Going Elsweyr: Chapter 2: Changing Plans

  • Warning: Contains sexual content, violence, and strong language. For mature readers. 

     

    28th of Morning Star, 4e 26, Riverhold, Elsweyr

     

    They leaned over the curled-up figure, half-submerged in a small nest of silk blankets and beaded satin throw pillows of various shades of ivory, purple, and green on his side of the carriage. His ornate apple-green, silver-embroidered robes, impractical for traveling, were disheveled from his deep slumber, as was his wavy black hair, his golden skin flushed from the increased temperature of their location. Äelberon smirked and shook his head, his hands resting on the thighs of his dust-covered breeches. Boy would have been far more comfortable during the first legs of their two-week journey from Firsthold to Riverhold if he had listened to him, switching the satin for a more sensible cotton, or even linen, but the stubbornness of House Larethian was heavy in his blood. Lillandril stirred, wrinkled his nose in distaste, and let out a gust of air before resuming his rest.

     

    Äelberon knew it was he that Lillandril was smelling and it was unpleasant. He had been working for the better part of the morning and early afternoon loading their travel supplies from the carriage to the giant Senche-raht that was to be their transportation for their journey.  He lifted weapons, food provisions, waterskins, and several trunks that contained the party’s changes in clothing and other sundries, blank journals, quill and ink, gradually, to combat the heat,  stripping to naught but his light cotton shirt, breeches and armored boots while he worked.  The Justiciar that Elenwen and Vingalmo were meeting with, however, as he loaded, meant that he had to observe protocol and keep his helmet on and as a result, he was now soaked in sweat, the bands of wet metal beginning to uncomfortably rub against the skin on his face, his plaited hair dripping.

     

    The massive black-striped, maned Khajiit, S’Kuz, took the extra weight of their gear remarkably well, bearing upon his back a covered platform that served as a saddle of sorts. A “howdah” was what the Cathay merchant had called it when Äelberon had arrived at his stables near the border of the city early in the morning to finalize the payments for the Senche-raht’s services. The howdah featured pillowed seating and ample room to store their supplies all covered by a fringed canopy of stretched, brick-colored canvas that he was assured would both block the sun and ward off the rain. The canvas could also be rolled downwards on the sides to provide protection from blowing sand. Äelberon had never seen anything like it in all of his travels, but in Riverhold, the elephants…

     

    The elephants, he had never seen those either, save the stuffed specimens at the Tower. They were in the process to acquire a breeding pair for the menagerie when the Skies burned. The giant grey-skinned, tusked beasts with long, leathery prehensile snouts that could verily pick up small trees! They also bore on their backs such transport rigs and more humble versions were used as mobile homes by the local Khajiit merchants.

     

    Riverhold’s architecture was unimpressive, not what he was expecting from a city in one of the most exotic provinces of Tamriel. It actually resembled Bravil to him, especially the area around the docks, with its buildings of stone and timber dotting the mountain face, some buildings carved into it, “dens” they called them, with suspended wooden bridges and walkways connecting the structures as the river ran its course downwards. They were now close to its base. A Bravil, however, filled with the many species of Khajiit. The sights, the strong smells of sugar-spiced food and fur, the activity of the crowded marketplace of Riverhold, the gateway from Elsweyr to Cyrodiil, was a great deal to take in at once and Äelberon could not imagine how Lillandril slept through the racket. The strong scent of moon sugar was heavy in the air and Äelberon did not lie to himself, he definitely had a spare pipe in his travel pack, enjoying the prospect of smoking skooma for the first time. They all had pipes, he had seen to that too, he thought with a sly grin, remembering fondly Rynandor introducing both Äelberon and his Ata to such a wicked vice.

     

    After another sigh and a slurping noise from Lillandril, the pair noticed that one of the pillows now sported a growing stain of drool where the sleeping Mer’s open mouth came in contact with the delicate, expensive fabric. Those were the Hag’s pillows and Äelberon could not hide his gladness on that either. Äelberon marveled that the young Mer could even sleep in that position. His limbs were gathered close to his body, his backside almost in the air, verily like the Alfiq that was perched upon Äelberon’s shoulder, now far more comfortable with him than she had been earlier in the morning. Her russet fur with faint stripes on her legs and ears was silky next to the skin of his neck and he could just feel the vibration of a steady purr. Though she, Dar’Kalaa, could not speak, it was quite clear to Äelberon that she was seeing the humor in the situation as well, her light, apple-green eyes narrowing slightly. He turned to her.

     

    “Should we wake him?”

     

    The Alfiq’s large, almond eyes narrowed further in response and she made an unusual, purring chirp that Äelberon only assumed was an agreement? He was still learning how to read her body language in the hours spent in her company. He was still learning how to read all their bodies, the three new members of their party.

     

    “You’re the Captain of the Guard, Dusken, you learn the cats.” The snide remark from Justiciar Cyrenar, delivered with a gloved finger pointed towards his armored chest before he walked towards one of the shaded inns with Vingalmo and Elenwen, its turning fans sending travel-weary visitors a welcoming invitation to take a break from Elsweyr’s winter weather.  Only a fool could not have noticed the bristling fur, flattening ears, and exposed fangs from all three Khajiit at the word “cat”. Already they were heading the wrong way in Elsweyr and the powerfully-built, heavily-striped Senche who was to serve as his mount on the journey, J’Fassaa, almost walked out on their party then and there, his rumbling growls and hisses of disgust audible. It took the combined efforts of Dar’Kalaa and S’Kuz to bring him back and Äelberon was grateful for their kindness; he definitely understood how they felt. The Justiciar was a prick, he did his own bristling at the word “Dusken”.   

     

    “Lillandril?” Äelberon whispered, shaking the Mer’s slender shoulder gently.

     

    A groan of protest and another wrinkle of that refined nose with its narrow bridge and flaring nostrils.

     

    “You stink. Were you rolling in shit?” Lillandril grumbled, popping open one apple-green eye, lined in heavy black lashes, only to close it tightly again. “Gods, entirely too bright.”

     

    Äelberon chuckled, “You were the one who decided that the bottle of Surilie Brothers wine had to be finished last night.”

     

    Lillandril shifted position and slowly rose, rubbing his eyes, blinking several times to clear his vision. He then saw the drool and grinned. “The Hag will love that.” He then turned to his long-suffering Captain, a dull twinkle in his eye. Ronnie was loving every minute of this, he could tell by his face. Biggest asshole in Alinor. “Have any spells for hangovers?” he quipped, rubbing his throbbing forehead.

     

    “Tomatoes?” The Dusken offered with a terrible grin. Mer was beyond cruel to him sometimes, lamented Lillandril.

     

    Lillandril groaned and covered his head with a blanket, causing pillows to scatter about. “Gods, if I so much as see another tomato, I will vaporize myself. Four days of tomato farms. Four days of eating them! Is that all they eat in the West Weald? Stewed tomatoes, tomato salad, tomato soup, diced tomatoes, sliced tomatoes, tomatoes hot, tomatoes cold! Gods, even the juice! Forever picking their seeds from my teeth! I die, I die!”

     

    His wicked Captain of the Guard removed his blanket and dragged Lillandril to his feet towards the door of the carriage. Boy’s eyes were still closed, feeling the intense glare of the sun. He loved Surilie Brothers, he hated Surilie Brothers.

     

    “Come on, boy. S’Kuz is loaded with supplies and I promise no tomatoes. We need to send this carriage back to the Hag.”

     

    “Who is S’Kuz?” asked Lillandril, opening his eyes slowly only for them to widen when he saw the mass of russet fur perched on his Captain’s shoulder and a pair of slanted green eyes, her large ears pierced with more gold rings than he thought comfortable, bangles up her slender legs, and an impossibly large amethyst pendant around her neck. “Captain, are you aware that there is a cat—“

     

    A hiss from the little beastie and Lillandril saw the look of caution appear on his Captain’s face.

     

    “Her name is Dar’Kalaa. She is our Alfiq guide. A Khajiit. Come, I will explain everything once we are out of the carriage. Let us to the inn, Vingalmo and Elenwen are waiting with our Thalmor contact. Wish I could wash, but they wanted you now and Auri-El forbid you make a Justiciar wait.” He chuckled.

     

     

    “What do you mean, Dune?” Äelberon asked, drumming his pale fingers upon the wooden table in the rustic yet comfortable inn where the quartet and Justiciar were sitting. The palm fans turning in a steady rhythm did nothing to quell the heat of anger that was rising to his cheeks, his red-orange eyes boring into Justiciar Cyrenar’s pale yellow ones. “I received no word of Dune in any correspondence.” His eyes traveled to Lillandril, who seemed to shrink in his chair while he sipped his chilled wine. “I was told that our journey would take us through Rimmen, Corinthe, and then Senchal.” The drumming stopped and Äelberon’s eyes narrowed, his brow lowering in an intimidating brood. Extra money and provisions had already been sent to these locations. It had taken weeks to plan this. The boy, damn it. Why did he not let him accompany him to the meeting with the Grand Emissary? “Justiciar,” he continued, softening his baritone somewhat to explain, “I was told explicitly by all whom I have spoken to when arranging this trip to avoid Dune, the War of Succession brewing there is entirely too dangerous a situation to put my young Master at risk.”

     

    The Justiciar wrinkled his nose in disgust. Slayer of Bet be damned, this uncouth creature before him reeked like a farm animal, like one of those beasts outside. It did not matter that he was loading supplies, Altmeri protocol demanded that he at least appear before him in his armor, yet here he was, questioning, protesting Thalmor decisions in naught but peasant’s attire. A light beige cotton shirt, stained with sweat, the drawstring undone to expose part of his chest with its… silver hair. Gods, he did not even shave, revolting. The shirt was paired with brown breeches that distastefully traced the bulging muscles of his legs and… it was awful, the display of it vaguely outlined for all to see. Verily, Duskens were like animals.  To top it all off, he was unwashed. At least he had the decency to hide his face with his helmet.

     

    Äelberon had studied the Justiciar’s body language from the moment he entered the inn with Lillandril. Washing would not have made a damn difference. He would have been called to error for the delay. And now he was being called to error for being dirty and not dressed appropriately. He could see it in the Justiciar’s face.  He could feel it in their uncomfortable stares. They could have easily had this meeting in another couple of hours, giving himself time to finish his duties and make himself presentable.  This was the same exact rubbish the Hag would pull. It was naughty and immature to think it, but if a Senche-raht sat on the arse, Äelberon would not mourn the loss, Auri-El forgive him.

     

    “Well, you will change your plans.” Cyrenar countered coldly, taking a moment to adjust the fit of his silks. The buckles, they needed to be in a straight line. He then glanced at the fellow Justiciar sitting next to him and the Agent, properly attired and excellent representatives of their People, the young noble as well. The Dusken was outnumbered by reason. Control this animal, was his silent command to the others, or I will let the Grand Emissary know of your lack of progress.

     

    “Captain,” began Elenwen, keenly feeling Cyrenar’s intimidation. Damn Ronnie! Like a mule sometimes, not seeing the larger picture. “Surely knowing the state of the civil unrest at Dune will only help our understanding of the culture we are endeavoring to learn about on this journey?”

     

    “And what of the safety of my charge? Is he expendable in the Thalmor’s pursuit of knowledge?” Äelberon replied, not budging his stance, his great arms crossing over his chest, his back straightening.

     

    Vingalmo sighed, damn Ronnie. He meant well, but did he not see that Elenwen could lose her position if she failed here? Ronnie would always be Captain of the Guard for House Larethian, but he and Elenwen could be sent for reeducation if they failed, or worse, removed. Vingalmo shot Lillandril a look, furrowing his golden brow, his face worried. You’re in charge, you make him listen.

     

    Lillandril looked uncertain, his jaw dropping, searching Vingalmo’s eyes for a better solution. The Agent narrowed his and gave a quick nod. Damn it, the Grand Arse of Alinor did mention Dune and he never told Ronnie, he realized, breaking out into a nervous sweat. It was Lillandril’s mistake and Ronnie would, as usual, absorb the blame. He cleared his throat, hating what he would have to say next.

     

    “I think, Captain, that it is in our, and Alinor’s best interest that we proceed to Dune. You have your orders and you are expected to comply.” Lillandril mumbled, unable to face the Mer that had been an Ata to him. He bet that Ronnie was chewing the inside of his lip, but he didn’t dare look up to check. He saw Vingalmo’s shoulders stoop slightly, his face growing long and Elenwen looked like she wanted to crawl under the table and hide. The Justiciar didn’t have to travel with Ronnie now, they did.  The three of them watched the Justiciar rise, giving them a polite nod before taking the time to adjust his robes yet again. He then gave the Dusken a sidelong glance. The giant Mer was unmoving, his jaw clenched, his eyes suddenly very far away, the tone of his voice now clipped and formal. He was angry.

     

    “Of course, my Lord. I have your leave to continue my work? There are a few things to load yet from the carriage, but the Justiciar wished this meeting…”

     

    A glare from the Justiciar and Lillandril sighed. Ronnie never learned. “That will be all, Captain, you have my leave to go.”

     

    Äelberon pushed back his chair to rise, the sound hard against the wood floor, his eyes locking with the Justiciar’s in an intimidating stare-off. Ronnie won easily and on that Lillandril was glad. He’d feel a bit better.

     

    “See that your Captain, Lord Larethian, fixes his mistakes.” Warned the Justiciar before leaving and Lillandril closed his eyes at the fresh insult, wincing when the door closed. He wouldn’t feel better.

     

     

    4th of Sun’s Dawn, 4e 26, Dune, Elsweyr

     

    Vingalmo had to stop admiring her or this was going to end in disaster. The problem was that Elenwen, second daughter of House Elsinthar had incredible, smooth golden skin, beautiful sandy-colored hair with just the right amount of wave, and a stunning arse. And now all of it was on full display and bouncing up and down in a most tantalizing manner. The glow of the moonlight making it even better.

     

    Think on something else, he thought dully as he lay back on top of silken sheets of a pretty deep indigo shade, probably designed to match the intricate mosaic tiling found throughout the Pasha’s arched, white-marble doorways of his palace. Who was currently Pasha was a matter of debate, on that Justiciar Cyrenar had been correct.  They even looked alike, twin Cathay, the only difference was that their odd eyes were switched. One had a yellow eye on the right, the other had a yellow eye on the left. Otherwise, the same tawny tabby pattern, same build, same dress even. Indigo belted robes, similar to Altmeri fashion except with a looser fit, Vingalmo assumed because of the hotter weather.

     

    Vingalmo groaned, feeling a jolt of pleasure. Think on something else, or you won’t hear the end of it. It would be much better for him if she finished first. Then, she’d let him finish and things would be perfect. But if he finished first, she would grow agitated and it would take a lot longer to finish her off and…don’t think about finishing or you will finish, he thought with a grin, closing his eyes. What to think on? He heard her moan. That didn’t help. Where were they?

     

    Dune, they were in Dune after four miserable days. In the Pasha’s white-walled marble palace with a rather lovely golden dome on top. That they managed to pull that off in the desert was impressive. Perhaps Elenwen was right about these cat-folk being a potential asset? A family friend of Landril’s father. Well, the twins’ father was an old friend of Landril’s father. Old Lilandtar was a well-connected bastard. Yes, they were finally here and at least three of them were enjoying themselves. Who was he jesting, he was not enjoying himself, well, he was, but at the same time he wasn’t.

     

    Oh, the Saimasil Savanah was lovely to look at while they traveled, a sea of tawny grasses dotted with sprawling tiny-leaved trees and rocky outcroppings. The sky a shocking blue dotted with wispy clouds during the day, glittering jewels on velvet at night. While they rode the Senche-raht, the three of them saw such marvels of nature. Things he had not seen really since the Tower and only as stuffed specimens. Lions, addax, wildebeest, elephants. Ronnie was ahead of them on that Senche, the little Alfiq perched on his shoulder, his cloak blowing in the breeze, a ludicrous beacon of purple and apple-green for them to follow. He perhaps spoke three or four words to them while they traveled. Vingalmo knew Ronnie very well, the Mer was hurt by the events at Riverhold and when Ronnie was insulted, he clammed up. In all fairness, they treated him little better than a servant that day, something that they had not done the entire two weeks prior. Add another Justiciar to the mix, a stranger, and watch how Ronnie’s dear friends conform to petty Altmer standards, leaving him behind. He did, however, speak with his new friends, the three Khajiit.

     

    That had been incredibly clever. All three understood Tamrielic, read it, so Ronnie wrote an alphabet on some paper with his quill their first night camping under the grand jeweled sky, while he sipped his alkanet tea. Sitting away from them. He would then ask the Alfiq questions and she would answer by pointing to the letters, forming words, which Ronnie then wrote down. He kept written records of their conversation and the diminutive Khajiit seemed genuinely moved by his efforts at communication. She, as it turned out, was the daughter of another Pasha, one of the six that ruled over Corinthe. Perhaps that would come in handy later… another intense sensation of pleasure and Vingalmo instinctively reached for Elenwen’s hips only for her slender hands to bring his down upon the sheets again.

     

    “Not yet.” She gasped.

     

    With a frustrated groan, Vingalmo again turned his thoughts to the events of the prior six days, or was it five? What he was currently doing was not exactly conducive to organized thought. Aye, Ronnie talked to the Khajiit, but left his Altmer friends alone. And once they arrived at Dune, Ronnie was on guard, not letting Lillandril out of his sight while the young Mer spent the first day at Dune’s upper level shopping district, spending money, his purple robes a bright contrast against the white marble of Dune’s walls. His eyes marveling at the various street vendors who all wanted to take a stab at emptying the young Mer’s pockets of septims. The market was a frenzied mix of Khajiit of all types, Bosmers, and even some Altmeri, though they regarded Justiciar robes with a measure of distrust.

     

    Dissidents, remnants of the Beautiful, no doubt, or those that did not support the Thalmor, and Ronnie, well aware of their stares, was a moody, brute presence in his jet black, though he did finally lose the helmet after they left Riverhold, stuffing it in his pack, only pulling the hood of his house cloak over his head. He was probably only slightly less uncomfortable. Another moan from Elenwen and Vingalmo cursed under his breath, gritting his teeth in effort. Think… something… else…

     

    None of them wanted to be the first to attempt to apologize to the proud Dusken, so they all went their separate ways today. Even Elenwen split from their company, towards the library of the Pasha’s Palace, on important research for the trip, leaving the gentlemer alone. Ronnie then grumbled something about tending to S’Kuz and warned Vingalmo to keep watch over Lillandril, making the young Mer roll his eyes when the Dusken’s back was turned. He owed it to the lad to give him at least one good night at Dune while the Captain stewed, so Vingalmo took the boy to a local brothel at the lower district and left him in the tender care of the brothel’s best; twin Ohmes-raht, their faces painted in the same tiger-striped pattern, but one in yellow and the other in a becoming orange. If there was skooma, all the better. He’d tell Ronnie where the boy was once he was finished with his current activities.

     

    That had been a pleasant surprise, Elenwen appearing in his quarters, her research concluded much quicker than he anticipated. And now… the night was young and beautiful and the two of them would finally enjoy some time alone after traveling with “father”, “son” and later three Khajiit that Vingalmo swore always looked at the four of them like they were high on skooma.

     

    Vingalmo was turned from his thoughts when he felt Elenwen bring his hands to her hips and he closed his eyes… patience has its rewards.

     

    Her scream and a door flinging open caught him by surprise and he opened his eyes. Ronnie’s huge silhouette almost sealed the door again and Vingalmo saw the glint of his brandished blade. He was like a tight spring and battle ready. And his blade… Dripping with blood. Blood… what?

     

    “Get up, quickly.” The hushed command, agitated. “J’Fassaa, their gear.” Immediately the Senche reached for their robes with his teeth and trotted to the bed, dropping their items and turning to gather their packs, which Ronnie took the time to secure to the Beast’s armored back. They were now both crouched, flushed and naked on the bed, their breathing heavy, watching the Alfiq tensely circling the tiled room, the luminous green eyes focusing on… Elenwen.

     

    “Captain?” Elenwen gasped, rushing to dress herself. “Agent, quickly.” Vingalmo shook his head of any remaining lust and followed suit, though he was still dazed. The next question from Ronnie made Vingalmo’s stomach sink.

     

    “Where is Lillandril?” It had such an awful tone and Vingalmo knew that a mistake had been made. “I only went to check on S’Kuz, where is the boy? He is not in his quarters. And you are here?  Justiciar? Why are you not at the library?”

     

    Elenwen was far better at composing herself than Vingalmo was. She was already dressed and in the process of hastily pinning her hair. “Why is there blood on your blade?”

     

    “I think you know the answer to that, Justiciar.” Ronnie’s eyes met Elenwen’s “Where were you?”

     

    “At the library.” She answered flatly.

     

    “You lie.” He hissed, his eyes traveling to the Alfiq, “Dar’Kalaa says otherwise.”

     

    Vingalmo fastened his robes, unable to understand what was going on.

     

    “You believe her over me?” the Justiciar challenged.

     

    The Dusken scowled and pointed his blade at Elenwen. She shrank, observed Vingalmo, why was she shrinking from Ronnie? “Captain!” Vingalmo exclaimed. “Remember yourself!”

     

    Äelberon’s eyes found his dear friend’s and the point of his sword followed his eyes, now pointing at Vingalmo. “I will remember myself when he is safe. Now where is he?” Gods, it was snarled. Vingalmo hesitated, pausing to fasten his boot. “WHERE!?”

     

    Even the Senche, nearly Ronnie’s height, the beast that could bring down a wildebeest jumped when the Dusken roared that word. The Alfiq was the first to compose herself and immediately found Ronnie’s shoulder, her claws digging securely to the folds of his cloak, bracing herself for his rapid movements. They heard light footfalls echo in the corridor and the sounds of fighting. Drawing closer.

     

    “I’ll take you to him.” Vingalmo whispered, his eyes wandering to Elenwen. Her eyes never left Ronnie.

     

     

    “What do you mean you cannot decide?” Sulked the profoundly stunning tawny-furred Ohmes-raht lying to his right, stroking his thigh with that gloriously prehensile tail. “This one now feels much sadness.”

     

    “Not as much sadness as this one feels.” Pouted her equally stunning twin. Orange, this one had orange tattoos, the other a becoming shade of yellow. And they were, Lillandril thought with a naughty grin, full body tattoos, extending downwards to their Khajiiti unmentionables. Lillandril sighed and took another sip of wine. Auri-El bless Vingalmo.

     

    “I just can’t. It’s too hard, well, it can never be too hard.” He chuckled, settling into his luxurious bed in his private room at the brothel. “You two are just going to have to take turns.”

     

    “This one will go first.” Smiled the Ohmes-raht with orange tattoos. His little tiger. Her breasts were slightly larger than her twin’s, thought Lillandril, but the other one’s back end was better. It was such a hard decision. He liked their fur especially, very downy and close to the skin, and it was like being touched by silk.

     

    “Go ahead, dear sister, this one will be patient and wait her turn.” The other one purred, licking her lips in anticipation. Out of the corner of his eye, Lillandril thought he saw her hand move to touch her twin’s buttocks, an even better turn of events for later in the evening perhaps, but he was soon distracted by Orange pushing him back against the pillows, straddling him. He drained the rest of his wine and let the goblet slide to the floor. She was absolutely beautiful, her face, almost like a lovely flower of a Bosmer. Her eyes, a captivating emerald green, so mesmerizing. Her pretty tail, with its white tip, twitching playfully behind her. Her downy-furred hand found his cheek, the little claws making just enough of an indentation to feel interesting yet not painful. She was bending closer to kiss him and he saw a flash of metal in her left hand. So pretty, was that in her hair? Her hair wasn’t pinned, was it?

     

    Lillandril nearly screamed when the warm, red wetness that was blood splattered his face, the Khajiit uttering a garbled cry of pain when a golden Elven arrow pierced through her slender neck. She collapsed on top of him and, Gods, there was more oozing blood and she was dead. He then smelled fur singeing and heard Yellow’s screams when she was struck by a fireball. Orange was roughly pulled away from him, tossed to the corner of the room like a ragdoll, a dagger leaving her hand. The bitch.  

     

    Ronnie.

     

    “Good, he’s still dressed.” Cried Vingalmo. These Khajiit were trying to kill Lillandril? Vingalmo panicked, he had taken Lillandril to the brothel, but no, this was not his intention. Were they followed?

     

    “Fetch his gear.” Commanded Äelberon.

     

    Vingalmo was following Ronnie’s orders? Wasn’t it the other way around? Lillandril was confused. There was so much noise too. Now, he heard glass breaking and he smelled more smoke than burning cat fur. He looked up at Ronnie for answers. The red-orange eyes that greeted Lillandril had a hard glint to them and he extended his gauntleted hand. Lillandril opened his mouth to speak.

     

    GET UP!” Äelberon bellowed and Lillandril quickly took the Dusken’s hand to be pulled up. “Stables. To S’Kuz. MOVE!

     

     

    Chaos greeted them when they stumbled outside the brothel in Dune’s lower district to head towards the stables. The poverty-stricken of the crowded lower levels of Dune were now taking advantage of the unrest caused by the conflict in the palace high above them, looting the businesses and stalls, the guards not caring if they struck the innocent or the guilty in their quest to maintain order. Screams filled the streets. They could see fresh bloodstains and torn tents.

     

    By Auri-El’s grace, they were largely ignored, save one Cathay-raht mercenary who tried to carry Elenwen off. He pointed to her, as if he had been hunting her and her face looked surprised. Betrayed. With a savagery that Lillandril didn’t want to remember was capable from the two Knights of the Crystal Tower, they rushed to her aid, Vingalmo conjuring two blades and Äelberon wielding his long sword. When the Cathay-raht’s head met the sandy ground, they continued towards the stables and Lillandril ran with them, his chest bursting for air, his heart hammering. He was not a runner. He was a mage, and he wasn’t even a very good one.

     

    Gods, the stables were on fire. Billowing columns of flame. Straw roofs burn so fast, Lillandril thought, his jaw slack with awe.

     

    S’Kuz.

     

    Not even thinking, Ronnie shoved the protesting Alfiq into Lillandril’s hands and barged in to the blazing stucco building, the straw roof engulfed, so much black smoke. Lillandril’s eyes stung and he could feel himself choking. Minutes after agonizing minutes seemed to pass, and Elenwen’s best efforts to the control the blaze with ice magicks did not work. Vingalmo volunteered to go in, only to be shot down by Elenwen. Lillandril even tried a few spells, but nothing would charge. The Alfiq then leapt from his arms and tried, sending powerful jets of ice to the roof. The roars of the Sench-raht echoed in their ears. The stink of his burning fur. A part of the roof collapsed, resisting the frost and the poor creature was now spent, laying upon the ground, her tiny chest heaving from effort. Lillandril scooped her up.  

     

    Ronnie.

     

    More minutes. The fire began to spread towards them and Vingalmo grabbed him by the cuff of his robes.

     

    “No!” he remembered crying out while Vingalmo dragged him away. A final great roar and something burning was pushed hard from the building, thrown, rolling on the sandy ground. It got up. A cloak was on fire. The burning figure was stumbling, struggling, arms full of weapons, quivers, supplies. What he could salvage. Things for survival.

     

    S’Kuz was dead. He had saved Ronnie, pushing him out. The Alfiq’s yowl was terrible to hear.

     

    Elenwen quickly bathed Ronnie with her remaining magicks, dousing the fire and then she tore off his cloak.  He was gasping for breath, but he was alive, shivering with cold from the frost magicks, but alive and his eyes found hers briefly, nodding. She helped him to his feet and Lillandril was surprised that he could still run, herding Lillandril with his strong hand. Guiding them away from the fire, away from the chaos of Dune. They ran, J’Fassaa close behind, Lillandril himself carrying little Dar’Kalaa, towards the desert, escaping Dune. Into the night. Into the cold. They would think later.

     

    Ronnie would think for them later. Lillandril could only see building clouds on the moon cast horizon. Not rain. Dust. Deserts were dry, terrible places. The plans had definitely changed. 

     

     

    Author's Note: Again, huge thanks to Karver for playing through the Deserts of Anequina mod for Oblivion. 

     

    Chapter 1  


    Chapter 3

     

Comments

46 Comments   |   Meli likes this.
  • The Long-Chapper
    The Long-Chapper   ·  February 5, 2016
     Soon you two will be reunited in bed. LOL
  • Idesto
    Idesto   ·  February 5, 2016
    I've sent mine off for repair
  • Exuro
    Exuro   ·  January 30, 2016
    Coffee = sleep then? :(
    I think I narrowed it down to a broken power jack harness (where you plug the charger into), but it's soldered in place, so I'll need to call a tech support.
  • The Long-Chapper
    The Long-Chapper   ·  January 30, 2016
    I work. How's your tablet doing? :)
  • Exuro
    Exuro   ·  January 30, 2016
    It's Saturday!  Hopefully that means you can take a siesta, or at least binge watch some netflix or equivalent
  • Justiciar Thorien
    Justiciar Thorien   ·  January 30, 2016
    Aw((( *hands Lissette more coffee*
  • The Long-Chapper
    The Long-Chapper   ·  January 30, 2016
    Just tired.
  • Justiciar Thorien
    Justiciar Thorien   ·  January 30, 2016
    Ah... You've been so silent lately, I was wondering if you're ok))
  • The Long-Chapper
    The Long-Chapper   ·  January 30, 2016
    I have some work I need to do first. 
  • Justiciar Thorien
    Justiciar Thorien   ·  January 30, 2016
    :-(