5 On Friday: My Excerpts!

Happy Friday, everyone! I’ve selected five excerpts from my fan-fiction-related short story for today’s installment of my “Five on Friday” posts, in preparation for a more regular schedule of my writings. I also added a few new screen-shots for the viewing enjoyment of all!

I hope that your respective weekends are off to a great start. Mine certainly is!


Festivities: This excerpt details some of the goings-on during a celebratory dinner.

Comeuppance: Revenge is a dish best served cold, as detailed in this brief tale.

Seclusion: Self-driven solitude is a necessity, at times – for the protection of others, as well as oneself.

The Wild Hunt: A cure for an illness comes in an unexpected ritual.

The Entertainer: Confidence can be earned, and learned, from the most obscure sources.

ESO Fan Fiction: Search For the Sky-Crystals – Part I

Here’s a bit of my fan-fiction, originally posted in 2015. Chronologically, it takes place after the events I’m writing about in my NaNoWriMo short-story.

Random Ramblings; Myriad Musings

Tur’a wakes in the Warrior’s Rest Tavern, yawning and stretching in her bedroll. She has returned to Cyrodiil at the behest of her sister, who left a cryptic message before leaving to roam the desert sands with Dar. The message simply reads: “Remember the Chalamo.” Tur’a is still unfamiliar with the war-torn land, having only recently completing basic training there. She has used the siege machinery at the practice field, but that is a far cry from using them in the heat of battle. Rubbing her eyes, she sits up near the fire-pit. She is clad in a simple tunic and breeches; modesty and practicality dictate sleeping in light clothing, at the very least. She rummages through her bag for a quick meal – she has been cooking more and more for herself, finding hearty soups and stews more to her liking than the sugary-sweet fare her sister used to…

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ESO Fan Fiction: Scenes From the Battle, Part II


The battering ram smashes the inner gate – and two of its wheels fall off. The warriors using it move it aside and in a matter of moments, the machine is disassembled. The parts will be used to repair the two ballistae which are making quick, short work of the inner gate. Inside the assaulted fortress, the quartermaster bawls instructions to his assistants as they rush to outfit and defend the battlemages and sentries. The now-useless transit shrine has been abandoned as these stalwart few stand at the ready. Tur’a and Baragon remain crouched and ready at their positions, not bothering with the oil-pots any longer. Tur’a eyes the enemy troops swarming in and hopes that Lotharr and his small crew have managed to evade detection. They are quite skilled, but the sheer numbers they face are daunting…any stealth attack they may have planned would have to be swift and enormous in scale.

Tur’a glances over at Baragon, who gazes intently down at the enemy numbers. She has seen him on the battlefield more and more lately, and his fighting is impressive. Such skill! No wild flailing about with his broadsword, as she has seen many others do. No, he wields his blade similarly to the way she was taught; the art of sword-play that was nearly lost to her people when they were driven from their homeland, so long ago.


She snaps back to attention, surprised at being distracted, and sees Baragon smirking at her as shouts and the clashing of steel resound from below. They turn their attention to the stone stairway, standing to join two archers and a mage. Lotharr and his team barrel back in the door they had crept out of moments before, tabards ablaze. They move to various positions around the stairway and hold fast while the quartermaster replaces the oil-pots near them. Working swiftly, his assistants have managed to erect a catapult near the empty scroll-bier. The stench of rotting meat mingles with the smell of smoke, hot oil, burning cloth and leather, and charred flesh. The real battle will soon begin. Tur’a welcomes it…her heart is racing. She feels the wrath of her fellow knights of the dragon, their combined quiet rage feeding hers. Blazing runes dance at the edge of her vision as she grasps her sword tightly and raises it high. Flames lick the edges of the brutal blade as it takes on the appearance of molten lava. Beside her, Baragon draws his bow. Elves and their bows, Tur’a chuckles to herself. They come in handy, there’s no denying it…


She’s hurled backwards by a massive explosion! Dazed, flat on her back, helpless…GET UP! her mind screams – she rolls to the side, narrowly evading the mighty swing of an enemy’s maul. Her vision clears in time to see a flash of blades as Ildris opens the throat of the warrior with brutal precision. She re-cloaks and vanishes, but not before wreathing her younger sister in some healing magicks to cleanse the effects of the concussion. Tur’a smiles in relief and turns her attention back to the stairwell. Her sister is here! Ildris always brings heavy reinforcements. The battle is far from over…it can now begin in earnest. Baragon moves back to her side, closer than before. His face is a mixture of anger and…is that concern that she sees? No, that’s not possible. Just a trick of the eyes, she figures, as he draws on his own inner fire. His face becomes a blank obsidian mask with one blazing eye – he reminds her of a statue she saw as a child.

Tur’a shakes her head again, slightly, thinking that she must still be feeling the effects of the spell. These distracting thoughts aren’t helping! She feels foolish and disconcerted as she returns her attention to the fight. It needs to end swiftly…time to get serious.

ESO Fan Fiction Friday: Outpost Observation

Dusk. She relaxes on the second floor of the outpost, looking at the stars as they wink into existence. She picks out a few of the constellations, idly wondering how Dar is faring with his family. She smiles at the gifts he’d left for her; they always leave small tokens of affection for each other at this specific outpost.

A sound breaks her reverie…the telltale noise of a sorcerer’s lightning. Quietly and carefully, she stows the trinkets and crouches in the shadow of the outpost wall. Shoom…shoom…shoom…the sorcerer is close, but she can’t see where they are. She creeps silently to the edge of the ramparts and looks around. There – she sees the ball of lightning the sorcerer leaves in their wake. They are scaling the hillside nearby, getting just above the second floor of the outpost. She edges back, finding the ideal location to make a quick getaway if needed, as sorcerers never travel alone. Still, she is curious: what is the mage doing? She hides and waits, watching.

The mage eyes the wall of the outpost, assessing the distance from the hillside. Surrounding himself with lighting, he blasts forward – once, twice…then falls heavily to the ground. The fall kills him instantly; he resurrects himself quickly, using the arcane magic of soul gems. She watches intently as he runs back up the hillside, certain that he isn’t alone. Anyone traveling with him would remain in hiding until he achieves his goal, slaughtering any who would dare to attack.

Again. One bolt-step, two…another fall. Death and resurrection, and the run back up the hillside. Ah… Realization sets in. She knows what he is trying to do, and she knows for certain that he can’t be alone. She is impressed by his tenacity, and marvels at how close he gets to the edge of the outpost before falling. She is impressed; he would be a worthy foe to face one-on-one. She hopes that the chance to do so will be soon.

On the fifth attempt, he is successful – he stands on the ramparts just above her hiding spot. She remains silent, listening. His soft footfalls move slowly away; he avoids the guards on the upper level and creeps down the stairs. She hears the quartermaster cry out a warning, which is cut off swiftly as the mage’s conjured minions kill her quickly. The mage’s power is revealed as he begins calling down cold fire from the skies – the outpost rocks with the force of the meteors as they blast the guards below.

She drops silently from the wall. The outpost will shortly be in enemy hands, and she needs to get word to the generals at the keep to the north. The thunder of the sorcerer’s fury continues, and she hears triumphant shouts from the main door as his cohorts wield a battering ram, creating further chaos for the few surviving guards. Their deaths are inevitable, and there is nothing she can do but flee.

Her escape route is treacherous, but as familiar to her as the halls and rooms of the home estate. The moons are dark this evening, further hiding her getaway. She runs swiftly and silently, shrouding herself with her own magick. The keep finally looms into view, but she doesn’t unhide until she is safe in the outer walls. Lotharr and his crew are there, waiting for word from the group that had gone to scout an outpost to the west. He turns and waves her over. “Report, Lieutenant?” She chuckles. “Wait until you hear this…I wouldn’t have believed it possible, had I not seen it with my own eyes…” They listen, eyes growing wide. Time to strategize.

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