Going Elsweyr: Chapter 5: Unexpected Developments

• Posted by The Long-Chapper February 1, 2016 - Filed in TSC: Classics - #TSC:Classic  #Going Elsweyr  - 1,589 views

  

   

  1^st of First Seed, approaching Corinthe, west of the Red River Gorge

   

  “I have decided to keep it.” Announced Lillandril grandly, rubbing his chin with pride, feeling it against his fingertip while he trudged away from the water and wind-carved ravine, closing in on Corinthe. They could already make out the white marble and sandstone of the city looming in the near distance, the beginnings of jungle surrounding it. And the more regular layout of the many moon sugar plantations that were a hallmark of Corinthe’s outskirts. The heat of the sun was on his back and it had been a difficult journey, skirting the Helkam Badlands, with its distinctive red earth, scatterings of palms and grasses, by way of the Gorge, but nowhere near as trying as their trek through the Ne-Quin-Al to reach Orcrest. They were certainly tired, dirty, leaner, and their weapons knew blood along the way, but they were in very good spirits. Especially considering they may well die in Corinthe if the wrong Pasha was in control of Dune.

   

  Well he and Ronnie wouldn’t die, Lillandril corrected himself, good ol’ Dar would see to that, but yes, more than likely Lenni and Galmo would die. But they were still in good spirits. Why not? Why not face death with a big, fat, “fuck you” smile? It worked well for the Orcs. It worked well for Ronnie. And… Lillandril grew thoughtful; it had worked for his father. His finger found it again and gave it a little tug, careful not to pull it off. His father’s had been a dark grey. Not as long as Old Nandor’s, but impressive by Altmeri standards.

   

  He frowned when his words were met with a series of exasperated groans from the group. Even Dar’Kalaa, perched on his shoulder, shook her head, her earrings making tinkling noises when they struck each other. Lillandril heard the baritone chuckle from his Captain. He could feel the smirk. Bastard.

   

  “It is there.” Lillandril repeated, scurrying to catch up with the much larger Mer, the heavy pack on his slender frame threatening to shift his balance towards the rocky ground. Damn Mer didn’t listen once to Phynaster’s teachings, took steps like a damn bull. He was up ahead with J’Fassaa and he had long stripped of his cuirass in the heat. It was a strange seeing the deep black of his cuisse, boots, and gauntlets against the beige of the cotton shirt he wore underneath his armor, the sweat stains drying in the air, the war paint still visible through the spots of the fabric that were not quite dry yet. Faded, but still visible.

   

  They painted him, the Orcs. After that “Wild Hunt” of theirs. That had raised eyebrows when he showed up at the Broken Jaw Caravanserai the next morning, as giddy as a canah bird in a garden full of grape vine blossoms, despite sporting similar bruises to what he received in that first brawl, while they struggled with skooma hangovers. Evidently, you do not get hangovers if you don’t drink while you smoke. Damn Ronnie and his priestly virtue, grumbled Lillandril to himself. At first they thought he was a bloody Nord mercenary barbarian thing when he strode into the inn, letting the glaring desert sunlight in; bare-chested, his countenance fierce, his braids on display, his gear wrapped in a giant, freshly-skinned lion pelt, a necklace of what Lillandril assumed with a shudder were its claws or teeth around his neck, and the war paint.  A series of black markings along his pale, muscled back, close to his spine that then circled around his waist and then a little up his chest. He then drained three bottles of milk, devoured two large bowls of boar meat stew, washed up, and was in his armor and ready to go to Corinthe before they were. Back to being the Altmer Captain, the pinnacle of restrained elegance that Lillandril admired. The stoic Guard of House Larethian. The creature that had walked the great Chantry of Auri-El on his first attempt.

   

  Sometimes, to Lillandril, it seemed like two or three people lived inside Ronnie.

   

  Now, Ronnie was carrying his sheathed long sword across his broad shoulders while he walked, like how the goblin slaves would sometimes carry the yoke for water buckets at Lillandril’s palace. His Lenya would kill him for carrying it like that. The sword that slew Bet.

   

  “It is there.” Lillandril insisted, practically jogging to match Äelberon’s stride. Damn him being, Gods, was it over three pertans taller?

   

  “Boy,” the older Elf began, smirking, “you became just as excited when they appeared down there too.”

   

  Lillandril abruptly turned, shooting venom from his apple-green eyes when Vingalmo and Elenwen guffawed. They stopped, clearing their throats, but he still heard their chuckles when he again faced his Captain.

   

  “Xarxes’ arse, at least you did not show those to me for eleven days.” Äelberon continued, his twinkling eyes still on Corinthe.

   

  More guffaws.

   

  “You getting the mental image, my sweet?” Vingalmo whispered, leaning in to bump her gently with his side.

   

  “Aye,” chuckled Elenwen. “I can only imagine life in that Nuthouse.”

   

  “Well, we’ve visited enough to have a picture. Wonder what the Old Hag’s been up to while those two were away.”

   

  “Probably putting weights in Ronnie’s boots again. Gods, and with good reason, he is not easy to keep up with.” Elenwen groaned, adjusting her pack before brushing a stray lock of hair from her now-freckled face. She had freckles, saw them this morning when she used the blade of Ronnie’s long sword as a makeshift mirror. Gods, they all look wretched, she thought. Eleven days in the same leather armor. They all did their best to keep clean, bathing in the Red River when they stopped to rest after each day, but all were showing the wear and tear of over forty days of travel.   Vingalmo’s build was more defined and his skin about two shades darker, though she admitted, that didn’t look half bad, the deeper shade of gold making his eyes pop and her yearn for them to be alone again, putting aside the other feelings from eleven days ago. That had been the skooma, and the sheer animal magnetism of the Mer who walked into the inn the next morning talking. He was unaware of her feelings, they were actually both unaware, much to her relief; treating her exactly how they always treated her, their knightly sense of protection kicking into action at the sight of anything suspicious, anything that jeopardized her reaching Corinthe.  Elenwen was going to keep her private feelings exactly that, private.

   

  It had been the skooma.   

   

  The boy now had a “beard”, Elenwen chuckled, shaking her head.

   

  Not watching him make that impossible shot under the moonlight. Not watching him stride into the inn the next morning, wild, looking like he could conquer the world with a glance. His eyes like fire.

   

  “You may make light of my beard, Captain.” Lillandril continued, interrupting Elenwen’s thoughts, ignoring the whispers and sniggers behind him, “It’s still there. The mark of my maturity.”

   

  The Senche snorted and then made a noise that Lillandril assumed was a chuckle and the young Mer pursed his lips at the cat. J’Fassaa responded with what looked like his tongue sticking out.

   

  “Beard?” Chortled Vingalmo, giving Elenwen a sly, sidelong glance. He was preparing one of his jests and it made her smile. “If that’s a beard, then—“

   

  “It is a beard!” Retorted Lillandril, facing Vingalmo as he walked backwards.

   

  “Landril, you will fall.” Cautioned Äelberon, motioning to J’Fassaa. The Senche nodded and began to take a slight turn towards the edge of the road. They needed to stop. They were nearing Corinthe and he had to don his armor and helm again, ready his sword. He would take no chances.

   

  “Will not.” The young Mer countered, saving himself from a stumble. “And it is a beard.”

   

  “My sister has more hair on her face, Landril, and she’s twice Ronnie’s age.” explained  Vingalmo.

   

  “Wait, Valliginia doesn’t have any hair on her face.” Questioned Elenwen.

   

  “My point exactly, dearest.” Vingalmo grinned. “One hair, Landril, doesn’t make a beard.”

   

  The young Mer stumbled before he could come up with something clever, but a strong arm reached for his elbow, preventing his fall, which the Alfiq then used as a bridge to cross Mer. “Told you.” Äelberon smiled.

   

  “I didn’t fall.” Quipped Lillandril. “You had my back.”

   

  “Always.” His faithful guard replied with a little something behind those kindly red-orange eyes that made Lillandril clasp the arm a little tighter and nod, before choosing to diffuse the tender moment. “She left me for you, damn cat.” Dar’Kalaa pretended to be mad with a hiss. Lillandril then wrinkled his brow. “Ronnie, your face.” The Older Mer groaned. “It’s covered, in…” Lillandril leaned in closer. “Auri-El’s bow, you’ve got little silver hairs all over your chin. Is that stubble?”

   

  Another groan and the older Mer quickly righted his younger charge and headed straight for J’Fassaa, the others close behind, their curiosity now piqued. Vingalmo was the first to reach him, grabbing Äelberon by the shoulder and turning him, his golden eyes narrowed to study his friend’s face. “Oghma’s tits, it is stubble. I thought your face was just dirty.”

   

  Sometimes Äelberon wished that Altmer would not fixate on such mundane things. He sighed. “I think we need to think on reaching Corinthe, not on my facial hair.” He replied, turning to retrieve his cuirass from J’Fassaa, his face growing hot with embarrassment. Altmer did not exactly go up and study each other’s faces. They were a people who respected personal space. He let them think that his face was dirty. It started creeping up soon after they had left Orcrest. Gods, he was getting old! He was not even finished with his first century! He fastened his armor quickly. Put on the bloody helmet so you can hide in it, he growled to himself.

   

  “Turning the corner?” Delivered with a sauciness from Elenwen that made Äelberon wince as he adjusted the fit of his helmet.

   

  “No.” He mumbled then his voice gained strength. “No, Lenni, I am not turning the corner. This, this is just… well—Dar, I know you are laughing—Mer tend have more hair in the south.” He finished quickly. “Now can we get to Corinthe, so we can learn what the Oblivion is going on at Dune?” He frowned when they did not stop staring at his face and he made an exasperated gesture towards Lillandril. “Xarxes’ Arse! Boy’s been showing us his one chin hair for bloody eleven days; go look at that if you need to stare at hair. He’s proud of it. He’s more than willing to show you. Leave me alone.” Bah! He was going to shave in Corinthe.  150 years of this mess before it would actually grow into something that would be viable for a Mer. Right now? It was only a barely visible stubble. Just enough to be ugly.

   

  That was what it was, Elenwen thought to herself while they resumed their walk. The extra definition around the jaw and cheek. A beard would be becoming down the road if it filled out.  But now he would shave it, for to have one at such a young age was humiliating for a young Mer. Another reason for him to wear a helmet, and she felt sorry for him.

   

  

   

  It wasn’t her intention to kiss that stubbled cheek, but kiss it she did when the trunk Ronnie had sent to the Pasha’s palace, more specifically Pasha Ra’Saqida, the Third of Corinthe’s Palace, was opened to reveal, in addition to septims and extra clothes for his young charge, two hooded Justiciar Robes; one in linen for Vingalmo and one in silk for her. She kissed him, her lips against that stubble, grossly against protocol for her station and his. And none in their party cared.  Vingalmo, himself planting a kiss on his dear friend’s other cheek, before knocking the Dusken’s helmeted head several times with his fist, in an action that echoed Elenwen—they were like brothers to each other—yet at the same time, she thought quietly to herself, not echoing her action. Äelberon turned as crimson as his fair skin would allow, and told them to dress quickly, while he rushed to shave.

   

  They did not have much time, for two menacing Cathay-raht guards, dressed in a strange, shiny armor of light chitin, accented with gold trim, their chests and arms bare save cuffs of gold, were waiting to escort them to the Pasha’s throne room.

   

  A courier was seen less than an hour away. A courier from Dune. And he was not showing colors.

   

  Their remaining party walked past the mosaicked walls that led to the throne room. A pattern that showed the phases of the moon. Beautiful, she couldn’t help but notice. Dar’Kalaa and Äelberon went ahead to speak with the Pasha. And Elenwen hoped that the Pasha Ra’Saquida would be impressed with Ronnie’s parlor trick. Elenwen winced, which garnered a puzzled look from Vingalmo while they walked.

   

  It wasn’t a parlor trick. It was probably going to save their lives.

   

  “Are you alright?” Vingalmo whispered. He cared for her. Perhaps it was love. She let a little breath escape and in her mind she began to count as her stomach turned, nulli, para, vera, nata…

   

  “Yes,” she managed, barely audible above the rustle of their robes, stiffening her back. Landril’s back was like a board. Even the boy knew how to be an Altmer when it was needed, that ridiculous hair plucked as soon as he remembered his duty, now smelling of cologne. That he had to represent Alinor, his manner acquiring a solemn dignity that she knew his father, while a hero of their land, never possessed. No, this was Ronnie’s doing.

   

  “We will be fine. You will see.” Vingalmo reassured, subtly moving his hand in an attempt to touch hers. To comfort. Her hand moved, and she saw the tiny clench of his chiseled jaw under his hood. The nostrils of his noble nose flaring ever so slightly, all the while his golden eyes straight ahead, focused on the throne room. That had been unfair, there was no “perhaps”, Vingalmo did love her and Elenwen found her mind traveling back to the Festival of Old Life. Swimming in its internal sea that was her nerves while they walked the blasted longest corridor in all of Anequina. Something Ronnie would say and her lip twitched, threatening a smile. She could see the guards at the door, two massive senche; their sea-green eyes glaring. She felt a bead of sweat form on her forehead.

   

  A courier from Dune was coming. Whispered along the hall as they walked and another Alfiq, his dust-covered fur striped like a tiger, bearing a small satchel, his earrings jangling, suddenly rushed past them to the throne room. She was going to be sick, so she let her mind wander again, back to the Festival of Old Life.

   

  They celebrated the event at Queen Calianwe’s residence. She and Vingalmo were observing the fireworks from one of the Queen’s flower-adorned balconies, the bursts of color dancing above them in the jeweled night sky. They kissed and she could see the faint sadness behind the action. Altmer were so exquisite with their pain. Vingalmo had been assigned.  A noble from Shimmerene. He told her that night and then as a knight he swore to her, bending on one knee, that he would speak to his father on the matter, that…

   

  He would refuse the match. For her. Gods, how Elenwen had hated Ronnie that night. His refusal of Queen Calianwe had sent shockwaves through Altmeri society before the Skies burned. To their accusations and ridicule, the Priest of Auri-El only answered. “Honor all Women, be they Mer, Men, or Beastfolk, as you would honor the Mother who bore you.”

   

  A more noble fool did not walk all of Alinor’s golden shores, and he condemned himself to celibacy for his stubbornness. Never healing his scars. A hero among his People who was also a beast.

   

  That the Queen was later assigned to the Mer she loved did not go unnoticed and while the Thalmor privately reveled that there would be no match between that “mongrel of a Dusken” and the daughter of the ancient Aldmer ancestors, the Thalmor were also terribly concerned that Ronnie’s decision would influence others. Influence matches that were desirable. The Thalmor took action swiftly, increasing the amount of marriages allowed per year, forcing the Council of Noble Elders to relinquish control of the marriage pool to the Thalmor. It put Vingalmo and her in a strange situation. If he refused the match, he would lose everything. And if she accepted him, she would lose everything too. He wasn’t thinking straight and avoided the subject the entire time here, wanting other things. And she wanted them too, but they would have to face reality. They would have to understand that what the Thalmor did was for the best. She understood, he was reluctant and Elenwen blamed the Dusken for it.  She blamed him for many things, she groaned inside, a quick heat coming to her cheeks.

   

  They entered the Pasha’s throne room. Dar’Kalaa was perched upon her father’s shoulder. A rather portly grey-white Cathay with black rosette spots, a golden nose ring, and dreadlocks of white hair arranged in a makeshift pile on his head. He was dressed in sleeveless gold-embroidered robes of a teal silk and it seemed to Elenwen that the cat was chuckling, stroking her daughter’s chin, ready to speak. It amazed Elenwen to no end how one could father a species that was so different, but that was the reason why she was here. Khajiit could look like Dar’Kalaa, like J’Fassaa and some, some could well pass for Bosmer. And it was all connected to the moons. The political intrigue at Dune was only a test of her skill. She would only be allowed to pursue her true interests in the region if she passed. She heard Vingalmo’s tiny gasp when entering the throne room also revealed two robes in black. Thalmor. Her contact was here.  And she now understood Vingalmo’s action.

   

  Justiciar Ancano of Cloudrest was standing next to Justiciar Cyrenar, already sporting the “Thalmor Cut”.  His strawberry blond hair trimmed to just past the shoulder, the hairline artificially raised to create the highly prized Altmeri Noble’s Peak.  His arms were crossed over his chest, the thin lips turned downwards in a careful sneer, so as to not offend the locals, but at the same time to let their party know that he was disapproving. His seething orange eyes were on Ronnie, the clear source of his disdain.  

   

  Why her eyes wandered suddenly to Ronnie, Elenwen didn’t know, but they did, and the Dusken answered her with a nod of acknowledgement and a twinkle in his eye through the bands of his helmet before they cast downwards, inviting her to look down. Her eyes traveled from his head down his armored torso to see him holding the worn journal. She looked up again and there it was, the tiniest of smiles.  Elenwen felt a hand quickly stop her and she rewarded Vingalmo’s diligence with a quick squeeze before letting go. She could smell Lord Lillandril, he was so close to her. Another step closer, and she would have collided into him and everything… nulli, para… the sweat was now tickling the side of her cheek as it fell. She wanted to vomit.

   

  The Pasha spoke, reclining back into his embellished throne, still nuzzling his daughter.  “What is this little thing come to interrupt this Altmer’s elegant pomp? You were doing so well too, Lillandril, is it?”

   

  “Yes, Pasha.” Lillandril acknowledged with a low bow, his voice much deeper than Elenwen remembered.

   

  A jolly laugh and a lewd wink from the cat. “Ha! This one remembers fondly your conception, Lord Larethian. The heavy banging on the walls from your father’s love-making did not let this one sleep for days while Lord Lilandtar stayed in my palace last. Sad that he has left us. Ra’Saqida will miss the conversations had in the kitchen after said bangings. Passing the pipe…”

   

  Elenwen saw Vingalmo clench his hands and Ronnie bite the inside of his lip in an attempt to suppress their laughter, Lillandril’s shoulder twitched. The Pasha clapped his hands and a slender black Suthay dressed in brown robes appeared. “Priest, make offerings of burnt moon sugar to Alkosh in his name. Alkosh is acceptable, no? Though the old bastard would have laughed if they were made to the Moon Beast.”

   

  All eyes turned to Ronnie who nodded and addressed the Pasha. “Offerings to Alkosh would be acceptable and welcomed, esteemed Third of Corinthe.”

   

  “A true friend. Rare in this crazy world, no? Damn Merrunz, may he rot.” The Pasha brooded, his tone growing dark. An instinctive bristle from both former Knights of the Crystal Tower and uncomfortable shifting from everyone else in the room made it known that the scars of Oblivion were still deep in both lands.  “Bah! Enough about sex and death.” The Pasha burst laughing, a jolly laugh that made his belly jiggle. “There is the matter of the courier sitting before this one’s throne, all dusty and stinky from travel. The courier from Dune. Finally the litter mates have stopped their bickering, eh?” The courier nodded wearily and the Pasha turned to Ronnie. “You, Pelin. Hmph, Pelin and Priest, a strange combination if you ask this one. War with Peace.” He gestured with his head. “This little one also understands the Tamrielic like Clever Art does. Ah this one’s little Dar’Kalaa, who shall soon rule as Third of Corinthe when Baan Dar no longer deems this fat Pasha clever enough to be worth his time. Be this one’s voice, Pelin, and let us hear the news of Dune.”

   

  Elenwen’s eyes widened. Dar’Kalaa? The future Third of Corinthe? She stared at the russet Alfiq perched on her father, her light green eyes narrow and Elenwen hated Ronnie and thanked him at the same time. Elenwen had dismissed the Dusken’s efforts to communicate with Dar’Kalaa. It had saved them. Her heart hammered in her chest.

   

  Ancano watched while Äelberon knelt next to the striped beast, unraveling a worn piece of parchment, covered in dust and from what Ancano could make out, blood. He could make out spaced scribbles that indicated the Tamrielic alphabet. He let out a gust of air which made Cyrenar gaze at him.

   

  “Stand still.” The higher-ranked Justiciar hissed under his breath.

   

  “He is going to ruin everything.” Argued Ancano. “What if she succeeds? You promised.”

   

  “Shut up, you fool. We can still fix this for your family.” Cyrenar countered coldly. “Seems I underestimated Lady Elenwen and Larethian’s Captain of the Guard—“

   

  Justiciar Cyrenar stopped when the courier began to point to letters and Ancano could only watch, his heart pounding in his throat, though his persona was calm, collected, Altmer. He straightened his back uncomfortably. Elenwen was never supposed to arrive at Corinthe, Ancano raged inside. Damn the Dog, damn him to Oblivion. It had all been arranged in Cloudrest, the hired mercenary at Dune cleverly disguised to represent Pasha Ri’Nuruj. To end her. House Adlock would then be placed in charge of Elsweyr research.  Her family already had Valenwood!

   

  “Ri’Felor is now Pasha of Dune.”  Äelberon read. He nodded at the Alfiq, “Are you sure?” The courier removed from his satchel a small compact and nudged it open with a tiny claw, revealing a pasty, yellow war paint. The courier then ceremoniously dipped his paw into it and made a streak above his right eye.

   

  The courier’s allegiance was clear.

   

  Äelberon closed his eyes in relief, ignoring protocol. The boy was safe. Lenni and Galmo too. They would make the trip to Senchal and then… Gods, home. The murmurs around the throne room resonated and Äelberon was quickly forced from his thoughts to transcribe the Alfiq’s words, the questions from the room now surging like a flood.

   

  Justiciar Cyrenar tugged at Ancano’s sleeve and leaned closer, the breath hot on his neck. “Justiciar, compose yourself. Quickly!” Cyrenar warned and Ancano immediately relaxed. “I will fix this. You will be assigned to their party.  There are whispers of necromancy from the Tenmar, Dunmer slavers are raiding Senchal, and then there is that meditating cat in Torval we have to deal with. Rest assured, Ancano of House Adlock, I keep my promises.”

   

  

   

  Author's Note: This completes Going Elsweyr, my submission for AMOST. LOL, at least for now. What an awesome month of short stories and I appreciate the work of my fellow bloggers. What a fun experience. Thanks for writing and thanks for reading. PS: Elenwen is counting in Altmeris. To ease tension. 

   

  Chapter 4 

  

  Tales for the Hearth Fire ToC