Sage parlance

The sea slapped the little Coble as bird-like she dipped and drove her way towards the shoreline, her sails, wings ruffling in a rhythmic regular beat.  Billowing they skimmed the waves as she slid down one and onto the next. The orange sun briefly showed dipping toward feldgrau waters, a spear of fire reaching across the surf field below ironclad clouds smothering the sky.

A spume of spray spewed across the exposed cheeks of the motionless sailor and dripped down his beard onto the gunwales of the Coble.  Steely eyed, they matched the sea, his cold and distant stare did not acknowledge the dripping water. Slouched down in the seat well and casually grasping the tiller he scanned the shoreline.

The hood of his Tweel overcoat shrugged the cold, salty drips away. The sleek coats of the two hounds hunkered down in the bow did likewise.  As the coastline slid past a sandy flume speckled beach came into view, reached level with the boat and had almost jolted past when, with a practised flick, the sailor gybed, shifting with the roll,  swiftly tying off the jib sheet moving over to port, hanging out over the sea holding the mainsheet whilst the little Coble pulled on a close reach to the beach. Minutes ticked to the slap-slap chop of the waves, with each wave more detail appeared; tussocks of grass, ripples of sand and a mixture of detritus along the high tide line.

After the static balance of the reach there was motion, the little bird boat turned into the wind but ploughed onwards with the waves.  As the sails started to flap he flicked the dagger-board, shouted to the dogs, loosed the halyards and nimbly leapt ashore to drag the bow up the beach.  The hounds had leapt into the water and swam ashore before shaking themselves dry alongside their master.

"Oii you buggers, garn wiv yuh!"

He grumbled as he pulled out a rope, with a harness on one end, and belayed it onto a starboard cleat.  His lips produced a short whistle

"Tshmil"  the smaller of the two hounds, brindle coloured with rippling muscles showing speed and strength patiently waited as the harness was placed on her.

"Telemon" and a two note whistle led to her black and tan double coated mate being attached to the port cleat.  The man took the anchor rope, shouted at the dogs and the three of them hauled the Coble above the high tide line.  The anchor was driven into a strong tussock and the dogs removed from their harness'. Glad to be on land they sprinted & barked around the shoreline whilst a duffel pack was fetched & shouldered from under the gunwales.

As he headed up the beach the another call brought dogs to his side, Telemon to his left, Tshmil to his right sniffing the ozone air of this new place.   The walk took them from the beach and up onto a grassy headland, the wind and cloud had conspired to chase any insects into cover, the dogs chased the birds away.  Scrambling up the final edge another bright gleam pierced the grey, the sun setting on the horizon. A single shard of light escaped the sea and clouds striking quartz, blinding his eyes from the edge of a large circular mound.  Quartz made a bezel round the lush verdelite of the mound.

Circling the mound deosil thrice he reviewed the quartz, inspecting its inner glow for flaws and seemingly satisfied led the dogs to an out of the wind dip and with a curt "Stay" they lay down.  

Skin pimpling in the cold air he stripped his overcoat, belt, Seax knife and Francesca axe, coinbag and all metallic objects leaving his breeches unbelted and on the floor.  Standing in his white linen shirt, the indigo edging flapping exposing his loincloth, a quick shiver ran up his back. He circled the quartz crossing the citrine barrier framed by the setting sun behind and bare-footed onto the mound to stride straight to the eastern side.  Standing stone like with upright body and arms raised, palms together before maintaining the tension and circling his hands downwards bringing their palms together at the bottom. The wind masked the tonal hum of his voice.

A pipe was pulled from the pack and placed carefully by his feet.  This process was repeated to the south, where a crackling torch was lit that smothered the hill in fragrant smoke, at the west a battered Stentinello pot was carefully  filled with ale and to the north a well-used and chipped obsidian dirk was struck into the ground.

Returning to the pipe sitting down he picked it up, legs crossed with the pipe resting atop his naked thighs. The sun edged below the horizon.

As his breathing settled Vann felt the tugs at the edge of his consciousness, the ritual had gone well and his mind's eye could see the shimmering of the quarter gates, he maintained focus on his breathing to control the tension in his heart. As darkness crept from the East he pulled the pipe to his lips and started on the tune, a fast paced tune with a rustic heart long forgotten now.  It had taken Vann weeks to perfect, with the first note the gates opened, by the end of the tune the shimmering behind the gates had solidified and where night had previously crept a warm dawn strode over the land. The seashore had receded and the headland was a hurst, a wooded hillock, that stood proud of the grassland around it. Vann's body glowed golden with the depth of his meditation and the world was warm around him.

Out of the sun striding towards him was an aged man, bald of head and round of stomach with a thin unkempt beard wearing dark tanned breeks , a woollen tunic in a red and white hounds tooth pattern and cloak of shimmering feathers around him.  His staff, the same red as the hounds tooth, had silver bells that rang harmoniously as he moved. The setting sun sparkled off the silver and his shadow reached far behind him. As he swiftly marched onto the mound he glared at Vann and his shadow reared up behind him

"Who is this piper, a piper round whom lie my ancient splendourful possessions?” the carbuncular eyes in his shadow glared.

“Who sits here brazenly after playing my Piccolo?” as rubicund fangs thrust from shade’s mouth

“According to what I see,  a Seaxman. Of nothing is the arrangement of his great beard.” And talons ignited from his hands.

“In the grove of tranquillity is this man, a contentious man?”   The shade lurched forward leering over Vann, fangs slathering flames as the cankerous claws reached forward

“I never heard the secret of the Seaxman,   never heard a Seaxman with ready knowledge. A mistake! Who takes Névee's seat?” enveloped and hidden in the black cloud of his shadow the slashed redness of his fangs mouthed the words in a hiss

Vann replied “Last of the Leod Sceatha, the harmers of men, a man without a Lord, a pilgrim without a God, a moss-less rock, an earth stepper and watcher on the shore” he paused

"Ah ancient one, O my senior, every sage is a corrective sage.  You are the reproach of every ignorant person. Before I know wrath against me ye should see what sap is in the tree. I welcome the piercing sense of wisdom.  Reproach is the blemish of a young man, unless his possessions be rightly found. Chief there is another way when those who own badly are badly owned. Yieldest to me the food of your learning and I will have drained the mug of a man goodly & treasurous."

Névee answered, the shade retreated as eldritch fire flickered along his staff and the bells rang discordantly

"My mug contains these: Angriness of fire, fire of speech, noise of knowledge, well of hurt, sword of song, all straight-arts with the bitterness of fire. What does your mug contain?"

Vann answered

"That's easy" although he blushed with the effort

"Piercing flesh, fostering poetry, searching for wyrd, encouraging science, a beacon of light that diffuses knowledge & tossing away fearfulness. What are your needs?"

And Névee replied

"The Inquiry of science, the weft of art, the casket of poetry and abundance from the sea. A question, O instructing lad, what needs drive you?"

"Hunting for support, establishing peace, arranging a troop, tribulations of a young man, celebrating art"

"And what news do you bring?"

"Mortality with famine, strophes without profit, the great without good men, extinction of championship, failure on cornfields, perjurers and judgments with anger."

And Vann threw himself at Névee's feet saying

"I know my superior creative, the wisest of prophets, my hazel of poetry, my mighty fire. I know that Névee is a great poet and sage."

The eldritch blue receded to a golden glow and the bells pealed softly

"Stay Vann, thou great mage of wit, in science, O son of Derer! Mayst thou be magnified and glorified!"

"Three fathers I have read of: a father in age, a fleshly father, a father of teaching.  My fleshly father remains not. My father of teaching is not in presence. You are my father in age. I acknowledge thee Névee. Mayst you be he?"

"Granted Vann Derer macNévee, now explain how you came to have my possessions."

"That o father in age is a series of long tales...."

The dogs were getting restless in the dark, their Master had been sat in the circle for hours.  They noticed him move and stretch clicking his neck side to side, rolling his shoulders, slowly orienting himself.  Their otherwordly sense had prickled earlier but not enough to raise their hackles, they were hungry now and the moon was well risen in the sky.   Widdershins Vann clapped his hands at each compass point and returned the possessions to his pack all the while chanting a galder-song. Now shivering violently he returned to the dogs and hastily re-dressed himself.

"Tshmil, Telemon you good dogs" he fed them each a treat of dried venison "time for dinner back at the boat"

Ruffling their shiny coats Vann walked his dogs back to the beach a satisfied and hopeful gleam in his grey eyes.

Prologue - Gambade

Myl stared with casual boredom at the initials on the worn leather holdall, M S C, his eye dragged to the veneered occasional table in the corner where dust motes danced carelessly with the moths in the streams of light sprayed from slashes in his lampshade.  'His', he wryly thought, soon it will be owner-less and the dust will gather like soil on on a moon.   As his thumb idly played with the carved head on his walking cane he wondered what happened to his things after he left... across the Magical Multiverse, or Majiverse, are there still rooms and apartments mouldering with faithful possessions awaiting his return?  His eyes returned to the messenger satchel, besides his cane it was his only constant companion.   Everything else from hairstyle to clothes changed with regularity.    The thick leather straps round the holdall were cinched tight through the metal eyelets as well as on each of the bulging external pouches, crossing the magical multiverse can be rough.
"Come on, I'm bored now" he opined to the unlistening room.
Returning to his musings, that he still called himself Myl when he'd only heard his heroic nicknames spoken for so many aeons across, across... what is the majiverse?   He had been told that each universe contains time and space and the multiverse contains many universes and that somehow magic enables transference between some, not even the Gods knew if it's all, of them.   There is a core group of known universes and routes of communication between some of them, that is the known majiverse.     Myl had visited plenty of them.
Even the gods called him by his heroic names, depending upon which place he ended up.   He doubted whether anyone who remembered his real name lived still, and expected never to see them.    
"Do you even know my name my now-patron?"  He thought of Penthesilea , daughter of Enyalius, who had come to him three, or was it four, gambade's ago.  She knew him as Vermillion Scree, a hero and with her he'd battled during the Cygnus and Brainiac wars, from a mythical past to some dystopian technological future.    He never really knew whether a gambade would jump him across universes or time and space within a universe.  Over the years he'd had all three.  Still the magical winds had shifted and a day ago Penthesilea had come to say fare well as she thought this wind would blow him from her patronage.  He looked at the pure white marble altar to his left that faced the fire to the right and wondered who his next patron would be;  doe eyed Gabuleanin, the wildly energetic FeeNarfi or maybe the inscrutable black faced Baalshi
Neither he nor the many Gods he'd met in his travels could control the magical Eurean wind.

Myl looked around the room, the coal fire had burned down and was radiating heat from the white hot rocks and cast iron backplate.  The plush  burgundy curtains were drawn, the ingenious methane lamps flickered in the corners of the room casting plenty of light to read by.  On the green velvet card table were several volumes in the newfangled Novelletta style and a deck of cards.   He couldn't concentrate to read though, his nerves jangled with uncertainty of what he would be thrust into.  It was not usually a peaceful event and the thought of playing Patience was almost as dire to consider as the events awaiting him.   Over the past couple of jumps he'd kept the Deathwing Staff Penthesilea had granted him but a jump the size she intimated would magically strip weapons and armour from him.  The laws of transference meant that only goods technically capable of being made in the time and space he arrived could be worn.  He sat in buckskin boots, dark rouge heavy moleskin breeks and a plain white linen blouse shirt with a wide open collar.  An ornate heavy leather frock coat  with heavy cuffs and lined with vermillion spider silk stitched in waves of curling patterns, was complemented by a leather D'Orsay hat.  All of the leather had a Burgundy stain that matched his boots and completed his attire as a country dandy of old Vvina.   They reflected the highest fashion of this time but an unusual taste in colour, bright light colours were the vogue this year but Myl had a reputation across the Majiverse to keep up and a deep blood, or vermillion, colour was his.  
Given the vagaries of his life Myl trusted handmade excellence over faster, industrial means of manufacture as he examined the leather on the holdall, each section had his common rouge stain but closer examination showed a variety of leathers were excellently stitched to make up the case,  giving it a red patchwork effect.  There were sections containing a variety of deer types which drew forth memories of weird animals hunted across a kaleidoscope of landscapes, there was a pocket made of Ariel Ray shagreen and another from a rare Axbill on Snaefell .  Looking at a small crack in the vacchette leather of the strapping, he decided his time would be better used maintaining it.   Myl stood to reach some oil on the writing desk to his left...

Which is when the tightening in his gut, that first indication of the Eurean wind came.  Myl spun and with the smooth flow of repetitive action he transferred the bag from floor to his back, the strap going crosswise from his left shoulder to his right flank.   A second strap was cinched around his waist to hold the bag tight to his lumber.  In the same motion he stepped forward and picked up the dark carved walking cane and moved into a ready  stance, legs bent with his left leg and shoulder slightly forward as if he was braced against a headwind.  His back slightly bent and his cane held firmly in front so that his two legs and cane formed a stable tripod.   The room itself was still, the fire continued to glow and there was no change in the flickering of the gas lamps but around Myllion his jacket whipped back and forth, his hair was blowing and his spare left hand reached up to secure his hat to his head.

And he was gone... leaving a quiet room, carpeted with Saffavid rugs heavily patterned in rich colours of blue, red and gold.    The brass and iron rococo-esque gas lamps  continued to burn and the florally tiled cast iron fireplace still glowed.   The bookcases of dark, hard wood were unmoved and uncaring and the cards did not mourn their lack of a player.  The small statue of Penthesilea in the marble alter that faced the fire may have waved a bronze hand, or maybe it was just a flicker in the light.

Skryim - Beorning Wildfire

This is my first fanbois post on Skyrim - The Elder Scrolls V. I need to write up his story ;) Introducing the Nord himself...

Beorning Saga, pt 1

Falkreath, Skyrim Region, Tamriel, 4E 165

Kynareth's hammer had pounded the night leaving the Thistles and Mountain flowers bent and dripping with her mercy.  As the fire of the morning crested the Jerall Mountains Farengar wandered out of the farmhouse sleepily scratching, the cold clean mountain air awakening him.  From the farmhouse, typical of the area; two storied with a strong stone base and wooden upper level, the wood smoke issued and his stomach reminded him about breakfast.  Mother was talking to a new arrival and recognition brought a smile.
"Uncle!"
He broke into a run clasping his Uncle's fore-arm in welcome.  Before he could continue  a courier arrived  with a note in his hand.
"I have a message for you..."
The courier grinned, obviously liking this rare announcement message for the mother of Farengar SecretFire and her clan folk.  Farengar's cousin, Kudri WhiteFire, had given birth.  Any birth to the Fire clan was a cause for celebration and Farengar and his folk would raise a glass of the famous Nord Mead to the child. 
The courier who read the note stated
"On this day, the 29th Morningstar, to Kudri WhiteFire of the Bruma guard was born a beautiful boy - Beorning the new member of the Fire clan.  All hail Beorning!"
The courier then hastened to his next destination to deliver the message to other clan members.  The family walked to the kitchen to break fast and celebrate this welcome news.

Briefly staring into the flames of the kitchen fire.   Farengar mused on his cousin, Kudri, remembering their naming & clan welcoming ceremony back in Falkreath when they were little.     He'd been given the name Secret, in addition to his birth and clan names by the priest of Talos who recognised his desire to be a magician.  Kudri all skinny with long red-brown hair had come back from the priest of Kynareth with the name White.  He'd always teased her about being part snow-elf because of the milkiness of her skin.  He'd also teased her about her love for Kynareth over Talos.  She always primly called back that "The Nine are One and Eight & One are Nine".  Even though they only met during clan gatherings held at Sun's Dawn, Sun's Height and Sun's Dusk he realised that he missed her.    Of all his siblings and cousins she was the one that understood him, although he'd never understood her fascination with Kynareth and nature. 
Memories of their last meeting two years ago floated into his minds-eye.
"Hey, hey Farengar how's you?   When you off to Winterhold for magician training?" Kudri's sing-song voice rang in his ear. 
"Kudri, good to see you!   I'm off at Rain's Hand to start with Tolfdir.   I hope we get clear skies and that it doesn't rain the whole way there." Farengar shuddered at the thought.  "What are you going to do now you're of age?"
"The BaleFire has contacts in the Bruma guard so I was going to travel over the passes as soon as they open in Second Seed and start there.   Maybe once I've trained I'll head across the Empire as an adventurer!   I might even join the Mages Guild and be better than you!"
Farengar smiled, that internal knowing smile that earned him his naming
"I don't think so girl-cousin but I hope Bruma is good to you.  Maybe we'll catch up next year or the year after."
His attention returned to the present and the room of his clan...

"So the boy is called Beorning.  May he live to be big, bold and brave.  A true Nord!" toasted his Mother.  She was a typical Nord woman; bold & brassy, plainly dressed today in breeks and an embroidered over-dress with a flowing vine and fruit pattern.
"Aye!" "Beorning!" "Kudri's son!" toasted the others.
"Mother, does anyone know who the father is?" asked Farengar.
The others looked around muttering about how Cyrodiil and the Empire was a right mix of people 
"As long as it's not an Altmer!" 
"A pasty Half-Orc would be ugly, but a good fighter"
"Hmmm I was in Bruma the past year, she was always at the Jerall Inn with a big Nord Battle-Mage, rumour was that he was a Blade from Cloud Ruler Temple.  Can't remember his name though..." 
His uncle Eirik BaleFire was strong, hale and with an energy that belied his years. He travelled a lot as a Merchant Adventurer,  always in conflict with the East Empire Company, he rarely stopped complaining about them.  When he did stop whinging he was the main source of accurate gossip within the Clan.
Not being able to remember a conversation or piece of information like this always annoyed his Uncle greatly and he started stroking his braided salt and pepper beard, then drumming his fingers on his wide sword belt, much to Farengar's  mother's annoyance.  With a swift 'snap' Eirik clicked his fingers;
"Rig - that was his name, no clan name just Rig.  Not sure what sort of a name Rig is.  A big fellow with his share of scars and light grey hair which was strange in one as young as he."

Returning to his musings by the flickering light of the wood harmer Farengar slid into a visionary state. Raising itself in Farengar's inner world, out of the fire, was the blinking of a great eye.  Opening to show it's orange iris as if wakening within a great black rock.  The rock resolved to a cliff face, dark, jagged and granite hard.  The eye blinked and a rock slide began, a shape emerging from the rock. 
A great dragon head shape and both eyes turned to stare directly at Farengar as it's mouth opened and a great rumbling murmur began.   It sounded like a distant avalanche that grew in power until words formed
"Doh Vah Kiin"
Farengar shuddered back and fell from his seat so loud and powerful was the inner vision.  He was shaken and his arms automatically raised as if to ward from a blow.   His mother, uncle and the rest of the clan stared at him.
"What's up with you Faren'?" asked his Mother a little concerned although she was used to his odd behaviour at momentous times.
Farengar hastily gathered his wits and made to leave the room to ponder further.
"Nothing, I just got lost in thought."
"Hah!   Thinking eh!  Pity you're not more like cousin Kudri she's an action girl, a true Nord."
"May the boy be blessed of the Nine and be a bright blade during the argument of swords!"

Beorning Saga, pt 2

Cyrodiil region Tamriel, 4E 175. First Seed

Kudri Whitefire looked at the faces around her, mostly Nords like herself, but with a smattering of the other races; Redguards, Bretons, Orsimer, Dunmer and Cyrodiils. They wore a motley bunch of armour leather, studded, elven and glass with a whole range of different weapons and shields. It was all brought together by a common overcoat with the Bruma black eagle on yellow ochre background. To distinguish them from the regular Bruma troops the eagle clasped a red skull in it’s talons. These irregular troops, mostly adventurers whom the war had shorn of a living, were ill-disciplined in a military sense but powerful fighters and Kudri was proud to lead them. Because they were irregulars some generals had questioned their commitment in battle. Kudri knew that this speech was needed after the Imperial losses of the previous year and the vicious Sack of the Imperial City

"Our Imperial Jewel has been raped by those hungry for the bloody slavery of our peoples." She looked into the eyes of all her troops... "We are returning for vengeance!"... "But we, the Bruma Reivers, have to do our blood work first... We must harry and raid... We must throw a black noose round their mages... We must make sure those Dominion dogs know nothing of the battle blizzard that General Jonna brings!". She looked at their haggard, hardened jaws.
"Yes we've had losses over the past years and we've been at the blunt end of a hammering but us Reivers have been the hawks of harrying, have we not?"
"Arrr" assent rumbled like a low mist towards her.
"Did we keep the Bruma road open?", "Arrr" rumbled back. "Did we hack and harry and hit the Aldmeri? Have they come to fear our hawk call? Does the Dominion fear to leave their beds because the Reivers will bring the red ruin to them?"
"Arrr!", "Arr-arr", "Arr-arr!" The rumblings had increased in pitch until the high pitched hawk call that was their battle shout rang out. She knew she had their attention then.
"Our Emperor has a plan and General Jonna, along with the other legions, marches now. We are the light troops, the scouts, the harrowers who will keep those Aldmeri arselings blind to the Mede's might. We'll break our winter camp tomorrow and move back to our spring fighting pattern, your hand leaders will deliver your orders in the morning. Hand commanders to me, troops DISMISSED!"
......... _________ .........

Meara Benirus followed the rest of her hand back to their tent, she looked around at them; Sha gro-Shak "Shaker" a bright green warrior Orsimer, Droma Talylin "Tally" a quiet Dunmer mage-scout and then the Nords siblings Hafon "Hey boy" and Hartha "Hey gal" from Hjaalmarch. Hafon was hand-leader, due to the hard learnt lessons of the early part of the War only Nords could become hand leaders. The Thalmor were masters of disguise, illusion, infiltration and by those under-hand measures had nearly destroyed the Reivers in the first years of the war. Kudri WhiteFire, the pale Nord and her hand had been the only survivors for a reason; they had hard rules based upon the structure of the Dark Brotherhood.
Now the Reivers were strong, re-built upon their rules;
The Rule of Friendship - new members of a hand were introduced by other well trusted members, this also meant that each hand made enormous efforts to ensure the next rule did not need to be enforced. Whilst your hand and friends knew your first name it was never used only a second or nick name was used. The first name was hidden for the Rule of Identification.
Rule of Responsibility - No one gets left behind alive, thus it is each member of the hand's responsibility to ensure that none of the squad could be used by the Thalmor against the Reivers; each member carried a deadly poison to be used if they were taken. Standing orders meant any member of the Reivers seeing another Reiver captured were duty bound, upon pain of death after a court-martial if they failed, to shoot the deadly poison into their comrade.
Rule of Identification - On each meeting you prove who you are, a set of frequently changed handshakes and codes, particular to the hand members, used to ensure that the Thalmor had not impersonated or ensorcelled the Reiver. Sole survivors of a hand during battle were not allowed back into the Reivers and had to leave knowing that they'd not kept their friends alive. Three simple rules of survival in the Great War.
Tally dropped back, as a fellow Anviler, although a Dunmer, and Scout she'd taken Meara under her wing, her nickname was obvious... "Beni let's get some more training in before we head out.". Inwardly Meara groaned her muscles still feeling sore after weeks of hard training, mornings of sword & battlecraft, afternoons of woodcraft sneaking around the woods hunting deer and evenings of magecraft in illusion and conjuration.
Since her arrival at the Reivers the days had blurred in the world of her Hand, the Fiddlers "cos we like playing with ourselves". Most swordcraft sessions involved all the team; 3 on 2, 4 on 1 and battlecraft was against other Hands. This was their secret method, the team tactics employed by each Hand and their joint tactics amongst the Hands. The Thalmor with their fanatic organisation & discipline struggled against the flow and seeming chaos of the Reivers. Or rather, now they did since Kudri had reorganised the Reivers.
......... _________ .........

In the White City Magister Phaegol listened to General Naarifin with rising glee; a chance to prove himself to the Dominion high command as well as blasting those lesser Talos worshipping races. The evening was looking up. Naarifin finished
"I need you to wreck the Reivers and discover what Titus is planning."
Phaegol led a Thalmorion of troops; mostly Bosmer with an Altmer elite core of battle-magi. He was typical; pale, light haired, tall with a straight narrow nose, long pinched face with eyes also narrowed giving a supercilious look. This was only intensified when discussing the non Elven.
The Reivers had gained a fearsome reputation in 4E 174 by harrying the Thalmorions during Titus II's escape from the Imperial City. No quarter was given nor expected by the Reivers and the Altmer had learnt to respect their elusive combat prowess. It infuriated and insulted their Elven Supremacist sensibilities, hence there would be great kudos to the Magister who destroyed them.
Phaegol had built a unit based on closely ordered conjured elementals supported by Bosmer archers and a phalanx of battle-mages, conjuring the front rank of elementals, behind. They had well drilled battle tactics defined for all terrains and circumstances. Command and control was how he ran things. Of course the reason why the Dominion was superior was that humankind were weak, the Reiver’s traitor he'd secretly secured was proof of that.
The traitor sent intelligence via encrypted message returned by Bosmer controlled creatures. He knew they had been wintering in the Bruma Caverns, expanded into a military base and was awaiting the latest report.
......... _________ .........

Beorning Saga pt 2 - Meara 1

Note : For the attention of Magister Phaegol
The Reiver’s phalanges are dipping into Fingerbowl’s Cave.

Meara’s Diary : 20th First Seed

Hey Gal gave us the orders this morning. At first light we moved south towards somewhere called Fingerbowl Cave. It should have been simple enough, the early scouts Hey Gal said, indicated that there might be some skeletons and ghosts, simple to handle really. It was good to be moving out in my light chainmail, glass shield, with my ancestral Katana on my hip and staff of lightning on my back. That was the best part of the day even though there was a light rain. We were with four other hands; The StrongArms, FlytingStaves, Talos' Terrors - nicknamed the TT's because they were all girls and finally the Lightning Strikes. Shaker grumbled the whole way about having to share the fighting with other hands until Hey Gal finally had enough and bounced a silence spell on him. Shaker seethed under his studded leather armour, his Thalmor gloves clenching and boots stamping. His armour and boots were all dyed a dark green making him look like some malicious quivering tree. We all laughed until, in mock anger, he pulled out his Orsimer Warhammer. Tally just wore a deep purple Robe of Shielding, which complemented her Dunmer skin. When she stood next to Shaker she looked like some bizarre shadow of him, but with a staff of firebolts and a short sword. Hey Boy & Hey Gal both had a steely look to them; Hey Boy in full heavy Carved Nord armour but he moved more easily in it than some of the mages who had no armour. Hey Gal had light Mithril armour enchanted to muffle all movement, she could move as silently as a snake and her strike was twice as deadly with her epic Elven bow of shocks. Wearing the Reivers tabard I really felt like a part of the hand, maybe a little finger.

That was the best part of the day. By afternoon we arrived at the cave, creeping from gully to gully, through the ferns. That was when it all went wrong. A group of Bosmer hit us from the left with a volley of arrows. Some quick healing and it was into the fray to realise there were many more Bosmer ahead and to the right of us. They had control of Mountain Lions, Wolves and Timber Wolves which launched themselves at us from all sides. Our diligent hand training, that I whined about when we were roped together for group combat, meant in practice we kept a fluid movement to absorb the attacks, isolate attackers and re-group to take them out one at a time. Always moving together, a single organism, supporting and healing each other we kept our shape but had to evade rather than battle. I was happy with the shield and staff work in my left hand, my ancestral Katana slicing in an arc taking wolves, lions and Bosmer apart. With my staff casting lightning to distract their archers we came into a glade, the animals were mostly dead by now. Then arrows started to rain down. I felt myself grabbed around the waist and lifted behind a tree, there was the thud of shafts in the bole and ground where I'd been,
"Time to get out of here" I heard Shaker's gruff Orsimer voice softly in my ear, "'member the drill. Us heavies'll lead, move with Tally to cover and sweep."
Tally flicked a finger and I moved behind and to her left. Conjured a Flame Atronach and charged my staff before we hit them, Shaker and Hey Boy swinging their big weapons in the middle, me and Tally providing shock and flare with the live wraith that was Hey Gal floating around leaving a trail of twitching corpses in the brush. It was neat and I only had to bolt down a few healing and magicka potions before the last of the Bosmer were down. We'd lost track of the other hands until we broke out of the glade. We came out of the glade to the north west of the cave entrance and realised how many of the Aldmeri forces there were. The TT's, Flyting Staves and Lighting Strikes had formed a wild, spinning circle of metal and magicka striking out with flailing fury at the elves that almost surrounded them. No one was still for a second, evading and executing attacks at the same time ahead it seemed like a similarly whirling barrage of stones were hurling themselves at the people of the hands. During the moment we caught our breath the Thalmor conjured Storm Atronach's fell to become a still, randomly generated rock garden so the Hands took a breather before the next assault. The Staves spotted us and signalled for us to join them at the same time that Hey Gal spotted the StrongArms who'd become isolated, like we'd been earlier. With a nod of her head we East headed towards them.

The StrongArms hadn’t fared as well as us, and two of them were isolated and taken out by a combination of Bosmer archers and Atronachs summoned by the Thalmor. Some of the Wood Elves had moved in to loot their bodies already. Spotting the other three of them in trouble we fought back in, Tally launching Firebolt after Firebolt at the Bosmer, I proudly matched her strike for strike. Dodging the darts, launching lightning and then looking for Tally, the few minutes felt like an age of conflict and all I could do was focus on not dying. Hey Gal must have smoothly disappeared whilst Shaker and Hey Boy lifted their heavy bows on the Thalmors moving in to wipe the StrongArms out. Our fire'n'shock strategy drew the Thalmor towards us. They sent their Atronachs in, it didn't look good until Hey Gal stabbed their masters from behind. With the Thalmor dead the Bosmer lost heart (or was that the fear from Hey Gal) and retreated. I ran in and laid hands on a good looking Nord lad with an Ice Helm, he was crouched down a bit stunned. He smiled and held out his arm, his firm calloused hand gripped mine as I pulled him up. Hopefully I gave him my quirky smile
"I'm Saffsir, thanks" his returned smile warmed me. I told myself to stop silly lusting and concentrate on the battle.
After that we organised a retreat. Saffsir with his Redguard Strong-Arms working equally to defend and block. The enemy didn't seem keen to chase as soons as we left the gully leading towards the Cave. Re-grouping with other hands to the North of the Heartlands, Saffsir and Hey-Gal sidled off with the Hand leaders from the Staves, TT's and Strikes to talk. I liked the look of Saffsir but, as to the rules, I stuck with our hand for the walk back to base (although when I look at him I start thinking to Malacath with the bloomin’ rules). A retreat also meant no looted bodies which meant we were a glum group trudging into the food hall tonight.

Beorning Saga pt 2 - Meara 2

Cyrodiil region Tamriel, 4E 175. First Seed

Meara’s Diary : 21st First Seed

Back to training today. The WhiteFire was locked away with the hand leaders most of the day. After the morning's battle training Tally pointed out the other members of WhiteHeat; The Whitefire's hand. First we spotted 'Juicy' a Dunmer like Tally but her exact emotional opposite. She’s an outgoing flirt, always stunningly dressed in black leather armour usually with flame red trimmings and accessories, the rumour was that she was a renowned assassin. Out in the training cave we spotted 'Danvil' an imperial mage who had, Tally told me, a wicked temper (Darkstride’s all right really, he knew my Da but I can’t let on to my hand as it’s the rules not to reveal your guarantor). He was training with the Nords 'BB' and 'Bolgar', BB had a huge Battleaxe whilst Bolgar favoured the Greatsword both wore scaled armour and had those Nordic horned helmets. The two Nords were double teaming Danvil and getting through his shield spell, Danvil's temper then showed itself when Bolgar rapped his bottom with the flat part of his blade. Danvil obviously thought he was superior to the 2 Nords and when they kept getting through he was going to teach them a lesson. His hand came up to cast some huge destruction spell
"Danvil don't you dare!" The WhiteFire appeared and demonstrated her battle voice.
Everything stopped, Danvil lowered his hands glaring. Then the mood passed and he laughed
"Sorry boys, you almost got me there..."
BB & Bolger looked at each other, let a deep breath out and BB winked at Danvil
"Alright old man you would've had us if we weren't training."
So even for the WhiteHeat's sometimes training can get out hand! I felt better about getting aerated the other day with Shaker during training.
For dinner we finally got our hands on that Nord Mead brought in a couple of days earlier, it was a great dinner. I think Rosso, one of the Strong-Arms we rescued, made it; as the Strong-Arms were now not a full hand they were relegated to camp duties for a week or two until they could train up the new members. There always seemed to be a few spare recruits waiting for a hand. The Aldmeri Dominion certainly has it’s enemies. I am so glad Darkstride spoke to the Whitefire and I am now one of the Reivers. I think I'm truly a member of the Fiddlers now.