I am suitably ashamed!

Sorry for being lame, everyone. But thank you, thank you, thank you for your comments! And the beatnik jam. I like a nice beatnik jam first thing in the morning. I had a fantastic birthday for anyone who wished me well, including wandering around Elephant & Castle at 3am with a bowl of brownie dough. And other people of course, otherwise that would be less a fun birthday and more a confession of personal tragedy.

Foxy, you are a poet, a scholar and a gentleman. What have I done to deserve such verse?! I am agog!

Effie, no need to worry at all Readership is a gift, not a requirement. I'm just happy to see you're well, and continuing Manic Dementia!

Mike, once again, I LOVE your drawing! Crassius looks so sleazy :hehe: You have such an eye for capturing personality. As for ages, I always though he was pitched just shy of 40, but you're certainly right about the Oblivion re-do ending up a bit young. Caius I admit I tinkered with a bit. I thought I could get away with him being 42-3, on account of the skooma-haggardness...

Sierra... what can I say? Your thoughtful words and indepth critiques always go above and beyond. I really can't describe how much your brand of feedback means to me, and how much I love that you're still reading and still enjoying, six whole years later.

Everyone else - Peleus, Ghostpaw, RemkoNL, Lyness, thank you so much for your support and encouragement!

The reason I've been on hiatus for a while is because I think I've been mixing up my storylines and maybe putting some in too fast, so I wanted a good solid chunk of writing done so I could see exactly where all the strands should be placed. The middle of a story is always the hardest bit, right? I think I'm burning through the Morgiah flashbacks a bit too fast, or they're not lining up properly or something. I needed to get ahead to see where everything pans out. I'm pleased to say I should have a new chapter for you by next week Watch this space!

xxxxxxxxxxx

Ahh, the hero has awakened the Valkyrie with - er -

:o

ooopsie doopsie -

:embarass:

:hehe:

:D

wrong metaphor -


Anyhoo...

I am glad that our united efforts have recalled you back from ... where ever you were.

We await your next post!!!

Finally :twirl:

I said next week, and reality it was later the same day. See, you people inspire me!


The King And I

Chapter Eighteen ? The Corprusarium And The Courier


"Quickly, now," Dralasa hissed, manhandling two figures into the looming tunnel. "Don't slip! Azura's Star, you're clumsy."

"Sorry," Eadwyrd snapped, annoyed. "If you'd just light a candle? There's no-one down here!"

"I'd rather not base my work on assumptions," the Dunmer said dryly, slipping round a corner and motioning her charges to follow. "No more talking until I say."

Eadwyrd bit his lip and shared an alarmed look with Gwynabyth. This was getting uncomfortably serious. Passing the threshold of Tel Fyr had been hair-raising enough; now, traversing the bowels of a cave network which appeared to have housed a slew of terrifying monsters over the years, he was beginning to feel they were in way over their heads.

After another ten minutes of stumbling in the dark, they came at last to a slightly drier region of tunnel, opening out into what looked like a hastily assembled open living-room. It was shabby, and had the distinct air of dereliction. The alchemists looked at it in astonishment.

"This is the weirdest thing we've seen yet," said Gwynabyth fervently. "What is this place? I think it's time we had some answers."

Dralasa raised an irritated eyebrow. "You're here to do your job, not to ask questions." Gwynabyth opened her mouth, but the Dunmer talked over her. "?But I see I'll get no peace, so very well. This place was one of Divyath Fyr's 'experiments'. He called it the Corprusarium. His most valued inmate lived in this particular part."

It was a moment before this truly disturbing information sunk in. Eadwyrd began to splutter.

"I ? Corprus ? are you out of your mind?"

"Oh don't be such a child; there are none left now," Dralasa rolled her eyes, watching Gwynabyth shrink away from the walls as if they were contaminated. "The Corprus patients disappeared more than six months ago; he must have taken them away somewhere. But that's my job to investigate, not yours."

"But why?" whispered Gwynabyth, horrified. "Why did he keep them here?"

"Ser Fyr is an eccentric man," Dralasa answered enigmatically. "Although? I do believe in many ways he wished to relieve their suffering," she admitted. "There was a rumour that he was the one to cure the Nerevarine of her affliction. Just speculation, of course."

"A cure for Corprus?" Gwynabyth said, suddenly looking more interested than repulsed. "Just isolating the source of the disease would be a major breakthrough! And if he did, why didn't we hear anything of it? You'd think it would be huge news."

"That's what you're here to find out. I assume the Princess told you there's been an unusual amount of alchemy equipment ordered here recently?"

"Yes?" Eadwyrd looked pensive, sinking onto a dilapidated armchair and then leaping up again as he remembered where he was. "But if you ask me, there's more going on here than a bit of illegal alchemy. Who are all those people in the upper levels? I thought Ser Fyr didn't like too many servants? And didn't he have family here ? daughters?"

Dralasa narrowed her eyes. "Like I said, that's my job, not yours. I'll blend in much better with Fyr's black-robed slaves, or whoever they are, than you two would. Leave the espionage to me, please. Just anolyse the samples I bring you."

"That's another thing," Gwynabyth interjected, slinging her satchel onto the worn table. "We had to travel incognito; we could hardly lug around a chest of stills. We have some basic equipment, but nothing that can cope with complex deconstructions."

Dralasa smiled; a wry one, but a smile nonetheless. "What do you think the Princess pays me for?" She strode to a dustsheet on a hastily-erected trestle table and whipped it away, revealing a stacked assortment of equipment. "If you need something that's not here, let me deal with it. I'll be sneaking down here as often as I can to bring you samples. Whatever you need, I can get. Now," said putting her hands on her hips in a businesslike fashion, "what about protection?"

Eadwyrd and Gwynabyth looked at each other. "I thought you said we were safe down here?"

"I'm not an oracle," Dralasa said coolly.

Eadwyrd shrugged, and pulled a couple of scrolls from his satchel. "Morgiah gave us these. She says they're a Mark/Recall based on Almsivi and Divine Intervention? only they take us to a saferoom in the Palace itself. We can't use them unless things get desperate, though."

Dralasa's eyebrows shot into her hairline. "Who did that pretty piece of enchanting?"

"Her, I think," Gwynabyth said uncertainly. "She doesn't let on that she's a mage, does she?"

"No," Dralasa said thoughtfully. "She certainly doesn't. Anyway," she recovered, snapping back to attention, "keep those scrolls on you day and night. You've got what you need. There's some supplies in the storecupboard over there. I'll be back at nightfall ? and keep it quiet." Without so much as a farewell, she disappeared into the maze of tunnels.

"Well," Gwynabyth said flatly after a long silence, surveying their depressing surroundings. "Home sweet home."

"You've got to admit," Eadwyrd replied, drawing a line in the dusk on the desk, "it's a damn sight prettier than our Almalexia lodgings."

Gwynabyth stifled a giggle and flicked an expired beetle at him.


*


In the quiet sunset, the capital City of Vivec was almost serene. The cantons, huge and impassive, glowed ever so slightly golden. The canols were quiet, with barely a ripple.

But under the surface of tranquillity, there was the steady hum of a nation in disarray. The news that there was something amiss with the city's divine namesake could not have been repressed, no matter how the Archcanon sought to stifle it.

In the sumptuous interior of the Hlaalu canton, the mezzanines were abuzz with rumour. And amid it all, like a gloating merchant surveying his wares, was Crassius Curio. This was the kind of environment he thrived in. He was made for it. More to the point, Hlaalu was made for it. The House had always been the best adaptor to change. He was so looking forward to watching Redoran and Telvanni reach meltdown.

There was a knock on the door of his study-suite, opening to reveal Forvus Graccus, his newest secretary.

"Ah, Forvus my dear. You have something for me? A letter? How kind. Sit for a moment with me, pudding ? that's right, don't be shy."

The young Imperial blushed scarlet and lowered himself slowly into the chair, looking like a tidbit hung in front of a lion. Crassius mused for a moment that he was baiting the boy a tad too much, but the blush was so amusing. Not to mention charming.

"Now, my boy. How are you finding life in Vivec? Bright lights of the city and all that? Remind me; whereabouts in Cyrodiil are you from?"

"Brindle Home, sir," said Forvus, making a visible effort to compose himself. "Small town north of Skingrad in Colovia. Vineyards, mostly."

"Ah!" Crassius cried, making an expansive gesture with his arms. "Then, Zenithar bless you, I have your countrymen to thank for the pleasures of West Weald vintage! My favourite. Remarkable, my boy, remarkable. And I assume you are making the most of the delights our capital? You disappear off every night, after all; taverns and wenches and so forth, eh?"

"Oh, no sir!" Forvus protested, turning fireberry-red. "I just go to my lodgings? it takes a while to walk there, you see. I'm at Letitia's in the lower Foreign Quarter."

"What's that?" Crassius said, frowning. "Foreign Quarter? Oh no, Forvus, that won't do. That won't do at all. The lower levels are positively dreary. We must have you in the manor; I will send the porter for your things immediately. After all," he said lightly with an air of supreme devilment, "what if something urgent comes up in the night? I'd be all fingers and thumbs without your expertise."

Forvus could not even form the words. His mouth opened and closed like a fish.

Crassius took pity on his poor hero-worshipper. "Thank you for the letter, Forvus," he said kindly. "Go about your business to your usual excellent standard. Perhaps when you are settled in the manor I'll bring you along to my new play; have you seen it? No? My treat. Off you go, then."

Forvus stammered a few words of thanks and leapt through the door like a salmon.

Chuckling, Crassius reached for the worn bone letter-opener. He shouldn't be so capricious, but damn it, he was getting older every year. He would be forty-five this Hearthfire, and middle-age loomed like an axe. He was entitled to his fun.

Sliding the opener under a corner, he suddenly frowned. The quality of the gold-edged paper and the consistency of the sealing wax were exquisite, and obviously very expensive. But the seal itself was blank, with no device imprinted into its surface. Morgiah, perhaps?

He opened the letter.

Destination: Councillor Curio, Curio Manor, Upper Hlaalu Canton, Vivec, Vvardenfell, Morrowind.

Dear Councillor,

Please forgive me my anonymity; I am afraid that in these troubled, times, revealing either my name or station might lead to the endangerment of my honour or even my life. My lord, I must beg your indulgence. I have heard your name whispered with respect on the lips of those in my service, and I am in need of your aid.

Over the last five years, fuelled by the jealousy, dishonour and greed of those who surround me, I have found myself in the most terrible of situations. Allow me to explain. I am not a native of your current home, although my husband is ? we were married young, and in bad judgement. I am of noble birth, and upon the death of my dear parents last Frostfall, I inherited a considerable sum. I need not tell you that my husband is hardly the man I once thought ? he covets my fortune, and I now fear for my life.

I am alone in this country, too young to engender any air of authority, and ignorant as a child of your laws and customs. As a man of some standing, and also one who is not tied by birth or family to the Dunmer, I chose to contact you out of desperation. I hope that with a man such as you to take my part, I might be guaranteed safety for time. If you will consent, I beg an audience of you this coming Tirdas. I cannot ask any other; I am sure my servants are in my husband's pay. Please, Ser. I have no-one to turn to.

Forgive the false name; even so, I presume to be,

Your friend and supplicant,

Goldenflower

Crassius sat back in his chair, eyebrows raised, and blew out a long breath. My word.

Apart from the delicious mystery of the letter ? Crassius was curious as a cat, as many of his contemporaries had observed ? the idea of some nubile, high-born damsel in distress throwing herself on his mercy was positively delightful. It was Loredas at present; three days from the mysterious supplicant's proposed meeting.

Three days too many; after all, he was not used to waiting. It seemed he would have to gird his loins. Crassius laughed at the thought of the phrase, and stretched back in his chair. Perhaps he could fill the gap with some kind of distraction.

There was a second knock at the door, and the frequently-visiting Bosmer courier slipped into the room, smiling demurely. "Ser, forgive my intrusion. This delivery simply could not wait."

Crassius smirked. It seemed no girding would be necessary.


*


The zombie slumped messily, its ruined head made even less appealing by the liberal application of Nenya's hammer.

"Nice place to settle down," the Nord girl remarked. "Cosy."

Bomba laughed. She had made the journey to Scourg Barrow several times over the course of her life, but never had it been so entertaining? or so easy. The Khajiit was a capable bladeswoman, but having Nenya as a companion meant she'd hardly had to draw her katana since stepping off the boat in Northpoint.

She counted the doors carefully. The route had once been familiar, but the last time she had come here was many years ago. Second on the left, she decided. If all went well, they should get through to the caverns with little difficulty. There was a series of groans, bellows and crashes from the next room; Nenya had apparently taken advantage of the pause to play housemaid. "Time, Nenya!"

"Aye!" came the cheerful shout, followed by a distinct splat. The girl emerged, brushing her cuirass off and only succeeding in spreading Mara knew what all over her front.

Through the doorway the walls widened out, drew up, and finally took on the roughness that signified the beginning of the caves. From there, it was a quick jaunt to the lower levels and the bronze-bound-door that signified the beginning of the Necromancer's domain. The door groaned loudly ? this entrance was little used, and Nenya had to put her shoulder against it to pit brute force against the ravages of time.

The Hall was dark. Bomba lead Nenya straight down the middle, avoiding the hidden walls ? she knew from experience what lurked in those shadows. She glanced at Nenya out of the corner of her eye, an amiable shape strolling beside her with the ridiculously huge hammer perched on one shoulder. Would a hall full of Ancient Liches be beyond her? She had a morbid desire to find out. After all, Nenya had singlehandedly swept Red Mountain clean?

Before those thoughts could take root, though, the dais came into view. It was empty.

Bomba 'Lurrina was obviously familiar with the scenario. She raised her voice into the silence of the room, seemingly unconcerned about the echoes that rung in the shadowed space. "Letter for the King of Worms."

A shape took form out of the darkness. Nenya's hand went smoothly to her hammer, but Bomba gripped her wrist before she could reach it.

"Emperor's Agent," a gravelly voice pronounced.

"You're about twenty years out of date," said Bomba 'Lurrina with melting suavity. "But essentially, yes."

The shape inclined its head. All the King's servants were hooded, the wrapped cloth falling low to obscure their faces. It had a suspiciously dehumanising effect. This one was bare to the waist, the dim torchlight flickering off the gold rune-symbol that adorned his belt. If Bomba's statement had seemed insolent to him, he didn't show it. "Follow."

They were lead to a dark door off the side of the dais and shown inside. It was an anteroom; pleasant enough, although a more sumptuous interior could be glimpsed through the crack of the door that lead further away from the Hall.

"How unexpected," came a strangely resonant voice from behind them. "I had assumed your couriering days were over."

The two women turned, alarmed. Nenya's hammer caught the lip of a finely wrought porcelain urn; it wobbled for an awful moment, then crashed in a catastrophe of shards to the flagstoned floor.

The King of Worms sighed. "Kindly try not to upset any more of my antiques, won't you? Some of them I've grown quite fond of. Who is this delightful guest you've brought me, Miss 'Lurrina?"

To her credit, Bomba skated over the moment marvellously. She made a small formal bow. "Your Majesty, allow me to present Nenya, the Nerevarine of Morrowind."

"Charmed," the King said unconvincingly. Nenya looked for a moment as if she was considering a bow of her own, but noted the porcelain remains and quickly desisted, much to Bomba's relief.

"And to what do I owe the pleasure? Surely the Princess did not send you all this way just to deliver another letter. That seems a little capricious, even for her."

"Your usual method of communication has apparently expended its magicka, your Majesty. She cannot re-enchant it herself, as I'm sure you know."

The King imperceptibly cocked his head to one side, his unsettlingly bright gaze fixed on the Khajiit. It was hard to look at his 'eyes' for any length of time; the light was uncomfortable, even painful. Bomba found she always came away from this place with a crippling headache.

"Indeed?" he said softly. "Thirty years? surely it cannot be to the day? how curious." He held out his gloved hand; Bomba removed a bundle from her pack and gave it to him. She was always exceptionally careful not to touch any part of him, even a fingertip.

The King opened the package, and with an air of faint surprise, withdrew a blue gem. Holding up to the light, he regarded it intently. Then he broke the seal on the letter.

Bomba had always been uneasy about how the faceless shadow in the hood could convey expression. It sort of came to you as intuition. It had taken a long time to become attuned to that; she imagined it would be easier for someone of a longer acquaintance. Someone like the sender of the letter.

The impression she was getting from him at the moment was pleasant surprise. "How diverting," he remarked cryptically. "Almost a perfect copy! Ingenious, as ever." He dipped a quill into the elaborate inkpot and began a reply. "So, Miss 'Lurrina, how have you been faring? Do you still reside in Daggerfall?" The scratching of the quill sounded loud in the stillness of the subterranean room.

"Not at present, your Majesty," said Bomba 'Lurrina stiffly. She was never comfortable making small talk here. "I am staying in Morrowind for the time being, on account of the Princess' employment."

"Lucky you. And Sera Nerevarine, what of you?"

"Oh, Nenya please," the Nord said predictably, although Bomba had to admit she would not have believed even Nenya would be so flippant here. She must have a constitution of steel.

The King ignored her correction with the practised ease of someone who knows he is the most important person in the room. "Enjoying the Dumner's fascinating nation, are we?"

"They could do with a bit more mead."

The King laughed as he finished the letter. The sound made unpleasant echoes around the room. "I daresay they could. Here," he said, sealing the letter and holding it out to Bomba 'Lurrina. "It goes without saying that this is to be delivered to one hand only. Now, is there any other business you wish to discuss?"

Bomba hesitated. "Well? there is one thing. The Princess sent us to High Rock to gather information. The thing is, certain things have come to light in the past few days that she ought to know as soon as possible ? if not immediately. Going back the way we came means that this information will come to her attention in three weeks at the very earliest? and that may be too late."

"How very enigmatic of you. You believe I may have an alternate method of transportation, then?"

Bomba thinned her lips, evidently unhappy with the idea of asking a favour. "It is exceedingly important we contact her as soon as possible, your Majesty."

"So inconvenient that our usual communication method has let us down; I could have sent you directly to Mournhold. As it is, I believe there is an alternative." The King leant back in his chair and twirled the quill around his fingers. "My own Agents have developed a particularly ingenious network of transportation among themselves; strictly regulated, of course, but free for my use should I desire so. They originate from meeting-houses all over Tamriel, although they are naturally scarcer the farther you travel from the Iliac Bay."

Opening a drawer in his desk, he drew out a heavily annotated map and glanced over the surface for a few short moments. "I believe I may be able to send you as far as Reich Carigate. From there, the trip to Almalexia should be one week at most. Is that agreeable?"

"We are most grateful, your Majesty," said Bomba 'Lurrina with icy politeness. "We ought to leave at once, if it please you."

"My people will show you to the gazebo chamber." The King stood, making both women minutely flinch at the suddenness of the action. "Do come again some time, Miss 'Lurrina. And you, Sera Nerevarine, although I must beg you not to take your frustration with Dunmer sobriety out on my antiques. Good day."


*


If she never had to set foot on a boat again, Bomba 'Lurrina thought, she would be a happy Khajiit.

They had decided to take the last leg of their journey from Omayni by sea, turning south down the river by Darvon's Watch towards Almalexia. Although the water was nowhere near as rough as the choppy wastes between Tamriel and Atmora, it was fresh enough to rock the deck and bring back all Bomba's unpleasant memories of their previous voyage.

The sun was setting. Nenya came and leant on the rail beside her, once again infuriatingly comfortable in their nautical surroundings. "You really didn't like it, did you?"

"What?" asked Bomba 'Lurrina distractedly, sipping the cup of peppermint infusion she'd been given to settle her stomach. "The ship?"

Nenya laughed. "Oh no, we've been over that. I meant Scourg Barrow."

Bomba smiled wryly. "Is it so easy to tell? You're right; it's not my favourite place. And I say that as someone who is on relatively good terms with its occupants."

"I must say," Nenya conceded, "I've seen gods go mad and fought leprous monsters who wanted to eat my flesh, but the King of Worms gives me the jeebies."

The Khajiit smirked at the word use, but nodded in agreement. "You're right? don't you hate how he looks so normal? I detest things that don't look like what they are."

"Normal!? I know you've seen a lot of queer things, Bom, but really?"

Bomba punched her arm lightly. "You know what I mean. You can't tell me you weren't expecting something a touch more dramatic. Skulls and gravemold and skeletal fingers. Bloodstained robes, corpses everywhere, etcetera."

"Maybe he only puts on his skulls and gravemold for special occasions. You know; housewarmings, birthdays and things."

Bomba laughed so hard she spat out her tea. "Oh Nenya," she said weakly, "how did I live all this time without you? I've been missing a trick working alone all these years."

Nenya grinned roguishly. "It's been a lark, hasn't it? Can't wait to tell Caius all about it. Wonder how he's getting on with Solon." She chuckled, as if from an inside joke.

Bomba had restrained from prying into Nenya's personal life, but she couldn't help but notice the animation that came to Nenya's face when she spoke her former Blademaster's name. "You're close, aren't you? You and Sergeant Cosades?"

Incredibly, Nenya looked shy. Her Nord colouring did her no favours here; when she blushed, she blushed like wildfire.

"He's?" she seemed to be struggling for words, impaired by embarrassment. "We get on well."

Her flaming cheeks belied the simplicity of her words, but Bomba 'Lurrina merely smiled and let it drop. The kind of loyalty she had witnessed between Nenya and Caius, even in that short time she had seen them together, was a testament to itself. She wondered if Caius knew how lucky he was.

"Oh, and by the way," Nenya said casually in a clear attempt to change the subject, "I thought you might like to see something."

Bomba 'Lurrina watched curiously as the Nord unlaced the pack she'd brought on board with her, and hefted out the sinister-looking ebony helmet she'd worn on the road to Orsinium. Up close, the patterns of the inlay seemed to move slowly through the metalwork like coiled snakes. Bomba shivered as she remembered the stranger who had decimated the goblins.

"What did you want to show me this for?" she asked, hoping her reaction hadn't been obvious. "I've seen you wear it before."

"Oh, it's not specifically the helmet I'm showing you," Nenya replied airily. "It's this."

She leaned over the rail, and dropped the ebony unceremoniously into the sea.

Bomba gaped, stretching over the side to watch the splash fall behind in the wake of the boat. Two seconds later and it was gone without a trace. "What ? why?"

"I don't want it," Nenya said, serious for once. "I don't need it and I don't need what it does. I can be the Nerevarine and still be Nenya too, can't I?"

Perhaps the seasickness had made her overemotional, but for whatever reason, Bomba 'Lurrina felt tears sting her eyes. She turned to the sunset so Nenya couldn't see.

"Yes," she said emphatically. "Yes, you can."

They shared the rest of the peppermint tea, and watched the sun go down together.


*
*

Great chapter. You make me like the KoW. That crazy bastard.

Like wise. You gave the king of worms so much personality. He seems so classy. I got a real kick out of reading the beginning. I like how they're making themselves comfortable in Tel Fyr. It seems everythings going a little too well. In most of the situations you've set out with each character, theres a potential for something to go totally wrong! Hopefully something along those lines will happen in the next chapter.

Thanks for updating me! I think the next character on my list is def. The King of Worms. Im going to draw him based on how you portrayed him, but also based on his daggerfall look. It should be fun! :hehe:

Keep em commin!

Yay! another fix! :drool:

It amazes me how I can come back to this story after months and still know what's going on without having to go back and read it all again, not that I would mind. It's startling how real your characters are, especially given that it's a fantasy setting. The interaction between Nenya and Bomba makes me smile without knowing it until someone at work points it out, and I don't smile at work, lol. And Crassius makes me laugh uncomfortably with every line. I also find myself transfixed with the King of Worms, everything related to him reminds me of the movie Eyes Wide Shut which totally creeped me out, but I imagine that was the goal, huh? It's really an awesome read, you should see if Bethesda will hire you on to write for them instead of this joker they have doing the official novels. I've read some of his stuff and it doesn't come close to this level of quality storytelling.

My only gripes with this installment are some barely noticable spelling errors but that's for editors, not authors, to worry about

As always, your fans are already rabidly awaiting the next chapter!

Indeed. As far as I'm concerned THIS is the official ES novel .

Rumple, I continue to be amazed at your ability to juggle so many characters and plot threads with such apparent ease. I love the way you intertwine elements of MW and DF so effortlessly--I'm one of those curmudgeonly old folks who see a gigantic discrepancy between the world of Daggerfall and Morrowind, but the way you blend the two games and their characters has actually enhanced my enjoyment of both games.

I do hope you have at least considered writing as a career--the publishing industry is tough, but you definitely have the talent to get some of your stuff out there. If not, I hope at the very least you continue to write awesome fan-fics like this one. I'm sure I could come up with some criticisms and nitpicks if I forced myself, but if you don't mind I'd prefer to just sit back and enjoy your lovely story. Can't wait for more.

I will try to catch up on this as soon as the mood strikes me too... which sadly this summer it rarely does. Likewise, I'll try to continue on MD when the mood strikes me.

Glad to see it is still going though, and Happy Belated Birthday, Rumple! I hope it was wonderful!

Oh, come on!!

I didn't see this had been updated, and fanfiction.net is being useless again. It (despite the fact I have you on story alert and author alert) didn't bother to inform me that there was an update until 30 mins ago! Must be run by Royal Mail in their spare time :rolleyes:

Anyway, enough of my gripes, onto the good stuff!

Looks like there maybe trouble ahead too. Crassius, Crassius, Crassius! What was the line you posted? "Crassius was curious as a cat." Has he forgotten what happens to curious cats? They get eaten by shadowy dogs, that's what. This is what happens to a man when he's ruled by his loins. Girding or no girding

I have to say, Bomba and Nenya have rapidly become two of my favourite fictional characters as well. You know those quizzes, where you're asked, "who would your ideal dinner party guests include?" And everyone always says - Leonardo da Vinci. Napoleon Bonaparte. Winston Churchill. Albert Einstein. Megan Fox... Nope, not me. I want Bomba and Nenya - and Megan Fox - and Nenya does not get the fine china. If she can destroy one of the King Of Worms antiques, what would she do to my Marks And Sparks set? They're just.. So Damn Cool though. My favourite fantasy characters in fiction were Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser from Fritz Leiber's "Lankhmar" series. I loved those stories, simply because I loved those two characters. Bomba and Nenya are very close to receiving the same kind of love, they're growing and growing with each update they're involved in.

So, a typical Rumps update then? Intrigue? Awesome characters? A sense of impending doom?

Yep, yep, yep! Just one thing missing. The one "killer line" all of your updates seem to have. Oh, found it!

"Do come again some time, Miss 'Lurrina. And you, Sera Nerevarine, although I must beg you not to take your frustration with dunmer sobriety out on my antiques. Good day."

Laugh? Tea came out my nostrils!

Thank you v v much for your comments, ghost - but please don't hesitate to point out any mistakes, I'm always on the lookout! Typos inevitably slip through, and since I kind of get into a feverish trance when I start writing, I don't notice when stupid things are coming out


Likewise, Byzantine, thank you for your incredibly kind words. I have actually come to the conclusion that I wouldn't like to write for a career - fanfiction is perfect for me because I have little interest in creating entire new worlds myself. What interests me is to take existing characters and situations with untapped potential, and experiment with them. I also have the feeling that involving money in the equation would completely alter the experience of writing for me. I don't work well under pressure and I have the feeling it would become a chore, not a joy. I've had several serious arguments with loved ones on this matter But I think it's the right thing.


Thank you very much, eff!


I am delighted to have caused your beverage expulsion. Long may it last!

As always, your reviews leave me grinning like an idiot. You are very, very kind. Re missing updates: if you want, I can PM you when I update? Just say the word PS, Megan'd be on my list too... I mean no, of course not. David Hume, definitely.

Let me start by saying I'm not trying to change your mind here, (I'd like to believe I'm too smart to get into a debate with a Philosophy grad which I would stand no hope in hell of winning ), but...

Here are a few examples of fiction, good fiction, based around the idea of taking existing situations and characters with potential, and the author experimenting with them.

"March" by Geraldine Brooks. Winner of the 2006 Pulitzer Prize for fiction. Retells the novel "Little Women" from the point of view of the protagonists absent father.
"Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead" - play (as I'm sure you are well aware) by Tom Stoppard. Takes two minor characters from Hamlet and expands upon their lives. And is funny as hell, though that may be beside the point.
"A Thousand Acres" by Jane Smiley. A modern day version of King Lear basically, and again a Pulitzer Prize winner.
"The Hours" by Michael Cunningham. Yet another Pulitzer Prize winner (Honestly, I wasn't trying to find these, they were the first examples that came to mind). Based on the impact of Virginia Woolf, with the one of the sections dealing with a fictionalised version of Woolf herself whilst writing Mrs. Dalloway.
And so on...

Now, your comment about money going into the equation I agree with 100%. And it it's your livelihood, I suspect it might become a chore. I've been trying to make it my livelihood for a decade now, and I'm still nowhere near to being able to quit the day job. Actually, I'm nowhere near to being able to go down to part time hours As such I still write for the love of writing, just for me - so I cannot express an opinion of what it's like to have writing actually be the day job. Does it lose its lustre? Possibly. But, (back to the point), you are a good writer. Make no mistake about that. You have a gift of being able to bring characters to life, to really get under their skin, and that is not easy to learn. You seem to be able to do that instinctively.

Couple of quotes for you:

"The writer isn't made in a vacuum. Writers are witnesses. The reason we need writers is because we need witnesses to this terrifying century." - E. L. Doctorow
"Writing is a form of personal freedom. It frees us from the mass identity we see in the making all around us. In the end, writers will write not to be outlaw heroes of some underculture but mainly to save themselves, to survive as individuals." - Don Delillo
"Writing is a form of therapy; sometimes I wonder how all those, who do not write, compose, or paint can manage to escape the madness, the melancholia, the panic fear, which is inherent in a human condition" - Graham Greene

What's the point of this post? Am I trying to persuade you to write for a career? No, of course I'm not. I have no doubts that you could succeed at that if you wanted to, but that's the key. If you wanted to. But I would hate to see you rule out the possibility of ever considering it.

Like it or not, you are a talented writer with a gift for characterisation. Write for you, because you love to do it, and let the future take care of itself. Just don't rule out the possibility, one day in the future, of sharing with the world your own particular take on life. Because that could well be a loss for the rest of us.

End of impassioned plea/rant...

Hmmm...

You know, as a (barely) published writer myself, I would like to make a few points. Perhaps pertinent, perhaps not.

Hemingway was once asked what was the essential incredient in the makeup of a good writer. He unhesitatingly replied "an unhappy childhood". I find that this is so often the case with at least 75% of both the academically respected and the best selling authors that I know of, so from what I know of Rumms from reading her journal, I don't quite think...


...but again, there are exceptions to every rule. Look at me, one of the unhappiest of childhoods imaginable, and not a successful writer either academically or commercially.

Otherwise, Rumpleteaza, you fulfill all the requirements. You have an excellent memory and imagination that is able to envisage the story as a whole, and then craft each part to fit. This jigsaw-puzzle solving ability is the basic requisite of the professional writer - we will, of course, leave out those writers who have the strange ability to sleepwalk by instinct through an entire story, letting the story flow from their fingertips. Frankly I am sceptical that such an ability really exists, but then I could be saying the graqes are sour, perhaps? I not? The only fingertip ability I have is in producing light verse, and even then it doesn't work all the time.

Furthermore, you have read a lot, and know how to use what you have read - a great talent - and know how to discard what doesn't fit, an even greater talent.

Perhaps my only criticism is that you need to develop your characters more through the use of light and shade in dialogue, but that is a criticism that could be levelled against many writers, not least against yours truly. I would urge you to have more drama and cliffhanging in your episodes - this is, after all, an episodic, short (ish) story forum - but again that is a matter of personal preference.

Advice to all other would be writers: when you begin writing, you may think that it's the product of sweat, but when you actually do it you realize that it is more blood than sweat.

I'm very tempted to edit my previous post, due to it containing extreme gushiness. That and I said at the beginning that I wasn't trying to change your mind, and then spent the entire post trying to do exactly that..

:shakehead:

Yesterday was a long day, what can I say.

Instead, what I meant to say, was that you write what you damn well like Rumple. As long as you enjoy the writing, that's all that matters. Who knows what will happen in the future? Just so you know that there are a lot of people here that love your story, and your writing as a whole.

No more gushiness, I promise!



I liked that, most amusing! Still time though Mr Foxy, still plenty of time.

Thank you for your words of wisdom, Foxy And thank you also for the criticism. I'm hoping to build steadily up to a nice bit of drama - the ending is fairly explosive - but I realise that the building of that tension, particularly in this forum format, can be a hindrance. It ends up being stagnant. You know, I looked over all my notes the other day and thought, "damn, this ENTIRE story consists of people talking at eachother from behind desks." And it totally does I'm going to start getting some more action in there.


Oh no, please don't - I was very touched by your so-called "impassioned plea/rant"; how could anyone take it any other way than well-meant? Having someone believe in you like that is truly wonderful. And I actually agree with everything you said. While I'm not actively pursuing a writing career, I am perfectly open to fate. If an opportunity arose that I was reasonably sure I could take advantage of, I would probably grab it. What I meant was that I don't want to spend my life feeling like writing purely for pleasure isn't enough - because when I've argued with my family over the issue sometimes, that is suspiciously how their viewpoint comes across. That the writing I'm doing now somehow has less merit, use or artistic value because 1. it's classed as fanfiction and 2. because it's not being used for financial gain. I suppose it's rather soured me on the whole topic, but I would never allow that prejudice to stop me seizing an opportunity that presented itself.

The King And I

Chapter Nineteen – Interlude Eight; The First Of Many


Castle Wayrest, High Rock, Sun’s Dusk 3E 405. It is twenty-four years before the present day. Morgiah is 29.


All things told, the last six years in Wayrest could best be summed up with the phrase “brewing storm”.

Elysana was now a young woman, and although at seventeen years of age the roundness of youth had not left her face, her eyes told a different story. Not to anyone whom she wished to charm, of course, but to Morgiah – who was naturally not on her list of conquests – the venom in her eyes was clear as day. Through a mixture of thoughtless stereotype and diabolical charisma, she had managed to gain a reputation of a mouth that butter would rather die than melt in.

Helseth, by comparison, was not doing so well.

He made no secret of his ambition for the throne. His obsession with court politics had grown steadily through his coming of age, and it had not taken long to become a regular seat on the council, and finally to declare his intentions openly. In popular opinion, he was viewed with wariness – his capability was obvious, but old nationalism died hard. When it came down to it, Wayrest did not want a Dunmer king.

Morgiah watched the players move into place with increasing detachment. She had come, through a number of deductions, to the conclusion that any involvement in the Crown Race on her part was folly. Her mind had been drifting further and further from Wayrest over the years, fuelled by her frustration at its academic limits. Quite apart from which, Helseth clearly had his heart set on monarchy and she was loath to place more strain on their already overtaxed relationship.

For Barenziah’s part, she did not question her daughter’s choice. She was simply glad that her children would not become rivals.

Nevertheless, the lack of rivalry prompted something just as undesirable: separation. Morgiah’s withdrawal from Wayrest politics was removing her not only from her brother’s thoughts, but the thoughts of the whole of Wayrest. Rumour and gossip centred on Helseth and Elysana; when Morgiah’s name was mentioned, once in a blue moon, it was accompanied by a faint suggestion of surprise. “Oh yes, the third one… I forget about her, don’t you?”

Morgiah was not oblivious to this slow decline of popular interest, but neither did she hinder it. In the back of her mind, she knew it was for the best. She didn’t intend on staying here for much longer, and when she left, it was better that people didn’t have too much dirt on her. Plus, less focus on her activities gave her a freer rein than before – for example, to make underhand use of her mother’s extensive spy network.

Morgiah had a plan.

Her study had taken a turn for the particular in the past six years. Since the downfall of the Imperial Simulacrum and the defeat of Jagar Tharn, she had been increasingly interested in the abundant rumours of artefacts. Annoyingly, Ria Silmane’s so-called hero that had been instrumental in Tharn’s defeat had proved fiendishly difficult to pin down – even his name seemed to be a mystery. But that didn’t stop the gossip. He had found Auriel’s Bow. No, it was the Ogmha Infinium. No, the Staff of Chaos had not been destroyed after all, and he had taken it for his own. No, it was all of them; he was amassing his own personal armoury of artefacts… and so on.

She could not have told anyone why or when the artefact fire had been kindled in her, but it was burning brightly. She could not stop thinking about them. And one in particular burned the brightest of all: the Ogmha Infinium. It was the one that appealed most to her tastes; her thirst for learning had, if anything, only increased in response to Wayrest’s lack of scope. Jagar Tharn’s victor had found it, and she wanted to know where and how.

Curiously, her twin desires seemed to point to one place: Firsthold. Six years ago Barenziah had mentioned the city for its extensive library, in an off-hand comment that had lodged itself in Morgiah’s mind with surprising tenacity. Now, it had come to her attention that Firsthold seemed to be the home of none other than the Ria Silmane’s champion. The notion had amused her; it was almost as if ever since she had vocally scorned the hand of fate that time in Scourg Barrow, it was determined to prove it existed.

She could hear voices outside her study door; the familiar voices of Helseth and Elysana. She was surprised; they usually avoided eachother like the plague when state occasion did not require their presence. Their voices were low and she could not distinguish the words, but the poison in both their tones was obvious. Elysana hissed a string of obscenities, and their footsteps separated, fading in opposite directions down the hall.

Morgiah looked out of the window. It was growing dark, but she could just make out the shape of the privet-maze through the dim curtain of snowflakes. Winter was at its height; in three days, it would be New Life, the festival of the changing year. A time for celebration and hope.

For the Wayrest Royal Family, it seemed the new year could bring nothing good.


*


Tel Fyr, Azura Coast Region, Vvardenfell, 30th First Seed 3E 429.


In Tel Fyr, the Dreamer Master surveyed his underling with cool arrogance. He didn’t recognise this particular woman – as much as you could recognise any of the Dreamers under their black hooded robes – but that was not particularly unusual these days. Helseth’s operation had expanded to triple its size in the last month, bringing new faces with it.

“I have brought you the equipment you requested, Master,” she said respectfully, bowing and indicating a heavy brass-bound chest beside her.

“Good,” said the Master haughtily, brushing past her to inspect the contents. “A quick arrival – see that you maintain this level of efficiency. This project is of the highest importance.”

“Of course, Master,” the woman replied deferentially. She had moved behind him as he passed by, further back towards the cabinet at the side of the room. Inside, a stand of glass phials gleamed with strange indigo liquid.

The master extracted an alembic, placing it carefully on the desk. Bent over the delicate tubing, he did not notice the Dreamer underling slip a hand inside the cabinet and quickly tuck a phial under her cloak.

“Leave me,” he told her distractedly, not looking up from his inspection.

Dralasa Llethi obeyed him, a smile on her lips.


*


Scourg Barrow, Dragontail Mountains, Hammerfell, Evening Star 3E 405. It is twenty-four years before the present day. Morgiah is 29.


The room was quiet, the only audible noises being the tick of the exquisitely crafted carriage clock on the mantelpiece, and the low murmur of conversation from the fireside.

“I am most vexed, Princess,” said the King, as if he were the kind of man who could be brought low by collapsed shares or a bad harvest.

Morgiah gave an exaggerated frown and sipped at her wine. “How so, Sire? I do hope I am not the cause.”

“I don’t believe you are even capable of vexing me, Princess,” he said airily. As so often with his flippant remarks, she was unsure whether it was a compliment or an insult. She suspected he did it on purpose. Bastard.

“Well then, tell on. I am aflame to hear your anxieties.”

“You look it,” the King said dryly. “Nevertheless, I think your interest will be peaked when you hear more. The nature of this vexation has to do with artefacts, and I know how close you hold that particular subject to your heart.”

Morgiah raised an eyebrow, immediately attentive. “You don’t say? Artefacts, plural?”

“Maybe so. I think you will agree that the situation is intriguing. I have received a letter from one Reman, King of Firsthold.”

“Firsthold?”

“Indeed. I should like you to read it, if you would be so kind. You see, this predicament happens to involve you.”

Taken aback, she met his eyes (such as they were) as he offered the envelope. As always, there was little to be gleaned. Burning with curiosity, she withdrew the heavy parchment and the room was silent for a few minutes as she read. The King of Worms watched her, the clock ticking like a metronome.

When she had finished, she folded the letter up neatly and tucked it back in its envelope. “Well. That is interesting.”

“Indulge me, Princess.” The King leant back in his chair, steepling his gloved fingertips. “I want to hear your take on the matter.”

Morgiah rose and walked to the large marble fireplace, resting her hands on the mantel and soaking up the heat. Warmth always helped her think. Closing her eyes, she began to mentally sift through the information.

“To me, the most interesting thing is that Reman not only contacted you, but was also able to find you with very little trouble. Since the catastrophe he speaks of could not have happened less than a week ago, you must have been the very first person he wrote to – even a week is fast from Summurset Isle to Hammerfell, unless his courier used the Mages Guild. Therefore, I would guess you have an Agent at court. Am I right?”

“Very astute. I do indeed have a contact in the Firsthold court – one I may have to scold for giving information away so freely, but there you are. By all means, continue.”

Morgiah rolled the green gem between her fingers pensively. “Of course, then there is the catastrophe itself. Reman’s son, next in line to the throne, somehow gets his hands on the Necromancer’s Amulet – which is apparently, I don’t know, hanging around the royal nursery or something? The whole thing seems ridiculous.”

The King laughed. “While I delight in the image of Reman amusing his offspring by making rattles out of ancient and powerful relics, I believe the reality was somewhat different. Reman’s son is no toddler, but the eldest of three, a boy of eighteen. It seems he was poking around the lower levels of the Royal Treasury along with a couple of highborn lackeys, and came across the Amulet quite accidentally. As he touched the thing, the force of power released by the contact threw his spirit out of Mundus entirely, and from what I can garner from my own investigations since, is suspended at the door to Oblivion in terrible agony. Naturally, his father is concerned.”

“What concerns me is what Reman’s doing with your jewellery in the first place.”

“Ah, so you have done your research!” He seemed inordinately pleased. “The fact that the Amulet was originally mine is not commonly known, despite it being fairly obvious, wouldn’t you say? I rather think most people believe me a myth.”

“A shame. They don’t know what they’re missing. So, Reman’s son is suspended in a state of living death with your Amulet, and Reman contacted you first because he, too, knows it rightfully belongs to you. I suppose he thinks you might have some uncommon knowledge of the thing that will present a solution to his unfortunate predicament?”

“Bravo. A most accurate summary.”

“Well, I can see what’s in this for you: the Amulet, of course. But I feel I do have to reproach you for making me believe I was involved. My name is mentioned nowhere in the letter. Were you just trying to whet my appetite?”

“Ah,” said the King, toying slowly with his wineglass. “No. It is not Reman that wants to involve you, Princess. It is me.”

Pause. “What manner of involvement?”

“I thought we could strike a bargain.”

Morgiah was silent.

The idea of doing business with him both excited and repelled her. So far, their relationship had been not at all mercenary. Making some sort of deal together would change it irrevocably, and she was not quite sure she wanted that to happen.

“As I understand, Sire, you are already in my debt. Would you beggar yourself even further?”

He regarded her steadily. “True, of course, the Order of Arkay debacle… although I have repeatedly offered to settle that particular score, and as of yet you have not named your terms. I could almost believe you are withholding in order to have some kind of arbitrary claim over my favour. Being that the case, one might consider my cordiality towards you an adequate reward. I assure you, these civilised little wine-drinking sessions are not standard fare in my halls.”

That made her feel distinctly threatened. With no facial expression, she had little to gauge his tone, and something about the turn of this conversation was alarming her. She had allowed herself to become relaxed in his presence over the last six years, but had that really been such a good idea? Was he simply lulling her into a false sense of security? She suddenly realised how pathetic her previously revelled-in intelligence was compared to his millennia of experience.

She remembered the fear and danger she had felt on her first visit here. She had been strong enough to master it then; she must do the same now. “And what would be the nature of this bargain?”

The King did not pursue his needling, much to her relief. Whether his words had not held the meaning they seemed to imply, or he had merely decided to bide his time, she could not say. “You asked what was in this for me. And you are right; the Amulet. Now it has turned up, I am loath to let it slip into the hands of another wretched “champion”. The thing is, I find myself in a quandary. I cannot retrieve it alone.”

“No? Why?”

“It is complicated. This is an item with which I spent a great deal of time experimenting in my youth. There are… connotations.”

She frowned. “Connotations? Ones that would hinder you in successfully restoring the Prince to his father?”

“Oh, I’m afraid it is no longer a case of “successfully restoring”. The Prince’s body was destroyed as soon as he touched the Amulet. His spirit is now effectively imprisoned; the Amulet has remarkable restorative and magicka reflection properties, and they are keeping him in limbo – originally designed to be helpful, of course, but obviously in this case it is quite the opposite. He simply cannot die until he is free of it, and so merely idles in a constant state of both healing and degeneration. Reman is a widower; all he has now is the wellbeing of his sons. He will want a final restful death for Tellanaco.”

Morgiah drummed her fingers on the mantelpiece. “And you cannot give it.”

“Final and restful, no. The Amulet will react to my presence in a certain way, which I can assure you will create a rather disastrous conclusion for our young Prince.”

“Dare I ask why?”

The King gave the impression that he was smirking, as he so often did. “The Amulet and I have, shall we say… artistic differences? There will be no problem when it is fully in my possession, but until then, it has something of a life of its own.”

Morgiah had a sudden flash of insight as she recalled the common method for enchanting. “Good lord, whose soul did you put in that thing?”

“A story for another visit. Suffice to say that it is powerful enough to project some form of willpower outside the physical confines of the Amulet, and in a delicious twist of irony it particularly dislikes Necromancers. Quite strongly.” He stood, coming to join her by the fire. “So you see, my intervention is quite out of the question, and I cannot simply use one of my agents; they all have the same problem. I need someone with no Necromantic connections, but who nevertheless has considerable talent in magic… and who has enough of an interest in my favour to retain a certain amount of discretion on the subject.”

She laughed; she couldn’t help herself. “And I was your best option? You poor soul.”

“I confess I am curious to see how you would perform in such a situation. You have never given much away about your abilities, and I find the whole affair quite tantalising.”

“So in short, you are conducting some kind of elaborate experiment.”

The smirk again. “I sense I am not enticing you.”

“Not immeasurably, no.”

“Then perhaps this will help. You recall I said this may involve artefacts, plural? I think I have a lead on your pet daydream. I understand you have been researching the whereabouts of the Ogmha Infinium this past decade.”

That did it. Oh, you tricky thing. “Don’t tell me Reman has that tucked away in his treasury as well. What is he doing, amassing an arsenal?”

“I regret to say I do not know the exact location. But I have taken it on myself to do some research, and my contacts inform me that the Infinium has without doubt been in the Firsthold Palace sometime in the last six years. They believe it has something to do with the elusive hero who defeated Jagar Tharn; he is a Firsthold citizen, although infuriatingly impenetrable to any of my espionage attempts.”

Morgiah pondered. She had to admit, he had her. She wanted the Infinium badly. His information was a weak lead, but she was coming to believe that some capricious god was determined to get her to Firsthold, and this was its most ambitious bait yet. “Well, after you’ve dangled my first artefact in front of my face and snatched it away, I suppose it’s only fair you provide an alternative.”

The King laughed unexpectedly. “Your first? Princess, do you never worry about inciting my wrath? People tend to, you know.”

“Well, as it sounds as if I shall be the one retrieving the Amulet, and it’s Finders Keepers in this game, you know… but I am a reasonable woman. I shall graciously turn it over to you, since you have so kindly suggested a second.”

He gave a sigh of mock weariness. “And again, I am bested. So,” he continued, returning to his desk and filling both their glasses, “is it too much to expect you to name a price this time? Must I languish in debt as I have done before?”

And then it came to Morgiah in a single moment of clarity.

“I want to marry Reman,” she said.

The King paused. She might even have believed he was taken aback. Finally, he swirled the wine around his glass and lifted it to the light, splitting the crystal into faint rainbows that scattered across the room. “Really? He’s an awful bore.”

“Bore or not, he’s King of Firsthold. I gave up on Wayrest years ago; it’s time to set my sights on pastures new.”

“New, yes… but ambitious. Firsthold is a most powerful seat, and the Altmer will not take well to a foreign queen.”

Morgiah tossed her head airily. “I have been a foreign princess all my life, Sire. I don’t suppose being a foreign queen will be much different.”

“I am certain you will set the court ablaze. I am to take this as my end of the bargain, then?”

Morgiah hesitated. It was a good plan, but something about both conceiving and cementing a marriage pact in less than five minutes felt a little heady. “Not immediately. Let me go away and think it over. I’ll have my answer for you in one month.”

“I cannot promise you anything, Princess, but I will do my best to broker for you. Shall I send your likeness to Reman? Or simply use what verbal delights I can conjure up from memory?”

“He can see me himself when we come to Firsthold. I imagine he’s so desperate to save his son that he’ll agree to anything. He’d probably marry Nulfaga.”

The King laughed once more. “Very well. Consider your answer carefully, Princess. I shall anticipate it with bated breath.”

“Funny,” said Morgiah, draining her glass. “I wasn’t aware you breathed at all.”


*


Scourg Barrow, Hammerfell, Morning Star 3E 405


Nestled between the crags of the arid Dragontail Mountains, Scourg Barrow looked something like its location’s namesake; a beast concealed and ready to strike.

Necromancers were not the only visitors the dilapidated fortress ever entertained. It was common enough that every so often, some opportunist adventurer or pious knight would chance upon the structure and brave the undead that lurked in the higher reaches. The Necromancer’s own domain was far below the ground; magic being their main method of transportation, the front door and upper sections were abandoned and unused. It was a useful deterrent for unwary travellers.

Occasionally, one intrepid individual might stumble into the King of Worms’ halls. What happened to them varied according to their character. Mercenaries and sellswords out purely for gold were usually unharmed; such people were not likely to incite crusades. Those who looked ready to run to the nearest Arkay Order were without fail put to the sword. Considering the number of Ancient Liches that flanked the Great Hall’s perimeter, this was usually short work. So when an Ohmes Raht Khajiit turned up at the door and prowled her way across the room, she was carefully watched. She looked fairly mercenary, but you could never tell who would turn out to be a zealot.

The King of Worms was on the dais. There had been a gathering not long before, and though the hall was nearly empty, a few Agents remained, as did the two hooded dancers adorning the platform.

“I have a letter for the King of Worms,” the Khajiit announced, looking round unnecessarily as if it was somehow hard to pick him out of the crowd.

The red-cloaked figure on the dais slowly turned his head to her. Though the silhouette was that of a normal man, there was something deeply disturbing about the darkness that gathered under the hood. He held a staff; she jumped as a faint crackle of energy sparked down the shaft.

She could tell he was interested, though. Letters at Scourg Barrow were no doubt scarce; couriers who battled their way through the hordes of undead to deliver them must be even rarer.

The King spoke. To her immense surprise, his voice was not the graveyard rasp she had expected… though there was a faint resonance there, the trace of a deep echo that made her think of dungeons, of oubliettes, of long-lost tombs beneath the earth. “You’re very dedicated for a courier.”

“I’m well paid,” Bomba ‘Lurrina drawled.

“No doubt. By whom?”

“Some princess. I believe you know her.”

He did not reply; was he surprised? It was impossible to tell anything from those unnatural blue fires. Instead, he held one gloved hand out for the letter. She drew it from her pack and passed it to him, taking care not to touch his fingers.

She had not been prepared for what she would see here. Morgiah had been frustratingly obscure; the Khajiit had only obliged because she had been promised information on her return, and of course getting cosy with the royals was never a bad idea. So saying, the King of Worms was not quite what she had pictured. The blackness in the hood and the blue pinpoints of light were inhuman, certainly, but nothing like the diabolical festering lich she had pictured. You couldn’t even tell if he was a lich.

Somehow, that made it even worse.

The King finished the letter and lowered it. It was bizarre; even without a face, he seemed as if he was smiling in amusemant. The Khajiit thought that was odd – she had callously read the letter herself, of course, and there was nothing in the innocuously short missive that she would have named comical.

His words had an edge to them that made her ears buzz and ache. “Excellent; our bargain is struck. As an aside, did she tell you exactly why she was sending a letter?”

“What? No… your Majesty,” she suffixed hastily, unsure of the etiquette and erring on the side of caution. “Does she not normally send letters?”

“The Princess and I have an alternate method of communication. I am curious as to why she used you instead. Perhaps she wished to throw you in my path… if you’re who I think you are, you’re making a bit of a name for yourself in the Bay.” He passed his staff to an attendant, who took it hastily before retreating back to his post. “Stay, Cat. I must write a response.”

If Bomba ‘Lurrina felt any affront at the insulting epithet, she was wise enough not to voice it. The King melted into the shadows at the back of the dais, disappearing through a heavy bronze-bound door through which the tantalising glint of soft candlelight spilled.

She endured an uncomfortable few minutes among the silent hooded Agents before he returned, a thin envelope with an exquisitely scripted address in his hand. “See that this is delivered directly to the Princess herself. No servant, no maid, no slave. Her own hand.”

She nodded, suddenly looking forward even to the rat-infested caverns, simply because they marked the path away from this place. An insistent feeling of dread was crawling up her spine like a dismembered hand. Her usual arrogant manner had died; she had never been so keen to get away in her life.

But before she could leave, his disquieting voice hailed her from the stage. “By the way, Cat… keep your eyes open. I may have some employment opportunities for you in the future. The Princess sent you to me for a reason, and I suspect it is because you’re useful. Don’t worry about killing off any of my pets in the upper halls; they’ll be back next time you come.”

She looked into his ‘eyes’, and said the only sensible thing anyone could.

“Yes, Sire.”



*
*

Excellent yet again. Love the KoW.

Wow, 2 chapters in a month. You spoil us Yet another excellent installment.

Gotta say, I find myself not minding in the least that there's a lot of conversation between charcters in this story because they're always interesting and engaging. I've never once thought there wasn't enough action going on; sparring with words can be as rivetting as with swords.

My only complaint with this installment is entirely with myself; I finished reading it way too quickly, lol.

It is? I thought present day was 3E429. Which would make it 24 years wouldn't it? *Slaps self for being pedantic*

There's a lot going on in this update. An awful lot. With each interlude, you give us more clues as to how what we know happens, actually came to transpire. So I end up with this illusion of knowledge. I've just gone back about seven updates here, and reread them all closely, to be absolutely sure I was up to speed. Having done that, I can say that it truly is an illusion. Hints. That's all I have. Hints.

I suspect you would make an excellent stage magician, you have a way with smoke and mirrors.

Does that sound like a complaint? Probably it does, but only for one reason. I feel like I am so tantalisingly close to seeing the full picture, and I'm desperate to read on and... I'm going to have to force myself to be patient (not one of my strong suits I'm frequently told) and wait for the next update. It's just like reading a superb mystery, and then finding the book is missing the last chapters, so you order it off Amazon, then the bloody thing gets delayed due to a postage strike and then the dog ravages the package the instant it gets put through the letterbox and, well you get the drift.

So, so unfair I must be a masochist, because it's just so enjoyable. I wouldn't trade this for all the books in the world when I'm caught up in the web of plot threads shooting off all over the place. Your readers are your spiders, and we await your gift of flies to feed upon.

This is possibly the most bizarre critique I have ever given. Maybe I should have started on the cider a little later. Hmm.

I guess what I'm trying to say is I :wub: this story. I cannot wait to see where this goes next.

As Oliver might say, "Please Miss Teasza. May I have another?"

SGM! :goodjob:

Thank you! I'm glad people are enjoying the KoW - I started getting worried that I was putting in too much King and not enough Worms, which is why I thought it was important to put Bomba's first impressions in at the end there to counter Morgiah's. Of course, since we are mainly seeing KoW through Morgiah's eyes, there's a danger of my not getting across that I actually think he is supposed to be really very disturbing. I guess Morgiah's perspective is not such a good one to convey that through, since she's clearly off her rocker and actually WANTS to spend time with him Anyhow, I'm glad my interpretation is going down well, because I was worried it wouldn't be exciting enough.


I'm really pleased you don't mind dialogue - because as you can see so far, there is a damn lot of it in this thing! I agree with you - I find verbal sparring just as thrilling as physical sparring, and although I've written some rather explosive action for later parts, it's really good to know people are enjoying the quieter bits. Thank you again so much for continuing to read!


:lol: I love this critique. *clinks cider* Cheers! :wub:

Although I must say, you mustn't hold back from sugar coating things if you weren't quite sure you liked them - if you think the plot is holding too many things back, and it is impeding your enjoyment, I would seriously like to know. It's very hard to judge pacing when you're sporadically writing and updating like this - because I can't predict what certain plot strands will mutate into, or how it will precisely fit together, I'm in danger of making the continuity senseless and mixed up, with some bits being paced too fast and drowning others. If you feel the continuity is off in any way, by all means please do tell me, because I need to know! I want to try and make this story the best I possibly can, and the best possible way to do that is have people tell me what they didn't like so I can re-think it. But aside from that spontaneous tangent - thank you, thank you as always! It makes me all fuzzy to think I am entertaining people satisfactorily. PS: you were right about the date. I'm tired, ok And alright, it's not cider, but this bottle of red wine didn't drink itself...


Just a quick general note/plea: I'm aware that my interpretation of the infamous "first" quote, now it's finally been revealed, may seem like a terrible anticlimix. This particular interpretation grew very organically over a number of years - it began creeping up on me in 2003, but it was only fully shaped three weeks ago when I wrote this scene, and it's been to a lot of strange places in between. Obviously we are not done with the interludes, and before they are over you will learn a LOT more about the First bargain, how it was carried out and what happened because of it, so (if you were expecting more and are disappointed) I ask you humbly to reserve judgement until the story is complete. I know a lot of people liked the (rather juicy) idea of "first" referring to virginity, but I felt that was a little too predictable and in any case, it's not the kind of relationship I envisage between these two. Not that it's not a viable option, but any means, but we all have our interpretations and this happened to be mine.

In any case I'll shut up waffling now, because too much inane "explanation" ruins the story

I really need to find the time and mindset to get back to reading this, being a King of Worms fanatic myself.

This is really excellent reading, looking forward to future chapters, thanks Rumpleteasza

Sounds like a good plan :hehe:

I really enjoyed this chapter. Its amazing to see the level of detail and planning you do, to make the story and specifically the letter your character (bomba) gives to the King of Worms.
The king of worms is still on my list for the next character to draw,

Keep em commin' (at this pace!)

I'm glad I finally clicked on that link on your signature.. I've been meaning to for (*cough*)years(*cough*) and I am certainly glad to have now done it. This is really, really good stuff and the thread is now bookmarked. Can't wait to read more.

As far as too much dialogue... nay, say I. Anyone can write exciting actions and events, but it takes a truly special writer to keep their readers engaged through conversation. I think this does a pretty good job as I couldn't stop myself from reading. Keep it up.