Ragna awoke flat on his back, lying spread-eagle across his workbench. He usually slept on the floor because it provided the best relief for his lower back, but with all the rain, the ground was too wet for that. Still groggy, he lifted his head up just enough to notice the large bulge in his pants. "Fires of Oblivion," he mumbled. He closed his eyes, hoping his erection would go away.

His sexual urge was nowhere near as strong or reckless as it was in his youth. Back then the rise of the "mighty oak" was a daily occurrence, to be celebrated and enjoyed. But even now the desire to mate had not left him completely. And for what purpose did that serve? He'd sworn off women, the strange and bewildering creatures that they were, long ago. Yes, he was lonesome at times, but the thought of sex always reminded him of his days with the Hollow Moon Clan and their skooma addled orgies. They were nightmarish memories, and he had no desire to revisit them. Taking another peek at himself, he could see that the oak wasn't going away anytime soon…unless he took action. He declared in a defiant voice, "Enjoy your little joke, Divines, while it lasts!" He tugged hard on his beard. A quick plunge in the cold, mountain-fed spring out back, that will turn the mighty oak into a swinging vine…


If nothing else, Ragna made sure to fill his life with routine. He was a creature of habit, and it was what kept him half-way sane and disciplined. Whether he felt like it or not, he kept to the following schedule every day: After dressing, he sharpened each of his swords. He ran his wet stone over each edge exactly one hundred times. Then he practiced his one and two-handed sword fighting until he could no longer raise either weapon overhead. Even though he was no longer a professional fighter, it was good exercise and it kept him strong and limber. Next came breakfast and it was also the same every day: Two-zephyr tea, goreapple porridge, buttered flatbread and Lillandril summer sausage. In the arena, they called it "the slayer's banquet." (The only thing they forgot to mention was that this particular combination of food tended to give most fighters a good dose of gas and Ragna was no exception)!

After breakfast, Ragna walked along the sandy coast line which led to the Abecean Stables in Vulkhel Guard. It was a good twenty minute walk in the rain, but getting wet didn't bother him. It was a warm day and it gave him time to collect his thoughts. Why would the Queen request a meeting with him, when she could just as easily relay the information by courier? And why was she in Elden Root of all places? He didn't really want to make the trip to the capital. It would require a long boat ride to the mainland, then a two to three day ride by horse, and it would be treacherous, particularly with the heavy rain. But he also hadn't forgotten that he owed the Queen. She pardoned him for his part in the Mannimarco fiasco and even helped him purchase the land for his leather and woodworking shop. He tugged on his beard in dismay. "Fivefold irritation!" He decided he would make the trip, but "respectfully decline" being of any further service to Her Majesty. He felt like he'd already done more than his fair share of the fighting.

Arriving at the stables, Ragna went to the far end of the long building, to a stall that was much larger than all the rest. The placard on the door simply read: "Keep Out or Suffer." It was the only door secured with a thick chain of aetherium and a dwemer orbital lock. Even though there was no sound coming from inside the stall, faint wisps of smoke intermittently pushed through the cracks in the wood, letting you know that something was indeed inside.

Ragna pressed his face against the tiny stall window and peered into the darkness. He blew some of his breath into the stall so the animal would recognize his scent. "Hail blood brother." With those words, the black stallion known as Blood Meridian whinnied, sending small flames flickering out of its nostrils and its blood-red eyes. Even a casual observer could tell, this was not your average warhorse. It was neither dead or alive, but existed in a state somewhere in-between. Ragna had rescued it from the demented hands of the daedric prince, Mehrunes Dagon, while fighting in the deadlands of Oblivion. Bred on the Black Isles, lava coursed through the animal's veins, illuminating the hairline cracks in its hooves.

Saddling up his mount not only invigorated Ragna, but the black stallion as well. The horse flexed its great neck and repeatedly stomped the ground. Ragna smiled as he rubbed the horse's broad chest, right where Blood liked it. Climbing up into the saddle, Ragna felt unexpectedly…excited.

With a tap of Ragna's heels, Blood Meridian cantered down the mud soaked bridle path, until it reached the main thoroughfare, the Phaer River Road. Ragna grinned as he watched the intermittent raindrops turn to steam the minute they landed on his horse. He eased off the reins and shouted, "Like the wind!" And the horse burst into a full gallop, kicking long tails of mud and water out from underneath it.