For many, this story is not new, but has been running for awhile on Bethesda. While most of the beginning is not going to be updated, there are points where I'm fixing the grammar/tweaking things...so, if you want to reread, or if you haven't read it yet, please do.
This is a parody, so note that I've taken some rather significant liberties with the story/world...I know some people hate that, so you've been warned.
Oh prison really, really sucks,
I should be out making big bucks
Instead I'm rotting in this stinking cell
I just hope my honoured user jailer rots in hell!
-- Edward's Lament
Chapter One
Once upon a time, in a far away land, an Imperial named Edward lived in the Imperial Dungeon of the Imperial City . Edward was an average young man, with nothing outstanding about his background, family, life, or appearance. Indeed, he was so ordinary that no one seemed to know anything about him, and he didn't remember anything about his past (at least, that was his story, and he was sticking to it). All he knew was that he was stuck in a jail cell -- and there, across from him, was another prisoner, taunting him.
Edward didn't pay much attention to what was said, but he got the gist...the guards were going to torture and kill him, as that's all that happened to prisoners here.
"Funny," Edward thought, "this guy doesn't look like he's been tortured, and, unfortunately, he's still alive, and making a damn lot of noise, too..."
Just then, the distant clinking of armor came to the prisoners' ears.
"Aha, they're coming for you!" the annoying prisoner taunted.
Edward frowned. Maybe, just maybe, he might find out why he was here. It couldn't have been those loaves of bread, swiped from the King and Queen Tavern, could it? Nah, no one saw him, he was sure. What about that beggar...what was his name?...that he'd pickpocketed as he slept in the rain outside the chapel. No, surely, they wouldn't throw a respectable young man like him in prison over a slimy beggar, would they?
He waited, musing these things silently, as the noise grew louder, and then, to his surprise, a group of guards and a very well dressed man came into view. Edward's blue eyes sparkled as he saw the rich robes.
"Those must be worth a fortune! And that amulet! I'll bet I could sell that for a lot!"
"Stand aside, prisoner!" an authoritative voice demanded. "Move to the end of the cell, and do not interfere!"
Edward hesitated, his eyes still fixed on the amulet.
"Now! Or we'll make you!" the voice commanded again.
Something in the tone caused Edward to draw his eyes away from the sparkling gem, and to the speaker.
Jumping as he did so, he quickly complied; the speaker had been a less-than-friendly, armor clad, weapon wielding warrior, surrounded by two similarly attired, similarly armed, similarly disposed warriors. Edward tripped in his haste to oblige, but pulled himself up quickly. "Why certainly, milady! Happy to be of service!" he declared.
The warrior scoffed at him, and turned to the rich man. "The passage is here, my lord. I don't know why they put a prisoner in this cell; it is always supposed to be off limits."
The rich man seemed sullen, and did not speak.
"Come with us, my emperor; time is pressing!"
"Emperor!" Edward gasped.
"Why?" the Emperor asked, his tone melancholy. "It's no use...nothing is any use anymore."
The warriors exchanged glances, and the apparent leader spoke again. "My lord, let us get you to sanctuary, where you may then contemplate the futility of existence in safety."
Edward hadn't paid much attention to this conversation, though, as he'd found his eyes returning to the amulet. "You know," he thought to himself, "I'll bet an emperor's amulet would sell for a fortune, even if that ruby is fake!" He found himself licking his lips nervously. Here, merely an arm's length away, was probably his fortune made; but his arms were shackled, and three very unsympathetic guards stood between him and retirement.
The Emperor seemed to sense Edward's eyes on him, and he turned. The old man's eyes lit up. "You!" he whispered. "I've seen you in my dreams!"
Edward grimaced. "Sorry, but I don't go that way."
The Emperor looked at him in puzzlement. "This is fate!" he said at last.
"Sorry," Edward said, stepping backwards. "Not interested." To himself, he wondered at the impertinence of this man. "And, really," he thought, "that's the worst line I've ever heard. 'I've seen you in my dreams'...please!"
"But...the fate of the world rests in your hands! The gods have chosen you to save this empire!"
Edward blinked. He liked the sound of that, but he was still suspicious about the old man's motives. "How?"
"My sons are dead...my time in this life is at an end," the Emperor said.
"Oh, I see," Edward said, his manner suddenly very engaging and excited. "And you need a good, trustworthy soul to take over the empire after you...expire? And, of course, you recognize the very virtues and character you seek in me?"
The Emperor raised an eyebrow. "No...but I might need you to deliver a message for me, if I expire before I can deliver it myself."
Edward's jaw dropped. "A message? You think my virtues and character are only worthy of being a royal messenger?!"
"Well," the Emperor answered slowly, "not really...but, if my visions are right, you'll be the only one I have left to carry the message when the time comes, so I'll have to take a chance on you."
Edward frowned deeply at the old man. Of all the insolence!
"Are you interested?" the Emperor asked.
"Sorry, Mr. Kingy, but you can take your message and stick it up your..." Edward paused, seeing the warriors suddenly moving at him. "...mailbox?" he finished meekly.
The Emperor shrugged, and started to head down a passage that had, somehow, appeared in Edward's cell wall. "Ah well, suit yourself. Of course, it would have meant that you'd get out of prison, but..."
By now, the guards and emperor had disappeared around a bend in the passage, but Edward lost no time in taking to his heels after them, calling, "Wait! Wait, I've changed my mind!"
Warriors that come and go,
Dead men that I don't know,
Life is very strange indeed
For a poor Imperial in need.
-- Edward's Lament, Continued
Chapter Two
Edward caught up with the Emperor just in time to hear him declare, in very melancholy tones, "Woe, woe is me!"
"Yes, my lord," one of the guards said. "But, if you'll just come this way..."
"Ahh, but life is such a futile thing!" the Emperor continued to say.
"What a whiner," Edward thought to himself. Aloud, however, he declared, "My lord, I changed my mind! I would be honored to deliver your message!"
"Life!" the Emperor declared. "What is life? This thing, that we love, that we cherish, that we fear so much to lose? What is life, after all?"
One of the guards cleared his throat. "My lord, if we could continue, so that you could contemplate life when yours is not imperiled?"
"This valley of woe, this plain of suffering, this mountain of worry, this world of trouble and hardship...why, why, why do we hold it so dear? Why do we flee, as if staying and risking an end to it, life, would be such a terrible thing? Tell me that!"
The guards shifted their weight. "Well, my lord, the people need their Emperor!"
At this point, Edward tried to interpose, saying, "My lord, I will be your messenger!" But he was ignored.
"The people," the Emperor scoffed. "What are the people? A bunch of miscreants, peasants, low lives, thieves, murderers, prisoners, greedy priests, conniving noblemen, ambitious officials: riffraff, all of them!" He glanced at Edward. "Look you at this one, and see what I mean!"
Edward frowned, about to make some response, but just then a noise distracted all of their attention. Glancing toward it, Edward saw a trio of ferocious, grotesquely armored men who, apparently, spawned out of the thin air. The three warriors charged to meet the would-be assassins, while, in unison, the Emperor and the prisoner let loose a squeal of terror and ran to the furthest end of the room, where they cowered together.
They remained unmoving, their hands over their heads as they huddled, until the fighting stopped. Then they glanced up, to see three slain men in silk robes. "Divines Not-Quite-Almighty!" Edward shouted, staring at the three corpses. "Where did they come from? And where in Oblivion are the other guys?"
The guards stared at him with distaste, but made no response. "Come my lord," the leader declared, turning to the emperor.
The Emperor stood, and Edward marveled at the man's ability to go from cowering wreck to imperious leader in just a second or so. "That," he thought, "is a real leader! Someone who can adapt to the situation! Someone who-"
He was interrupted from his reverie by someone calling, "Prisoner!"
Edward looked up.
"If you're coming, let's go!" the guard called to him.
Edward nodded, and fell in line. But then he stopped as he caught site of the corpses, and a thought came to him. "You go on ahead of me," he declared. "I've got a cramp in my leg, and I don't want to slow you down or anything. I'll be along as soon as it's gone, but you need to get the emperor to safety!"
"Safety!" the Emperor exclaimed. "What is safety? Who is safe? And from what? Can we ever be safe? Can anyone ever be safe?"
The guards made no argument with Edward, but quietly, politely and respectfully herded the Emperor, who was still mulling the questions he'd posed, toward a distant passage.
Edward, his eyes gleaming, waited for them to go, and then, when they were out of sight, hurried to the corpses. Whoever these creatures were, their fine robes indicated that they were prestigious -- which meant that they probably carried something of value on their persons! With eager hands, Edward searched their pockets. However, much to his chagrin, he found nothing whatever. "Who in Marooned Dragon's name goes around dressed in silk from head to toe, but not carrying anything? Not even a single gold piece?" he wondered. "Worthless bastards...I'm glad you're dead..." Disgusted, he kicked the corpse nearest him and walked toward the passage that the Emperor had disappeared down, but then paused again. "Silk...silk is expensive!"
With this thought, he returned to the corpses and, with much difficulty, proceeded to strip them. Having completed this, he smiled at his handiwork. There, he'd collected three complete silk robes. "Now," he thought. "What am I going to do with them?" He looked at his own clothes, hoping to find a place to store them; but he was wearing typical prison clothes: dirty sack cloth and old sandals. He sighed. No pockets, no secret hiding places.
And then an idea hit him with a flash. Why should he wear dirty, smelly sack cloth, when right there was fine silk?? Smiling and humming to himself, he stripped off his old clothes -- with some difficulty, as he was still wearing his wrist irons -- and slipped into the red robe. Just because he thought it looked especially stylish, he slipped on the silk hood that matched the robe; then, with great joy, he found a compartment in his robe where he could stash the other two. "There," he thought to himself, "All done...now, where's a mirror?" He searched around for a mirror, but found none. "Maybe the Emperor has a mirror," he mused. With this in mind, and dressed in the silk robes of the assassins, he took off in the direction that the emperor had traveled.
WOO HOO !!!! Edward, Docada, and best of all ... RACHEL !!!!!!! WOO HOO !!!!!
Yay! Rachel's arrived! Now we have not one, nor two, but six parodies here (Maxical, Wrothken, Ra'jirra, Adryn, Ada, and now Edward!)
I've said it before, but I'll say it again. I love the Emperor's channeling of Hamlet, King Lear and Henry IV (or was it VI?) all in one. I love the Blades' practical responses to his existential mumblings:
Thanks mALX and haute ecole rider! Glad to bring back the early chuckles.
As for the censor, LOL...oh dear, that's going to be annoying later in the story...I guess I'll have to say something like "illegitimate son" in place of that word...LOL;)
BTW, I uploaded a drawing of Edward here: http://chorrol.com/forums/index.php?showtopic=4503 in case you're interested in looking... I warn you, I'm not very good, but I try, lol. ![]()
I love the drawing, and it puts Edward into a diff light for me - I had pictured him completely diff from his actions, lol.
The censor thing kills me, I wish it would put brackets around it so I could find it when something has been altered, lol.
*wolf looks each way before posting*
I spent a lot of time reading this over at Beth earlier on this year, but was always too scared to leave a reply. Your tale of Edward was without doubt one of the most amazing pieces of literary work that I have ever read. If fact it is so good that it defies description.
I find it impossible to write humor into a piece of writing for more than a sentence or two, how you can do it for chapter after chapter is incredible.
Just wait until Foxy finds out about this. I am hiding under the bed already.
You joined at Chorrol in March and only have posted it now. That is a torment to your reading masses. Lol.
More, more !!
Let's see:
Beverages removed from vicinity- check
Sharp objects ditto- check
Recently completed bathroom break- umm, TMI
Not at work- well... 3 out of 4 isn't bad.
Somehow I see your Emperor Uriel as a cross between William Shatner and Richard Burton, with maybe a touch of Lionel Barrymore thrown in.
And Edward perfectly encapsulated in just a few lines-
"Oh, look, it's the Emperor! I wonder how much that amulet is worth?"
It is so wonderful to have you here, Rachel. And if we have to put up with Edward, well, it's still worth it.
O Cowering Wolf, even under the bed thee shalt not escapeth Foxy and his ever companion, the amazing DHERTEE INNU - ENDO!!!
Behold!!!
"Sorry, Mr. Kingy, but you can take your message and stick it up your..." Edward paused, seeing the warriors suddenly moving at him. "...mailbox?" he finished meekly.
Now, tell me, readers - exactly where on the male anatomy is the male box situated???
...no, Maxie, they don't have our PEARLS....
Edward returns! For the first time as it were, since this is the beginning again. Well, you know what I mean. Welcome to Chorrol Rachel!
Edward grimaced. "Sorry, but I don't go that way."
A joke that is a-dirty
'An you be holdin' it in
Jes then, count t'thirty
Then you'll explode like Sin!!!
*mercilessly teases Maxie*
Heeeey MaLXIe...heard the one about the naive and horny farmgirl, the sex aid salesman, a string of pearls, and a previous dinner of...
... mexican beans...
...(enjoy)
(evil grin)
Winter Wolf: Thanks! I love writing comedy, although sometimes I just run out of inspiration, at least on the same story.
As for not posting until now, I honestly didn't mean to torment the community, lol...but I'll not be so careless this time.
Thanks for posting -- your comment is appreciated!! ![]()
Treydog: Thanks, it's great to finally have time to spend here!
As for putting up with Edward...well, he gets his butt kicked enough to make it worth it, I hope.
Sub Rosa: Thanks for the welcome! I look forward to spending some more time here...and seeing what that awesome Bosmer of yours is up to!!
D. Foxy: Glad to see you here! I'm reposting with the grammar/spelling/etc. tweaks that I find, but I'm afraid I haven't really "Dhertee Innu-endo"-proofed the story. ![]()
Anyhow, more chapters coming...
An adventurer's life for me,
Rats and goblins to flee!
An adventurer's life for me,
A hero I shall someday be!
-- Excerpt from a childhood poem written by Edward
Chapter Three
Edward reached the door that the Emperor had disappeared into, only to find, to his great dismay, that it was locked. In a panic, he tried the handle again, and found that it was, indeed, fastened on the other side.
Fear gripped him, and he began to run about the room wildly, calling for help.
He continued to circle the room screaming for several minutes, stopping only when he tripped over one of the corpses, who now lay in his underclothes staring at the ceiling with dead eyes. Something about this scene was so morbid that Edward pulled himself to his feet, more panicked than before, and ran straight for a hole in the wall that he had not previously noticed.
He didn't see where he was going, and barely noticed the strange goblins and giant rats around him as he plunged deeper and deeper into the musty cellar. He continued running, past chests and skeletons, until he reached an underground opening. He was arrested by the pungent odor of cooking rat, and he stopped running to seek the source; disgusting as it was, he was hungry!
He found a giant rat roasting on a spit, and quickly set about munching on the foul, furry thing. It was then that he noticed a basket of human skulls nearby.
Nearly choking on a mouthful of rat meat, Edward loosed another scream, and took to his heels again. He didn't bother to look where he was going, but ran blindly into whatever tunnel opened up before him. He didn't notice the ever increasing horde of goblins and rats that pursued him.
Finally, much to his relief, he saw the dank dirt of the cellar open into the paved stone of the secret passages that the emperor had traversed -- and, what's more, he heard the sound of the Emperor's voice.
"This flight is futile, I tell you, futile! We men are but doomed creatures, doomed at birth to die! What matters it, if today be the day? What matters it, if tomorrow be the day?"
Edward, pausing to regain his breath, suddenly was aware of the creatures on his tail. Screeching with horror, he took once more to his heels, crying, "Your Majesty, protect me!"
He burst into the tunnel, spotted the royal pack, and ran toward them, a hissing, spitting, cursing, furry mob hot on his heels. He ran toward the emperor, and somehow made it past the guards, who apparently couldn't make up their minds if they should attack the robed man or the horde of creatures he'd brought with him.
When the Emperor saw the goblins, rats and other creatures, he ran in the opposite direction; Edward, finding his Imperial shield gone, took off after him. The guards, meanwhile, were already engaged in combat with the creatures, and only heard the frightened shrieks of the two men as they ran down the passage.
Finally, coming to a dead end, the Emperor stopped to look about him. Seeing Edward, his eyes widened with horror. "Assassin!" he screeched, pointing his finger at him.
Edward screamed out loud, and ran to hide behind the Emperor, assuming that the other man had meant that there'd been an assassin behind him. The Emperor let out a terrified yelp at his advance, and threw up his hands defensively. This move surprised Edward, and he glanced over his shoulder. Realizing that there was no one there, and that it was him, Edward, that the Emperor had cowered from, he asked in amazement, "Don't you recognize me, Your Majesty? I'm not an assassin, I'm your messenger, Edward!"
The Emperor peered at him suspiciously, but half raised himself from his frightened crouch. "But...but you're wearing the assassin's robes!"
Edward glanced down at his clothes. "Me? Oh, no, I'm just wearing one of those beautiful silk robes..." he trailed off, his face turning ashen. "You mean...those dead guys...they were assassins?" he asked, comprehending at last.
The Emperor nodded. "Of course...what did you think they were? I don't just keep corpses in my secret passages, you know."
"Yes," Edward said, "but what happened? They had been wearing such scary armor, not these expensive robes!"
The Emperor looked at him quizzically for a moment, and then sighed, as if annoyed by his stupidity. "It was magic! They're Mythic Dawn mages, who can spawn their own armor!"
Edward gaped. "You mean, I looted the corpses of magic dead guys?"
He spoke of fate and dreams,
But I've got other schemes.
The empire may go to hell,
As long as I make out well.
-- Edward's Musings
Chapter Four
The Emperor raised an eyebrow, but Edward didn't make any clarification. He stood, frozen in place, and then began to scream shrilly. There, from out of the wall right behind the Emperor another one of the Mythic Dawn warriors had spawned. "Great Divines," Edward's panicked mind thought, "he heard me! He's coming to get me!"
Still screaming, he watched as the grotesquely armored warrior brought a heavy mace down on the emperor's head, and then rushed forward. Edward closed his eyes, but, to his amazement, the blow did not land; instead, he felt a rush of wind as the assassin raced past him, and heard the sounds of footsteps receding down the passage. He also heard something that sounded like, "Come on, get to work!"
Opening his eyes, he turned to see a clash of armor in the far end of the tunnel. For a moment, he wondered why the mythic dawn assassin hadn't attacked him, but then surmised that it must have been because he thought he'd have an easier time taking on the imperial guards. He smiled to himself, and then turned to the emperor.
His smile vanished as he saw the older man lying on the floor in a pool of blood, the mace still stuck in his skull. Wincing, Edward stepped forward to remove the mace. "That's just undignified," he thought to himself, "to have a mace sticking out of the back of your skull, particularly if you're an emperor or king or whatever..." He stared at the mace strangely as he touched it, sensing -- though he wasn't quite sure how -- the weapon's name. "Emo's Bane?" he thought. "That's a strange name for something..."
He laid the mace down beside the emperor, and, respectfully, pulled his own hood back; it was the closest he could do to removing his hat, after all. Then he turned the emperor's corpse over. He sighed. "Well, you were an arrogant thing, but you sure knew how to act like a king...or emperor, or whatever," he eulogized, his voice laden with great emotion.
All at once, a gleam appeared in his eye. He was staring at the amulet that hung about the Emperor's neck. He glanced about him quickly. He could see the guards -- they were busy fighting the assassin. Quickly, deftly, he reached for the amulet; seizing it, he pulled it from the emperor's corpse and held it up to the torchlight to examine it. He licked his lips excitedly. "That's got to be real!" he thought. "And it's the biggest ruby I've ever seen! Plus it's set in gold!! Ohhh, it's going to bring me a fortune!!"
He was busily calculating how much the amulet might be pawned for when he heard the clatter of armor in the passage. Glancing up, he saw an imperial guard returning; he stashed the amulet in the folds of his robe quickly, and turned to face him. "The Emperor is dead!" he cried. "One of those dirty assassins murdered him! I tried to stop them, but he was too quick for me! He shoved me aside, and managed to get the Emperor; and then he fled into the passage, leaving me to attend our poor sovereign!"
The guard eyed him with suspicion and grief, and turned to kneel beside the emperor. All at once, he started, and glared at Edward. "The amulet! Where is it, you sneaking turd?"
Edward started too, surprised that the guard had even noticed that the amulet was missing. Surely it was just one of many royal trinkets? "He...uhhh...he gave it to me!" he managed to respond.
"Gave it to you?" the guard asked, clearly taken aback. "Why?"
Edward blinked at the question, but thought quickly. "For...safekeeping?"
The guard growled, as if unsatisfied with the answer. "Well..." he said at last, "he did seem to trust you...at least, as a last resort."
Edward frowned, but thought it better not to pick a fight with this heavily armored, extremely proficient warrior. "Yes, quite so," he said instead.
"And," the guard replied, "I suppose this might have been the message he meant you to carry...after all, I can't carry it because I have to tend to his body."
"Yes, exactly!" Edward declared, pressing his advantage.
"And you know where to take it?" the guard wondered, his eyes coloring with suspicion.
"Of course!" Edward snapped back, feigning annoyance. "But don't expect me to tell you -- the Emperor made no mention of trusting you with the secret!"
"Me?" the guard erupted. "Of course the Emperor trusts me! I knew about getting the amulet to Friar Jauffre long ago! It's you I wonder about!"
Edward blinked. Was there really some plan to deliver his treasure to someone, or was this a trap? "Say what you want," he said at last, "but I will not discuss the matter with you, as the Emperor swore me to secrecy!" Perfect! he thought. Secrecy means I can't deny it or confirm it. Genius!
"Well," the other man growled, "you just see that you get it there...the fate of the entire empire rests in your grubby mitts! And, as far as I'm concerned, you're probably just as liable to pawn the bloody thing off for a few gold as to deliver and save the empire..."
Edward stared blankly at the man, amazed by his powers of perception. At last, however, he roused himself, and sniffed, "Say what you will. As I said, I will not discuss it with the likes of you!"
The guard rolled his eyes, and said, "Alright, then, get on with it!"
Edward stood, and cringed as the Emperor -- who had still been resting on his legs -- crashed to the floor. Clearing his throat, he glanced at around at him, ignoring the guard's glare. "Yes, well..." He frowned, and began to walk about the room looking for an exit. He tried to carry himself with a knowing air, but rightly imagined that he failed, and that his bewilderment showed. Finally, in desperation, he turned to the guard.
"How do I get out of here?" he asked.
The other man rolled his eyes, but stood and walked to the wall. Pushing what seemed to be just another rock, but what was apparently a lever of some sort, the guard opened a passage in the wall. Edward cringed as he realized that this was the same one that the assassin had stepped out of. "You don't suppose...well, you don't suppose you could accompany me, just to make sure that nothing happened to me? I mean, so that the Emperor's last wish could be carried out and all that?" he asked.
The guard just glared at him, and declared, "You can take care of yourself. I must tend to the Emperor's body."
Wrinkling his nose in distaste at the guard, Edward gingerly stepped into the narrow passage.
Before my death they called me an emo,
But those fools didn't know what I know.
You can bet they too would be depressed
If they knew in whose hands the fate of the empire rests.
-- Emperor Uriel Septim
Chapter Five
Edward growled as he stepped into the sunlight. To any observer, that might have been a strange reaction for a man who had just stepped out of a sewer pipe; but, had that observer known the reason, he might have been more sympathetic. Or, he might just have laughed heartily. But, whether falling into and nearly drowning in rivers of septic waste, being chased by giant crabs, gnawed on by enormous rats, beaten senseless by headless zombies, bitten mercilessly by humongous slaughterfish and cussed at by one very foul tempered (and mouthed) urchin who'd made the sewers his home is a matter to laugh about or sympathize over, such was Edward's ordeal. And so it was that, when he emerged -- stinking of sewerage, covered in rat and fish bites, bruised and bloody from his beatings, and smarting inwardly at the urchin's insults -- he was not baby faced, and he most certainly did not look like a girl! -- he growled at the sun, cursed the dead emperor, wished he could strangle that blasted guard, and finally swore at anything and everything about him. Then, and only then, did he plunge into the river to rinse some, at least, of the stinking sewerage from his body.
Swimming to the shore opposite him, gasping for breath, he managed to pull his dripping body out of the lake. "Great Divines!" he cursed. "Who knew swimming in an ankle-length robe could be so damned difficult?!" He squeezed and wrung the robe out as best as he was able, and then sighed and resigned himself to walking about in soggy clothes.
A sudden thought struck him. "I wonder if being soaked in sewerage will bring the value of these robes down?" He frowned. "Maybe I can just wash them really well." He glanced around him, and his eye caught sight of a flower. "Perfect!" he thought. "Flowers! Flowers smell nice! After I wash them, I can soak them in water and flowers, so the sewerage smell will be drowned by pretty flower smells!"
Smiling to himself at his diabolical cleverness, he set about picking all the flowers he saw. How long he spent thus engaged he wasn't sure, but, when he glanced up, he noticed that the sun was setting. At the same time, he heard his stomach growl, and felt just how very uncomfortable he was in the heavy wet clothes. "Damn it!" he thought. "I need to get to somewhere where I can dry off, eat something and sleep in a nice, warm bed!"
Glancing about, he realized that the shore he'd swum to after exiting the sewer was actually the shore of an island, and that he'd have to jump back in the river to get anywhere at all. Sighing and cursing all at the same time, he braced mentally, and then plunged into the water once more, this time heading back to the Imperial City's shore -- the same shore he'd originally come from.
Sputtering, gasping, swearing and praying, Edward was finally, barely, able to make it to the shore. He straightened himself up, still gasping for breath, and glanced behind him at the island. To his horror, he saw a floating trail of flowers -- his flowers! -- in his wake. He collapsed to the beach as he realized that the flowers he'd spent so long collecting had all, somehow, floated out of his robe.
Then, a feeling of terror gripping him, he searched the drenched folds of his robe for the emperor's amulet. At first he found only a few petals here and there -- the remnants of his magnificent botanic enterprise -- but, at last, he found the ruby amulet. Deciding that the safest thing he could possibly do was wear the amulet -- that way he'd always know right where it was -- he slipped it over his neck. For a moment, the loss of his flowers, the nearly drowning in the river and, before that, sewage, and all the trials of the day were lost as he reflected that he, Edward the Imperial, was wearing an amulet that had, only hours before, belonged to the Emperor. "The now dead Emperor," he thought, and the idea suddenly lost some of its appeal.
Sighing, he surveyed the absurd almost cliff-like mountain that he'd have to scale to reach the Imperial City . But, being the courageous adventurer that he was...well, actually, being half starved, very uncomfortable and starting to get rather chilly...he set about climbing the steep mountainside.
It was not long, however, before he discovered that -- if it was possible -- climbing in heavy, wet robes was actually more difficult than swimming in them. More than that, but the ankle length skirt of the robe, and the large sleeves, continually got caught in the bushes, crags and apparently everywhere else, so that he kept falling, tripping, and picking himself up to start over again. Forty-five minutes later, and only a little way up the mountainside -- but very scratched, tired and angry -- Edward paused for a rest. He was panting heavily -- so heavily that he thought his lungs might explode -- and the sun was disappearing very quickly. By the meager light that was left, he surveyed his robe. He was dismayed to find that, not only had the robe he was wearing, but the others too, been quite shredded. "I'll never be able to sell these!" he mourned. "No one will buy them!" He paused, a thought coming to him. "Well, maybe a beggar...after all, they're about as torn as the crap that they wear, but these are real silk!" Then another idea came to him. "But...will a beggar be able to afford them?" He scowled. Beggars always looked so scraggly and starved that he doubted they'd have the money for a new set of clothes, even if they were sewerage scented silk.
He glanced upward, at the summit which he had yet to conquer, and then came to a resolution. "To oblivion with it," he declared, stripping off the stinking, soggy silk, and watching with satisfaction as the bundle of fabric slid down the hill face.
And then he felt the night air assault his body, which, save for his underpants and the amulet, was bare. Scrambling quickly, he managed to scale the remainder of the cliff in what must have been record time.
So it was that a shivering, scratched, scarred, and bruised man, wearing only a loincloth and an expensive amulet, walked into the Imperial City some half an hour later.
Once again, I laughed at the vision of Edward running through the entire tutorial dungeon screaming for help with rats and goblins and a lone zombie in his wake like the tail of a comet!
Emo's Bane?
And yes, Edward does too look like a girrl!
And Puh-lenteee more to come...
Woo Hoo!
An Emo Emperor ... now that's classic!!!
As others have noted, Edward’s “tail” is a priceless image. That is especially true for anyone who has played Morrowind, where the cities are not gated. Once you get your character’s speed high enough, you can lead quite an impressive “parade” into the towns and let the guards deal with them.\\
SPEW !!!!! These poems at the beginning of the chapters have got me choking !!!!! "Edwards Musings" - SPEW !!!! I LOVE YOUR MIND !!!!!!!!
Thanks all. I must confess, the "tail" and all of that are slightly exaggerated accounts of my first Oblivion attempt.
Winter, some of that predated the writing...came up during the "idea" process. It seemed a fun way to turn a noble Emperor into a worthless, self-centered emo. ![]()
A friend in need may be a friend indeed,
But a good plan when in need is good indeed!
-- An old saying, Edward-ized
Chapter Six
Imperial Guard stared across the street at his brother, Imperial Guard. The Guard family was a huge one, going back generations, to the founding of the empire; and, since the appointment of the first Guard as an imperial guard, it was rather a joke in the family to name every son Imperial. Thus it was that guards named Imperial Guard could be found at every gate and patrolling the city.
Imperial shook his head, gesturing at the scraggly, stinking creature that passed between them. He reeked of something awful (what was that smell??), and was completely naked, except for a fancy necklace and a loin cloth. Imperial -- across the street -- shook his head back. The stinky man approached the first Guard, and asked, "Excuse me, could you give me directions?"
Imperial held his nose, and replied, "Yesh."
The bruised man frowned at him, but said, "Where is the nearest inn?" Imperial just pointed with his free hand. The man nodded and set off.
The man was, of course, Edward, whose adventures we've followed thus far; and, now that he knew where to find shelter, he walked in the direction that Mr. Guard had indicated with a lighter step. At least, he would have walked with a lighter step had he been able, because his bare feet were scratched and bleeding after the exhausting climb up the cliff face -- not to mention the hectic escape from prison a few hours earlier. At last, he caught sight of the Tiber Septim hotel. "Oh," he breathed, "thank divines!" The city was a big one, and he was not familiar with all of it; he was glad he had asked directions -- otherwise, he might have spent hours wandering about, searching for shelter.
He pushed open the door, and practically fell inside. An unattractive Imperial glanced up at him, and her expression changed to one of muted shock. "Can I help you...?" she asked hesitantly.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"Augusta Calidia," she answered. "I own this hotel."
"Then, yes, you can help me," he answered. "I need a room. And a meal."
"I see," she replied. "Well, I have food for sale -- you can check out my inventory and decide, and then we'll discuss prices -- and a room for 40 gold per night."
"40 gold?!" Edward demanded, his tone reaching a pitch that he did not think possible. A dozen or so heads turned to him, and expressed the same surprise that Miss Calidia had shown upon his entrance.
"That's right," she answered.
Edward scowled. "But I've only got..." He reached down, to check his pockets, and then remembered that he had neither pockets nor gold pieces -- nor even clothes, for that matter. "Nothing," he finished.
She shrugged. "Well, that's your problem."
His scowl deepened. "Look, surely we can barter!" he declared.
She surveyed the amulet he wore. "Well," she said. "That's probably not worth 40 gold, but I'll let you have the room for it."
He drew back, aghast. "My amulet? Are you mad?? This is pure gold, and one of the finest rubies ever discovered by man!"
She rolled her eyes, saying only, "Sure...not cheap costume jewelry..."
"No!" he shouted, "Not cheap costume jewelry!" She rolled her eyes again. "Look, if you won't give me what my amulet is worth, maybe..." He had been thinking of trading his silk robes, but suddenly remembered that he'd thrown them away. For half a moment, he considered just giving her the amulet, as long as he'd be able to climb into a warm bed; but then he decided to take a different track. "Maybe you could take pity on me?" he asked at last. "I lost everything in my fight to save the emperor!"
This statement drew a few gasps.
"Yes!" he exclaimed, noting her disbelieving expression. "It's true! I was part of his escort this morning, and we were besieged! Fifty assassins came after us; they ambushed us! There were only four of us, but, oh, how we fought! We fought, and fought, but they kept coming! First they got old..." he paused for a second, to think of a name. "Old Garrett!" he decided at last. "Yes, first they got old Garrett. And then they took...Matilda. And then there were just the two of us -- just the two of us!" His voice broke, and, somehow, he managed to fill his eyes with tears. "And still they came! We each took a side of the emperor, me in the front where they were the thickest, and him in the back. Then he came -- the assassin with the mace! I tackled him, and wrestled with him; oh, how long did we struggle? I don't even know! But someone came up behind me, and smashed me over the skull. And then, when I woke up, the Emperor was dead. Oh!" He broke off again. "Dead!" He fell forward onto the counter, sobbing. "I had failed! Failed! Divines forgive me, I failed him!"
A dozen sympathetic voices hurried to assure Edward as he sobbed, telling him that he had not failed and that he had tried his hardest; they had all heard the story the remaining guard had told, and this one seemed to fit the tale, roughly anyway.
"You're right," Edward said, looking up at Augusta as he pushed the sympathizers away. "I don't deserve mercy! I deserve scorn, loathing, mercilessness, contempt! Heap it on me! I should starve, and freeze in the elements, after what I have done!" He continued to sob miserably as he spoke.
His words evoked much renewed sympathy, and all at once people were collecting money, and forcing it upon him; Augusta , perhaps believing his story, perhaps shamed by those who did, assured him that he could eat and stay for free. "And I'll see if I can find any clothes that might fit you," she declared, glancing at him with a still discernible degree of reproach.
And, thus it was, that the head of camel entered the tent.
......
And for those of you who may be tempted to see innuendo in all things Foxy, let it be known, that sometimes a camel is just a camel, and a tent is just a tent.
The hands of fate were set in motion,
What was to be would be
Despite the messenger's lack of devotion
For the gods favored me.
-- The Scripture of the 9 minus 8
Chapter Seven
Edward had spent a mostly restful night -- once he finally managed to get to sleep, after eating until the point that every moment induced a panic attack and he feared that he might explode. Augusta was able locate a set of clothes that another visitor had left behind him, and they fit tolerably well; nonetheless, Edward understood why the other visitor had left them behind. They were not comfortable, and were very worn and shabby. "Still," he thought as he put them on, "they're better than running around in a loin cloth...plus, they keep my amulet hidden; and I don't want to walk around showing this thing off to any potential thieves!"
But there were more advantages to the clothes, as Edward soon discovered. When Augusta brought him an extremely generous breakfast, he proceeded to conceal it all in his clothes; when she returned, she was surprised to see that he had eaten it all, but asked if he wanted seconds; he immediately agreed. He repeated this procedure two more times -- until there was nowhere left to store the food, and Augusta had grown too suspicious. Then he ate an inordinate amount, and thanked his gullible hostess. His pockets full of cold hard cash (literally, as this cash was the golden coin variety), compliments of his audience the night before, Edward left the Tiber Septim hotel.
Now that his pockets were full, he was not desperate to find a pawnshop; after all, he could barter with a few pawnbrokers, until he found a good deal. With this idea in mind, Edward stopped a guard, got directions, and then headed for the Market District.
It took awhile, but, after a few wrong turns, a few times retracing his steps, and a few more times of asking directions from men named Imperial Guard, Edward at last made his way into the Market District. He was sweaty and a bit irritable, as the morning was a hot one and his journey thus far had tired him, but, as he surveyed the streets lined with shops, he licked his lips excitedly. Soon, he would have more money in his pockets than he'd ever held! The Emperor's amulet would make him a rich man, and he could retire in style! Or, he thought, maybe he could start a business. "Hmm...that's a good idea...but what kind of business?" He pondered this for a few moments, and then an even more appealing idea struck him. "A crime syndicate!" he thought. "With this money, I could hire some thugs, and we could carry out some minor crimes around the Imperial City . Small time robberies, and that sort of stuff. And then, once we established ourselves, we could move on to the bigger things...major heists...large scale robberies...coordinated operations conducted by a gang of super criminals!" His eyes were positively glistening with the possibilities, and he was licking his lips excitedly, when he felt a suspicious pull at his pocket.
Spinning around, his dreams of the crimes he might commit were interrupted as he found himself the victim of an attempted crime. A dirty, emaciated beggar was quickly retracting her hand, pulling it away from his pocket. "Why, how dare you?!" he demanded. "Of all the nerve, you filthy little thief! How dare you steal from me?"
The beggar scurried to move away quickly, but he put out a hand to restrain her. "Not so fast, you treacherous little filcher! Who are you?"
"Simplicia, sir," she replied, "and I wasn't trying to steal from you, honest!"
"Oh, yes? Then what were you trying to do?"
She stammered for a few moments, but finally responded, "Well, sir, to get your attention!"
"Why?"
"To beg for a coin. You see, I'm so hungry." She paused. "You wouldn't be willing to spare a coin for the infirm, would you, good sir?" she asked.
This was the final straw for Edward, who immediately called out, "Guards! Guards, we've got a pickpocket here!"
"No, no, good sir!" Simplicia pleaded, grasping his coat. "Please, don't call the guards!
Edward furiously swatted her away. "Let go of me!" he demanded, still calling, "Guards, guards!"
But Simplicia did not loose her grip, and instead renewed her pleading, "Oh, sir, please, please don't call the guards!! Please!"
Her behavior only infuriated Edward further, and he shoved her away with all his might, saying, "Get away from me, cur!" He turned to call for the guards again, but stopped as he heard a strange, almost sickening thud. Slowly, almost fearfully, he looked at the beggar.
His face went ashen as he saw the motionless body of the woman, her head resting on the base of a stone pillar. He threw a furtive glance about him, relieved to see that no one was about; and then a strange, rustling sound came to his ears, and he heard an eerie voice whisper, "Your action has been observed by forces unknown..."
Loosing a scream of terror, Edward ran from the spot.
In a shocking occurrence, the well-known Market City district beggar, Simplicia (known as "the Slow") was found dead. The cause of death was determined to be an accidental fall, and a blow to the back of the head resulting from said fall. In a strange turn of events, however, a plentiful trail of gold and food was found leading up to the poor woman's corpse. According to an anonymous priest from the temple, this miraculous occurrence was a gift of benevolence from the 8 plus 1, which is to say, The Nine, to thank the good folks of the Imperial City for their kindness to the poor woman in life.
-- Black Horse Courier, Special News Bulletin
Chapter Eight
Edward ran, and ran, and ran, and then ran some more. Finally, he found himself outside the gates of the Imperial City . He collapsed against the stone wall, panting so heavily that he thought his lungs would rend. He was shaking with exhaustion, but, even if he hadn't been exhausted, he would still have been shaking from nerves. He had killed someone! Not that that was such a bad thing, but he had done it in broad daylight! What was worse, someone had caught him. He didn't know who, but he had heard that creepy voice whispering in his ears. He shivered.
What was he going to do? The Imperial Guards would be coming after him soon enough, he was certain. Surely, they would put a bounty on his head; then what?
Still shaking with exhaustion and nerves, he glanced around him. His eyes lit up. There, a little ways away from him, was a stable! Picking himself up, and steadying himself on shaking legs, he walked over to inquire about purchasing a horse. A not-entirely-friendly looking orc, whose name, if the sign at the door was any indication, was Snak gra-Bura, met him. "Excuse me," he said, "but I'd like to purchase one of your horses."
The orc grunted. "For how much?"
"Well..." Edward started, shifting his weight. He wondered for a moment if he could pull his "emperor's guard" bit with her, but, staring into her steely eyes, quickly decided against it. Instead he reached into his pocket to count his gold coins. Much to his horror, he could only find a small handful; and, what's more, he couldn't find most of the food he'd concealed earlier, either. He looked around him in shock and dismay, as if hoping to ascertain the answer to where his goods had gone. Surely the dead beggar woman had not snatched them all? But how else could he have lost them? Had he dropped them while fleeing? He cringed at the thought. He knew that, on occasion, when he was very frightened, he tended to leave a "trail" behind him as he fled, of whatever he was carrying.
"How much?" the orc repeated.
"Umm...twenty-five gold?" Edward asked, counting his remaining gold pieces.
Snak gra-Bura began laughing so hard that Edward thought -- hoped -- she would die. Unfortunately, in his opinion, she did not; instead, when she finally finished, she told him, "Unlikely, mister. I don't sell many horses anyway, and certainly not for 25 gold!" Turning, she started to walk away, laughing anew as she did so.
Feeling his anger rising inside him, Edward glanced about for something -- anything! -- to hit this woman with. His eyes lit upon a wooden chair, and, fury spurring him onward, he seized it and hoisted it above his head. Then, with a heavy thump, he brought it down on the woman's skull. The sneering laughter stopped, but, to his dismay, so too did the woman's standing, and consciousness.
"Oh no!" he thought. "I've killed her too!" But then he noticed that, though she lay unmoving, she still breathed. Collapsing beside her with relief, Edward sat still for several moments; but then his reason returned. What, after all, was he doing sitting here, when such an opportunity presented itself?!
Grabbing Snak's purse, Edward sprinted to the corral. Climbing, with no little difficulty, over the fence, Edward grabbed the first horse he came to -- an ornery, frail looking nag.
After a few failed attempts, Edward successfully mounted the horse; then, tugging on the reins, he managed to bump into another horse, knock down part of the corral fence, take out one of the posts supporting the stable, and then, finally, get out of the enclosure. Smiling at his success, Edward spurred the creature onward; well, not spurred so much as feebly coaxed, then angrily coaxed, and finally savagely kicked the animal onward.
At this final prodding, the horse took off at a fast pace; so fast, in fact, that Edward had to cling on for dear life, screaming shrilly as the animal thundered blindly onward.
Simplicia the Slow? Why didn't I remember that? ARGH! - I am so glad you are bringing this here so I can re-read - and re-fall in love with it!
This story is always such fun. Everything is brilliantly executed, from the sayings and scriptures that begin each chapter, to the story of the Guard family, and Edward’s inspired(!) story at the Tiber Septim Hotel.
EDWARD KILLED SIMPLICIA!!!
It's not Imperial Guard et. al. he has to fear, it's TERESA!!
Like I did before, I laughed at the opening paragraph in Chapter Seven about Imperial Guard and his like-named brothers. It was a good thing my tea was safely far away, and my mouth (and bladder) was empty, because I think I laughed as hard the second time around as I did the first.
The whole con scene in the Tiber Septim Hotel is hilarious!
And now Edward has a stubborn nag! His battle of wits with the equine fiend is a whole 'nother ball of laughs in and of itself!
LOL, you're right, treydog, he is somewhere on par intellectually with that other "super genius".
And yes, I feel less sorry for Snak than Simplicia also...not only is Snak still alive (
), but she was deliberately offensive...whereas Simplicia was just stealing to survive. Not to imply that Snak's rudeness deserved Edward's response, LOL.
Good point, haute ecole...Edward better stay out of sight when Teresa shows up! As for the Imperial Guards...I always got a kick out of the fact that, no matter how good of friends you became w/the guards (through speechcraft), they were still just anonymous "Guards"...whereas random bandits have names.
mALX, lol, I'm stumbling across things that I forgot all about too...and I wrote it.
We thought god-hood would shut him up,
But it seems his whining just will not stop.
To hell with this damnable fool,
We should've given his assassins his rule!
-- The Scripture of the 8, speaking of the 9th
Chapter Nine
Edward wasn't sure how long he'd ridden, but when, finally, his horse stopped, he practically leaped off its back; which is to say, he would have leaped, if his aching legs didn't hurt so bad. Instead, he half stumbled, half crawled away from the animal, sure that the inside of his thighs were all gone after that ride. The truth was, Edward wasn't much of a horseman; indeed, Edward wasn't a horseman at all. This had, in fact, been his first time riding a horse -- and, if this experience was anything to go by, he was determined that it would be his last!
Whining and dragging himself along in what would have made an outstanding audition for the part of Gollum in the Lord of the Rings, Edward crawled to a tree, sat with his back to it, and cursed his horse. When, finally, he'd exhausted his extensive vocabulary of swear words at the seemingly unconcerned nag, he looked about him.
He had no idea where he was, and could find no clues in his surroundings. They were on a sparsely wooded hillside, with only more hillside, trees and flowering plants in sight. His horse, apparently, had long ago veered off the road, because that, too, was nowhere to be seen.
Wearily, desperately, Edward consulted his map. He wasn't sure how he'd gotten a map, but, apparently, it had been in his pocket, unnoticed, until now. He looked at the parchment with heavy, despairing eyes. He saw the mark representing the stable from where he'd stolen his horse, yet he neither had an idea of how many leagues they'd covered since leaving Snak gra Bura's stables, nor did he even know what direction they'd gone! Shoving the map back into his pocket, Edward felt a deep sense of despair settle over him. Tears filling his eyes, he angrily renewed his verbal assault on the complacent horse, who had set about grazing and ignoring the young man.
He raged for several minutes, until, finally, exhausted, he closed his eyes, leaned back against the tree, and just began to sob.
Several hours later, he woke, realizing that, somehow, he had fallen asleep.
"You sleep soundly for a murderer," an eerie voice declared.
With a shrill scream, Edward jumped to his feet. Then, the sudden movement reawakening the pain of saddle soreness, he groaned, crippling over in agony. Finally, gritting his teeth to overcome the pain, he looked up. There, before him, stood a black robed man. Edward gasped. "Who are you?!" he asked.
"I'm Lucien Lachance," he said. "I'm a speaker for the Dark Brotherhood."
"The Dark Brotherhood?" Edward repeated. He had no idea what or who that was, but there was something catching about the name. "Too bad this guy is already using it," he thought. "It would make a good name for my syndicate!"
"Yes," Lucien breathed, obviously savoring just speaking of the Brotherhood. "The Dark Brotherhood. A group of like-minded professionals who serve the Night Mother."
Edward raised an eyebrow. Night mother? "What, are you people some sort of prostitute veneration group, or something of that ilk?" he asked.
Lucien's eyes nearly bulged out of his head. "NO!" he roared. "The Night Mother is our beloved mother, who serves the Dark Father, Sithis!"
Edward stared at him. He wasn't quite sure what this strange man was saying, but it sounded too bizarre for him. "Yes, well, I don't know..."
"We are a group of assassins!" Lucien spit out at him.
"Ohhh...." Edward said. "Not prostitutes?"
"NO!!" Lucien repeated.
"I see...assassins, eh?" Edward repeated. He liked the idea; he could see himself as a cold, ruthless, cunning assassin, deciding the fate of gangs and gang leaders, guilds and guild leaders, maybe even kings and empires -- and collecting a nice, fat paycheck of delicious blood money for doing it! "Now, how does one go about becoming a member of the Brotherhood?" he asked.
Lucien smiled. "That's the spirit!" he said, and then hesitated. For a fleeting moment, Edward had the unpleasant sensation that this man doubted his abilities. "But..." Lucien said slowly, "maybe I should...yes, I will tell you more later. But first, you need to prove your...loyalty...to the Brotherhood."
"Oh? How?"
"There is an old man," Lucien said, "who lives now at the Inn of Ill Omen. His name is Rufio. You must kill him. Then, travel to Cheydinhal. You will find an abandoned home there; rest inside. We will monitor the home for three days; if we see you return within that time, we will contact you. Otherwise, we will assume that you failed your quest or have decided against joining our illustrious band."
"Failed??" Edward repeated, his voice vexed. "Didn't you say he's an old man?"
Lucien nodded. "Old, but not unskilled."
"Bah!" Edward spat. "I'm insulted that you'd give me such a trivial task -- taking out an old, feeble man. I should not even accept!"
Lucien shrugged. "Well, have it your way..."
"But I do!" Edward hastened to add. "Just so that I can show you how easy it was."
Lucien cleared his throat, and said, "Well, alright then. Maybe we'll see you in three days?"
"Of course you will!" Edward snapped. "You'll see me a lot sooner than that, as a matter of fact!"
Lucien nodded. "Very well. Then, I shall depart."
"And good riddance," Edward muttered to himself as he saw the strange man cast an invisibility spell and vanish before his very eyes. He shivered, suddenly forgetting his anger. He'd never seen someone completely disappear before, and it was a creepy sight. He glanced about him, trying to see anything that might give away Lucien's whereabouts; but he could find no evidence of him anywhere, not so much as a footprint. Then, panic struck again. "Wait a minute! Nevermind where he is...where am I??" he thought, as he realized that he still had no idea where he was, and he'd let possibly the only other human being in the area get away without asking for directions.
Shocking assault and theft!
It is with difficulty that this agent of the Black Horse Courier finds the words to describe the latest outrage in the Imperial City . But, midday yesterday, the well-known manager of Chestnut Handy Stables reported that someone had attacked her, stolen a horse, and destroyed much of the stable. Ms. gra-Bura could not recall the attacker clearly, as she had not paid him much attention; his outstanding characteristic was that he appeared, in her words, "mouse like" and "weak".
It is the opinion of the city watch that the attacker is a madman, as the wanton destruction and the theft of the oldest and sickliest of Ms. gra-Bura's stock point to a mind imbalanced. The watch advises all citizens to avoid any strange person exhibiting peculiar behaviors, and contact the nearest Guard.
-- Black Horse Courier, Special News Bulletin
Chapter Ten
Edward had been riding for a long time. By now, he had grown numb to the pain, and was simply letting his horse go in whatever direction she felt like going. She, in her turn, was going very slowly, pausing to eat here, drink from the occasional stream, and generally make a leisurely day of it.
Edward had come to the conclusion that, either his horse would lead him to civilization, or he would starve to death in the woods; and Edward had very little faith in his sluggish horse.
This not being a very cheery conclusion, he tried to think of other things; inevitably, however, his mind came back to food. He'd already eaten everything that remained of his stash. And, just as inevitably, his mind would go from food to lack of food, and starvation; and then, from starvation to death; and from death to being eaten by the wolves and crows; and, from the wolves and crows eating him, to food; and so the cycle would begin again.
Somehow -- he wasn't sure how, exactly -- he'd fallen asleep when, suddenly, his mount stopped. So suddenly, in fact, that he went flying over her head, to land face first on the cobblestone path in front of him.
Standing, spitting out a mouthful of blood and cursing, Edward turned furiously to face the horse. Then he stopped. "Cobblestone?" he thought. "And a building! Where am I??" Facing the building, he read the sign. "Inn of Ill Omen." He nearly fell backwards in surprise. Was he dreaming? No, the blood in his mouth tasted too real to be a dream; anyway, who dreams about being thrown from a horse and waking up with a bloody mouth?? "But how, how, could this worthless horse have possibly found the inn??" he wondered.
He shrugged. It didn't matter. After all, it meant that he wouldn't be starving to death, and his shriveled remains wouldn't end up wolf or crow food. This thought filled him with so much joy that he turned, seized the horse's face, and kissed it. Neighing furiously, the horse reared up on its hind legs, and brought her hooves dangerously close to Edward's face before crashing to a stand, and shaking her mane to display her disgust at his kiss.
Edward, pale as a ghost at his near encounter with death, understood perfectly, and backed away from his ornery horse. Apparently, having done her job, the creature wanted nothing more to do with him. Edward, wondering how a strong urine odor had suddenly assailed his nostrils, pondered why he seemed to have that effect on people and animals: the more they knew him, the less they wanted to do with him.
Sighing, he pushed open the door. The inn was poorly lit, and there were only two people in sight; although one was male, neither was old or feeble looking. "Excuse me," Edward said, addressing himself to the man.
"Are you the innkeeper?"
"I am," the innkeeper replied, wrinkling his nose and glancing about. "Are you interested in a room?"
"Yes," Edward said, "but not until I meet with someone."
The innkeeper nodded, now pinching his nostrils. "Perhaps you'd like to take a bath first, though, sir?"
Edward stared at him, a puzzled expression on his face. "I beg your pardon?"
"Well, sir," the innkeeper said, retreating a step, "it was just a thought."
Edward observed the man with a wary expression. "Well," he said, "now that you bring it up, you might consider giving this inn a good scrubbing down! The place smells like piss!"
The innkeeper, still blocking his nose, raised an eyebrow at him. "Are you sure it's the inn, sir?" he asked.
"Of course I'm sure!" Edward snapped. "I smelled it as soon as..." He stopped suddenly, and glanced downwards at the revealing dark strips running down his pants. "Oh," he said, his face flushing. "That stupid horse must have scared me so bad..."
"Yes sir," the innkeeper replied, clearly not interested in the story of Edward's scare, "but perhaps you'd like a bath?"
Edward nodded. "Yes, I suppose I must," he declared. "But I'm going to kill that horse."
"Yes sir," the innkeeper replied.
"If she doesn't kill me first," Edward added.
"Yes sir," the innkeeper repeated, his expression unchanging. "But after your bath...there'll be plenty of time left for you to duel your horse then."
There was a time when all the gods were in accord,
But the dark day came when the 8 would no longer heed
They would not listen to Dread Sithis' spoken word
So Sithis and his Lady departed to follow their own way.
-- History of the gods
Chapter Eleven
Edward was not a big fan of baths -- he could never see the point in taking off all that grease and grime, if you were only going to get fresh grease and grime all over you -- but he had to admit that it was refreshing to soak in a tub of hot, sudsy water. And, he was particularly pleased when the innkeeper brought him a fresh set of clothes, and removed his reeking ones.
Drying and dressing, Edward counted his gold. Twenty five gold pieces, and...his eyes lit up. He still had Snak gra-Bura's purse, and he'd not yet opened it! Hopefully, he thought, she would have money in there...lots and lots of money!
He unfastened the tie, and stuck his hand in. Instead of gold coins, he found something soft and fabric-like. Withdrawing it, his puzzled expression turned to one of disgust and horror. He had retrieved a very old, very used, very snotty hanky. Throwing it into the fire, and then spitting on his hand, rubbing the spitty hand against his tunic, and repeating this procedure several more times, Edward exclaimed, "Filthy, unclean, unsanitary orcs! Vile, repulsive, filthy beasts!"
Cursing in this manner, he didn't hear the innkeeper knock, so he was surprised when the other man opened the door and stuck his head into the room. "Sir? Is everything alright?"
"No!" Edward snapped. "Orcs! They're filthy, revolting creatures!"
"Yes sir," the innkeeper said. "Anything else?"
Edward looked up. Perhaps it was the other man's flat tone that roused him from his disgust, but he stared at the innkeeper. There was something peculiar about this man, as though he didn't belong in an old, out of the way inn; as if his refinement of manner and practiced disinterest was out of place here.
"Ah," said the innkeeper. "I see that you're wondering about why I'm here, thinking that it's peculiar that a man of my refinement and manners, my practiced disinterest, is working in such an old, out of the way inn."
Edward could only blink at him. It was like the other man had read his mind.
"Well, sir, you are right. I am not meant for such a degrading life," the innkeeper sighed. "I was born for a higher calling, a nobler, more refined calling." He smiled wistfully. "You see, I was a valet once."
Edward blinked at the man again. "A valet?" he repeated, no great respect in his voice.
"Yes sir," the innkeeper replied, his tone almost reverent as he spoke of his former profession. "I once worked in the mansion of Lord Umbruccano in the Imperial City ."
Edward nodded, taking a little bit more interest in the conversation than he had previously; after all, Lord Umbrucanno was a very wealthy, albeit eccentric, collector of Aleyid artifacts. If this man had been his valet, it was very possible -- nay, probable -- that he would have some valuable information -- valuable for a prospective robber! "I see," he said.
"Yes," the other man mused. "Yes, those were the good days. And then..." He shrugged. "And then he decided that he would be better off spending my salary on relic acquisitions." He scowled. "So here I am, wasting away, my talent squandered, my life passing by..."
Edward raised an eyebrow. Somehow, he couldn't see being Lord Umbrucanno's valet as particularly fulfilling, but he made no comment. Instead, he asked, "Now, I was wondering if you could tell me...do you have a gentleman staying here, a Mr. Rufio?"
"Yes sir," the innkeeper replied. "But I do believe calling him a 'gentleman' is an abuse of the word."
"Oh?"
"Yes sir. Unfortunately, he talks in his sleep...and one gets the distinct impression, listening to him, that he's a very evil man. It's a wonder that no one has visited justice upon him yet. I half expect a stranger to show up at any moment, and ask me where he can be found, so that he can end his miserable life."
Edward shifted his weight. "I...see. Well, just out of curiosity now, where is he?"
"In the cellar, sir," the innkeeper replied. "He asked for a room out of the way, and that was the only one."
Edward nodded. "Well, I think I may pay him a visit, if that's alright with you."
"You, sir?" the innkeeper asked. "Well, you're welcome to do so...but, if I were you, I wouldn't advise it, sir."
"Oh?" Edward asked. "Why?"
"Well sir," the other man answered hesitantly. "He does not take kindly to strangers...and, as I say, he is a very evil man...and, if I was to hazard a guess, one very skilled in fighting."
"Oh," Edward said, hesitantly. Suddenly, the idea of killing Rufio had lost some of its appeal.
"I think, sir, he is afraid that someone is coming to kill him. Of course," he said, "he wouldn't worry about that with you."
Edward frowned at him, vaguely sensing that he should be offended by the comment. "Why not?"
"Well, sir, no one would suspect you of being a hired assassin," the innkeeper replied with a smile.
"Because I'm too respectable?" Edward asked, trying to make up his mind whether he had been complimented or insulted.
"Ummm...yes sir," the innkeeper replied, in such a hesitant tone that Edward was certain that it had, in fact, been an insult.
"Well," Edward declared hotly, sick and tired of people doubting his abilities, "I'll have you know that I just happen to be a paid assassin -- a member of the Dark Brotherhood!"
The innkeeper stared at him, expressions of awe and then disbelief cycling on his face. "Are you serious, sir?"
"Quite serious!" Edward snapped. "And, what's more, I've come here to kill that vicious old man!"
The innkeeper's expression turned to one of admiration. "Well, sir, please accept my apologies. A member of the Dark Brotherhood? Well, well! How exciting."
"Yes!" Edward declared. If nothing else, his membership in this apparently legendary band of murderous cutthroats was winning him respect.
"Oh, sir," the innkeeper declared, "this is an honor! To meet a member of that group, face to face -- that group of dark avengers, the hands of justice, of swift retribution for evil, unfailing, unflinching, serving the greater good, disposing of evil mercilessly, serving the Great Avenger, Sithis, and the Lady of Eternal Darkness, the Night Mother; reaping the souls of the cutthroats, the murderers, the evil doers who would destroy the empire!"
Edward shifted uncomfortably. What was this man talking about? Had he misheard him? Was there some other group of people, who called themselves something similar, with whom he was confusing the Brotherhood? The Brotherhood was, after all, a group of murderers, cutthroats, evil doers...wasn't it? "I think there might be some mistake," he said. "I said I was a member of the Dark Brotherhood."
The innkeeper nodded his head excitedly. "Yes, of course," he said. "Everyone knows the reputation of your order, but few have ever met one of you in person! Ohh, you have no idea how exciting this is! To meet someone who embraces justice so much that they will serve the gods themselves to avenge evil, and provide justice for the wronged! Ohh, what an honor it is to meet you!"
Edward stood fixed in place, a quizzical expression on his face. Was this man mad? Or was the Brotherhood really what he described, an organization of avengers who killed evildoers? Somehow, that didn't quite fit the dark, glorious image he'd conjured in his mind. His reflection was interrupted, though, by the continued prattle of the innkeeper.
"I say, sir," he was saying, "please don't think this impertinent of me...but...you wouldn't be looking for a valet, by any chance, would you?"
Of kings and cowards he sings,
Of war and the devastation it brings,
Ode to the warriors and the heroes,
And jeers at Edward and other zeros.
-- Tribute to the Captain of the Blades
Chapter Twelve
After agreeing that, perhaps, maybe just perhaps, he could use a faithful valet -- particularly one with an intimate knowledge of the interior, valuables and security detail of one of the wealthiest manors in the Imperial City -- Edward headed to the cellar. The innkeeper had cautioned him again, although he seemed to have gained some respect for his skills, but Edward had brushed the concern off. Now, however, having crept down the rickety ladder into a dank, poorly lit stone hallway, he was having second thoughts.
"What if this guy is a master warrior?" he wondered. "But, he's an old man...I can easily overpower an old man...all I have to do is..." His mind stopped. What? What would he do? Much as he boasted of his abilities to himself and others, he had never killed anyone before -- except Simplicia, and that was a complete accident. "Well, I could just...I mean, it wouldn't be so hard to...well, how difficult could it be to..." His forehead creased, and he sat down on the cold stone floor to think; he ran over the only death he had to his name, that of Simplicia. "I suppose," he thought uncertainly, "I could try to push him down, too. This floor is hard enough, I think, for an accident. Well, a deliberate accident." His frown deepened. "But what if he didn't go down just right?"
He remained sitting on the floor for several more minutes, attempting to think of a reasonable plan, but having no luck. At last, he decided his best bet was to go with the impulse of the moment; he would confront Rufio, and then do whatever came to mind. "That's it," he thought, "that's the way to go...spontaneous! It's what I live by, and I haven't done so bad yet." He smiled smugly, and headed to the room the innkeeper had mentioned as being Rufio's.
Turning the handle quietly, he tiptoed into the room. There, lying on a bed near the opposite wall, lay an old, white haired man, sleeping. Edward stared incredulously at him. Was this what all the fuss was about? This frail, old creature? He scoffed. Just what kind of weakling did they take him to be, anyway?! All he would have to do was sneak up, take out his sword, plunge it into the old man's heart...
He froze. "Oh, crap! I don't have a sword! I don't have anything, except a few gold pieces!" he thought. "What am I gonna do?!?" He glanced around the room. There was a chair, a small table, some crates ("What kind of lunatic keeps crates in their bedroom, anyway?!"), and a dresser. His eyes lit up. And there, on top of the dresser, was a dagger.
A broad smile spreading over his face, Edward crept to the dresser, seized the dagger, lifted it over the old man, and...froze. "I can't do this!" he thought. "I can't risk getting blood on my new clothes!"
At that moment the old man's eyes opened, and he gasped. "What are you doing?! I haven't done anything!"
Edward didn't know what to say to this, so just shot back, "Yes you have!"
The old man's eyes opened wider. "I thought...I thought no one knew about that!"
"The Dread Father knows everything!" he declared. He wasn't sure why he said it, or who, exactly, Sithis was (he had flunked Sunday school, after all), but it sounded like what the innkeeper had said -- and that was pretty cool sounding stuff, even if it wasn't as cool as what he'd originally imagined!
"Oh dear gods!" the old man screamed, his face white with terror. "It wasn't my fault! She should have known better than to go outside without her veil! My honor was besmirched! I had no choice!"
Edward wrinkled his nose. "She? Veil? What?"
"My daughter!" Rufio answered. "That's why you're here, right? Because of her death?"
"Umm..." Edward stalled, "Maybe."
"Please don't!" the old man begged.
Edward, still busily attempting to figure out what Rufio's confession had meant, didn't notice the old man's hand moving slowly toward the edge of the blanket. All at once, though, Rufio's arm shot up and grabbed the dagger; before he knew it, Edward was locked in a fight for the knife, and feeling his grip loosening. "He's gonna get it away from me!" he thought. "I gotta get out of here!"
Dropping the dagger, Edward pulled hard to get away from Rufio; this action surprised the old man, and he loosed his grip on his would-be assassin. Edward took to his heels, yelling for help, with Rufio hot in pursuit. Unfortunately, Edward ran straight into the chair he'd noticed earlier, flipped over it, and came crashing down. Rufio, just behind him, didn't have time to stop, and careened into his body. Edward heard and felt, rather than saw, this last bit, and could only think that he had to get up and get away before he felt the dagger plunged into his back. He jumped to his feet, but was surprised to see the old man sprawled unmoving on the floor in front of him.
Examining Rufio's body, he gaped. He was dead! Then a smile spread across his lips. "It worked!" he thought. "My plan worked! The murderer is dead!"
At that moment, he heard a clatter in the hallway, and looked up just as the innkeeper burst into the room, a sword in hand. The other man froze, staring at him and the corpse.
"What on earth are you doing??" Edward asked.
"Well, sir, I heard you scream for help, and I thought..."
"Scream for help?" Edward repeated. "I did no such thing!"
"But I heard you scream, sir! So did the traveler upstairs!"
Edward blinked, and then remembered that he had, during his flight, loosed a scream. "Well," he said, a bit flustered, "of course I screamed. But I wasn't screaming for help!"
"Oh?"
"I was calling for you to come down here and...admire my handiwork!"
"Oh, I see," the innkeeper said, his face lighting up. He sheathed his blade, and then bent to admire the corpse. "Amazing, sir, just amazing! You've put an end to a very evil man! I have to say, I half didn't believe you'd be able to do it." Edward frowned deeply, and the innkeeper shot a furtive, apologetic glance up at him. "I mean so neatly, sir. No blood! Would you look at that? Why, if I didn't know better, I would have come down here, seen him lying like that, and said he tripped and hit his head!" Edward shifted uncomfortably, but said nothing. "Tell me, sir, how did you do it?"
Edward flinched at the question. "Well, you, umm, don't expect me to give away trade secrets like that, now do you?"
"I can't do this!" he thought. "I can't risk getting blood on my new clothes!"
Classic Edward!
I sTILL am gigGlinG about how eDwArD mixed up the Dark Bubbahood with an order of prostitutes....
I have so missed Edward's shrieks! Here is a rare example of him actually thinking quickly:
Yay
You found your way here too.
Can't wait to see how it continues. I have really missed Edwward's shenanigans.
The part where he discovered the map in his pocket was priceless.
Thanks all -- and thanks for pointing out favorite pieces. I love to see what in particular everyone likes!! ![]()
@treydog
"I am still grinning like a lunatic- (must remember to stay away from the Imperial City until that problem goes away.)"
Haha, nicely done!
Someone might just report you to the watch... ![]()
The fools did not listen to me and my lady,
And so we went our separate way
Our project of dark justice to oversee
Foolish pleas could not make us stay.
-- Excerpt from The Dark Brotherhood by the Dread Father Sithis, regarding Sithis' split from the eight divines
Chapter Thirteen
Edward rested at the inn of ill omen for half a day. Then, remembering his deadline to get back to Cheydinhal, and not quite sure how much time he'd already squandered, he and the innkeeper set out. The innkeeper -- now Edward's valet -- rode his own horse, and Edward rode the nag he'd stolen from Snak gra-Bura; it might have been difficult for an observer to decide who was less pleased with the idea, the horse or Edward.
Even though it was only the dry, obligatory "Yes sir", "No sir", "Indeed, sir!" and "You don't say, sir?", Edward found that he enjoyed their conversation -- most particularly because, aside from an unbelieving raised eyebrow, the valet did not so much as question even his most absurd claims. So it was that the valet did not dispute the claim that Edward was the honoured user son of the late Uriel Septim, who had been chosen by the dying Emperor as his heir, but who was on the lam from the imperial guards, who sought to assassinate him and put their Pretorian prefect in charge of the empire; nor did he dispute the claim that Edward was a champion of the sufferers, a crusader for the underprivileged, the friend of the downtrodden and the protector of the unprotected.
Many "I see, sir!" and "Oh, you don't say, sir!" and "Indeed, sir!" 's later, the pair arrived in Cheydinhal.
Telling his valet that the meeting place and meeting had to remain a secret, Edward sent the other man to rent a room for them. Thankfully, the valet had brought his own money, and, so far at least, had not asked Edward for any. Watching him go, Edward sighed a breath of relief. He didn't want the innkeeper around, just in case Lucien was as insulting this time as he had been last time. "No sense having the manservant witness his rudeness," he thought to himself with an air of superiority. He'd be willing to bet that that snobby Lucien Lachance didn't have a servant -- even if he could cast really cool spells.
Edward walked up to the door of the abandoned house, and stared at it. It was an old home, with the door and windows boarded over. "How in Oblivion am I supposed to get in there?" he wondered. "Grow big teeth and chew through?!" Sighing, he rounded the house to check for any potential entrances through which he could crawl, duck, slither or otherwise find admittance; there were none. Finally, returning to the front door, he kicked it angrily, thinking what a rotten joke Lucien Lachance must have played on him.
Much to his surprise, the door opened; and, to his even greater surprise, he saw that the boards on the door had been sawed at the door jam, to appear as if they blocked off the door, but doing nothing of the sort. "I say," he thought, "how very clever! Of course, even cleverer of me to see through it, but, still, clever."
Edward stepped inside, and jumped as he heard the door creak shut after him. The house was dark -- very dark -- and his eyes were long in adjusting. Squinting, Edward looked around. All he saw at first were dim outlines, but then things started to appear; old, decayed, abandoned things. He saw crates here, the remnants of furniture there, and junk everywhere. "Great gods," he said to himself, "they don't actually expect me to stay here, do they?"
But, deciding that he'd better have a look around, just in case someone was waiting for him, Edward crept about the room. All at once, he loosed a scream as he plunged headlong down a staircase, smashed into a crate, careened to the side, and plummeted through a hole in what seemed like a basement wall. "Son of a Blade!" he thought, picking himself up and brushing ample cobwebs off his head. "They should have lights in this damn place..." Looking around him, he saw the staircase down which he'd fell, and the crates into which he'd smashed. "Oh, great," he thought, "I can see it when I'm down here, but not until I fall down it." He glowered, and continued his examination. He was in a passage that connected to the home's basement.
Edward frowned, but decided to follow the passage, shivering as he noted that it glowed an eerie red.
'Tis Fate's cruel jest,
To promote this jester
He gods have blessed,
For what sadistic joke?
-- Ode to Edward
Chapter Fourteen
Edward stopped at the end of the passage, frowning. Here was another door, but, rather than boards, like on the house's main door, this one was adorned with peculiar carvings. Furthermore, it had no handle; but, he decided, they clearly preferred alternate methods of opening the doors here anyway. "Well," he thought, "better open it." With this, he kicked the door, and hard.
Falling backwards, gasping, whimpering and shuddering, Edward grasped his foot. Not only did the door not budge, but, unlike the front door, this one was made of stone. Tears welling in his eyes, Edward cursed aloud.
Then, forgetting even his agony, he felt a preternatural fear seize him as an eerie voice -- it seemed to come from the door itself! -- asked, "What the hell did you kick me for, you imbecile??"
Edward could only blink in response.
"All you have to do is give me the password," the door continued.
"Password?" Edward managed to croak.
"That's right ... what's the password?"
Edward searched his mind, but couldn't remember Lucien making any mention of a password. And then, another idea struck him. "Mel-lon?" he asked, rather than said.
The door started laughing, so heartily that Edward almost forgot his fear, and almost felt the urge to kick it a second time; almost. Instead, he asked, "What's so funny?"
"Nothing," the door answered. "Nothing at all...oh boy, are you going to deserve what you get!"
"What?"
"I'm going to let you in," the door said. "But you better be sure you know what you're doing." At this, the door erupted in laughter a second time, and opened.
Resisting the renewed urge to kick it, Edward passed the door, and entered a large, pillared chamber. With a shiver, he heard the still laughing door close, and then froze as an armed, animate skeleton walked by him.
"Great gods," he thought, "where am I?"
At that moment, a voice accosted him. "Wow, you made it!"
Edward frowned, and turned to the speaker. It was a man he had never seen before, a dark haired, older looking man, with strangely red eyes and sharp, pointed teeth. "Who are you?" he asked.
"Vicente Valtieri," the other answered, his face expressive of amazement. "But, wow, I'm really surprised to see you here."
Edward's frown deepened. "Why?"
He received no answer, however, as a young woman approached. He was struck immediately by her beauty, and he was suddenly very self conscious. Picking cobwebs from his eyebrows with one hand, he extended the other to her. "Edward," he said, attempting to add a mature depth to his voice, but managing only to sound severely constipated. "Pleased to meet you."
She raised an eyebrow at him, turned her blue eyes to Vicente, and then back to him. "Are you sick?" she asked.
Edward blinked at her. "No, of course not."
"Then what's wrong with your voice?"
Edward frowned anew. This time, Vicente changed the topic. "Now, Edmund, Lucien told us that he had spoken to you. So, you're our new member, eh?"
Edward's frown deepened. "Edward," he said, his tone regular. "And, yes, I am."
Vicente nodded. "I see. Well, we're very pleased to meet you, Edmund. Welcome!" He paused, surveyed Edward's cobweb covered form, and then added, "I hope you didn't have any trouble finding the hideout?"
"Well," Edward answered, having missed the import of Vicente's rather amused glance, "since you mention it, yes, as a matter of fact, I did. For one thing, you really should put some lights in that house. Someone might trip and hurt themselves!" Hearing something like a snicker from the pretty woman, whose name he still didn't know, Edward hurried to add, "That was the first thing that caught my eye -- because, of course, I'm sensitive to the fact that not everyone is as adept and skillful on their feet as I am." Ignoring the raised eyebrows of the man and woman, he forged ahead. "And, secondly, what is the password for that stupid door?"
"The password?" Vicente asked. "You mean, you didn't know? Then how did you get in?"
Edward sighed. "Yes, yes, and the door let me in because of my improvised password."
"I see," Vicente said. "What was the improvised password?"
Edward opened his mouth to speak, but, remembering the door's reaction shut it. After a second's thought, he said, "Nevermind that, what is the real password?"
"Sanguine, my brother," Vicente answered.
Mysterious haunting of the Inn of Ill Omen!
It is with a fearful pen that your trusted courier brings you this startling news! The secluded Inn of Ill Omen, according to an eye witness, has been visited by a dark stranger who murdered a patron, known as Rufio. Furthermore, the innkeeper has completely vanished, leading to rumors that the dark stranger was, in fact, a mysterious, malevolent spirit, and his visit was in fact a haunting. Be that as it may, this correspondent will certainly not be patronizing the Inn of Ill Omen any time soon!
-- Black Horse Courier, Special News Bulletin
Chapter Fifteen
"So, you must be a new killer?" the pretty young woman asked of Edward, who was still picking cobwebs out of his eyebrows.
Glancing up from between his unnaturally long, gray eyebrows, Edward smiled at the girl, now very conscious of the webs hanging all over his head. "Yes," he replied. Then, before he could continue, he noticed a spider on one of the webs hanging in front of his eyes. "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" he screamed, running backwards as though to distance himself from the thing. His back meeting sharply with a wall, he found himself running forward, backward, to the side, this way and that, blindly, screaming in terror and flailing his arms wildly as he did so. It seemed all sense had vanished, and all he was left with was a dread panic, only increased by the presence of the spider before and between his eyes, now apparently clinging onto his nose for fear of falling off. Finally, one poorly calculated turn put him in face-to-stone contact with a pillar, which was very quickly followed up by butt-to-stone contact with the floor. Edward lay still for a few moments, and then blinked. His head hurt, very intensely, and his butt wasn't particularly comfortable either. Staring at the stone ceiling above him, he couldn't remember his location or even his name. "Where am I?" he asked, of no one in particular.
"In our hideout," a pleasant voice beside him said. "What happened?"
He was wondering the same thing, and turned to see the speaker. It was a beautiful, blue eyed girl. He smiled at her, "Well, I don't know, but, hey, how would you feel about going out with me this..." He paused, frowning. "What day is it?" After all, it was hard to ask a girl out when you didn't know when you were supposed to go out.
The girl frowned at him, but another voice, a deeper, masculine one, spoke. "What in the name of Mehrunes Dagon's beard was that??"
Edward started, and turned to him. He was an older man, with hard, sharp, prominent canine teeth. "What?"
"That running around and screaming bit," the other man said.
And then, all at once, everything came back to him, and Edward remembered what had caused his fit. "SPIDER!!!!!!!" he screamed.
The pretty girl frowned, and said, "Is that what that splotch is on your nose?" Edward screamed again, but, shushing him, she said, "It's quite dead now. You probably flattened it when you ran into the pillar."
Panting, still terrified, Edward flailed his arms, too frightened to do anything else. "Get it off! Get it off!" he managed to breathe.
The girl's frown intensified, but, cautiously, she leaned forward and wiped something off his face with a handkerchief.
"Arachnophobia," the dour man beside him said, meditatively. "Clear case of it."
"Well," the young woman spoke with a frown, "if you hate spiders so much, why on earth are you using your head as a cobweb duster?"
Edward felt the color rising to his pallid cheek, and he said, "I wasn't using my head as a cobweb duster!" Turning to Vicente, he snapped, "And I don't have arachnophobia, or whatever it was you said!"
Vicente shook his head, saying only, "Oh yes you do. You may not realize it, but I recognize the signs very clearly."
"You? How? What are you, some sort of doctor?"
"No," the woman said, "but he has Alliumphobia."
"And I recognize the signs of phobia in you," the man finished.
Edward frowned. Truth to be told, he was terrified of spiders. "Well," he said, still not ready to concede the point, "are you saying you act like that whenever you see aluminum?"
Vicente and the woman glanced at each other, their eyebrows raised.
"Alliumphobia is the fear of garlic," the girl answered.
"Well, whatever," Edward said, waving aside the correction. "But are you saying you act like I did when you see garlic?"
"Well," Vicente said hesitantly, "I respond in a somewhat more dignified manner, but the fear is similar."
Edward frowned again. Dignified? Who did this dour, stuffed shirt Breton think he was?
"Anyway," Vicente declared, "Enough about that. Welcome to our lair. I am your reference and taskmaster here, and will be for some time."
"Oh," Edward said.
"I will be in charge of sending you on tasks, and will pay you upon their completion. But, before we begin, you must meet your fellow guildmates. First," he said, pointing to the young lady at Edward's side, "I'd like to introduce you to Antionetta Marie."
"Charmed," Edward smiled.
"She is a Slayer in the Brotherhood," Vicente informed him.
"Which," Antionetta pointed out, "is a rank higher than a Killer."
"Oh, I see," Edward smiled, quite untruthfully, as he had no idea of the rank system in the Brotherhood.
"Which is your rank," she informed him, smiling for the first time.
"Oh," he repeated, with some degree of clarity. "So you outrank me?"
"You better believe it," she returned with a steely smile.
He frowned, but said nothing.
"Well," Vicente declared, "time to meet the rest of the family."
The acolyte entered the sanctuary,
And in his wake left laughter and disdain.
The acolyte went about his tasks,
And the Brotherhood agreed he was a pain.
-- Annals of the Dark Brotherhood
Chapter Sixteen
Edward frowned. He had met a number of new people, and he was trying to keep their names and faces in order in his mind. There was Teinaava, an orcess...no, wait, he was an Argonian, and the orc was...who? Oh, that's right. Gogron gro-Bolmog. And there was the elf, Talldrill. No, wait, that wasn't her name...what was it? Telaendril. Yes, that was it. Plus there was Ocheeva, an Argonian female, and her pet rat, Schemer. And the animate skeleton walking around? He -- or it -- was a Dark Guardian.
"Well, you've met everyone but M'raaj-Dar," Vicente declared.
"Whose that?" Edward asked.
"You'll see," Vicente replied darkly.
Edward shivered as the Breton pushed open the doors to the training room and ushered him inside. "M'raaj-Dar!" Vicente said, "Meet our newest colleague!"
The stern face of a Khajiit turned toward him, cast an appraising yet disparaging glance from his head to toe, and turned away. "Now, M'raaj-Dar," Vicente said, "be polite. Edward here is our newest Killer."
M'raaj-Dar turned again, snickered, and shook his head. Then, he turned back to a dummy, and continued casting spells on it.
"Go on," Vicente whispered. "He's a bit ornery...you need to open up to him, and then he'll open up to you."
Edward grimaced, not very happy about approaching this ornery, apparently powerful, mage, but doing as he was bid nonetheless. "Hey," he started. The cat paused from his practice, turned to him, and raised an eyebrow. Edward gulped, and continued, "Well, umm, nice to meet you." He would have left at that, but could feel Vicente's stern gaze on him. "So, hey, how's it going? I mean, what's up?"
The Khajiit's disparaging eyes held his for a second, and then, glancing about the room, leaned forward, as though readying to impart a secret of some sort. "Well," he said, "since you're asking...I have it on good authority that the newest addition to the Brotherhood is an annoying whelp unworthy of licking my boots. How's that for gossip?"
Edward blinked, and then turned to Vicente for guidance as to how to proceed; but the Breton was laughing heartily. Edward frowned.
"Go on," M'raaj-Dar said, "The guild charter prevents me from killing you, but that doesn't mean I have to like you...now get, you foul-smelling ape..."
Seeing as how Vicente was doing naught but laughing heartily, and the Khajiit had resumed his spellcasting, Edward hastened to comply. The last thing he wanted to do was divert some of those nasty-looking spells his way.
Approaching the Breton, Edward demanded, "What's so funny?"
Between gasps for breath, Vicente explained, "Forgive me, but, well, it's sort of a rite of passage here...M'raaj-Dar's ornery disposition is always a shock to new people, and so much fun to watch."
At these words, he lost himself in laughter again. Edward's frown deepened, and deliberately continued to grow deeper to show clearly his annoyance as the other man laughed, until at last he feared that he might lose his eyes altogether in the frown. Finally, to Edward's great relief, Vicente stopped laughing. Clearing his throat, he once again resumed his formal, dour appearance. "He'd almost pass for the annoying prig he was when I met him," Edward thought, "except for the damned laughter in his eyes." There, he was quite right, because, for all his serious exterior, Vicente's red eyes danced with laughter still.
"Alright, look," Edward said after a few minutes of silence, "I came here to get my next assignment, and then get a good night's sleep." Now, just for good measure, he made a point of mentioning his servant. "My valet already rented us rooms at the inn."
"Oh," Vicente said, "Of course." Edward frowned as he noted that these words were hardly spoken with the respect he'd hoped to inspire. "Well, there's a pirate dog that needs to be sent to the pound." Edward raised an eyebrow as Vicente snickered at his own pun. "Yes, well, there is a vile pirate captain called Gaston Tussaud. His ship is the Marie Elena, harbored at the Imperial City dock."
Edward nodded. "Is that all?"
"Yes," Vicente said. "He's an evil man, you know...he's taken many, many innocent lives. Time to turn the tables on him."
Edward sighed impatiently. "And is there a reward for doing it?"
"Yes, of course," Vicente answered. "Oh! And I almost forgot your reward for killing Rufio. Here." With this, he handed him a purse of gold.
Edward felt a smile appearing on his face, so checked it immediately. "Well," he said, "I'll be going then. My servant probably already has dinner waiting for me." With this, he turned on his heel and left the room.
In the main chamber, he immediately saw Antionetta Marie. Drawing himself up, tall and as stately as he could muster at least, he approached and smiled. "I would love to stay and talk to you," he said, "but I have urgent business taking my attention. A pirate dog needs to be put down; and I'm the pound master." He smiled as he reworked and retold Vicente's joke, but Antionetta only rolled her eyes. "Well, yes, anyway, I look forward to meeting you again."
Antionetta made no comment -- beyond that conveyed by her dismissive expression -- and Edward headed to the door, kicking himself mentally. "Why on earth did I repeat that stupid joke?" he wondered. "I should have tapped my own resources of wit and charm, rather than rely on that bozo's idiotic mutterings!!"
Chapter Thirteen
Wait...Manheim is...and helped kill Rufio.... * mALX's head exploded, but there was nothing inside to get all over keyboard *
I LOVE LOVE, and LOVED Edwards time in the Dark Brotherhood!!! (especially as in Edward relating to Vicente, lol)
LOL, thanks for noting that, treydog...honoured user, eh? I'll have to keep an eye out for that and similarly "offensive" words, lol
As for the phobias...I admit, I only know them because I wrote a play when I was in 4-H that centered around phobias...and, yes, one of the characters was a vampire, lol.
mALX...quite right, he is and did.
As for Vicente, his and Edward's interactions are some of my favorite throughout the story...in fact, I'm working on a way to bring him back into the story (in the later version). ![]()
Oh, ye great and glorious king of bunglers,
Who but you could so much mischief make?
Oh, ye chosen and blessed pawn of the gods,
Who but they could choose such a flake?
-- Tribute to Edward
Chapter Seventeen
Edward had left the Dark Brotherhood hideout to reconnoiter with his valet, but, emerging from the abandoned house covered in dust and cobwebs and with his eyes accustomed to the darkness, he stood there and blinked very stupidly for a number of minutes. A guard passed by, glanced at him at first, then paused to eye him with suspicion. Edward stared back, and then remembering his sullied attire, he began to brush himself off vigorously.
"Excuse me, sir," the guard stated, coming nearer, "but is everything alright? You look as though you tumbled down an abandoned staircase covered in cobwebs and dust, or something of that sort."
Edward frowned deeply at the man, declaring rather haughtily, "For your information, I'm an exterminator, and it is my job to crawl into all sorts of nasty places to hunt and exterminate the worst and most dangerous varmints." He wasn't sure where, exactly, that lie had come from, but he certainly didn't want to admit the truth of where he had been and why.
"I see," the guard said, but his air showed plainly that he did nothing of the sort. "So you've been exterminating things?"
"Yes," Edward declared, smiling inwardly as this wasn't, technically, a lie -- although the "things" the guard had in mind were almost certainly not murderers and vagabonds, which he had been exterminating and planning to exterminate.
"I see," the guard repeated. "And in that old house?"
Here Edward hesitated. "Maybe," he declared at last. "I don't see that my business is your business, though."
The guard crossed his arms. "Well," he said, "seeing as how I have the power to throw you into prison for anything I darn well please, I think all business is my business if I choose it to be my business, and I choose that this is my business."
Edward frowned. "Well, when you put it like that," he replied, "I guess it makes sense."
"Precisely. Now, were you exterminating in that house?"
"Sort of," Edward answered, still not sure of how to answer.
"Sort of?" the guard repeated. "What does that mean?"
"Well," he returned slowly, inspiration suddenly coming to him, "I was looking for things to exterminate, but didn't find any."
"Oh," the guard said. "Well, why would you even bother looking in that old dump?"
This was indeed a puzzler, and Edward didn't immediately have an answer. After humming and hawing for a few moments, though, he replied, "Old houses are the best gauge of what you'll find in a town, you see. Oftentimes they're the source. If there are rats in town, likely they came from there. So, if there are rats in town, they'll be there too."
The guard frowned. "Really?"
"Oh, yes," Edward assured him, with as much sincerity as he could muster.
"I've never thought of it like that," the guard pondered.
"Trick of the trade," Edward smiled.
"So," the guard said slowly, "you're saying there are no rats in town?"
Something in the ponderous tone set off an alarm in Edward's mind, and he answered in kind, slowly and thoughtfully. "Well, that remains to be seen. There are no rats there and around here."
"Really?" the guard asked, a little too eagerly for Edward's liking.
"Yes," he said cautiously, adding quickly, "Unless they have another lair."
"Another lair?" the guard asked.
"Yes," Edward repeated.
"But I thought you said that..."
Edward interrupted him. "Oh yes, and that's all very true. But a good predictor isn't a certain predictor, you see?"
The guard frowned, but said nothing.
"Well, if you'll excuse me," Edward said after a few moments of silence, "I'll be on my way."
"Not so fast," the guard intervened. "There are rats in this town. In the castle dungeon, in fact. You make a crazed sort of sense, so I guess you must be what you say you are. Since we don't have an exterminator in town, I'm going to need you to do the job."
"Me?" Edward balked. "No thank you. I'm not interested."
The guard frowned. "Either you're going to go into the dungeon as a rat exterminator, or you're going there as prisoner," he said finally. "Your choice."
"Oh," Edward responded. His brow creased in thought. "Well, I suppose I'll go as an exterminator," he said at last.
"Wise choice," the guard returned sarcastically. "Come along then -- we'll go there directly."
"No!" Edward interjected, hastening to add, "I mean, not today."
The guard's eyes clouded with suspicion and anger. "What? Why?"
"Because...well, because I will have to prepare my tools."
"Your tools?"
"Yes, my tools of...of extermination!"
The guard frowned suspiciously. "How long will that take?"
"Umm...two days?" Edward answered almost hesitantly.
"You've got one," the guard returned. "You better be at the dungeon tomorrow evening at 5:00." He grimaced. "And I mean it! I am so sick and tired of listening to those damned prisoners scream whenever a rat comes into their dungeon that I've half a mind to exterminate them myself -- and I don't mean the rats!!" With this cheery thought, the guard departed, leaving Edward to wonder what, exactly, he had just gotten himself into.
The world is boorish and callous,
With no appreciation for my talents
My dark heart and beautiful malice,
Are wasted on this barren planet.
-- Lament of Mehrunes Dagon
Chapter Eighteen
Edward stepped out of the Cheydinhal Bridge Inn disgustedly -- or rather, he picked himself off the stoop of the Inn disgustedly. He had never been so rudely handled in his entire life! "Well, alright," his mind admitted, "there was that time on my last birthday, when I'd had too much to drink...and then that time when I got caught attempting to pick a pocket, and denied it but nobody believed me...and then that time when the priest caught me sticking my hands in the offering box, and didn't believe that my hand full of gold coins was actually an offering...and then..."
"Oh shut up!" another voice, his own again, declared, interrupting his train of thought. Edward frowned. It was bad enough to hear that from other people; he hated when his mind did that to him too.
"You're supposed to be on my side, here," he said inwardly.
To which an inward voice responded, "Then stop babbling like an imbecile and I will be!"
Engaged in this internal dialogue, Edward stumbled through the streets of Cheydinhal without paying much attention to his surroundings.
His vexation, of course, was easily explained. He had stepped into the Cheydinhal Bridge Inn -- which, he observed disparagingly, was located nowhere near a bridge -- and asked for his valet. The proprietress had been extremely insolent, and even implied that he was an impostor and that one such as he would never have a servant. This irritating insinuation drew from him a response that his valet had indeed come to take a room for both of them that very afternoon. The innkeeper merely laughed at him, declaring him to be a liar, and saying that no one had requested a room, much less two rooms. Edward, already irritated by his run-in with the guard, and the way the cobwebs stuck to the perspiration on his skin (thanks to his the nervous sweating that the encounter with the guard had produced), had snapped back some smart reply. From there, the already bad situation had escalated to a worse one, which ended with Edward being seized by several patrons and thrown headlong out of the door. Certainly, he had lunged across the counter at the proprietress, spittle shooting forth from his mouth, and threats to murder her issuing from his lips, but he had never meant to actually murder her. "And, anyway," he wondered, "what ever happened to 'the customer is always right'??" He sighed, as his thoughts came to this milestone. "Customer service has indeed gone downhill," he thought dejectedly.
"And where, exactly, is that damn valet of mine?" he wondered, his mind taking up another train of thought. "I told him to rent rooms for us! If he didn't do that, then where is he? And what are we going to do now that we've been kicked out of that stupid inn?" He loosed another sigh, and continued his pensive, pointless wandering.
"Sir!" a familiar voice called to him.
Edward looked up. It was his valet! "There you are!" he exclaimed. "Where have you been? I thought you were going to rent us rooms?"
"I did sir," the valet answered.
Edward frowned. "But I just spoke with the innkeeper, and she insisted that you had not!"
The valet, in his turn, frowned. "I'm not sure what to say, sir. I've heard that the Newlands Lodge is trustworthiness itself. I am shocked to hear..."
"Wait, what?" Edward interrupted.
The valet stared at him uncomprehendingly.
"Where did you say?"
"The Newlands Lodge," the other replied. "Of course, sir. The only other inn in town is the Cheydinhal Bridge inn, and it is very pricey. Plus this establishment is reputed to..." Here he lowered his voice. "Well, sir, to be very discrete concerning its clients."
Edward grumbled something incoherent. He was kicking himself for not realizing that there might be more than one inn in town. No wonder that arrogant woman had been so...well, arrogant to him.
Hear the tolling of the bell,
Hear it sound the death knell.
It must be answered, that bell;
It must be silenced, that knell.
-- Song of the Doomed
Chapter Nineteen
Edward had slept for hours, woken to eat, and then slept again. He was tired, irritated, and not a little sore from his many misadventures. However, now that it was midday on the day after his rendezvous with the Dark Brotherhood, he was growing very apprehensive. He was expected, after all, at 5:00 that afternoon at the castle, and he had no idea how to get out of the predicament. He couldn't see himself as an effective exterminator, yet he couldn't skip town, either. After all, his Dark Brotherhood hideout was here in town, and he would be expected to return here often; if he became an outlaw in Cheydinhal, that would be impossible.
He had thought about consulting his valet, but could not reconcile himself with the idea of seeking assistance from his paid subordinate. Even when his mind had argued that, so far at least, he had not actually paid the man anything, his pride still balked at the idea. No, this was something he would have to face by himself, come what may, he determined. With this determination set in a deep sense of depression, and Edward, feeling sure that his doom was near at hand and that he was likely to spend the remainder of his life in prison after his deceit was uncovered, moped about town.
He had no real or clear idea of where he was going or why in mind, so he walked about aimlessly, growing sorrier and sorrier for himself with every passing minute. After traveling in what must have been circles for what must have been hours, he paused to figure out where he was. There were buildings all around that seemed strangely familiar, but, though he sensed he had been there before, he had no idea when or how he'd got there.
At the same time, he heard the sonorous tolling of a bell.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
"Please, please, please stop!" he pleaded with the bell.
Five, it chimed, oblivious to his supplications.
Edward took to his heels, knowing that he was already late. It didn't matter to him what direction he was he going -- he didn't know anyway -- so long as he was going. He ran to the end of the street, rounded a corner, and came to a sudden, sharp stop as he impacted with what at first he assumed was a giant moving rock, as it didn't budge an inch at the encounter, and seemed solid as stone. Careening backwards, and landing painfully and heavily on his behind, Edward glanced up. The rock was nothing of the sort, but the same armored guard he had met the day before.
"Oh," he said, wincing in pain. "It's you."
"Yes," the guard answered. "And why aren't you at the castle??"
"I'm on my way," Edward replied.
The guard frowned. "You're late."
"So are you," Edward pointed out.
The guard's frown deepened. "Just get a move on it."
"Right," Edward answered, picking himself up with much difficulty. He ached all over, all over again. Glancing around him, he remembered that he had no idea which road would lead to the castle. "Umm...which way are we going?"
"To the castle!" the guard returned, irritably.
"Right, but...well, which way is the castle?"
The guard stared at him, eyebrows raised, and then pointed. "See the giant stone building on the hill? The one with all the walls and towers? With the big gate? That's where we're going."
Edward frowned at the condescending tone, but rightly thought it better not to further irritate the guard. And, beside, he did feel a little silly. "After all," he thought, "the gate should have given away which building it was. Nobody gets to have a gate like that, unless it's on a castle."
The pair walked in silence, each pondering his own thoughts, until at last they reached the castle. "This way," the guard said, taking the lead. Edward followed until they reached the dungeon. He felt the skin on his neck crawl as he glanced around, anticipating the sight of rats. But, much to his surprise -- and relief -- there were none to be seen. "I thought you said you wanted me to kill rats," he said.
"Quite so," the guard answered. "I don't know how you go about this, but I imagine that, if you sit still for a few minutes, and I put out this light..." With this, he paused to douse a torch, and throw the entire dungeon into an eerie dimness. "...well, they should come out in no time. I'll shut the door behind me -- you just knock when you're done, and I'll let you out."
Edward gulped loudly, a thousand fears flooding him; but, before he could collect his thoughts into an even mildly coherent mass, the guard was gone. He heard the door scrape shut, and then the lock grate. Chill dread stole over his entire body, and he slumped backwards against the door, too frightened to speak or move, except to whimper and shake. He, Edward, was alone in a dungeon with prisoners and rats. And, in his state of depression, he'd forgotten to bring any weapons with him. He shook more violently at the thought. He, Edward, was alone and unarmed in a dungeon full of prisoners and rats.
Now make one of the Rats crawl up the Bwiddish Bode of the udder RAT...![]()
:thumbsup:
Cowardice will never pay,
At least, that's what they say
But see you Edward's tale
And wonder, will the coward fail?
-- Tribute to Edward, author unknown
Chapter Twenty
Edward stirred ever so slightly. He wasn't sure where he was, what time it was, or why he was where ever it was that he was, but he was aware of a vague apprehension. This apprehension, however, was a secondary sensation; the primary sensation he felt was a tickling of his nose. "Almost like cat whiskers, except from a very big cat," he thought absently, still struggling to consciousness. "Or a dog...or a ra..." He was suddenly wide awake, on his feet, and screaming wildly. The room was very dim, but he could make out the shape of the very thing he had feared to find: a giant rat.
He remembered now what had happened; he had collapsed in fear against the door, and somehow, in his terror, lost consciousness. Now the rats had come out, and he was surrounded by them. Edward did not think or reason at this realization. He just screamed and flailed blindly.
He felt teeth bite into his leg, hard, and his mad flailing intensified. He screamed and trashed and cursed and ran and smashed into everything around him. One moment his shoulder was in contact with the wall, the next he felt the cold iron bars of the nearest cell on his face, then the floor underneath him; in an instant, screaming, kicking, punching out wildly, he was on his feet again, and the cycle continued.
"Oh gods," he screamed, "they're gonna eat me! Save me! Save me!"
Almost in answer to his plea, another voice sounded. But this was not the voice of a god, but rather an annoyed inmate. "Will you please stop screaming?!" it asked. "I'm trying to get some sleep! I'm going to the gallows tomorrow, and I want to look my best!"
This other human voice reinstated at least a measure of reason to Edward, and he stopped screaming. "I have to do something," he thought. "I can't be eaten by rats! I can't go that way! How undignified!"
"What are you whining about, anyway?" the annoyed prisoner continued to speak. "It's just a dead rat!"
"It's trying to eat me!" Edward screamed, his control slipping quickly. "What do you mean, 'it's just a dead rat'?? Dead rats can...wait, did you say dead? As in, dead?" His senses seemed to regain a measure of control, and he peered into the darkness. Squinting hard, he was able to make out the slumped form of a giant rat. His eyes grew wide in amazement. "But...it was alive!" he said. "It bit me! It sniffed my face!"
"Yes, and then you kicked it to death," the prisoner added. "So, it was alive, but only until you killed it. You see how this works?"
Edward frowned. Not only did he not like the tone of this man's voice, but he couldn't believe what he was saying. How could he have killed the rat? All he had done was attempt to flee it. In fact, though he was loath to admit it, he had simply panicked. He could vaguely remember flailing about, and kicking and punching wildly, but nothing that would have been effective.
He straightened up in surprise. "Ha!" he said aloud. "It was me! I kicked it to death!!" He started laughing triumphantly. "Guard!" he shouted. "Guard! It's done! Your rat problem is finished!"
All was silent for several moments, except for Edward's gleeful laughter, and then the bolts of the dungeon door slowly scraped open.
The guard peeked his head in, almost suspiciously, blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dimness, and then said in a tone of surprise, "You killed it!"
"Of course!" Edward snapped, none too pleased by the other man's tone.
"But...but how? It sounded like the rat was killing you!" Edward frowned. "I mean, you were screaming bloody murder in here!"
Edward's frown deepened, and he answered in a very condescending tone, "Well, you clearly do not understand the finer points of psychological warfare, so I will not bother to waste my time in an attempt to enlighten and reform your primitive mindset. Suffice it to say, what you heard was all part of the tricks of the trade -- and, as you can see, very effective tricks at that."
The guard took turns between frowning, glaring, and then frowning again. "Alright, alright," he said at last, "I admit, you did a good job."
"Of course," Edward said. "Now, since it is done, let me out of this dungeon."
Now the guard hesitated. "Well..." he said slowly, "I don't know about that...it's a handy thing to have an exterminator on hand."
Edward's anger boiled at this point. It wasn't enough that this guard had threatened him into coming and left him to what was nearly a terrible death of being eaten by a rat, but now he meant to keep him here?! "Listen you," Edward stated, his eyes flaming, "I suggest you take a good look at that rat, because my speciality isn't limited to rats of the animal variety!"
Now, an observer might have thought that Edward was being extraordinarily brazen and betting that his calculated risk would pay off by winning him his freedom; the truth of the matter was simpler and less grand. Edward was furious, and he was doing what he was best at when angered: very sincerely threatening his opponent, without giving any thought to the fact that he was in no way prepared to back up that threat.
Luck, or the gods, or what have you, were on Edward's side that day, however, because the guard blinked at the verbal onslaught, and then declared hesitantly, "Well, I could just lock the door, couldn't I? You couldn't do anything then, could you?"
"Why don't you just see?" Edward demanded menacingly. "I dare you to try, you lily-livered, tin-suited sack of crap!" This last bit of Edward's bluff -- if a bluff it could be called, because, in the heat of the moment,
Edward meant every word he said -- had the beneficial effect of completely demoralizing the guard, who threw open the door and retreated.
"Now, come on," he said as he stood aside, "I was just joking. You know that."
Edward, still furious, considered staying in place and demanding that the coward of a guard return and try, just try, to keep him a prisoner; but then that shred of common sense that managed to save him from situations like this kicked in. Subsequently, Edward made haste to leave the dungeon, leave the castle, and, gathering his belongings and his valet, leave Cheydinhal.
Wow, Edward has shown some real cunning...and has made it without his valet through two really tough spots!!!! I would be impressed if it weren't for his 5-way conversation with himself!!! ROFL !!!!! Very funny, and some things I didn't remember about the beginning of his story in here!
“Edward the Exterminator- to catch a rat, you have to think like a rat.”
Hi all, and thanks for the comments! Sorry I haven't posted more this week...it's been crazy at work...(working until midnight on Tuesday on a server more ... and that was the good day.
After that, one of the apps I "inherited" [not a drop of documentation of course] died, again...so it was a race to figure out how the app worked and then, piece by piece, (band-aid) fix all the problems with the dang thing ... missing stored procedures on one of the four sql servers, connection strings to the primary and secondary sql servers pointing to only the primary sql server (???), wrong password for the website account on one box, etc., etc., etc. ... to say nothing of the error handling that doesn't even tell you that something is wrong [you just figure it out because the data you get is not correct...and this is a production system, in use now])...lol, it's a nightmare... and that's not the half of it...at least now we've got the band-aid fixes in place until we can redesign the system. No wonder that programmer left, LOL...he's just lucky he did before any one took too close a look at what he'd been doing!
) But enough of my griping, LOL...on to the story.
I made one minor change here...this letter was a little too polite for who I originally had writing it, so I changed the author...I doubt anyone remembers the original, but, if you do, you'll know why it was too polite.
Dear Brother Clarence:
Blessings and the mercy of the square root of eighty-one upon you. I write to you in distress, brother. Since the grievous news of our beloved emperor's death, I have heard nothing from the chosen messenger. Baurus -- our brother, who was the last living Blade to see the Emperor -- writes to tell me that His Majesty chose a man, an escaped prisoner, to deliver the amulet to me. He did not say so directly, but his tone made clear his apprehension. I do begin to fear that our Emperor made a most grievous mistake in his last moment of desperation, in entrusting so precious an amulet to an unknown. Pray, good brother, that the 10 minus 1 remember us in these troubled times!
Yours,
Brother Piner
-- Letter from Brother Piner to a fellow Blade
Chapter Twenty-One
Edward sighed, thinking despondently that, whatever city he came to, he always seemed to end up in the dungeons. "Well," he thought, "at least so far I've been able to get out each time!" Nonetheless, he was none too keen on the idea of returning to the Imperial City . He still remembered the cell he'd been in, and he had no desire to return; and, after all, his mission was that of an assassin -- even if a justified assassin -- and so he was, technically, on the wrong side of the law. Not that, truth to be told, he was ever technically on the right side of the law. After all, even if his prison break had been pseudo-legal, he had fled the scene of the accident with Simplicia, he had struck and robbed Snak gra-Bura, he had illegally killed the murderer Rufio, and he had joined a brotherhood of assassins! "Hard to get less legal than that," he thought, "unless I joined the Thieves Guild too, or something like that."
This idea, that he was not behaving as illegally as he potentially could, and consequently, if caught, would not face as much trouble as he might otherwise, cheered him somewhat, so he continued with a lighter heart.
He and his valet rode in continued silence for several minutes, until, passing through the city gates, the latter spoke. "Sir," he said, "not meaning to put too fine a point on it or anything, but...well, I read the Black Horse Courier, and I did happen to read something about a theft here in the Imperial City ...a theft of a horse..."
"Oh?" Edward asked, a sense of trepidation swarming him. "Really?"
"Yes sir," the other man continued, clearly hesitantly. "Well, sir, the thing that really stood out was that this was the theft of a very old and stubborn horse."
"Really?" Edward repeated.
"Yes sir. A horse like yours, sir."
Edward blinked. "Really?"
"Yes sir. And I think, sir, it might be advisable, seeing as how like your horse this horse was, that you do not ride your horse in the city. Otherwise, people might -- preposterously, of course -- assume that you were...well, the thief."
Edward blinked again. The valet's words, as insincere as they had been regarding the other man's belief in his innocence, made sense. "Damn it, man!" he cursed, glancing about him, "Why not mention this before we enter the city? Now how am I supposed to get rid of this stupid horse, in the middle of the city, without attracting too much attention?"
"I have a plan, sir," the valet replied.
Edward rolled his eyes, so thoroughly annoyed that the fact that his valet's plans were almost always good ones made no nevermind to him.
"I will take your horse," the other man said, ignoring the show of displeasure, "and you will take mine. I will bring your horse to the Imperial Watch, and say that I found it abandoned in the woods and, hearing about the theft, assumed that this was probably the stolen horse."
"Well, why don't I just do that? Why switch horses?" Edward asked.
"Because, sir, they might bring me to see Snak gra-Bura."
"Oh, right," Edward said. "But...well, of course, I'm not the thief."
"No sir, of course not. Still, better to let me...take care of the dirty work."
"Yes," Edward agreed, more enthusiastically this time. "No sense me wasting my time on trivial things like that. You can take care of it."
"Yes sir."
"That's what I pay you for!" Edward finished.
The valet coughed. "Oh, about that, sir," he started.
Edward flinched. As of yet, he still hadn't paid his valet any wages. "Later, man, later! We have important business that needs attending to."
"Yes sir."
He whose name is forgotten,
We had something to say about him,
But we're not quite sure what it was,
Because it seems we've forgotten.
-- Tribute to the Gray Fox
Chapter Twenty-Two
In the end, Edward's valet had taken both horses. It turns out that there was a city ordinance that you could not ride a horse inside the city gates. "Stupid ordinances," Edward thought. "They should make sure people know things like that!"
While Edward, now on foot, set off to find the Marie Elena, his valet set off to stable his own horse, and to return Snak gra-Bura's horse. Neither noticed the cowled figure that had observed their entire conversation, and then took off after Edward's valet.
So it was that Edward, who seemed to lack any sense of direction, headed into the city and, after much exploring, many wrong turns, and infinite retracing of his steps, eventually made his way to the water front. "Ahh," he thought, "the sea! I love the sea!" Breathing deeply -- so deeply, in fact, that he broke into a violent coughing fit -- he walked toward the docks. He smiled as he neared them.
"Pirates, cutthroats, murderers, smugglers, thieves, villains of the worst sort!" he thought admiringly. "I could have ended up working here...how in Oblivion did I end up on the other side?!" He frowned, but remembering his earlier reflections, took solace. "At least," he thought, "I'm still on the wrong side of the law, even if I am working for justice and the greater good or whatever."
With this cheering thought, he focused on finding the Marie Elena. There were two vessels docked in the harbor, and so, having no way to distinguish between them, Edward headed to the ship on his left. "Hmm," he thought as he neared it, "I wonder how you tell what a ship is named?"
At that moment, an ecstatic voice interrupted him from his reverie. "Sir! Sir!"
He turned to see his valet running toward him. Staring in frank surprise at the other man, he asked, "What's the matter with you? Can't you see that I'm busy?"
"Yes sir," the valet replied, coming to a stop and panting heavily. "But -- you'll never believe this, sir! -- but the Grey Fox himself has invited me to join the Thieves Guild!!"
Edward just blinked at first, the words making little impression. "You? The Grey Fox? Why?"
"He heard our conversation, sir, and he said that my loyalty to my friend -- you -- impressed him, and that he needs thieves with honor to join his ranks!"
Edward frowned. "Honor? But why? They're thieves!"
"Oh, yes sir, but good thieves. You see, the Grey Fox is a thief who robs from the rich to give to the poor. The beggars and the unemployed, they're all dependent on him!"
Edward's frown intensified. "What sort of criminal..." he began, but was interrupted.
"Oh, it's very simple, sir. He lives among the poor; he knows what they suffer! He's a Robber from the Hood, so to speak, who robs the rich stuffed shirts to feed the poor and downtrodden."
Edward's frown continued to intensify. "And he asked you, and not me?"
"Yes sir," the valet said, adding quickly, "but I'm sure that's only because he knew you were already busy!"
"Well," Edward shot back, "you're busy too! You work for me!"
"Yes sir," the other man said a bit hesitantly, "but, well, you don't always have need of my services!"
"Yes, but I don't employ you so that you won't be available when I do need you!"
"No sir," the valet agreed. He seemed to hesitate, and then brighten immediately, as if a flash of inspiration hit him. "But one of the perks of being a member of the thieves guild is that I get to sell stolen goods to various fences, since no one else buys them. That means that I can be your door to the fences! I can resell any goods that you come across!"
Edward stared at him, feigning shock. "What do you take me for?!" he demanded. "Do you really assume that I would stoop to robbing people, and reselling their property through you?! And, anyway, you'd probably charge an outrageous fee for the service..."
"No sir!" the valet exclaimed. "Not a penny! It would be my show of appreciation to you for allowing me to take this second job."
Edward frowned, but didn't dismiss the idea outright. After all, it would be good to have an outlet to sell his stolen property. Plus, it would be good if his valet was actually earning Septims; so far, Edward hadn't made a whole bunch of money, and he seemed to lose more than he earned, anyway -- it was hard to forget the loss of all his swindled gold after his accident with Simplicia. Not only would it be impossible to pay his valet's wages at this rate, but he might not be able to afford basic supplies with a similar stroke of bad luck. "Well," he answered slowly, "I don't want to hamper your prospects...if I was sure that you would be around when I needed you..."
"Oh, yes sir, absolutely sir!" the valet responded.
"Alright," Edward agreed. "You may as well."
In a flurry of profuse thanks, the valet disappeared. Edward sighed. "Damn Gray Fox," he thought. "How dare he ask my servant, and not me? And what is it with these criminals now, anyway?! The assassins go around killing murderers, the thieves go around feeding the poor, and the real bad guys are a disgusting, pathetic lot that no self respecting criminal would want to associate with!" He sighed again. "Criminals these days just aren't what they're cracked up to be..." he thought despondently.
When in trouble, when in doubt,
Run in circles, scream and shout.
-- Edward's motto, borrowed from a popular rhyme
Chapter Twenty-Three
After realizing that he had in fact chosen the wrong ship, and was at the Bloated Float Inn rather than the Marie Elena, Edward sat down to think. It seemed reasonable to him that he take a moment to think through what, exactly, he was going to do. He considered that, so far, he had been fairly successful. He had located the Marie Elena, which is more than he had done fifteen minutes earlier. From there, his next step was simple enough: get inside and locate Gaston. It was at this juncture, however, that things began to grow foggy. What did he do when found Captain Tussaud? Should he say something to him? He smiled at the idea. Something witty, something to show off the brilliance of his masterful mind -- that would be good. "Unfortunately," he thought, "the only one to hear it will be the stupid pirate -- and just before I kill him." Somehow, the idea lost some of its appeal, and he found himself wishing he could have an invisible audience to admire his eloquence and wit.
"Of course," he thought, "I had better think of what I'm going to say...hmm...how about 'Alright, Pirate dog! Time to go to the pound!'...hmm...yes, I like it!" He smiled at his own genius. "Gad, but I am brilliant," he congratulated himself.
At that moment, he heard hinges creek and felt a heavy wooden object impact sharply with his back and behind. He found himself flying forward, and landing face first on the dock in front of him.
He heard someone gasp, and then footsteps run toward him. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry," someone said. "But I didn't see you from inside the inn! You must have been sitting in front of the door!"
"Ash a matter of facsht," Edward replied as he struggled to rise, his lower lip already having swollen to the point that he was finding it difficult to articulate his thoughts, "I wasch."
"That's a dangerous spot to be sitting!" the speaker, who extended his hand to assist him up, said. "You can't be seen from inside, so someone can open the door and smack you with it."
"Oh, really?" Edward asked, grimacing in agony as he finally was able to raise himself to his feet. "You don't shay..."
He saw his inadvertent assailant and eager assistant for the first time now. He was an orc, with large teeth, green skin and not a lot of hair. "I'm Graman gro-Marad," he introduced himself.
"I would shay pleashed to meet you," Edward said, spitting blood out of his mouth, "but shum pleashures go a long way..."
Graman shifted his weight, seeming very apologetic. "Look here, I'm terribly sorry," he repeated. His expression brightened. "Say, maybe I can make it up to you!"
"I doubt it," Edward replied, trying to determine what hurt more -- his swollen and swelling face, his battered and aching back, or his wounded and stinging pride. "Very musch..."
"Well, I work at the inn here, and I'm sure I could get you a room, so that you can rest up for a bit," Graman told him. "And of course we can get you whatever food or drink you need, too."
Edward scowled -- at least, as best as he could when his face was inflated and stiff -- at the eager orc. Nonetheless, though he hated to lessen Graman's guilt, the offer seemed like a good one. "Alright," he said. "Schince I'm nearly dead, I schuppose I have no choisch..."
The orc flinched at his words, but gently led him into the inn. If Edward had ached any less, he would have pretended to be more injured and sore than he already was; as it was, however, he hurt so badly that he could not imagine feigning further injury.
Graman got the door for him, led him inside, spoke a few hurried words to the publican, an Altmer named Ormil, and then led him to a room off to the left. On the way, Edward noted that the inn had a fair selection of foods, and a goodly supply of alchol.
"Now," Graman said as he opened the door and stepped aside to let Edward into the room, "is there anything that I can get you?"
"Schomething to dull this pain," Edward moaned. "Do you have any liquor?"
"Oh, yes, of course," Graman answered. "I'll get it right away."
"And!" Edward exclaimed, stopping the orc in his tracks. "And schome food...lotsh of food."
"Food?" the orc asked. "Are you sure you'll be able to eat?"
"Of coursh!" Edward snapped. "I have to eat to...to regain my shtrength!"
"Oh, yes," Graman replied. "I see."
"And bring lotsh of alcohol," Edward called after the orc. "I'm in scho much pain!"
No worries about the delay- we will always be ready for more of our favorite bounder.
On the letter, I am guessing (without going back and looking) that the original was penned by Jauffre?
ARGH !!! Treydog quoted my fave lines already !!!!!!! I had to go back and re-read Edward's experience with the door of the sanctuary - that is almost one of my fave chapters in his DB experiences, lol.
Quite right, treydog...it was none other than the good Grandmaster himself. I thought, upon reflection, it seemed a little...tame for a missive penned by Friar Jauffre. ![]()
Those were some of my favorite lines, too, treydog...I always imagine Edward's views of the criminal classes being somewhat like our romanticized view of medieval knights (except focusing on the evil instead of good
)...totally skewed by fond memory/imagination, and not really remotely accurate, but hard to shake. Of course, in Edward's case, he imagines a sort of anti-knight, lol, but that's Edward. ![]()
mALX: lol, I love the door too...I try to keep cultural references out, lol, but sometimes they creep in...especially LotR ones.
The gods help them whose servants help them.
-- Scripture of the Square Root of Eighty-One, translation funded by the Coalition of the Noble Born
Chapter Twenty-Four
Edward stirred groggily. The unpleasant sensation of rocking, back and forth, back and forth, was interrupting his dream -- and it was too beautiful a dream to be interrupted!
There he was, atop a glorious mountain of gold, reaching forward, forward, forward, just about to seize the largest diamond he had ever seen; and then he would rock backwards, just out of reach. Barely catching his balance before he tumbled down the mountainside -- which seemed to grow steeper with every rocking movement -- he would just steady himself before tumbling forward, just past the diamond. Again, he would be just out of reach of the gem, and would have only enough time to steady himself before he'd plunge backwards.
Finally, unwillingly, angrily, he opened one eye, and then another. As the shadows of dreamland fled, brilliant sunlight assailed his eyes. He blinked rapidly, trying to remember where he was. The last thing he could remember was imbibing an unbelievable amount of really bad wine and beer, and eating more than a little food, before deciding to lay down for just a moment to rest. It had been late in the afternoon then, with dusk settling in on the land.
"Land!" he thought. "That's right -- I'm not on land, I'm on that ship, the Floated Bloat...Boated Foat...Bloated..." His mind froze, mid-thought. The rocking -- it wasn't just in his dream! He really was rocking back and forth; or, rather, he wasn't rocking, but the boat was rocking!
He blinked in amazement. There must be a terrible storm outside, for the boat to be rocking that hard in port!
He frowned. No, it couldn't be storming out -- there was far too much sunlight streaming into his window for there to be a storm. He knit his eyebrows in concentration. If the boat was rocking, and it wasn't because of a storm, what did that mean?
He yelped in fear as the answer struck him. "Ye gods! We've set sail! Nobody told me?! Where are we headed? Will I ever get back? What's going on?" Then, a more terrible thought struck him. "What if...they deliberately didn't tell me? What if they're slavers, and they plan on selling me for a fortune on some distant shore? Is that why they offered me a room, and so much alcohol? To intoxicate me, so that they could get me away silently?" His face grew pallid. "Slavers can probably sum people up easily...they probably realized that they had a goldmine in me...after all, my skills and brilliance would be perfectly suited for anything...scholar, warrior, inventor, gladiator, anything." His train of thought shifted. "Or...or they could be taking me to some far away, exotic land, where they'll sell me to an empress or sultaness, who has been looking for a man like me for years!" His mind filled with images of his marriage to a rich and powerful -- not to mention insanely beautiful -- woman, who had searched the entire globe before finding someone good enough to marry, and make the emperor or sultan of her kingdom -- that someone being him, of course. "Well," he thought, "this might not be too bad after all...I could deal with ruling an empire or a sultanate...is that a word? Well, whatever...and, of course, it wouldn't hurt to have a gorgeous, brilliant woman absolutely, madly in love with me...particularly when she's deliciously rich...and powerful..." He smiled at the idea. He was a sort of Joseph, he decided, except that he wasn't stupid enough to refuse a beautiful woman, her powerful empire, and a life of ease and luxury. Yes, he had certainly been in worse predicaments, he concluded.
A loud, brusque thumping on the passage near his door roused him from his reverie. Starting, he crept to his door, wincing as he did so -- he still smarted from his run in with the inn door the day before. He listened for a moment and, hearing nothing, opened the door a sliver. Peering outside, he recoiled in fright as a man outside his door started in surprise. Here was a man he had never seen before!
In unison, both men asked, "Who are you?!"
"I'm Edward," Edward answered, "and I'm sleeping at the inn!"
"I'm Lynch," the other man replied, "and I'm going to lynch you!"
While the Nord laughed at his own joke, Edward thought fast, and slammed his door shut, jamming the bolt in place. "Damn it, damn it, damn it!" he cursed. "They're going to kill me, not sell me to a gorgeous Sultaness to become a rich, powerful and adored Sultan!"
Lynch, meanwhile, was banging at the door, demanding, "Come out, you coward! Come out and get what's coming to you!"
"Why do you want to kill me?!" Edward shouted back. "I don't even know you! I have no idea how we even got afloat! I'm innocent!"
"We're afloat because we set the ship afloat -- and by we, I mean me and the other Blackwater Brigands. And innocence is no excuse -- you're a dead man! And after I finish you, I'm going to finish the stupid orc we locked up!" With this, the Nord renewed his assault on the door.
Edward flinched as every blow landed. The door was strong, but not that strong. It would break soon, and then he -- slightly hung over and completely unarmed -- would have to fight a fully armed brigand. Then, an idea hit him.
Creeping toward the door, cringing every time the wood shivered with a new blow, he seized the handle and the bolt; then, in one fluid movement, he pulled the bolt back and turned the handle just as a new kick was sent forward. Lynch, not meeting with the resistance that he had anticipated, tumbled forward and into the room.
At the same time, Edward sprung forward, and pulled the door closed behind him. Now, holding the handle firmly and bracing himself with his feet against the door jam, he waited for the Nord to attempt to leave the room. He didn't wait long; in an instant, he felt a strong pull from inside. But Edward was ready, and using his legs as much as his arms, he managed to put up a good fight for several minutes.
However, the Nord was considerably stronger than he was, and, even though Edward was fighting for his life, eventually his strength succumbed. His hands slipped from the handle, the door went flying backwards, and he careened into the floor with a horrifically painful crash. Expecting his opponent to rush out and murder him at any moment, Edward lay in place, his eyes closed, grimacing and praying to all the gods he didn't believe in for some sort of miraculous intervention. He promised everything he could think of, from eternal servitude to the sacrifice of his first born children if only they would spare him.
As he lay there, inwardly groveling and praying, it seemed that an eternity of time passed. He had always heard that time stood still when you knew you were about to die, but he honestly never expected it to take this long. In fact, laying in place, aching from his fall, his eyes pressed tightly shut, Edward almost began to wish that his killer would hurry up and finish the job, rather than leaving him in this uncomfortable limbo.
The thump of a heavy footfall overhead, sounding very much in real time, startled Edward, and he opened his eyes. Amazed that there was no sword wielding murderer directly over him, Edward blinked. Surely, this hadn't been a dream, had it? Was he still in his bed, where he had laid down the night before?
He looked around. No, he wasn't in his bed, and, no, this hadn't been a dream. He was lying on his back in a hallway, staring up at the ceiling above, and the door to his room lay in front of him. Cautiously, fearfully, he raised himself upward, looking for his would-be murderer.
Not seeing him immediately, he drew himself up further still. Then, he saw the man. He was lying in a heap opposite him, blood pouring from his head. Over his body, there was a telling patch of red on the corner of the window frame.
Edward stood now, and walked carefully toward the body. "Are you dead?" he asked, not entirely expecting an answer. When none came, he kicked the body, just to make sure. It didn't move. Edward smiled. "Yup." With this, he set about looting the corpse. After all, he needed a weapon; plus, this guy's clothes were pretty nice, so he likely had some money on him, he reasoned.
News flash from the Imperial Docks!
In a shocking bit of news, the well known inn, the Floating Bloat, has vanished from harbor! As of this writing, the cause of this disappearance is unknown, although speculation has reached this correspondent that an unknown man was seen sitting on the stoop outside the inn door the evening of the vanishing, behaving in a sullen, peculiar manner. Whether this man is involved in the disappearance or not is purely a matter of speculation, but the City Watch has circulated a description of him in hopes of locating him for questioning. He is described as being sulky, with baby-like features, and a deviant air. If you see this man, please alert the nearest officer.
-- Black Horse Courier, Special News Bulletin
Chapter Twenty-Five
After thoroughly looting Lynch's corpse -- which was not a particularly challenging job, since he only had a sword, a key and a few gold on him -- Edward had managed, with much difficulty, to shove his body underneath the bed. "Good thing he's dead," he thought, surveying his handiwork, "because I heard things snapping as I was doing that..." Standing, he felt pain shoot through his body. "Oh gods," he groaned. "It was me that was snapping??"
Slowly, painfully, straightening out, Edward felt anger surge through him. This was ridiculous! The only reason that he was even in this damned floating inn was because of that stupid orc smashing a door into him; now he faced death at the hands of a band of murderous brigands, for gods know what! He paused as these thoughts ran through his mind "That stupid orc!" he repeated. "That's right! He's onboard, and alive! Lynch said he was going to kill him after he killed me, so he can't be dead yet!" Edward smiled. "All I have to do is let that idiot out, and he can take care of the rest of these pirates, and I can go home!" His smile had turned into a broad grin, and he turned for the door eager to find and free the orc. But he stopped short.
"Wait a minute," he thought. "I might as well see if there's anything worth stealing, since I'm here...now that my valet is a member of the thieves guild, he can sell it for me...and, anyway, after all I've suffered, I'm entitled to a little restitution, aren't I?" With this justification in mind, Edward began to search the room for valuables.
In a few moments, he stopped disgustedly. The room was quite bare, with only a few pieces of well worn furniture -- all too large to lift, much less carry -- and an old clay pot. "Well," he thought hesitantly, surveying the pot, "I suppose it might be worth something, especially if I cleaned it up." It seemed an injustice to leave the room without at least taking something, so he at last decided on taking the pot.
Lifting it, he observed that there was something inside it. Peering into the pot, he saw a small bag of rough cloth. "Hmm..." he thought, taking out the bag and opening it. His eyes bulged as he did so, and he laughed with glee. There, inside that shabby bag, was a handful of beautiful, sparkling gems!
Pocketing the jewels, and still determined not to let his pot go, Edward surveyed the room for some means of carrying his pot -- and anything else that he might pick up along the way. At first, he found nothing, but eventually his eyes lit upon the worn pillow and its case. His gleeful smile returning, Edward ripped the pillow out of the case and then, reverently, placed his first stolen item -- an old, shabby pot -- inside the case. He then tied the pillow case to his belt, exited his room, and shut the door behind him.
Not knowing how many other brigands there might be on the level that he was on -- but imagining that it was unlikely that there were any more, as no one had come to aid Lynch despite the ruckus he'd made -- he explored carefully, keeping a constant eye out for loot, but finding little that even he could justify lugging about with him.
At last, however, he found the orc's prison.
"It's you!" Graman shouted, exuberantly. "We're saved!"
Despite all the aggravation he had felt at this orc, Graman's tone managed to placate him somewhat. "Well," he said, "these brigands are mad if they think they can take me down without a fight!"
Graman nodded vigorously. "Quite right!"
"Now," Edward declared grandly, "I suppose we'd better get you out of this cage!"
The orc nodded again, saying, "Yes, the guard, Lynch he calls himself, has the key."
Edward frowned, feeling rather disappointed by the revelation; he had hoped that the key he'd found would open some amazing treasure, not just the key to the cage where the dumb orc was being held. Sighing, he said, "Not anymore."
"You mean, you already took him out?" Graman asked, clearly impressed.
"Of course," Edward returned haughtily.
I happen to be familiar with your posting tendencies, so I waited to make sure you were done posting before commenting on the latest group of installments.
The whole Floated Boat thing was hilarious. Even more so considering this forum's tendency to replace a certain 'A' word with boat had me substituting everywhere! Especially in these passages:
It is obvious that hautee has been infected by the Foxy disease.
The sad loss of Edward's first "trophy." (Sniffle). But it was in a worthy cause, seeing as that useless, wounded Orc decided to sit out this adventure and leave all the "work" to Edward.
Trey! ![]()
Are you casting doubt on the masculityy of....the ORC????
Sorry it took so long Rachel, RL has run me ragged for two days, lol. OMG, Lynch !!! SPEW !!!!!!
Hi all, thanks for the comments.
@treydog: " The sad loss of Edward's first "trophy." (Sniffle). But it was in a worthy cause, seeing as that useless, wounded Orc decided to sit out this adventure and leave all the "work" to Edward."
LOL, quite right -- poor Edward, having to pick up the slack for the no-good blackguard. ![]()
@DFoxy: LOL.
@mALX: No worries -- hope all is going well. ![]()
@haute ecole rider: LOL! Oh dear, sometimes the auto censors create more trouble than they solve. ![]()
Dear Armand,
I'm writing to caution you in regards to the latest addition to our guild, a brilliant, loyal young man who you will meet shortly. My reason for cautioning you, however, is that he is currently employed as a valet for a pompous, ridiculous fool. Our new initiate's sense of loyalty to his wastrel of an employer may prevent him from seeing this, but I see it plainly. Please keep this in mind, should our new guild mate make any recommendations about his employer.
Yours in stealth,
The Gray Fox
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Edward wasn't quite sure what to do. Here was a woman -- a beautiful woman, who his first thought had been to ask out! -- charging at him, ready to kill. What did he do? He hadn't so much as opened his mouth to speak to her yet, and she already wanted to kill him! What should he do? How should he respond?
Now, to be fair, his hesitancy wasn't borne of a misplaced sense of chivalry -- or chivalry at all; rather, his hesitancy came of a paralyzing fear. His attacker's cold, unruffled air seemed to freeze his marrow, and he was fixed to the spot where he stood, unable to move to defend himself or even escape the onslaught.
Most opportunely, however, a voice called out, "Hold, you there!"
It was the brigand's turn to freeze, and just before her blade met with Edward's body.
Edward was so dazed that he hardly heard the thumping behind him or noticed the orc come hobbling up, armored and wielding a heavy sword; likewise, Ormil's entrance mostly passed him by. He was too busy staring at the sword mere inches from his face to notice much else.
"You didn't think those bonds would hold me, did you?" Ormil demanded.
"Or those wounds slow me down?" Graman asked.
"My band!" the brigand exclaimed. "Where are they?!"
"Dead!" Edward declared, finding his voice -- and also his legs, for he stepped back, out of reach of her blade, very quickly. "I killed them!"
The brigand's eyes bulged, and she shot angry glances around her. Sensing that she was hopelessly outnumbered, however, she said, "Are you going to kill me?"
Edward, furious at her and her band's treatment of him, was about to scream, "Yes!" But, before he was able to speak, Ormil replied. "Not if you cooperate...hand over your sword, and we'll deliver you to the Imperial Watch."
The woman scoffed, but did as she was told. Ormil led her to the same cell in which Graman had been imprisoned, while Edward turned to the orc. "Who the heck are these people? And why did they hijack our ship?"
Graman sighed. "Well," he said, "business was not going so well for our inn...so Ormil made up a story about having a fantastic treasure on board to attract patrons...these fools decided to hijack the ship in order to search it without interruption."
Edward's eyes gleamed. "Fantastic treasure?" he repeated.
"Yes," Graman nodded. "It was a stupid story, but, apparently, some people are dumb enough to fall for anything."
Edward smiled inwardly, but changed the topic. "Well, to be perfectly frank with you, when I saw that the ship was afloat, I figured that you and Ormil must be some sort of slavers, who had lured me on board so that you could sell me at some foreign port."
The orc stared at him.
Edward shrugged, somewhat abashed; he thought it best to leave out the bit of his reverie dealing with being sold to an sultaness, becoming a sultan, and all that. "Well, you never know..." Then, clearing his throat, he said, "Aren't you supposed to be manning this stupid ship? I don't want to spend the rest of my life on a Floated Bloat!"
Graman stared at him for a moment, and then nodded. "Right you are," he said.
Edward, meanwhile smiled inwardly. "That orc can say what he likes," he thought, "but he can't pull the wool over my eyes...there's treasure on this ship, and a lot of it! And I'm going to be the one to find it!"
Have the gods succumbed to senility,
To promote and protect such inability?
Have the planets strayed from their orbits,
To favor and empower such a king of nitwits?
-- Ode to Edward, II
Chapter Twenty-Eight
By time the Bloated Float pulled into harbor, Edward was exhausted and not a little cranky. His search efforts had been futile, of course, because, as Graman had said, the treasure for which he searched didn't exist. Rather than admitting this to himself, however, Edward concluded that the pirates must have already found it, and found a way to get it off ship.
Armil offered to let him spend another evening in the inn, but he quickly refused. There was no way that he wanted to spend an evening in the room where someone had been killed, nor did he want to risk waking up and finding that he was afloat again. "Henceforth," he determined, "I sleep on land, and land only!"
So, exhausted, ornery, unprepared, and lugging around a pillow case containing a few old pieces of pottery, two skeins of yarn, a pair of shears and some torches, Edward set forth for the Marie Elena.
When he arrived at the ship, it was dark. There were a few torches lighting the main deck, which was patrolled by a gang of none-too-friendly looking pirates.
Edward found a barrel on a pier opposite the ship, and sat down to rest and think. How was he going to get onto this ship? The main entrance didn't look like a very good one...if the brigand gal he'd run into earlier had been mean, these charmers put her to shame; hard, grizzled men and a fearsome chieftain, these seemed like the last people Edward wanted to run into. There was, interestingly enough, a stack of crates near the gangway that Edward suspected were meant to be loaded into the ship. It wouldn't be too difficult, he mused, to sneak over there, pry open a crate, and jump inside. That way, he could stowaway onto the ship, and then take the Captain by surprise.
"No, they'd probably expect something like that," Edward decided, dismissing the idea. "I have to do something bold, something unexpected, something glorious and worthy of me!" He paused his mental monologue, and then added, "And something that won't get me killed."
His brow creased in thought as he surveyed the ship again. He had already dismissed the only two means of entrance...so how on earth was he going to get in?! Then his eyes lit up. On the opposite side of the ship was a balcony -- with a door that had to lead to the Captain's cabin; and it looked like it was within jumping distance.
His eyes aglow with excitement, Edward headed to the nearest point of the pier opposite the captain's quarters. Mounting the ledge, he shifted his pillow case of worthless treasures to one side, inhaled deeply, exhaled, inhaled again, and then leaped forward.
No sooner than had he left solid ground did he regret his action; all at once the brilliance of his strategy was replaced in his mind with a surety that he would miss the balcony and end up in the harbor below, dragged down, down, down by the weight of his weaponry, armor and loot bag.
Even as visions of drowning flooded his senses, Edward felt his right knee impact sharply with the ship's stern, and his left elbow smash into the balcony. "Gods damn it!" he cursed, clasping onto the balcony for dear life with his right arm. "Why the Oblivion do they call it the 'funny bone'?!"
Wheezing in agony, he managed to make some use of his left arm, and swing it over the balcony. With both arms thus straddling the ship, he was, with difficulty, able to pull himself over the side of the rail and onto the ship. He promptly sat down to recover from his success.
Fifteen minutes later, still sore but somewhat more collected, he tried the door to the captain's cabin. It was locked. By now, his temper was flaring, and he loosed a torrent of cuss words at his intended victim, finishing with, "Why can't the no-good SOB just get what's coming to him, without making it so damned difficult for me?"
Kicking at nothing in particular in frustration, Edward lurched forward as his foot caught on the "Unwelcome" mat outside the captain's door. He careened into the door, barely having time to shield his face with his hands and thereby prevent a face-to-portal collision. Straightening himself up, he kicked again, but this time with a definite target in mind. "Stupid mat!" he cursed, flinging the mat into the balcony railing.
All at once he paused, glancing from the mat to the planks at his feet. He had noted a glint, very faint in the torch light, but a glint nonetheless. "Did someone drop a coin?" he thought greedily as he bent down to find the source of his observation.
He frowned, his hand coming in contact with a long, skinny metal object. "A key?" he thought disgustedly, lifting the object to examine it. Sure enough, it was a key. Edward sighed a long, unhappy sigh. Of all the luck...not only was he stuck outside with no chance to get inside, but even his hope at a meager conciliatory coin had proved vain. He lifted the key, intending to chuck it into the water, but froze. "Wait a minute!" he thought. "What if this is the key to the captain's door?"
With hands so eager that they trembled, he tried to insert the key; it bounced off the lock, it was so large.
"Damn!" he thought. "That's not it either." Again, he readied to chuck the key into the sea, and again stopped. "Oh...I had it backwards," he realized, flushing a little as he did so. "No wonder it couldn't even go in..." He sighed, flipped the key around, and tried again.
This time, much to his relief, it fit perfectly. Turning the key, he heard the door unlock.
Wreaking havoc where he goes,
Leaving destruction in his wake,
Making trouble for those he knows,
How much more can the empire take?
-- Musings of the Ninth
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Edward was inside the captain's quarters, and the captain was nowhere to be seen. Truth to be told, Edward was strangely relieved. He still wasn't sure how he was going to kill the dreaded pirate, and he explained away his relief at not finding him around by saying that the pirate's absence gave him an opportunity to plan his attack.
These ideas were soon pushed from Edward's mind, however, as he looked around the cabin he'd entered. His eyes sparkled as he saw the finely laid out table, and its ornate silverware. "Ye gods!" he thought, "I'm rich!"
Hastening to the table, he proceeded to scoop all the silverware and fine plates he saw into his pillow case. Then he proceeded to loot the foods throughout the cabin, noting with particular glee two fine bottles of wine. He also noted a book, "The Fall of the Snow Prince"; he considered taking this, but decided against it. "Books are worthless anyway."
Then he stopped, his eyes resting on a small but charming plant, that he'd heard called Nirnroot. "Sooooo pretty," he thought, heading toward it. "Soooooo...pretty!" He reached forward to touch its leaves; they were very soft. He smiled, drawing closer. A delicious aroma, indefinable but something like all the foods that he most liked, assailed his nostrils, and his eyes widened in surprise. Was that smell from that beautiful little plant?
It was! That delightful aroma, reminiscent of all manner of fine delicacies, was emanating from that little Nirnroot! All at once, Edward was moved by an impulse to eat the plant he admired so much.
Without even thinking about it, he seized the stem, uprooted the plant, and proceeded to chew it up and swallow it.
It tasted every bit as good as it looked, and all of a sudden Edward felt very lightheaded. Blinking, he felt himself staggering forward, looking for a seat. He felt strangely weak and tired and sick, but somehow good all the same -- right up until the moment that he collapsed.
Half an hour later, Edward was able to collect himself. The plant, he realized, must have been some sort of poison; Nirnroot, apparently, wasn't very good for you. He sighed.
At that moment, he heard the creak of a bolt on the other side of the room. His heart froze. "It must be the pirate," he thought. "He must be coming back!" Then another thought assailed him. "And he's bound to notice that everything's missing!"
Edward made an instantaneous and desperate decision: he would hide under the pirate's bed. "He'll never think to look there," he thought, scrambling for the bed. Unfortunately, he was too late.
The door opened, and Captain Tussaud entered and spotted him immediately. "Hello!" he cried. "Who in the name of Davy Jones is this?!"
Edward, who was half underneath the bed, pulled his head and shoulders out, stood up sneezing -- Gaston Tussaud apparently was no fan of cleaning under his bed, as there was years worth of dust underneath his -- and stared at the pirate. Then, his courage returned. "Alright Pound, time to meet the Dog!" he declared as threateningly as he could muster. Then he paused. "Wait," he said, "that's wrong...I meant, 'Alright dog, time to meet the pound!'"
Captain Tussaud stared at him blankly for a few moments, and then burst into uproarious laughter.
Edward frowned and flushed. Alright, so he had made a tiny mistake; it wasn't very nice of this stinking pirate to mock him like that...
As if in response to Edward's expression, the pirate laughed even more uproariously, and without ceasing.
"Cut it out already!" Edward demanded after a few minutes of non-stop laughter. "Prepare to meet your doom, pirate scum!"
Although Edward had hardly thought it possible, the pirate's laughter grew in intensity. His dancing eyes were almost buried underneath his cheeks, and his mouth was one gigantic grin.
Just as he had almost lost patience, and was about to attack the other man, Edward started. The pirate's face had gone from ruddy mirth to pallid shock; his hand clutched at his heart, and he stood frozen like a stone for several moments. Then his eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell forward with a tremendous thud.
Edward blinked, not quite sure what had happened. Then, slowly, timidly, he approached the pirate, and prodded him with a kick to the shoulders. The mass did not budge, but remained quite still.
"Dear me!" Edward thought. "He's dead! But how?!" Then he remembered how the other man had clutched his heart. "A heart attack?" he wondered, frowning.
At that moment, a colossal banging at the door roused him from his reflections with a start. A gruff voice demanded, "Cap'n? You alright, sir?" Silence followed, and Edward was not sure what to do. Then,
"We're coming in, sir!"
Edward didn't need a second warning. He took to his heels, toppling everything that lay in his path, including the captain's writing table and lit candles, and made his way to the balcony. Shifting his now extraordinarily heavy pillowcase behind him, he made a running leap for the pier.
He landed on the stone with a smash and a rush of agony in his elbows and knees that replaced any memory of the pain he'd felt in leaping onto the ship.
He lay utterly dazed and in a state of semi-consciousness for several minutes. Then, groaning and only vaguely aware of shouts and a peculiar cackling noise behind him, he drew himself up. "It must be almost morning," he observed, noting that the pier was illuminated in a reddish glow. Turning toward the Marie Elena, he was frozen in place as he saw that the entire vessel was engulfed in flames.
Of fools and thieves we sings,
Who come and take our things,
Robbing from the beggars and poor,
Always wanting more and more.
-- Imperial City beggars' song, after a recent rash of robberies against the homeless
Chapter Thirty
Edward and his valet had remained in the Imperial City for a few weeks. Ostensibly, this delay was a show of Edward's kindness to his faithful retainer, so that the latter could pursue his thieving missions, but realistically it was a chance for the former to recover from his various injuries.
Which isn't to say, of course, that Edward sat about lazily doing nothing the entire time they were in the city; no indeed! He only spent most of it lazing about; but the few hours a day every couple of days that he felt an urge of ambition (or the pang of jealousy, in comparing his servant's extremely successful endeavors to his own less notable ones), he would try his hand at thieving. So it was that there was not a beggar in the city who had not noticed something missing when he returned to his bedroll; so it was that there was not a church or chapel nearby without a story of something vanishing; so it was that the story of a strange pilgrim who carried a heavy, worn bag and traveled throughout the city leaving a trail of gems and cheap silverware behind him was born.
Near the end of their stay, Edward had learnt that his valet's fence was not in the Imperial City , but in Bruma. This had angered Edward, who had no desire to travel to a hub of barbarians, as he termed the Nord city. This in turn prompted his valet to volunteer to take the goods himself and return in a week's time with their payment.
Edward had approved this solution, and so relinquished his treasure horde -- only after meticulously listing out every item, and preparing a copy of the list for himself and his valet, along with space for his valet to record how much each item had sold for. Then, having only one horse between them, they had had to rent another horse to transport Edward's sizable stash. Edward had grumbled, but eventually forked over the 40 gold necessary for the rental.
Now, six and a half days later, Edward waited eagerly for his valet to return. The minutes seemed to drag by like hours as he awaited the arrival of his horde of gold, but, finally, he saw his valet from his hotel window. Racing down the stairs, two steps at a time, he rushed out to meet the other man.
"You're back!" he shouted exuberantly.
"Yes sir," the valet replied, smiling.
"Excellent, excellent! And how was your journey?" he asked, thinking it best not to appear too terribly eager, despite the fact that he was, in truth, that eager.
"Oh, very good sir. The mountains were a bit of rough going, particularly for the horses...yours especially seemed hardly to be able to move under all your stuff, but he made it eventually. And then we did have a run-in with wolves as we neared the Jerall mountains, but that wasn't as exciting as our run-in with the bandits. You'll never believe what happened, but -"
"Yes, yes," Edward interrupted, unable to contain himself any longer. "I don't care about any of that. I just want to know about my loot!"
The valet cleared his throat, looked rather uncomfortable, and declared, "We'd better go in before discussing that, sir."
Edward protested, but the other man was unmovable, so at last he assented, complaining all the while. Once seated in their quarters at the inn, Edward repeated his query. "So, what about my loot? How much did I make?"
"Well, sir, I'm afraid that didn't turn out so well," the valet returned.
"Didn't turn out so well??" Edward demanded, his eyes coloring in suspicion. "What do you mean?"
"Well, sir, your haul didn't sell for as much as...well, as much as we might hope."
Edward's suspicion was now full blown; he was sure that his valet had either been gypped by a conniving fence, or was attempting to gyp him of his well deserved profits. "How much is 'not as much'?"
"Well, sir," the valet replied, shifting very uncomfortably in his seat, "35 gold."
Edward's eyes nearly bulged out of his head, and he began gesticulating wildly, finding it very difficult to put his fury to words.
"I have the complete rundown of everything," his valet hastened to add, "just like you said." Reaching into a leather bag at his side, he pulled out the piece of paper. "You see, most of the things you had, sir, no fence will buy...yarn...shears...things like that. So I had to find alternate buyers. I found a clothes maker for your yarn, and, after a lot of finagling, convinced her to buy it. Turns out that people either make their own yarn or trade it for goods," he explained.
Edward blinked stupidly, trying to understand, but having difficulty. He had collected such a glorious collection of yarn, of so many shades and colors, so many weights and materials, how could someone not buy it? "How much?" he managed to articulate. "How much did you get for it?"
The valet cleared his throat, shifted uncomfortably again, and replied, "Well sir, I was able to convince her to give me 5 gold for it."
Edward grasped at his heart, certain that such news would stop its beating. "Five gold?!" he breathed. "Five gold, for my lovely horde?!"
"Yes sir, I'm afraid so," the valet answered.
"What about my pottery? And my shears? What about all the parchment? The silverware? The dinner sets?"
The valet shifted again. "Well, as I say, sir, it's all meticulously recorded, as you requested. But, regarding the particulars, the story was the same with the shears. No one is interested in buying them. I eventually found a metal worker who agreed to purchase the lot to melt down, but there was no one else interested."
"And how much?" Edward asked, afraid to know the answer.
The valet sighed. "Five gold, sir."
Edward's eyes bulged again. He had sweated, slaved, persevered lugging around pound upon pound of metal shears, day after day, for a mere measly five gold??
"And," the valet hurried on, "the pottery you had was in...well, very poor condition, sir, and nobody was really interested, except..." Here he trailed off, and seemed almost afraid to continue.
"Except?" Edward demanded. "Except who??"
"Well, sir, a health inspector happened to be passing by one day as I was trying to make a sale, and he noticed one of your pots...it was particularly dirty and unpleasant. He insisted on performing a test on it, and turns out it was covered in some rather disgusting decay. So he...well, he confiscated the whole collection of pottery, and charged a 15 gold fee for the cost of proper disposal."
This news was too much for Edward, who sagged back into his chair despairingly.
"But don't worry sir," the valet interjected, "I paid for it out of my own profits."
Edward glared at him. "Profits?!" he demanded. "You said I made 35 gold -- that's less than it cost me to rent a horse to get the stuff there! -- and you made profits?!"
The valet cleared his throat. "Well, a little, sir."
"How much is a little?" Edward demanded, his eyes blazing.
The valet shifted. "Well, sir, I can't remember exactly..."
Edward rose, inarticulate but furious, gesturing wildly and demanding, in broken, rather profane, language, to be answered.
"Well, a little over a thousand gold," the valet finally confessed.
Edward fell backwards into his seat, stunned. This man, his servant -- his lowly servant! -- had made almost thirty times as much as him! "But you had so little!" Edward protested. "My horse was loaded down, and yours just had a small bag on it!"
"Yes sir, but I found some very valuable items."
Edward glared at him. "Where is my list?!" he demanded. "Give it to me!"
His valet hastened to comply. Edward scanned the list.
Yarn (20 lbs) - 5 gold
Shears (150 lbs) - 5 gold
Pottery (20 pieces) - (-15 gold, paid by me)
Parchment (5000 sheets) - 2 gold
Paintbrushes (150) - 1 gold
Dinnerware (100 pieces) - 20 gold
Artwork (5 pieces) - 2 gold
Total 35 gold (not counting fine)
Edward started to cry.
The letter from the Gray Fox was huge! But one of my fave of all chapters - Edward and the Pirate Captain - I can never get enough of that chapter !!! ROFL !!!
One of my favorite parts of the entire story is when the valet sells Edward's stuff for him.
Gaston Tussaud's fate is just as likely for some of us readers!
And of course the varlet/valet is a better thief than our hapless hero, as well as a better haggler!
These chapters truly highlight the vapidity that so characterizes our beloved (!) Edward.
Thanks for the comments all!
@mALX: Thanks...I love that chapter too...I remember wondering how I was going to kill Tussaud off...and it seemed such a fitting way for Edward to do it, and just in line with his glorious career of killing-by-stupidity. ![]()
@treydog: re: anti-charisma...LOL. Good observation.
As for the Nirnroot...as someone who accidentally "sampled" more than a few harmful ingredients when I started playing, I just * had * to have Edward do that. ![]()
@sford: Thanks...I almost killed myself with laughter while writing that...glad to see others enjoyed it too. ![]()
@haute ecole reader: LOL. re: Tussaud's fate...I hope not! Although it's almost been my fate, too, once or twice, dreaming up wacky things for Edward to do.
@All...just to let you know, I may not be posting much more this week...I have training for the babies (the pups...lol...getting Care Bear ready for her first obedience trial...fingers crossed!) tomorrow, a department-wide potluck at work the next day that I just know I'm going to get roped into helping with, and then I'm on call this weekend as we move a bunch of servers...and that while relatives are coming over (although, depending on who shows up, getting called into work on the weekend won't be such a bad thing. But you didn't hear that from me
) ... so...if I'm not around for awhile, it's probably one of those things...or catching my breath in between, lol. ![]()
Their busy days and a hundred ways,
Watch the world continue on its course
Though the promise looms of darker days
But, oh, things will get so much worse...
-- Mehrunes Dagon, contemplating the future
Chapter Thirty-One
Edward had sulked for the rest of the day, refusing to acknowledge his valet's existence. He had tried to convince himself that his servant had cheated him, but, this failing, he had determined to simply ignore the man. When the valet tactfully absented himself, rather than feeling relieved, Edward felt even angrier. Not only had the man most unfairly outdone him, but now he removed himself so as to avoid the well-deserved wrath he should be showered in.
When Edward at last settled in to sleep, he found that sleep eluded him. He was angry, sulky and unsure of how to avenge himself on his servant -- and the latter tormented his mind for many hours. At last, however, he settled on a plan.
He rose early the next morning, paid his tab, packed his bags without waking his valet, and exited the inn. For a minute, he considered stealing his servant's horse, but decided against it; not that he would have objected to robbing the valet, to be sure, but he couldn't stand the idea of depending on anything belonging to "that man".
Therefore, bright and early, Edward set out on his own, heading for Cheydinhal. After all, he had successfully completed his assignment, and he had a payment to collect. "I have my own stuff to do," he thought, "and I've already wasted enough time pandering to the needs of that ridiculous servant of mine...ex-servant!"
With a grim smile, he decided that his disappearance would be the best possible punishment for the wayward valet. "And," he couldn't help admitting to himself with a sense of guilty pleasure, "he'll never see a penny's worth of pay from me!" Although this tended to tarnish the otherwise stainless revenge he'd planned, his practical side won out over the idealistic side; which is to say that his quest for pure vengeance, at least as he defined it, was second to his miserliness.
The beauty of the cruel deprivation of his company waned, however, as he trudged along his way. The morning was warm, and promised to grow hotter, and he was not terribly fond of exercise as it was, much less so such a long trudge as he was now embarked on. Huffing, puffing, sighing, sweating and feeling terribly sorry for himself, Edward walked in solitude for two hours. It was then that he heard the sounds of rapid hoofbeats on the road behind him. His first instinct was to pull off the road immediately. "But then," he thought despairingly, "perhaps I would be better to stay here...to end it all by being dashed to pieces under a horse's hooves, rather than continue in this futile, painful, degrading existence." The mental image, however, of actually being dashed to pieces under a horse's hooves quickly decided him, and he hurried off the path to wait for the rider to pass.
As the hooves neared, he divined that there were two horses at least. "Too much noise for one," he thought.
Sure enough, in a few moments, two horses appeared over the hilltop. Edward started. There were two horses, but only one rider -- and that rider was his valet!
The other man reined his horse to a halt near Edward. "Sir!" he exclaimed, dismounting. "I figured you had started on your way."
Edward felt elated that he was no longer alone, particularly when he saw that the other man had brought an extra horse. But his pride refused to acknowledge the sentiment, so, instead, he glared at the valet. "What are you doing here?"
"Following you, sir."
Edward's glare turned to a frown. He couldn't understand this...in all truth, he had been rude and discourteous -- and, to top it off, remiss in actually paying the man's wages. Why, in the name of heaven, would he follow him here? "Why?" he asked at last.
"Well, it's my job sir!" the valet answered, in a tone that seemed to indicate that the answer was self-evident.
Edward's frown deepened. "Well, how did you get another horse?" he asked and last. "And what for?"
"For you, of course, sir," the valet replied. "And I bought it."
Edward stared at the other man, attempting to ascertain if he was sincere. Seeing that he was, he then wondered if his servant was mad. Not only did he put up with his master's temperamental, even -- though he was loath to admit it -- absurd, antics, and all without pay, but now he was spending his own money to buy a horse for said annoying master?
"Well, come on, sir," the valet said. "Aren't you going to mount? It's much faster riding to Cheydinal than walking."
Edward shook his head, not quite sure of what to say, but took the reins from his valet's outstretched hand. The man was mad, he concluded, but at least he was loyal. Plus, though he hated to admit it, he seemed to be a pretty good thief, which just might come in handy some day.
Oh, I just had a flash of Edwards list of people to kill - and his valet was like at the top of the list! SPEW! Slowly the nameless valet will train Edward, ROFL! A great chapter, and good luck with the obedience trials !!
Thanks, mALX...I've got a little while before the trial yet, but this is the class that gets her ready for it...
As for "the list"...good grief, I think just about everyone Edward meets would wind up on it, lol
An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. Unless you're talking the emperor's death, in which case no prevention is worth a nice shiny amulet...
-- Musings of Edward
Chapter Thirty-Two
After his misadventure upon discovering the hideout, Edward was able to navigate his way from memory, without mishap. Even the door didn't give him a problem, as he remembered the password.
Remembering that Antionetta Marie might be around, he drew himself up tall, puffed out his chest, and sauntered coolly inside, as nonchalant as can be. Nonchalant, that is, with the exception of his eyes, which roamed quickly around the room, back and forth, attempting to locate the girl. Exhaling, and slipping into his comfortable if not impressive stance, he sighed. Not only was Antionetta not around, no one was around!
Then, all at once, a side door grated open. Edward spun around, and, seeing Vicente and Antionetta emerge, planned to return to his previous stance. But he abandoned this idea as their eyes had already located him. Instead, he smiled as coolly as possible, which was not very coolly. Somehow, he wasn't sure how, this girl always managed to surprise him, and leave him feeling goofy and awkward rather than charming and impressive.
"Edmund!" Vicente greeted.
"Edward," Edward corrected.
"Right," Vicente agreed. "But you're back!"
"Ummm, yeah," Edward agreed weakly. He wanted to say something funny, something witty to impress Antionetta, who was approaching with Vicente, but couldn't think of anything.
"And no cobwebs this time!" Antionetta observed.
Edward flushed.
"So," Vicente declared, ignoring his companion's remark, "I heard about your venture." He frowned. "Was it really necessary to burn him to death?"
Edward blinked. "What?" Then he remembered the ship going up in flames, no doubt from the candle that he had knocked over during his hasty retreat. "Oh, no, he was already dead," he hastened to explain.
"Really?" Vicente asked, clearly relieved. "You killed him before setting the ship alight?"
This was a puzzler, because, though the man was in truth dead before the fire, it wasn't at Edward's hand. But he decided to reply in the affirmative, as the pirate had died laughing at him, so he had in some way contributed to his death. "Yes, quite," he answered.
"Oh, good," Vicente said. "You understand, despite the fact that the people we deal with are often cruel and terrible killers, we are not in the business of cruelty; we're in the business of justice and retribution."
Edward shifted. He always felt thoroughly nervous and ill at ease when people started talking about justice. "Yes, quite," he repeated. "I, umm, just thought that that would, umm, add a deeper, err, psychological impact on his fellow pirates by, uhh, burning the ship down after killing him."
"Interesting theory," Vicente smiled. "But, I guess you're ready for your reward."
Now Edward smiled too, as the other man handed him a bag of gold. Something like a hiss of disgust passed from Antionetta's lips. He glanced up at her, but her expression was unchanged.
"And, what's more," Vicente said, passing him a ring, "as a reward for such a good job, you might find this useful. It's an enchanted ring that provides armor and security enhancements, and resistance to magic."
Edward smiled broadly, putting the ring on.
"So, are you ready for a new assignment?" Vicente asked.
"Of course!"
"Good. Our next one's a tricky one. We're going to 'arrange an accident' for an old man who previously 'arranged an accident' for his brother, thereby leaving the dispossessed son of the murdered brother to come into his rightful inheritance."
Edward frowned. "You mean...somebody killed his brother to rob him, and now we're going to kill the murderous brother so that the son of the murdered brother can inherit what the murdering brother stole from the murdered brother?"
Vicente blinked, as if absorbing the convoluted statement, and then nodded.
"Oh...well, it's simple when you put it my way."
"Anyway," Vicente continued, "the target is a wood elf named Baenlin. Now -- and this is very important -- he has an innocent manservant working for him, a man called Gromm. Gromm is absolutely devoted to his employer, so he will kill you if he sees you trying to harm him; he is innocent, though, and has no idea of Baelin's true nature. So be very careful that no harm comes to him."
Edward sighed. "Very well." These rules really were crazy, he thought, but as long as he got paid...
"Now, Baelin lives in Bruma," Vicente continued.
"Ugh!" Edward exclaimed. "Bruma?"
Vicente blinked in the face of his outrage. "Yes, Bruma."
"You mean...I have to sully my hands killing someone in that fortress of barbarity, that realm of savages?" Edward asked, recoiling in disgust.
Cold as the frozen tundra
Treacherous and icy indeed
Beware he who'd make a false step
Of this vengeful heart of mine.
-- Praise of Edward, written by Edward
Chapter Thirty-Three
A very huffy Edward had made the arduous journey, accompanied by his faithful retainer, to Bruma. While Edward was positively disgusted that he had to venture to a city of primitives, as he thought of Bruma, his valet was exuberant. Apparently, he had had some very good fortune thieving while Edward was meeting up with fellow assassins; so good, in fact, that the Cheydinhal castle was under redoubled security from that day forward.
Though he had mostly gotten over the stark difference between his valet's success and his failure as a thief, the other man's eagerness, and the clear reason for it, still served to aggravate him.
Furthermore, being a midlander, Edward was unaccustomed to the frigid temperatures of the Jerall mountains; and, being a snob, he had never ventured to the "barbarous northern regions", so was completely unprepared for the frigidity that awaited him. His valet, thankfully, had prepared ahead, and brought several cloaks and blankets, all of which he surrendered to Edward. Regardless, Edward's teeth still chattered nonstop throughout the journey, and he shook at times so hard that he almost fell off his horse. Finally, when the gates of Bruma came into sight, he was so relieved at the prospect of a warm bed and a lit fireplace that he almost forgot his revulsion at the thought of sojourning amongst such barbarians.
Surrendering their horses outside the gates of the city, Edward and his valet headed inside. Edward was nearly frozen stiff by time they reached the Jerall View Inn. "This is a very nice place, sir," his valet told him. "It's a little bit more expensive than Olav's Tap and Tack, but the beds are much nicer and it's much warmer."
Edward nodded his head, which just caused his teeth to chatter more. He stood aside as his valet took care of the business -- in actuality, he abandoned the other man and ran as fast as his shaking legs would take him to the lit fireplace -- and then, very reluctantly, headed toward his room as the valet returned.
"Well sir," the valet said, "the good news is that we've got a very nice room with a beautiful fire."
Edward nodded, barely aware of the man's words as he was led to the room.
The valet opened the door, stood aside to let Edward in, and then followed. "The bad news," he continued, "is that there were no other rooms available in the inn."
Edward managed to rouse himself from his stupor of cold, and glance up at his servant. "So?" he asked, teeth chattering. "You said there was another inn in town. You can go there."
"Well sir," the valet said, "actually, there are no rooms available at Olav's Tap and Tack, either."
Edward frowned at him. "How do you know?"
"Because, sir...the guy in front of me was grumbling about paying more for his room here, and saying that there were no rooms available anywhere because of the mage's conference here in town. And then the proprietor said that this was his last room, too."
Edward's frown deepened. "Well, surely..." he protested, looking about. Even if he would endure the indignity of sharing a room with his servant, he certainly would not endure the humiliation of sharing the same bed -- even if it was a large double bed, like this one. "I suppose you could always sleep outside somewhere..." he mused aloud. "There's got to be some shelter somewhere, where it's mostly out of the wind or something...I mean, I suppose they have homeless people and beggars here, and that must be what they do..."
His valet cleared his throat significantly. "Well, sir, not to put too fine a point on it, but...the room is rented in my name, and I paid for it myself."
Edward stared at him blankly, still shivering as he stood by the fireplace. "Yes?" he asked.
"Well, sir, I think I will be sleeping inside tonight. I would be glad to share my room with you, if you like -- after all, I would hate to see you out there looking for shelter, particularly when it doesn't sound like there's any to be had in Bruma this evening."
Edward stared at him with a mixture of exhaustion-induced apathy and pride-induced anger. "Of all the insolence!" he managed to say at length.
The valet nodded. "Thank you, sir."
Fire at the Harbor!
In yet another astonishing revelation, coming close on the heels of so many other shocking occurrences in our city, we report a disastrous night for the Marie Elena, the frequent visitor of our illustrious harbor. As our reader may recall, the Marie Elena was long purported -- but never proved -- to be a pirate vessel. In yet unexplained circumstances, the ship spontaneously erupted into flame and burnt into wreckage that promptly sank to the bottom of the bay. The cause of this incident is as yet unknown, although some witnesses did report seeing a darkly clad figure skulk away from the wreckage. The veracity of these stories, however, is called into question by the inebriation of the tellers. As a result, the conflagration and ensuing disaster is officially listed as "Fire and sinking, under suspicious circumstances." A reward is being offered for any further information relating to this incident.
--Black Horse Courier, Special news Bulletin
Chapter Thirty-Four
Edward tossed again. He was wrapped in about ten blankets, which he'd had a very difficult time securing from the none-too-accommodating proprietor, and he still felt thoroughly chilled. Furthermore, he couldn't get over his aggravation at having to sleep beside a servant -- much less a servant who had no difficulty getting to sleep wrapped in a single blanket, while he struggled to sleep even under a mountain of them. And, to make it even worse, every once in a while his valet would snore.
Now, his occasional snore was not terribly offensive or terribly loud; it wasn't that that annoyed Edward. No, it was the mere fact that he, Edward, should have to sleep beside a snoring servant that boiled his blood. "Disgusting," he thought again and again, poking his valet hard with every soft snore while declaring loudly, "Stop snoring! You're keeping me awake!"
After the third time, the valet muttered something inaudible, gathered his pillow and blanket, and lay down to sleep on the bench at the far end of the room. Edward congratulated himself heartily at this, thinking that, finally, his efforts had paid off -- though he was still sharing a room with his servant, at least he didn't have to suffer the humiliation of sharing a bed with his hired help.
Then he started shivering, and was all at once cursing his wayward servant anew. Instead of generating heat at his side, when the other man had gone, he'd left Edward exposed to the cold night air -- as exposed as one can be fully dressed in heavy clothes and under ten blankets, at least.
His teeth began chattering again, and he hunkered down under his coverings, certain that he would freeze to death before morning. "Then, at least, this will all be over," he consoled himself. "Damn this barbarian outpost and its frigid nights and full inns and stupid mages' conferences and insolent servants and...”
Lulling himself to sleep with a barrage of people and things that he'd like to damn, Edward dozed at last. He slept relatively peacefully, having only the occasional dream of dying a slow death on a frozen tundra with a barbarian outpost just ahead, just beyond where the last reaches of his strength could push him.
He woke the next morning feeling quite stiff, as though he had, in fact, partially frozen, and quite cold, as if evidence of the first supposition. His first instinct upon waking in such discomfort was to berate his servant, though for what he wasn't quite sure.
"Hogging the bed?" he wondered. No, that was a dangerous one to bring up, particularly in light of the fact that Edward had pushed him practically off the edge of the bed, and then had later forced him out by hitting or poking him whenever he snored. "Ahh!" he thought, "that's it! The snoring!" Yes, that would be perfect.
Already imagining the tale of lost sleep and discomfort with which he'd assault his valet, he stopped short as he glanced at the bench on the opposite side of the room. There was the man's pillow, and a blanket folded up very neatly, but where was he?
Edward frowned deeply. His servant's blanket had been an extremely thin one, and it aggravated him intensely that the other man was able to survive the cold with so little protection while it bothered him so substantially. "honoured user," he thought. "And where in Oblivion is he?" Edward was feeling very peevish that morning, and it annoyed him more than he could coherently express that his paid subordinate...alright, his pay-deferred subordinate would just up and leave without asking permission. Not that, of course, Edward would have wanted to be woken to be asked something like that; but he conveniently ignored such facts when it suited him to do so, and it suited him now. "Well," he thought, "I've half a mind to fire that man! Just who does he think he is?"
At that moment, the door opened, and the valet and one of the inn's servants entered, carrying breakfast food. "I'm not sure if he's awake yet," the valet was saying, "so bring in some strong coffee please. He's got a long day ahead of him."
"Yes sir," the third man agreed.
Edward frowned as a host of delicious aromas assailed his nostrils. Somebody, at least, in this town of savages could cook.
"Ahh!" the valet greeted. "You're awake, sir!"
Edward nodded warily. He was suspicious of his valet's motives in acting as though nothing was amiss when he felt a nagging sense (was it the pangs of conscience?) that things were not well.
The valet, however, deftly set down his tray on the stand near Edward's bed, and then directed that the other tray be set on his bench. He watched as the third man left the room and shut the door, and then turned to Edward.
"I'm glad you were awake, sir," he said, "because I came across some intelligence that might prove very helpful to you on your mission."
I remembered this chapter, the second I heard he was going to Bruma I couldn't wait to read the next one! I love this part:
Hilarious as aslways
I cracked up at the comparison of heat/cold tolerance between Edward and his valet.
How many married couples and college dorm roommates can appreciate this??
Best wishes for all endeavors, especially with the pups. No worries about light posting- we are all addicts and will wait doggedly (if not patiently) for our Edward fix.
As usual, Edward’s concept of “revenge” had me snortling- “I know. I’ll run away from home! That’ll show him!”
Only to have his tasty vengeance (and plan to avoid paying wages) turned sour by the valet’s unfathomable loyalty.
@all, thanks for the comments, and thanks much for your patience! The weekend ended up turning out to be less hectic than it might have been...so I actually have a little time to post some more!!
He bemoans the ignorance and stupidity of his courier
Yet t'was he who chose the fool, was it not?
We cannot say whether it's the messenger or the worrier
Who is the greater of fools, for we know not.
-- The Eight Divines, speaking of the Ninth
Chapter Thirty-Five
Edward sat down, munching on a piece of toast as the inn's servant poured two cups of coffee. After he was gone, Edward took one, and offered the other to his valet. A little bit of civility, he thought, wouldn't hurt, particularly when his valet apparently had information that might make his job easier. "The easier the job, the sooner I'll be able to leave; and the sooner I leave, the sooner I'll be home, in a civilized climate amongst civilized people," he thought.
"Well, sir," the valet said, pausing to sip his coffee, "I was paying an early morning visit to my fence, and I happened to run into Gromm -- you know, the fellow who works for Baenlin."
Edward nodded, munching loudly on his toast.
"Well, he was out early too, and he was also visiting my fence."
Edward blinked. "He'sh a thief?" he asked, his mouth full of food.
"No," the valet returned. "Not a thief...it's just that my fence conducts business at all hours, unlike most shopkeepers."
Edward frowned. "Well, what short of bushinesh did he have to do?" He still wasn't convinced that Gromm wasn't a thief, as the business of a fence was dealing with thieves and buying and selling stolen goods.
"Well sir, he was looking for a new length of sturdy rope."
Edward's frown intensified, and he was sure now that Gromm was some sort of criminal. "Rope? What for?"
"Well," the valet answered, "this is where things get really interesting...you see, he was saying that his master has a giant trophy head over his chair, and that he -- Gromm -- had recently noticed that the rope fastening it to the wall had started to fray. His master hadn't been terribly concerned, but it bothered Gromm so much that he decided to go get some rope before Baenlin got up, and his daily duties began."
"Yesh?" Edward asked as he took another bite, having abandoned both his idea that Gromm was a criminal ("just a sap," he thought), as well as his interest in pursuing the matter any further.
"My fence didn't have any rope!" the valet answered excitedly.
This didn't interest him at all, as he could see no point to his servant's eagerness, so Edward sighed wearily. Unfortunately, with a mouth full of toast, his sigh turned into a coughing and wheezing fit as the rush of exhaled air pushed toast crumbs up into and out of his nostrils.
After several minutes of coughing and his eyes tearing up while his concerned valet did everything he could to assist -- which, admittedly, wasn't much, once he ascertained what the difficulty was -- Edward regained himself. "Well," he snapped, his eyes still glistening with tears, "what in Oblivion does any of this have to do with me?!"
"Don't you see, sir?" the valet asked. "Since none of the other shops were open, and he had to get back before his master woke, the problem hasn't been fixed!"
Edward closed his eyes, his nasal passages still flaming, and his temper not far behind. "Yes, I'm not stupid, I get that!" he exclaimed, his efforts at a calm response failing miserably. "But so what? How does that help me?!"
The valet blinked, as if the answer seemed crystal clear, but then, in a very civil tone, explained, "Well sir, your job is to arrange an accident, correct? What more perfect than this? Gromm has already identified the problem, his master has dismissed it, and he hasn't had time to address it. If you were to manage to drop the head on Baenlin while he was sitting underneath, I'm sure you'd kill him -- as Gromm fears. Then, it would indeed look like an accident!"
Edward's impatience waned only slightly. "I still don't see how that's of much use to me," he complained. "I mean, how am I supposed to drop the head on him without Gromm seeing me?"
The valet blinked. "Well, sir, I have no idea...but, seeing as how this is your province, I figured you'd be able to figure something out."
Edward blinked at him in return, somewhat rebuffed by the statement. He wanted to snap back a smart comment, but held his peace; his valet had a point, didn't he? He was supposed to be the expert at this sort of thing, after all. "But," he said slowly, not quite sure what else to say, "that's not really my style, you see?"
"Oh," the valet returned, clearly disappointed.
"But," Edward ventured, "I'll be sure to keep it in my mind while I, umm, draw up my strategy...tactics...plans...all that."
The rivers turn to ice,
And the mountains shiver and frown
But the people are nice,
In this faraway and foreign little town.
-- Ode to Bruma
Chapter Thirty-Six
As stupid as his valet's suggestion had seemed to him at first, the more Edward thought about it, the more it sounded like the only logical way to go about the matter. After all, Vicente had practically forbade him to kill Gromm; and, by all accounts, Gromm was hardly someone Edward would want to -- indeed, could -- fight. Furthermore, Baenlin was a murderer, and a cruel and callous one at that. He had killed his own brother, hadn't he, to steal his property -- and rob his own nephew in the process? He might be old, but that didn't necessarily mean he couldn't fight. "After all," Edward thought, "this is a land of barbarians...these primitives are killing each other before they crawl...they probably don't age like normal, civilized people, either...they probably don't grow into nice, mildly annoying, partially deaf people who cut in front of you in line after you've been waiting for forty-five minutes just to buy one stinking roll, then take the last roll in the whole damn bakery, and then can't even hear you when you cuss them out!" Edward broke off from that train of thoughts, realizing that his teeth were clenched and his hands were instinctively clutching out and throttling the thin air in front of him. He blinked, straightened his ruffled outfit -- his clothes had been mussed in his murder of the phantom elderly man he'd imagined -- and resumed his original line of thought. "Anyway, in this primitive place, the old men are probably a bunch of hardened warriors who would as soon slice you in two as look at you." He sighed. "The only possible thing for me to do is kill 'im without him suspecting...and that minotaur head sounds as good as anything else." He frowned. "But how oh how am I going to loose it without him knowing??"
Edward's frown intensified. "Well," he mused, "I suppose I should do a little reconnaissance. If I could just get into the house under some innocent pretext..."
Then Edward's face lit up as an idea struck him. He would go to Baenlin's house, pretend to be a repairman, gain access to the trophy, and drop it then. Smiling at his own brilliance, Edward donned his coat and headed out of the inn. No sooner had he done this than he regretted the action; a cold, wintery blast of air greeted him in the traditional Bruma way. "What kind of savages could live here?" he wondered, shaking immediately. "And what is it with naming inns for things that they're not near and can't be seen from? Jerall View Inn my foot! You can't see the mountains from here!" Shaking his head in distaste at the stupidity of these foreign primitives, he set out for Baenlin's house.
"If I built an inn," he thought as he trudged along, "I would call it something interesting, something important...like the Prince Edward Inn ...or the Royal Family Suites...something that makes sense, not something like 'Jerall View Inn' when you can't see the darned mountains from the stupid inn!"
He had trudged about for several minutes, shivering all the while, when he stopped, realizing that he had no idea where he was going. "Where is this Baenlin, anyway?" he wondered, frowning. There were houses all around him, and nothing to denote who lived where.
He reached a shaking hand into his pocket to retrieve a map, which he unrolled. He had marked the spot of Baenlin's house with an x, but it didn't help him much as he didn't know where he was in relation to anything else on the map.
"Excuse me sir," a voice interrupted his thoughts. Edward started, glancing up at the passing guard who was addressing him. "But can I help you?"
"Well, umm, yes, actually," Edward said, swallowing his fear of discovery. "You see, I was hired by, umm..." He froze, his mind blanking for an instant. "Gromm! Yes, Gromm -- you know, Master Baenlin's hired man -- to repair something ..."
"Oh!" the guard exclaimed. "You must be talking about the minotaur head trophy!"
Edward blinked. "Yes, that's right."
"Yes," the guard nodded. "Old Gromm's been quite upset about it...so he finally got someone to take a look at the thing, eh?"
Edward nodded weakly. If this was such a well known problem that a random guard knew about it, maybe dropping the head on Baenlin wasn't the wisest choice.
"Good, good," the guard continued, even as Edward continued to shiver violently. "He was telling old Ognar about it this morning, and Ognar happened to run into Arnora, and she happened to run into my missus, and, well..." Here he paused to laugh. "The rest is history."
"Yes, well, erm, that's very interesting," Edward managed.
"But, seeing as how you're looking at that map, you must be trying to find Baenlin's place?"
Edward nodded meekly. He had been hoping to find an excuse to slip away quietly, but that was impossible now.
The guard laughed uproariously at this. "You must be a foreigner, right?" He looked Edward up and down, "Yup, 'course you are...you've got that persnickety air and prissy fine skin, unused to the rigorous mountain winds and cold. No offense intended, of course."
Edward only chattered his teeth in response.
"Well, anyhow, you're standing in front of old Baenlin's place."
Wicked deceiver, constant liar,
Of your silly tricks you never tire
Little do you in your foolishness know
You tread the path the gods have you go.
-- Unattributed Song to Edward
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Luckily for Edward, the guard had introduced him to Gromm only as someone who had "come to take care of your minotaur problem." Edward had then been able, once the guard had left, to say that his valet had mentioned the issue to him, and that he had come to see if there was anything that he could do.
"Oh...well, that's very nice of you," Gromm answered. "But...are you qualified?"
Edward frowned at him. "My dear man," he said, "I'll have you know you are talking to the -- the! -- official decorator of the Imperial palace!"
"Oh!" Gromm declared, clearly impressed. "Well, what are you doing in Bruma?"
"I, umm, wanted a little vacation," Edward lied. "After the Emperor's tragic death and all that."
"Oh, I see," Gromm replied, adding a bit disbelievingly, "So you came to Bruma? For vacation?"
Too late, Edward realized the absurdity of his claim; but, now that it was made, he had to do the best he could. "Well, yes," he said, "you see, it was so depressing being in the warm, comfortable, flowery, beautiful midlands..."
Gromm stared at him quizzically. "Why?"
"Well," Edward hesitated, "because...well, because the Emperor died!"
Gromm's face softened. "Oh, I understand!" he said. "You were his servant!"
"Yes," Edward agreed. He wasn't quite sure where Gromm was going with this, but it had clearly and favorably altered the man's disposition, so he was willing to run with it.
"I quite understand," Gromm said, nodding his head solemnly. "A servant's job is a sacred one...and, when he loses his master, it's as if he loses his calling in life...his very reason for living!"
Edward nodded hastily, wondering at the same time what the man had been drinking. "Hell," he thought, "I'd probably be laughing that the fat honoured user met his maker before I did, even after all his years of living in ease and comfort while I slaved away to make him easy and comfortable!"
"Well then," Gromm declared, "I appreciate your kindly assistance. And you know where I'm coming from!"
"Oh, yes," Edward felt it necessary to say. "Indeed!"
"You see that head?" Gromm asked, pointing up at a giant minotaur head mounted on the wall. "And you see the seat under it, near the fireplace?"
"Yes."
"Well, my master likes to sit there and drink his wine after supper. And I've noticed that the rope that holds the head up is fraying. I'm just afraid that..." He broke off, his face ashen, as if afraid to say the words.
"I quite understand," Edward said, thinking that this servant must be extraordinarily superstitious, or else just plain old mad. "Well, leave it to me. I'll survey the situation, and then...umm, decide what needs to be done."
"Excellent," Gromm declared. "Although..." Here he hesitated. Lowering his voice confidentially, he whispered, "Please take care not to alert my master...you see, although he doesn't speak much of it to me, I gather that there are some evil men who would like to do him harm, and he is very suspicious as a result...he wouldn’t be happy with me if he knew that I let someone in to work on that."
Edward nodded knowingly. "I understand completely...you can never be too careful!"
"Yes," Gromm nodded. "And, of course, I'd forgotten that you'd know exactly what I mean, what with working for the Emperor and all."
"Exactly so," Edward smiled. "Just leave it to me."
The empire lays on the brink of chaos,
Mehrunes Dagon goes about his merry way
Meanwhile is the amulet bearer at a loss
To understand what he risks with such delay?
-- Musings of Friar Jauffre
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Edward sighed. He was crouched in a stuffy crawlspace, staring at old, fraying rope. What, exactly, he wondered, did that idiot Gromm expect him to do? This would be a two or three man job at least, to lower this head to the ground, replace the rope, and rehang it.
"Oh well," he thought, "it should be easy enough to drop it, at least...it looks like the darn thing might fall at any moment." With this, an idea came to him. "Hmm...suppose I just toy with the ropes a little bit, so that, by this evening -- when Baenlin sits down to drink his wine -- this'll all come crashing down." He smiled devilishly. "And I can just tell that pathetic, groveling servant of his that I'm going to get some fresh rope, and I'll be back later in the evening, once Baenlin is gone to bed." His smile widened, and he moved closer to the ropes.
"Hmm," he mused, seizing it and wiggling it back and forth -- at least, attempting to wiggle it, but not being able to budge the taut rope. At the same time, he heard a suspicious creaking sound, and felt the floor beneath him shift in a decidedly unpleasant fashion. Edward's eyes bulged. "Great gods!" he exclaimed. "Forget the rope...this crawlspace is about to collapse!"
Pulling backwards in order to expeditiously exit the wobbly structure, Edward gasped. His fingers were stuck in the rope. "No!" he thought, pulling violently to be free. The rope would not budge, but the wall to which it was attached shivered. Edward, feeling panic rising in him, began to flail and struggle like a wild animal in a trap. He was kicking and pulling and screaming to be loosed when, all at once, a tremendous groan issued from the wall; the next thing Edward knew, he was being hauled forward and downward, dragged by his fingers, which were caught in the rope – the rope that was attached to the wall, which was pulled downward by the minotaur head.
Certain beyond any hope that he was a dead man, Edward just closed his eyes, and waited for the worst. The worst did not come, however; instead, Edward landed with a crash on top of the wall remnants, which splintered fully on the minotaur head. Aside from decidedly unlucky contact between his head and a board, he was unscathed. That said, it was half an hour before Edward regained consciousness.
When he woke, he found himself in a cold stone cell, with a rough sleeping roll underneath him; he was only vaguely aware of these things as he groaned in agony and attempted to roll onto his side.
"Well," a voice greeted his agonized groaning, "you really did yourself in for some trouble."
Edward attempted a question, just as he attempted to look at the speaker, but he was in too much pain to do either.
"You needn't bother with the sympathy routine," the other speaker informed him matter-of-factly. "Trust me, I've tried it...they don't care here. We're the prisoners -- as far as they're concerned, if we're not suffering, they're not doing their job."
Edward tried to ask, "Whose 'they'?" Instead, he managed to gurgle something that sounded like a cat throwing up.
"'They'," the voice answered, "are the guards. And 'we' are the prisoners."
Edward's contorted face contorted further. Somehow, he knew he would end up in prison, even though he didn't know how or why. It was his luck, or lack thereof.
"I'm in here for theft...but you..." The other prisoner clucked his tongue. "Impersonating the royal decorator? Pulling down half of old Baenlin's house?" He clucked again.
"He's not dead then?" Edward managed to gasp.
"Dead? Well, what else, when a foot longer splinter pierces your head? A piece of your debris went flying into the poor man, and killed him instantly. Gromm would have killed you on the spot, if the guards hadn't heard the noise and come running." The other prisoner laughed. "To think, you're actually safer in here than you would be free." He laughed again.
Edward frowned, but did not dare to move enough to look at the other man; his pain was at a manageable level now, and he did not want to risk exacerbating his problems. "I don't understand; I was only trying to help."
This declaration was met with laughter. "Bah! You were up to thieving!"
Edward groaned again, not from pain this time, but at the realization that he'd missed a golden opportunity to loot Baenlin's home.
"And, sadly for you -- and old Baenlin," the prisoner continued, laughing at his own wit, "you accidentally knocked the old attic down." He repeated his mocking clucking. "Old Baenlin should have taken better care of that place, than to let it rot like that. And you should have been smarter than to try such a lame scheme to infiltrate the house."
At that moment, the outer door to the dungeon scraped open, and light flooded the dark cells and hallway. A gruff voice called out, "Alright, get up...you're free to go."
"Me?!" the excited voice of Edward's cellmate asked.
"No, not you!" came the response. "You've still got six months to go!"
"But...but...this man is in here for murder!" the other prisoner gasped. "How come he goes free, and I stay here?"
"None of your nevermind, that's why!" the guard answered. "And you!" -- this to an unknown newcomer, standing silhouetted in the doorway -- "You collect this lunatic, and get him out of Bruma! Gromm's been pretty forgiving, but you never know, especially if he starts drinking...better to keep the loon out of here for a few months, until things cool down."
"Cool down?" Edward wondered aloud. He had been following the conversation as well as he was able, but the sudden flood of light had sent his senses swimming, and he hadn't been able to make much of anything that had been said since. "You mean, it actually gets colder here than it already is?"
The guard cleared his throat, shook his head, and unlocked Edward's cell. The other, unidentified man, came in, knelt beside Edward, and said in a very low tone, "Come with me, sir -- and please, don't say anything! I got them to let you out, but I had to give a cover story. Don't speak, please!"
Edward blinked in surprise. It was his valet, although, at least to his eyes, the man seemed surrounded by swirls of color...no, that was the entire room. "It's you!" he said. "You should have seen me! I was flying on a giant moose!" He blinked again. Everything was moving so oddly, like when you just wake up in the morning and open your eyes. He smiled. "No, this is a dream, isn't it? I'm not really in prison?"
"Come with me, sir," his valet said, lifting him to his feet. This last bit of movement sent a shock wave of pain through Edward's head, and he lost consciousness.
Our latest news bulletin comes all the way from Bruma, that remote and exotic Nordish town. Word came to us only today that a maniac, posing as the Royal Decorator, infiltrated a resident of the town, one Baelin's, home and, in a wildly improbable -- yet independently verified -- series of deceptions and bunglings, unwittingly managed to knock half of the poor man's home down. Unfortunately, Baenlin was killed in the accident. His killer survived and was taken to jail, but subsequently released -- before his name could be ascertained by our correspondent -- due to his madness. The infiltration, it would seem, was but a bout of insanity with which the poor lunatic has been plagued his entire life. He was released into the custody of his trusty manservant, and the pair shortly thereafter vacated their room at the Jerall View Inn. No more is known of the lunatic, but our sympathies in this tragedy go out to both he and Master Baenlin.
-- Black Horse Courier, Special News Bulletin
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Edward had not been dreaming; he had, in fact, been sent to prison for attempted theft resulting in accidental murder -- an oxymoronic term that Edward was able to make neither heads nor tails of. It was only when his valet had approached the guards, and told a peculiar, but, after Edward's antics, plausible, cover story that he had been released.
It had taken Edward several days to rest up to the point where he was well enough to consider embarking on their trip home, and he had not learnt the details of his surprising rescue until then. His valet, it turned out, had spun the none-too-flattering tale that he, Edward, was a mad nobleman, in the charge of his trusty caretaker. Edward, the valet had said, would imagine himself as all sorts of things. When the guards had been suspicious, and recounted Edward's story to Gromm, the valet had just shook his head. "Dear me," he'd said, "so now it's the royal decorator, is it?" He'd sighed, and added, "Before we came up here, he was the high priest of the temple of Julianos ." He'd shaken his head when he said this. "And before that, he was the ghost of the recently deceased arch mage...you've no idea what a job it is to convince an old lady that the madman running around in the cemetery, carrying the hearts of dead animals for his 'spells', and dressed in a long white gown declaring that he'll get revenge isn't actually a threat." One more sigh, and the valet had sealed the deal, even with Gromm, who was able to forgive a madman what he would not forgive a sane man. The guards were sympathetic, but happy to have the lunatic out of their prison. Edward, as a result of his injuries, was not in his right senses for a while, and so fit their idea of a madman perfectly. So it was that Edward and his valet were able to make an escape from Bruma.
Despite the fact that his life had been saved, Edward was not entirely pleased with his valet's explanation; but he decided it was best not to quarrel with the man who had rescued him in his hour of dire need. So, they made their way back to the midlands, and back to Cheydinhal.
There was little conversation as they traveled, as both men were lost in thought. Edward's mind had returned to the almost forgotten amulet that hung about his neck. "I've made a little bit hunting killers and causing accidents," he thought, "but I've also got the ever-loving-poo kicked out of myself in the process. Maybe I should just throw in the towel, pawn that sucker off, and live in comfort for the rest of my life." The idea appealed to him, and yet something made him hesitate. Through all his adventures and misadventures, it had always comforted him to know that he had something to fall back on, even if he met with failure in his other ventures. Was he ready to dispose of that security?
At that moment, his valet spoke. "Sir?" he said.
"Yes?" Edward asked.
"Sir, I've been thinking..." Here he trailed off, his brow furrowing in thought.
"Well, umm, good for you," Edward ventured sarcastically after a moment.
This comment drew the other man's attention, and he frowned at Edward. "What I mean, sir," he said, "is that I've been thinking about the Emperor's death."
It was Edward's turn to frown now. "Well, umm, what about it?" he asked, feigning nonchalance.
"Well, I've heard rumors, sir...rumors that the Amulet of Kings has disappeared."
"The what?" Edward asked, frowning.
"The Amulet of Kings," his valet answered. "It's rumored to be a powerful magical item, that every emperor has to wear, or else the empire will plunge into darkness and despair! The emperor must have been wearing it when he died -- no emperor goes anywhere without it!"
Edward's frown intensified. "Damn it!" he thought. "No wonder that swine emperor was wearing the amulet I found out in the open like that...to conceal the Amulet of Kings! Oh, if only I had found that one...forget puny gold and rubies; I'd take an Amulet of Kings any day -- that even sounds cool! And I'll bet I could sell that baby for a fortune...heck, I could start bidding wars over it, between all the rich people who wanted to be king...they'd have no choice: pay what I asked, or lose the empire and watch it plunge into ruin and despair..." He paused from his reverie, a better idea coming to him. "Or," he thought excitedly, "I could keep it myself, and I could become emperor! I could rule the empire! And it's only a short step from ruling an empire to the world! I, Edward, could rule the world!!"
"Sir?!" a very astonished and concerned voice interrupted his thoughts.
Edward started, turned to his horrified valet, and then realized that he was instinctively, greedily licking his lips. He cleared his throat. "Oh, umm, my lips are, umm, chapped...you know, what with the bright sunlight and all that."
His valet nodded, but a hint of suspicion still lingered in his eye.
The only surprise in Chapter 35 was that the valet did not have to draw Edward a diagram. Which Edmund would, of course, have left lying about.
GAAAAH !!! I couldn't read them all tonight, my eyes are burning - but "I'll be back" (said in terrible Arnold voice)
Edward is the bestest anti-hero EVER
You can't really hate him but it's hard to like him too.
Love to hate him
Hate to love him.
ROFL !!! "You're in here for impersonating a Royal Decorator !!!!! " ROFL !!!! - I love Edward's time in the DB, but my fave of all the chapters - it would be a spoiler to put it here, but I will hoot like a maniac when you post them !!!!! I will say this, I didn't know about it till you wrote about it - then looked it up and went nuts !!!!!
It's all so good!!!! Edward is definitely going on my list of fan fics I check on every week, along with Buffy, Teresa, Interregnum, and the other awesome stories on here.
@Linara: Glad to see you here, sharing Edward's misadventures with us! ![]()
@mALX: Hmm...I'm guessing it has something to do with a decorator of a different sort? ![]()
@Remko: "Love to hate him, hate to love him" -- lol, that's exactly how it is writing about him. I feel sorry everytime I have something awful happen to him, but ... he deserves it, LOL ![]()
@treydog: Thanks, those are some of my favorite tidbits too! ![]()
@All: Thanks for the comments!! For those who followed this on Bethesda, you may recognize that the next chapters for a bit are brand new. It's a quest I had meant to have Edward embark upon, and never got around to doing...and I thought "why not". Hope you enjoy. ![]()
A moonless night,
A dark beach and blood-stained tide
Too late for right
When the devil begins his ride.
-- Excerpt from The Bandit on Horseback
Chapter Forty
Edward sighed, shifting uncomfortably on his bedroll. Getting a job had never been his top priority in life; nor, for that matter, one of his top ten...or top hundred...indeed, it had never actually featured in his plans at all. Since, however, Fate had capriciously dictated that he must indeed get one, a job with a lot of traveling had seemed a fair prospect. It had quickly proved, however, not to be the bed of roses he'd assumed. For one thing, traveling for his job meant leaving the Imperial city to go to remote, uncivilized reaches of the world. And traveling in general unfortunately meant camping whenever more dignified means of resting were unavailable. Most nights, it seemed, this was the case, for there were few inns, even along the major highways on which he traversed. "There's more damned bandits out here," Edward grumbled to himself, "than inns!"
The fact that his valet and he had only once or twice come across the tracks -- or remains -- of bandits in all their travels seemed of little import, even when contrasted with the many inns they'd come across. The fact of the matter was that Edward was annoyed at having to sleep on the ground. “Like an animal,” he thought, equally untruly, for animals did not recline upon bedrolls any more than they rested under a mountain of blankets. But, being annoyed, the Imperial was even more unreasonable than he was generally wont to be. So, to his mind at that moment, he had been lowered to the level of the most primitive of animals, and the empire had descended into a veritable lawless wasteland bereft of decent shelter.
It was, therefore, with a yelp of fright that Edward heard a rustling sound behind him. Leaping from his bedroll, he spun around, only to see the startled face of his valet. “Sir?” the other man asked.
Edward glared at him, feeling very foolish indeed. “You...you should have told me you were getting up,” he answered feebly.
“Sorry, sir,” the other man apologized. “I didn't mean to startle you. I was just going to look for some more wood for the campfire...our stack is getting a little low.”
Edward flushed. This was, though he was loath to admit it, his fault, for he had insisted on feeding the fire until it was a great, roaring, flaming titan, in order to cure himself of the “lingering frigidity” that his stay in Bruma had wrought; and, predictably, the sizable stash of wood his valet had gathered had decreased just as the fire had increased. Saying nothing, as he had no desire to draw the man's attention to his culpability in their sudden shortage of firewood, lest he be expected to play some part in remedying the situation, Edward began to pick his blankets off the ground.
When this task was finished, Edward settled back onto his bedroll with a huff. With a shiver, he realized that his valet was nowhere to be seen, having disappeared into the blackness of the forest. It was damned annoying and even more unflattering, but he had come to depend on the other man's presence; and, when he was gone, he didn't feel...safe.
The Imperial frowned deeply into the night. It wasn't right. His valet was merely a servant, a lackey, a subordinate...whereas he was the master, the adventurer, the deadly assassin...but, alas, he was also afraid of the dark. “Oh Oblivion...” he cursed. It was altogether too undignified.
Deciding to close his eyes against the night, Edward sighed again. “Edward the Imperial,” he decided, “does not depend on anyone. Nor is he afraid of the dark. In fact, he isn't afraid of anyone or anything.”
Having just arrived at this self-satisfied milestone in his thoughts, the Imperial was abruptly torn from his reverie by the sound of an altogether unknown voice.
A life lived in shadow and darkness
The crash of the tide against the shore
Drifted away in an unforeseen instant
His final words masked forevermore
-- Excerpt from The Bandit on Horseback
Chapter Forty-One
Trying to ignore the stench of urine that assailed his nostrils after his fright, Edward glared at the newcomer. Who he was, the Imperial was not sure. How he had come to his campsite, he was likewise ignorant. All he did know, however, was that – though his air did not seem threatening – the man had not had the decency to give him fair warning of his approach, and had instead startled him so badly that he'd wet himself. And that was enough to warrant Edward's just wrath. “Who are you?!” he demanded. “And what are you doing here? Don't you know it's dangerous to trespass in someone's camp in the middle of the night? I might have taken you for a bandit and killed you, you fool!”
The other man moved nearer the fire now, and his appearance became clearer. He was an older Nord, bald on top with a little bit of graying hair on the sides of his head. “Excuse me, sir,” he spoke. “I did not mean to offend you.”
The Imperial didn't like to admit it, but he seemed to have a very dignified and yet, at the same time, humble air about him, with impeccable manners and speech. “He has to be a servant,”, Edward thought. Surely, there could be no other explanation for one of the newcomer's kind – a Nord – to be so refined. Glaring, Edward said nothing so that the other man could continue.
“I have come to speak with the gentleman who recently sold...well, before I get ahead of myself...I believe you have just now left Bruma?”
Edward gulped. Of course...a polite, mannerly barbarian wondering if he had just come from Bruma...could there be any other possibility? Surely, Gromm – the Nord servant – had regretted letting him go, and had sent an assassin. And who better than another barbarian servant? After all, the man had been an obsessive sycophant about his master; probably, that was common among these Nord servants. “It must be their fanatical, primitive natures...just like how they become such drunks, and such ruthless killers...probably when they bend their wills to another, they become obsessed with serving.”
Edward gulped in fright. He was too terrified to deny being there, and too terrified to try to escape or fight. Instead, he managed, “Why?”
The Nord smiled, reading the confirmation in his eyes. “Ahh, sir, my pleasure to meet you. My name is Jollring. I work for Lord Umbacano. My master is – as you may have heard – a collector of Aleyid artifacts.”
Edward was still lying on his bedroll, frozen with fear; the terror in his eyes however was slowly ebbing away, and sense was returning.
“During your stay in Bruma, I believe you sold such an artifact to a merchant there, an Ognar the World-Weary?”
Edward merely blinked at the other man, who proceeded talking as if this response was an invitation to do so.
“My master heard of this, of course, because he has his eye out for just the sort of artifacts you sold; and he sent me to find you.” Jollring smiled charmingly. “I can assure you beyond a shadow of a doubt that my master would pay far more than the Bruma merchant...and he, like Ognar, would not be concerned with any...shall we say, complications regarding the origins of the items.”
“What...are you talking about?” Edward managed at last.
Jollring smiled. “Quite right, sir, of course...there's no need to worry on that score with any items you'd procure. Nonetheless, it's a point worth noting.” His smile returned. “As I was saying, though, sir, my master is very much interested in meeting with you.”
“Why?”
“He, as I say, admires your...abilities. And he has a business proposition for you, sir.”
Edward raised an eyebrow. The hesitance with which Jollring had used the word 'abilities', coupled with the smirk when he'd mentioned a 'business proposition', suddenly filled the Imperial with fear of a very different fate than murder. “I'm...err...I don't think that...”
“I'm sure you'll be satisfied with what he'll offer you, sir,” the Nord smiled.
Edward shivered at that smile. “What is it with these old, creepy men and their over used lines?!” Aloud, however, he answered with a snort of disgust, “I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be. My standards are considerably higher than your master can meet...” The Nord looked confused, and Edward wondered at his stupidity. “Do I really have to spell it out for the old sicko that I'm not interested? Do I really have to tell him to tell his master...” Edward shivered. “Ye gods...I don't even want to know what the significance of his use of that word is...”
“Believe me, sir, my master pays well,” the Nord objected.
Edward cringed again. How dare this filthy barbarian insinuate that he was a prostitute?! “No amount of money would interest me!” he snapped. He flinched as he said the words “no amount of money” because, even though it was true, it was probably the first time in his life he'd ever said them. “My...services...are not for sale to your...'master'...”
The Nord bowed stiffly, apparently affronted by the Imperial's condescending tone. “Very well, sir. If you change your mind, you know where my master lives.” Edward glared at him. “I will say goodnight, then, sir. And farewell.”
The Imperial breathed a sigh of relief as he saw the other man return to his horse, and realized that he did not mean to stay the night. The last thing he wanted was this pervert, this creature who tried to buy him for his master, hanging about while he slept.
Before MaLX gets in...
ROFL ROFL ROFL ROFL!!!!
but I really think, Rachel, that there was a HUGE amount on comic potential left "unmilked" in that hilarious comedy of errors...
Now if I were writing that scene -
Dang. On second thought, I'd be hurled out of this forum faster than Edward can run from a buggerer and to a bawd.
SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE !!!!!! WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT !!!!!!!!!!!!
The Collector !!!!!!!!!!!!! OMG, I am jumping out of my seat now, MORE !!!!! MORE !!!!!!!
What a perfect quest for our avaricious Edward! Can there be a more lucrative quest in all of TES IV? Now if he can just survive the traps of Welke, Wendelbek, et al . . .
Yee Hah!
OH !!!!!! The valet could negotiate with that Khajiit on the hill...Edward would stiff him...and have another STALKER !!!!!!! WOOOOOOOOOT !!!!!!!!! I can't wait !!!!!!! The other stalker he had - I nearly broke my PC spraying it with coffee !!!!!
I wonder how badly Edward will get hurt and how many time his valet is gonna have to bail him out frm those ruins.... OMG... Edward and dungeondiving....
And Foxy: I really doubt this forum will let you formulate sentences that will get you kicked... even with your Dhirtee Innu Endo eeeuhmmm.... alter ego
Thanks, all! Glad you're enjoying the new chapters!! ![]()
@Foxy: Haha, you're right, there is a lot of potential here...don't worry, though, there's more to come. ![]()
@mALX: Thanks! I had meant to write this part earlier in the story, and then forgot about it/got distracted by other quests/etc. Then, when I was reposting, I decided to add it after all.
(As for the Khajiit -- you're spot on, on both counts...the valet is reasonable enough to negotiate, and Edward would sign his own death warrant by double crossing him if given the opportunity.
)
@haute ecole rider: Haha, surviving will be the difficulty.
Not to give away too much...but Edward's courageous nature being what it is, I'm not going to be able to get him into too many ruins. There will be a few, though.
@Remko: I haven't kept count so far...but suffice it to say there will be more than one (time that the valet has to bail him out of danger). ![]()
@treydog: lol, thanks treydog, glad Edward's fumbling, bumbling and dirty mind made you laugh!!
The man who lives with grudges and hatred
Is slave to the past.
The man who forgets things gone by
Is slave to the past.
Wisdom is the middle ground of these two
Memory but not bitterness.
-- An excerpt from a piece translated in the scholarly work “Writings of Old, Dead People”
Chapter Forty-Two
Edward watched as his servant returned, eying the man with suspicion.
“I found some old, dry branches, sir,” the valet greeted, seeing Edward's eyes upon him. “I think they should last us the rest of the night.”
Ignoring this, Edward demanded, “Lord Umbacano...you said you worked for him, didn't you?”
The valet glanced over from setting down his burden. “That's right, sir. Back in the Imperial City.”
Edward frowned suspiciously. “Why didn't you tell me he was...you know?”
The other man stared at him, questioningly. “Sir?”
“Well, you know,” Edward repeated. The valet still looked puzzled, so he continued, “Interested in...you know.”
“Aleyid artifacts, sir?” the valet asked.
Edward's frown deepened. Was his servant really stupid enough to have missed what he'd picked up on in a few moments? Or was he embarrassed to admit that he had been employed in a profession like that vile Nord's that he'd met a few moments ago? “Artifacts?” he repeated.
“Yes sir,” the valet nodded. “And I did tell you. Don't you remember? That's why he fired me. Because he wanted to spend my wages on acquiring more artifacts.”
Deep frown lines creasing his forehead, Edward paused in thought before speaking. This all sounded familiar...indeed, the pervert had mentioned something about Aleyid artifacts too...at the moment he was wondering whether his servant was talking about the property of old dead guys, or was using some code word that he really didn't want to know about. “Oh?”
“That's right sir...he's an avid collector...he's got a huge collection.”
Edward's frown had lessened, but not disappeared. He still couldn't tell for sure what the other man was talking about.
“He's obsessed. He's got an entire room in his manor full of Aleyid things,” the valet shook his head. “He studies texts about the Aleyids all day long...his only friends are experts on Aleyid culture.” He shook his head again. “I actually feel sorry for him, sir.”
By now, the Imperial was pretty well reassured that his servant was indeed talking about one of the most boring topics in the world – history – and not his former master's sexual exploits and interests. “Well...” he said slowly, “suppose someone...acquired one of these artifacts...do you think he'd be interested?”
“Of course, sir,” the valet nodded. “When I stole that one from the castle...” Here he glanced up guiltily, but Edward was too curious to be annoyed by his thieving prowess. “When I acquired that statue, I thought of selling it to him...but I decided against it.”
“Why?”
The other man was silent for a moment, and then sighed. “I suppose it's petty, sir, really...but I know how much he likes them...and I guess I was being a little spiteful...”
“Would he have paid well?”
“Of course.”
“Better than your fence?”
“Most likely.”
Edward raised an eyebrow at his servant. “And you passed up the money just to spite him?!”
“Yes sir.”
“Why?!”
“He fired me, sir!”
Shaking his head, Edward clucked his tongue. “My good fellow, you must learn that holding grudges is entirely unhealthy and immature -- particularly when money is involved.”
Loyal like a dog,
And about as intelligent.
-- From the chapter “The Good Servant”, in A Nobleman's Musings on the Serving Class
Chapter Forty-Three
Having explained that he had “business in the City” that he'd delayed until after his Brotherhood mission was complete, Edward had altered their path for the Imperial City. His reward would wait in Cheydinhal, and so too would Antionetta Marie. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” he thought. “It'll do her some good to miss me for awhile.” Meanwhile, though he was still highly suspicious of Lord Umbacano, he was now fairly well convinced that his interest in him – his primary one, at least – was the acquisition of these statues. The fact that his servant had already acquired some of these artifacts made the idea that much more attractive to Edward...if his valet could get his hands on them, they must not be that difficult to find. And, if Umbacano was going to pay well for them...
Edward was grinning devilishly again when he felt the valet's eyes upon him. Wiping away his gleeful, anticipatory expression, the Imperial tried too to drive away thoughts of the mountains of gold he'd be able to gather through his own, and his servant's, moderate labors – to say nothing of the potential opportunities for theft that this arrangement would surely provide. Putting on a thoughtful air, Edward mused, “Tell me...what was Umbacano's collection worth, would you say?”
Raising an eyebrow, the other man asked, “Sir?”
“Your former employer,” Edward explained almost disinterestedly, “you said his collection of Aleyid artifacts was huge...I suppose it must have been worth a fortune?”
“Yes sir,” the valet answered slowly. “But may I ask why the sudden interest in my previous employer?”
Edward frowned. Wasn't it obvious? “Well,” he answered slowly, “I was thinking that it might be good...as you say, he is so obsessed...for his mental health to...relieve him of some of those artifacts...particularly the more expensive ones...all for his mental well-being, of course.”
He'd half expected the other man to whole-heartedly agree, even volunteer his services for this chance to get back at the man who'd fired him. Instead, much to his surprise, the valet reined his horse to a sharp halt. “Are you proposing that we rob Lord Umbacano, sir?”
Edward blinked, himself astonished at the man's clear astonishment. “Umm...yeah.”
The valet shook his head. “No sir,” he said. “You know I can have no part of this.”
Staring at his servant, Edward demanded, “What? Why not?”
“Because I was his valet, once. A master's trust in his valet is a sacred thing. I could never break that!”
The Imperial's eyes expressed the annoyance he was feeling. “But...but you know the security layout of his place...you know what sort of guards he has...you know...”
“Exactly, sir!” his valet agreed. “All of which information was gained while I worked for him. That's the trust of which I speak.” He shook his head. “No matter what, a servant can never betray that trust!”
Edward groaned. “Even if he fires you?”
“Yes sir.”
Nary a creature more vile or reprehensible
Than a man of leisure reduced to servitude.
-- From the chapter “The Worst Servant”, in A Nobleman's Musings on the Serving Class
Chapter Forty-Four
Having (falsely) assured his valet that he had given up on any and all schemes of robbing Lord Umbacano, Edward had been able to convince the other man to continue to the Imperial City. He'd thought it best to hide the real reason for this sudden diversion: Umbacano's job offer...not because he felt guilty about helping a man who had unceremoniously fired a perfectly loyal servant in order that he might acquire more junk, of course, but just because he didn't want to risk explaining away how he was violating any more unwritten tenets of servitude. At least, that's what he told himself.
Once they had arrived in the Imperial City, he had sent his servant to arrange for lodgings whilst he “took care of a few matters.” So it was that he stood, now, outside the comfortable home of Lord Umbacano, cursing his ill fortune that he was not one of the “rich bastards” able to wallow in fortune, but instead must earn his bread “like any common slob.”
Pushing these thoughts aside with a grimace, Edward knocked. After a moment, the door opened. “May I help you?”
The Imperial tried to ignore the fact that a man up to his eyeballs in cash would hire as his door opener one of the ugliest orcs he had ever had the misfortune to lay eyes upon. “I have an appointment with his Lordship. You may tell him that I've arrived.”
“I was unaware of any appointments today,” the orc frowned. “Your name, sir?”
“Edward,” he returned curtly.
“Are you sure your meeting was today?” the orc persisted. “At what time?”
“Of course I'm sure!” Edward snapped. Then, the question actually registering beyond the fact that this ghoulish orc was daring to question him, he paused. “Well, actually, no. There wasn't a time. He just...I'm just supposed to come...whenever.”
Her frown intensified. “One moment, sir,” she said. “I'll be right back.”
This said, the door closed on his scowl. After a moment, it reopened, and the Nord – “the pervert” – stepped into view. Edward felt himself as about as thrilled to see the other man as Jollring was to see him – not at all.
“Oh, so you decided to take up my master's offer after all?” he asked.
“I decided to hear it out,” Edward answered cautiously.
“Then your standards are perhaps not so 'high' after all?” he queried with the slightest hint of a sneer.
Edward glared at him. “Are you going to show me to the Count, or bore me to death with your talking?!”
“His Lordship is a Lord, not a Count,” Jollring corrected. “And, yes, you may as well come in...if your dignity does not object.”
Sniffing a little at this, Edward remarked that he “might as well”, and entered as he was bid. Having missed Jollring rolling his eyes, he took this comment at face value, and was somewhat pacified. The pervert, he thought, was at least attempting to make up for his past behavior.
Edward was awed by the finery around him as he was ushered through well furnished and expensively decorated rooms. Before entering the manor, he had made up his mind that, even if Umbacano's offer was of the less than legal or appealing nature that he had originally thought, this would not be a wasted trip – for he would use the opportunity to scout out the guards and treasures that would await a burglar. Alas, this grand plan was not to be; for, lost in admiring envy as he was, Edward took in none of the important details, and was only aware as they entered Lord Umbacano's sitting room that this man had very good taste in home décor.
“If you'll wait here, sir,” Jollring declared, indicating a seat, “I'll inform his Lordship of your arrival.”
Edward tried to ignore the leering quality of the other man's voice as he uttered the word “sir”, and instead concentrated on the collection of ancient artifacts about him. He had certainly never been one to take history seriously, or to care much for the work of the race of elves who had enslaved Imperials. But this...
He found himself speechless at the sight of such beauty, such finery, such craftsmanship, such wealth as adorned row upon row of shelves and cabinets. He hesitated to even begin calculating all the riches he saw about him, lest he die of envy on the spot. He understood now why Umbacano had fired his servant in order to collect more of these treasures; the man was a decent enough servant, but these...these were beyond superb.
He was lost in such admiring thoughts when a door behind him opened, and Jollring and another man stepped into view. “His Lordship, Lord Umbacano,” the Nord declared.
Edward tried to hide his appalled stare. The man might be a genius regarding his décor and collections, but he was a fool when it came to personal style. He was draped in fine silks and satins and gold braid – all of which were very nice; but, along with these fineries, he had mixed in rough animal furs, lending an unpardonably savage air to what had otherwise been noble attire. To further transgress the boundaries of good taste, the elf had somehow molded his rather lengthy hair into a horrendous vertical cone.
Trying to push aside the thought that Lord Umbacano should add his stylist to the list of those he'd fired, he bowed in a dignified sort of way. “Sir,” he spoke, “your servant tells me you have a matter of business to discuss?” He flushed, and hurriedly added, “Relating to acquiring Aleyid treasures, I believe?” He wanted to make sure there was no room for error or misunderstanding in their negotiations.
The Altmer motioned for him to sit down. “Indeed. I understand you recently sold a statue...” He paused, heading to one of the cases and removing a strange artifact of stone and gems. “This statue, in fact...to a merchant in Bruma. Yes?”
Edward shifted his weight nervously. “My servant sold it, yes...I believe it was that one...or one like it...”
“Your servant?” Lord Umbacano asked, a touch surprised. “But I was led to understand that you were...an adventurer who...acquired the item yourself?”
“Oh, yes, quite,” the Imperial hastened to explain. “Naturally. I just...entrust selling certain items to my servant.”
“Ah, I see,” the Altmer nodded. “He must be a good servant, then, if you can trust him so well.”
“Err, yes,” Edward nodded. “He's good enough, I suppose.”
The elf seated himself across from his guest. “As you know – and can see for yourself – I am an avid collector of Aleyid artifacts.” Edward nodded. “Some artifacts are easy to acquire.” He shrugged. “And some are less easy. That is why I depend on the work of enterprising adventurers such as yourself...men who are not afraid of a challenge, particularly when there is a good reward to be had out of it.”
Edward had hesitated at the “challenge” part, but he was all but sold by time the elf had reached the bit about a “good reward”. “Quite,” he nodded hastily.
I LOVE THIS QUESTLINE !!!!!! And I can't wait to see what Edward will do to it !!!!
Watching Edward’s snail-like mental processes as he tried to decide whether “Ayleid artifact collector” was a code phrase….
And then the bit haute quoted was also superb. Another part of the Edwardian Philosophy- “Never let anything as petty as feelings get in the way of money. Nice, shiny money…”
And the valet’s admirable, obtuse, loyalty is am ingrained trait, extending even to his previous master. That is genius.
And your description of Umbacano’s collection, especially Edward’s reaction to it, is wonderful. So too, is your description of the odd Altmer himself.
Thanks, all!
@malx: " And I can't wait to see what Edward will do to it !!!!" Haha, couldn't have phrased it better!
@haute ecole rider: "More than likely lay a swath of absolute and mass destruction..." An accurate estimate of ANY quest that Edward is involved with! ![]()
@treydog: "Watching Edward’s snail-like mental processes as he tried to decide whether “Ayleid artifact collector” was a code phrase…." LOL, I grew up with four brothers, all of whom were younger than me by a couple of years minimum. I distinctly remember, as they were growing up, when they hit a certain stage where everything -- no matter how innocent -- could become some sort of dirty, giggle-worthy insinuation. I've tried to recapture some of that...genius. ![]()
Listen to him hiss and sputter,
Ever so indignant and affronted,
As his mind wallows in the gutter
Delusions never yet confronted.
-- Author's notes preceding The Song of Edward
Chapter Forty-Five
Edward strolled lazily into the Tiber Septim Hotel, trying to avoid the eye of the publican, Augusta Calidia. He hoped she didn't recognize him. It had not, after all, been so long ago that he had strolled in here with not a scrap of clothing beyond his loin cloth, and spun an incredible tale – one that he rather doubted his servant would believe, not the least of all as it was at odds with the account he'd given that man. That was the one difficulty with lying, wasn't it? You never knew who might hear a different lie than the one you'd told them...to say nothing of the trials of attempting to keep each falsehood straight...
Noting with annoyance that his servant wasn't around at the moment, Edward sifted through his pocket for the coin to purchase a drink. Stifling the curse that almost escaped his lips, he realized he had half the septims he needed. “Where is that fool?!” he wondered, thinking, of course, of his servant. He'd come here to rent rooms...and then what had he done? Didn't he realize his master would want a drink and maybe a bite or two to eat?
Sighing, he plopped down in one of the seats at the far end of the room. There were a few bottles of wine on the table, and he had half a mind to nonchalantly start drinking. If he was caught, after all, he could just instruct Augusta to put it on his tab.
Deciding this was a good idea, he popped the top on one of the bottles, and poured himself a glass. Then, draining it quickly and refilling, he thought of his conversation with Umbacano. All in all, he thought, things had gone exceedingly well. Umbacano had been very impressed with his acquisition of the Aleyid statue – at least, what Edward had led him to believe had been his acquisition. Apparently, his servant had managed a feat that no one else had been able to do in years in stealing that stupid statue. Edward sighed in annoyance. It irked him that his servant was such a good thief – even when that prowess as a thief directly benefited him, as it did now.
Pushing these annoyed thoughts out of his head, Edward's mind returned to his meeting of a few minutes earlier. Lord Umbacano had given him a copy of a key to some place called, “the High Fang”, or something to that effect. This, he'd told Edward, would likely be called something else now, for that was the name it was known by in the days of the Aleyids. The collector, however, did not know what its present name was. Nor, for that matter, did he know where it was. He had given the key along with a diagram, however, with the promise that, should Edward ever come across a carving like the one depicted, he would be paid handsomely for its retrieval. The Imperial sighed again. It was all well and good to be promised a lot of gold...but did the style-challenged elf really expect him to lug around a chunk of stone?
Alas, yes, for he'd been very insistent that it must be returned to him in one piece, undamaged. “The plaque should be easy enough to remove...understand that I need it intact to read what's written. And, of course, any trouble that that might cause will be amply paid for,” he'd said. Edward lapsed into another sigh, and drained his glass. It really was a long shot, he decided, the more he thought about it. He had never really planned to go traipsing about Aleyid ruins at all...much less so to discover one out of however many there were scattered about the countryside.
“Excuse me, sir,” a voice interrupted his thoughts. “You're sitting at a reserved table.”
Edward flushed, glancing up. It was Augusta Calidia who addressed him. “Oh...I...uhh...”
“And you're drinking someone else's wine.”
His flush deepened. “Umm...sorry, I didn't...”
“Which someone else paid for...”
At that moment, a voice cut in, “It's ok, Augusta...put it on my tab.”
The publican glared at Edward for a moment, then nodded at the newcomer. “Very well, Claude...if you say so.”
The Breton – for that is what the newcomer was – smiled, and replied, “Please. And...should we move?”
She shook her head. “No, that's ok...since you're already there.” Shooting Edward a final suspicious glance, she left.
Much to Edward's annoyance, the newcomer seated himself across from the Imperial without so much as being bade to do so. “I see you're Umbacano's newest plaything, eh?” he laughed. “Well met. I am Claude Maric. I always love meeting my rivals.” Noting Edward's horrified expression, but mistaking the meaning for this sudden contortion of the Imperial's features, he laughed again. “What, did you think you were the only one?” Pausing only to snort in laughter, he added, “Come, let's have a drink together.”
Edward tried to find his tongue as the man leaned over and filled his glass, but was unable to do. It seemed clear to him now that his original suspicion had been correct, and this man must have mistaken him for one of Umbacno's...what had he called them? Playthings?...rather than a hired treasure hunter. Edward sneered in disgust at the prostitute who, laughing all the while, filled their glasses. Did this base creature really think that he, Edward the Imperial, had to sink to selling himself?
“Now,” the Breton spoke again, “I propose a toast...may Umbacano's purse never run dry!”
Edward recoiled. Every word this disgusting Breton spoke filled him a deeper sense of revulsion. How could this vile creature sit here, talking to him as if he was one of his kind, a prostitute – and one so desperate that he would sell himself to an elf at that?! It might suit this Breton, aged and beginning to wrinkle as he was, to sink so low, but how could the fool of a man think that he – he! – had need of such base means of supporting himself?
Claude, however, seemed to take none of this in, for, downing his glass in one quick mouthful, he turned a more serious gaze toward Edward. “I should give you a piece of advice, though...I wouldn't take Umbacano at his word, exactly. Our mutual employer rarely tells us the whole story. But, he pays well.” His serious expression lightened again as he downed another glass. “Not that I should be giving advice to one of my rivals.” Edward cringed as the other man broke into laughter yet again.
“I don't know who you think you're talking to,” the Imperial spoke at last, his voice dripping with disdain, “but you may as well understand that I am not one of your kind. You are...are...well, repulsive! Whereas I am an adventurer!”
The Breton stared at him over his wineglass, an eyebrow raised. “What?”
“You heard me, you disgusting animal!” Edward snapped, rising. “Do not dare to put me in the same category as you and your vile, reprehensible...business...do you understand?! I have no need of your 'advice', nor your drinks, nor your vile company. Keep company with your 'master', and others of your ilk – but keep far away from me, lowlife!”
Lowering his glass, Claude Maric stared at the Imperial, angry bewilderment and ironic amusement written, in equal measures, across his expression. “Well, well,” he mused aloud. “A tomb robber who fancies himself a cut above his fellows.” He smiled, lifting the glass to his lips a final time and finishing its contents in one quick gulp. “Suit yourself, Master Edward. I'll not sully your afternoon by keeping company with you...although I will dearly love to see if you've the wits to figure out the task you're on, or the courage to pursue it.” His brow knitting, he finished, “I rather doubt it...but stranger things have happened.”
The mind given to learning,
The mind eager to know new things
The mind full of ideas
Is the best mind in the world.
-- An excerpt from a piece translated in the scholarly work “Writings of Old, Dead People”
Chapter Forty-Six
Edward was seated on a bench in the hallway outside of his room, his brow knit in a thoughtful manner, when his valet returned. He'd been sitting this way for some time – ever since he'd left the main room downstairs, and “the prostitute”, behind him – and he'd been pondering a monumental thought.
He considered himself no stranger to street slang; indeed, he flattered himself that his regular vocabulary was only just larger than his vocabulary of vulgarity. So, what, then, had the prostitute meant when he'd called him a “tomb robber”? In all his studying of slang, indeed, his mastering the art of foul language, he had never heard of a term like this one...in fact, none even remotely resembled it. So what, then, he had wondered all this time, had the repulsive Breton been insinuating?
Having arrived at no satisfactory answer – no answer at all, in point of fact – he determined that he would humiliate himself by asking this question of his servant. He hated to admit that there was some phrase that he, as world-wise and knowledgeable as he was, was ignorant of...but he hated worse not knowing.
“Good afternoon, sir. How did your business go?”
Ignoring this greeting and query, Edward sighed. He had no choice but to ask. “Tell me,” he asked, “what does it mean to call someone a 'tomb robber'?”
The other man blinked at him. “Sir?”
“Well?”
“Well, sir, it means...someone who robs tombs.”
Edward frowned. This terminology, too, was completely unknown to him. “Well, of course, but...that is...tell me what it means in plain words, man!”
“Someone who takes from the dead.”
“Takes from the dead?” Edward bolted upright, his face a mask or horror and disgust. “You mean, a necrophile?!” he demanded.
The valet stared at him. Then, a light of understanding shone in the other man's eyes.“Oh, you mean a necromancer, sir? Well, I suppose you could call them tomb robbers, because they are robbing the graves of the dead, but the general usage...”
“No! I don't mean necromancers!” Edward interrupted. “I mean...whatever 'tomb robber' means!”
His servant frowned at him. “I'm not sure I'm following, sir.”
Edward sighed in frustration. Either the man was so stupid that he couldn't understand him, or he was as clueless on the topic as he was – and either possibility annoyed him. The first for obvious reasons, and the second because, if his servant was unable to help, he'd just confessed his own ignorance for no good reason. “What I'm saying,” he snapped, “is that someone called me a 'tomb robber' earlier...now, what did he mean by that?!”
“Ohh,” the valet nodded. “I see. Well, he was probably insulting you, sir.”
“I knew it!”
“By insinuating that you'd stoop to plundering graves.”
Edward growled under his breath. How, he wondered, could his servant be so witless? It was clear, at any rate, that the other man would be no help...no, he'd just have to find the answer elsewhere. Maybe if he could find the latest copy of the Encyclopedia of Slang at First Edition, he might actually solve this mystery...
Thank the Divines so mighty for such knowledge,
The tomes and the tenets and wisdom of eras long expired
Rules to guide and ways to live and cures to know
And thank the gods that someone else cares enough to read them.
-- Unknown author
Chapter Forty-Seven
Edward traipsed into First Edition shortly after he'd parted company with his valet. He was still intent on finding out just what type of lowlife, exactly, Claude Maric took him to be.
He grimaced as he entered the doors. It was such an unpleasant, stifling place – there were books everywhere! “Almost as bad as a library,” he thought with a shiver.
“May I help you, sir?” a voice asked.
Edward glanced toward the speaker, a Redguard of forty or so. “Yes,” he sniffed. “I'm looking for a book...sort of a gag gift, actually.”
The Redguard nodded. “I've just the thing,” he declared, indicating a small, far shelf. “That bottom one, right there. You see it? It's full of false histories, slang dictionaries, crazy guidebooks to foreign provinces, parodies...”
Edward nodded. That was just the thing. Heading over quickly, he began to sift through the titles. “Trails of St. Alessia, a Hiker's Guide...Manual of Arms...” Edward frowned. That was a real book, wasn't it? Not that he had ever read it, but he could have sworn he'd seen the title before. Momentarily distracted from his purpose by curiosity, he drew out the volume.
This proved to be a mistake, however, for the cover was grotesquely illustrated to depict all manner of severed arms -- human, mer, daedra, etc. Yelping in disgusted horror, Edward thrust the book back, quickly, and tried to ignore the shopkeeper's snicker of amusement behind him.
Sorting through the titles brusquely, he again resumed his original purpose. “Lightest Lightness...Gods and Blasphemy...ah! Encyclopedia of Slang!” With this thought, he withdrew the volume, and eagerly flipped through the pages for entries beginning with 't'. Once he found this, he then moved down the page to the spot where 'tomb robber' should have been, had it, indeed, been a slang term.
Exhaling loudly in an expression of his annoyance, Edward slammed the book shut. Not even the Encyclopedia of Slang had 'tomb robber'.
“Are you buying that book, sir?” the shopkeeper inquired.
The Imperial snorted. “This outdated piece of junk? Not likely...”
“Then, perhaps, you might treat it with more care,” the Redguard pointedly suggested, “seeing as how someone else might want to buy it...”
Sighing, Edward put the book back on the shelf. He clearly wasn't going to get any help here. Rising, he winced as his knee impacted sharply with the bookshelf. Cursing, he withdrew, even as several books fell all around him. He could feel the glaring eyes of the shopkeeper boring into his back, and that, combined with the agony of his knee, only served to further annoy him.
Stooping to pick up the books, lest the Redguard expect him to pay for them, he growled into the thin air. One by one, he returned the books to the shelves, but froze as he lifted the last volume. “Cleansing of the Fane.” He frowned, trying to remember why that sounded so familiar. Then, it hit him. “Of course...it must be a stupid parody of that book that Umbacano said might be helpful, Cleansing of the Fang.”
Sighing, he cast a furtive glance at the still glaring Redguard, rose, and quickly absented himself from the bookstore. He was now more convinced than ever that booksellers, bookstores and books in general were utterly worthless, and a complete waste of his time. Even the Encyclopedia of Slang had fallen from its pedestal in his eyes. He sighed again, and set his footsteps toward the Tiber Septim Hotel.
Tomb robber? Or tomb raider?
What if Lara Croft in all her gravity-defying glory were to appear in front of Edward, say, in Malada?
Would Edward be able to figure out what tomb robber really means?
Hi Rachel. I was going to wait until I was fully caught up before I commented, but I just can’t help myself. I have just finished Chapter Twenty Three. You had me way back in the Imperial Subterrane when Edward burst through the door leading every rat and goblin in the Natural Caverns behind him. I could just imagine the look on Glenroy and Baurus’ faces!
From there I followed Edward through his inspired bit of improvisation in the Tiber Septim Hotel, and his less than inspired treatment of poor Simplicia. His decision to lay the mallet to Snak gra-Bura only to pilfer the most ridiculous horse in the entire stable had me in stitches. The meeting with Lucien LaChance was almost as hilarious as the fact that the aforementioned horse knew his (or her, I don’t think it was ever established) way around Cyrodiil enough to bear Edward to the Inn of Ill Omen!
I think it might have been inside the Inn that Edward really found his stride. The execution of Rufio was exactly what I have come to expect, but his comments to the stalwart Mannheim (again, I am assuming) were absolutely sublime!
Now, after meeting with his wonderfully dysfunctional new family in the Dark Brotherhood, and after admirably playing his role as exterminator by killing one rat in the dungeons under Castle Cheydinhal, I have dutifully followed Edward to the Waterfront of the Imperial City where he is supposed to exercise his skill as an assassin by ridding the world of Gaston Tussaud. Too bad he chose to rest at the Bloated Float.
I’ll comment further once I have caught up. . . but, so far, I am loving this!
These three chapters were Awesome !!! Too many places to quote! The First Edition - SPEW !!! Cleansing of the Fang!!! Sitting down and drinking someone else's wine - and getting caught by Augusta Calidia!!! AWESOME !!!!! MORE!!!!
Wow...it's been a long time since I've posted. (My work schedule has shifted, hopefully temporarily, so I'm working much later...which means I seem to get up, go to work, get home, go to sleep ... with no time for writing). However, getting over a stomach flu and feeling pretty sorry for myself because of said flu (
), I somehow started thinking of Edward. There's no connection between the self-pity and thinking of Edward, I'm sure. ;P Anyhow, I started writing again, and here we go. But first, thanks to all who commented.
@haute ecole rider: lol, Edward will be meeting people at Malada alright, but they won't be Lara. ![]()
@Destri: I'm so glad you're enjoying this! I agree, I think it was around the time of the Rufio execution where I sort of figured out where Edward was going as a character. I hope you enjoyed the rest!! ![]()
@malx: Glad you enjoyed it! I sort of envisioned Edward's idea of "Cleansing of the Fang" something like brushing your teeth. ![]()
@ treydog: "The only thing that is more difficult than getting an idea into Edward's empty head is to get one out once it has taken hold." You are so right about that!! I'm glad you enjoyed the "Manual of Arms", too...I could just imagine Edward shrieking in horror as he pulled that out ![]()
It's Dawn that brings the light that shines,
The light that cleanses and heals,
The light that washes away the imperfections
The light that blinds the unbelievers,
And it's Dawn we aim to meet, my brothers and sisters!
-- Excerpt from a sermon by Mankar Camoran
Chapter Forty-Eight
Edward had just made up his mind to give up the whole scheme of working for Umbacano when he had an idea. He would ask his valet if he had ever heard of any "High Fang"...after all, the man had the odd talent of being useful here and there. This just might be one of those times. So, he asked, "I suppose being this close to your old employer's house is a little disconcerting for you...I mean, you used to live there, right? And here we are, just across the street."
The valet frowned at him. "Remember your promise, sir. No robbing him..."
It was Edward's turn to frown at his valet. "I wasn't proposing that we rob him, you stupid servant...I mean, my good man. I was just trying to be polite!"
"Oh...my apologies, sir."
"Never mind," Edward assured him quickly. There was no point making too much of this when he needed the other man's help. "Anyway, I suppose you must be rather an authority on Aleyid artifacts and ruins and whatnot, what with having worked for a collector for so long?"
The other man shrugged. "I know a little, sir, but not too much."
Edward sighed. All his pretense of friendliness had been wasted...his servant, yet again, had let him down.
"Why?"
"Never mind," he snapped. "I was just hoping you knew something about the High Fang."
"You mean, Fane?"
Edward glared at him. "That's what I said – Fang."
The valet frowned. "Are we talking about Malada, sir?"
"What?"
"The High Fane is what we used to call it, I believe, but we call it Malada nowadays. That is, if we're talking about the same thing?"
Edward nodded slowly. "You mean the ruin?"
"Yes sir...the one east of Bravil, I believe it is?"
The Imperial frowned. East, west, it was all the same to him; and, he supposed, regardless of where it was, it had to be some point relative to Bravil. And "east" sounded as good as any to his mind. "Err, yes, I believe that's the one."
"Right. What did you want to know about it?"
Edward frowned. Where did he start? "Well, how to get there, for starters. Could you show me the way?"
"I've never been there myself, sir, but I'm pretty sure I could find it."
Grimacing to himself, the Imperial tried to hide his annoyance. "You're 'pretty sure'?" he repeated. "How sure is 'pretty sure'?"
The valet frowned to himself and shrugged, as if trying to measure his degree of sureness. "Fairly confident...I've seen it on the map...just a matter of plotting the right course and..."
Edward groaned. The outcome of this adventure was looking bleaker by the moment. Not only was he in a race with a pervert to find an ancient, probably long-destroyed, carving, he was entrusting his life to his servant's doubtless flawed navigation abilities. Images of starving to death in the wilderness played in his mind, and he made a mental note to pack a concealable dagger; cannibalism wasn't his first choice, but if his valet was leading him to a death of starvation in the wilds, he would be prepared for any eventuality.
AWESOME !!!!!! YOU'RE BACK !!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I'm sorry to hear you have the stomach flu - but will wish it on your repeatedly if it brings updates !!!!!!
Awesome chapter !!!!!!!
YOU HAVE BEEN SO MISSED !!!!!!!!!
SPEW !!!! He still thinks it's a fang !!!!! ROFL !!!!!! - And the mosquitos !!!! ROFL !!!!! Boy is it great to have you back !!!! You just don't know how missed you've been !!!!!
What! Edward the Imperial becoming Edward the Cannibal?
Knowing Edward, I suspect that if he was ever forced to resort to Cannibalism, he would first reproach the corpse for not having cooked itself before it died...
Welcome back, Rachel! Soo good to see you and Edward and the varlet valet again!
And Edward, if you just squint your eyes and tip your head slightly to the right, those broken arches of the High Fane do resemble fangs. Somewhat. Sort of. Try it!
We will just get the unseemly (and slow and arthritic) dachshund dance out of the way first.
Woo-Hoo! Shuffle, shuffle, creak, pop! Pant, pant, pant.
Ok that's all done.
@All: Thanks so much, your input is greatly valued!! It's good to be back -- and back in the Edward mode of thinking...or not, as the case may be. ![]()
@Foxy: Well, that would be terribly inconvenient, wouldn't it? One would expect a little more forethought... ![]()
@haute ecole rider: lol, that's a good point... see, Edward isn't such a dolt after all? ![]()
@mALX & Treydog: Thanks so much!! And let me hasten to obey the dictates of my medical consultants. ![]()
Clumsy as an ox, to say the least!
With the manners of a beast.
Living in cowardice, he's never ceased!
Surely, thou dost speak of Edward!
-- Author's notes preceding The Song of Edward
Chapter Fifty
After a momentary rush of euphoria, as the realization that they were not, in fact lost, had swept his senses and roused him from his mental and physical lethargy, a sudden flash of consternation assailed him. They were about to enter a ruin. What if the stories were true? What if zombies and apparitions and all manner of devilish evils lurked in the hidden passages of these old ruins? What if the famed Aleyid traps were still operable? What if – worse yet – the Aleyids hadn't actually all been wiped out? What if they still resided in these old ruins, waiting for innocent treasure seekers and adventurers like himself?
“Well, sir, are we going in then? I've tethered the horses, so I think we're set to go...”
Edward jumped at the sound of another voice, even one as familiar as his servant's. “Huh? Oh, uh, yes, of course. As soon as...”
“Yes?”
“As I...”
“Yes?”
Edward frowned. He couldn't think of a reason to delay; and yet he desperately wanted to do so now. “I just have one question.”
“Yes?”
“What do you know about these ruins?”
“Well, sir,” the valet shrugged. “It was a city...there's a long history to it.”
“No, no,” Edward interrupted. “I don't care about the history. I mean...are they haunted?”
Again, the other man shrugged. “They might be, sir. I've heard rumors that they are, but some people say tomb robbers spread those stories to keep all but the bravest from these ruins – so they can claim whatever treasure there may be inside.”
Edward nodded, feeling suddenly far more at ease. It made sense. He could easily see the pervert – or any of those other “tomb robbers” – lying like that. And, even had his servant made no mention of those low-lives, he would have still been sold on the idea at the mention of “treasure”.
Noticing an expression of concern on his valet's face, the Imperial realized that he was licking his lips eagerly. Pausing to clear his throat, he commented. “Chapped lips. Darned heat. Anyway. I think we should get moving, don't you?”
The other man nodded, and Edward headed toward the door. So eager was he to get inside and to find the treasure that he didn't notice the subtle rustle of dry grass on the plateau above the ruin, or the expression of suspicion on his companion's face. Only when his valet reached out and took hold of his arm did he stop – and then it was too late to note the subtle gesture for silence that the other man made. “What?” he blurted out. “What are you...huh? What?” Casting a furtive glance around him, his fear came ebbing back. “What is it?” he whispered hoarsely, in a tone so loud that it surely would have carried to anyone nearby. “What do you hear?”
Ignoring his questions, the valet headed for the hill overlooking the ruin. Edward vacillated momentarily between following and remaining by himself, opting at the last minute for following.
Tramping after his servant, he whispered noisily, “Wait up!”
The servant who is modest,
He is the most terrible of all
For modesty doth shroud cold ambition,
Kindliness conceal the deepest malice
And the smiling face distract from the poisoned glass.
-- Excerpt from The Trials of a Nobleman, First Edition
Chapter Fifty-One
Edward was panting heavily by time they reached the summit of the hill – or, at least, by time he reached the summit of the hill; his servant had already made the climb and was, it seemed, in the middle of a discussion with a beast creature.
Still panting, Edward paused to recoil in both fear and disgust – and to catch his breath. What, he wondered, was this Khajiit doing here? Surely his valet had not invited him?!
When, finally, he had recovered from this sudden burst of exertion, he drew himself up tall and swaggered forward. It seemed to him that, if his servant had invited this creature as a sort of bodyguard or companion, it was time to nip this arrangement in the bud; Edward the Imperial did not work with beast creatures. And, if this thing was stalking them, it was time to strike some fear into its heart; the beast folk, after all, responded to one thing and one thing alone – brute, animalistic strength. And if this creature was going to respect him, he would have to impress upon its feeble mind just how strong and fearsome he was. Otherwise, they would have a nasty fight on their hands; and he wasn't exactly feeling up to a fight at the moment. “Especially after that little 'jaunt' up the hill.”
So, chest puffed up and head at a heavenward angle, he headed forward. Before he reached the Khajiit, however, he saw his servant shake hands with (“Actually touch!”) the Beast, and then turn. Heading directly for him, the valet instructed, “Let's go,” and nodded for Edward to follow.
The Imperial stared, aghast, as his servant walked past after giving him a command; and then, he realized that he had somehow deflated, as it were – his puffed up chest was now hunched forward in sheer amazed stupefaction. For a moment, he considered defying his servant's presumptuous dictates and challenging the beast creature then and there; and then he thought better of it, for he had no desire to fight a Khajiit – let alone, by himself.
So, hurrying after his servant, he planned in his mind a scathing verbal chastisement for such unpardonable behavior.
Instead of pausing, or anything of that nature, when they reached the bottom of the hill, however, the other man continued toward their horses. Edward raced to keep up with his companion, cursing the man's impudence – not only did he wrong him, but, in scurrying about so, he tried to prevent a well deserved lecture on the topic. So caught up in feeling wronged as he was, he didn't even take note of the fact that his valet was removing a pack of supplies and an extra sword from their mounts.
“Sir,” the other man spoke in hushed tones when Edward finally caught up to him, “take this torch; and don't say anything. Follow me -- be quite and act naturally. I'm afraid we're in danger here.”
Edward let out a whimper as he numbly took the torch. Somehow, for all his annoyance and anger, he had sensed that there was something of that sort afoot. There always was, it seemed, when he put his trust in his valet.
“Toward the ruin, sir.” This said, the man walked briskly toward the ancient Aleyid city.
Gulping, and whimpering again to himself, Edward raced to follow.
* * *
The flicker of torchlight illuminated the ruin in a dancing sort of luminescence – made all the more uneven by Edward's shaking.
“Sorry about being so abrupt back there, sir,” his valet spoke now. “We were being watched.”
Edward gulped. “Watched?”
“Yes...that Khajiit I was talking to? He's one of a band of tomb robbers-”
Edward groaned. Ye gods. What had he gotten himself into?!
“A band of tomb robbers,” the valet continued, “that was waiting for us to come here. You remember the fellow you talked with, Claude Maric?”
Nodding in dismay, the Imperial despairingly wondered, “How could I forget him?”
“They're working for him. At least, S'razirr was...but not anymore.”
Edward stared suspiciously at his servant. “Why not anymore?”
“S'razirr owes me a favor,” the valet admitted. “Back when I worked for Umbaccano, I found out that Maric and a few of the other men were skimming some of his paycheck...not a whole lot, but some...it's hard for Khajiit to get employment in the City sometimes, so they figured he wouldn't make a big deal about it...”
Edward hissed. “Not hard enough,” he commented.
“Sir?”
“Nevermind, go on!”
“Well, anyway, when I found that out, they ended up having to repay him and all that...so he owed me one. As it was, S'razirr didn't realize they were waiting for us.”
“Who is 'they'?!”
“Maric, S'razirr, and two others...mercenaries, loyal to Maric.”
Edward groaned. “Tell me they're not all tomb robbers?”
His valet frowned. “I would guess they are,” he said. “That's who Maric works with, mostly.”
Edward groaned again, sinking to the floor in a despairing heap. He suddenly seriously regretted insulting Maric at the Tiber Septim Hotel. Now, he found himself alone, in the wilderness, with a pack of sex-crazed...tomb robbers...in pursuit of him. “Oh gods...” he whimpered.
“Once S'razirr found out that they were there to kill us-”
“Kill us?!” Edward shrieked.
Making a quick gesture for silence, his valet said, “Keep your voice down, sir! I'm not sure if there are any of them in here...”
“But...they want to kill us?!” Edward repeated, this time in a more managed volume.
“After we retrieve the carving.”
“What?”
“The carving. You know, the one you're here to get.”
“Then...why don't we just forget it, and go home, if they're going to kill us after we get it?” Edward wondered.
“Well, because they'll kill us anyway, sir.”
Edward frowned. “You mean...they want us to go through the work of finding the carving and then kill us too?” He couldn't help but feel that that wasn't very sportsmanlike.
“Apparently – if what S'razirr said was true.”
“If? But I thought you said he owed you a favor...”
“He does, sir. But he's a tomb robber, too, remember.”
Edward groaned. “That's right...”
“He did promise to help us, though. However...”
Edward cringed. He wasn't sure he wanted to know what the catch would be.
“I had to agree to giving him a quarter of your cut.”
Edward stood bolt upright. “A quarter of my gold?!” he thundered. “To a dirty cutthroat, and a tomb robber at that?! A Khajiit??”
“I thought, sir, given the odds of fighting all four of them – versus evening the odds, three to three – that a quarter of the gold was a cheap price to pay...”
Edward glared at him. “And how do you know the filthy Khajiit will even keep his word?!” he demanded.
“I don't,” his valet admitted. “However, if he doesn't and we die...well, we don't have to worry about it; and, if he doesn't and we have to kill him, then that was his choice...”
Edward's fury was so great that he said nothing – not least of all because he could find no flaw with this reasoning, as distasteful as it seemed to him.
“However,” the other man pressed on, “what I was saying was this...S'razirr wants us to go through with getting this carving. According to him, they plan to ambush us when we emerge with it. If all of this is true, we've been warned; if it's not, we could be walking into a trap in the ruin. They might have deliberately put S'razirr in place there to tell us that, knowing that he was indebted to me and hoping that I'd believe him because of that.”
Edward turned pale at these words. It seemed to have worked pretty well, if that was their plan; after all, they were inside the ruin, and on the tomb robber's orders...
“But,” his valet continued, “I know something that they don't. I know where the carving is...and I know how to get out of here – a secret way.”
Edward stared in astonishment at his servant. “You told me that you knew very little about this place!” he protested. “And now you know about secret exits and hidden carvings?!”
“Well,” his servant returned, “that's about the extent of my knowledge, sir. And this place is huge, with a tremendous history – a history that I only know a fraction of...”
“Yes, yes,” Edward interrupted. “Let's just get out of here, though!
What I can't wait to see is Edward in the final room in the Nenalata !!!! (I will cover my monitor and keyboard in plastic before reading it, too !!!!)
When you do scenes like the "As I..." ; 'Yes?" ; "Yes?" ; "As I" - I always wonder what exactly Martin is thinking when he is doing them !!! ROFL !!!!
AWESOME WRITE !!!!!!!! And AWESOME to have you back UPDATING AGAIN !!!!!!!!!!! (Finally !!!!)
lol, mALX, thanks for the comments...* anyone * who works with Edward has to have more than their fair share of "huh?" moments, that's for sure!!
Barbarians, to the core...
Barbarians, through and through,
Barbarians, ever more...
Barbarians, I'm afraid it's true.
-- A Study of the Social Evolution, Customs and Building Practices of the Nordic Tribes, ordered by High Chancellor Cicero
Chapter Fifty-Two
Sighing in discomfort, Edward shifted the saddle bag he was carrying. His valet had given him the choice of carrying the torch and supplies – which he'd taken “just in case” – or being ready to fight. Edward had chosen to carry the torch and supplies.
So, they were trudging through the dimly lit passages of the ruin, occasionally pausing to listen to what sounded like nothing at all to Edward, headed for a secret chamber of some sort. According to his servant, a famed treasure hunter of years past had sought out this carving; he had been attacked while retrieving it, but managed to hide the carving and escape through a secret exit – the same exit they planned on using. His servant, while researching Aleyid ruins, had stumbled across the treasure hunter's journal, and learned this; and, since his servant had never advertised the fact, he was, presumably, the only person living to know of its existence.
Nonetheless, Edward was not thrilled. They were skulking about in the veritable dark, in creepy, tomblike ruins, on the word of some old dead guy who might well have been stark raving mad, or drunk as a Nord, or otherwise unreliable, when he'd penned the entry about the High Fang. It really was not enough to inspire confidence.
“If my memory serves, sir, it should be just at the end of this hall.”
Edward groaned. That, too, was another difficulty. Even if the treasure hunter was the most reliable man to ever live, he still had to rely on his unreliable servant's unreliable memory.
“Look,” he wondered, “can't we just get out of here? I mean, if you know where the exit is, why not just leave?”
“Because this carving just might prove to be a crucial bargaining chip.”
Edward sighed. His servant had a darned infuriating obstinate streak in him – that was apparent. But now was not the time to take him to task for it. Sighing in impatience as he pondered these things, they came to a stop at the end of what seemed to be a dead-end hallway.
“There's a lever somewhere here he said...” his valet murmured.
Edward sighed again. Half of him still believed that they were good and truly doomed, and that his valet was on a wild goose chase. He was, therefore, quite startled when a whoosh of air emanated, it seemed, from nowhere, and the wall vanished before him.
Leaping backwards with a yelp of fright, Edward watched as his valet stepped into the newly revealed aperture.
“Aha! Here it is.” He stepped out a moment later, holding a small chunk of stone covered in ornate carvings.
Edward frowned at it. Was that stupid piece of rock really what all the fuss was about, he wondered. “People really are dumb,” he mused, “just look at Umbacano...sending all these thugs out here to pursue us over a tiny piece of rock. I mean, if people are going to die over something, at least let it be worth something...like gold. That makes sense to die over. But rocks? I'll never get that.”
“I said, we should move out, sir,” his valet's voice broke through his internal dialogue.
“Huh? Oh, yes, about time.”
“Yes sir...”
Frigid days and icy nights,
Summer is a concept wholly unknown
Men who live for fights
Mothers lucky to see their children grown.
-- A Study of the Social Evolution, Customs and Building Practices of the Nordic Tribes, ordered by High Chancellor Cicero
Chapter Fifty-Three
“It must be dark out already,” Edward protested.
“Not dark enough,” his valet contradicted. “Before we can get to the horses, it has to be pitch black out there.”
“Come on!” the Imperial insisted. “I'm freezing! And my legs are cramped from sitting on this rock.”
In the last flickering glimpses of torchlight, Edward could see his servant frown at him. “You know better than anybody, sir, that it's all part of the game – it can't all be assassinations and break-outs from Aleyid ruins. You have to have the waits and the traitors and whatnot too.”
It was the Imperial's turn to frown. His servant really was crossing some lines today. Not only had he told him what to do more than once, he was now reprimanding him. “This is the worst day of my life,” he grumbled to himself. “Not enough to eat...not enough to drink...carrying around saddlebags like a damned pack animal...”
His servant's irritated sigh sounded in the stillness of the ruin. “Alright,” he said, “if you really think it's time to go get the horses, we can do it now.”
Edward's first reaction had been one of celebration – he could finally stretch! – but at the word “we” it turned to consternation. “Wait...” he said. “You mean...both of us?”
His valet stared at him.
“I mean,” Edward explained hastily, “I don't know if it will be possible to make my way to the horses undetected lugging around these packs...and we need them, so...”
The other man nodded. “Good point sir. Alright, I'll stay with them if you like.”
Edward frowned. He didn't “like” – at all. “Well,” he hesitated, “the thing is...to be honest with you...perfectly frank...I have a problem sometimes...you know, with direction...in the dark...I'm not sure I'd be able to find the horses.”
“But we're coming out just south of them, behind that plateau...”
“There's no sense explaining to me,” Edward protested. “It won't make any difference. I can't find my way around...wilderness...caves...wastelands at night.”
“Oh,” his servant remarked. “That can't be convenient, in your line of work.”
“No,” Edward agreed hastily. “It's downright inconvenient. And embarrassing. Which is why I haven't mentioned it before.”
“No worries, sir. A master's confidence is safe with me.”
“You're very good.”
“Not at all,” the other man nodded.
“So, then, you'll...?”
“Yes sir. Of course sir.”
Edward smiled to himself, but aloud thanked his servant. This was the other man's plan, after all...why shouldn't he be the one to take the risks? Nevermind the fact that they were embarked on a mission of Edward's choosing. It just didn't seem right that he should creep out into the night – particularly if it wasn't fully dark out yet – to fetch the horses and bring them back, all the while remaining undetected, while his servant could his risk his neck doing it for him.
A land that civilized men cannot abide,
A land where even the best of Imperials would have died
Skyriim, they call that frigid wasteland
The horror of which civilized men cannot begin to understand.
-- A Study of the Social Evolution, Customs and Building Practices of the Nordic Tribes, ordered by High Chancellor Cicero
Chapter Fifty-Four
Edward was sighing to himself, not so much because he was frustrated – he was marginally so – as because he was nervous, and focusing on his annoyance proved a good distraction from his nervousness. “How long can it take?” he was wondering. “I mean, it's only around that hill, right?” He almost wished he had not lied about being directionally challenged...for half a moment, he could see himself out there in the wilds, creeping through the dirt, making his way bravely for the horses, while, lying in wait, the ever present tomb robbers...
And that, of course is where the fantasy broke off, for he recoiled from the thought in horrified disgust. He recoiled so far, in fact, that he backed into the stone wall behind him, smashing his elbow in the process.
“Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods,” he yelped, dropping the torch and hopping about in sheer agony. “That hurts. Oh gods that hurts!” He had, in a most unamusing turn of events, smashed his funny bone.
In an even less humorous twist, however, the room was all at once plunged into darkness. Edward froze, the agony in his arm suddenly long forgotten. He was alone, in an Aleyid ruin, at night, surrounded by killers and tomb robbers, without as much as a torch.
Whimpering, he collapsed to the ground in a heap. “Oh gods,” he repeated. Not being the overly religious type, he somehow still managed to find time in his life for the gods whenever he was excessively angry, and needed a powerful curse, or excessively frightened, and needed a comforting entity to appeal to. Lately, it seemed, he was finding himself spending time appealing to the gods from both motivations.
* * *
The valet paused. For a moment, he had thought he heard a muffled shriek; but then all was still again. Nothing had moved, and the mercenaries were all still atop the hills surrounding Malada, little black silhouettes in the night. He frowned. The voice had sounded very much like Edward's; but surely it was a trick of the night, or of his heightened senses. Surely, even if Edward had cried out, he couldn't be heard from behind the thick stone walls of Malada; and surely his call wouldn't have been so screechy, anyway.
Brushing the sound of as an imagination, he pushed on. The going was slow...he was creeping through the dirt, inching forward slowly so as not to make the smallest sound, and keeping low so that he did not provide the silhouette that his would-be assassins did atop their hilltops and against the night sky as they were.
The horses were near...he could hear them snorting and moving now and again to find a new patch of grass. Even from his current vantage, the glow of the tomb robber's campfire cast flickering spires of flame on him. It would only get worse as he neared...but there was no choice. It was a chance that had to be taken. And, worse come to worse, Edward would at least have the opportunity to escape from the secret exit undetected – even if Maric's men stormed the front entrance immediately, they might not find the other exit for days or weeks, if at all, and so they might think he was holed up somewhere in the city.
* * *
His back flat against the stone floor, Edward whimpered – and tried to ignore the clouds of dust that every fresh breath disturbed. The world seemed closing in around him, growing smaller and smaller; time seemed to unwind around him, falling away and away; everything was all at once near and terribly close. “Oh gods,” he repeated, “please don't let your hapless servant meet an end like this, dying of...well, anything, in these cold, terrible elven tunnels. Please...please...please...” His supplications broke off into whimpering for a time, and then they resumed. “Please don't let that treacherous servant betray me. Oh gods, please protect me from him. For all I know, he could have made a deal with that animal – I saw him shake its paw, didn't I? I wonder what price they put on my head. Oh gods, please take mercy on me. I know I've made some...mistakes here and there...and might not have been as good a follower as I could have been...but that can always change – if I'm alive. But, if I'm dead, I can't change my wicked ways and become a devout follower like you'd like. So please, give me the chance to serve you.”
* * *
Speaking soothingly to the horses, the valet – oblivious to Edward's imagined plight – held and cut their tethers. He moved slowly, nearing the saddle of the rightmost animal. His plan was to mount that horse, and stampede them out of the camp. They would circle past the plateau, pause for a moment for Edward to leap onto a mount, and ride like the wind out of the camp. The thieves would have two horses left – and, with any luck, S'razirr would take one of those. And, regardless, even if they were tracked down, the fight would at least be an even one.
* * *
Whimpering to himself and the gods, Edward was lost to the world – except when a strange, light ticklish wisp brushed his face. A chill dread stole over his body, and his limbs seemed to go almost numb as he placed this terror, this dark fear, this specter of all his nightmares.
He needed no light – which was fortunate, as he had none – to know what it was; instinct told him what that tendrily touch was – what it could only be. In the depths of despair, his plight had just worsened; a spider, probably picked up in his hair when he'd smashed into the wall, was crawling across his face.
* * *
The valet had just slipped one foot into the stirrup when a shrill wail of terror rent the evening. So high pitched, so indicative of mortal peril, was it that the horses, the mercenaries atop the overhanging hills, and he, all at once, as if of a single mind, leaped backwards. For a moment, the sound, eerie beyond words in the sheer horror it conveyed, was hard to place; and then he realized that it was Edward.
This paragraph says it all :
mALX: Thanks. I've spent more hours than I want to admit writing today, LOL (we're basically snowed in, so there's not a whole bunch I can do otherwise, LOL), and finished the whole Umbaccano quest. Now to proof and post... ![]()
Where once would Aleyids roam
Now the dead call “home”
There the bravest of the brave may with impunity wander
But cowards would their lives only squander.
-- Excerpt from The Treasure Hunter's Song
Chapter Fifty-Five
The two men stood surrounded by their five attackers; at least, the valet stood. Edward was more leaned against the hillside in a heap than standing.
Claude Maric laughed. “More excitement than you could handle, eh? New blood.” His men chuckled with him. “They think this line of work will be a bed of roses.” His smile turned sour, and his eyes gleamed cold in the firelight. “Well, it's not. You're lucky I'm a merciful guy, Mr. High and Mighty. As it is, I'll spare your life...this time. Provided you hand over the carving.”
Edward made no response, except to whimper.
Maric sneered. “I can't quite make up my mind if you're putting on act to elicit sympathy – in which case it's not working – or if you really are as pathetic as you seem. Either way, it doesn't really matter. Take it or leave it...hand over the carving and walk away, or die here and now.” His suave smile returned. “Just business you know. Nothing personal.” Glancing at the valet, he added, “To you, at least. As far as this sewer rat's concerned, I wouldn't mind -”
But the other man interrupted. “I'm sorry, Maric, but it's not going to work that way.”
The Breton frowned. “Hold on...that voice...”
“Yes, I figured you'd remember me.”
“Umbacano's valet! The one who ratted us out...”
“That's right.”
“I figured he just reassigned you...you were too much of lapdog to let loose...”
Grimacing, the valet declared, “Come on, Claude. We can figure out a way for all of us to walk away from this in one piece.”
“I already gave you a way. Hand over the carving.”
Shaking his head, he said, “I'm sorry. That's not going to happen. Now...if you want to discuss an equal cut for everyone here...”
Maric laughed. “Not bloody likely.”
“It doesn't have to end with your men in pine boxes, Claude....”
The Breton repeated his familiar refrain of laughter. “Bargaining is for the weak. Or didn't you know that, valet? You should stick to polishing boots and preparing tables. That's what you're good at. This is a man's world. You and your friend there don't belong in it if you don't know how to play by the rules.”
The valet grimaced, nudging Edward, who was still in a half swoon. “If you force a fight, Maric, you'll be responsible for what happens to your men.”
Claude Maric sneered. “That's it then? It's you and your fainted friend against me and my four men?”
At that moment, the gravely voice of a Khajiit broke in. It was S'razirr. “Actually,” he said, “three.”
“What?”
“Well, I owe my friend one for turning you lot in, don't I? And, while we're on the subject, I owe you one as well for double crossing me. A double cross with a double cross. Seems a fair exchange, don't you think?”
“You dirty...”
Kicking Edward sharply, the valet nodded. “And, Maric?”
The Breton turned glaring eyes toward him. “What?”
“I never set tables.”
A coward's victory,
Is short lived.
But the hero's deeds
Live on for all time.
-- An excerpt from a piece translated in the scholarly work “Writings of Old, Dead People”
Chapter Fifty-Six
His servant's last kick had finally roused Edward, and he found himself greeted on his return to the world of consciousness by the sight of three glowering, armed warriors in front of him. To his eternal relief, however, his servant and even the beast creature he'd seen earlier were also standing with him.
“I think that's three to three, now, Maric,” S'razirr hissed in satisfaction. “Looks like you've lost the advantage.”
The Breton glared daggers at the Khajiit, but gestured at Edward. “That? You count that the equal of any of my men?”
The valet laughed. “You don't know what you're talking about, Maric. This man has seen more death in his life time than you've ever dreamt of.”
Claude Maric laughed, but his laughter seemed edged with nervousness. “I wasn't born yesterday, Norvayne. That lily-livered coward looked like he had just seen a ghost...”
“Worse!” Edward assured him. “You have no idea the horrors that infest those tunnels.”
The Breton shivered. The horrors Edward had in mind were clearly not the horrors that Maric imagined. But the effect was still there. “I'm giving you one last chance...” he began.
“Bargaining is for the weak, remember?” the valet reminded him. “We're not giving up the carving, and that's final. Now it's your move.”
For several moments, Maric stood still, clearly conflicted. Edward sneered at the man's cowardice. In normal circumstances, the Imeprial would have thought himself brave indeed to find himself in such a – comparatively speaking – mild state of cowardice as the Breton's. These were not ordinary circumstances, however. Indeed, at the present, Edward found himself full of an unknown courage, a mix of adrenalin and spent fear, for his fear and panic seemed exhausted by his horrendous ordeal in the Aleyid ruins, and, in comparison to that, an evenly match fight seemed pretty tame. And, besides, he was fairly sure Maric would bolt, and he'd be able to pretend to “chase” him...leaving his servant and the Khajiit to battle the other two, while he waited in safety.
At length, the Breton spoke. “I've been in this business long enough to know when to call it a day,” he said. “But you three had better watch your backs from now on.”
* * *
“That was well played back there, sir!” Edward's valet was telling him. “Did you see the look on Maric's face? He was really quite scared of the three of us.”
Edward sighed.
“And when you told him about the ghosts you had seen!” S'razirr put in. “He looked as if it was he who had seen them.”
Edward grimaced as the two men (“Well, one man, and one beast creature”) laughed.
“But, seriously, sir, what did you see?” the valet asked.
Edward's grimace disappeared into a momentary flash of panic. As horrifying as his encounter, in those dusty, forgotten stone passages, with the spider had been, he somehow doubted it would be the stuff of inspiration that these two were expecting to hear. “Well...it...I...umm...it was...awful. I...I'd rather not talk about it.”
“That bad, eh?” S'razirr hissed. “Scared to death, this one is, of the undead things.” The Khajiit shivered.
“At least, though, it's dead now, right?” the valet prompted.
“Oh yes,” Edward assured him. “Very dead.” This was true, for one or another of the haphazard blows he'd launched against his face to rid him of the thing had turned the spider into a mere spot on his forehead.
The other two men nodded admiringly, and the group settled into silence as they rode, victorious, into the dawn.
When days are hard, and nights are cold
When strength is spent, and purse emptied of gold
A friend will understand your sorrow without being told
Open his home and welcome you into his fold.
-- An excerpt from a piece translated in the scholarly work “Writings of Old, Dead People”
Chapter Fifty-Seven
“By the way,” Edward was asking his servant, “that tomb robber was calling you 'Norvayne' earlier...what the heck does that mean?”
The other man stared at him. “That's my name, sir.”
Edward recoiled in disgust. “Really?” he asked, mortified.
“Yes sir.”
“Ugh...no wonder you changed it.”
“I...didn't, sir.”
Edward stared at him. “Of course you did! Otherwise, why haven't I heard the hideous thing before?”
“Because...you didn't ask, sir?”
Edward blinked. Perhaps the other man was right. He shrugged. “Well, anyway, you should change it. It doesn't sound at all Imperial.”
“It's not, sir.”
Recoiling a second time, Edward stared at his servant. The man looked every bit an Imperial; and his speech, his mannerisms, and his vast knowledge all spoke of Imperial culture, class and refinement – of the serving class' breeding, at any rate. And here he was, advertising for all the world to know, that someone, somewhere in his family tree, had married some sort of barbarian? “Then...why have you not changed it already?!”
“It's...my name, sir.”
Edward sighed. There really was no explaining the peculiar sensibilities of the serving caste, was there?
Before the conversation could progress, however – and before Edward could further insult his manservant – S'razirr declared, “Here, this one will part company from his friends. Better, he thinks, to approach the city carefully. Maric will not be pleased to see him return, no.”
Norvayne nodded.
“He will wait for you to finish your business with Umbaccano; then, he will take his share, and find a new city to settle in.”
Edward grimaced, remembering his servant's promise; and a flash of consternation crossed his servant's face.
“Wait,” he said. “You mean...you are working for Umbaccano, too? You're not interested in the ruins personally, just looking for him?”
The Imperial flushed. He had forgotten that he'd never told his servant that part of the story. “Well...actually...as a matter of fact...”
“Of course,” S'razirr hissed. “Why do you think Maric hates him so much?” The Khajiit laughed a throaty laugh. “At last, the elf tires of Maric's cowardice, and sends a real tomb robber!”
Ignoring the beast creature's insult, Edward explained quickly to his servant, “He approached me to find this carving...”
“I should have known there was a reason for this sudden interest in Aleyid artifacts....but...Umbaccano?!”
Edward snorted in aggravation. How dare his servant question his motives? “One man's gold is as good as another's!” he snapped. “And it's my own damned business who my clients are, isn't it?”
“Not when you trick me into finding the carving for you.”
“You didn't...I didn't...what does it matter, any way? You're not working for him – you're working for me. So why do you care?”
The other man made no response, however, but set his jaw firmly and looked away. Edward glared at him, feeling rather furious. Truth to be told, he wasn't terribly upset by his servant's questioning; it was more the pangs of conscience, in working for someone who had fired a good, trustworthy worker – a friend, he would almost deign to admit – in order to increase his horde of treasures, that bothered the Imperial. So, naturally, he channeled his frustration at any hint of wrongdoing on his part into anger at another.
GAAAAH!!! Edward showed...human emotions? ARGH!!! That means...snow in july...hell freezing over...etc.
Lol, Great Write Rachel !!! I hope you are starting to feel better...wait...not really. I'm enjoying having you back too much to want you healed !!! (just kidding) ROFL !!!
Ill-bred barbarians! How dare they even THINK to intrude upon Edward so!
@mALX: LOL, thanks. I'm actually all better now...it's the snow storm you've got to thank for this last bout of writing, lol. I spent the weekend baking cookies, shoveling (blech), writing and drawing. None of which I had originally intended to do, but...
As for Edward and his human emotions...well, don't get too used to it. He might succumb to being human every once in awhile, but that just means that he has to try harder next time. ![]()
@Verlox: LOL, barbarians indeed!!
Edward's fortitude in dealing with them is really remarkable, the poor man. ![]()
Some men, a career of witticisms make;
For others, their path is heroism extraordinary;
But for him? Bungling unparalleled,
Coupled with arrogance indescribable.
-- Author's notes preceding The Song of Edward
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Edward, trying hard to control his uneven breathing, paused as he reached the top of the stairs. He hadn't realized just how heavy the carving was until he had to carry it up a flight of stairs. Jollring paused to look him over with an expression that conveyed only the slightest hint of disgust. “Sir? Is everything alright?”
Edward nodded, but didn't speak, opting to save his breath for the time being.
“Very well...then, shall we proceed?”
The Imperial nodded again.
Subtly rolling his eyes, the Nord opened the door to his master's chambers. “Sir, the tomb raider has returned,” he announced.
Umbaccano glanced up, and Edward noted that he was seated exactly where he'd seen him before, reading exactly the same book he'd been reading the last time he'd been in the manor. He cringed. He couldn't stand the academic types, with their nose always in a book. “Why doesn't he get off his duff and get these rocks himself?” he wondered. “Or spend some time fixing that ridiculous hair of his?”
“Ah!” the elf greeted. “It's you!”
Edward nodded. His breath still wasn't fully recovered, and he didn't want to give his employer the wrong impression of his fitness or ability by panting heavily after walking up a flight of stairs.
“I take it, then, that you've retrieved my carving?”
The Imperial nodded once more, producing the rock from inside of a bag. Umbacanno's eyes lit up at the sight of it, and he made a quick gesture to his manservant. Jollring stepped forward, handing Edward a little purse of Septims, as Umbaccano relieved him of his heavy burden.
Despite himself, the Imperial smiled. The coins were far less heavy than the rock – and they were gold, as opposed to old stone.
“Now,” Umbaccano declared, “you have proved yourself a reliable treasure hunter! How, then, would you feel about taking another job from me? This is a delicate one – one that I dare only entrust to my most trustworthy employee. That is why I would like you to take it, if you're willing.”
Edward preened at the compliment, and, with an excessively silly simper, declared, “Well, that, of course, depends on the nature of the assignment...”
“And the pay,” Umbaccano put in.
This frank statement of the very idea that he had in his mind caused Edward's confident, self congratulatory air to falter for a moment. But, in the next, he resumed his cool demeanor. “Of course, one expects ample remuneration for one's work...”
“Of course,” the elf nodded. “And it shall be made. One thousand septims up front, and one thousand Septims after the job is finished.”
* * *
Edward felt the flick of a wet cloth in his face – a very hard flick, in point of fact. He blinked and stirred, only to be greeted by a brusque slap. This caused him to sit upright with a start.
“I don't think you needed to hit him again...I think he was waking up already,” he heard a familiar voice.
“No, sir, I don't think he was,” another voice disagreed.
Edward stared into the faces of the speakers, who were Jollring and Umbaccano. For a moment, he wondered why he was seated on the floor, and they were leaning over him concernedly. “What...happened?”
“You seemed to collapse,” the elf informed him, “when we were discussing your payment.”
“I'm sure it was a faint, sir,” the Nord put in. “Probably after all the exertion of climbing the stairs.”
Edward threw a fleeting glare at the servant, but returned his full attention to the elf. “That's right,” he nodded, remembering now. In truth, he had fainted – but it had nothing to do with the stairs. He had collapsed at the prospect of two thousand gold Septims. “I was just agreeing to take the job, and you were telling me that it would pay two thousand Septims.”
“That's right,” Umbaccano nodded.
Edward leaped to his feet, brushing himself off. So eager was he to start, so anxious to lay his hands on the two thousand Septims, that he didn't even take time to be embarrassed by his fainting spell. “When do I start?”
“After you hear the details of the assignment might be a good time,” the elf smiled.
The ways of the barbarians, are barbarous indeed;
And the ways of the peasants, peasantinian* indeed.
-- Wisdom of the First Era
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Edward felt the purse of gold coins at his side a second time as he stepped out of Umbaccano's manor, into the afternoon sunlight. He couldn't believe it – he had almost fainted a second time at hearing the details of his assignment. The elf – madman that he was! – was paying him two thousand gold coins to speak to a collector about selling an old hat. He laughed to himself. It was a miracle that Umbaccano was still rich, when he threw his money away like that. It was almost cruel of him to take the job...and yet, it would have been criminal to throw away such a shot at wealth.
So caught up in feverish delight as he was, he didn't notice his servant approach. “Sir?” the other man greeted.
Edward started, a guilty feeling coming over him. He had agreed, earlier, that this would be his last job for Umbaccano...and here he was, presented with an opportunity that was simply too good to pass up. “Oh, uhm, what?”
“I bought the supplies for our return to Cheydinhal, sir.”
Edward frowned. “Cheydinhal?”
“Yes...you were en route to...” Here, the other man lowered his voice. “Your Dark Brotherhood contact.”
“Oh, yes,” Edward nodded. It seemed like a very long time ago, now. He enjoyed his work with the Brotherhood, of course...but they clearly did not pay anywhere near what he was worth – and could expect from Umbaccano. “However, there's been a...umm...slight delay in our plans.”
His servant eyed him with obvious suspicion. “Sir?”
“I need to visit someone...” he answered. “Here in town. It shouldn't take long, just a quick visit.”
The suspicion was now fullblown on the other man's face. “Who?”
Edward recoiled to show how deeply affronted he was by these questions. “Who are you,” he demanded, “to question me?”
The other man frowned. “Someone who knows Umbaccano, sir. There is a collector, her name is Herminia Cinna. They have been rivals for years, and there is a lot of...bad blood between them. Umbaccano is always trying to find someone else to bring into the quarrel, hoping to best her for this item or that.”
Edward's emotions cycled from shock to disinterest and back to shock again. He couldn't care less about the backstory, but he was amazed that his valet had been able to discern so quickly what his purpose was. “Well, so what?” he asked. “What do I care, as long as I'm paid?”
His servant frowned. “There's a reason Claude Maric has never done it, even when he offers huge bonuses for doing so,” he answered. “I don't know what, exactly, the details of their rivalry are...but I don't think it's a safe job, sir. Otherwise, even a coward like Maric would have scooped it up...”
Edward snorted. “Do you really think,” he demanded, “that I am going to let the fears of a coward stop me? Edward the Imperial is not ruled by fear – not his own, and certainly not a cowardly little Breton's!”
“Sir, please, I don't trust -”
“I don't care who or what you do or don't trust!” Edward snapped. “I am going! I am not going to let Maric's cowardice get in my way – or yours, for that matter.” He paused. “And, besides, what could possibly be dangerous about buying a hat?!”
His servant stared blankly at him. “A...hat, sir?”
“Yes!” Edward nodded. “He wants me to go talk to her about selling some old Aleyid king's hat, and -”
“You don't mean the Crown of Nenalata, do you?”
Edward blinked. That sounded familiar. “Yes, I think it was a crown,” he agreed.
“I should have known!” his servant exclaimed. “He's been after two pieces for years, sir – the carving you just gave him, and that crown. Now he's got one, and he wants the other. The Crown is supposed to be the Crown worn by the last King of the Aleyids. It's a very powerful magical device, sir – they say-”
Edward yawned. What was his servant babbling about? Did he really think Umbaccano hadn't already bored him to death with all of these irrelevant details about the Aleyid kings and cities and all the rest?
“And, if you understand the underlying magic, it can be a powerful weapon. I don't think...I don't think it should be in Umbaccano's hands, sir!”
Edward frowned at his servant. The man's attempts at getting him to leave the elf's employ really were pathetic. “Magic hats? Does he really think I'm going to fall for this junk?!” he wondered. Aloud, he said firmly, “That's all very well and good...but I'm still talking to her. If you're worried about it, go to the temple and ask for hat-dispelling blessings...”
* peasantinian (adj): 1. belonging to a peasant
2. of or characterized by distinctly peasant-like characteristics
3. poor or unrefined in appearance, breeding, or bearing
Examples of Peasantinian:
"He was a rough lad with an odd streak of refinement, peasantinian in his mannerisms but genteel in speech."
"The foremost peasantinian mode of travel: one's own two feet."
"It was an extraordinarily peasantinian hovel."
Origins of Peasantinian:
Imperial, peasantius, from Aleyid paysant
First known use: First era
Through mighty might and righteous right,
Bravely fighting the good, nay the best, fight,
The Imperials broke their chains and reversed their plight
And valiantly stormed the White Gold Tower that joyous night
Victory bound, immortalized for their courage and might
Riding the wave of conquest and history, hail the mighty Empire!
-- Excerpt from a grade school history textbook, chapter The Glorious Fall of the Barbarous Elves, and the Ascension of the Imperials as the Right and Just Rulers of Tamriel
Chapter Sixty
Edward stood, tapping his foot impatiently. The Cinna woman was gabbing ceaselessly with a beggar, who was complaining about some illness that seemed to make him weak and tired. The Imperial sighed. No wonder Umbaccano sent him on this tedious task – clearly the woman was a nitwit, if she preferred babbling with whiny beggars to actual business transactions.
“Take this in two doses – one now, and one in about twelve hours,” she was saying. “It should cure your problems.”
“Ohh, thank you, kind lady!”
“No need to thank me, Fralav. Just make sure you take both doses, and get some rest. You should feel fine in no time.”
“Blessings of Julianos upon you, kind lady!”
Edward rolled his eyes as Herminia dismissed Fralav. “These beggars never switch up their lines, do they?” he wondered.
Glaring down his nose at the other man as he passed, Edward headed over to Miss Cinna when she called, “Next.”
“Good afternoon,” he greeted, with as charming a smile as he could muster when thoroughly annoyed – as he was now, at having to wait as long as he'd had to wait.
She stared at him for a moment, an eyebrow raised. “Are you sure you're homeless?” she asked.
This unexpected and unflattering query took Edward completely aback. “Me? Homeless? What?”
“I'm sorry, sir, but this clinic is only for the homeless and waterfront district residents. You don't look like you're either of those...”
Despite himself, he felt a slight twinge of relief that – mad as she was – she could tell that he was not a lowlife like the creature who had just slunk out. “My dear lady,” he informed her, “I have no idea what you're talking about. Of course I am not homeless. And I most assuredly do not live in the hovels on the waterfront.”
She nodded. “Then this clinic isn't for you.”
He frowned at her. “What clinic?”
It was her turn to frown. “Aren't you here for the free Fredas clinic?”
“What?”
“Oh...I guess not. It's a service I provide to the poor in the Imperial City...free medicine and all of that, for whatever ails them.”
Edward frowned again, feeling annoyed that this crazy woman could have thought that he, Edward the Imperial, had come to beg aid from a batty old collector. “Yes, well, fascinating as that is,” he told her, “I am not here for the clinic. I am here to talk to you about your collection.”
“Ah.” Her eyes lit up. “Well, I would love to have that discussion with you. However, I'm afraid I'm unavailable right now.”
“What? Why?”
“Because I'm running my clinic...”
“But...but surely it can wait! This will only take...”
At that moment, the door opened, and a scraggly beggar walked in. Edward shivered and stepped back involuntarily at the sight of the dirty, bedraggled creature.
“Sorry,” she said. “Another patient. But, if you'd like, you can take a seat in the vestibule, and wait until we're done...”
* * *
Three hours later – and scratching, coughing and feeling himself remarkably lightheaded and short of breath – Edward hobbled over to Miss Cinna. Her clinic had finally ended, and she had declared that she was ready to talk. However, on seeing his approach, she raised an eyebrow. “What's wrong with you?” she asked.
“I think...I caught something,” he admitted. “I'm itching all over.”
She nodded. “It could be fleas or lice,” she told him. “After being exposed to patients with it, you might have picked up a few yourself.”
Edward felt his heart sink. “And...I have this lightheaded feeling. I feel like the room is spinning, and taking my strength with it.” He didn't care that his description of the ailment was exactly what Fralav's had been – he was sure that he had caught it from the filthy beggar, anyway.
She frowned. “It...could be Black-Heart Blight, I suppose. That's one of the symptoms...”
“And then,” he continued, “I have this cough.” He paused to demonstrate. “You see? And I noticed one of those beggars had the same thing. You don't suppose I could have picked it up?”
Her frown deepened. “I've never heard of Swamp Fever taking effect that quickly after exposure...”
“And my leg,” Edward continued, “it hurts, a lot. I can't walk on it. And I saw one of those beggars hobbling around too...”
“Fractured legs aren't contagious...” she informed him dryly.
LOL, thanks, mALX -- my favorite part of Edward's hypochondria was the "contagious" fractured leg...I can just see him, sitting there bored, absently watching as people hobble by, scratching/coughing/wheezing, and imagining that he is coming down with everything they have. ![]()
Where women are concerned,
A true master of speech and subtlety
Will find it the easiest thing in the world
To bend them to his will.
-- Rough draft of a dating guide, penned by Edward
Chapter Sixty-One
“Fractured?” Edward repeated, standing up straight. “Oh. Well, that's...good...maybe mine isn't...fractured, then.”
“I'm pretty sure it's not,” she told him curtly. “Seeing as how you walked in here fine, and then spent the last two hours sitting...”
“Three,” he corrected.
“What?”
“It was three hours,” he told her. “Not two.” Her annoyed look was quickly becoming a glare. “Not that it matters, of course,” he hastened to add. “I love sitting around and listening to vagrants whine as they spread their germs.” This last part was said with what he hoped was a genuine-seeming smile, but, if her expression was anything to go by, it had missed the mark somewhat.
“What do you want?” she demanded. “You said something about my collection. What about it?”
Seeing that their conversation had quickly taken a turn for the worse, Edward decided it was time to apply some charm. “Well,” he simpered, “as an amateur student of the Aleyids, I have long desired to meet the most formidable, learned mind on the topic – your reputation is beyond compare. So, when I wanted to locate a particular Aleyid hat for my own private collection, I knew I had to come to you.”
Alas, but Edward's charm had rather the opposite effect than he'd hoped; for, rolling her eyes, she snorted, “Oh, gods, Umbaccano gets more pathetic by the day.”
Edward flushed, stammering. “Umbaccano? What? Who? I don't know what you mean!”
“Save your breath,” Herminia informed him curtly. “Umbaccano's tried every trick in the book to get my crown – except sending a blithering idiot. Until now, that is. It's not for sale. At any price. Now get.”
She gestured for the door, but Edward was too frozen in place by sheer stupefaction to make any move. “But...how did you...”
She sighed. “Look, kid, you're obviously new at this. So let me give you some advice. Don't play over your head. Umbaccano is over your head. I am over your head. He's sent guys a lot smarter and a lot more intimidating over here – and not one of them has had any more of a chance than you do. I'm guessing he sent you here hoping your naiveté and obvious cluelessness would achieve what their cunning could not. You might think this job is your lucky break, but you have no idea who and what Umbaccano is. You wouldn't be the first – and you won't be the last – he's sent to his death over petty treasures and rumors of relics. He's a cold, heartless son of a Dremora – and there is no way, come Oblivion or high water, that he is getting my crown.”
Edward stared at her, too shocked to process half of what she was saying. He was still too lost in his amazement that she had figured out that he wanted her crown to focus on too much else. “But...but surely you could just...”
“No,” she shook her head. “You must not be listening to what I'm saying. The Crown of Nenalata is not for sale. At any price. Ever. Go home, and tell Umbaccano that – for the ten thousandth time – if you will. Or, take my advice, and don't ever go back there at all.”
“But what's the big deal?” Edward persisted. “He's willing to pay an outrageous amount of Septims, and -”
Herminia's glare had returned. “It's not the Septims I'm concerned about. Are you even listening to me? The Crown of Nenalata is a powerful magical device.” Edward raised his eyebrows at her. His valet's madness seemed contagious. “In the wrong hand's – in Umbacanno's hands – it could wreak more havoc than you can imagine.”
Edward sighed. “Come on! It's a hat! What can a hat do?!”
“It's not a 'hat'!” she snapped. “It's a crown!”
“Hat, crown, whatever,” he pooh-poohed her. Herminia's glare was piercing now, but Edward was too annoyed to take note. “I mean, you wear it on your head, it's a hat. You can't seriously believe that the world is going to end because of a hat?!”
“You fool!” she snapped. “Have you no notion of Aleyid magic? This was not just a 'hat'! This was the crown of the last King of the Aleyids.”
Edward sighed. “Yeah, yeah, I know – Umbaccano told me. And so did my servant. I get it. It's a powerful guy's hat.”
“Aleyid crowns were imbued with the power of their kings, and their cities!” Herminia told him. “The last king of the Aleyids was reputed to have lived for hundreds of years; his power was beyond compare in the Aleyid world at that time!”
Edward snorted. “Well, his magic hat didn't do him much good when the Imperials rose up against them, did it?”
“You fool!” she repeated. “Do you know nothing of history? The Aleyids were not a central unit; they were a group of warring, bitter rivals. It was the Imperials' good fortune that they rose up at a time of such bitter enmity between clans...because it was the Aleyids' infighting that was at least as much to blame for their downfall as the revolts of their human slaves!”
Edward yawned. “Look, I'm really not interested in a history lesson, ok? I just need that hat...err, crown.”
Herminia Cinna seemed ready to explode, and at a loss for words all at once. At this last observation, Edward decided this was a good time to bring back the charm factor.
“Come on, honey,” he smiled. “You and I both know that Umbaccano is making an offer you can't resist. Sooner or later, you're going to give in...let's face it, the man is offering an obscene amount of gold for an old hat. No one can hold out against that forever.”
Herminia Cinna's face seemed to alternate hues of purple and red as she took several deep breaths. Edward tried to determine if this was a good or bad thing, and figured it was best to keep talking just in case his charm hadn't had its full effect yet.
“Think of it this way. You can take all the money he's going to pay you, and buy as many hats as you want with it – and, between you and me, our styles are much better than those elves anyway. I mean, you'd look pretty svelte in some of the new styles...but Aleyid hats? Old and stuffy. You need modern and sleek, to match you.” Deciding that he didn't want to overdo the charm aspect – not least of all because he had a hard time flattering such an “old bat”, as he considered her, seeing as how she was a good decade or so his senior – he switched tactics. “And you know Umbaccano's never going to give up – you've said as much yourself. So why not take the money, and save yourself the grief? Not to mention, you'd be doing me a big favor. Umbaccano's going to give me a big bonus if I get this right; and I could really use the money right now. My parents aren't doing so well, and my wife is expecting a kid in two weeks...and our landlord is threatening to evict us if we can't make the new rate...not to complain, or anything...but it sure would be a big favor if you could just sell that hat...”
Wisdom teaches, and the wise realize
Women are but pawns in a man's game
A little flattery, a few compliments
And she suddenly sees things his way.
-- Rough draft of a dating guide, penned by Edward
Chapter Sixty-Two
With every new word, a thousand responses flooded Herminia Cinna's mind. Did this crazy Imperial not realize what he was asking? Did he really think his cheap flattery – particularly said with such a forced expression – would persuade her to hand over one of the most powerful ancient artifacts to a man like Umbaccano, a ruthless artifact seeker with an unhealthy obsession with Aleyid power and glory?
By time Edward reached his improvised sob story, Herminia was ready to gag. One phrase, however, stuck in her mind. “Umbaccano's never going to give up.” Pathetic fool that this envoy of Umbaccano's was, he was right on that one point. Today, he might send a nitwit like this to harass her. But tomorrow? He had already resorted to bullying; his thugs had been there more than once, and left singed to prove the fact. She was a good mage, but she was not a great one. What if the next attempt was more successful?
Something else, too, worried her. She had heard that Umbaccano had stepped up the number of treasure hunters he had looking for the High Fane carvings; the fact that he was intensifying the pressure on her indicated that he must be close to finding what he needed. If the rumors were right...
She shivered. If the rumors were right, he would have the secret to unlocking the power of Nenalata – with that, and the crown, he could become the most powerful being on all of Nirn.
She was drawn from her thoughts by the idiot, who was at the moment prattling on about some fictitious wife and offspring.
“And what with little, erm, Timmy's lameness, things are...”
“Oh, that's terrible!” she interjected. Anything, to shut him up; but she couldn't resist adding, “You know, in cases like that, I'd always make an exception, and be glad to see little...what was his name? Timmy? At my clinic.”
Edward stammered out some excuse about not taking advantage of her kindness.
“Oh, not at all! But...”
“Yes?”
“I've been thinking about what you said...and you put it so masterfully, that I'm half inclined to agree. Umbaccano may be an old coot, but it is...just a hat, after all.” Edward nodded eagerly, but she spoke before he had the opportunity to prattle on. “And it is an ancient artifact; aside from me, no one has seen it in how many eras? Surely, even if it did hold power, no one would know how to unlock it...”
“Exactly!” Edward agreed. “You see, that's what I mean. It's just a hat, right?”
She nodded. “And it's been in my possession all this time, and hasn't caused me any harm. Those stories might have even been made up by the Aleyids, or later scholars frightened or ignorant of them.”
Edward nodded, although he seemed a little bored by her delving into any discussion of the historical aspects of the crown.
Smiling, she said, “Very well. I am in agreement with you and your master. I will sell the Aleyid crown.”
Edward was positively beaming, and stumbling out a mass of words to assure her that she was making the right choice and to thank her, all at the same time.
“Yes, well, let me go fetch it for you, will you? I trust, of course, you have the payment?” As he assured her that this was the case, she left for her quarters.
Bolting the door behind her, Herminia opened a heavy wooden trunk, and pulled out two Aleyid caskets. They were bulky, and looked as if they would weigh a lot; and yet they were light as air to lift. Herminia could feel the magic emanating from them, and took care to keep the two caskets away from each other. She had seen the results of placing them too near one another before; even with her skills as a healer, the burns on her hands had taken a week to heal.
Pulling a tiny key from the delicate chain about her neck, she opened one casket, and, with another key, the other. Staring at the two crowns, she smiled. It was a good plan. They were, for all intents and purposes, identical. There were slight decorative differences – with the Nenalata crown bearing more feather impressions than the Lindai crown – but these were subtle. Without the two artifacts side by side to compare, one would hardly know that they were not the same item. And, for all his obsession with the Aleyids, Umbaccano was fixated on Nenalata and its power. He would not have made a study of Lindai.
Too, after Umbaccano's constant harassment over the first crown, Herminia hadn't made the same mistake she made when she retrieved the crown of Nenalata; no one knew that she had gone to Lindai, and no one knew that she had this crown in her possession. Even if anyone took the time to find out that it existed, they would have no idea where it had went.
If Umbaccano was the harmless collector people seemed to believe, selling him the crown of Lindai would be the fulfillment of his lifelong wish; he would think that he held the crown of the last and most powerful of all the Aleyid kings, and that his collection – his obsession – was finally complete. And, if he was the power seeking blackguard that she believed him to be, he would not be able to unleash the monstrous powers of Nenalata, for he would have the lesser crown of Nenalata's rival, Lindai, and his command of the secrets of Nenalata would be useless.
She smiled again. It was a good plan indeed. And the clueless dupe downstairs would be the perfect one to enact it.
The fool believes himself wise in comparison to others,
And the wise man knows himself to be a fool compared to his peers.
-- An excerpt from a piece translated in the scholarly work “Writings of Old, Dead People”
Chapter Sixty-Three
Edward smiled congratulatory smiles to himself as he left Herminia Cinna's home. Things might have started out a little rough between them, but, in the end, yet another woman had succumbed to his charms; she had believed everything he'd said, hook, line and sinker. Not that, of course, his reasoning had been flawed; a hat is just a hat, after all, and there's certainly no sense getting all worked up about it – especially when someone is offering you as much gold as Umbaccano was offering!
Half of him almost regretted telling Herminia the stories about his imaginary wife and kids; judging by the way she'd reacted when he turned on the charm, he could see the promise of a future for the two of them. Not that he was keen on the idea of being with an older woman, of course...but...well, this one was not just your average older woman. She was rich – and that did wonders toward erasing the difference of a decade.
Alas, though, it was not to be, for she thought he was already married. “Oh well,” he mused, “at least I got my hat.”
His thoughts turning to the hat, Edward was seized all at once with a desire to see the thing. She had opened the casket, of course, but he had only caught a glimpse of what looked like a funnily decorated helmet.
Casting furtive glances about him, Edward ducked into a side alley. There, he pulled out the key Herminia had given him, and opened the casket. Staring in astonishment, Edward reached in to remove the item he saw inside.
“This?!” he thought to himself. “This ugly helmet with horns is what all the trouble has been about? And so much for my servant and the Cinna woman insisting this was a crown...look at it! Just an ugly, feathery-looking helmet.” Sighing in annoyance at how much trouble he gone through for such a stupid thing, Edward lifted the helmet to his head.
He started as the metal – as light as the casket itself – touched his brow; a sort of energy, or power, seemed to emanate from it. All at once, he didn't feel terribly annoyed, and his hunger seemed to vanish.
Realizing that he was too nice a person – as evidenced by his sudden lack of frustration by the needless hullabaloo over a horned helmet – Edward removed the crown and sighed. He really had to work at that, he decided – otherwise people would continue to take advantage of his kindness and walk all over him.
He felt his annoyance come ebbing back as he replaced the crown in its casket. “That's better,” he thought. He was sick and tired of people ordering him about and making life difficult for him; he certainly didn't want to forgo the right to be furious at them for it.
Stepping out of the alley, Edward set his feet in the direction of Umbaccano's manor. “The sooner I'm done with this absurd business,” he decided, “the better. This elf is really starting to annoy me...making all this trouble over such an ugly hat...and it's not even like he's going to be able to wear the thing – not with that big spike of hair he's got. Although, maybe he'll finally get a decent hair cut now that he's got this.” The idea made Edward chuckle.
Where night forever falls,
Where the sinister spider crawls
The tomb-like city of buried walls
The haunt of the Aleyids appalls!
-- On Unraveling the Secrets of Aleyid Ruins, Edition the First
Chapter Sixty-Four
The elf's eyes lit up as Edward stepped into the room, carrying the Aleyid casket. “Oh my...don't tell me that you have finally persuaded that old toad?!” he exclaimed, leaping out of his seat in pure joy.
Confirming to his employer that he had indeed, Edward remarked to himself that this was, in fact, the first time he had seen Umbaccano leave his seat. “Well, at least I know he's capable of it...” he thought ill-humoredly.
“Ohh!” the elf was practically frantic with delight as he took the casket from Edward's hands.
Watching with a measure of guarded disdain, Edward allowed his employer to take out the crown, examine and exclaim over this detail and that, the beauty of the Elven craftsmanship, the power emanating from the thing, and all manner of other trite collector-speak, before declaring, “Well, since I've procured for you this delightful hat...”
“Oh yes, your payment,” Umbaccano looked up long enough to signal Jollring. “Of course!”
The Nord stepped forward and handed the beaming Edward a bag of gold; so thrilled to touch another thousand Septims – the most money he had ever had in his hands – was he, that the Imperial didn't even notice the other man's expression of contempt.
“Well, if that's all,” Edward smiled, “I've got a fortune to go drink away!”
The Altmer looked up a second time. “Hold on!” he called, stopping Edward in his tracks.
“What?”
“I can't tell you how thrilled I am with this...how did you manage to get Herminia to hand it over?!”
Edward shrugged. “Well, you know...just explained it in a rational manner. And she couldn't refuse, especially with what you were paying.”
The elf nodded. “It was personal, then. I knew it. I figured it just took a fresh face.” Umbaccno smiled. “I thank you.”
Shrugging again, the Imperial declared with mock humbleness, “All in a day's work.”
“Yes...and...I know you want to enjoy the rewards of your labor...”
Edward cringed. The elf was going to offer him another annoying job that paid too well to turn down, wasn't he?
“But...I do have one last proposition, if you're interested.”
Edward sighed, but nodded.
“Good! Now that I have this crown, I need to go to Nenalata itself.”
“Why?” the Imperial asked with a frown.
“Because I am a scholar as well as a collector!” Umbaccano returned. “This crown, and the carving you retrieved, were the last pieces I needed to complete my research, and unravel the mysteries of the Last King of the Aleyids.”
Edward cringed. He hated history buffs. For a moment, he considered turning the offer down.
“I would be – we, if you agree to come as my guard – would be making our way to the throne room,” Umbaccano continued. “And that has not been disturbed for thousands of years...I am there for the history of the place, so whatever treasure you found would be yours...”
All thoughts of abandoning the elf's employ were suddenly as extinct as the Aleyids, and Edward, shaking from pure excitement at the idea of looting an ancient throne room, shook his employer's hand. “It would be a pleasure!”
GAAAH !!! It's almost here...Edward in Nenalata !!! I can't wait !!!
These two parts had me choking! :
Haven't caught up yet, but I wanted to comment so you know I am still loving every sigh, every snort, every moment of Edwardian idiocy.
Where night forever falls,
Where the sinister spider crawls
Sinister spider!!
Aren't they all.
I have been in stitches all morning catching up with Edward's adventures. Fractures aren't contagious, LOL!! Hilarious, I love it!
Edward, earthward! Down doo de dungeons!!!
Where he will step into, and make his own, doo-doo...
I can't wait!
mALX, Treydog, Grits and Foxy -- thanks for the comments!! Glad to see that people are reading and enjoying it!!
Hope this isn't too soon after the holidays to start reposting (they seem like a month ago already, so I'm guessing not, but
) -- and I hope everyone had a great holiday season!!! ![]()
Frightening is the vale of death,
That world behind a curtain of mist
A veil of shadow to conceal it
And yet, ever in plain sight –
For what else, but Death
Is the focus of mankind's fear?
-- An excerpt from a piece translated in the scholarly work “Writings of Old, Dead People”
Chapter Sixty-Five
Edward tiptoed up the stairs of the Tiber Septim Hotel, toward his room, cringing with every squeak or creak of the boards underfoot. His attempt, feeble as it was, at stealthiness was for naught, however, for his servant was sitting in the hall, waiting for him.
“Sir,” he greeted.
Deciding that the best defense was a good offense, Edward greeted his valet with, “I trust you've seen to the Khajiit matter?”
“You mean, paid him, sir?”
“Paid him, offed him, whatever...”
“Yes sir.” The other man shifted. “However...”
“Yes?”
“I ended up giving him my share of the gold as well.”
Edward blinked, astonished beyond belief. “Your...share? What do you mean, your 'share'?!”
“My cut of the gold. I figured, since he was leaving town, he could use it to get settled somewhere.”
“You...he...my gold?!” Edward sputtered.
“Our gold, sir,” his servant corrected. “I assumed, since you roped me into your work with Umbaccano, you had planned to pay me as well as S'razirr a portion?”
Edward blinked at this query, which seemed suspiciously like an accusation to him. He had had absolutely no intention of cutting his valet in on his take; somehow, though, he thought it wiser to deny that fact. “Well, of course...just...we hadn't negotiated the details...I...”
“Oh, no worries, sir. I ended up splitting it evenly between all three of us.”
“But...you promised that animal only a quarter!”
“Yes sir...but I realized afterwards that that wasn't very fair...without him, we would have a nasty fight on our hands back at Malada. I thought the extra would be a good bonus, for a job well done.”
Edward was turning colors now, so great was his rage that his servant would just nonchalantly throw his money away, and then make excuses for it afterwards.
“I figured you wouldn't mind, especially now that you have this new contract.”
Edward had gone purple by this point. “But...I...that was my gold!” he managed. Half of him wanted to fire his servant on the spot for his impudent behavior; and the other half of him stayed his hand, for fear that he might need him at Nenalata.
“So, sir, are we heading out to Cheydinhal yet today? Or are we staying here for the evening?”
Edward's rage dissipated, and he fought to keep the smile off his face. “No, actually...not quite yet.” He noted with pleasure the flicker of knowing annoyance that crossed his servant's face. “We have one final task from your old master...and then we'll head to Cheydinhal.”
Pass the ale, have a draft,
Sing a song, drink along
Drink, until they think we're daft
With taps running, how can we go wrong?
-- From A Life Well Lived, by the Inebriated Odist
Chapter Sixty-Six
After many protestations that Edward didn't realize what he was getting himself into, his valet had finally settled into quiet – though displeased – acceptance. “Very well, sir...if you say Nenalata it is, then Nenalata it must be. However...”
The Imperial sighed. “What now?”
“Can I have some time to read up on the place? I've heard some odd stories...”
Rolling his eyes, Edward agreed, “Fine, do whatever you want – take the rest of the evening off if you like. However – I don't want to hear any of it.”
“But sir -”
“No – not a word! Otherwise, you don't get the time off.”
The other man sighed. “Very well, sir.”
* * *
Edward was enjoying his eighth glass of wine when his servant returned.
“Sir!” he greeted.
Edward rolled his eyes and gurgled through a mouthful of drink at the other man.
Taking no note of this, his valet seated himself across from him. “Sir, I know you don't want to hear any of this...but I just spoke with Herminia Cinna.”
Edward snorted. “That desperate old bat,” he chortled. “What does she have to say?”
His servant stared, a bit astonished at this declaration, but continued with his tale. “Sir, we were talking about Nenalata, and Umbaccano. She thinks...”
Edward, however, interrupted at this point. “Oh, old Umby, eh? History buffs...no wonder he dresses like a clown. No sense of anything. Nose always in a book. Throws his money away on old hats – worse than a woman, that one. At least women spend their money on new hats. And shoes.” Edward shook his head at the idea, and drained his glass. Reaching for the bottle, he turned to his valet. “But what about old Umby? Has he finally decided to get a haircut?” Snorting with laughter, Edward refilled his glass.
“Sir, please,” his valet implored. “This is serious. Herminia thinks Umbaccano is trying to unlock the Last King of the Aleyid's power. He might not realize what he's getting himself into – or, worse yet, he does! Nenalata was a city of...”
“Oh, enough about Nelanata...Nanaleta...Nena...that stupid city!” Edward thundered, as well as one can thunder when slurring words. Slamming the bottle against the table, he paused to hiccup, then continued, “We are going, and that's final! You can save your scary stories and magical hat business, because it doesn't work. Edward the Imperial does not believe in ghosts and haunted hats or anything else like that.” He interrupted his monologue to take a sip of wine, but resumed with, “And another thing...you need to deal with the fact that I'm working for Umby...I don't care if you like it or not. You don't give the orders here – I do. So stop it with all the crap about power and magic and all the rest! You couldn't fool a kid with that crap. I'm insulted that you even...” Breaking off for another sip, he resumed, “try it on me!”
For a moment, his valet stared wordlessly at him as he drained his glass. Then, he said, “Sir, I don't know what you're talking about...this is...”
“Enough!” Edward roared. “Go away! Go read your books; that's what I gave you the night off for...leave me alone!” This last part was said in such a whiny tone that any question as to Edward's state of inebriation were clearly answered; he was good and truly on his way to total intoxication.
Sighing, his valet stood. “Yes sir. Very well sir. Have a good evening, then.”
“I intend to!” the Imperial shot back. “As long as I'm not pestered all night...”
“No sir. I'm leaving now.”
“And good riddance!” Edward called after his servant. Then, to the publican, “More wine!”
When the party is done,
And morning begins to dawn
The pain closes in all about
Quick, save yourself – have another draught!
-- From A Life Well Lived, by the Inebriated Odist
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Edward woke with what seemed like thunder in his head. He had no idea where he was, or why; all he could remember were terrible dreams of magic hats. Glancing around him, he tried to ignore the agony that pierced his brain as light filtered through the blinds.
The room was vaguely familiar; and, in a moment, he processed his surroundings. He was back in his lodgings at the Tiber Septim Hotel. How, he wondered, had he got there? The last thing he remembered was being in the main room downstairs, drinking...how many bottles had it been?
A knock at the door sounded like the roar of a cannon in his ears, and he covered his head. “Who is it?” he called. Even his own voice sounded harsh to him.
The door opened, sending a wave of blinding white light over his senses. “Sir?” a familiar voice asked.
Edward groaned. It was his servant. “What?”
“Are you alright sir? I have some coffee here...”
Edward groaned again, although he felt some measure of relief as the door closed. Squinting, he was able to make out the figure of his valet approaching, carrying a breakfast tray.
“I thought you would probably have a bit of a headache this morning,” his valet was saying. Edward only groaned in response. “That was a lot of wine you drank last night, sir.” The Imperial glared at his servant. “Augusta Calidia was going to throw you out, because you were snoring so loudly at your table...I was able to get you up here before she could, though.”
Edward grunted a response. He loved to drink, but hated doing it...
“No worries, though...I had her brew this coffee extra strong. You'll be fine in no time.”
The Imperial glowered at his manservant, but took the cup he was offered.
“Now, sir...I'm not sure how much you remember of our conversation last night...”
Edward stared blankly at him. “What conversation?”
“Ah. Well then, better start at the beginning.”
* * *
After having pooh-poohed his servant's fears a second time – this time, while sober – Edward had flatly declared that magic hats or no magic hats, demons and elvish powers or not, even Oblivion itself, would not stop him from fulfilling his contract. “I get to loot the entire throne room!” he had explained.
This promise had left his servant even more suspicious, and he'd lost no time in pointing out that Umbaccano was not the sort of man to let ancient treasures fall into the hands of mere tomb raiders; how many men, he'd pointed out, had he sent in search of things like that, after all?
Edward had paid no attention whatever, however; he was far to mesmerized by the idea of raiding a throne room to take heed of any of his servant's points. So, at length, the two men – by this time, very annoyed with one another – set out.
As they rode, Edward busily calculated how rich he'd be once he'd hauled off all the Aleyid treasure he could carry. It was hard to get an exact estimation, of course, but, by his reckoning, he would end up richer than Ocato himself. This, of course, was all based on his fancy, for he had no clue whatever what awaited him. It made him smile, though, to think of it, and that was enough.
His servant, meanwhile, was going over the list of supplies and weapons he'd brought with them. Silver weapons, for killing undead; an enchanted ring, to protect against evil magicka; and enough supplies to get them to Nenalata and back to the Imperial City – after Edward's last refusal to go to Bravil had left them perilously short of supplies, he was taking no chances this time.
All at once, however, Edward pulled his mount to a sudden stop, exclaiming, “My gold!”
Narrowly avoiding his master, the valet asked, “Sir?”
“My purse! It's empty!”
“Empty, sir? You don't mean...”
“My two thousand Septims! I had them last night! Where are they now?!” Edward's eyes colored with suspicion as he stared at his servant.
“You didn't...you didn't take your entire paycheck with you when you were drinking last night, did you, sir?” the other man asked, astonished.
“Of course!” Edward snapped. “It was all safe in my purse. Where could it have gone?”
His servant sighed. “Sir, you were passed out for an hour...anyone...everyone could have taken whatever they wanted.”
Edward glared at him. “Are you saying this is my fault?!” he demanded.
“Of course not, sir. I'm only suggesting that a more prudent course of action might have avoided the...”
“You are!” the Imperial thundered. “You're blaming me for the sticky fingers of a pack of thieves?!”
“No sir, of course not. All I'm saying...”
“We need to go back!” Edward interrupted. “We need to find my money, and wreak vengeance on the filthy thief who dared to steal from me!”
“That will probably be impossible, sir,” his valet reasoned. “You were passed out...you have no memory of anyone taking it...no one said anything this morning...Augusta Calidia doesn't seem terribly fond of you, so I doubt she would turn the thief in if she knew who it was – and, if she would, she would have done so already.”
“But...but I can't just walk away from my fortune!” Edward protested. He felt shattered at the prospect, so utterly devastated that he might break into tears at the very idea.
“I'm afraid we don't have much of a choice, sir, if we're going to make it to Nenalata in the three days Umbaccano wants us there.”
Edward fought back the tears as he nodded. He knew his servant was right...the thieves wouldn't turn each other in, and Calidia – even if she wasn't guilty – hated his guts. His best shot at wealth was to continue toward Nenalata, and hope that his dreams of the endless treasures that awaited were remotely justified.
Edward fighting tears over losing his Septims - ROFL !!!!
But this is my favorite Edward line in these two chapters (regarding Herminia Cinna) :
Thanks, mALX...Edward's ego will, ever and again, get in the way of his brain -- what little there is, LOL.
Pride, they say, goes before the fall;
In his case, a plunge from the heights of the White Gold Tower
Would be naught in compare
To the depths that his ego will again and again send him.
-- Author's notes preceding The Song of Edward
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Three long days of travel had, at last, gotten them to Nenalata. Edward was weary and depressed, still not having recovered from the loss of his gold; and his servant was quiet and thoughtful, which only served to annoy the Imperial further.
The style-challenged elf awaited them, and so too did a familiar, unwelcome face. Claude Maric stood waiting for them, smiling broadly in welcome. “Ahh, old friend!” he greeted Edward. “You are looking well...”
The Imperial grunted at him in response.
“Although,” Maric continued with a toothy, self-satisfied grin, “a little light of purse.”
Edward and his valet started at this, and the former demanded, “What?! It was you, then?”
“Me? I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about, old friend. I just note that you walk like a man whose purse is not burdened with Septims.” He smiled again, even as Edward reached for his sword.
Umbaccano, however, ambled over just in time, declaring, “Ahh, you arrive at last!” He paused to stare in surprise at Edward's valet. “Norvayne! Whatever are you doing out here?”
With a stiff, formal air, the valet nodded a greeting. “Sir. I'm accompanying my master.”
Umbaccano uttered a short laugh, and gestured toward Edward. “You mean him? Poor chap, you have gone down in the world. No matter. After today – provided your employer intends to share with you – you'll be rich enough to employ half a dozen menservants of your own.”
Both Imperials frowned at the elf, but Umbaccano seemed to take no note. “Now then, are we ready? I'm going to need you two – three, rather – to clear the way for me. I know right where the throne room is, so I can direct you...but I'll let you handle the fighting.”
“Speaking of that,” the valet interjected, “what exactly do you need in the throne room?”
Umbaccano raised an eyebrow and stared at the valet. Then, turning to Edward, he queried, “And you put up with this?”
Edward turned red at the implication that he would let his servant second guess him. “No, of course not!”
“Good...because I certainly don't. My subordinates do not question me. And most certainly my subordinates' subordinates do not!”
“No sir,” Edward agreed, flushing again and throwing a furious glance at his valet.
“Good...now, let's head out.”
“Yes sir,” Maric said, smirking at Edward. “I'll let Master Edward lead the way since he apparently has so much experience with these Aleyid ruins.”
“Me? What? No!” Edward protested.
“Oh, my mistake then,” Maric smiled. “I thought you were supposed to be quite the adventurer.”
“I am!” Edward snapped. “I just meant that I would allow you the honor of going first.”
Umbaccano sighed in frustration. “One of you get in there first!”
“I'll go,” Edward's valet volunteered, stepping forward.
Maric snickered, and, flushing, Edward snapped, “No you won't! If this coward won't take the honor of first blood, I will gladly go!” Pushing past his servant brusquely, Edward stormed into the ruin.
A barbarous climate, death of the civilized man
Designed with one purpose in mind –
A home for a people as uncivilized as it
And in this the gods could not have been more successful.
-- A Study of the Social Evolution, Customs and Building Practices of the Nordic Tribes, ordered by High Chancellor Cicero
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Edward cringed as the stone door of Nenalata slid closed behind him. Suddenly, his world was plunged into a veritable darkness, with only the distant, eerie bluish light leaking out of the occasional chamber to illuminate his way. In his mind's eye, he could see spiders lurking here and there, waiting to ambush him. A more pressing fear, however, preyed on his mind – and that was being seen standing still, just behind the door, when the cowardly Breton and the pompous elf entered the ruin; and that fear drove him onward.
So, his heart hammering out a fast paced rhythm, he crept forward. The ruin was silent – frighteningly so. The rush of blood as it thundered past his ears seemed to be the only thing he could make out at the moment.
His eyes didn't offer many more clues, either; he was surrounded by old stone, aged by many long years of disuse and neglect, and covered in layers of dust and spiderwebs. Eerie greenish-blue gems cast pockets of light here and there, but Edward half would have preferred the darkness to that creepy glow. “How could these elves lived like this?” he wondered in disgust. “Underground, like animals; cold, dank halls...no wonder the Imperials overthrew them...”
Lost in these thoughts, Edward began to take less and less note of his surroundings. He had followed a hall, and was now descending a staircase. He imagined Umbaccano and his valet must be somewhere behind him, but didn't stop to look; he didn't want to give the impression, no matter how accurate, that he was in the least frightened.
All at once, however, the Imperial heard a sound that made his blood curdle; it seemed like the rattle of bones and chains, and the screech of a dimension beyond earthly reckoning. To his horror, as he stood, frozen in place, it seemed to come closer.
And then, there it was. A skeleton – not of the proper variety, long buried and forgotten, but of the animate, undead sort. This horror, come straight from the pages of stories Edward had long disbelieved, stared with empty eye sockets at him, and then opened a skeletal mouth to let loose another hellish shriek.
And that was the last thing that Edward saw, before he collapsed into a heap on the ground.
* * *
The brush of a bony finger on his cheek roused Edward from his faint, and all at once the full terror of his situation came back to him. He was in an Aleyid ruin – a haunted Aleyid ruin; and that bony hand could only be...
Edward leaped to his feet, shrieking in absolute terror. In doing so, he collided full force with the skeletal creature that had, a moment earlier, been examining him; but overpowering fear blinded his senses and dulled his thoughts. He knew one thing, and one thing only...and that was that he must escape.
The bony fingers of the apparition clung to him as he attempted flight, but Edward would not be stopped; with one hand, he seized his attacker's skull, and with the other, its ribs. In an instant, he had, in a burst of unknown strength, pulled the skeleton's skull from its torso, and the thing collapsed to the ground in a heap of dust and bone.
But Edward did not take a moment to think about his situation, or plan any defense or attack; he was still in the full grip of terror, and terror drove him on, deeper into the ruin.
Rounding a bend, he found himself face to face with a ghastly, ghostly spirit creature. Numbly, as if by instinct – for no thought went into the action – he seized hold of the thing nearest him. It was a spiked metal light fixture, but it might well have been a vase of flowers for all that Edward took note; nonetheless, he plunged it through the creature, who let loose a hellish shriek and seemed to turn to a wisp of glowing powder before Edward's eyes. This bizarre encounter only heightened the Imperial's sense of desperation...and on he drove.
Every new encounter left some creature, some undead beast, dead – torn to pieces, impaled, crushed, smashed into a thousand fragments of bone. Finally, Edward had run the length of the ruin, and he stood now, in a large room, with nowhere else to run. Shaking, panting, and utterly terrified, he collapsed to the floor.
He hardly remembered his flight, and certainly not slaying the things he had slain. All he knew was that there was nowhere left to go, no escape – and a ruin full of hell spawn behind him.
Fortunately for the Imperial, however, the hell spawn had all already been slain in his frenzy, and the only living creatures, beside himself, in Nenalata were Umbaccano and his entourage. At that very moment, in point of fact, they were traversing the halls wonderingly, stopping to marvel at Edward's panicked handiwork as they came across it.
“Amazing,” Umbaccano said. “I wouldn't have thought he had it in him!”
The valet snorted. “You have a habit of underestimating people.”
“What's that smell?” Maric wondered, covering his nose. “It smells like urine!”
That was quite right, for, in his fearful state, Edward had somehow lost control of his bladder – and, along with the trail of destroyed undead, left a trail of urine as well.
“What's that smell?” Maric wondered, covering his nose. “It smells like urine!”
That was quite right, for, in his fearful state, Edward had somehow lost control of his bladder – and, along with the trail of destroyed undead, left a trail of urine as well.
Ah...Edward and mALX.... siblings in pissing!!!![]()
Justice will, in the end, be meted out
And the guilty shall find the Fate they have made for themselves.
-- An excerpt from a piece translated in the scholarly work “Writings of Old, Dead People”
Chapter Seventy
As his senses began to ebb back, Edward, reeking and trembling, finally picked himself off the floor. He had no idea what he was going to do, or where he would go. Would they come looking for him? He doubted it. Umbaccano was hardly the heroic type, and Maric would love nothing better than to see him fall to the undead. As for his servant...well, the man was a servant, after all; and they were notorious for their disloyalty.
“I'm doomed,” he whispered to the silent stone around him. “They've all abandoned me to die here.”
This, of course, was not the case, for his companions were, at that moment, just two rooms away, and making their way steadily toward Edward. His trail of urine had proved effective at preventing them from making wrong turns; following that, they were able to retrace exactly the path he had pursued.
Edward had half made up his mind to attempt to find his way out of the ruin when he heard the voices of his party. Maric was complaining about stench, his valet was noting that, for all the Breton's complaints, he had not ventured into the ruin alone, and Umbaccano was prattling on about the history of the city.
The Imperial found himself a mixture of both relief and annoyance at the same time; he was relieved not to be alone to face whatever existed in these ruins, but annoyed to have this irksome bunch as his companions.
“Edward!” his valet greeted. “There you are!”
“We were about to drown in this trail of piss you left, you filthy animal!” Maric put in.
“This is it! The throne room of Nenalata!” Umbaccano offered, ignoring the conversation of the others.
Edward glanced around him, suddenly forgetting his fear altogether. This? This was the throne room of Nenalata? This barren stone room, this featureless ancient monstrosity? Where was the treasure? Where were the piles of gold and gems that Umbaccano had promised – or, at least, allowed him to dream of?
“Right past here,” the elf declared, his voice reaching a fevered pitch. He brushed past Edward, only slightly wrinkling his nose at the odor, and headed for a cutout in the stone wall.
The Imperial frowned to himself. He had, somehow, missed it; but what could its significance be, anyway?
As if in answer to that query, Umbaccano pulled out the stone carving from Malada, and inserted it into the cut-out, chanting in a high pitched tone, “Av Auri-El ye Tamri-El dellevoy an Arpen Aran tarnabye!”
Edward was more amazed by the realization that the elf had been able to lug that stupid chunk of stone all this ways without it affecting him than that the entire wall shivered, and then collapsed downward.
His valet, meanwhile seized his arm. “Sir...did he just say 'grant the King passage'?”
Edward stared at him. Did he really expect him to understand the elf's mad ramblings?
Umbaccano stepped into the newly revealed room, and the group followed; to his dismay, Edward saw no treasure here, either. “I thought you said this had never been looted?” he demanded of the elf.
Umbaccano smiled at him, and took what seemed to be a helmet of some sort from the bag he carried. “The real treasure is about to be revealed. Prepare for the glorious rebirth of Tam Riel!” Donning the helmet, the elf strode forward.
“Sir, Herminia was right. We have to stop him!” Norvayne shouted.
Claude Maric, however, stepped forward and seized the valet's arm. “What do you think you're doing?”
At that moment, though, Umbaccno seated himself in the throne of Nenalata, and began again to chant. “Av Sunna Tam Riel arctavoy an Arpen Aran malaburo!”
“He's trying to resurrect the power of the Aleyids!” Norvayne shouted. With a swift blow to the side of Maric's head, he knocked the other man to the ground and raced forward. “We've got to stop him, sir, before he unleashes -”
A blast of lightning split the room, leaping from the four corner pillars, and a thunderous noise rent the air. The valet jumped backwards just in time to avoid the scorching jolts, and Maric let out a yelp of fear. For his part, Edward stood dumbfounded, too frightened to say or do anything.
Above all of this noise, though, came the elf's shrill scream of pain; for the lightening had descended on him from the four corners of the room. For a moment, he struggled to pull off his helmet...and then, in the next, he slumped forward. As suddenly as it started, the blasts ended.
Edward tried to ignore the trickle that ran down his legs, vowing never to drink so much before entering a ruin again. His valet carefully headed for the lifeless body on the throne; and Claude Maric remained on the floor, curled in a ball.
A trail of piss!
I see Buffy's not the only one!
What? No piles of gold? No heaps of gems? Just a bunch of lifeless stones and cobwebs and mold?
Whoops.
I had to laugh at the vision of that Maric curled up into a ball on the floor! He sure had that coming. In the game, if he survived Malada, he certainly was of no practical use in Nenalata!
Chapter 68: SPEW !!! ROFL !!!
Chapter 69: SPEW !!! ROFL !!!
Chapter 70: SPEW !!! ROFL !!!
Edward leaves a trail of pee all the way through Nenalata and is still peeing while he stands there at the end - three full chapters of pee ... BWAAAHAAAA!!!!! Hilarious !!!! Great Addition, I am so glad you gave us this bonus segment with Umbacano !!!!
@Foxy, haute ecole rider, malx: lol, Edward has no control over his reason, his senses, his reactions...why should his bladder be any different? ![]()
As for Maric, yes, lol, I thought that portrayal was fitting.
I mean, he's a pretty poor villain -- he threatens you and then takes off running the instant he's in danger.
Not that he's able to do much in a fight anyway, lol...
The path of reason,
The wise man will gladly tread
But it is as hot coals
To the feet of the incorrigible fool.
-- An excerpt from a piece translated in the scholarly work “Writings of Old, Dead People”
Chapter Seventy-One
The trio emerged, shaken but unharmed, into the sunlight some little while later. The valet carried Umabccano's lifeless body; Claude Maric carried a few valuable stones he'd picked up throughout the ruin; and Edward carried nothing.
“We'll have to give him a proper burial, sir,” Norvayne declared. “Whatever he intended to do, he deserves better than being entombed with the undead.”
Claude rolled his eyes. “Once a servant, always a servant. He would have killed you...killed all of us...what do you care if the rats feast on his carcass?”
“I wouldn't expect one of your caliber to understand, Maric,” the other man commented.
The Breton laughed mockingly. “Well, as far as I'm concerned, it was an unfortunate end to a profitable relationship...I have no idea where I'll find another like him.”
Edward curled his lip in disgust, thinking this was some outpouring of emotion from Umbaccano's prostitute.
“Oh well...life goes on,” the Breton smiled. “At least I've got some nice Welkynd stones to sell...”
“And I've got nothing...” Edward sighed. “He promised me a room full of treasure....”
Claude laughed. “You really don't belong in this business, my friend.” The Imperial glared at him, but Maric walked past, toward his horse. “Although, I do recommend a bath for you. You stink.”
“Ignore him, sir,” the valet suggested. “Let's get the hole dug.”
Edward stared at his servant, an eyebrow raised. “You don't actually think that I am going to help bury that son of an elf, after he cheated me out of my gold?!”
* * *
Several hours later, after his manservant had finished giving Umbaccano a proper burial, an impatient Edward was finally able to set out. His impudent subordinate had insisted that he bathe before they leave, so, whilst the servant dug the grave, he had lounged in the stream. Nonetheless, he was eager to leave; as easy-going as his time outside of Nenalata was, he had no desire to linger near a haunted ruin.
So, it was with great joy that the Imperial turned his back on the ruin, at last. “Finally...that's done,” he sighed.
His servant nodded. “There's one thing I don't get, though, sir. It's that attack on him...he was wearing a crown, an Aleyid crown...he chanted the incantation that should have unleashed the power of Nenalata to his command...instead, it turned on him.” He frowned. “I wonder...”
Edward rolled his eyes. Who cared about the details, he wondered, as long as the honoured user was dead?!
“You acquired that crown, didn't you, sir?”
“That's right.”
“Are you sure you got the right one?”
Edward stared in annoyance at his servant.
“I mean,” the other man hurried to explain, “the only reason I can think of for that sort of reaction is if the crown he wore wasn't really the crown of Nenalata. If it was some other Aleyid kingdom's crown – there were many of them, you know, and they all hated each other. If he was wearing a rival kingdom's crown, Nenalata's defenses might have attacked him.”
Loosing a sigh of extreme aggravation, Edward demanded, “Who cares? I'm never going back there, you're never going back there...what does it matter?! And why must you put the blame on me? I bought the crown, the crown Umbaccano told me to get. It was his stupid fault, not mine!”
“I'm not blaming you, sir. I'm just trying to figure out what happened.”
“A stingy, thieving honoured user met a fitting end,” Edward snapped. “That's it. End of story.”
His valet sighed.
“Now, let's get to Cheydinhal. I have work to do. Real work.”
“Yes sir.”
“I can't believe I ever let you talk me into this in the first place.”
Bring me fortune, bring me fame,
Ye gods above hear my pleas
Bring me treasure, bring me gain
Oh gods ignore not my entreaties!
-- Edward's prayer as a child
Chapter Seventy-Two
At the Imperial's insistence, the two men had turned their horses toward a chapel that had been some way off, but visible, from Nenalata. “I refuse to sleep on the ground like an animal!” Edward had steadfastly maintained. “We can seek shelter at that church...I'm sure the priests have nothing better to do than put up weary travelers, so it shouldn't be an inconvenience. And, anyway, they might have some food – actual food, and not the garbage that you make; and I'm famished!”
His valet had frowned. “I don't know, sir. I think that is Cadlew Chapel.”
“So?”
“I believe it's been defunct for some years now.”
Edward stared down his nose superciliously at the other man. “And who is this diviner of the ways of the church that I am to disbelieve the evidence of my own eyes in favor of his...superior...inside knowledge?”
His valet blinked at him. “Sir?”
“Look at the damned church, man!” Edward snapped. “There's smoke coming from the chimney! And there! There's a black robed man – and another, with him.”
Frowning in the direction Edward had pointed, the valet said naught.
“Honestly,” the Imperial fumed, “your airs are tiresome!”
A bewildered expression crossed the manservant's face. “Airs, sir?”
“Yes! Your pretentious airs! You have to know everything about everything. How on earth would you know which chapels are or aren't in use, anyway?! There's got to be hundreds of them throughout Cyrodiil.”
“Not at all, sir,” the valet contradicted. “There's not even two dozen in Cyrodiil.” Edward glared at him. “And it's by no means pretentiousness on my part, sir – I know quite by accident, as it happens. At the monastery, they had -”
“Stop!” Edward demanded, his brow wrinkled in distaste. “Even in your defense – your pathetically unconvincing defense, I might add – of your smug pomposity, you are smugly...pompous!”
The other man's face was a mask of consternation. “Sir, I did not mean -”
“No!” Edward interrupted. “Enough! Stop making excuses, and apologize!”
“Apologize?”
“Yes!” Edward fumed. “This instant! It's about time that you remember your place – all day you've been ordering me about, telling me what's what, and talking to me as if I was your subordinate! Just because you happened to make a lucky guess about Umbaccano's motives, you think that that gives you the right to treat me like a fool? Me, who -”
“Sir, I never -”
Edward's glare was fixed now. “Enough with the excuses,” he growled. “Do as your told! Apologize! Or does your inflated ego object?!”
“Of course not, sir; I just -”
“Good! Then you will apologize!”
His servant stared at him, perplexedly, for a moment, and fidgeted, as if weighing two courses of action.
“Now!”
The other man sighed. “Yes sir. I'm sorry if anything I said or did seemed -”
“Was!”
“...like it was meant to be anything less than respectful.”
Edward sniffed. It wasn't the ideal apology – in fact, his wayward servant had practically shirked all responsibility – but he didn't dare to push it too much farther. He had got the man to apologize; that was something, after all. “Very well,” he declared with a self-satisfied smile. “Then, servant, let us set our course for the chapel!”
Oh no, Cudlow Chapel !! SPEW !! And "the valet" figuring out Edward had given the wrong crown - ROFL !! I am so glad you didn't deprive us of this Umbacano questline - it was like getting a special treat in the midst of enjoying the chapters that we know and love !!! Awesome Write !!!
Thanks, mALX -- it's been a lot of fun bringing back this original dynamic between Edward and the valet. Glad you are enjoying it!! ![]()
You say, “There's much to be done, much to be said.”
I say, “There's naught to do, it's all in your head,
And anyway, before you know it, we'll all be dead
So pour a glass, don't waste precious time, drink up I said!”
-- From On Priorities and Life, by the Inebriated Odist
Chapter Seventy-Three
Edward reined his horse to a halt some dozen or so yards from the chapel, and dismounted with a sigh. The horse had suddenly grown quite irritable – perhaps, he'd thought with a smirk, it was as pleasantly disposed toward religion as he – so he dared not continue on horseback, but must, instead, persevere on foot for the last stretch. But that was not what caused the Imperial to sigh. The ride – short as it had been – in the afternoon sun had worked up quite a thirst in him, but even greater than his thirst was his hunger; he was positively famished. “Take care of the horses,” he told his manservant. “I'm going to see if the priests can put us up. And feed us.”
He heard his valet say something about him waiting, but he had no intention of doing so. The other man was apparently resuming his worrywart routine, and attempting to squeeze the full advantage out of his one lucky guess; but Edward had not time for such theatrics. “I'm starved,” he thought peevishly, “and this stupid servant wants to waste my time with his paranoia?”
As he drew nearer the chapel, he saw a robed figure pass in front of the window, and smiled to himself. The priests must have seen him arrive. “Good...no doubt they're already making ready the accommodations...”
The chapel door opened, and a man in a dark, ankle-length garment stepped out and smiled. “Ahh, traveler!” he greeted. “How may the humble friary of Cadlew assist you?”
It was Edward's turn to smile. If only, he thought with a touch of satisfaction, his servant could have witnessed this obliging gentleman's greeting, he might be singing a different tune; so much for his tales of villainy and suspicion.
“My servant and I,” the Imperial answered, “were rather hoping we might avail ourselves of traveler's hospitality, and spend the night here.”
“Of course!” the priest replied. “My brothers and I would be honored if you would share our humble rectory with us as long as you desire.”
“And,” Edward continued, “feed us.”
“Pardon me?”
“Well, we're rather...famished...” the Imperial confessed.
“Oh!” the priest remarked. “Traveling without supplies? Is that wise, in these remote reaches?”
Edward shifted uncomfortably. “Well...it's not that...exactly...just that...”
“Never you mind,” the other man remarked with a smile. “Be that as it may, it would be our privilege to share our humble fare with you.”
Smiling, the Imperial inwardly hoped that the priest was being modest. “I hope it's not that humble,” he thought.
“Will you not come in?” the robed man asked, gesturing toward the door. “We are, in fact, just preparing our evening meal...”
“Oh!” Edward exclaimed, checking himself even as he began to lick his lips with anticipation.
“It might, at this very moment, be ready, in fact,” the priest continued.
Nodding eagerly, the Imperial raced toward the door; moving so quickly, his mind preoccupied with one topic – feeding – he missed the sinister grin that crossed the priest's face.
* * *
The valet frowned as he secured his and Edward's mounts in the little stable behind the rectory. There was a third horse there, and something about the animal seemed somehow familiar.
It snorted as he neared, in much the same nervous fashion as the two beasts he led. Still frowning, he murmured a low level calming spell. The animals quieted, but were hardly relaxed. “Come on,” he spoke soothingly. “Be good and...” He trailed off as his eyes picked up what it had been that struck him as familiar....the pack, hanging off the side of the third horse's stall.
“Maric!” he hissed, for it was the same bag that the adventurer had filled with Welkynd stones only hours before; and the horse, who had resumed his whinnying, was the same that the Breton had rode off on.
Detestation was, perhaps, too harsh a term, but it conveyed something in the vein of the valet's regard for his wily former colleague.
That, however, was not his primary concern; at the moment, his mind was dwelling on Edward's purse, and Maric's claim – which he did not for a moment doubt – that he had emptied it. If Maric was inside the chapel, Edward was as like as not to remember his stolen fortune, and demand its return. Maric, especially after exposing himself for the coward he was – to say nothing of the contrast of his craven actions with Edward's fearless clearing of Nenalata's undead population – was hardly likely to be in a cooperative state of mind.
“Oh blast,” he thought. Closing the gate to the stable with a hurried promise to the horses that he'd be back to tend to them “soon,” he raced for the Priory. “If Maric's mood is remotely like Edward's, the chapel will be a bloody war zone unless I intervene...”
Ooh, but why do I believe that Maric is the main course?
Can't wait to see what happens next!
GAAAAH! Eating Maric stew ... then sleeping in the chapel - WOO HOO!!!!! How could you ever have left these chapters out of the original???? They are AWESOME !!!! I am on the edge of my seat !!!!! Thank you, thank you Rachel for deciding to give us these bonus chapters, they are GREAT !!!!
haute ecole rider & mALX: Thanks, lol...nahh, they're not really ready to eat at all...the Necromancer can just tell that Edward is obsessed w/eating at that moment, lol.
As for leaving these chapters out, I hadn't initially written them, but wanted to include that quest at some future point....I just never got around to it as the story progressed. As I was editing, though, this seemed the perfect place to add them ![]()
Beware, oh beware!
For the Priests of the Dead,
If they find you unaware
Will surely make off with your head!
-- Child's rhyme about Necromancy
Chapter Seventy-Four
Unbeknownst to the dutiful manservant, however, the church was already a bloodied battlefield. The building reeked of blood and decaying bodies; and the source of this stench was apparent at a glance. Everywhere there were human remains – even the altar at the far end of the room was strewn with body parts. Blood stained the floorboards, and colored the stone walls of the chapel. A body, motionless and bleeding, lay on a table near the altar, macabre tools all about.
Edward, having taken all of this in as he entered, had fainted as he turned for explanation to his sinisterly smiling escort. At the moment, this Priest of the Dead – for that, a Necromancer, was what he was – was, in company with another of his kind, dragging the Imperial's limp body to the table whereon lay the other intact body.
“Go find the other – I'll take care of him,” the Necromancer who had lured Edward in instructed. “He went to the back, by the stables. Try not to kill him, as long as he cooperates.”
The other man nodded, and dropped Edward's head and shoulders to the ground as he turned to obey his superior's orders.
Hauling Edward toward the table, the first grunted. Today had brought them a rare stroke of fortune – three bodies, and all live, fresh ones, on which to perform rituals. But he wondered that there should be so many, all at once, in these desolate reaches; even the Church had abandoned this wilderness. Why, now, this sudden spurt of adventurers?
“Oh well,” he mused, speaking as if to the limp Edward, “we'll just have to wring it out of you, won't we?” He smiled again as he threw the unmoving Imperial onto the table, beside and atop the other body.
This first captive flinched and whimpered as Edward was dropped onto him, and the Necromancer sneered. “Quiet, you, or I'll make you suffer as you've never yet suffered.”
“Please...” the bound man murmured over the gag that muffled him. “Please, let me go!”
“I said quiet!” the Priest of Death repeated. “I don't want to-”
At that moment, a crash of glass sounded, and one of the chapel windows opposite splintered into a thousand pieces. The Necromancer cursed as he started in surprise. “What the...?”
The robed upper body of another man – his fellow Necromancer – appeared for a moment, and he seemed temporarily dazed; then he roused himself, shouting something to an unknown assailant.
“Damn it!” Edward's keeper cursed. “The other one...!” Grabbing a mace that lay near the bloodied altar, he paused to wind a rope around Edward's limp hands and feet, and raced for the door.
After he had gone, the chapel lay still, save for shouts outside, first near the rectory and then further away, until, at last they were inaudible.
“Edward!” the conscious captive mumbled through his gag. “Edward, wake up!”
The Imperial, however, lay still as a sleeping babe, making neither sound nor move.
“Edward!” the other man grunted. When there came no response, he pushed with his bound arms against the Imperial. This movement rocked his still body, but achieved nothing else. “Damn you!” the captive cursed, pushing again, but this time harder.
Edward's body moved, tipping precariously over the edge of the table; but then he settled again on the prisoner. A savage gleam lighted the other man's eyes, and he cursed, “Idiot!”
With a mighty shove, he hoisted the Imperial over the edge of the table. He heard him land and murmur something, as if he was coming to, with satisfaction; then, he began to maneuver himself upon the table.
This was not so easy as hoisting Edward off, however, for – as the Necromancers had had more time to secure him – they had done a better job of tying him. His rope was fastened to a hook in the wall overhead, but this he thought he might, with sufficient pressure, be able to pull out. It had, by the look of it, been hammered into the stone clumsily by the Priests of the Dead, and though wedged in tightly, might come out eventually.
Sweat beaded off his forehead as he worked, and the ropes round his wrists cut deep into his flesh, but the prisoner persevered feverishly. The occasional unconscious whimper from Edward went almost unnoticed as he pulled and cursed and strained against his fetters; and then, without the least warning, the hook gave way, and he found himself plummeting backwards.
He fell at an angle back against the table, and, for a moment, his fall was interrupted; but, though he was no longer affixed to the wall, his hands were yet bound, and proved powerless at stabilizing him; so, though he grabbed with his fingers, he slipped from the tabletop, onto the unconscious Imperial.
WOO HOO!!! "The Valet" throws the guy UPHILL and through a window - I think he used to live next door to me, I saw my neighbor do that once !!! (and a pretty awesome sight, I might add, lol)
And Edward ... in a dead faint through everything - SPEW !!! Hilarious !!!! ROFL !!!
mALX: haha, what, you expected him to do something like...escape? ;P
Hear the voice of your Father,
My Children, listen to my words
The sun yet slumbers in the east
But soon, very soon, it shall awaken!
-- Excerpt from a sermon by Mankar Camoran
Chapter Seventy-Five
Edward started, his eyes opening wide in fear. His dreams had been strange, and full of unknown terrors, but something had just now – and quite suddenly – awoken him from sleep.
With a shrill screech, some blending of terror and disgust, Edward saw what it was that had assailed him. It – he – was the prostitute, Claude Maric, lying atop him, his face mere inches from his own.
“Ahhhhh!” Edward screeched again, fighting in vain to free himself from his assailant. To his horror, he found his hands bound. His eyes widened in renewed mortification. Clearly, this too was the work of the prostitute – to render him powerless to escape his vile attentions.
Edward began to thrash this way and that, trying to force his assailant off him, all the while screeching in horror. Maric spoke something in a muffled tone, and shielded his face from the Imperial's blows, as he rolled away from him.
Dragging himself backwards, Edward glared with disgust at the other man, whose eyes watched him with a mixture of fury and incomprehension. It was only when the Breton pulled the gag out of his mouth with bound hands that the Imperial stopped to notice, pausing midscream, that he, too, was fastened.
“You fool!” Maric exclaimed. “Shut up before your screaming brings them back!”
“Them?” Edward repeated.
“The Necromancers!”
A sudden pallor touched the Imperial's cheeks as the memories of late which his mind had so far suppressed flooded back. “Wait...the priest...he...the bodies...oh gods!” The stench, the blood all around him, and the miscellaneous body parts in various states of decay, too, suddenly came to his attention. He let loose a wail of horror.
“Quiet, fool!” Maric hissed.
Edward, however, had no mind to be silent, for he continued to whimper and cry in anguish, backing as far away from the table and its macabre tools as he could. This movement stopped when he backed into the altar, and that encounter in turn dislodged a partially dissected arm from its resting place above his head. This limb fell with a splat on Edward's skull; and at the sight, smell and feel of something so hideous, the Imperial's reason was all but gone. His limbs yet bound, he frantically crawled and hopped across the floor, falling here and there only to pick himself up again, and run in circles. Every new move brought him in contact with some new horror, and this in turn fed his panic. So he raced one way, only to stop and go another the next moment, as he made his way around this course of horrors.
It was only when a body impacted sharply with his, throwing him first into a pew, and then onto the blood-covered stone floor, that Edward's panicked flight pattern was disrupted. It was the bound Breton, who glared at him. “Idiot! Do you want them to come back? We need to untie each other, and then -”
But Edward had already sunk into a new fit of panic, and lay on the ground, flailing in place and screaming at the top of his lungs.
Watch the grand play,
Play your part,
Part the lines,
Line the field with the dead.
-- The Charge, a speech delivered by Emperor Augustus I to his outnumbered forces before the final, decisive charge at the Battle of Dremora Field
Chapter Seventy-Six
Even as he dispatched of the last Necromancer, he had heard the anguished screams of his comrade. “Blast!” he thought. “There must be more of them!”
Already, the valet battled the two Priests of the Dead that Edward had seen, and several of their vile undead conjurations. He had hoped, in luring them away from the chapel, to draw the Necromancers to him; but, if he was to judge by the wails of horror issuing from the rectory, this was not the case.
So, pushing himself with every ounce of his strength, the valet raced toward the chapel. The sounds of combat leaked outward, seeming to confirm his suspicion that some terrible torture, some hideous Necromancer ritual, had been begun, and he lost not a moment in bursting through the doors, his blade at the ready.
To his astonishment, however, he saw only Edward and Claude Maric. The telltale noises of combat had, indeed, come from the chapel; but they were the sounds of the contest upon which these two men were presently engaged. Edward, partially bound, was wielding a small dagger, and Maric, a rope tied round his hands and another around his feet, was still managing to pummel him with what looked to be a severed arm.
Staring in mortified amazement, the valet confirmed this first surmise; it was, indeed, a limb that the Breton was wielding, and rather effectively at that, for he managed to beat Edward again and again with it – a splatting stroke on the head here, on the arm there, on the face again. The Imperial, for his part, was cursing and lunging rather hopelessly with his dagger, either tripping on the other man's ropes or being rebuffed by his macabre fleshy weapon each time.
“Edward! Maric!” he managed in astonishment.
Both men started, turned toward him, weapons at the ready, and then went a deep shade of crimson. “Nor...Norvayne!” Maric stammered, dropping the decaying arm he held with a splat.
The Imperial, though he did not speak, hid the dagger behind his back, and drew himself up tall, angling his nose toward the ceiling.
“What...were you doing?”
This quickly proved to be a mistaken query, however, as both men launched into heated accusations against the other.
“This blithering coward drew a knife on me!” Maric shouted. “I tried to get him to escape, but he...”
“Liar!” Edward shot back. “I woke up to this sick son of a Breton trying to kiss me!”
“Kiss you?” the Breton blanched. “I'd sooner chew on that maggot-infested arm than touch my mouth to yours, you putrid animal!”
“A likely story!” the Imperial sneered. “You spotted your chance, now that Umbaccano is dead, and tried to take it. And if you weren't interested in kissing me – and worse – what were you doing on top of me like that? And with your mouth right above mine -”
“Ye gods!” Claude recoiled, seeming to go green at the very suggestion. “You are as dense as you are disgusting! I fell off the table, trying to wake your stupid -”
“So you randomly go around kissing people after you fall?” Edward snorted.
“How could I kiss you?! I was gagged!”
“That didn't stop you from trying!”
“That's it!” Maric shouted, reaching for the weapon he'd dropped. “I'm going to do what I should have done a long time ago...”
“Not if I finish you first,” Edward snarled, retrieving his dagger. “I'll show you what I think of your 'attentions'... ”
The valet, still standing in the church entryway cleared his throat. The two men's attention shifted again to him, and again they lowered their weapons. “Guys, I think you're overreacting here.” Both men tried to protest, but he gestured for silence and pressed on. “Why don't you both just calm down...put down the weapons. Edward, drop the dagger...Maric, the...arm...” Begrudgingly, both men did as they were told. “That's better...now, why don't we get you both untied, and get out of here?”
“Very well,” Maric nodded, straightening up a bit. “Although I'm not sure it was necessary to require me disarming.” And then, as if the fury of a moment before, and the terror of the moments before, were forgotten, the Breton sounded his characteristic laugh.
SPEW!!! [gasp...choke, choke...gasp] GAAAA ... BWAAAHAAA !!!! ROFL !!! [gasp...BWAHaaaurgh...bleaga]
** mALX died laughing in front of her PC. Her ghost was heard screaming "The arm! BWAAAHAAA! Meric ...the prostitute ... kiss...BWAAAHAAA!!!"
Disarming!!!
Oooh, the comedy of errors! And Norvayne the only sane person in that chapel!
I knew that Edward was going to wake up with Maric on top of him and instantly think of the 'prostitute!' Ahhhh!
mALX: Sorry 'bout that, wha'? No 'arm meant. (Sorry...watching some British shows...and everything is said with an accent in my head now...LOL)
Glad you're enjoying!! ![]()
Grits: That's the one thing about (this) Maric that I actually like -- his total irreverence/bizarre sense of humor. Glad you liked it too! ![]()
haute ecole rider: haha, could there be any other explanation? Poor Edward...all he has to put up with.
Thanks for posting -- glad to see you enjoyed Edward's newest escapades. ![]()
Listen, and hear the wise, wise words
Spoken wisely and in wisdom by the wise man
Listen, and hear the true, true truths
Spoken truthfully and in truth by the honest man.
-- From the Philosophy of Life, attributed to the ancient sages
Chapter Seventy-Seven
The trio had set up camp some ways from the chapel; though they – or, rather, the valet – had disposed of all the Necromancers and undead they had come across, they nonetheless thought it wiser to abscond from that place as quickly as possible, lest there be any lingering Priests of the Dead, or their unnatural spawn, in the vicinity.
Also, for all his prowess at thrashing Edward, Claude Maric had sustained several rather significant injuries when he'd first been taken by the Necromancers, and these needed to be treated in a sterile – or as sterile as possible – environment; and the putrid lair of the Priests of the Dead did not qualify.
So, hidden under a rock outcropping some ways from the river, they set up camp. Edward, despite reeking of decayed flesh, had not stopped complaining of hunger since they'd left Cadlew Chapel; in response, his valet had hastily started a fire, and thrown together a handful of ingredients to cook over it. “Alright, sir – I will fetch water to boil for cleaning Maric's wounds; you tend the food.”
Edward gaped at him. “Me?” he demanded. “You want me to do the cooking?!”
“Unless you prefer to fetch the water.”
The Imperial scowled at the heavy vessel he was offered; his valet had to think he was mad to suppose he'd volunteer for such an assignment as lugging about a weighty kettle full of water. “Of course not!”
His valet nodded. “No worries, sir. I'll take care of that.”
“And who will cook?”
“You will, sir. Unless you want to wait until I come back to get dinner on...”
Edward's scowl deepened. “Why can't Maric cook?!”
“Oh, yes,” the Breton sighed. “Have the guy with open wounds all over his body handling the food. That would add interesting elements to the flavor, I'm sure.”
“You weren't so concerned about that when you were flinging chunks of decayed flesh all over me!” Edward shot back.
The valet cleared his throat to halt this new quarrel before it began. “Maric needs to rest,” he answered. “You are not injured, sir.”
Edward growled at the other man, who seemed to take no note as he turned toward the stream, kettle in hand, and Maric laughed at his unwilling Imperial chef.
After the valet had gone, the Breton remarked, “Well, well...Imperial cooking, eh?” He shivered. “There's only so much garlic a man can eat.”
Edward, glancing up from stirring the food, glared at him. “Garlic?! What is that supposed to mean, Breton?”
Maric smiled at the contemptuous emphasis the other man had used to describe him. “What do you think it means, brainy?”
Edward's glare intensified. “I think it means you're too much of a barbarian to appreciate quality cooking – that's what I think it means.”
Claude Maric smiled again. “Or maybe that I saw your valet cutting the garlic and throwing it in the pot...and, even had I not, I could smell it...”
The Imperial's scowl lifted a touch. “You mean...you can smell it even over...”
“The rotting flesh stink that you carry around? Yes, I can.”
Edward's expression of fury had returned. “That's not exactly my fault, is it?” he shot back.
“Oh no,” Maric intoned. “Unless one counts drawing a knife on a man provocation to defend oneself...”
“The knife was self defense!”
The Breton rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, of course...how could I forget the whole 'kissing episode.'”
“Exactly!”
“You're pathetic,” Maric sighed, his lip upturned in disgust.
Edward stared in astonishment at him. “Coming from someone who ties people up so that -”
“I didn't tie you up, you moron!” the Breton interrupted. “I told you – the Necromancers tied both of us up! I was trying to wake you up so you could escape before they came back.”
Edward rolled his eyes. “I'm sure you were.”
The expression of disgust had returned to the Breton's face. “I can't stand you...why the hell would I want to...to...to...” His face contorted with mortification at the idea, he trailed off, as if at a loss for words, so reprehensible was the idea to his mind of any form of physical contact with Edward.
The Imperial loosed a short, sarcastic laugh. “Nice try, Maric...but no one believes you.”
Claude Maric stared at him, two eyebrows raised. “Ohhh, let me guess...you're so irresistible that everyone jumps at the opportunity – even if it's being tied up and awaiting brutal execution in a Necromancer's lair – to...have their way with you?”
This was said with absolute contempt, but the tone seemed to go over Edward's head, for the Imperial shrugged. “I don't know about everyone, but...”
The Breton's face wrinkled in disgust. “Alright, for the record, you egotistical imbecile, I've met mud crabs more attractive than you. You're a whiny, simpering little boy, who wets himself whenever danger presents itself, and goes running to your servant to get you out of binds. I don't know about your interests, but, to normal people, there is absolutely nothing enticing about that!”
Edward had been rolling his eyes all during this speech. “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he shook his head.
Their conversation had come to this milestone of Edwardian thought when a sudden whoosh sounded behind the Imperial. Both men started, and their eyes at once fell on the cooking pot over the fire. The wooden stirring utensil Edward had been using was ablaze, as were the contents of the pan itself – indeed, giant, leaping flames shot forth over what the men had intended to make their dinner.
In unison, the onlookers loosed shrill screams of fright.
“Quick – put it out!” Maric directed.
“My eatables!” Edward bemoaned.
“Get going, you dummy!” the Breton shouted.
Edward made not a move, however, as he gazed on in stupefied terror while the flames began to climb and billow out of the pan. When they reached a high peak over the fire, the sight finally elicited a response from the Imperial – a high-pitched yelp. “Stop! Ahh! Help!” he screamed. His eyes roamed the campsite for something – anything – with which to put the flames out; at last his gaze lighted on the heavy towel he used to wrap around the handle of the pan in order to move it without burning himself. Seizing this, he began to frantically wave it at the flames.
“Don't!” Maric called. “You're fanning them!”
But the Imperial hardly heard his companion's words, for he was busily, desperately, trying to extinguish the fire in this manner. Alas, but his best efforts at sending blasts of air toward the flame had rather the opposite effect than he intended, and the fire soon began to enjoy its existence with renewed vigor.
What had been mild fear of the flame, coupled with great annoyance at the loss of his dinner, began to morph in the Imperial into a full blown panic. By this point, he was all but deaf to the shouted advice of his companion – even the threats, in fact. His senses were consumed by the horror of the rebellious conflagration.
When, while fanning his instrument of fire suppression too near the flame, it suddenly sprang alight, Edward's reason was truly splintered. He found himself now fully overwhelmed by blind panic.
Casting the rag at the blazing pan with a shriek, the Imperial recoiled, shrieked again as the flame engulfed the fabric, and then turned to run.
The lazy and unjust man unjustly spurns justice
While lazily seeking out ways to laze about listlessly
So that, in malicious malevolence, he may malinger,
To malign the mischievous and misunderstood alike
While insolently basking in insipid indolence.
-- From the Philosophy of Life, attributed to the ancient sages
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Unluckily for Edward, his retreat was halted – or, at least, momentarily delayed – by the interference of the insufferable Breton – who, seeing Edward's bungling, had risen to aid the fire fighting efforts.
Though his intentions had been good – or, at least wise enough to take self preservation into account – Maric's decision to, in spite of his injuries, come to the Imperial's assistance was ill-timed. For, as Edward careened into him, he fell backwards, and his hastily bandaged wounds began to bleed and ache anew.
A multitude of curses escaped the Breton's lips, but Edward, stumbling over the other man's prostrate body, took no heed. He hardly noticed as his heels dug into Maric's stomach and torso, or his boots grazed the Breton's head; he was bent only on escaping the growing, incorrigible conflagration behind him.
Bursting from their campground, he set his footsteps toward the river. This was not from any design or thought that this path should prove the safest, in the event of a forest fire; indeed, it was only the merest chance that directed his feet in this manner, for it happened quite by accident that he was headed thusly as he fled camp...and so he continued in that manner after he was free of the camp.
Fortunately for the Imperial – else, he may well have vanished into the wilderness, driven beyond the reaches of rescue by sheer panic – his valet, carrying a full kettle of water, was at the same time headed toward him, and away from the river.
Though, due to his heightened sense of panic, Edward could not stop in time to avoid colliding with his manservant, the impact and, especially, the dose of cool river water applied liberally to his torso that said impact afforded, roused him to a state of some sensibility.
“Fire!” he gasped. “Pan!...Dinner!...Fire!”
The valet seemed at first confused, but, at the conclusion of this disjointed explanation of sorts, an understanding expression crossed his face. “Than pan caught on fire?”
Edward managed a fearful gurgle of acquiescence, eying the distant shore as he did so.
His servant apparently missed the indicators that his master was about to flee, for, hoisting Edward to his feet, he declared, “Good that you got me, sir – let's go!”
The valet hardly seemed to notice the protests of his master as he dragged Edward toward the conflagration; however, as they rounded the rocks that concealed their campsite and burst onto the scene, his grasp loosened.
The Imperial, rather than fleeing, fell to whimpering and shaking in place at the sight of the conflagration. The fire once contained in a pan had now engulfed most of their camping supplies, and filled the area with smoke and flame.
Amidst this stood Claude Maric, who, bedroll in hand, hobbling from one patch of flame to the next, was hard at work smothering the fire.
“Quick!” the valet called. “Sir, fetch water!”
Edward, however, was still frozen in place by fear, so could only watch as his valet and his hated rival battled the flames.
As the gnat does things befitting a gnat,
And the bat does things befitting a bat,
While the rat does things befitting a rat,
So too does the cat do things befitting a cat.
-- From the Pontifications of the Prince of Pontificators, collected works of a sage of the first age
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Between Maric smothering the flame as well as he could, and the valet's impressive wielding of ice spells to rob the fire of its heat, and, thusly, flame, the conflagration had, finally, been banished to the camp fire.
Maric and the valet stood covered in soot and sweat, and panting heavily; but Edward remained where he had stood throughout the entire extinguishing process, yet shaking. “That...was close...” he managed in a half strangled way.
His servant nodded. “Yes sir. Thanks to a good team effort, though, we were able to beat it.”
“Team effort?” Maric hissed between choking gasps. “That spineless coward didn't do a damned thing!'
“Edward?” the valet repeated, blinking in surprise at the accusation. “Of course he did – he came and fetched me, and then got buckets of water.”
Maric stared at the valet as though he were daft. “He didn't 'fetch you', you idiot – he ran away. And he wasn't getting water, either; he was standing there, right where you left him – right where you see him now – whimpering like a coward.”
The valet frowned at Maric, but then, his eyes resting on Edward's current location, frowned at his friend. “Surely...I mean...you were helping us, weren't you, sir?”
“Of course!” Edward snapped, though the crimson that peaked through the soot-covering of his cheeks rather put the lie to the adamant nature of his tone.
“You see?” his valet responded triumphantly.
At the same time, Maric shot back, “Liar! I saw you – you didn't budge from that spot!”
Edward scoffed. “You don't actually expect us to believe you can fight fires and obsessively stalk someone, do you? Or are you admitting that you did nothing while we worked?!”
Rage covered the Breton's features, and he thundered, “Miserable coward! You threw the towel onto the fire, and then ran off as it lit! When he-” This was said with a jerking motion of his thumb at the valet. “Brought you back, you didn't move – except to shake!”
The valet cleared his throat. “Maric, are you really saying that you saw Edward the whole time? And that you're sure he didn't move?”
“Yes! Well, not the whole time – but look, he's in exactly the same spot!”
“Why wouldn't I have noticed, though,” the valet persisted, “if he was just standing there?”
“Did you see him actually doing anything? Other than standing there, I mean?!”
“Of course. Well, I'm sure...I mean, I can't specifically remember it, but I wasn't paying attention, either...”
“Well I was!” the Breton thundered. “After his bumbling and running off to leave me to burn to death, I can assure you that I was.”
“Ridiculous,” Edward snorted. “Your attempts at blackening my name are laughable. No one in their right mind would believe anything so utterly absurd!”
Alas for Edward, however, someone very much in his right mind did believe Claude Maric, for the valet, his face coloring with suspicion, asked, “In that case, sir, where is the bucket?”
“Bucket?”
“Yes, the bucket you used.”
“I...used that kettle you were using,” the Imperial lied.
“Well then...where is it, sir?”
Edward glanced down at his hands, starting, “Right...” He trailed off, however, as he noted the empty nature of those hands. “Well, where I...dropped it when I saw that the fire was out. Darned thing was awfully heavy!”
“And where is that, sir?”
Edward's eyes flashed. “How dare you question me, servant?! It's over....” He trailed off again, his eyes roaming the charred campsite for some evidence of the wayward ironware. It was nowhere to be found, however. “Well, right...right...”
“Yes?”
“Right where I dropped it, that's where!”
Maric laughed out loud. “Ho boy!” he snickered, his eyes dancing with delight. “Liar, liar, flabby-butt pants on fire!”
Edward glared daggers at the Breton, while simultaneously reaching toward his rear, as if to confirm that the pants he wore did not, in fact, make his bottom look flabby.
Ignoring both men, the valet persisted, “Where is the kettle, sir?”
Edward, his senses now more fully returned, and wholly devoted to his defense, was ready for this question. “How dare you ask me that?” he demanded. “Not only once to question me, your master, but again and again?! How dare the servant question the master, or cast doubt on his honest, trustworthy, respectable word?!”
Instead of the cringing apologies that Edward had hoped this response would elicit, however, the valet resolutely answered, “I would never presume to do such a thing, sir. I simply need to know where the kettle is so that I can fetch more water to heat before treating Claude's injuries.”
“Haha!” Maric shouted gleefully. “Caught you again! Liar, liar, my how your situation grows dire...”
Edward flushed deeply in the face of this request that was ostensibly calm and reasonable, yet at the same time a pointed accusation. “It's...I...”
“Yes?”
“On the...river bank...somewhere, I think,” he responded at last. That was, to the best of his reckoning, where it had been left after his and his servant's collision.
“I'll go get it, then, sir.”
Edward raced after his servant, praying to all the gods he could remember that the other man had forgotten where it had been dropped. And, chortling all the while, Maric hobbled after the pair.
Of the three, only one was was not disappointed as they broke onto the scene. The kettle lay precisely where it had been dropped, and the sand yet held the imprints made by the two men as they fell as a sort of evidence of their collision.
A patch of wet sand leaking from the mouth of the kettle, surrounded by two sets of footprints leading toward the campfire, were as sure a giveaway as anything that Edward's tale was naught but lies.
“Liar, liar,” Maric marveled. “Out of the pan and into the fire!”
I'd have to quote every single bit of chapter 77 !!! I nearly choked to death laughing !!! Great Chapters, all - but 77 is in a league of its own !!! Awesome Write !!!
haute ecole rider and mALX: lol, thanks for the comments. It was a lot of fun writing the dialogue between those two (Edward and Maric) ![]()
Beware, to the man who would hire a servant
Such a course is fraught with dangers aplenty
Fostering dependence through subterfuge and perfidy
The servant will bend his master until he breaks him.
-- From the chapter “The Worst Servant”, in A Nobleman's Musings on the Serving Class
Chapter Eighty
After disinfecting the bandages and thoroughly cleaning Maric's injuries, the valet had cast his best healing spells, and wrapped what he could not heal. “Sorry, Maric,” he explained. “I was never much of a caster. You're going to need a real healer to take a look at those. But this should at least stave off infection.”
Maric grunted. The procedure had been painful, but – in Edward's presence as he was – he had determinedly braved the pain without as much as a peep of protest.
“I'm not sure that I have anything for pain,” the valet was was saying. “At least, not left.” He motioned to the fire-devastated campsite about them.
Maric shrugged this off nonchalantly, though he spoke through clenched teeth when he said, “It's of little accord.”
The other man nodded, but seemed about as convinced as the Breton by these words.
Edward, meanwhile, was sitting across the campfire from his servant and the treasure hunter, glaring into the flames. He had been caught in a lie, and shown to be a coward, all in one fell swoop, and his mood reflected the event. He was most seriously displeased – and that in his better moments.
“Servant!” he called at length, in acerbic and petulant tones, all at once. “I want my dinner!”
The valet glanced up at this summoning and grimaced. “Yes sir. One moment, sir.”
“No! Not 'one moment', you bloody servant – now, right this instant!”
The other man's grimace deepened. “Yes sir. Of course sir.”
Maric shook his head. “I don't know why you put up with that lout,” he commented. “He must pay an awfully lot?”
The valet's expression was indication enough to the false nature of such speculation.
“Well, why not let him fend for himself then? There are plenty of better opportunities out there for someone with your skills. People who will pay well, cut you an even share of the profits when they go treasure hunting, and not stomp their feet when they get annoyed.”
“Oh?”
Maric nodded. “That's right,” he said. “Now that Umbaccano's dead, I'm probably going to have to strike out on my own as a treasure hunter. I could use a servant like you, whose skills come in handy in a tight spot like back at Cadlew; and I wouldn't mind having someone to take care of the horses and the food and all the rest too.” He shrugged. “What say you? A fair cut – fifty percent of everything we make off with? We could loot all the ruins around here; who knows what we'd find!”
The valet shook his head. “Sorry, Maric,” he replied. “I already have a job.”
The Breton frowned at him. “Yeah...but it's somewhere on par with a city outhouse sanitizer. And the pay is probably worse!”
“That's not true,” the valet shook his head. “I enjoy my job.”
“Dinner!” Edward screamed, interrupting the other men's conversation. “I want my food now!”
“Most of the time,” the valet qualified his statement with a sigh.
Maric said naught, but shook his head vexedly as the other man walked away. Now that he was left to fend for himself, and his band of treasure hunters had betrayed or abandoned him as a coward, he needed to figure out some means of supporting himself – and staying alive while doing so. This sap, Norvayne, seemed just the thing...except that the man was too darned stubborn. Even for a cut of fifty percent, the fool had turned down his generosity. Maric scowled at the other man's insolence. He had offered him the same type of job as he currently had – save that he'd be working in the employ of a man a million times Edward's superior, and making quite a bit more septims out of it too. “Servants!” he thought with distaste. “What a wayward breed of people!”
A wise man's conversation,
Is wealth greater than finest pearls.
And wisdom shared by such a man,
A greater treasure than the riches of the Empire.
-- An excerpt from a piece translated in the scholarly work “Writings of Old, Dead People”
Chapter Eighty-One
Edward had refused to enter the “den of Barbarians” – Bravil – as they neared, and so was seated outside the stable on a large, damp rock by an old signpost, waiting for his servant to return. The wayward lackey had insisted on accompanying Maric into the town and seeing him to a healer's shop, so the unfortunate master found himself abandoned to the damp and dreary Nibenay Valley.
He was, at the moment, contemplating that only the basest savages could survive in such a dank, mosquito infested region when he noted a shabbily dressed, red-faced Breton approaching. He grimaced to himself at the sight of the creature – the precise type of ill-fated ne'erdowell that he had just been imagining.
“Top of the morning to you, sir!”
Edward scowled at the other man. It hadn't been morning for hours now.
“If you are looking to buy a horse, go inside and talk to Isabeau.”
The Imperial mumbled some insincere thanks for this tidbit of useless information, and turned his scowl to the walls of Bravil. The other man, however, seemed not to understand the import of this dismissive gesture, for he remained standing in place. Edward determinedly avoided eye contact with him.
For several minutes, Breton and Imperial remained in this fashion, the one seated and glaring at the walls of the nearby town, and the other standing and staring rather absently at nothing whatever. At last, however, the red-faced man spoke. “My name is Antoine,” he said.
Edward snorted. “I'm sorry to hear that,” he muttered ill-humoredly.
“Antoine Branck,” the other man continued. “That's my full name.”
The Imperial turned a supercilious sneer in the Breton's direction, and then returned his gaze to the walls of the castle.
“I work here,” the Breton continued. “I take care of the horses. We have lots of horses here. Nice ones. Say, if you're looking to buy a horse, you should go inside and talk to Isabeau.”
Edward's glare was fixed now on the talkative Breton.
“I can't sell horses, you know. Isabeau won't let me. They're her horses, that's why. I just tend them. She pays me to tend them. That's my job, you see.”
Edward's forehead was creased deeply as he stared furiously at the other man. “What makes you think I give a rat's behind?!”
Antoine shivered. “Don't mention them!” he replied. “Not rats. The horses hate rats. And Isabeau hates what the horses hate. And so do I. So we all hate rats.”
An eyebrow raised, Edward commented, “Yes, as fascinating as that was, would you mind shoving off? I'm trying to enjoy the scenery...well, enjoy is too generous a term, but-”
The Imperial was, however, cut short as the burly Breton pushed him from his makeshift seat. After landing face first in the dirt, Edward rose, sputtering with rage. “How dare you push me?!” he demanded of the blank-faced Breton.
“You told me to, sir,” Antoine replied. “You asked me to shove you off of that-”
“Not shove me off,” Edward snapped. “Just plain old shove off. As in, get lost. Go away. Go drown yourself. Jump of a bridge. Go hang yourself. Take a flying leap. Fly a kite.”
“All at the same time, sir?” the Breton asked perplexedly.
“For all I care, go ahead! Just leave me alone!”
“I don't think that's possible, sir,” Antoine replied dejectedly. “A man can't hang himself while he's flying a kite...unless he were to get wrapped up in the string, I suppose. But he wouldn't be able to throw himself off a bridge while he was doing it...at least, he could have leaped from the bridge – and that would be a flying leap, I guess, since the kite is flying and he is being hung from the kite. But the drowning and getting lost I just can't reckon in anywheres.”
Edward stared at the other man, an eyebrow raised.
“Unless...the kite wasn't strong enough to keep you in the air after you jumped from the bridge so you ended up in the water underneath...and you didn't know where that was, so I suppose you could be lost – while taking a flying leap off a bridge while hanging yourself from the kite you're flying.” This was finished with a self-congratulatory smile. “I see what you're saying, sir. It all makes sense now.”
“Oh, good...” Edward managed. “But...umm...shouldn't you be tending the horses or something?”
“Oh yes,” the Breton nodded resolutely. “That's my job. What Isabeau pays me for. She's my boss, you know. She owns this place, the Bay Roan Stables. Say, if you're looking to buy a horse, you should go inside and talk to her.”
Antoine reminds me of some people I know (or once knew). Honestly, there are people just like that IRL! Sigh!
And Norvayne refused Maric's offer? I can't decide if his loyalty to someone of Edward's caliber (what caliber?? a .22?? More like a BB!) is admirable or just plain stupid. I guess I'll have to wait and see!
SPEW !!! (CHOKE ... GASP ... ) BWAAAHAAAA!!!! ANTOINE !!!! Oogah, my stomach hurts from laughing so hard !!!!
Antoine was hilarious - he stole the show from Edward !!!! OMG, he has to travel with them, ROFL !!!
haute ecole rider: lol, I'm not sure myself (re Norvayne's loyalty/stupidity). As far as Maric is concerned, he knows that he's untrustworthy and goes back on his word. Though it's likely -- out of necessity -- that Maric wouldn't cheat him (he needs someone to babysit him on his missions
), it would only be because there's no advantage in doing so. Of course, one could say the same about Edward...but the valet will never be able to see that through his loyalty/stupidity, lol. Thanks for posting! ![]()
mALX: Glad you enjoyed Antoine! I'm pretty sure even the valet's good humor would get worn down after awhile with that great conversationalist.
However, I'm pretty sure that Antoine will make a comeback, if not in this story, then in Edward: an Imperial's Second Story (yes, I know, it's pretty sad that I've already thought up a part two when I am nowhere near done.
).
Nothing like a smile,
When hearts are laid low,
To cheer the weary of spirit
And raise the depressed of soul.
-- An excerpt from a piece translated in the scholarly work “Writings of Old, Dead People”
Chapter Eighty-Two
Edward stomped into the shabby wooden hut, slamming the old place's rickety door behind him as he entered.
“Hullo there!” a cheery female voice assailed the Imperial's ears.
Searching for the source of such an infuriatingly happy noise, Edward glared at a rather plain Breton woman. She was dressed shabbily, as the man outside had been, but seemed a little younger than he.
“This is the Bay Roan Stables,” she continued. “Are you interested in a horse?”
“Of course I'm not interested in a horse, you damned foolish wench!” Edward snapped.
The woman blinked at him. “Then...what are you doing here, sir?”
“I'm just trying to escape that blithering idiot you have out there, the one who calls himself Anthony or something.”
“Antoine, you mean?”
“Whatever.”
The woman glared at him. “It's a significant 'whatever', sir.” This last part was said with measured distaste. “One is the man's name, and the other is something else entirely.”
Edward stared daggers at her. “Listen, lady,” he responded. “I don't care what his name is – Anthony, Antonio, Antonietta...whatever. I just want to escape from him! And if that means coming in here...” He broke off tho shiver at the sight of the green moss that covered the moist wooden walls. “Even if that means coming into this unsanitary little shack,” he amended his statement, “I will gladly do it.”
Her eyes flashing fire, the woman spoke in a crisp, unflinching way, “This is the Bay Roan Stables.”
Edward groaned. “Ye gods...it must be some sort of Breton ailment of the brain or something...”
“And unless you're interested in a horse -”
“I already told you I'm not!”
“I'm going to have to ask you to leave!”
Edward blinked at her. “Leave?” he demanded. “When there's that drooling lunatic outside, waiting to assail me with his babble, the minute I step foot outside this door?”
“Now!” she demanded. “Or I'll call the Guard!”
“The guards? Look here, wench, don't you threaten me! I'm liable to have the Guard on you, for keeping a dangerous animal outside without -”
Her face contorting with fury, the Breton screamed, “Guard! Guard, help!”
Edward blinked. “Hey!” he called. “Stop that!” The last thing he needed was another prison record – and he had no doubt that, in a little backwater town like this, they would unhesitatingly take the flawed testimony of one of their own inbred primitives over the honest word of a cultured stranger.
“Guard!” she persisted. “Come quickly! This man will not leave!”
“Stop!” Edward protested, glancing about helplessly as the woman continued to yell. On the one hand, he couldn't force himself to go out there, where that blabbering Breton was; but, on the other, he couldn't allow this other Breton to continue...well, blabbering. “Stop it I say!” he repeated.
“Guards!”
“Stop, or I'll be forced to stop you!” he warned.
An even more fixed expression crossed the woman's face, and, in tones louder yet, she called out, “Guards! This man is threatening me!”
This was too much for Edward, who lunged for her. Pressing his hand against her mouth, he insisted, “Shut up, will you? All I want to do is wait until-AHHH!” He broke off in wailing at this point as the Breton's knee impacted sharply with his lower body, and, at the same time, her teeth sank into his hand. “Stop that! Owwww! Help! Help!” Edward called.
At that moment, the door burst open, and the Breton Edward had met earlier, Antoine Branck, entered. For a moment he glanced about dully, but, his gaze lighting upon the pair, a savage gleam lit them. “Sister!” he called. “I'm coming!”
The next thing Edward knew, a very broad fist had collided with great force and speed with the side of his head; and then the world went dark.
Verily, I say unto you, my children of Dawn....ahhh, the Dawn – it's acomin' as sure as the sun rises in the west. Wait, east. But'cha'll know what I mean! Light is breaking, breakin' like molten lead on this sinful hellhole of a world we call home!
-- Partial transcription of a sermon by Mankar Camoran
Chapter Eighty-Three
When Edward came to, he was outside the Bay Roan Stables. His hands were bound, and Antoine Branck was standing guard, glaring all the while at him.
The Imperial groaned to himself. This was too much being bound and held captive in a short period of time. “Look here,” he demanded in tones as civil as he could manage. “You've no business holding me!”
“Quiet, you!” the Breton returned. “No one treats my sister like that without paying the consequences.”
“Sister?” Edward repeated. Then, light dawning on marble as it were, he understood. “Ohh, you mean that horse-faced Breton you work for?”
A large fist hovered threateningly over the Imperial's head, and he hastened to apologize, amongst ample whimpering. “I meant that lovely lady who sells the horses,” he corrected himself.
“Yes,” Antoine answered. “Isabeau. She's my sister. She owns this place. I work for her. I tend the horses here.”
“I know!” Edward snapped. “You told me. A dozen times already, at least!”
Antoine's glare returned. “You wait, Mister. The Guard'll be here soon, and you'll get what's coming to you then.”
“The Guard?” Edward repeated, his cheeks going pale.
“That's right. Isabeau is gone to get them. And when she gets back from getting the Guard, you'll get what you should have got the instant you got the idea of laying hands on my sister!”
Edward stared at the other man, an eyebrow raised. “Yes, I think I get that...” he declared superciliously, “however, I was not the one at fault. Your sister assaulted me.”
“She did not!” the Breton protested. “Isabeau wouldn't harm a fly.”
“She most certainly did, you dolt!” Edward fumed. “Look! Here, see the teeth marks on my hand? And she kneed me in my...manly parts.”
The Breton stared at Edward, an eyebrow raised in disgust. “There is no way I'm looking at your...manly parts,” he declared with a sniff.
The Imperial flushed. “I wasn't asking you to look at them!” he hastened to assure the other man. “In fact, you had better not think of it! I was talking about my hand!”
Antoine stared suspiciously at him. “That's not what you said...”
“Yes it was!” Edward snapped. “Yes it was!”
“Hmm...”
“Excuse me,” a voice sounded behind the two men. “But...what exactly is going on here?”
The Imperial started at the sound, his eyes darting for the speaker, who was none other than his manservant. “This lout and his sister attacked me!” he explained. “And now they're trying to have me arrested on trumped up charges.”
“This knave attacked my sister,” the Breton countered. “And I'm holding him here until the Guard arrives. You're not the Guard, are you?”
“No,” the valet answered slowly. “I'm not the guard...but...sir, surely this must be a mistake! My friend would never harm a lady!”
“He did so, sir. I saw it with my own eyes!”
“I did not!” Edward protested. “This idiot broke in as his sister was savaging me, and he assumed that I was the one attacking her – even though I was the only one who took any injury during the conflict!”
“That's a bold-faced lie!” the Breton roared, smacking Edward upside the head. “Don't you talk about my sister like that!”
The valet cleared his throat. “Sir, please!” he protested.
“What? No one gets to lie about my sister!”
“No, of course not...but...well, first of all, who are you? And who is your sister?”
Edward groaned as Antoine explained, “My name is Antoine. Antoine Branck. I tend the horses. That's my job. This place is the Bay Roan Stables. My sister owns it. They're her horses. I work here with the horses, for my sister. She's the one who sells horses. I would tell you to go inside and talk to her, if you're interested in buying a horse, but you can't do that now. Because she's not inside. She's getting a guard to arrest this lout. But she'll be back. Then you can go in and talk to her. If you're interested in a horse, of course.”
“I see,” the valet nodded. “And how did this...misunderstanding...with my friend happen?”
“He went inside to buy a horse; and the next thing I know, I hear Isabeau screaming. I comes running, and there is he, with his hand on her mouth. So I set upon him – and he's lucky he's still drawing breath, I tell you that!”
“Oh, yes, quite,” the valet hastened to agree.
“No one treats a lady like that – especially not my sister!”
“No, no indeed. It was very...caddish behavior.”
“Hey!” Edward protested. “I was just trying to stop the stupid woman from screaming at me. I wasn't trying to hurt her!”
“Still,” the valet was continuing, “I'm not sure that it's worth bringing the Guard into...”
“It certainly is!” Antoine insisted.
“Really?” the valet asked. “I mean, no one was hurt....”
“I was!” Edward protested. “I was bit and kneed and pounded about!”
“Well, no one but Edward,” the valet continued. “Right?”
“Yes,” the other man nodded slowly. “But he deserved it!”
Edward began to protest heartily, but he was ignored by the others. “Oh, absolutely...still, hard to convince a judge that he was the villain when you and your sister – the two of you – teamed up to beat him senseless, I would think.”
The Breton shifted his weight nervously. “Well, I...that is...”
“Look here, Antoine,” the valet continued, “we're both intelligent men. We can both agree that what you and your sister did was perfectly reasonable under the circumstances. We both know that, even if the Guard does arrest him, he'll probably have to pay some measly fine and get off with hardly a delay or a dent in his pocket.” Antoine nodded glumly while Edward continued his protestations. “Surely we can think of a better solution than that.”
The Breton's forehead pursed in thought for a moment, but then his eyes lit up. “You want to kill him?” he suggested.
“No!” came the hurried response. A short, calmer laugh, and a congenial brush of the hand followed. “No, no, my good chap, nothing so drastic. What good would it do you – or your sister – if he ended up dead? And, I know this guy...he's faced death so many times that he's not even fazed by it anymore.” Edward's chalk white face rather put the lie to that assertion, but his servant bravely ventured on. “But you know what does bother him?”
The Breton shook his head.
“Money.”
“Money?”
“That's right...he's a greedy one, is Master Edward. I think if we were to agree to a settlement outside of the law...that would be the best way to punish him.”
Antoine nodded slowly. “That makes sense,” he said. “What sort of settlement?”
“Oh, I don't know,” the valet hesitated. “How about...one thousand gold septims?”
Edward's eyes bulged at the figure, before he found himself falling into a dead faint at the prospect of – broke as he was – owing this savage a fortune's worth of gold.
Assaulting our dear Isabeau? Edward certainly asked for it! You go, girl!
And good on Antoine for not wasting time blabbering when he burst in the shack!
Yet Norvayne shows his smooth talkin' that just leaves me shaking my head. It's amazing how he can smooth things over on Edward's behalf and yet let the circumstances pound Edward into petulant submission! Getting out of impending arrest by settling for an exorbitant sum of one thousand septims!
And Rachel, where do you find the inspiration for the little tidbits you always lead each chapter off with? I got a really huge kick out of this one:
haute ecole rider: haha, glad you enjoyed it! As for the price the valet paid, that will be explained soon.
As for the inspiration...when I was a teenager, I had the * ahem * good fortune of my family attending a southern baptist church for a few years. When I started writing Mankar's lines, I drew off of that experience...I actually wondered at first if I was overdoing it...and then I attended the baptism ceremony for one of my brothers (he's still a southern baptist, and is marrying into the church this June)...nope, not a bit of it, LOL. Don't get me wrong, nothing against southern baptists as people...the whole fire-and-brimstone and "merciful father in heaven who wants his beloved children who don't obey his every dictate according to the pastor tortured for all eternity" thing just isn't my cup of tea, lol. Neither is being told that my non-southern baptist ancestors/family/friends are all going to/currently in hell (with the implied threat that, unless I tow the line and convert, I am as well). But I digress.
Anyhow, that was the source of inspiration...the very bored "yeah, yeah, yeah" chanting in the game when you enter the Mythic Dawn lair just seemed so anti-climatic, I figured Cameron needed some real "fire" in his speech.
mALX: LOL! Now Edward finally gets a taste of his constant assumptions about people's interest in him. ![]()
Good bye, good bye,
Parting is such sweet sorrow...
-- From The Gentleman's Lament of Gold Spent
Chapter Eighty-Four
Edward awoke from his faint to find himself precariously propped up in a saddle and traveling at a fair speed. “Wha-?!” he demanded, starting to consciousness so suddenly that he nearly lost his balance.
“Ahh, sir!” he heard his valet greet. “Glad to see you're awake!”
Edward glared in the direction of that voice. He could vaguely remember his companion's insults and affronts, but he was keenly aware of some wrong the other man had done him...though the exact nature of it slipped his mind at the moment.
“Sorry to set out like that, sir,” his companion continued. “With you unconscious, and everything, I mean. But I wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible – in case that Branck fellow changed his mind, or his sister returned with a guard.”
The Imperial blinked as his memories began to fall into place. “Wait...that stupid Breton...you mean...”
“Antoine, sir? That's right. He agreed to let you go – once I paid him, of course, and I-”
Edward loosed a yelp. That was it – the fool of a servant had promised one thousand septims for his freedom, hadn't he? “A...thousand...septims!” he managed to choke out.
“Yes sir,” the valet nodded. “It was a steep price, but we were just lucky he accepted it. He was pretty convinced that your intentions were...well, less than honorable toward his sister.”
Edward recoiled in disgust. “That hideous Breton horse?!” he gasped.
“I think,” the other man continued, ignoring his statement altogether, “that it was only the fact that he wasn't convinced that they'd be able to get a conviction. And then, when you passed out like that at the mention of the septims...I think you sealed the deal, sir.” He frowned. “Speaking of which...why did you pass out, sir?”
Edward gaped at him. “One...thousand...gold...septims!” he managed in way of reply.
His companion frowned. “You mean...it really was the money that caused you to go out like that?”
“Of course!”
“Oh...I assumed you must have been woozy from your fight, or something.”
Edward glared at him. “You fool! You've just laid an enormous debt on my head! How do you think I'll ever be able to pay all that off?!”
“Sir?”
“Not that I'd pay that repulsive reprobate anyway,” the Imperial continued. “But he's probably expecting me to...and if I don't, he might file a grievance...for that sum, he may well take it all the way to the Imperial City!”
“What, you mean the thousand septims, sir?”
“Of course, idiot! What else?”
“Oh, no worries about that,” the valet shook his head. “I took care of it already.”
“You...?!” Edward demanded, both furious that his valet could carry – much less part with – that much pocket change at any given time, and relieved beyond words that the price would not be exacted of him.
“That's right, sir,” the other man nodded, “with the thousand septims Maric returned.”
The Imperial's jaw dropped again. “You...don't...mean...”
“Oh, I forgot to tell you that, didn't I sir?”
A strangled laugh escaped Edward's throat. “Yes, you just might have overlooked that tiny detail!”
“Well, it wasn't the sort of thing to discuss while you were tied up anyway,” his valet shrugged. “But, yes, before I left Maric at the healer, I talked him into returning your money.”
Edward blinked at the idea. It seemed improbable – nay, impossible – that anyone could reason with the obtuse Breton.
“Well...I threatened him, actually,” his companion admitted with another shrug. “But he coughed up what he owed in the end.”
Licking his lips greedily, Edward positively cackled with delight.
“Sir?” the other man asked, a blank expression crossing his face.
“Then...that means...I still have a thousand septims!” Edward mused, in way of explanation for his sudden change of demeanor.
“Another thousand?” the valet asked, his forehead creased. “How so, sir?”
“You wasted a thousand,” Edward explained, “but Maric stole two thousand!”
“Ohhhh, I see what you mean,” his companion nodded. “But I didn't make him return the full purse.”
The Imperial's jaw dropped anew. “What?!”
“Well, sir, he had spent a lot of it already before setting out for Nenalata...”
“How much?!”
“A hundred or two septims...”
“And the rest?!”
The valet shrugged. “His wounds were pretty bad, sir. He's going to need a good healer, and he'll have to be able to afford a few months of bed rest. I thought it only right...”
Edward's eyes flickered, and he felt himself falling out of the saddle, into a dead faint.
Be sure your sins will find you out –
So see to it that you always have a handy lie about!
-- Excerpt from the chapter “On Lying”, in The Young Nobleman's Guide to Success in Society
Chapter Eighty-Five
When Edward roused from this new faint, he found himself in a little glade some ways off the road with his valet and the two horses.
“Are you alright, sir?” the other man was asking.
Edward groaned piteously.
“What hurts, sir?” the other man asked, his face very perplexed. The Imperial continued to whimper in response, so he prodded, “I can't see any exterior wounds, sir...you need to talk to me. What's hurting you?”
“My purse!” Edward spoke at last.
The valet sighed, raising an eyebrow at him. “Is that all, sir? I thought you had seriously injured yourself!”
“I didn't injure myself,” the Imperial corrected. “It was you who gave away my money like that!”
“I didn't give it away, sir. Maric needed it for his treatment-” Edward interrupted with renewed groaning, but his companion ignored him. “And, as I say, we were lucky that Antoine accepted that payment!”
The Imperial's eyes flashed with fire. “Hold on!” he said. “You told that stupid Breton that I would have got off with a minor fine. Why did you waste all my gold, then?”
“You mean...you would have preferred if they dragged you off to prison, sir?”
“As opposed to losing one thousand gold septims?!” Edward thundered. “Are you daft, man? Do you even need to ask such a question?! Of course I would have!”
His companion frowned at him. “Well...be that as it may, sir, what I said to Branck wasn't strictly true, anyway.” Edward frowned in response. “You see, there's some fellow going around attacking the women in the area...they haven't seen him in a couple of weeks, but he hurt a few of them pretty badly. Killed one.” His brow furrowing, he continued, “I have my suspicions, sir, that it was that Rufio character that you...erm, snuffed out. No one's reported an attack since then. But that, of course, would have been difficult to explain – the Guard would have assumed that you were the culprit of the attacks. And, what with our only defense being murder...that wouldn't have went over very well.”
The Imperial frowned. “But...one thousand septims? Couldn't you have offered him less...like...I donno...fifty?”
“Of course not, sir,” the valet answered. “I didn't want to insult him – because then he might have refused the money just out of spite.”
Edward glared at his companion. “Well then,” he demanded, “why didn't you just kill the fool?! After all, he was holding me illegally, against my will and unjustly!”
“Speaking of that, sir...” the other man started. “What, exactly, happened?”
The Imperial sighed. “That great lummox was following me around spouting off banalities about the horses and his sister – who could pass for one of the animals any day, I can tell you! – and his job and all that. So I went inside to escape the lout.” He sighed again. “When the obtuse woman greeted me, she...mistook...a few things I said.”
“Oh?”
“About her brother and...his intellect,” Edward admitted, hurrying to add, “they were quite witty and amusing statements, of course, all very tasteful...I just forgot that I was speaking to a witless, humorless Breton. Anyway, she started calling the guard....and I threatened to tell the guard that she had a dangerous animal outside without a permit...”
The valet cringed. “You didn't say that about her brother, did you?”
Edward shrugged. “I might have,” he answered. “But...I didn't know the fool was her brother, anyway!” His companion sighed while he pouted. “Anyway, things just sort of...went downhill from there.”
“I see,” the valet nodded. “I'm sorry to hear that. Still...not the end of the world, I suppose. They were no doubt frightened, but the septims should be a decent remuneration.” Edward glared at the other man, who cleared his throat. “Yes, well...umm...we should probably head out now.”
The Imperial begrudgingly nodded his acquiescence, and the two headed for their mounts.
“Oh, sir...by the way....”
“What?”
“About that fire yesterday...”
I waited to reply to make sure you didn't have more chapters up your sleeve.
These two chapters had me laughing out loud! Edward in his shock over the 'loss' of 'his' septims soooo reminded me of my little Italian granny. God bless her soul, but she would have reacted exactly the same way he did!
And Edward's version of events leading up to the 'loss' was just - just - *spluttering helplessly* - priceless!
Care of two horses for one day: Ten drakes
Healing for an ungrateful, shady character: eight hundred septims.
Bribing a mentally challenged but pissed off brother: one thousand septims.
Seeing a memorably annoying character pass out and fall off his horse: Priceless!
Edward falling off the horse in a dead faint ... over Septims he thought were lost anyway ... SPEW !!!! ROFL !!!
Can't blame Edward for being mad that his valet paid the man who robbed the Septims from him to begin with, (half of it for his troubles) though - that might be the incident that gets his Valet put on Edward's "Death Wish List," lol.
haute ecole rider: lol, glad you enjoyed the chapters!!
I loved writing Branck...he just sort of happened, lol -- in large part because he and Isabeau say the same things each time you talk to them and I thought...hmm, wouldn't it be fun if they did that in Edward's "real life" too. And then the 1,000 Septims bribe just sort of grew out of that.
Thanks for posting!! ![]()
mALX: lol, I can't blame him either. The valet, though, is a sucker for someone in hard times. So, to his mind, no matter how much of a blackguard Maric is, he can't just leave him without anything for healing. As far as ending up on Edward's death list, lol, that's a good point -- there is little that means more to Edward the Imperial than money.
Glad you liked it!! ![]()
One reaction, whatever the cause
To hail the victorious or see off the dead
And when no reason, just because:
They prefer to drink even before they are fed.
-- A Study of the Social Evolution, Customs and Building Practices of the Nordic Tribes, ordered by High Chancellor Cicero
Chapter Eighty-Six
Edward smiled. Fortune had indeed been with him since he and his valet left Bravil in the dust. Their ride to Cheydinhal had been quick and eventless, and his servant had been gullible enough to believe his explanation for the near-forest fire incident.
So it was, while the valet contemplated how a man who was both afraid of the dark and paralyzed by fear of fire could be an adventurer of Edward's caliber, the Imperial smiled coolly and swaggered into his Dark Brotherhood hideout. He was disappointed to see that, aside from M'raaj-Dar and the Dark Guardian, he was all alone; but he remembered what had happened last time he'd entered, so maintained his cool, easy attitude; at least, an attitude that he took to be cool and easy. "Yo, M'raaj-Dar my man, how's it hanging?" he asked.
The cat raised a furry eyebrow, responding only, "Funny that it would be you, talking about hanging...I think of the same thing, every time I hear you..."
Edward blinked, taken aback by this less than friendly response. "Come on, M'raaj-Dar, are you really saying that you hate me so much that you want to hang yourself every time you hear me?"
M'raaj-Dar's already raised eyebrow stood a good inch higher, and he commented dryly, "Myself? Guess again, brainy."
Edward gulped, and decided that he'd rather not carry on a conversation with the ornery Khajiit. Keeping his distance, he circled the cat to reach the Brotherhood quarters. Pushing against the doors with a grunt, he thought, "Great divines, haven't these people ever heard of oiling the darned hinges?!" They opened slowly, and only with much effort. Entering at last, and panting heavily as he did so, he shook himself to loosen his cramped muscles. He stepped inside, only to be greeted by several surprised stares, and a hiss of disgust from Antionetta.
"Oblivion!" he thought, attempting to resume the manner with which he'd entered the hideout. "Of course she'd have to see that...I couldn't have problems with some other door...oh no...it would have to be here, and now."
"Edgar!" Vicente greeted, rising from his seat across from Antionetta, where they both sat over a chessboard.
"Edward!" Edward corrected, frowning deeply. He didn't like this Breton; he didn't like the way he always got his name wrong; he didn't like the way he tended to dismiss him; and he certainly didn't like the way he was always hanging around Antionetta.
"Vicente, can't you wait to talk to him?" Antionetta asked, waving her hand in Edward's direction but not bothering to look at him. "We're almost finished with our game!"
Edward blinked, wondering how he should interpret her body language. "Wow," he thought with a touch of joy. "I didn't realize she had such a crush on me that she can't even look at me...I mean, I suspected, but..." Aloud, however, he declared in his most obliging voice and with a broad smile, "Oh, of course -- it can wait!"
But Vicente smiled at Antionetta and declared, "Business before pleasure, my dear." With this, he took her hand, pressed it to his lips, and turned to Edward, who now stood agape. Antionetta, meanwhile, smiled warmly at Vicente, but cast a dark look Edward's way.
"Now," Vicente declared, his manner very businesslike, "what can I do for you?"
"Well, I, umm, came because I, uhh..." Edward started, stumbling over his words. His thoughts were in complete disarray, and he was having little success at reorganizing them. "How dare that snotty little Breton touch her?" he was wondering. "And to kiss her! Him, of all people! I'm surprised she didn't slap him! In fact, if he wasn't my boss, I'd slap him!"
While his thoughts rambled on in this manner, Vicente spoke. "Yes, we heard about your mission. Interesting ruse, pretending to be a madman and all that, I must say -- and a bit risky at that." He shrugged. "But, it worked."
"Yes, it did," Edward said haughtily.
"Good thing you had someone to help you," Vicente offered.
"Save his butt, you mean," Antionetta put in curtly.
Edward blinked, surprised by her tone. "But," he told himself, "I can't blame her...of course she's short tempered, after being treated like that by that presuming, stuffed shirt Breton!" He glared at Vicente. Of late, Bretons seemed to make a habit of getting in his way.
Vicente seemed not to notice his expression. "Well, however that may be, you've earned your reward, and a promotion."
Edward blinked again, this time forgetting his abhorrence of Vicente. "A promotion?" he asked.
"That's right," the other man answered. "Congratulations! You're now a Slayer!"
Edward's blank expression turned into a radiant smile, and he started dancing and chanting, "Yes, yes, yes!" Then, seeing Antionetta's rather disgusted gaze resting on him, he hurried over to her table. "Did you hear? I got promoted!" he exclaimed, plunking into the seat opposite her and knocking the chessboard over with his knees as he did so.
"That's as good a way as any to go, I suppose," she said through clenched teeth as the chess pieces clattered on the floor.
"Huh?" Edward asked, abashed by his clumsiness, as he scrambled to pick up the pieces.
"What Antionetta means," Vicente intervened quickly, "is that that's a nice way to go on your next mission."
"Oh," Edward smiled up at her, "yes, isn't it?"
Can you feel the love in the air?
There, the dreamer dreams up his starry paradise
Do you wonder how the lover will fare?
Alas, his poor heart must pay the fool's price.
-- The Witless Swain, unattributed love poem rumored to have been inspired by a certain Imperial
Chapter Eighty-Seven
“Well,” Edward was telling his valet, “you know how I had been unjustly imprisoned by those nobleman who were aware of my ancestry?”
The other man grimaced almost imperceptibly, but said in a tone free of expression, “I recall you saying something to that effect, sir.”
“Quite so,” Edward nodded. “Well, they knew who I really was…that the Emperor was my father, and all of that…and they know that, with no heirs to the throne, it should, by rights, be mine – which is, of course, why I was thrown into prison.”
“Indeed, sir,” the valet declared, assuming that flat, disinterested tone he used when Edward was lying through his teeth.
“Well, anyway, do you remember the prisoner who was stationed across from me, Valen Dreth?”
“No sir.”
“Well, he was a nasty thing…foul mouthed, cruel, mean…he taunted me the whole time I was in prison…”
“How terrible, sir.”
“Yes, quite,” Edward agreed. “But, it’s payback time…Vicente wants me to kill him.”
The valet’s eyebrows rose. “For taunting you in prison, sir?”
“No, of course not!” Edward snapped. “Although I don’t see why you’d say it with such disbelief…that would be reason enough to warrant the little turd’s death, wouldn’t it?”
The valet coughed discreetly, saying, “If you say so, sir, then I’m sure it is.”
“You’re darned right it is!”
“But what is his crime?” the valet persisted. “That is, his other one.”
Somewhat, though not entirely, placated by this recognition of the wrong he’d been dealt, Edward answered, “Well, turns out the old goat is a murderer as well as a nasty, big mouthed honoured user.”
“But isn’t that why he’s in prison, sir?”
“Yes,” Edward answered. “But he’s not going to be in prison for very long.”
“Oh?”
“Yes…he’s got friends, it seems, who are ‘looking the other way’ and releasing him next month…after only serving two months!”
The valet’s eyebrows rose again. “I see!”
“Well,” Edward smiled, “these good old boys are in for a surprise…Edward the Imperial doesn’t stand by while friends pull strings for their friends, getting them out of prison, saving them from the gallows, freeing them after they’ve killed someone!” His valet shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, but Edward didn’t notice. “No indeed! I’m going to be handing out some final justice.”
“Indeed sir,” came the valet’s slightly ironic tone.
“Yup,” Edward agreed, smiling broadly. “I say, this is a good day, you know that?”
“Is it, sir?”
“Yes indeed! Another mission, and…” Here Edward broke off, blushing a little. “Well, everything.”
His valet frowned thoughtfully. “Everything, sir?”
“Yes, yes,” Edward answered. “The birds are singing, the sun is shining, the flowers are blooming, the world is at peace all over!”
“I take it, then, sir, that you have a lady friend in the Brotherhood?”
Edward turned to the other man, and stared at him in astonishment, his mouth agape. “How on earth did you know?” he demanded.
The faintest hint of a smile appeared on the valet’s lips, but he replied only, “Valet’s intuition, sir.”
“I say, that’s very good!” Edward declared. “And, of course, you’re right. There is a girl…Antionetta Marie…oh, you should see her…beautiful…blonde…absolutely, madly in love with me…”
His valet shot him a quick glance, as if hoping to discern whether or not he was lying. His expression only grew more puzzled, however, and he said, “Are you sure, sir?”
Edward stared at him, dumbfounded and not a little insulted by the question. “What do you mean, ‘am I sure?’ Of course I’m sure! Why, the poor girl is so in love with me that she can barely speak two words to me! She can’t even look me in the eye! And that Vicente – the old pervert’s got his eye on her, it’s plain to see, but she wants nothing to do with him. You should’ve seen how upset she was when I came in while they were playing chess, and then he kissed her hand and left to talk to me; oh, she was furious! And humiliated – she couldn’t even look me in the eye after that, she was so mortified.” Edward sighed. “The poor lamb…if she only knew that I understood, that I saw through that red-eyed, pointy-toothed swine’s schemes.” Edward sighed again.
Meanwhile, his valet was staring at him, open-mouthed. At last, however, he cleared his throat. “Sir…do I understand you rightly when you say that you interrupted this girl – Antionetta – and Vicente from a game, and that Vicente kissed her hand, and after that – after you interrupted and Vicente left – Antionetta was furious, and wouldn’t look at you or talk to you?”
“Yup,” Edward nodded proudly. “I told you…plain as day, isn't it?”
His valet blinked at the statement, sat in amazed silence for a moment, and then ventured, “Well, sir, are you sure that you…well, that you’re interpreting her reaction correctly?”
“Oh yes,” Edward assured him, adding with a knowing smile, “But don’t worry…I haven’t done anything rash…I’m pretending I haven’t noticed yet.” The other man breathed a sigh of relief, but let Edward continue to prattle on. “The way I figure it, no sense rushing this thing…I’m young…I’ve still got to have fun before I think of settling for any one woman, even if she is wild for me…I’ve still got to reap my wild oats and all that!”
“Sow, sir,” the valet corrected.
“Right,” Edward agreed. “Whatever. But you get my drift. And, anyway, it’s damned hard to have a relationship with someone when she’s so carried away by her emotions that she can’t talk to you or look at you, and avoids you whenever possible.”
The other man cleared his voice. “Sir, don’t you think…I mean, are you sure that her reaction earlier was embarrassment rather than, oh, I don’t know…maybe being furious that you interrupted her game and took her away from the man she’s really interested in?”
Edward did a double take, and in so doing nearly fell off of his horse. “Vicente?” he laughed. “Are you mad? That horrible, red-eyed thing, with his pointy teeth and stuffy accent? For heaven’s sakes, man, he looks like a bloody vampire!”
“And are you sure that he’s not?”
Edward stopped laughing and stared at him superciliously. “A vampire? Come now, don’t be absurd! There’s no such thing as vampires….that’s all hogwash and superstition!”
“Oh yes,” his valet agreed. “Vampires, werewolves, zombies, magicians…the whole lot.”
“Not zombies and magicians,” Edward corrected. “Those exist…I know, I’ve met some. The rest are though.”
“Oh, I see…only the creatures that you’ve met exist, and the rest are myth?” the valet asked, a hint of irony in his tone.
“Exactly,” Edward agreed earnestly. “And Vicente might be a nasty old coot, but a vampire he is not, even if he does look like one.”
The valet shook his head, but did not argue the point. “Well, then, what’s to say that she isn’t in love with this fellow who looks like a vampire but isn’t one?”
Edward laughed again. “Come on, who would fall for some weirdo with glowing eyes and pointy teeth?”
His valet sighed. “I have one word for you, sir: Twilight.”
Of noble princes we sings,
All those whose rule we fear
Princes, Lords and Kings
Hopes our praises they hear.
-- Song of the Beggars and Serfs
Chapter Eighty-Eight
Edward had not spoken to his valet in hours. After the other man's impertinent, downright offensive, suggestion, he had had no desire to converse with him. Furthermore, despite his adamant denial of the idea, his valet's words had touched that shred of common sense that he'd always managed to cling onto, and made him ever so slightly uncomfortable, and ever so slightly depressed.
"You know, sir," his valet said at last, "I've been thinking...it might be a good idea to do something else for a while."
"What?" Edward asked.
"Well, you've got over a month to deal with the prisoner before he's released...and then, you could always get him after he's released too."
Edward frowned. "Why do you care when I do it, anyway?"
His valet shrugged, in an entirely unconvincing attempt at nonchalance. "Oh, I don't know...I just thought that maybe it might be a good idea to take a break from your Brotherhood quests."
"Why?" Edward asked, his frown deepening.
"Well, just so that you can...I don't know...broaden your horizons," the other man answered. "You know, see some other things, go other places."
"I don't think you understand," Edward snapped, "just how important my job is! If not for me, all sorts of nefarious characters would be getting away with all sorts of nefarious deeds! I don't have time to go sightseeing!" He paused. "Anyway, I don't really have enough money for a vacation."
His valet shook his head imperceptibly. No matter how much money Edward earned, he never seemed to be able to hang onto it for very long; between tipping pretty waitresses too much in vain attempts to impress them, to being a magnet for clothes with holes in their pockets, he always managed to wind up short on cash. "Well, sir, I know just the place where you might be able to earn yourself a little bit of money, take care of a few bad guys, and see some beautiful country, all at the same time."
Despite himself, Edward perked up. A vacation didn't sound terribly bad, and it might be nice to build his reputation outside of the Brotherhood. "Oh?" he said, attempting a disinterested air -- attempting, and failing miserably.
"Yes...a little town by the seaside, with lots of beautiful scenery and nice people, and just enough trouble to make it profitable for a noble-minded adventurer such as yourself to clean it up."
Edward smiled, almost forgetting his annoyance with his valet entirely. "At least the man recognizes my inane abilities," he thought. "Or is that innate?" He frowned in thought for several moments, but then dismissed the difficulty. He was too excited about a vacation to worry about stupid things like the proper use of language. "Well, what is this little town?"
"Anvil, sir."
Edward frowned again. "Anvil?"
"Have you been there, sir?"
"Well, no," Edward admitted. "But one doesn't have to go somewhere just to know that it's a backwards place. Take Bruma...I knew before I stepped foot in that frigid den of barbarians that it was an arctic hell. And, of course, I was right."
His valet cleared his throat tactfully. "Yes sir, however, Anvil is not a Bruma."
"Yes," Edward agreed, "it's warmer."
The other man sighed. "Sir, Anvil is a hub of culture!" Edward scoffed, but his valet continued anyway. "The sea port brings in people and goods from all lands!"
"Oh joy," Edward remarked. "A bunch of dirty, uncivilized seafarers bringing second class merchandise, probably stolen, in to drive the prices down for quality merchandise made by hard working Imperials!"
His valet's grimace deepened, but he did not directly confront his master's suppositions. Instead, he said, "Well, there are lots of Imperials in Anvil...and they sometimes have problems with some of the sailors and the dock hands...the whole town would be grateful, I'm sure, if a brave adventurer would come into town and clean things up." Seeing that Edward wasn't wholly convinced, he added, "And I'm sure they'd be willing to pay well...very well!"
Edward smiled at this. Yes, he could see himself filling the role his valet described, particularly the part about collecting a handsome reward. "Well," he said slowly. "I suppose I could make a short trip there...it's not like Valen's going anywhere for awhile." He laughed at his own joke, while his valet tried not to sigh audibly. "After all, these people really do need me...and, if I don't answer the call, they'll be left to face the barbarian hordes by themselves."
"Yes sir," his valet returned in his driest tone.
"And I couldn't desert them like that," Edward continued.
"No sir," the valet responded in the same tone.
So it's off to Anvil, huh? And what, pray tell, would Edward find to screw up there? A certain rundown manor in need of renovation? Unwelcome seductresses in need of eviction? Or a bloodbath in a Chapel? I can't wait to see what happens next!
Oh, and this cracked me up:
Twilight!!
Anvil, oh dear. I hope at least some of it is still standing when Edward is finished there!
GAAAAH !!! I remember the Edward, Antoinetta part - but never remembered that Edward didn't know Vicente was a vampire !!! I sprayed my coffee everywhere !!! ROFL !!!
This killed me, and I don't remember it from the original either :
Thanks for the comments, all! As for the Twilight thing, lol, I hear you...how many teen angst vampire love triangles/conflicts/whatnot do they expect us to suffer through, lol?
Anvil may be standing, but I'm not sure that Edward will be when he's done.
As for Edward not realizing that Vicente is a vampire...that might require taking time to observe and think about what he's observed. And that is all far too tedious for dear Edward. ![]()
Plagues and famine, war and devastation
No single disaster, tragedy or travesty of life can compare
To the horrors of the wayward servant
Fiend, miscreant, and irritant his master simply cannot bear.
-- Excerpt from The Trials of a Nobleman, First Edition
Chapter Eighty-Nine
Edward was stiff and sore. He and his valet had been riding for almost a week, and he had lost all of his enthusiasm for this adventure; in fact, if he had not been so stiff and so tired, he might just have strangled his companion for talking him into this hellish nightmare in the first place. As it was, they had been riding through almost nonstop storms, in bone-chilling rain and wind, and at an annoyingly slow pace; and, while the latter issue was Edward's fault, as he insisted on making frequent stops to wring the rain water out of his cloak, he held his valet personally responsible for the other difficulties since this trip had been his idea.
Aside from being sore, he was also very tired, and very, very cranky. He had hardly slept so far, and his nerves were completely on edge. Every noise made him jump -- more so than usual -- and every flash of lightning sent his heart into his mouth, until, at last, he was a nervous wreck. Finally, the walls of the city came into sight. Then, after what seemed an agonizing stretch, they had reached the stables, left their mounts, and were heading toward the gate.
Edward was shaking with exhaustion and cold, but his valet seemed to be in high spirits -- a fact that served only to dampen Edward's own spirits further. "You know, sir," the valet was saying, "one of the reasons I was particularly anxious for us to head down here -- aside from it being just the adventure you need, of course -- is that there's a mysterious person who lives here; the folks around these parts just call him 'stranger'. There's something strange about that..."
"Oh, no?" Edward asked sarcastically. "I supposed they call him 'stranger' because there's nothing strange about him at all."
An eyebrow creeping up his forehead, the other man asked, "Is everything alright, sir?"
"No!" Edward shot back. "Everything is not alright! I'm freezing cold, I'm exhausted, I really have no business being here, and you're still breathing!"
The valet cleared his throat. "Yes sir...well, I'm sure these difficulties will all work themselves out once you rent a room, eat a warm meal, take a long nap..."
"Only if some friendly passing loon cuts your head off while I'm sleeping," Edward muttered.
His valet smiled, although very discreetly, and continued speaking. "And the sea here is just wonderful...you know, I haven't been swimming in so long..." He glanced around. "The lightning seems to have stopped...hmm, I just might take a swim while you take a nap."
Edward frowned at his servant. "But it's raining!" he protested.
A flicker of a smile appeared on the other man's face, as he answered, "Oh, good point, sir...I might get wet if I do that!"
Edward's frown deepened, and he wondered which god he should pray to in order to get the lightning to resume and strike his miscreant manservant. Finally, he decided the more promising option was just to pray to all of them that his valet cramped up while swimming, and drowned.
Both men fell silent, and they had been walking without speaking for several minutes when the valet noticed Edward's lips moving ever so slightly. "Oh, I didn't know you were religious, sir!" he said.
Edward started, looked around rather guiltily, and then asked, "What?"
"Well, you were praying, weren't you?" Edward blinked, but said nothing. "I didn't know you were religious, that's all."
"I'm not," Edward replied. Then, glancing upwards, he hurried to add, "I mean, not terribly...but there's always room for improvement...if I could be convinced that the gods really existed, and were as benevolent and generous as they claim to be, I'm sure I'd become a very religious man."
Smiling discreetly, his valet nodded. "I take it then, sir, you were praying for good fortune during your stay here?"
"Umm, yes, you could say that," Edward said, avoiding the other man's gaze as he spoke.
Revenge is a sweet dish best served cold, much like ice cream.
-- Topic sentence of a grade-school essay written by Edward
Chapter Ninety
Edward stumbled, wet and weary, into the Count's Arms, an inn and pub in western Anvil. He glanced about, glaring at everyone in the room. He'd headed to the waterfront already, figuring that there would be cheap lodging to be had there; instead, he had very rudely been ousted from the only inn there, The Fo'c'sle, because he wasn't a seafarer. So, trudging back through the rain to the Count's Arms, he had come to terms with the fact that he'd have to pay a full 25 gold for his room. Needless to say, he was significantly less than pleased. In fact, he was so much less than pleased that he'd inwardly vowed revenge on the proprietress of The Fo'c'sle, Mirabelle Monet -- but not until he'd changed into dry clothes, rested, and eaten, in whatever order took his fancy.
As he clomped -- rather, sloshed -- into the room, staring daggers at everyone who dared to cross his path, a young man approached him. "Hello there!" he greeted. "My name is Velwyn Benirus, and you look like someone who could use a place of your own here in town. And it just so happens that I'm selling a beautiful manor house, full of character, because I'm moving out of town; and, since I don't have time to negotiate, as my business is so pressing, I'm going to let it go for the ridiculously low price..."
Edward turned malevolent eyes in his direction, and snarled, "Piss off!" The other man blinked at Edward's fury, and quickly absented himself. Satisfied by his success, Edward finished sloshing up to the counter, and demanded in his most uncivil tones, "You there! I want a room!"
Wilbur, the publican, cleared his throat, and said, "Yes sir. That'll be 25 gold."
"Highway robbery is illegal in this empire, you know!" Edward snapped.
Wilbur frowned, saying, "Well, sir, if you think you could find a better deal here in town, be my guest."
"'If you think you could find a better deal, be my guest'," Edward repeated in a mocking tone, flinging the gold at the publican.
Stooping to pick it up, Wilbur replied meekly, "Thank you very much, sir. Here's the key to your room." This, in turn, he flung at Edward.
Starting in surprise, Edward made no other move, and the heavy iron key flew into swift, painful contact with his jaw.
Wilbur smiled as Edward bent to retrieve the key. "Have a nice evening, sir."
Trudging up the stairs, oozing a trail of water behind him like a giant human snail, Edward thought, "Well, now, that's one more to add to list..."
When, at last, he'd reached his room, he plopped into a chair -- making a noise very reminiscent of a large stone plopping into a body of water -- and pulled out a soggy list from one of his pockets. It read as follows:
*** Private ***
* * * TOP SECRET * * *
* Do NOT read *
* If found, return to Edward *
* Do NOT read *
* * * TOP SECRET * * *
*** Private ***
Retribution List
Imperial Guard who arrested me (he arrested me!) <-- haven't been able to track him down...too many Imperial Guards
Imperial City beggar (pick-pocketed 3 gold from me) <-- no luck so far...too many beggars, they all look alike
Headmaster George (geography teacher in highschool) <-- honoured user croaked before I shove those !#$#'ing globes down his throat...
Aunt Francisca (for sending those gods-awful outfits every Christmas, that Mom would make me wear all #$% 'ing year) <-- died last summer, before I could have retribution...may she rot in Oblivion
Mom (for making me wear the outfits Aunt Francisca would send) <-- CHECK...killed her pet bird, fed it to the cat, the cat choked on its beak
Valen Dreth (for taunting me in prison) <-- update: DB wants him dead too, now I can get revenge and gold, haha, go me!
Vicente Valtieri (arrogant SOB needs to be taught a good lesson) <-- might have to wait on this one...it probably wouldn't do much for my job performance if I attacked my boss
Valet (unparalled insolence, has no respect for me) <-- postpone vengeance while he's still useful to me
Mirabelle Monet (throwing me out of her inn)
Frowning as he read over his list, he wondered if it reflected poorly on his abilities that the only person on whom he'd sworn revenge and actually been able to avenge himself was his mother. "Nah," he decided. "My mom is pretty tough...she can even out arm-wrestle me and everything! Anyway, it's always harder to exact revenge on your own mother because of family loyalty and feelings and whatever..."
This point settled to his satisfaction, and reassured that he really was the skilled, ruthless adventurer that he imagined himself to be, he added the following line to his list:
Wilbur (for throwing key into my face)
Then, just in case the point had been lost in the header, Edward added the following at the bottom of the soggy page:
**DO NOT READ -- PRIVATE DOCUMENT**
Notice to all residents of Anvil:
Please note that repeated rumors have come to our ears of a gang of female thieves who use their wiles to prey on men. As of yet these rumors are unsubstantiated, but we advise all male citizens to use wisdom and caution if approached by any unknown females.
Anvil City Guard
Chapter Ninety-One
Edward had slept for a long time, managed to eat more than a horse, and dug up new, dry clothes. His valet had mysteriously disappeared, and Edward dared to hope that his prayers might have been answered -- although, at the same time, he felt slight compunction. "If the gods really do exist, will they punish me if I don't keep my word? I mean, if they granted my wish, and I don't become super religious?" he worried.
This thought perplexed him, as he had no intention of becoming religious. "Religion is for wimps," he thought. "And fools...only a fool would get involved with something that won't let you rob people, exact revenge, plot crimes..." But, at the same time, if the gods did as he'd asked, what would they do when he broke his word? The gods weren't renowned for their graciousness when crossed...
To distract himself from this puzzler, he decided to go about his first order of business: revenge on Mirabelle Monet. Wilbur could wait, he decided -- Wilbur at least rented him a room, even if he did charge him an arm and a leg, and throw a key into his face. "Anyway," he figured, "no sense ticking him off further while I'm staying in his inn..."
Strolling to the docks at a leisurely pace, Edward wondered how he'd go about exacting revenge. "I could push her into the sea," he thought, adding ill humouredly, "and, with any luck, she'll meet the same fate as my valet."
At that moment, a hand clapped him on the back and an excited voice accosted him. He jumped a good foot into the air, spinning around to face his valet, who was saying, "Sir, you'll never believe my good fortune! I just met someone, Velwyn Benirus, who was selling his ancestral home -- a huge, beautiful manor right here in town, fully furnished -- and he sold it to me for 5,000 septims!"
Edward glared, mentally cursing the gods. Not only had they not answered his prayers, but they'd rewarded his wayward servant.
"Which means, of course, sir, that you won't have to stay in the inn here in Anvil! You can stay at my home."
Edward brightened at this, but only slightly. While, on the one hand, it was good to save 25 gold a night, on the other hand, it was hard to do so at the cost of yet one more piece of excellent fortune falling into the lap of -- of all people -- his servant.
"Will you come take a look at it, sir?" the excited valet asked. "I'm certain you'll be as impressed as I was."
Edward frowned. "No, not now...later," he answered.
"Oh, are you sure?" the other man asked, clearly disappointed.
Feeling somewhat better at his valet's reaction, Edward declared firmly, "Yes, I'm on an important mission!"
"Oh, I see," the valet nodded understandingly. "Out to bring peace and justice to the waterfront?"
Edward shifted uncomfortably. No matter how hard he tried, he still found it difficult to maintain his equanimity when people started speaking of justice. "Umm, yes, something like that," he answered.
His valet nodded approvingly. "I'm glad to hear it, sir...the port is in need of a good cleaning up! Some of the people here...the things they do, and for the most trifling reasons...petty revenge, wounded pride..." He shook his head. "You'd be amazed, sir, at some of these people!"
Edward shifted again, feeling very ill at ease. "Yes, well, I have to get to work..."
"Right you are, sir!" the other man nodded. "I'll go tidy up the new house. Here, I'll show you on your map right where it is, so you can find it easily." With this, he did as he'd said, and then departed.
Edward watched sullenly as his valet departed. He couldn't explain it...no matter how hard he tried, he never seemed to get very far in life...and as bad as that was, to make matters worse, this lowly upstart, this trifling servant, had all the luck! "Oblivion!" Edward thought. "I couldn't have even afforded that house, even if I had been offered it! How does he get the money to do that?" Then a thought struck him. "Probably from his thieving...after the gray fox invited him -- and not me -- to join the thieves guild." His scowl firmly set, Edward felt like crying.
Then, catching sight of a tavern sign, he thought, "I need a drink." Edward pushed open the door of The Flowing Bowl tavern with a shove, and stomped sulkily inside. "A drink," he said to the Bosmer behind the counter, "and make it strong. Very strong."
The publican nodded, handing him a mug of a very foul tasting brew, and Edward took a long draft. At the same time, someone sat down beside him. "Now, what could be bothering a handsome fellow like you so much that you need something that strong?" a soft, sultry voice crooned.
Edward almost jumped out of his seat, spilled the contents of his mug all over the counter and himself, and choked on the mouthful of brew he'd been about to swallow. Gasping, wheezing, soaking wet, stinking of alcohol and very self conscious, he turned to see the speaker. He nearly did a second double take as he saw her. She fit her voice completely -- absolutely beautiful, and a bit tawdry.
"And, as bad as it is, isn't there some way we could make it better?" she asked, apparently not even noticing his series of blunders, or the fact that he was drenched in and reeking of liquor.
Edward tried to speak, but couldn't find his voice. Instead, swallowing hard, he managed to nod his head and smile very stupidly.
"I thought so," she crooned, pressing a key into hand. She leaned forward to whisper in his ear. "After 11...at Gweden farmstead, right outside of town. And I'll bring a friend, too..." She smiled. "Save your money, sweetie -- trust me, you won't need any more of this." She pointed at the now empty mug, and winked. Then she got up, swaggered to the door, turned to him as she reached it and said, "Don't you be late now," and then, as suddenly as she'd come, she was gone. Edward blinked, once, twice, and then fell backwards off of his stool.
When the lure of danger and adventure calls,
When the innocent a protector need,
To see them safely through tempests and squalls,
Then the true hero their pleas shall heed.
-- Ode to the Heroes
Chapter Ninety-Two
Edward was at his valet's new home, nursing a bump on his head and bad headache beside the fireplace. He noticed with only fleeting interest that the house, though in need of some minor repairs, seemed to be a very nice one; his mind was focused on the girl he'd met at The Flowing Bowl. "My valet was right," he thought, "and that's for sure! What am I doing, worrying about Antionetta, when there's gorgeous girls like that out there, who only have to take one look at me and they're smitten?"
Then, another thought occurred to him. Despite the fact that he currently wasn't speaking to his valet, he desperately wanted to reveal his run in with that girl -- whatever her name was. This desire was only heightened in light of his servant's unflattering assessment of Antionetta's feelings for him.
He sat lost in thought for several minutes, weighing the pro's -- rubbing his snotty servant's nose in his newfound appeal to the ladies -- against the con's -- acknowledging said snotty servant's existence. Finally, the temptation being too great, he decided on the pro's.
Waiting until his valet came into the room, busy about this chore or that, he declared very nonchalantly, "Oh, by the way, I should tell you...I won't be home tonight."
"Oh, another mission sir?"
Edward smiled. "No, I have a date with a hot woman."
"Come now, sir," his valet chided. "You don't have to lie to me...you know you can trust me not to give away your missions."
Edward's smile turned into a glare. "Lie?" he demanded. "I'm not lying, you stupid servant! I am meeting a hot woman, and her friend! She came up to me -- before I had even noticed her -- and invited me to her place, a little farmstead outside of town!"
His valet stared at him, somewhat stunned by the sharpness of his tone, but more so by his words and the fact that he seemed to believe them. "What was it you were drinking again, sir?" he asked.
Edward's glare intensified. "Who said I was drinking?"
An eyebrow raised, the valet answered, "Only conclusion one can reach, sir, unless you were swimming in alcohol."
Edward flushed. Though his clothes had dried, he still smelled very strongly of his very strong drink. "Someone spilled their drink on me, actually," Edward snapped. He was not technically lying, as someone had indeed spilled their drink all over him; he just neglected to include the fact that that someone was him.
"I see," the valet answered dryly.
"And, just because you have no idea what does and doesn't appeal to the ladies, I'll have you know that I neither hallucinated nor invented meeting her!"
"And she's beautiful?" the valet asked. "And not charging you for the meeting?"
Edward's eyes bulged. That was the last straw! It was bad enough when his servant doubted that he was the babe magnet that he was, but now to imply that he had hooked up with a lady of the night?
"Sorry sir," the valet hastened to say, apparently sensing Edward's fury. "But it just strikes me as highly suspect that a beautiful woman would be...well, interested in you." A second glance at Edward, who felt his blood reaching a boiling point, prompted the other man to hastily add, "I mean before she knows anything about you, of course, sir...before she experiences your charm and wit..."
"My wit and charm," Edward replied through clenched teeth, "radiate forth, so that she doesn't have to talk to me to know what a brilliant, sophisticated man I am."
"Hmm..." his valet murmured thoughtfully, as if to himself more than to Edward, "yes, I'm sure he radiated something, covered in his drink and doubtless tongue-tied or else babbling like a schoolboy...but sophistication?" Then, an idea seemed to come to the other man, because his expression changed very quickly into one of alarm. "Sir, this might be the gang I've heard rumors of -- a gang that singles out gullible men, and then lures them..."
By now, Edward had had enough. "That's right," he said, his tone dripping with loathing, "it would have to be some sort of mistake, or a gang of criminals, or something like that, for a gorgeous woman to be interested in me. You have to make up some sort of excuse to explain away the fact that she's interested in me, just like you had to make up an excuse to convince yourself that Antionetta isn't crazy about me. You know what, though? Just because you're a jealous nothing who can't stand to see my success, who is envious of my every achievement, nothing changes the facts. You are just a servant, whereas I am a somebody. And you know what else? You're not even a servant anymore...you're a former servant!" He paused to regain his breath, his tone having reached a pitch that was almost painful to the ear. "Because I'm firing you, you worthless, good-for-nothing, half-witted, lame-brained, jealous bag of...of...of minotaur turds!"
His valet blinked at him, too shocked to say anything. Edward turned on his heel, and stormed out of the manor house. The other man stood in place for a few minutes, far too amazed to do anything else. And then he mused aloud, "My gods, he took that the wrong way...I wonder if it was the way I put it..."
he he he!
And my character hasn't even met the sirens! I can't wait to see what happens when Edward waltzes into that little farmhouse!
Oh, and that list of retribution was great! I laughed so hard at it Poor Mom's bird! Poor cat!
@haute ecole rider: haha, glad you enjoyed it! As far as Edward and the sirens, "waltzes" might be too kind a way to describe his entrance.
Thanks for commenting!
@mALX: haha, have you been playing Final Fantasy VII lately? LOL. (My sister loves that series, and I love how often Sephiroth undies...but I digress
). Glad you enjoyed the previous chapters -- that actually was in the first one, so you don't need to dig that up if you don't want, lol.
Most of these recent changes have been with making it progress naturally from the new ones.
Thanks for posting!!
Birds singing and twittering all day,
Life goes along its merry way.
Fools causing havoc where ever they stray
Life goes along its merry way.
-- The Song of Edward, verse 1
Chapter Ninety-Three
Edward spent the remainder of the afternoon in a very mature manner: getting utterly sloshed at his inn, the Count's Arms, and plotting revenge on his former valet. The business of revenge did not meet with terrible success, as Edward feared that his valet knew too much about his tactics for any attack to work; but the business of getting sloshed went off without a hitch.
When, at last, evening rolled around, a very drunk Edward stumbled out of the inn. Despite a handful of unfortunate run-ins with a few lamposts, a tree, and the town gate, Edward was able to make it outside of Anvil in one piece, and not seriously injured.
He'd found out earlier how to get to Gweden farm, and now he stumbled along the lane in that general direction. The night air was slightly chilly, but it seemed invigorating to him. The urge to sing suddenly came over him, and he found himself wailing boisterously and adding an occasional dance step to his walk, which generally resulted in a near tumble and last minute save barely preventing his face from coming into contact with the road. Yet he kept with it, tripping and screaming all the way down the road.
Finally, he managed to drag himself up a hillside and up to a little farmhouse thereon. Knocking loudly, he sang out boisterously, "I'm here, my beauty! Your Edward has come!"
The door opened, and he stumbled inside. His foot caught on a rug and sent him forward headlong, past the girl he'd met in the tavern and into the floor. He laughed at his own clumsiness, demanding in slurred tones, "Who put the rug there, eh, my beauty?"
The girl rolled her eyes, and said under her breath -- but loud enough for Edward to hear -- "Oh gods, this job gets harder every day..."
Edward picked himself up to a sitting position and nodded drunkenly, although whether he was agreeing or doing a chicken impersonation was less clear than he might have liked. "Farm work can be hell," he said. "And a delicate girl of a flower like you, all by yourself?"
She smiled maliciously at these words. "Not quite alone," she replied.
"Ohhh, that's right!" Edward shouted. The girl grimaced at his tone. "You've got a friend!"
"Yes," she answered with a half smile. "Two of them in fact."
"Well, you picked the right man, then!" Edward declared, laughing very giddily. He tried to push himself onto his feet, but collapsed to the floor again.
"We sure did," the girl answered with a smirk. "Faustina! Tsarrina!" All at once, two other women, one an Imperial and the other a Khajiit, appeared.
Edward smiled stupidly but had a hard time forming a response. He wasn't quite sure what was going on, but he felt very light-headed.
The dark haired Imperial glanced at Edward, and then turned to the woman who had admitted him. "Signy, he's totally sloshed!"
The lighter haired woman, Signy, shrugged. "Yeah, but who cares?"
"How are we gonna get him the hell out of here when we're done?"
"Oh," Signy responded, seeming crestfallen. "Good point."
Edward blinked, his attention slowing with every passing moment. By now, he had no idea what they were talking about, and was concentrating on a strange phenomenon that he'd just noticed. "Pretty circles," he said. "Where'd they come from?"
The three women stared at him, but he was too busy looking out for the peculiar swirls of light that kept appearing, and vanishing just as he turned to them.
"See?" the dark haired woman asked. "He's totally out of it."
It was then that the light-headedness transitioned into full-blown unconsciousness, and Edward slumped to the floor.
His friends go about their daily business,
They cringe and scurry away,
Ducking and dodging he who is witless
As he goes about his day.
-- The Song of Edward, verse Two
Chapter Ninety-Four
Edward stirred groggily. He was only vaguely aware of a pounding headache, and a strong draft. He blinked, but shut his eyes quickly. "Ye gods!" he thought, "My head! What happened?" His mind presented no answer immediately. "Did I get in a fight?" he wondered. "Have to rush to the rescue of some beautiful damsel in distress or..." He paused, mid-thought, suddenly remembering. "No, I got sloshed." Then more memories assailed his mind, and he asked aloud, "And, speaking of damsels, where is that girl?"
Simply moving his jaws flooded his senses with pain. "Good gods!" he thought. "I didn't drink that much, did I?" After a few moments of contemplation, he acknowledged, "I guess I did...but still...this is unbearable!" It seemed like every tiny sound, the quiet chirping of a beetle, the creaking of his mattress as he shuddered in pain, the creeping feet of an insect scurrying across the floor -- they all stood out like thunder to his sensitive ears.
Then, all of a sudden, a wave of agony swept him as somewhere overhead a tremendous crashing of wood sounded. At the same time, the noise startled him so much that he jumped and opened his eyes. Light washed over him like a tide of bitter agony, and he crashed downwards whimpering in pain. But the noise upstairs did not subside.
"Anvil Guard! You're under arrest!" someone shouted. The words were lost on Edward, but the unbearably loud tone was certainly not. He wrapped his arms around his head and just groaned. The voice upstairs, accompanied by a clashing of weapons and armor, continued, "Put down your weapons!"
More feet continued to thump overhead, and a high voice, that of a woman, called out, "It's no use, girls. They've got us surrounded...give up so they don't kill you!" In response, a terrible clash of weapons dropping on wood, feet stamping, and shrill curses sounded, all together in a grand cacophony of noise.
By this point, Edward was attempting to smother himself with his pillow. He continued with this endeavor as a pair of heavily armored feet stomped their way down the stairs, jingled the handle to the room that Edward was in, and then, as it didn't respond, kicked it open.
"And what have we here, eh?" a booming voice asked. "Well, my lads, looks like we've caught the ringleader!"
Edward remained in his bed, writhing in agony and not even caring what they were talking about -- just that someone was talking.
"Really?" a different, but equally, terribly loud voice asked.
"Yes indeed," the first responded. "I told you this gang had to have a ringleader!"
Then the stomping of boots resumed, tramping closer and closer to Edward. The Imperial was groaning in pain, wondering why he hadn't seen anyone else in the room in the brief glances he'd had. "It doesn't matter," he thought, "as long as they just get him and get out!"
"Alright my pretty," the loud voice sounded mockingly, so close to Edward that he opened his eyes for a third time. Along with a fresh wave of pain, a wave of surprise swept Edward. There were two guards standing around his bed, on either side of him.
"What's going on?" he asked, his bewilderment getting the better of his pain.
"You're under arrest, that's what!" one guard seemed to bellow. Edward stared at him, stunned. "You didn't think you'd get away with this, did you? Being a pseudo-pimp, a gang leader, here in Anvil? I don't think so!" This said, both men seized him with gauntlet clad hands.
It was then that Edward understood the source of the draft he'd noticed earlier: he had, somehow, been stripped down to his loincloth. What was more, the cold gauntlets made his skin crawl in a strange, ticklish way.
The guards hoisted him to his feet, and prodding him forward with a push, said, "Alright, get moving."
Edward senses were swimming with all the movement, but the cold metal on his bare back was the most prevalent sensation. "Don't do that!" he said, laughing. "I'm ticklish!"
"Move!" the officers prodded again.
Edward, still laughing, pushed back, saying, "Go away, I haven't done anything!" He realized that laughing did nothing for his case, but he couldn't help it...he really was ridiculously ticklish.
Thinking that he is a hero,
Whilst he annoys everyone he knows;
Thinking everyone else is a zero
While his own ineptitude shows.
-- The Song of Edward, Verse Three
Chapter Ninety-Five
Anvil was abuzz with the latest news. Most everyone had seen the three sirens taken to the castle in cuffs, but the real talk of the town was the nearly naked man who had been dragged through the streets toward the dungeon, giggling hysterically.
"He was wearing just a loin cloth, and crying and laughing, all at the same time!" one person said.
"And he had the stupidest laugh," another added.
"Oh yes! Such a ridiculous, high pitched, squealing giggle of a laugh!"
"I thought he was crying," one voice commented. "I saw tears running down his face."
"Yes, and he kept trying to shield his eyes from the sun."
"No, he was just in a stupor of laughter."
"Are you sure? He looked hung over to me."
"No, and anyway, the guard said he was the mastermind behind the gang, sending them out to pick up guys like a pimp, but then him and the women would rob them when they arrived."
A solitary figure listened to this gossip from a distance, looking in turns surprised, worried, and then deeply thoughtful. At last he left the crowd of gossips, and headed for his home. He frowned as he walked. "Could it be Edward?" he wondered aloud. "No, not even he would be stupid enough to get himself in a fix like that..." Then the frown reappeared. "Alright, but how could the guards think that he was the mastermind of anything nefarious, much less a successful gang?!"
Certainly, it was a conundrum for our friend, who was, of course, none other than Edward's trusty valet. On the one hand, it seemed like the sort of fix that Edward would get himself into; and on the other, it seemed impossible that the guards would be foolish enough to assume he was a criminal mastermind -- a mastermind of any sort, for that matter. The valet entered his new home, sitting down to stare into the fire for a few minutes and think.
Meanwhile, Edward had been dragged, shrieking with both laughter at being ticklish and protestations of his innocence, all at the same time, to the castle, and promptly thrown into a dungeon. All at once, his laughter had subsided, and his headache and fears been allowed to dominate his mind. "Oh gods," he thought, shivering as the cold, musty dungeon air assailed his body, and his terror assailed his mind. "What am I going to do? Those damn guards didn't even give me any clothes!" He glanced about the cell, his arms pressed close against him to keep warm. He hated just standing barefooted on the floor, afraid to even think what his bare skin might be in contact with; and he absolutely refused to consider sitting or lying down on the dirty old bedroll on the cell floor. For the moment, the only thing he could think of to do was stand there hunched forward, his arms crossed and pressed tight against his chest, alternating standing on first one foot and then the next, his teeth chattering.
"Oh Oblivion," he thought, "This is just ridiculous...how do I get myself into fixes like these? And to think that honoured user of a valet was right...they were setting me up." Shivering, standing on one foot, and miserable, Edward felt an overwhelming urge to cry come over him. "They're probably going to string me up!" he whimpered. "And I'll never be able to do all the things I wanted to do...get rich, buy a nice, comfortable castle, marry a beautiful girl, keep a few hot mistresses on the side, raise a few kids..." He stopped to frown. He'd always hated kids...why in heaven's name did they come to mind now? "Well, forget the kids...I'll raise horses...lots of beautiful, sleek horses...be able to afford to do some real gambling...exploit the peasant tenants on my land..." His eyes were glistening now as images of the fun he might have had filled his mind. "And, when I died, I could have left my fortune to my children, my own, dear beloved horses, so that I could be assured that they'd live happily after I was gone..." His eyes cleared, and he frowned again. "Scratch that, I would have just spent it all while I was alive, living it up to the max...oh, what a great man I might have been! I might have been a somebody -- and, instead, I'm going to die here, like a poor hunted animal, caged and trapped, naked and shivering, frightened and abused, terrorized and mishandled, ill-used and..."
At that moment, he heard the outer door grate open, and his thoughts were interrupted. He started shaking violently, not from cold, but rather fear. They were coming for him...this was it...his final moments on earth! "And what disgusting, undignified moments they are," he thought tearfully. "Alone in a cold dungeon, no clothes, about to be strung up for a crime I didn't even commit! Of all the ways to go...damn guards couldn't even string me up for something I've done, something great and glorious and truly evil and diabolical...instead, they have to kill me for something I didn't do!"
The tramping of feet recalled him to the present, and he glanced toward the door. Two Anvil guards were visible, and a third man behind them. “Now you sure this scum is innocent?” a gruff voice – that of the first guard – demanded.
“Quite sure,” answered a familiar voice.
Edward couldn't make out the speaker in the dimness, but he knew at once who it was. His valet had come for him! “Thank the gods!” he thought.
“You'll vouch for him?” the second guard asked. They had stopped outside his cell, and Edward could see all three men clearly. “You're sure that this bilge rat is a victim?”
“Quite sure,” the valet repeated.
The first guard sighed. “I don't know...” he thought aloud.
“Look at 'em, Francis...he's pathetic...a sniveling, shivering, whimpering rat...he couldn't head up anything, much less a criminal operation!” the second guard countered.
“Hmm...” Francis mused, his grizzled face twisting in concentration. “You're probably right...and I suppose he'd be the sort that was stupid enough to fall for their tricks.”
“Exactly.”
“And,” the valet interjected – and none too soon, as Edward was about to erupt in indignant protestations, “he is a material witness.”
Francis grimaced in thought, offering up a second thoughtful, “Hmm...”
“I suppose that's true,” the other man agreed.
“Alright then,” Francis declared, “I guess we'll drop the charges. But we'll need his testimony to press charges against them.”
Edward could hardly believe his ears. They were going to set him free! Moments earlier, he had been ready for death...and now he was about to be set free! His first instinct was to shout in sheer joy, but the reality that he was still standing practically naked in a dirty cell restrained him. “Ummm...can I have some clothes?” he asked instead.
Heroes risk their own necks -
And no thanks do they get -
To save him from his own wrecks.
For, surely, he is a git.
-- The Song of Edward, Verse Four
Chapter Ninety-Six
His request for clothes having been granted, Edward was now seated in an office giving his testimony to a guard. That is, he was supposed to be giving his testimony to the guard. As it was, he had decided upon release that he was in no way prepared to cooperate with the authorities after his miserable treatment, and the fact that his property had been confiscated as material evidence. Even when they had told him that he was not leaving the castle until he did so, he was unmoved. So, he was currently seated across from an officer of the law, his nose tilted at an angle nearer perpendicular to the floor than not.
“Permit me to reiterate,” he told the guard, quite condescendingly, “for I've not the slightest compunction in asserting yet again that I have nothing further to declare. This requires no greater elucidation on my part, only cooperation on yours. Release me precipitously, and return my falsely appropriated goods expeditiously.”
The guard stared at him. “What?” he asked finally.
Edward sighed an extremely haughty sigh. “My obtuse compatriot,” he spoke, “my prolonged and unprovoked imprisonment in this hellish enclosure has convinced me of the necessity of removing myself from the abominable premises without further delay, lest I am unwittingly subjected to repeated abuses at the hands of the nefarious reprobates who reside in this less than charming castle.”
The other man just stared at him.
By this time, Edward had had enough. His thin patience had worn away, and even the satisfaction of befuddling this guard proved insufficient at the moment. “Let me go!” he shouted. “Just let me go, you bloody idiot!” This said, he added with a sniff, “Pardon me, that I should use words of such a minor caliber as those that have so bypassed your comprehension. I should have known your cerebral capacity would be insufficient to accommodate an intelligence as inane as mine.”
The guard stared at him, an eyebrow raised. “Inane?”
Edward's cheeks flushed. “Innate!” he snapped. “I said innate...you just...misheard.”
“Oh...I see...well, forgive me sir. However, as you know, I have orders keep you here until you give me your statement.” Edward was clearly about to enter into another tirade, and the guard just as clearly wanted to save himself the pain of wading through vocabulary that was beyond his grasp. “And, there is a reward, as you know for information on these women. So, you would qualify for the reward if you give us your statement.”
This revelation caused Edward to pause. He had been intent on ignoring any and all demands for information...but how could he turn down a reward, after all? “Well,” he said hesitantly, “I suppose I might, for the good of the empire, and all that junk. But on one condition: that I get all of my property back!”
“Fine, fine,” the guard agreed hastily. It was apparent that this man would be willing to do much if it meant getting Edward out of his office.
“Including the amulet,” Edward emphasized.
The other man stared at him quizzically. “Amulet? What amulet?”
Edward glared at him. “You know damned well what amulet, you honoured user!” he practically roared. “My amulet, the one those women took from me!”
Blinking at his fury, the guard seemed genuinely perplexed. “Sir, we didn't recover any amulets though.”
Edward stared in silent astonishment, and then groaned. He wanted to disbelieve this man, but he couldn't. His perplexity, his expression, even his simple, artless air of stupidity, spoke of truthfulness. And that meant only one thing...his amulet was gone, where he knew not, but gone all the same.
Are we done yet?
I loved this latest installment of Edward's adventures! The drunken dance stroll traipsing up to Gweden Farm, Edward's pratfalls and the befuddlement of the three women, their arrest and Edward's Deadland-sized hangover, his ticklish body . . .
Shall I go on?
This sums up Edward so concisely:
The Amulet of Kings ... lost at ... a cat house !!!! SPEW !!!! ROFL !!!! Edward ... can't get lucky even in ... BWAAAHAAA - in like 300 chapters the closest he's come is when a necromancer thought he looked dead - SPEW !!!! ROFL !!!!! AWESOME WRITE !!!!!
haute ecole rider and mALX: thanks, I'm glad you enjoyed these ones! As for Edward's hangover, he spent pretty much the entire day drowning his sorrows and self pity...he must have been a sight indeed for the sirens, lol. And, of course, he would take his "retirement" on his *ahem* date, lol.
Gang of Sirens Apprehended!
Today our news comes all the way from the distant port of Anvil , where our correspondent informs us that a notorious gang of sirens was apprehended. While there had been some misunderstanding regarding a certain vagabond male who was initially taken to be the orchestrator of the gang, our correspondent reveals that he was in fact a victim of the women. The guard with whom our correspondent spoke revealed this man’s name to be either Edgar or Edmund, but could not remember which.
-- Black Horse Courier, Special News Bulletin
Chapter Ninety-Seven
Having been utterly defeated by the enormity of such terrible news, Edward had willingly cooperated with the guard. After giving his testimony, the other man – keeping his end of the bargain – had retrieved Edward's goods. All of them, that is, except for the amulet. That was, as he'd said, not there.
Edward, swamped in despair, had trudged out of the castle, to find his loyal retainer waiting for him in the courtyard. "Sir!" he greeted. "I'm glad to see you out. I was afraid the interrogation had turned...unpleasant."
Edward stared at him. "What?"
"Well, you were gone for so long," the other man explained.
Edward only grunted a sad, miserable grunt in response.
"Sir? Is everything alright?" the valet asked.
"Alright?" Edward repeated, marveling over the use of the word. "My world has been destroyed, and you ask if everything is alright?"
The other man cleared his throat tactfully. "Well, sir, I wouldn't say that...I mean, those women fooled a good number of citizens. From what I hear, most of the men in town. I wouldn't feel too humiliated, if I were you."
Edward glared at him. "Well thank you for reminding me of that," he snapped. "I hadn't even been thinking of how I was utterly humiliated, made to look a fool before the world. But you would remind me of that, of course."
"Well, sir, I thought..." the valet began, clearly confused. "If you weren't talking about that, then what?"
"My retirement!" the Imperial bemoaned. "My retirement...those women, they stole it!"
His companion stared at him, clearly amazed. His expression seemed to say, "I knew you were capable of all sorts of stupidity, but I never imagined you'd be dumb enough to bring your retirement with you when visiting a remote cabin to see women you had only just met! Especially not after the purse incident in the Imperial City..." Aloud, however, he only said, "You mean, sir...that you took your retirement money with you?"
Edward, having caught the fleeting expression of amazement, stared icily at him. "It wasn't money. It was..." Then he broke off, remembering just in time that he'd lied to his valet about his encounter with the Emperor. As far as the valet knew, he'd never had the amulet. "Well, you see," he said, "I can't tell you about it...it was something that...well, that the Emperor entrusted to me."
The valet's eyes opened wide. "The Amulet of Kings!" he gasped. "I knew you had it!"
Edward stared at him in annoyance. "No, not that one. Another amulet. My retirement." He wanted to add, "The honoured user tricked me out of taking the Amulet of Kings," but decided against it. It wouldn't aid his claim that he was the Emperor's son, after all, to go around insulting his "father".
His companion shook his head. "This isn't the time to lie to me, sir. I knew you had it. I understand that you couldn't trust your secret to me, but we've got a serious crisis on our hands. You have to trust me now!"
Meeting these words with a blank stare, Edward declared, "I have no idea what you're talking about." This was, in fact, absolutely true.
"Sir, I'm serious. We need to retrieve that amulet! The fate of the entire empire rests on it!"
"I agree that we need to retrieve it," Edward answered, his anger and apathy fading a bit, "but I'm telling you, it's not the Amulet of Kings. It's just my retirement."
His valet sighed. "Sir, I admit, I had my doubts about you...but if you had really just been planning to pawn it off, you'd have let your greed get the better of you by now. So, I can only come to the conclusion that you've been waiting for the right moment to deliver the amulet to safety. Where is it supposed to go? Who are you supposed to bring it to?"
Edward stared at him blankly. What was his mad servant ranting about now? What part of the truth did the man not comprehend?
"Friar Jauffre!" the valet exclaimed excitedly. "He was the king's secret confidante. You have to take it there, don't you?"
Edward blinked in astonishment. That's what that guard, the bodyguard who'd been escorting the Emperor the day he died, had said, wasn't it?
His change of expression had clearly been enough for his valet, who exclaimed, "Aha! I knew it! Now, sir, come -- you must trust me! If the Emperor trusted you, you must be the right man for the job. But, since the amulet is lost, let me help you retrieve it. As you know, my skills in that department -- shall we say, retrieval of property -- are...well, tuned to a finer extent than yours. So, let me put them to use for you, and the empire."
Edward stared daggers at the other man, and was about to launch into a tirade about the faulty comparison of their thieving skills, when he stopped short. Though he would never admit, he knew beyond a shadow of doubt that his valet's abilities as a thief were by far better than his; and here he was, offering him assistance in retrieving the amulet. "Alright," he thought, "since he's determined to believe that I have that Amulet of Kings or whatever, I might as well let him do the dirty work of retrieving my retirement source." Aloud, however, he replied, "Well, perhaps I might trust you this once...for the good of the empire and all that."
The valet positively beamed. "Thank you sir! Have no fear, you will not regret your faith in me!" Edward resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. "Now, let's see...you say those women took it from you?"
"Well, they must have," Edward shrugged. "They took everything else. And how else could it have disappeared?"
The other man pursed his lips in thought. "They might have taken it, sir, but I doubt they knew its significance." Edward frowned at him, so he hastened to explain. "Riffraff of their breeding could never estimate the true import of such a jewel. They would just think it was some expensive ruby to be pawned off, or something of that ilk." Edward's frown deepened, but the other man was too lost in his own train of thought to take note. "So, they probably put it with their other valuables. Which means..." Here his expression brightened, and his eyes positively gleamed. "One of the guards took it!"
Edward stared at him. How his servant had drawn that conclusion was beyond him. In fact, it seemed downright silly. "What? Why?"
"Because they retrieved all the stolen property in their bust...which means one of the soldiers must have seen it during the raid, recognized that it was very valuable, and so pocketed it when no one was looking."
Edward frowned. "I suppose it might have happened that way."
"I'm sure it did," the other man continued excitedly. "In fact, I got a glimpse of the soldiers who came back from the raid...let me do a little reconnaissance, sir. I'll have your amulet back in a jiffy."
Edward's frown deepened. "And what do I do while you're off reconnoitering?"
"Well, sir, you can make yourself comfortable at Benirus Manor -- my new home -- and wait for me."
‘Ineptitude’ should be his middle name,
And for his first ‘shame’.
‘Fool’ should be his family name,
For they must be the same.
-- The Song of Edward, Verse Five
Chapter Ninety-Eight
Edward sighed, settling into the sheets of his warm bed. His valet still hadn't returned, and he was tired and greatly annoyed -- so he had no intention whatever of waiting up for the man. Despite the rather rundown appearance of the house, it seemed warm and pest-free, so he figured he'd be safe enough sleeping there; plus, his servant's cursory repairs and organization had done much to improve the charm of the residence since his first visit, so his mind was easy about settling in for repose.
Sleep came quickly, and Edward soon embarked upon one of his favorite dreams -- where, traipsing merrily through the forest, he happens upon a chest full of priceless gold and gems. He had just reached the point in his dream where, much to his delight, he discovers the chest's peculiar property -- whatever is taken out of it is magically replenished in like kind -- when a strange noise interrupted the serenity of his fanciful, sleep-induced reverie. It was low, sullen, ghoulish and altogether unpleasant.
In his dream, Edward frowned. This had never happened before, and he'd had this same dream many times. "Go away," he told whatever it was as he glanced about the forest. "It's mine!" He shivered as the golden sunlight seemed to vanish, and a cold, dark fear settled upon the forest. The green grass and foliage was now a strange grayish black, and the peaceful woodland critters had morphed into terrible shadows and ghoulish apparitions. "No!" Edward called, throwing himself onto the treasure chest. "It's not supposed to be like this! Go away, all of you!" At that moment, a cold hand seized him, sending a spike of icy pain through his body.
Jerking to consciousness with a scream, Edward opened his eyes. To his horror, he found that the ghoulish noises, the terrible pain, and the fearful apparitions were all very much real; the only part of his dream that was not was the lovely, self-replenishing treasure chest. He was at that very moment surrounded on all sides by a small host of glowing, growling ethereal bodies, and he didn't even have unlimited wealth to show for it.
The unfairness of his predicament hit him hard, and he cursed aloud. He'd be willing to face a few ghosts for unlimited treasure, but this...this was just unacceptable. "Go away!" he shouted at the menacing figures, his voice sounding high and whiny to his ears.
Something like a low, rumbling laugh issued forth from the floating specters, and they continued to advance. Edward yelped in fear, and for the first time the peril of his situation weighed more heavily on his mind than the injustice of it. Scrambling as fast as his legs could carry him, he leaped out of bed and toward the door. The ghouls, not having to sidestep the bed as he had to do, floated in front of him to block the door. Edward shrieked again.
By now Edward's screeching had hit a frenzied pitch. He was trapped in a room, unarmed, with a group of terrible, ghostly creatures who clearly meant him harm. "I'm gonna die!" he shrieked. "Oh gods, oh oblivion, I'm gonna die!" There was no escape for him, he could see. There were ghosts to the sides of him, ghosts in front of him, and nothing whatever with which to defend himself -- not that he even had an inkling of how to fight these ghouls anyway. "I'm gonna die," he whined a second time.
The apparitions laughed their grotesque laugh and advanced in response. At the same time, Edward heard a familiar voice. "Hang on, sir!" it called.
Of all the times that he'd been glad to hear from his valet, this time he was gladdest. "I'm in here, in the bedroom! Hurry!" he screamed, even as a ghost lurched forward at him, its ethereal arm sweeping toward his head. Edward ducked beneath the ghoul's arm, painfully aware of every second that it took the other man to race up the stairs to his rescue.
The ghosts apparently paid no mind to the advancing valet, for they continued their onslaught. Edward, ducking, dodging, and screaming all the while, was only just able to avoid being pummeled to death by time his rescuer at last appeared. The other man's brown hair seem to stand on end as he burst into the room and beheld the spectral beings, but otherwise he took the random appearance of ghosts in his home in stride. Instantly seizing hold of the silver dagger at his belt, he lunged forward at the nearest ghost.
Edward heard a hellish groan, and then another as the valet struck again; with the second attack, the specter seemed to disintegrate into a slow falling rain of ethereal dust, that collected into a pool on the floor. Neither man spent very long analyzing the creature's demise, however, as Edward was scrambling for the opening the ghost's death had made, and his valet was leaping forward to do battle with the remaining ghouls.
Not bothering to glance behind him, Edward bolted through the open door, nearly toppling his valet in the process, and down the stairs. Bursting through the closed parlor door, still shrieking as he went, his only thought was to exit the premises as quickly as possible. He didn't notice, therefore, the disarrayed furniture until it was too late; and, before he knew what had happened, he found his foot catching on a tipped cabinet, and himself flying through the air.
Here Lies a Peasant. ‘Nuff said.
-- Graveyard Memorial in the Serf’s Graveyard of Lord Udicio’s Manor
Chapter Ninety-Nine
Edward woke with a groan. His head was throbbing, again, and he was having a bit of difficulty remembering what had happened last. He wondered if he could be drunk again. Surely not...surely he learned his lesson from the day before?
"Sir?" a concerned voice asked.
Suddenly, his recollections flooded over him, and he bolted upright, screaming at the top of his lungs.
"Sir, it's alright! They're dead!" his valet tried to yell over him.
But Edward continued his shrieking, thrashing his arms about wildly in a vain attempt to get up and escape. He was, however, too paralyzed by fright to do more than flail about, screaming.
"Sir!" the valet persisted, grabbing hold of Edward to shake him. "Sir, they're dead!"
These words broke through, and Edward paused. "Dead? You killed them?"
"Yes sir." Then the valet frowned. "But...were you just going to run away and let me fight them by myself?"
Edward blinked. Of course he'd been going to do that. Why was this crazy man even asking him that?
"Or were you coming down here to get your weapons?"
Edward blinked again. Clearly, if one was to judge by the other's tone, the idea that he'd been thinking of -- nay, in the process of -- abandoning him offended the valet’s peculiar sensibilities. While it was the truth, and a darned sensible one too, it might, Edward reasoned, be wiser to lie. After all, if the valet wasn't smart enough to figure it out for himself, there was no sense in him knowing that Edward would abandon him in a heartbeat when danger presented itself, was there? "Of course," he replied. "I was -- as you saw -- completely unarmed."
The valet nodded. "I figured as much," he said, his tone expressing a sense of relief. "That's why you didn't just take care of them yourself."
"Umm...exactly," Edward lied. If his retainer wanted to believe that he was willing to jump into the fray with any ghastly apparition at a moment's notice, or return to it to help a friend, who was he to convince him otherwise?
The matter apparently settled to his satisfaction, the valet nodded and said, "Well sir, the bad news is this: I think my house is haunted."
Edward rolled his eyes. "Oh, you don't say?"
"I do...which explains why Velwyn Benirus was in such a hurry to get out of town after I bought it," the other man mused. Then, brushing his reflections aside, he continued, "However, I'm sure I can track him down in the Imperial City and talk to him about it. But, enough about that...time for the good news: I found your amulet. Well, the Emperor's amulet."
"You did?" Edward asked, his eyes wide with joy. He'd all but given up on his retirement plan, and suddenly it seemed as if his sense of desolation may have been premature. "You're sure it's the same amulet? Where did you find it?"
The other man nodded, grinning broadly. "I followed my little hunch, and asked around a bit," he replied. "Sure enough, one of the fellows who participated in the raid -- Maridus -- had a bit of a reputation for taking advantage of his position, sometimes skimming things recovered in busts and all that." Here, he shrugged self-deprecatingly. "The rest was easy...just a matter of trailing him, breaking into his residence when he slept, and lifting the amulet."
Edward felt his jaws clenching. "He's doing it again," he thought. "That pretending-to-be-humble bragging thing..." Speaking aloud, however, he was all good cheer. This was his meal-ticket, after all, and he wanted it back. "Fantastic! I knew I could count on you, my friend!"
The valet smiled what seemed to Edward -- though he was annoyed to admit it -- a genuine smile. "Thank you sir, but I was only doing my part for the empire."
"Yes, well, why don't you hand it to me?"
The valet hesitated. "I don't know about that, sir."
Edward's expression froze. "What?"
"Well," the valet explained, "once Maridus realizes that it's gone missing, he's naturally going to suspect you -- since it was your amulet. Well, he thought it was. So he's going to try to find us -- you."
"Then we can get out of here, right away," Edward argued. "Just hand it over."
Still, the other man shook his head. "Don't you see, sir? He'll never suspect me. He doesn't know who I am. I think it would be much safer if I held on to it, at least until we got to Weynon Priory."
Edward blinked in frustration. "You mean...you hold onto it?"
The valet nodded. "Right...just until we get to the priory, anyway, where we'll know it's safe."
Edward's jaw tightened. "But...it's mine!"
"It's the empire's, sir!" his valet countered in astonishment.
"Curse him!" Edward thought. "He's convinced this is the Amulet of Kings, isn't he? And he's going to be all patriotic and heroic and whatever about seeing that it gets delivered to that stupid monk." Sighing in frustration, Edward realized that he was going to have to at least play along. "Yes, yes," he said, "I know that. I meant that it was my...task! My task."
"Your task, sir?" the valet asked, and, again, his expression conveyed relief.
"Yes," Edward lied. "Personally, from the Emperor in fact!" The other man's eyes seemed to glisten with admiration. "So, you see, you have to give it to me."
Here, the valet hesitated again. "Well, sir, I'll be the perfect courier for you, to make sure that your task goes off without a hitch."
This persistence was too much for Edward. Was it possible that his valet, even if he would not admit it to himself, harbored some faint inkling of Edward's real intent? "It's not the bloody Amulet of Kings!" he snapped. "It's just a stupid jewel that I...got from him for safekeeping."
The valet sighed and shook his head. "Sir, how many times must I tell you that you don't have to lie to me?"
The hands of fate could not slow,
And so the witless messenger continued.
But little did the fool know
The import of the task he'd undertaken.
-- From the Chronicle of the Oblivion Crisis
Chapter One Hundred
Utterly ignoring Edward's repeated entreaties, curses and threats, the valet had gathered up some supplies for them, straightened out the few things that had been knocked over, and been preparing for their departure when he'd stumbled across a strange skeletal hand and note. Not having the opportunity to evaluate either, due to Edward's rantings, he'd stashed them in his pack, and set out, the furious Imperial hard on his heels.
They'd made their way to the stables in much the same manner as they'd left the house: the valet leading, and Edward following, screaming at him all the way. During their journey, they'd twice been stopped by the Anvil Guard to see that all was well, and once threatened with arrest for disturbing the peace. Edward hadn't dared to share his woes with the police, fearing that they would once again seize his precious amulet, but, each time that they were out of hearing, he'd re-launched his verbal assault.
Finally, riding along the road toward Chorrol, the valet turned to Edward. "Sir," he said, "I'm sorry, but you know what I'm saying makes sense. Suppose he pursues us, and we are ambushed. You'll be the one they'll kill. So it doesn't make sense that you should be the one wearing the amulet!"
Edward stared at the other man, as aghast as he was furious.
"No offense, sir," the valet hastened to apologize. "I mean, you and I both hope that that doesn't happen. But we know that it might. So it's much wiser for me to carry it." He shrugged. "And, furthermore, I know the reason you don't want me to carry it."
Edward blinked. "You do?" Up until now, he'd flattered himself that he'd disguised his greedy ambitions rather well. Was it possible that his annoying servant had really deduced his motives?
"Yes sir. You're afraid that I will in someway mess up, and endanger the mission, maybe lose the amulet. But you've just got to learn to put a little faith in me once in awhile! I am not that clueless, sir!"
Edward growled under his breath. This was not going to be an easy journey, and, unfortunately, it seemed as though it would be a journey that he'd have to take. He knew well enough that there was no way that he'd be able to wrest possession of the amulet from his foolhardy valet; nor, apparently, would he be able to convince him either that the amulet was not the Amulet of Kings or that he should have control of it. So he'd have to wait this one out until they got Weynon Priory. "Then he'll hand it over to me, and that idiot monk will tell him that it's not the Amulet of Kings, and he'll leave me the Oblivion alone..." he mused. "And then I'll have my retirement back." As annoyed as he was, he supposed this wasn't as bad as things could get. "Like if the jewel really was the Amulet of Kings, and this moron servant of mine insisted on returning it...now that would be something to be upset about!" he consoled himself.
His annoyance thus assuaged, Edward allowed himself to enjoy the ride. It was a beautiful day, free of the rain that had plagued his trip to Anvil. Plus, they were heading toward the midlands, and, to his mind, there was no place so wonderful as the midlands. That was the land of the Imperials, the home of the sophisticated, refined people, and as free of barbarians as one could hope a place to be.
"You know, sir, seeing as how we're going to be right outside of it, we should take the opportunity of visiting Chorrol," the valet spoke at length.
Edward frowned. "Why?"
"Well, it's a beautiful little town, sir. The people are quite congenial, and the architecture is remarkably distinct from that in the Imperial City ."
Edward scoffed. "I've no desire to see a bunch of peasant's hovels, thank you very much," he declared superciliously.
The other man grimaced imperceptibly, but said in a tone free of expression, "Oh no sir, no hovels. Very unique, but charming, architecture. I'm sure you'd approve." Edward scoffed again. "And the people really are very nice. As a matter of fact, I've been meaning to get in touch with a friend -- Seed-Neeus -- for some time now, and just haven't had the chance yet."
Edward sighed. His servant always had a bizarre reason for wanting to go to these strange, primitive little towns...to see his fence, to meet a strange stranger, to find an Argonian...but for him? Well, it always seemed that visiting a new town resulted in an unsolicited tour of the dungeons. Even in Bravil, where he hadn't even set foot in the town, he still almost ended up in prison. "I'd rather skip," he declared. "After all, the Emperor's business cannot be delayed."
"Hmm...true enough, sir," the valet agreed, his tone conveying some disappointment.
"We'll have to make sure to go some other time, though," Edward lied.
The valet smiled and nodded. "Yes, thank you sir."
Third time in a week?? What'd ya do, write up a bunch of chapters and hoard 'em?
Ah, but never mind, I've been enjoying the further adventures of Edward and Norvayne. I'm glad Anvil survived their visit largely intact. I'm sure those sirens won't be missed. Much.
The matter apparently settled to his satisfaction, the valet nodded and said, "Well sir, the bad news is this: I think my house is haunted."
I was rolling!!
The image of the two of them processing across Anvil one after the other, priceless!
History was to be made,
By the strangest of all creatures.
And the world to be saved
By the oddest of coincidental accidents.
-- Chronicle of the Oblivion Crisis, continued
Chapter One Hundred and One
Riding for several days straight, only breaking to make camp and eat dried food, Edward's enthusiasm for travel had waned, and then disappeared. His back and neck ached from sleeping on the hard earth, and his bones were thoroughly jarred from the constant riding. He was ravenous for "real food" -- anything other than foraged berries and dried meat -- and he was furious that his servant had still not relinquished possession of the amulet to him. His only consolation was that they had, at last, reached Weynon Priory.
He'd held his peace with his valet up until now, knowing that he could not alienate the man carrying his retirement, but was now eagerly awaiting the moment when, Friar Jauffre dismissing the silly notion that this was anything more than a deliciously expensive ruby, he was free to dispose of his treasure as he saw fit -- and, directly after that, his wayward servant.
Slowing their horses to a steady clomp-clomp along the cobblestone road, Edward and his servant entered the Priory grounds. "Here we are, sir," the valet declared cheerily.
Edward glared at him silently. No matter how sore, aggravated or tired Edward found himself, it seemed that his fool of a servant was, unfortunately, never affected.
His valet seemed not to notice his glare, however, for he continued speaking as though nothing was amiss. "There's the Priory House," he told his master, pointing to a large, elegant building, that seemed a cross between a manor house and a church. "You'll likely find Friar Jauffre in there."
Edward frowned at the other man, assuming a condescending air. "Don't be absurd," he told him. "He's a monk or preacher or bishop or whatever. He'll be in that building." Here, he pointed to the chapel. The other man seemed about to disagree, but Edward cut him off shortly. "Don't argue," he told him. "Just give me the amulet, and take care of the horses."
"Of course, sir," the valet returned. Retrieving the amulet from a pocket inside his jacket, he handed it to Edward. "I do believe, though, sir, that, if I remember correctly..."
Exhaling a loud, vexed sigh, Edward interrupted, "Who spoke to the Emperor? Who was given this quest?"
"You, of course, sir," the other man answered. "I just meant that..."
"Then stop trying to tell me how to do it!" Edward snapped. With this, he slipped out of his saddle in an attempt to imitate the suave, easy dismounting that he'd seen the Imperial Legionnaires do. Instead of landing effortlessly as they did, he fell heavily to the cobblestones and twisted his ankle as he landed. It was only his horse's presence that prevented him from collapsing headlong, and, even so, he found it difficult to stand on his injured ankle. Nonetheless, he was determined to make a brave effort, for he had no intention of diluting the strong, commanding, arrogant front he'd just established with his servant by injuring himself so clumsily in a foolhardy attempt to impress.
As valiant as his efforts were, however, he was unable to change the fact that his progress was slow, and awkwardly reminiscent of an inebriated duck's waddling. Nonetheless, he maintained his courage in the face of his trials, and, at last, reached the chapel. Pushing the doors open with difficulty, he limped inside. No sooner than had he shut the doors did his demeanor change, and all at once he was wailing and cursing in agony.
A rather shocked monk at the far end of the chapel looked up at him. "My good man!" he reproached. "Please, moderate your language. You are in a Chapel of Talos, after all!"
Edward glanced up at him, staring daggers at the man. "Talos be hanged!" he exclaimed. "I'm in pain!"
The monk's eyes widened in shock. "Sir, please!" he spoke. "Take care not to offend the gods, and not here, in our chapel to them!"
Edward's expression darkened, and he shot back, "The gods can go to Mehrunes Dagon for all that I care! And you can go with them, you stuffy little twit." Then, an idea coming to him, his expression froze. "You're not...Friar Jauffre, are you?"
The affronted little monk shook his head. "No, he is in the Priory house. I am Brother Piner. However, if it will cause you to curb your language, I can heal your injury for you."
Edward hesitated. He was in no mood to be courteous to an annoying monk -- and had been just about to tell him off but good, so soon as he'd found out that he wasn't the monk he'd been looking for. But, by the same token, his foot really did hurt...and, he didn't have the skill to heal it. "Alright, fine," he snapped. "Just get on with it."
The monk nodded, and began to chant what seemed to be a ritual prayer. Edward sighed in disgust. If his experience was anything to go by, the gods couldn't possibly exist. "If they did," he thought, "my servant would be fish food at the bottom of the sea right now, and I'd be the richest man in Tamriel." All at once, he felt a strange, cool surge through his ankle. "Ahh!" he screamed, breaking quickly from his reverie and leaping backwards in sheer surprise. "What in Oblivion...?" But, as he landed, he was suddenly aware that he experienced no pain in his injured leg whatsoever. His eyes widened. "You mean...it really worked?" he asked wonderingly.
The monk smiled. "Of course...an easy spell, really. Just asking the right blessing from the gods, you know."
Edward shivered, suddenly feeling not at all comfortable. "Umm...sorry about that, Talons, or Tables or whatever your name is. I didn't mean any of that hanging stuff...and, of course I knew you existed. I, uhhm, well, ahh, thanks."
His shaking continued until he was out of the chapel, and Edward breathed a sigh of relief as he stepped into the afternoon air. It was bad enough to insult the gods, but to insult them in a chapel? "That," he reasoned, "probably wasn't the smartest thing I've ever done." This realization come to, however, he promptly dismissed it in favor of other matters. "Now, that stupid valet was right...he is in the priory house...how the oblivion does that man know things like that?"
Passing the valet without so much glancing at him, Edward marched straight for the house. He might have been right, but Edward had no intention of acknowledging the fact. Reaching the manor, he stepped inside. It was a simply furnished affair, with practical but not terribly fine furniture, and little in the way of finery adorning the walls. "How can these people live like that?" Edward wondered in disgust. "No finery? No riches? Just hewn wooden furniture, and so many books?" He shuddered again, and glanced about quickly. This place made him almost as uncomfortable as the chapel, so the sooner he was out of it, the better.
Seeing no one about, Edward headed upstairs. "Hello?" he asked of no one in particular. "Father Jauffre?"
"I am Friar Jauffre," a strong voice called.
Edward jumped. He had still not seen anyone, and so was unsure of where the voice was coming from. "Where...where are you?"
"Over here, nitwit," the voice answered. This time, Edward followed the direction from where it came, and traveled toward it.
"Ahh," he sighed, rounding a corner and coming across a little enclave that he'd missed before. He was not, then, speaking with some sort of specter.
The Friar, an elderly but burly man seated at a wooden table strewn with books and manuscripts, glanced up at him as he entered, seeming almost annoyed by his presence. "Yes? And how can I help you?"
Edward drew himself up tall, and, assuming his most supercilious tones, declared, "I am Edward, who was hand chosen by the Emperor himself to deliver a message to you."
The Friar's eyebrows rose, and he stared at Edward, as though studying him. Then a light lit his eye. "Oooohhhhhh, you mean the escaped prisoner?"
Edward frowned. "Released, actually," he told the Friar, "by the Emperor himself. And wrongly and most unjustly imprisoned, although what business of yours that is I cannot say."
Friar Jauffre blinked, then apologized, "Well now, I meant no offense. I was just...trying to place you."
"Well," Edward sniffed, taking the amulet out of his pocket, "as I said, the Emperor gave me an amulet --"
He'd not even finished his sentence when Jauffre had leapt from his seat, sprung forward, grabbed the amulet, and returned to his chair, declaring tearfully, "The Amulet of Kings! It's safe at last!"
Edward blinked. The Friar was surprisingly nimble for a man of his age. "Ummm...what are you doing with that?" he asked.
"The Amulet of Kings?" Jauffre answered. "Didn't the Emperor tell you?"
"Umm...not really...you see, the assassin interrupted..."
"Oh, of course," the Friar said, nodding comprehension as Edward's lies trailed off. "Well, he wanted you to bring this to me so that I could find the lost heir and give it to him."
"The lost heir?" Edward asked. "I thought all the king's sons were dead?"
"Well, that's true, but not true."
Edward stared at him. "Monks, politicians and philosophers," he thought. "Only they can simultaneously make two contradictory statements with a straight face." Aloud, however, he said, "Yes, well, is it 'true' as in they are dead, or is it 'not true' as in they are not dead?"
Jauffre shrugged in an explanatory gesture. "Both."
Worlds of doom stirred outside mankind’s door,
So in whose feeble hands did the gods
Place the fate of the world evermore?
In those of one of history’s greatest frauds.
-- Chronicle of the Oblivion Crisis, continued
Chapter One Hundred and Two
"You see," the Friar continued, "all of the king's legitimate sons are dead, but there is one...Martin, his illegitimate son."
Edward blinked. "You mean, the Emperor had another son?"
"Exactly. He used to be a monk, under my guidance. As a young man, he grew eager to learn the secrets of the gods, as did many of his fellow acolytes. They threw themselves into study. They hungered to please the divines. Knowledge and servitude were their gods. You can guess the rest. They got in over their heads...too much studying, too much caffeine, not enough sleep. People died. His friends died. He put those days behind him, but the bitter experience drove him from our ranks forever."
Edward stared at him, an eyebrow raised.
"Anyway," Jauffre continued with a sigh, "he was weak. Disappointingly weak. He has since disappeared. We've had no word from him, no sightings of him. For all we know, he could be dead. But now...now we must find him." He sighed again. "And I suppose we must make the weak honoured user king."
Edward blinked. "Wait...you mean the empire's only heir is missing, maybe dead?"
"I'm afraid so."
"And that really is the Amulet of Kings?"
"Of course."
"Then why don't I...safeguard it while you search for the missing heir?"
Friar Jauffre stared at him incredulously. "Don't be preposterous," he declared, assuming an almost bellicose air. "You are but one man, whereas I am the Grandmaster of the Blades. We Blades will protect it with our lives, guard it with our souls. Nothing, living, dead or otherwise will so much as lay a putrid finger on it!"
"Hmph," Edward snorted. "Weren't you the idiots who were guarding the Emperor when he got bludgeoned to death? If his brains could be spilled all over the floor while in your hands, I dare say..."
Friar Jauffre's eyes bulged as Edward began speaking, and he instinctively reached for a drawer. In a flash, he'd drawn a nasty silver dagger, and was in the process of rising, when he froze. "Oh," he said, clearing his throat abashedly as Edward trailed off in horror. "Forgive me...habit, you know."
His arrogance melted into fear, Edward decided it would be best to leave this place as quickly as his legs could take him. It was bad enough to be surrounded by potentially hostile gods, but there was no need to add deranged soldier-monks to the list. "Yes, quite alright. Perfectly understandable," he said, trying hard not to roll his eyes or bolt from the spot. "So, I'll just take my leave." Then, an idea struck him, and he added, "If there's no reward for me to collect or anything."
"Yes, you may as well go," Jauffre was saying. "I don't suppose you'd be much help in locating the heir."
Edward frowned. "All this aggravation, and no reward," he thought to himself. "I hope the damn priory burns down while they're all abed." Aloud, however, he said in his most congenial tones, "True. Well, I'll be off now." This said, he took to his heels and practically ran out of the priory house, leaving Friar Jauffre lost in meditation, still toying with his dagger.
Once he was outside, the depressing reality of his situation hit him full force. His retirement was gone, he had not a penny to show for it, and he, Edward, had unknowingly held the Amulet of Kings in his own hands, and had missed the opportunity to make for himself a fortune like no other. And, to top it all off, his servant had been right about everything -- where Friar Jauffre was, what the Amulet was...everything.
It was unbelievable, tragic, and utterly depressing. So, Edward trudged toward the stables, where he assumed his valet would be, with an excessively heavy heart. "At least," he consoled himself, "the gods haven't done anything awful to me, even after I damned them all."
Nearing the stable, he broke from his melancholy reflection and slowed to a halt as he saw his valet and another man -- the stable-hand, no doubt -- gathered about a collapsed equine body. Recognizing the body as that of his horse, he ran forward. "My horse! What happened?" he demanded.
The valet looked up. "I don't know, sir...I can't explain it. The poor thing just suddenly dropped dead, out of nowhere."
Edward stared, open-mouthed. "How?" he demanded. "Horses don't just die out of nowhere! Something must have happened!"
"Well," the third man offered, "I did see...well, not to sound silly or anything...but I could have sworn that I saw...well, a bolt of lightning shoot out of the sky and hit him."
"Come now," the valet scoffed, "it's a beautiful clear day, not a bit of thunder. How could lightning strike this poor horse?"
But to Edward's mind, there was no mystery whatsoever. He began to shake violently. "Quick!" he told his valet. "We need to get out of here!"
Mehrunes Dagon is a pest,
Mehrunes Dagon is our bane.
Y'all better put him to rest
Before he goes all insane.
-- Music for the Legionnaires, sung by a trio of traveling entertainers from the western provinces
Chapter One Hundred and Three
Edward groaned. The gods weren't just revengeful, they were sadistic. They had not just killed a perfectly obedient and likable horse, but they'd done so in order to saddle him with the first horse he'd ever ridden...that nasty, disagreeable nag he'd stolen from Snak gra-Bura so long ago. The Priory, it turned out, had made an arrangement with Snak gra-Bura whereby she would bring her old horses, and they would send them out to pasture and care for them for what was left of their lives. Having none of the Priory's regular horses to spare for Edward, the stable-hand had given him this one.
So, trudging along slowly, at an unalterable pace determined by his horse, he and his valet had headed toward the Imperial City . The other man had attempted to convince him to visit Chorrol, but Edward was steadfast in his refusal. He was sick of the barbarians and barbarian outposts. He needed to return to the beloved stone walls of his Imperial City, the one civilized place in Tamriel. Plus, he still had a contract on Valen Dreth, and Dreth hadn't been released yet. "I can't wait until we get there," he thought, "so I sojourn once more amongst civilized people...and so I can kill that damned elf."
"So, sir," the valet spoke, interrupting his thoughts. "What did Friar Jauffre say?"
Edward glared at him. While it would never to do acknowledge the actual reason for his anger -- the fact that the valet had insisted on returning the amulet of kings, rather than allowing Edward to use it to enrich himself at the empire's expense -- he was nonetheless furious. "Stuff," he answered.
The valet frowned. "I really am sorry about your horse, sir," he said at length, "but there was nothing I could do...it happened so quickly."
Edward sighed. It was a futile effort to hold a grudge against his wayward servant -- the man was an idiot, with all the perceptive powers of a dead cow. "He said that he needs to find the remaining heir."
The other man's face brightened. "Then there really is another heir?"
"Of course," Edward retorted. "I told you all about me being the king's son."
The valet frowned at him, an eyebrow raised. "Are you saying, sir, that Friar Jauffre is...searching for you?"
"No," Edward snapped. "The old fool is looking for some twit who used to study under him or something like that, but disappeared a long time ago after a bunch of students died in some warped studying accident." Edward hissed his disgust, taking no note of his valet's expression.
"Indeed, sir?" the other man asked. "Did he give a name?"
Edward frowned, in part in concentration, and in part in aggravation. "He might have...I don't remember it though. And, anyway, what do you care?"
"I might know him, sir," the valet answered. "Are you sure you don't remember?"
Edward's frown deepened. "Quite sure...and don't be pompous...it's very unbecoming."
"Pompous, sir?" the other man asked, taken aback by the accusation.
"Yes, pompous! To pretend that you might know a king or a king's son..." Edward hissed in disgust, but hurried to add, "Other than me, I mean."
mALX: lol, thanks...I think Jauffre is my favorite character...or, at least, the difference between him and the original is my favorite change in the story. Can't wait until we get to the later chapters with him.
Where blood is let and lives are ended
Where wagers are made and lost
Where many aspire and few succeed,
The Arena!
-- Song of the Arena
Chapter One Hundred and Four
Edward was overjoyed to finally be within the walls of his beloved Imperial City , safe from the barbarian hordes and their fledgling outposts and primitive towns. So glad was he that he forgot aggravation with his valet, the terrible loss of his retirement, or any of the other myriad things that plagued his mind. "Now," he said to his valet as they strolled through the Market District, "We've just got to go hunt Valen Dreth down. Well, I've got to."
"Yes sir," the valet replied nodding. "But, before you do, do you mind if I run into this shop?" Here, he pointed to Jensine's "Good as New" Merchandise.
Edward frowned, feeling somewhat annoyed. "Why? Have some hot merchandise to unload?"
"No sir. Jensine isn't a fence. I heard a rumor about a warblade, however, and I wanted to check it out..."
Edward sighed in aggravation. "Oh hurry up, if you must!" he snapped. His return home had put him in too good a mood to quarrel. Nodding his thanks, the valet disappeared. Edward, still annoyed, hopped onto a wooden barrel near the shop to wait for his valet to return.
His aggravation soon ebbed, however, as he gazed about the city. He was, he told himself, a great adventurer, like those of old, who had endured trials and tribulations in far-distant corners of the world, suffering at the hands of barbarians and fiends...but now the hero had returned home to his beloved city. He sighed contentedly.
So lost in thoughts was he that he didn't notice the cracking sound underneath him. All at once, however, the wooden top of his barrel seat collapsed, and he found himself rudely jerked into reality as he plunged downwards. Before he knew what had happened, Edward found himself half inside and half outside of his barrel, his head, hands and lower legs protruding, while his torso and upper legs were securely, and most uncomfortably, wedged inside the barrel. Feeling a thousand painful sensations at once, Edward tried to scream; but his compressed lungs had had most of the air squeezed out of them. Instead of a shout, he managed a pitiful squeak.
Powerless to move, and having extreme difficulty even breathing, Edward felt panic rising in him. Circulation in his extremities protruding outside of the barrel seemed to be cut off, and the rest of him, stuffed into a small space without regard to the proper working of his spine and body structure, seemed alive with pain.
Suddenly, just as unexpectedly as the fall had been, he felt the barrel tip, and could only watch as it came crashing down. "You there? Are you alright?" he heard someone ask. He couldn't see the speaker, nor could he even respond as the limited air in his lungs had been knocked out of him a second time in the crash. "Hold on a second! I'll get you out!" the voice continued.
Gurgling in fright, Edward was powerless to do anything except watch as the barrel rose into the air, and tipped upside down. For a moment he stared at the cobblestones underneath him. Then, all at once, he felt the barrel fly upwards sharply. He gurgled again, just as the barrel came downwards. He flew downwards in a flash, sure that -- he knew not how -- he was being propelled face first into the cobblestones. Instead, however, just as suddenly as he'd gone down, he went up again.
Feeling his brain bouncing up and down in his skull in a most frightening manner, he was still somehow able to make limited sense of what was happening. Something -- surely it couldn't be a someone -- was shaking the barrel up and down in an attempt to oust him. This something had apparently not taken into account what he, Edward, could see only too clearly -- that, should he be shaken out, he would be propelled face-first into the cobblestones below. Each shake of the barrel knocking whatever breath he was able to gather out of him, however, he was unable to scream out for his would-be rescuer to desist.
It was no surprise, therefore, to him when the inevitable happened: after one particularly brain-jarring shake, he felt his body wrench free from its confinement and fly downward.
The next thing he was aware of was opening his eyes painfully, staring up into the blue sky overhead, the greenish face of an orc and the small, wedge-like face of a Bosmer. "Oh, great heavens," the Bosmer declared, "I thought Grul had killed you for sure!"
The orc flinched at the words. "Sorry about that," he said to Edward, shrugging apologetically. "You just looked like you needed help."
Edward blinked at them, slowly processing what had happened. "Who are you?" he asked at length.
The Bosmer gestured toward the orc. "This is Grul; Grul gro-Barak," he answered. "He's my servant. We were walking through town looking for...well, it doesn't matter. We were walking through town, and happened to see you fall into the barrel. Grul here tried to shake you out. Then you landed on your face and seemed to get a bit woozy. But now you're coming around."
Edward nodded slowly, wincing as the motion seemed to jiggle his already shaken-about brain painfully. In a warped way, things made sense to him now. "Who are you?" he asked the Bosmer.
"Name's Hundolin," the little man with bright hair answered. "I work at the arena." All of a sudden, staring at Edward, his eyes lit up. "I say, I think you're the one!"
Edward blinked. Maybe, he thought, he wasn't all there yet after all...how else could he explain what this little fellow was babbling about?
"I was going through town looking for...well, someone to fight in the arena."
"A champion," Grul enjoined.
"Yes, yes, a champion!" Hundolin agreed. "You see, we have a fight scheduled at the arena, but we ran out of-"
"Champions," the orc interjected hastily. "Great champions."
"Yes, exactly!"
Edward blinked again. He understood what the Bosmer was saying, but he failed to see how it related to him. "And?"
"And you're the one! The champion I was looking for!"
"I am?" Edward asked, feeling by now quite baffled.
"Of course! Look at that...that physique!" the Bosmer answered.
Edward glanced down at his still crumpled and cringing form.
"And the...the strength, the determination, the courage that just radiates from you!" the elf continued eagerly.
Edward blinked again. Did his inner character, his courage, his magnificence really shine forth so brightly, even when he was injured and weak, that this little Bosmer could recognize it so clearly, he wondered? He shrugged a little, as if embarrassed. "Well, I'm sure you're exaggerating," he replied, attempting modesty. His flattered, glowing tone, however, gave away the insincerity of his words.
The Bosmer exchanged a fleeting smile with the orc. "Not at all!" he hastily assured Edward, sounding only slightly more genuine in his praise than the Imperial had moments earlier.
"Indeed," the orc agreed. "Look at the way you handled falling into a barrel, with only your head and arms and feet sticking out!"
The Bosmer shot the orc a glaring glance of disapproval, but Edward didn't notice it. "The courage!" Hundolin hurriedly explained. "The steadfastness! Not a sound! Not a peep did you utter!"
"Not even when your face smashed into the cobblestone!" the orc agreed, earning himself a second glare.
But Edward was too lost in musing the Bosmer's words to notice. "Hmm," he said at length, "I suppose you're right...I do have that air of a champion, a warrior."
"A god amongst men!" Hundolin assured him.
Edward smiled. "I say, you're quite the intuitive chap!" he told the elf.
"Not at all," the other man assured him. "I only recognize greatness when I see it!" Edward's smile broadened, and he attempted to nay-say this praise in a most pompous manner. The elf ignored this, and pressed his advantage quickly. "So you will fight in the arena then?"
The vagabonds set on fame,
The fools who know not their own inabilities;
The criminal who lusts for blood,
These are the snared who are lured to the Arena.
-- From Arena & Contestants, Edition the First
Chapter One Hundred and Five
Edward blinked anew, this time in surprise. "The arena?" he asked incredulously. All this praise was one thing, but actually fighting?
"Of course!" Hundolin exclaimed in most animated tones. "I can see it now -- the new Grand Champion of the arena! You'll be a star! The city will cheer you, love you, adore you!" He paused, glancing at the orc, who was standing about in a terribly uninterested manner. "Can't you, Grul?"
"Oh, umm, yeah, definitely," the orc answered in a tone that conveyed at least as much boredom as his expression.
The Bosmer seemed annoyed, but hurried on with his tale of the grandeur that awaited Edward. "Imagine it! You will be the star of the Empire! You'll have fans following you non-stop, at your beck and call, worshiping you, doing your every bidding!"
Edward hesitated. This sounded very pleasant, after all...and maybe this elf knew what he was talking about. Maybe Edward had that Champion blood in him, born to greatness that had just, somehow, eluded him up until now, and disguised itself in embarrassing incidents like the barrel episode of moments earlier. "Well..." he mused. "Would there be any money in it for me?"
"Money?" the Bosmer repeated, scoffing as though the answer was obvious. "Of course! More money than you could use in a hundred life-times! Why, a Champion of your caliber would end up richer than...than the Emperor himself!"
Ignoring the fact that the Emperor was dead and buried, Edward thought about these words for a few moments. "Well, it does sound rather tempting," he said at length. "I mean, I know I have what it takes..."
"Of course!" Hundolin assured him. "And this -- this is the perfect time for you to make your entrance!"
"Why?"
"Well, because...because there are so many people who have already bet on this match, and our other pit dog-"
"Champion!" the orc interrupted.
"Yes, Champion...pit dog is...well, arena speak for Champion, you understand?" the elf explained.
Edward nodded.
"Anyway, our other Champion had a terrible accident and died."
Edward flinched. As appealing as this all sounded, he still didn't relish the possibility of accidents and death. "Died?"
"Yes, but it was a silly accident," Hundolin hurriedly explained. "He...he..."
"Jumped into a pit of minotaur lords!" Grul interjected.
"Yes, exactly," Hundolin agreed.
Edward grimaced. "Why would he do something like that?" he wondered.
"He was...drunk!"
"Ohhh, I see," Edward nodded.
"Anyway, as long as you don't get drunk and go jumping into the minotaur cages, you'll be just fine!" the elf continued. "And, since we have this match all set up -"
"And stand to lose a lot of money," the orc muttered, which earned him yet another furious glare from Hundolin.
"This would be the perfect time to make your debut," the Bosmer finished. "You see?"
Edward nodded excitedly. "Yes, yes I do!"
"Excellent!" Hundolin exclaimed. "Then we'll see you at the arena in...oh, about half an hour?"
Edward nodded again. "Yes indeed! I've just got to collect my valet, and we'll be right over!"
The elf and orc nodded and made their farewells, assuring Edward yet again that he was destined for greatness, fame and wealth. Then they turned and headed toward the arena, talking quietly amongst themselves. Edward, in his excitement, heard little of what they said, although he did catch Hundolin's voice saying, "There's one born every minute."
Edward, for his part, hoped that this was not true. "How will my greatness stand out if Champions are born all the time?" he wondered.
Where fools become kings,
And the worst are the greatest
Heroes of which the bard sings,
Come, but only if you're a sadist.
-- Song of the Arena, continued
Chapter One Hundred and Six
Edward had excitedly dragged his astonished valet to the arena, explaining in rambling, self-congratulatory platitudes what had happened. Incredulous, the other man had questioned the veracity of Edward's story, pointing to his bruised features and wondering if, perhaps, the event had been a product of injury-induced hallucinations. This theory had been met with great disdain and annoyance by Edward, but, hurrying to his certain fame and glory, he'd had little time to set the miscreant servant straight.
Arriving at last at the arena, he was greeted by none other than the little Bosmer. "Ahh, the Champion approaches!" Hundolin exclaimed.
The valet stared at him open mouthed, but Edward took no notice. "Indeed, one Champion, as promised!"
"Excellent, excellent!" the elf returned. "They are waiting for you below!"
Edward nodded, and hurriedly headed in the direction the Bosmer had indicated. His valet trailed behind him, a confused expression on his face.
Edward's step was light, though he was still sore from his misadventures earlier. Suddenly, the world seemed very bright to him -- even if he was traversing a blood stained stone hall, that reeked in a most offensive manner. He would soon be a Champion, wealthy, respected and admired.
"Ahh, the new pit dog!" a burly Redguard greeted him as soon as he emerged into the dark, stuffy chamber below.
Nodding proudly, Edward declared, "You better believe it!"
The Redguard stared at him strangely, and then turned to an older Imperial woman. "It's illegal for us to send mentally challenged guys up there, isn't it?"
She shrugged. "Well, whose to say we knew? Hundolin sent him here, anyhow."
The Redguard grunted acquiescence, and then turned back to Edward. "Alright, pit dog, suit up." This said, he tossed him a suit of armor. A very heavy suit of armor.
Edward caught it, but, not expecting something so weighty, fell forward with it. Picking himself up gingerly, and laughing abashedly at his own clumsiness, he said, "Well, umm...that's a bit heavy, isn't it?"
"We're out of light armor," the Redguard sneered. "So you'll have to make due. Not that it's gonna matter anyway...you'll be dead soon enough."
Edward blinked at these words. "Dead?" he asked.
"What do you think?" the Redguard laughed.
"Wait, you mean...people die in these fights?"
The old woman and the Redguard exchanged glances again. "Maybe this is too cruel," she commented ponderingly.
"We've got a lot of money riding on this fight though," the man pointed out.
"True..." she mused.
"Wait, wait, wait!" Edward interrupted. "Nobody said anything about people dying!"
The two turned to him. "It's an arena!" the woman snapped. "Fights to the death!"
Edward balked. "To the...death?"
"Of course!"
"But...but I thought it was just...you know, until somebody surrendered."
The Reguard and the Imperial woman turned to each other again, bursting out in laughter simultaneously. "Surrender?" the Redguard managed to repeat through his laughter. "Nobody surrenders in these fights...you die, or you kill. Nothing more, and nothing less!"
Edward, meanwhile, had turned a chalky white. At this point, his valet interjected, "Look here, I believe my friend was misinformed about this arrangement. As he understood it, he was coming here to -"
"Don't figure it matters what he understood or didn't," the woman interrupted. "He's here, we've got a lot of money riding on this show, and we need a warm body up there."
Edward began to shake. "But they didn't say anything about dying!" he protested.
"That's right," the valet agreed.
The two Arena keepers shrugged. "So?"
"Well, my friend was lured down here under false pretenses, that's what!" the valet answered.
The Redguard laughed. "Look here," he said, "I don't give a sewer rat's tail about how he was or wasn't lured down here. After that last idiot got his brains pummeled fighting with the Yellow Team, we need someone in the show. So, unless you're volunteering to take his place, he'd better get up there -- and you'd better shut up!"
Edward's shaking renewed. "I won't go!"
"You'll go," the woman told him, rising and lifting a menacing looking sword.
"Or you'll die right here and right now," the Redguard finished, drawing a sword of his own.
Taste the fear,
Fear the steel,
Steal the lives,
Live after the fight!
-- In the Arena!
Chapter One Hundred and Seven
The valet grimaced. He couldn't believe it. Not only had his master been foolish enough to get himself into a fix like this, but now he had to save his neck...again. At least, he thought, the arena keepers -- Owyn the Redguard and Ysabel Andronicus the Imperial -- had let them go as a team. Indeed, the suggestion had been met with surprised pleasure by the two, who had easily been able to convince the Yellow Team -- which, apparently, they were about to fight -- to throw another pit dog into the arena.
Half wondering if it wouldn't have been easier just to take on Owyn and Ysabel, he sighed. Even if they had fought the two battle hardened former gladiators, no one would have taken their word that they were being kept prisoner in the arena bloodworks. "Oh well," he thought, "this is the only way to do it I guess."
Meanwhile, Edward was shaking so forcefully that his armor was rattling in a sound reminiscent of chimes in a fierce wind. "We're going to die..." he was whimpering.
The valet sighed. "Of course we're not, sir. All we've got to do is win this fight, and then we'll be free to go."
Edwad shot him a disparaging look. "Well, in that case..." he mocked. Then, whining again, "We're going to die!"
"Only if we have attitudes like that, sir!" the valet cheerily returned. "I know this head-on combat thing isn't your forte, but all you've got to do is your best. There's only going to be two or three of them, and they're just pit dogs!"
"Just pit dogs!" Edward gasped. He still hadn't realized that pit dog was not, in fact, a compliment.
"That's right. So, we've just got to work together, and all will be well."
Edward felt faint and queasy. But there was no time to argue. All at once, a booming voice declared, "Good people of the Imperial City! Welcome to the arena! Today our entertainment is provided by two packs of pit dogs: on the Yellow Team, a Bosmer, an Imperial and an Argonian. And on the Blue Team, two Imperials. Can these two Imperials hope to stand against so many? We shall see! Let the games begin!" With that, the iron grate came down.
Edward stood, shaking, watching the Yellow Team combatants enter the arena. "Come on, sir," his valet whispered. "We can take them!" With these words the other man ran forward, his blade flashing.
Edward was too frightened to move. He could only watch as his valet charged valiantly into combat, ducking the fists of the Argonian and the blade of the Imperial. He saw him charge up to the Bosmer, who had loosed two arrows -- loosed, and missed both times -- and was fiddling with a third. He watched as his servant brushed aside the bow, and brought the hilt of his sword down upon the Bosmer's head with a heavy crash. Then he watched as the little elf collapsed to the ground, not dead -- so it seemed, at least -- but unconscious.
By now the Argonian and Imperial had advanced upon his valet, and Edward cringed as a heavy, scaled fist impacted with his teammate's side. The valet went down, but only in order to sweep the legs out from under his attacker. Somehow, this scene roused Edward from his indolence, and he found himself charging into battle. It might have been the fact that the Yellow Team had their backs to him, or it might have been some rare shred of courage or loyalty that prompted him to advance. Either way, advance he did, and before he knew it, he was in the thick of battle.
He was amazed to see that his valet was not fighting the Argonian, who relentlessly pursued him, but rather dodging his blows. Likewise, he was not attempting to kill the Imperial swordsman, but rather to disarm him. Scoffing, Edward readied his sword, and charged forward. He was not above killing these men, even if his foolish servant was willing to risk his life.
The Argonian, however, must have sensed his presence, because -- just as Edward was readying to plunge his sword into the other man's back -- he swung about, planting a hard fist into Edward's jaw. Edward's senses reeled, and then he went down.
First you enter Edward the bumbling fool into the Dark Brotherhood!
Then you send him to Nenalata! With Cadlew Priory as icing!
Then you sic him on the Sirens!
Now you ship him off to the Arena??? I think this is worse than Maxical! At least she had Fathis to pay for her damages!
ROFL !!!!
@haute ecole rider: haha, that's a good point. And, although Edward can always rely on the valet to bail him out if he finds himself in too tight a scrape, Maxical can actually fight and defend herself. She is accident prone, but Edward is utterly inept, lol.
@malx: lol, quite true...to Edward's eternal mortification, Docada is coming soon.
As far as the white, doughy substance, I think you're spot on there as well...he may be an Imperial, but I picture him with a nobleman's pallid, sun-starved complexion...even when he's out adventuring, only his face/hands would be exposed to the sun.
Fight, like you’ve never fought before.
Fight, if you want to fight some more.
Fight, because they’ll laugh if you die.
Fight, and don’t dare pause to ask why.
-- The Gladiator’s Song
Chapter One Hundred and Eight
When Edward awoke, he was back in the bloodworks. The Battle Matron was leaned over him, apparently tending a wound on his head. "Ahh!" Edward screamed at the sight of her. His only memories of the woman, after all, were her sending him to his death.
"Relax, pit dog," she was saying. "After what your friend did up there, I guess you've earned our respect."
"Friend? What?" Edward wondered. The last thing he remembered was a scaly fist impacting sharply with his jaw.
"Your friend...the one who spared the Yellow Team combatants. After that fight, half the team chickened out of their contracts and left the arena," she answered.
From somewhere to the side, he heard the Redguard laugh. "It will take them weeks to recover from that," he said.
Edward blinked uncomprehendingly. "Left? Why?"
"Because they saw how easy it was for a real fighter to kick their lily-livered behinds -- without even killing them," the matron answered. "Now, for the love of Talos, stay still! How am I supposed to clean your cuts out, if you don't?"
Edward groaned. He still wasn't sure of what had happened, but he'd got the general idea. But where was his valet now?
"And don't worry about him," she continued, "He made it out fine. He's talking with The Gray Prince now."
This was quite true, for, at that very moment, Edward's valet and the Arena Grand Champion, an orc known as 'The Gray Prince', were deep in conversation. "I have to say," the orc was saying, "I was quite impressed with you up there...risking your own neck to save those guys, instead of just taking them down when you had them at your mercy..."
The valet shrugged. "Well, I never intended to be an Arena fighter, you know. I didn't want to kill anyone or anything. Just to win the match and get out."
The Gray Prince nodded, watching the Imperial for a few minutes. "I say," he said, "you seem to be a good sort of person. Can I ask you to do me a favor?"
"Of course," the valet nodded.
"How would you like to fight me?"
"Fight you?" the Imperial repeated in surprise.
"Yes, fight me," the orc answered. "Not really...I mean, just go into the Arena, and pretend to kill me."
"Pretend to kill you?" the valet asked, his brow creasing perplexedly. "But...why?"
Agronak's eyes darted about quickly, as if he was afraid of being overheard, and he answered in a low, ponderous tone, as though he was choosing his words carefully. "I'm tired of...the fame. You know...media, screaming fans...all of that. I want to start my life over, in private. If the Gray Prince dies, Agronak gro-Malog can be reborn...a simple orc, living his life in private and quiet."
The Imperial frowned. "I see what you're saying," he said. "But won't they -- the fans and whatnot -- follow me instead?"
The Gray Prince shook his head. "No, no," he answered. "They follow me because I've spent years building my reputation as the Grand Champion. You'll just be a lucky lug who happened to get a good strike in."
The valet continued to frown in concentration. "Alright," he said at last, "I can't see any harm in doing it."
The Gray Prince positively beamed, and grabbed the other man's hand to shake it vigorously. "Thank you!" he declared. "Thank you very much!"
Meanwhile, lying still as a stinging ointment was applied to his wounds, Edward sighed inwardly. "Why," he wondered, "am I such a caring guy? Why do I always have to put my own life on the line for inept idiots like that servant of mine? When will I ever learn to ignore the peons in order to keep myself out of scrapes like this?!"
Fame, oh joy and bane of man
Desired when not possessed
But despised when had
Fame, ye treacherous beast.
-- Song of the Champions
Chapter One Hundred and Nine
Edward was seated on a table in the bloodworks, glowering. His valet and The Gray Prince had just left to fight one another in the Arena, and -- having missed their conversation -- he was furious. "Who does that SOB think he is," he wondered, "running off and getting himself killed instead of being my servant?!" In Edward's mind, there was no doubt whatsoever that his valet would die in this match.
"Well, he better not look to me to take care of him if he comes out of there mutilated or half-dead," he decided. "He can go to Oblivion for all that I care, after turning his back on his sacred duty to serve me in order to fight for vain glory." It was for that reason that Edward had not gone into the Arena with the other spectators -- that, and that he'd have to bet on the championship to get in...and, while he wouldn't have minded making a quick buck betting on his friend's certain death, he'd somehow run out of money...again.
And yet, if only for the satisfaction of seeing his valet dragged, a bloody mess, back into the bloodworks, he'd decided to wait until after the fight to leave. He could hear the shouting, cheering and jeering overhead, and the booming voice of the announcer above all that. "Good people of the Imperial City ," it called, "today our match is epic! A pit dog -- that's right, ladies and gentlemen, a pit dog! -- has challenged The Gray Prince himself!" Uproarious laughter, more cheers and more jeers followed. Then the announcer continued. "This will be almost painful to watch...but, in his benevolence, our Grand Champion has obliged the suicidal pit dog. So, without further ado...let the match begin!"
Edward heard the grating of iron as the gates were lowered, but the rest was lost in the tidal wave of excited fans’ cheering. Edward sighed. Was it possible, he wondered, that he was actually worried about his servant? Was it possible that that was the reason that he was waiting?
Dismissing the idea with a scoff, Edward's glare intensified. He, Edward, did not worry about servants. Indeed, he had himself wanted to kill his valet on many occasions. So why then was this annoying fear gnawing at his stomach?
It was far beneath a man of his dignity to care what befell his servant, so these apprehensions -- even if he wouldn't acknowledge them -- were downright embarrassing to Edward. His glare and ill humor intensified with every bit of compassion and fear that he felt, so soon he outmatched even the dour Battle Matron and Blademaster with his excessive petulance.
It was impossible to tell over the cacophony of noise above what was happening, so Edward sat in ill-humored silence for several moments. Then, all at once, everything fell silent; and suddenly a collective gasp -- audible even to those in the bloodworks -- rose from the crowd of spectators.
Edward's expression grew darker yet. It was done, then, he assumed. His valet was dead.
And then, as suddenly as the silence had descended, an uproar of cheers and chanting filled the air. "Dragonheart! Dragonheart! Dragonheart!" the crowd seemed to be calling in unison.
Edward's frown shifted, but remained. "Dragonheart?" he wondered. "Who the oblivion is Dragonheart? What about that stupid Gray Prince, and my jackass servant?"
Then, almost in answer to his pondering, the announcer's voice declared, "Citizens...I am amazed! We are amazed! This upstart, the pit dog, has defeated The Gray Prince!" Edward leaped to his feet in sheer astonishment; but the announcer continued. "This has to be...well, the most spectacular fight I have ever seen, and the most unorthodox path a Grand Champion has ever followed...but...it is my pleasure to announce our City's new Grand Champion: Dragonheart!"
A New Grand Champion Declared: Dragonheart!
With heavy heart for he who is passed, and eager admiration for he who has replaced him, it is our duty to report an unusual – nay, astonishing! – day at the Imperial Arena. The Gray Prince, whom we have all so long loved as Grand Champion, answered the challenge of a newcomer, a mere Pit Dog! These two met in the Arena this very afternoon, and, in a stupendous clash of daring and virility, the Grand Champion was felled, and the Pit Dog declared the winner – and our new Champion. Dragonheart – our Champion’s name – was seen leaving the Arena in the company of many adoring fans. Your correspondent was unable to speak with him, but will continue to attempt to do so in order that the public may ever remain abreast of the goings-on of our glorious city!
-- Black Horse Courier, Special News Bulletin
Chapter One Hundred and Ten
Edward was greatly annoyed as he and his valet left the Arena. Not only had he wasted his time -- not to mention, soiled his dignity -- worrying about a lowly servant, but the lowly servant hadn't even had the decency to die so that his sacrifice might be worthwhile! Instead, the lowly servant had somehow won the match, and become the new Grand Champion.
"Come on, sir," the valet was saying, "I know it was longer than you wanted to stay. But I had to do that!"
Edward shot him a disparaging look, but stepped aside so that his servant could open the door for him. The valet did so, and Edward stepped outside into the crisp early afternoon air, his head held high despite the internal sting of wounded pride.
To his horror, he found that he'd emerged into a swarm of buzzing, chirping, twittering fans, all screaming for their idol, the new Grand Champion. Edward's lip curled in disgust, and he sneered most disdainfully, "Be gone, vile insects!"
The vile insects, however, had no intention of complying. Instead, they shoved Edward aside and swarmed about his valet. His valet stood heads above the crowd, which seemed to be composed mostly of short Bosmer youth with brightly colored hair and odd hair styles. He, as Edward had been, was somewhat taken aback by the swarm. "Why, umm, thank you," he said as they shouted their salutations.
"Oh, by Azura, by Azura, by Azura!" one voice, higher than all the rest, called, "I can't believe it! It's the Grand Champion! Standing here, next to me!"
Edward, rising haughtily and glaring furiously at the backs of the brightly colored-heads -- which were, at this point, all that was really visible to him -- spoke. "Go away, you filthy children! Go pester someone else!" Still shouting their praises of his servant, the fans ignored Edward entirely. This was particularly horrifying to the Imperial, as he'd not only, most brusquely, been shoved aside in order that these monsters might worship his servant -- his servant! -- but now they completely ignored him, as if he did not even exist!
One voice in particular continued with fervent admiration. "Oh, great and mighty Grand Champion, I'm going to follow you and watch you and worship the ground you walk on!"
Edward pinpointed this voice to a short elf wearing a peculiar, poofy twist of bright yellow hair atop his head. "You! Ice-cream-head!" Edward called, poking the little fellow. "Get! You and your buddies!"
The Bosmer turned about fiercely at this nudge, shoving Edward away savagely. "Stay away from my god!" he snarled.
Edward recoiled a step, surprised by the vehemence of this strange, style-challenged elf. "He may be your god," he snapped, "but he's my servant -- and you're interfering with his duties!"
The Bosmer seemed to ignore his words as an inspired gleam lit his eyes. Spinning about quickly, he declared fervently, "Oh, Grand Champion, let me be your servant! Your slave! I will follow you everywhere, do whatever you require done, and worship you -- always worship you!"
GAAAAAAAAH !!!! SHRIEK !!!! SQUEEEEEEEEEEEAL !!!!!! It's DOCADA !!!!!!!! WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT !!!!!!
O Mama O Mama
Docada, Docada
goes Ga-Ga O ga-ga
Hey Ha-Ha Ho Ha Ha!
Well, I can't write poetry, that's for sure.
But I echo the Fox here. Docada is a welcome addition to this hilarious story! And I think this version is much better than the last.
Yet I wonder - did the Gray Prince want to fake his death to get rid of all of his fans, or just one certain Annoying Fan?
@malx: one style challenged nerd, as promised. ![]()
@foxy: glad to see you're still reading this, Foxy!! ![]()
@haute ecole rider: thanks, I've tried to rework some of the dialog (mostly just rewording things here and there) to make it flow more smoothly. As for the Gray Prince...Docada would be the main motivation for flight, lol. ![]()
No ingrate so vile as the servant,
Who values not his master’s benevolence
And who respects not his years of service
Who forgets all he owes his gracious master.
-- Excerpt from The Trials of a Nobleman, First Edition
Chapter One Hundred and Eleven
Edward was trying hard, and failing miserably, to remain calm. It had been difficult, but he and his valet had managed to shake the eccentric crowd of fan boys and girls -- all but one. This one, the strange, yellow haired fan, had not relented in his pursuit. Both men, weary by running, dodging and ducking from their pursuers, had eventually given up attempting to shake him, figuring he'd eventually tire of his tedious endeavor.
So far, however, he'd done no such thing. Instead, he had prattled on nonstop about his joy at being near, so near, to his god, the Grand Champion. "Oh, I can't believe this!" he was telling Edward's valet. "You're the best, do you know that? The absolute best! What other Grand Champion would allow me -- me! -- to travel with him? Not that Gray Prince, I'll tell you that much. Oh no, he would chase me off, and threaten me, and he even accidentally pushed me off of a few cliffs...but even then, I never tired of being his happy fan! The Grand Champion needs a loyal subject, an eager, abject slave. And now that you're the Grand Champion, I'm so happy -- because you'll be more careful, won't you? I barely escaped that last accident, you know." Here, the fan broke off to take a deep gasping breath; but, the next moment, he'd continued his monologue.
The valet, however, ignored him as he prattled on, lost in thoughts of his own. "Hmmm..." he said aloud. "I wonder if he's the reason the Gray Prince asked me to fight..."
Edward stared at the other man. "I thought you challenged him?"
The valet glanced behind him discreetly, saw that the adoring fan was still prattling on excitedly and paying no mind to their conversation, and then shook his head. "No sir. He said he wanted to stage his own death...something about needing a break from the fame, and to get away from the fans...do you think it might have been...?"
"The annoying twit with the ice-cream twist hair-do?" Edward spit out. "No, you think so?"
His valet frowned. "I think you could be right, sir. But then he must have known that he'd start following me." Edward glared at him. "I wonder that he was so dishonest with me!"
Edward hissed in disgust. "What is with you?" he demanded. "Why must you always think that people are nice? Don't you get it? People are looking for the saps, the suckers, the morons -- morons like you, that they can bamboozle without difficulty!" His servant stared at him, but he continued, his tone laced with contempt for both his servant and people in general. "You don't look at life realistically. You see people as these nice creatures, out to do right by everybody. You don't see people for what they really are!"
"And what is that, sir?" the valet ventured.
"Disgusting, grimy, conniving, sticky-fingered, mealy-mouthed filth!" Edward spat out. "Always looking to make a buck at the cost of their fellow man, to advance themselves at the cost of another, to damn the world if it benefits themselves!" The fact that he might have been painting a self-portrait -- albeit a none-too-flattering one -- seemed to escape Edward, who continued in disgust, "They aren't to be trusted! You have to stop thinking that people mean what they say! They don't!"
The valet sighed. "Well, you might be right sir, in some respect anyway. Sometimes I do put too much faith in other people."
"That's an understatement!" Edward hissed. "It's a veritable disease with you!"
"Well, I don't know about that, sir..."
"It is!" Edward insisted. "It's a sickness! There's something wrong with you! You don't have those protective instincts, that natural intuition to mistrust and loathe your fellow man!"
The valet frowned. "Well, I don't think that's necessary, sir."
"Which is exactly why you end up in fixes like this," Edward declared haughtily, as if he had, in that single statement, won the argument.
The valet's frown intensified. "Well, sir, you end up in fixes too, sometimes."
Edward gaped at him. "Me? End up in fixes? When?!"
"Well, sir, this whole arena thing, for starters," the valet pointed out.
Edward glared at him. "I was lied to!"
"Well yes sir, I know that," the other man agreed. "But, still, you believed someone when they were lying to you."
Edward's glare intensified. "But I wasn't the one who wanted to stay around and play Mr. Hero with that filthy orc, was I?" he demanded. "And, anyway, everyone's bound to slip up once in awhile...but, unlike you, I don't make a habit of it!"
The valet frowned again. "Well, sir, actually, I think you've been in more fixes than I have."
Edward positively gaped at his insolent servant. "How dare you?!" he wondered at the man's impertinence. "How dare you lie to my face like that?"
"It's not a lie, sir," the valet answered. "In fact, I think, if you were to count the times, you'd agree that you've found yourself in trouble more often than I have."
Edward stared daggers at his companion. "I think not, Mr. Champion. Mr. Champion who owns a haunted manor, I might add!"
"Well, sir, not to put too fine a point on it, but let's not forget about those three women in Anvil..."
Edward's eyes bulged in horror. "Bringing that up is just...just fighting dirty!" he hissed. "Let's not forget that this is coming from the idiot who believed me all that time when I said that I didn't have the Amulet of Kings!"
The valet shrugged. "Not all the time, sir...I did have my doubts. And let's not forget that time..."
So it was that the trio passed through Green Emperor Way, Edward and his valet arguing heatedly about who was more prone to find himself in a fix, and the adoring fan babbling on with his praise as though they were actually listening to him.
Over things large and small, disputes arise among us all,
Friend or foe, we are not immune.
The civilized employ words, in order to resolve their issues
And the uncivilized, they resort to violence.
-- Treatise on Quarrels, Father Agrid
Chapter One Hundred and Twelve
Edward and his valet’s disagreement had descended into a heated, shouted monologue – from Edward. At the moment, he was screaming profanities at his servant, and at the same time demanding an apology. Meanwhile, the adoring fan was furiously defending the Grand Champion, cursing Edward at least as well as Edward cursed the valet.
The only party of the trio not screaming was Edward’s valet, who was making efforts to silence them both. “Please!” he implored. “The Guard will come arrest us all for this racket!”
Edward shouted something at him, and then turned his attention to the fan. “You can take a flying leap off the White Gold Tower,” he yelled, his face a shade of deep crimson rage. “I’ll talk to my servant anyway I please, you disgusting elf. Go get a haircut, why don’t you?”
Even as the fan launched into a furious tirade at this remark, the valet – earning his title, Dragonheart, yet again for his courage in doing so – attempted once more to intervene.
“Sir, please,” he spoke, “I’m sorry. Please, just let it go!”
Edward was too engaged in his war of words with the Bosmer youth, however, to take note. He was screaming breathlessly, spittle flying from his mouth in a rather deranged fashion, as he exchanged profanities and threats of every sort with the yellow-haired elf.
Touching both men on the shoulder to draw their attention, the valet again implored reason. “Please, let’s just forget this whole unpleasant business!” he pleaded.
The fan, in a cringing, acquiescent manner, desisted immediately, and began to implore the Grand Champion that he might defend his honor; Edward, however, furiously slapped his servant’s hand away, declaring, “Don’t touch me, servant!”
This was too much for the fan, who began to shriek in a furious and affronted way, pointing at Edward as he did so, “Assault! Assault against the Grand Champion! This man struck the Grand Champion!”
A crowd quickly gathered as the little Bosmer continued screaming. The valet attempted to silence the fan, but the fan was too fervently engaged in defending his god’s honor to listen to what his god actually had to say at the moment. “Assault! Assault against the Grand Champion!!”
Edward, furious at the fuss made over so simple a thing, began once more arguing with the Bosmer. “Assault?” he asked. “That wasn’t assault! This would be assault!” He herewith slapped the valet, and hard. “Now there’s assault for you!”
All at once a collective gasp rose from the crowd of onlookers, and a cacophony of mingled voices began to join the fan’s. “Assault! He assaulted the Grand Champion!”
At that moment, a burly Imperial Guard pushed through the assembled crowd. “Who assaulted the Grand Champion?” he demanded furiously.
The crowd responded in unison, pointing at Edward. “He did!”
“It was no big deal,” the valet protested. “That's what I've been telling them, it was-”
“Nevermind that, my Champion!” the Guard declared reverently. “I’ll take care of it. You-” He pointed to Edward, and his tone took on an aspect of disgust and loathing. “Scum – you’re under arrest. We’ll see how much you like assaulting the Champion after some time in the Imperial Prison.”
Edward turned open-mouthed to his servant. “Tell him to piss off!” he demanded.
But a strange look had lighted the valet’s eye. “No…no indeed, I will not. The perfect place for you is prison!” A collective cheer rose from the crowd, and the Guard nodded in satisfaction as he surveyed the pleased faces about him. The valet, meanwhile, shot Edward a quick nod and wink, and mouthed “Valen Dreth!” to him.
Edward, however, saw none of this…his senses were too clouded by sheer rage for him to see straight, much less think straight. He lunged for his servant, his fists flying and his tongue lashing out with every curse and oath known to mankind. So great was his fury that it took half the crowd to actually pull him off of the Grand Champion before he was hauled away to prison.
Assault on the Grand Champion!
No sooner than had our mighty, beneficent Grand Champion won his title and exited the Arena, on the very day of his victory, a fiend of the lowest and vilest order attacked him. To his credit, Dragonheart did not do what so many – including the horde of eager fans who had surrounded him, and your own correspondent – wished had been done – beat the miscreant low-life to within an inch of his miserable life for daring to lay a hand on our esteemed Champion. Instead, he handed the vile attacker over to the Imperial Guard, who swiftly carried out justice against the ingrate – who is now rotting in a dungeon, where scum of his ilk belong. Long live our illustrious Champion, and despair of the worst sort to those would dare to lay a finger on our magnificent fighter!
-- Black Horse Courier, Special News Bulletin
Chapter One Hundred and Thirteen
Edward screamed out a final barrage of the worst profanities he could think of as the heavy prison door scraped shut. Then he kicked his cell bars, wincing in agony as his foot impacted with the metal.
“Ohhhh, it’s you again?” a high voice asked.
Edward glanced behind him, still wincing in pain. He started as he saw the speaker. It was the snotty Dunmer who’d been stationed across from him during his first incarceration, so long ago. It was Valen Dreth, the very man he’d come to kill.
“And I see you recognize me as well.”
“Of course I recognize you,” Edward snapped. “Which is just another reason that this is one of the worst days of my life!”
“Ohh, poor little Imperial,” Valen laughed. “How’s it feel to be thrown into prison by your own kinsmen? You’re an embarrassment to them, you see…an embarrassment to the empire. And we know what happens to embarrassments to the empire, don’t we?” He laughed again.
Edward glared at him. He had heard all of this tripe the first time he’d been in prison. “Damned gods!” he cursed. “Not bad enough to be betrayed by my own servant – slimy ingrate that he is...but now to be the cell mate of this tedious elven beast? How dare they do this to me?”
Valen clucked his tongue mockingly. “Now, now,” he said, “if you’re so annoyed with the gods, it might just be that you’re praying to the wrong ones!”
Edward’s glare intensified. “What do you mean, ‘the wrong ones’?” he asked. “I’ve prayed to all of them! Talons, Macintosh, Julianna, Isabella, Maria, and…” he paused, frowning and counting mentally. “Well, all of them,” he repeated.
Valen shook his head, more amused than anything else. “Yes, well, aside from the slight confusion as to their names-” Here he coughed significantly. “ It’s possible that ‘Talons’, ‘Macintosh’ and the rest just aren’t the right gods for what you’re praying for.” Edward frowned at him, still not following. “Maybe you need to pray to a god…somewhat more diabolical.”
Edward’s expression lightened at this suggestion. “I say!” he exclaimed, suddenly considerably more cheerful, “that’s a very good idea! I should be praying to…” Here, he paused and frowned. “…you know the fellow, the one with lots of arms, who, well, hates humans…Marooned Dragon?”
“Mehrunes Dagon?” Valen suggested, sighing.
“Yes, yes!” Edward exclaimed. “He’s the one.”
Valen shook his head imperceptibly, but only said, “Well, I would not pray to Mehrunes Dagon unless I was serious about…” Then he paused, and a slight smile toyed with the corners of his mouth. “But then, what do I know? He is a Daedric Prince known for his benevolence to all of his followers, even the less than committed ones who don’t know how to pronounce his name.”
Edward nodded excitedly. “Excellent!” he declared. “Now, how exactly does one go about becoming a follower of this Marooned Dragon fellow?”
There are many who serve the gods;
Some for fame, some for fortune;
Some for glory, and some for vengeance.
But few indeed are they who serve with sincerity.
-- Of the Followers of the Gods, Edition the Third
Chapter One Hundred and Fourteen
Edward knelt in front of a crescent of lit candles. The candles he’d acquired from Valen Dreth, whom he was currently disposed to think very well of. Dreth, it turned out, was in fact a worshiper of the Daedric prince of doom and despair, and was gladly giving him instruction in how to likewise become a follower.
Edward bowed low before the candles, chanting, “Oh great Prince, Marooned Dragon, hear my pleas, your humble slave awaits your favor. Let me serve you, oh Great One, that I may partake of your noble rewards.”
Valen Dreth, unseen by Edward, was shaking his head at this prayer; but the Imperial kept with it, repeating his supplications over and over. Finally, though, he turned to Dreth. “It’s not working!”
“What’s not working?”
“Well, he hasn’t answered!”
The elf raised an eyebrow. “Well, gods don’t generally just answer us.”
“Then how do we know they’re doing what we want?”
“Well, we see the results of their handiwork in our lives.”
Edward nodded. “So, then, I should experience great fortune soon?”
“Umm, yes, probably,” Dreth answered. To a more perceptive person than Edward, it would have seemed that the Dunmer was just waiting this one out, simply for the amusement of seeing what would befall his cell mate. Edward, however, not being so perceptive, nodded gleefully, and set about chanting a new prayer.
“Oh great Prince,” he prayed, prostrating himself before the flames, “please give me vengeance against my wayward servant! Please, let him suffer! Let him come to untold harm and agony and misery!”
Dreth shook his head, commenting under his breath, “Isn't it redundant to wish horrible suffering on someone who serves you?"
“Please, my mighty god, do for me what those disgusting, paltry gods would not. Let that servant suffer, please! Kill him for me – but not until after he has been made to pay for his insolence!”
Dreth cleared his throat. “Wow, you’re really upset at this servant, aren’t you?”
Edward’s eyes flashed. “You have no idea what he’s done to me!” he answered. “For months he has treated me with insolence and disdain. Then he tricked me into feeling sorry for him – him, a servant! – because he was going to die, and then he didn’t even die! But worse yet, he had me arrested, and thrown into prison!”
Dreth’s eyebrows rose at the telling, even as Edward’s complexion darkened into a fearful mask of anger and loathing. “And for that you want him to die?”
“Not just die,” Edward breathed maliciously, as if savoring the very thought, “but die terribly!”
Valen Dreth cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I totally get that.” Edward was about to return to his supplications, but the Dunmer, no doubt tiring of the sing-song repetition of his chanting, interrupted, “What is this servant’s name, anyway?”
Edward frowned at this question. “Hmm…” he said, thinking hard. “I don’t know, but I suppose he must have one. I never bothered to ask, but I'm sure he mentioned it once or twice.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter, what with him just being a servant and all.”
Dreth shook his head, and Edward returned to chanting. The Imperial's prayers continued for several minutes, but then a door overhead scraped open.
“Quick!” Dreth instructed. “The guards are coming! Hide the candles!”
Edward, eager to comply as to not risk further enraging the guards – insulting them, their gods, the dead emperor, their mothers, daughters, sons, fathers, priests, and family pets seemed as far as he should go, to his mind – gathered the candles quickly. Not bothering to extinguish them, he threw them under Valen’s bed, even as the tramping of armored feet grew nearer and nearer.
“You’re supposed to put the candles out!” Valen whispered angrily. But neither man could move now, as the Guards were in sight, and would see them with their contraband if they moved for them.
“Who cares,” Edward hissed back, “they’ll just run out of air and extinguish themselves!”
Valen glared at Edward, but said nothing. The guards, meanwhile, marched slowly down the hall, apparently inspecting the cells. Edward attempted to appear nonchalant as the men passed his cell. He was just about to breathe a sigh of relief, when one guard paused, his nose twitching. “What’s that?” he asked.
Valen and Edward exchanged worried glances. “What?” they asked.
The guard turned to them and seemed about to speak, but froze suddenly, a look of horror coming into his eyes. Edward stared back, puzzled, noticing with only fleeting interest the peculiar red hue of light that reflected on his armor. The guard, his eyes still transfixed on Edward’s cell, tapped a fellow guard, who likewise turned.
The second guard’s eyes bulged as the first’s had, but he seemed to find his voice. “Fire!” he screamed. “Quick, get those two prisoners out of there before they burn to death!”
Edward glanced down the hall, thinking with a feeling of excitement how interesting this all was. Who was it, he wondered, that had a fire in their cell? And how? He frowned as he glanced down the hall, cursing his misfortune that he was not at a proper angle to see the flames from his cell. That, at least, would have made his day a little more interesting.
He noticed only vaguely that the guards seemed to be headed in the direction of his cell, and that Valen Dreth was tugging incessantly at his sleeve. “What is it?” he snapped, spinning about to face his cell mate. “Can’t you see that I’m trying to find the…” He trailed off, a mask of fear covering his face. “Fire!!” he screamed, flailing his arms wildly. “Fire!!” Indeed it was, for the flames he sought were coming from his cell, and Valen’s bed.
Oh boy, this is great!
First Docada, the big prattler. Ah, that's why the Grey Prince wanted to get out!
haute ecole rider and malx: thanks for the comments, glad you enjoyed these chapters!!
From a little fire,
Big flames can grow.
And from a fool’s fire,
Well, who can know?
-- Song of Flame
Chapter One Hundred and Fifteen
The guards had, rather brusquely, pulled Edward and Dreth out of their cells, and shoved them aside. “Quick!” one guard was calling, “Get buckets of water!” Another was hastening to comply. Edward glanced about wildly, trying hard to master the panic that flared in him at the sight of the raging flames.
“There, on the table near the lanterns!” His eyes spotted a bucket of water, and his senses seemed to calm. He could help, after all. “Here,” he called, racing for the bucket. In a moment, he had taken hold of it and was racing back toward the flaming bed. “Stand aside!” he declared.
He heard Valen shout, “No!” but took no heed of him. The Dunmer, he thought, might be too frightened to take action, but he, Edward the Imperial, was not. The elf continued to shout, but Edward concentrated on his task.
So it was that he heard Valen shout, “It’s not water – it’s oil for the lamps!” But he didn’t process the meaning of the words until after he’d chucked the bucket’s contents onto the flames.
Two and half seconds too late, he gasped as the import of Dreth’s warning sunk in, and paused. For a moment, it seemed as if the bucket full of oil had managed to smother the flames. In the next, however, flames shot up anew, spreading across the floor and climbing the walls and ceiling – everywhere that Edward had splashed with oil. The wooden supports that lined the stone were already catching flame, and the fuel-covered stone was already alight.
Edward’s horror turned into full blown panic, and he began screaming wildly in the face of the flames. He could feel the intense heat of the fire from where he stood, several feet away, but he was too panicked even to move from the spot. He could only scream and flail his arms about madly.
He felt a hand pull him away, and he heard voices shouting for the prisoners to be released; for the building to be cleared; and for more water to be brought, as quickly as legs could go. But he was too lost in unthinking, unreasoning fear to do anything beyond scream.
It was only when a hard slap impacted with his face did he rouse himself from the blind horror. All at once, he realized that he was no longer in his cell, but an oddly familiar underground passage of some sort. He paused in his screaming to glance about him.
Valen Dreth was at his side, glaring at him. “You moron!” he said, “Are you trying to get us caught?!”
Edward blinked at him, trying to piece together what had happened during the lapse of his reasoning. The last thing he could remember was throwing a large bucket of oil onto the fire in their cell. Now, here he was in the underground passages leading from the prison, where he and the Emperor had traversed so long ago. He gasped out loud. “That’s it!” he said. “This is where we are, in the passage leading from that cell!”
Valen continued to glare at him. “Of course it is! Why do you think I dragged you down here? So we could escape!”
“Really?” Edward asked, somewhat taken aback. Here he had been sent to kill this elf, and the man was helping him to escape.
“Yes. You know how to get out of here,” Valen explained. “And I don’t want to go exploring on my own.”
“Oh, I see,” Edward nodded. Not as kind of him, then…but they still got out, at least.
“I was able to pull you out without the guards noticing, since they were so busy putting the fire out and getting the other prisoners away before they burnt to death. Of course, your screaming like a little girl didn’t help me any…”
Edward shifted in place, shrugging apologetically. “Well, sometimes I just…panic,” he explained.
The elf’s expression of disgust unchanged, he sighed but said, “Alright, let’s gets going. You lead.”
Edward swallowed hard. He could still remember the creepy, grabby, unwashed hands of the goblin creatures that infested these tunnels -- not to mention the assassins who seemed to materialize out of nothing. "Me?" he asked. "Are you sure you want me to lead?"
Valen glared at him again, demanding, "Yes! Now move!"
Sighing and shivering a bit, Edward gingerly stepped forward, peering into the scantily lit chambers and passages around him. They were, he reckoned, about half way through the tunnel...soon, they would reach the door that had been locked last time, and the underground, goblin-infested passage. "It's this way," he declared, pointing down the passage.
"Alright," Valen nodded. "Lead on."
Edward flinched, but -- truth to be told -- he was at least glad to have this elf with him as he traversed these lonely stone halls. "It's a shame I'm going to have to kill him," Edward thought. "He seems a nice enough chap to me."
Goblins, goblins so sweet
Goblins, we love goblin meat
Goblins, goblins to eat
Goblins, send us goblins we entreat.
-- Song of the Goblins, popularized version of a favorite song of the inmates at Woodmeadow Lunatic Asylum
Chapter One Hundred and Sixteen
Edward and his companion had traveled together in silence, each dreading an encounter with anything -- man or beast -- that might inhabit the desolate passages they traversed. At last, however, they reached the wooden door that had, on Edward's last passage, been locked.
Testing the handle, Edward groaned.
"What is it?" Valen whispered, glancing about. "What's the matter?"
"The door is locked," Edward explained.
"Locked?" Valen gasped. "Well, what now? Oh, wait! There's a passage, over there. You see?" He pointed to the earthy opening in the stone walls.
Edward frowned, but then an idea struck him. "Oh, really?" he asked, his tone expressing surprise. "Well, why don't we check it out?" Staying back just long enough so that the elf would unconsciously take the lead, Edward smiled to himself. The last time he'd gone through this terrible, stuffy underpass, it had been heavily infested with goblins. This time, at least, someone else would take point.
Meanwhile, just as Valen and Edward were stepping into the musty caverns underneath the Imperial Prison, the Grand Champion was telling his adoring fan, "Now, I'm very serious. I have to go see my friend in prison!"
To which the style-challenged elf protested, "But, Great Champion, surely he does not deserve to bask in the glow of your presence after his insolence?"
The valet sighed. Aside from the impracticality of attempting to make the little Bosmer understand, he couldn't reveal his actual motivations in having Edward sent to prison, as that would endanger his friend. So, unable to explain that he'd been facilitating a Dark Brotherhood execution, he had to make due with convincing the fan that Edward was, in fact, worthy of his assistance. So, on this pretext, he told the Bosmer that he'd forgiven his friend, and so was going to plead with the Guards for his release. He did not doubt that his clout would win Edward's freedom, just as it had earned him imprisonment; so, a quick talk with the guards, maybe signing a few autographs or so, and Edward would be free -- and after he had an opportunity to scope out the prison, locate Dreth, and maybe already dispose of him.
"Now," Dragonheart told his follower, "let's have no more of this talk. I'm going. And, if you want to come too, you have to be polite. Do you understand?"
The fan sighed deeply, but said, "Yes, my Champion, for you, anything -- even be nice to that...that...that fiend!"
Rolling his eyes, the valet continued toward the palace, hoping that the fan would soon -- very soon -- tire of trailing him.
At the same moment, Edward and Valen were creeping through a damp, musty crawlspace. "Shhh!" Edward hissed. "I think I heard something!"
Valen froze, and they listened for several minutes in silence. Yet no sounds came to their ears. "You must have imagined it," the elf told him.
"No," Edward told him. "I don't think so. I think it was one of the goblins."
"Goblins?" Valen asked, turning horrified eyes toward him.
Edward flinched. "That's right," he thought, "I haven't told him about the goblins yet, have I?" Aloud, he said, "Umm, yes, goblins...don't you remember me telling you how they infested these tunnels?"
Valen glared at him. "No!"
"Oh...well, I did," Edward assured him, most insincerely.
"You liar!" the elf charged.
Edward stared at him in affected shock at this effrontery. "How dare you!?" he demanded. "I never lie, elf!"
Valen stared daggers at him. "Just wait until we're out of here, Imperial!" he growled. "You'll pay!"
Edward rolled his eyes, and shook his head in a taunting, mock frightened manner. "Since we're on the topic, elf, I've got a score to settle with you, too, once we're out of here."
"Good!" Valen sneered. "Now I'll have a chance to kick your -"
At that moment, both men froze as a pair of glowing yellow eyes peered into the darkness at them from the rear end of the tunnel. They turned at a peculiar angle, as if the head that contained them had pivoted in a quizzical manner. Then it cooed in a high, sinister way. Both men began to scream in hysterical, panicking tones. Valen started kicking and scrambling to be free of the passage; being in the lead, however, his kicks ended up finding their way into Edward's face and torso.
Furiously, frantically, meanwhile, the Imperial was grabbing and pulling, likewise attempting to crawl out of the damp, dark pass; his efforts, however, did little but hamper his companion’s ability to flee.
Hear the screams,
Scream the alarm,
Alarm the guards,
Guard the Palace!
-- Official Defense Plan for the Imperial City, as transcribed from the Royal Archives
Chapter One Hundred and Seventeen
Dragonheart rounded a bend, his heart feeling very light. At last he was free of the houses that obscured the panorama of colors overhead, and so he would be able to see the sunset -- strangely early as it was -- casting its lovely reddish hue upon the city. Glancing upwards, however, the Imperial froze in horror. It was no sunset lighting the city in hues of red and orange. No indeed; it was a giant spire of flame encircling the lower portion of the White Gold Tower, and climbing higher and higher with every lick of the deadly orange flame tongues.
This -- the Imperial Palace in flames -- was bad enough; but it was worse since the Imperial Guards had commissioned the Bastion -- what had once housed the Imperial Prison -- for their own use, and had transferred the prison to the palace basement about a year earlier.
"My gods," he gasped. "I've sentenced him to death!"
"Oh dear," the adoring fan, almost silent for once, gasped. After a moment, he added, "At least, though, Great Champion, it started before you entered!"
The valet glared at him, a thousand terrors assailing his thoughts. What sort of evil fate had he subjected his friend to, all in his bumbling attempt to assist? Why, why, why had he not trusted to Edward's abilities to hunt Dreth without any interference or assistance from him? How could those fools of Guards let a fire like this start when there were prisoners locked in the dungeons? And was it possible that they had rescued the prisoners?
Staring at the flames as they climbed, engulfing more and more of the palace tower with every moment, Dragonheart felt very sick. He had, he was sure, sentenced his friend to a terrible death; and now he was too late to do anything to help.
Of course, little did he know that, at that very minute, Edward and Valen Dreth were very much alive, and busily beating, kicking and screaming at one another in their individual attempts to get out of their tunnel enclosure before the other. Finally, delivering a good, hard kick to Edward's face, Valen managed to break free of him. The Imperial, however, was hot on his heels as he fled, and scrambled out of the passage only seconds after the elf, careening into him as he leaped from the earthen shaft.
Both men tumbled into a heap at the mouth of the passage, and at once fell to striking each other in their frenzied attempts to get away. A gurgling goblin inquiry from within the tunnel roused them from their senseless endeavor long enough so that they could rise to their feet; and then they took off at breakneck speed, paying no heed to which direction they went, and knowing little except that there was an ever-increasing horde of vile creatures on their tails.
Eventually, screaming and fleeing as they were, Edward lost sight of Valen, and imagined that he must have taken some turn to another side. He honestly didn't care...he was far too worried about the host of furry, biting, hissing, screeching things on his tail to care about the elf -- even if it did mean muddling up his contract. Worse yet for him, though, was the realization that there was no band of Blades waiting at the end of the tunnel to destroy his pursuers. And, perhaps most alarming of all, was the fact that the tunnels were growing increasingly hotter. Was it possible, Edward wondered, that the palace itself had caught flame, and was heating these passages, like a giant clay oven? The thought sent a shiver down his sweating back, and he hurried his frenzied pace.
At last an aperture in the earthen basement opened up, spilling into the stone of the underground palace passes. Edward charged blindly forward, leaping joyfully from the clay oven, only to find with dismay that he'd entered a brick one. "Ye gods!" he gasped, tearing at his clothes and gasping for breath. "It's hot enough to cook something!"
This realization prompted another one, and -- despite toppling at the brink of a terrible death -- Edward was at once aware that all of his exertion had made him terribly hungry.
Terrors of the night,
Fears of the ages,
All of these are naught
Compared to him.
-- Song of Edward, Verse Six
Chapter One Hundred and Eighteen
From far and wide, people paused in alarm and dismay that bright afternoon. In horror their eyes turned to the Imperial City, and in horror they watched the iconic White Gold Tower grow red and orange, and seem to dance before them. Mountaineers in the Northern slopes, midland herders tending their flocks, outlaws vanished into the rocky dwellings of the Colovian Highlands, hermit dwellers of the Valus Mountains, boatmen and women in the harbor and upon the high seas, Blades atop their rocky summit of Cloud Ruler Temple, hunters in the Great Forest...all these saw, in horror and dismay, the flaming icon of the Imperial City, indeed, of the Empire itself, glow red and dance its doomed dance against the late afternoon sky. What tragedy, what disaster, what travesty could have brought the Palace to such an end? What cruel whim of the gods had it been to ignite the symbol of the Imperials, of Alessia and the slave-race who threw off the yoke of bondage to destroy their masters and establish themselves in their own right? Was it, the masses whispered in fear and alarm, the fulfillment of prophecy -- that the Dragonblood, once extinguished, had taken with it the greatness of the Empire? Did the burning of the White Gold Tower portend the wrath of the gods and the doom that awaited mankind, people wondered in growing terror?
Of course, little did these speculators realize just how wrong their frightened musings were, and just how far from the reality of the incident their wandering conjecture had strayed. Little did these troubled citizens realize that the burning of the Imperial Palace could not be attributed to any god, or to any stern fate dictated by the divines, but rather to a revengeful Imperial prisoner, whose disastrous supplications to the god of doom had led to a small but containable fire; and whose attempts at putting out that fire had escalated it into the burning inferno that they witnessed now, as it consumed the symbol of their nation's greatness. Little did they realize that, far from the grand and terrible images of powerful, vengeful gods that they conjured up, the actual cause of this disaster was at the moment himself frozen in terror, teetering over the edge of a newly opened fissure-like aperture.
And yet it was so, for Edward, whose bungling had ignited the Imperial Palace, now stood in mortification, overlooking a rift in the Imperial Sewers, no doubt caused by the tremendous crashing and shifting of portions of the palace overhead. It was a steep drop, a good fifty or so feet from where he stood, into a pit -- he knew not how deep -- wherein the contents of the Imperial Sewers had drained. Overhead, the moving and creaking of stone forewarned of imminent danger; and behind him, the hissing, squeaking, gurgling, spitting fury of a mob of monsters bespoke even more immediate menace. And yet, for all this, Edward could not make himself plunge into that horrid, steaming -- literally, as it, like everything around it, had heated up due to the conflagration above -- pool of waste below him.
This decision, however, was not one he'd have to make for himself, as a screaming, panicked body, appearing suddenly onto the plateau from some side passage, careened into him, hurling both itself and Edward headlong into the pit below.
Terrified as he was, Edward's fury mastered his fear; and as he rose to the surface he was cursing angrily at whoever had been the fool who pushed him in. The fool, it turned out, was Valen Dreth, and he likewise was cursing.
"What the Oblivion did you push me in for??" Edward berated.
"Why in Oblivion did you abandon me??" Dreth demanded at the same time.
Each about to shout denunciations of the charges leveled at his door, and condemnation of the other man, both paused in shock and dismay as they saw two packs of rats, goblins, and other subterranean-dwelling creatures plunge headlong off the miniature cliff in pursuit of their prey -- them. The elf and Imperial screamed in unison, each hastily making for the edge of the pit. Their swim was a long and vile one, and the plop, plop, plop behind them as their pursuers dove in did nothing to ease the disgusting nature of their business. At last, however, thoroughly soaked in the city's waste, they reached the edge of the chasm.
Hesitating not a moment, they scrambled out, noting with only fleeting satisfaction that the numbers of their pursuers had diminished significantly. They glanced about them quickly, and were able to pick out a path that seemed crossable. "Here!" Edward shouted, pointing it out. "We should be able to climb over the rubble!"
Panting, wheezing, cursing and grunting, the two men made haste to do so -- and ignore the awful, nauseating smell of heated septic waste that adorned their bodies, or the ever-increasing temperature that heated the rocks beneath them and the air they breathed.
It was a long climb, and a hard one, but, at last, they reached the summit of the rubble, and were, with much difficulty, able to leap to the other side of the ruined sewer passages. These, at least -- as their passages had drained into the fissure from whence Edward and Valen had just escaped -- were clear of all but a clinging sludge, and a few angry crabs. The crabs -- doubtless because of the heat -- were slower than usual, however, so that even their anger aided them little in their efforts to attack the two fleeing men.
"Die!" Edward cursed as he passed a trio of clack-clack-clacking crabs. "I hope you all bake in here, you bastards!"
Oh noes! Edward set fire to the White Gold Tower!
Had to laugh at the description of just about the entire population of Cyrodill watching the tower burn from their locations in the surrounding mountains. It's a pet peeve of certain folks on this forum that cities are so close to each other, and that Cyrodill should take more than a day to cross from one end to the other.
Valen and Edward fleeing the goblins was quite funny too.
But funniest of all was Docada's reaction to Norvayne's statement that he had sentenced his vile friend to certain death!
Rachel, I will have to read this tomorrow morning. I have a headache from H (brought on by the rain penning 2 dogs, a cat, a teen, and a husband inside with me all day). I want to enjoy DOCADA's saga, lol.
The vision of Edward running screaming through the tunnels and sewers below the Imperial City will keep me laughing through about anything !!! AWESOME WRITE !!!!
@haute ecole rider: thanks, glad you liked the chapters! And I know what you mean about the spacing issue...it seems rather cramped for the heart of the empire. ![]()
@malx: Ohhhh, rain and pets is bad enough, but teenagers only make things that much worse, lol. Glad you survived it!
As for the story, thanks, I love the image of Edward and Dreth running about...I can just see them losing each other without noticing and then colliding like that, lol.
Sings us a song of cowardice,
And he knows the lyrics well.
Sings us a song of malice,
And he knows it as well.
-- Song popularized after the end of the Oblivion Crisis
Chapter One Hundred and Nineteen
Valen Dreth and Edward crawled out of the same sewer grate that Edward had stepped out of what seemed like ages ago. They were still pursued by an ever diminishing band of creatures, but they were able to secure the grate in such a way that it would prove a daunting barrier to any creature lacking the intellect required to unfasten it. This done, they immediately dove into the cool water, both to soothe their overheated bodies and to remove the vile layer of waste that covered them.
As soon as he'd plunged under water enough times to wash as much filth as possible off of himself, Edward turned his attention to the City, where he was bound. Then, he gasped. "Oh my gods," he sputtered, indignation and rage filling him, "some fool has lit the Imperial Palace on fire!"
Valen glanced first at him, and then at the flaming spire rising high above the city, his expression changing from annoyance to shock to fury; Edward, however, took no note.
"Who would do such a thing?" the Imperial wondered aloud. "What sort of fiend?"
Valen Dreth stared at him, as if attempting to ascertain if he spoke facetiously or not; his angry, annoyed expression morphed into a darker, more annoyed one as he surveyed Edward, who still ranted furiously, bobbing up and down in the water with each proclamation.
"The White Gold Tower!" he was currently exclaiming. "The symbol of Aleyid power, and the symbol of the might of Imperials -- for it was we who took it from the race of filthy elves!"
Dreth shot him a dark look at this mention of elves, but he again took no notice.
"The arsonist should be strung up for this!" Edward roared, floundering to keep himself above water as he exhaled the air from his lungs. "This is treason, treason to the Empire! A slap in the face to history, to Imperials everywhere!"
Dreth stared at him icily, a mixture of amazement and disdain filling his eyes. "Don't you find it oddly coincidental," he asked, "that you lit a fire in the prison underneath the palace, and -- right after that -- some arsonist lit the palace on fire?"
Edward gasped. "You're right!" he exclaimed, pausing for a moment to pull himself up out of the water. "That's a good point! It must have been one of the guards!"
Valen stared at him, too surprised by this conclusion to respond.
"They must have known about the fire in the dungeon, and took the opportunity, when everyone was distracted, to light the palace on fire!"
The elf grimaced at this wanton stupidity, but said only, "Come on, let's get to shore."
Edward didn’t need to be told twice, and both men swam toward the Island city. The Imperial pulled himself out of the water wearily, and collapsed with a heavy thudding sound onto the sandy shore. “It’s amazing, Dreth,” he told the elf, “that we made it out of there! We actually make a pretty good team, you know that?” He didn’t see the Dunmer’s malicious smile, so he continued, “You know – you won’t believe it – but I had come to the city expressly to kill you. But I’m not going to do that now. Vicente be hanged…I could never hurt a pal who helped me escape from prison and saved my life!”
Valen Dreth sneered, and asked, “You, going to kill me? There’s a laugh.”
Edward glanced up, annoyed, but froze suddenly. The elf was toying with a dagger, a dark look in his eye.
“You know,” he told the Imperial, “I didn’t get you out of there for your sake. I told you so from the beginning. But now that we’re out…well, there’s only one person in the world beside me who knows about it.” He smiled, fixing his eyes on Edward’s. “I can’t have that, now can I?”
Edward gaped at the insolence of the man. “You mean…you want to kill me? After I decided to spare your life and everything?”
“’Fraid so,” Valen answered matter-of-factly. “I don’t need any witnesses to our escape. So, you see, you’re putting me in rather a difficult position.”
Edward, however, had heard enough at this point; if the elf’s toying maliciously with his dagger hadn’t convinced him of the sincerity of his words, the cold, calculating gleam in his eyes certainly did. Scrambling to his feet, and loosing a yelp of fear at the same time, Edward sprinted for the cliff face. Even the protests of his weary legs did nothing to slow him. In a moment, he was climbing the rock face, the sounds of the elf quick on his heels driving him ever onward and upward.
“Begone, murderer!” Edward shouted back, desperately clinging and inching higher. “Leave me be!”
He heard Valen laugh behind him, and then felt a cold, clammy hand wrap around his ankle. “C’mon now,” the elf told him, his tone harsh yet almost musical in its cruelty. “You may as well make this easy on yourself.” He tugged downward, hard, on Edward’s leg.
The Imperial was shrieking with fright at this point, and kicking wildly with his unfettered leg. “Let go!” he screamed. “Let go of me!”
He heard Valen laugh, and felt the long, cold fingers of the elf’s free hand brush with his other leg. Flailing it about more violently, he was glad when his heel impacted sharply with the Dunmer’s grasping hand. “Let go!” he repeated, still kicking. He was too frightened to look down, and it was difficult enough to remain in place while Valen pulled on his one leg, and he kicked with the other, without trying to pull himself higher.
But he heard the growl of the elf as his kick found its mark, and he heard him say, “Alright, enough games Imperial twit. Time to die.”
This sent Edward into a new frenzy, and he was all at once screeching as he’d never screeched, and kicking like he’d never kicked. He felt his heels impact with the Dumner several times, and felt the hand on his leg slip away, but he still hadn’t had the courage to look down. Instead, he continued to flail with his lower body, and cling onto the rock cliff face with his upper.
Let me guess - so Edward Numbnuts managed to kill Dreth after all?
'Tis ironic, isn't it, that he always manages to accomplish every 'mission' he so half-heartedly with multiple misconceptions sets out to do? Though usually in manners unforeseen?
His speech at the burning of the White Gold Tower had me holding my laughter in (which was quite painful) due to the early hour. It would have frightened the cats terribly!
As soon as he'd plunged under water enough times to wash as much filth as possible off of himself, Edward turned his attention to the City, where he was bound. Then, he gasped. "Oh my gods," he sputtered, indignation and rage filling him, "some fool has lit the Imperial Palace on fire!"
And this is where I put my head down on the table and gave in to helpless laughter.
The Adoring Fan will forever be Docada now!
@haute ecole rider: lol, quite right -- Edward, with a few notable exceptions, always manages to come away from his tasks successful -- but never through the means one would expect.
Glad you liked the White Gold Tower speech; I loved writing it...I could see him bobbing and spluttering in fury at the "assault" on the "symbol of Imperial might".
When trying to figure out the social landscape of the game, I've always sort of seen the Imperial world as being even more of an extension or re-imagining of the Roman world than the game has it, and so attributed a lot of the Roman prejudices toward "barbarians" to the Imperials, toward non Imperials. As I see it, there would be people like the valet, who don't put people in the "barbarian" and "Imperial" camps; these would be the majority of "regular" people. But many of the noble Imperial families, especially, would consider themselves a cut above the regular Imperial "riff raff", and heads and shoulders above the "barbarian" riff raff. Edward, coming from a noble family, as well as being a total snot, would hold these ideas very dear, and would be seeped in the history of the Imperials from a very pro-Imperial viewpoint. So, to him, this tower is nothing more than a symbol of Imperial might -- because the Imperials were able to take even such a prize from the "filthy elves" and make it their own. To see it burn, therefore, would be a terrific blow; alas for Edward, he has no idea that he, himself, is the cause for that blow. (You can see a similar refrain of his bungling leading to a consequence that he would be appalled at in the Felicity subplot that shows up later [which, I think, I started to post on the Bethesda forum?] -- again, if not for Edward's bungling, the entire subplot never would have been introduced.
)
Grits: "And this is where I put my head down on the table and gave in to helpless laughter.
The Adoring Fan will forever be Docada now! "
LOL. Thanks, I loved writing this sequence. As for Docada, I'm glad to hear that as well...he was certainly memorably annoying/creepy in the game as the style challenged stalker, so I'm glad Docada captured that as well. ![]()
mALX: Thanks, glad that it retains its funniness on a re-read. As for Edward, well, his tact is almost as great as his powers of perception.
He's not only dense about his own actions, but he totally misses -- or doesn't care enough to look out for -- the impact of his words. ![]()
Fire reaching to the sky,
A thousand voices asking why,
And one elf to die
Just another adventure gone awry.
-- Song of Edward, Verse Seven
Chapter One Hundred and Twenty
Still shrieking and flailing about several minutes later, Edward felt his arms giving out. "Please!" he was pleading. "Please don't kill me! I swear, I'll never tell anyone! Oh please, Dreth, don't hurt me! We serve the same god! We escaped together! I helped you get out! Please, don't kill me!"
The elf, apparently, had no intention of acquiescing, for he made no response; but, even as terrified as he was, Edward was still unable to hold on any longer. Knowing that the fall would mean his death, Edward felt tears streaming down his face as his last vestiges of strength gave out. The next thing he knew, he had fallen, and was covering his head and face with his hands. He felt himself land on something flesh-like and warm, and knew at once that he'd landed on the elf -- who was, he was sure, about to murder him.
"Please!" he screamed out desperately, "Please don't!"
He didn't really expect mercy, but he thought he may as well try as not. To his surprise, however, his entreaty was met with absolute silence. "Valen?" he asked raising his head a bit. Opening one eye just a sliver, he asked, "Valen Dreth?"
The elf was there, all right, but not as Edward had expected. Rather than towering over him ready to strike, the elf lay sprawled out on the shore. The fleshy object he'd felt had been Valen's leg, on which he'd landed. Shrieking anew, Edward jumped up and backwards. The Dunmer was, somehow, lifeless and unmoving. "Is he...can he be...dead?" Edward wondered, terror still toying with him. But he had to know, and so he leaned over the elf.
Gasping, Edward noted with both glee and surprise the trickle of blood running from Valen's head onto the rock on which he lay, and down into the sand of the shore. Had he fallen, Edward wondered, or had one of those kicks pushed him backwards? So lost in panic as the Imperial had been, he'd not even heard a thud or fall...and yet, now, Valen Dreth was dead, his head apparently smashed on the cliff walls of the City Isle.
Edward's eyes bulged in appreciation and joy. "Oh, great Marooned Dragon!" he prayed out loud. "Thank you, thank you, thank you for saving your humble slave from the grasp of this madman! Thank you! Only one of your greatness could recognize the caliber of your loyal slave! Only one of your grandeur could appreciate my value to you!"
Meanwhile, as Edward showered the god of doom and destruction with adulatory worship, his valet was frantically trying to find word of his cremated master, as he thought Edward must surely be by this point. He'd previously learned that the prisoners had been rescued, as had all the inhabitants of the castle and many of the books in the Elder Scrolls Library. Even the Moth Priests had been rescued before the inferno spread to their chambers. But, amidst all the rescued, he could find no trace of Edward.
"Look here," he was telling one of the guards, "you must have some idea of him, and what's happened! I need to know!"
The guard, covered in soot and looking somewhat less than pleased to be harassed in this manner over a mere prisoner, snapped back, "I told you already, I can't find him in the records!"
"Why not?" the valet asked. "He must have been registered, since he was taken right here."
"Maybe he was, and maybe he wasn't," the Guard answered. "But I still can't find no mention of him in the records.
"Why?" Dragonheart demanded to know.
"Because the records is burnt," the Guard answered, guffawing at his own joke. "And you can't find something as is burnt, can you now?"
The virtuous seek out the Nine,
But Mehrunes Dagon the swine.
While the Nine seek out the pure,
But the villains Dagon loves for sure.
-- Sundas School lesson
Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-One
Edward had finished scaling the nearly sheer cliff face and was standing outside the walls of the Imperial City . He was hot, tired, and very weary; and his mood was little better than his physical condition. He had just recovered his breath, and was heading toward the nearest gate, when a hand tapped his shoulder.
Jumping in alarm and spinning about, mad images in mind of the furious shade of Valen Dreth pursuing him, he was surprised to see only a red-robed and hooded figure. He stared quizzically at the man before him, whose face was difficult to make out, so hidden underneath his hood as it was. And then his eyes bulged anew, and he felt a scream of panic rising in his throat. This was one of those men, those assassins, who had pursued the Emperor and him during his first escape from the Imperial Prison.
But the robed figure spoke before he could commence screeching. "My dear Edward!" he said, "I am sent to you by our dark Lord and Master, Mehrunes Dagon himself."
Edward paused, the urge to scream momentarily put on hold. "You? What connection are you to my god?"
A smile was visible underneath the hood, and then the lips parted. "Why, I am an agent of the Mythic Dawn, whose mission it is to serve our glorious master."
Edward frowned at him. "Wait, you guys serve the Dragon too?"
"The Dragon?" the agent hissed. "No, we serve Mehrunes Dagon, not Akatosh!"
Edward frowned in confusion at him.
"And our god has heard your pleas, and seen what you have done for us!"
"Oh," Edward declared, his expression brightening a little. He wasn't sure what, exactly, he'd done, but the fact that it pleased a god sounded good enough to him. "I see."
"Indeed. We would like to welcome you into our ranks on behalf of our god, if you would be willing to join?"
Edward positively beamed. "I'd be delighted!" To himself, he thought, "How exciting! Joining a cult of assassins at the invitation of a god himself! Finally, I am getting the recognition I deserve!"
"Excellent! Well, then, initiate, after your glorious work of destruction, we have a task that will seem trivial by comparison. And yet, we hope it may be sufficient to excite your interest, so that you will lend your manifold skills to our endeavors?"
"Of course!" Edward agreed hastily. Whatever it was, he was glad to do it. After all, this god and his followers were the only ones who really, truly valued him for what he was; when was the last time Vicente had spoken of his “manifold skills”, or mentioned tasks that would be “trivial” to him? Never, that's when!
"Wonderful," the robed figure smiled. "Now then, it's a simple task really. We need you to discover the identity of the Emperor's last son, hunt him down, and kill him."
Edward blinked. "What?" he asked, astonishment filling his eyes. "You want me to kill him?"
The robed man nodded. "Yes. Our Lord has faith in you."
Edward's eyes gleamed with sheer pleasure. It was one thing to be sent by a mere band of assassins to kill people; it was another indeed to be hand picked by a god to kill the Emperor's son and heir. "I'll do it!" he exclaimed eagerly.
"Good," the Mythic Dawn agent nodded. "Our god will be proud of you!" Edward's smile grew to positively titanic proportions. "And, once it is done, we will have another task for you."
"Oh?"
"Yes...the Amulet of Kings has disappeared. We need it."
Edward shifted uneasily. "The Amulet of Kings?"
"Yes...rumor has it that some damned fool picked it up after our Brethren slew the Emperor, and we've not been able to locate it since."
"Ahh," Edward answered. "Well, I, umm, might be able to help in that regard."
"Oh?"
"Yes...I've, umm, heard rumors that, uhh, Friar Jauffre has it."
"Oh?" the Mythic Dawn agent repeated, staring out from under his hood at Edward. "I suppose we should have thought of that...but we trailed that swine Baurus, and he didn't have it..."
"Yes, well, rumors are only rumors," Edward declared. "Still, I'd check it out if I were you." To himself, he thought, "Blast! If only I had known beforehand, I might have saved them the trouble!" But he didn't dare reveal his part in this masquerade, for fear that his shifting loyalties would reflect poorly on him to this agent of his god.
The pure of heart
Stands by his friend
Ignoring the faults,
Standing firm to the end.
-- On Friendship
Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Two
Edward, now an initiate into the Mythic Dawn, strolled into the city with a glad heart. Sure, he still reeked of sewerage; yes, someone in whom he'd placed his faith -- Valen Dreth -- had betrayed him and tried to murder him; true, his valet sent him to prison; and, granted, the burning White Gold Tower still rose above the city like a giant flaming specter. But things were finally looking up for him, at least on a personal level. The gods -- "Curse all of them, except, of course, the One, True Being, Marooned Dragon" -- had spent years ignoring him and spitting upon him; now, at long last, they were recognizing him for what he was, and what he could offer them. And soon, so soon as he'd completed his task of assassinating the Emperor's heir...well, what rewards could he expect from a god, after all? There were no limits for gods...they could reward the faithful as they saw fit. And surely one of his character would be deserving of ample rewards, wouldn't he?
Frowning as he realized he'd broken into that habit of old of licking his lips greedily at the prospect of wealth or fortune, Edward straightened himself out, and strolled nonchalantly through the town. He didn't even take it personally when people pulled quickly away, wrinkling their noses and staring at him with disdain. He was too lost in scheming reverie to take much note. "Maybe," he was thinking, "my god will make me Emperor! After all, with all the unworthy heirs dead, and the last of the ingrates dead at my hands no less, the mighty Dragon might see that there are none better suited to rule than myself." He was smiling broadly at the prospect, and walking a bit aimlessly, as he wasn't really sure of where he was going or why. He had a vague idea of retrieving his horse from the stables, but was afraid that, if he should pay a personal visit to Snak gra-Bura's stables, she might recognize him. Yet, as much as he despised the beast, he couldn't warm to the idea of traveling on foot. And, with his wayward servant at last cast off like the vile ingrate that he was, he really had no choice but to fetch the horse himself, or to abandon it.
It was then that an annoying voice broke through his thoughts, and he felt his ears practically itching with aggravation. "Don't take it to heart, Champion," it was saying, "it's sad and all that for sure, but he really is unworthy of your concern!"
Edward froze. Was this...could it be? Were the annoying fan and the miscreant servant approaching? His first instinct was to run, as his servant would no doubt try to have him incarcerated again; but the prevailing sensation was to murder the fiend on sight. So, he remained fixed in place, listening as the voice continued to implore its "Champion" to move on and forget the deceased unworthy. There was now no doubt in his mind...in all of Tamriel, he was sure that only the Ice-Cream-Head could babble so incessantly, repeating the same, oftentimes meaningless, things over and over in ever new and different ways.
Soon enough, the voice drawing nearer and nearer, first the taller form of his valet, and then the childlike form of his valet's stalker, rounded a corner, and froze. Edward watched as his servant's eyes grew wide in shock. Just about to engage in a bitter tirade about betting his servant was surprised to see him after his murder attempt, he froze a second time as the other man rushed over and clasped his hands on his shoulders.
"Sir!" he exclaimed. "Oh, sir, you're alive! Oh, thank the Nine -- I was so afraid..."
"That you'd murdered me?" Edward spit out, ignoring the look of relief and joy that spread across the other man's face.
"No sir," the valet answered. "That you'd died in that fire! I'm so sorry that I interfered. I thought I'd give you a shot at Valen, and I almost got you killed."
Edward stared at his valet, who was positively shaking with both remorse and joy, his face a strange, contorted mask of the two. Something in the other man's relieved expression, and the fact that he didn't recoil in disgust though he was grasping reeking clothes, stayed the flow of bitter fury that was about to roll off of Edward's tongue. "What?" he asked.
"My plan -- to get you in with Dreth by having you hauled off to prison," Dragonheart continued. "Some fool started the palace on fire, and you almost got killed."
Edward glared at him furiously, but the words somehow penetrated his barrier of livid unreasonableness. "You mean...that was all a stupid ploy to get me access to Dreth?"
"Of course," the valet nodded. "I didn't suppose anything like that would happen, though."
"You almost got me killed!" Edward roared, understanding simply giving way to a new facet of fury. "How dare you meddle with my work?!"
Why is it every time I read this story, I have a vision of an animated film playing in my head?
A bad animated film, no less. Something along the caliber of Speed Racer from the '70's.
Hilariously funny because the animation is so bad, and even more hilarious because the plot doesn't care how bad the animation is, it's that hysterically good!
And mALX:
mALX and haute ecole rider: Thanks -- glad you're both enjoying the chapters! Where I live, that's how things get mixed up..."are" is "is" and things of that nature. However, you're quite right...it all depends on location...
Dear Divines,
My name is Edward, and I’m an Imperial living in the Imperial City. I am writing to you this holiday season because I have a request -- two of them, in fact -- and the priest at the temple said that you might answer them if they were good requests. So, you’ll have to take my word on it that these are good requests, because they really are. First of all, please smite my brother. He annoys me. Secondly, could you make me Emperor when I grow up? I hope that’s not too much to ask, but I can’t think of anything else that would make a fitting present for myself.
Yours in subservience and all that,
Edward
-- Childhood letter written to the gods during the winter holiday season
Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Three
It seemed to the Imperial that it was a decent trade off...forgiving his servant of lesser crimes than he had originally thought him guilty in order to secure his continued service. And, anyway, it appeared that the valet had already subjected himself to sufficient mental torture over having Edward arrested. The miscreant, apologetic servant once more welcomed into the master's fold, then, Edward wasted no time in giving orders. First, the valet had fetched him new clothes -- at his own expense, of course, seeing as how Edward's "money was all confiscated by those tin-suited baboons!"; this was nonsense, of course, as Edward had had no money, but his servant had not argued. Then, he'd gone to fetch their horses. Edward and the Adoring Fan were waiting outside the city gates when he returned.
"Well now, sir," the valet greeted, "Snak gra-Bura was most obliging. She was glad to see someone was treating this old nag so well."
Edward grimaced. "I need to pray for a better horse," he reminded himself. "It's a disgrace when my god's hand picked assassin is riding around on a horse that has no respect for him!"
"Are you sure," the fan broke in at the sight of his beloved Champion, "that I must wait here for you, oh Great and Glorious Champion?"
"I'm afraid so," the valet nodded. "My friend and I have important, risky work, and we cannot endanger you with it."
"Oh, but, Mighty Champion, I would risk any harm to be near you!"
Edward grimaced, but his servant was quick to silence the fan. "No, no," he said. "You must stay here. That's the wish of your Champion, and you know you cannot violate it."
Assuming a crestfallen air, the little elf nodded. "Yes, my Champion, I will obey. But you will come back, won't you? You're not just lying to me like that other Champion?"
Here, the valet hesitated; but Edward had no compunction in piping up, "Of course he'll be back! Would your Grand Champion abandon you?" He didn't mean a word of it, and knew well enough that his servant didn't either...but, as far as he was concerned, he'd do whatever it took to lose the little blighter -- up to and including bloody murder, if necessary. For now, though, he was content to confine himself to non-violent means...particularly when the eyes of the Guard were so near at hand.
The little fellow's face brightened, and he pressed, "You promise, my Champion?"
The valet hesitated more visibly this time, but again Edward interjected, "Certainly he promises! The Grand Champion is as good as his word, after all!"
Though Dragonheart frowned, the elf was positively beaming now. "Oh, Great Champion," he eulogized, "you are the greatest, the absolute greatest! Words fail me when it comes to expressing your beneficence, your grandeur, your magnificence!" And, despite professing that words had failed him, the fan set about finding ample expressions to convey, in a hundred ways and a thousand glowing tones, just how great were the depths of his adoration.
Edward was positively seething by time they were out of sight of the little fellow, and utterly livid when, some time later, they were out of the range of his vocal praise.
"I really wish you hadn't said that, sir," his valet told him then. "Now I'm obligated to find him when we return."
Edward stared at the other man, his mouth agape. Finally, he stuttered -- so great was his rage that his usual steady flow of words had dissipated, "You wouldn't dare, you...you...you accursed servant!"
Dragonheart turned surprised eyes to him at this tone, but replied, "Well, sir, you gave my word. And, as you know, I can't break my word."
Conflagration at the Palace! Destruction of the White Gold Tower!
It is with dismay and consternation of the deepest sort that your correspondent puts pen to paper in order that he may, though words come with difficulty, inform his readers that the White Gold Tower, symbol of our City and Empire's magnificence, is, at the hands of a low, scheming arsonist, no more. Reportedly started by a vile prisoner, who was being held in the dungeons underneath the palace proper, a blazing inferno swept upwards, igniting everything in its path in a devastating and unstoppable orgy of destruction. Alas, but the charred ruins of the tower are all that remains; and even these will, it is rumored, need to be taken down, as they present a considerable safety hazard. This is indeed a dark day for the Empire, and for all who have come to depend on the might, glory and righteous guidance that it provides. With shaky hand and trepidatious heart, your faithful correspondent signs off.
--Black Horse Courier, Special News Bulletin
Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Four
All the while vowing that he would unceremoniously disembowel his servant if he ever thought -- so much as thought -- about seeking out his annoying elvish stalker, Edward and his valet made their way to Cheydinhal. Edward's thoughts were that he needed cash, first and foremost to buy a respectable horse; and then for whatever necessity popped up in his hunt for the Emperor's long-lost heir. Somewhere in the back of his mind, though not acknowledged by him, of course, was the fact that our wayward hero had no idea whatever of how to go about seeking out and exterminating the Emperor's son. Neither Friar Jauffre nor the Mythic Dawn agent had given him much to go on. A former monk wasn't a terrific lead, after all.
So, he figured, he'd finish up his business with the Dark Brotherhood, and then...well, he'd see where his path took him from there. Things had a way of falling into his lap, so, at present, it seemed the best course of action to hope that some information would come his way, so that he could get on with the business of murdering his emperor. "Marooned Dragon will understand, I'm sure," he thought. "These things take time and all that."
Of course, he could relate none of the true nature of his task to his foolhardy servant. "The moron will probably go off the deep end," Edward mused, "ranting about honor and duty to the emperor and all that rot." More than rants, however, the Imperial dreaded interference; he doubted very much -- though he'd be the last to admit it aloud -- that he could best his servant in a contest of arms, and so it seemed the far wiser course to avoid such a contest if he was to see to his business.
The other man's voice roused him from his reverie. "I'm actually surprised that you wanted to head out so quickly, sir," it was saying. "I would have thought you would have wanted to stay around to find the fiendish arson who destroyed the Palace."
Edward scowled at the mere thought of the blaggard who would torch the Imperial Palace, the symbol of the might of Imperials. "I would," he admitted, "except that I have such urgent business to attend." To himself, he thought, "I suppose working for a god does trump even an insult of that magnitude." It was one thing, to Edward's mind, to kill the emperor; the emperor was just a man, and any man -- him, for instance -- would be as good a ruler as the next. But the White Gold Tower? That symbolized everything that was great and glorious about the Empire and Imperials, from their conquest of the Aleyids up until the present day. The destruction of that symbol had been not just a slap in the face to the emperor, but to the Empire and every Imperial -- Edward included. It was personal to him, and he could picture a slinking, unwashed barbarian -- sometimes an elf, sometimes a Khajiit, sometimes a Nord, sometimes an Argonian...it didn't really matter which -- skulking about the palace, lighting the fires that had turned into the all-consuming conflagration he'd witnessed.
"Urgent, sir?" the valet asked, his brow wrinkling. "I thought you were just reconvening with the Dark Brotherhood?"
"Umm, yes," Edward stammered, "That's true, but, I, ahh, also, umm..."
"Ohhhh..." the valet nodded, a knowing gleam in his eye. "Another secret mission?"
Edward flushed, but nodded. "That's right."
"Then Friar Jauffre didn't send you away without a task?"
Edward blinked. "Jauffre?" he repeated, suddenly feeling very guilty. He had, after all, practically sentenced the old man to his death, hadn't he?
"I knew it!" the valet continued obliviously. "He may be a grumpy old coot...well, not to put too fine a point on it, but a regular old nutter...but he's not foolish enough to let the man who retrieved the Amulet of Kings -- who was charged by the Emperor himself with returning it! -- slip through his fingers without roping him into service!" He was beaming proudly now. "You are an asset to the Empire, sir!" he told Edward. "A real asset. I mean, your Dark Brotherhood service was noteworthy enough, but this! Retrieving the Amulet of Kings, and now..." His eyes bulged. "Finding the heir!" he exclaimed, interrupting his own speech. "That's it, isn't it?"
Edward started. It was bad enough to have his fanciful servant imagining him on the side of the Emperor and working with Jauffre...but this?
Dragonheart beamed at Edward's reaction. "Ahh, I knew it!" he repeated. "I must say, sir, I am proud -- proud! -- to be working with you, and for our Empire!"
Edward nodded guiltily, the faintest twinge of remorse toying with his heart. It was too late to turn back from his chosen quest, however...and, right or wrong, it still held true that a god had more power of reward than a mere mortal Emperor. Thus, though touched by some pangs of conscience, he was not too sorry for his alliance.
The palace has fallen,
Gutted by a little fire
The Imperials are bawlin'
At the work of a liar.
-- Lyrics penned by Mankar Camoran
Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Five
The ride to Cheydinhal had been uneventful, and -- so far at least -- nothing had dropped into Edward's lap as he'd been planning. He was hardly bereft of hope, however, and so he swaggered with a new-found ease into the Dark Brotherhood headquarters. None of the paltry peasants with whom he was about to associate, he knew, were working at the direct mandate of a god; even if Sithis and the Night Mother existed, these people were the nobodies at the end of their long chain of command -- whereas he was the servant and ambassador of the great Marooned Dragon. These thoughts so impressed upon his mind, he carried himself with an even greater air of arrogant superiority than before. All eyes turned as he passed, and doubtless a number of stomachs proportional to the ratio of eyes-to-stomachs present.
Vicente was standing in the main chamber as he entered, and turned to stare daggers at him. "Edward!" he barked.
His fierce tone jarred the Imperial's stony insolence, but not as much as the fact that, for the first time since their acquaintance, the Breton had used his actual name in addressing him. Edward suddenly felt very meek as he stared into the furious red eyes, managing, "Yes, Mr. Valtieri?"
"So you're back?"
"Ummm...yes?"
The Breton glared at him. "Is that an answer, or a question?"
"An...answer?" Edward stuttered, realizing too late that his answer regarding his answer to a perfectly obvious question was posed so timidly that it, too, sounded like a question.
Vicente's icy glare seemed to freeze the very marrow in his bones. "Do you have any idea what you've done, Imperial fool?"
"Umm...no?"
"Are you answering me, or asking me?" Vicente demanded, his tone powerful and fierce even as his eyes burned a furious red.
"Answering!" Edward shouted, taking care not to repeat his previous slip up.
"You've just committed an act of treason, of war in fact, against the Empire! And did so as an agent of the Dark Brotherhood!"
Edward felt the blood draining from his cheeks, and imagined that he must look paler than Vicente himself. "Ye gods!" he thought. "How could he possibly know?"
The Breton apparently took this guilty reaction as acknowledgment of his crime, so he continued. "After what you've done, if there was anything -- anything! -- that I could get you on, by the gods, I'd do it!" he snapped. "Unfortunately, as the only person you actually killed was Dreth -- your mark -- I can't find anything..."
His eyes were blazing with fury, and Edward felt himself quaking. "I understand you don't approve," he managed in a half-whispered tremor, "but I thought..."
"Thought?!" Vicente demanded, interrupting. "How could you possibly justify that?!"
Edward shrugged, realizing that it was likely better to avoid elucidating his process of rationalizing. "Well, at least I didn't actually kill him," he explained. It made no never-mind to him that he still planned to; just so long as the Breton's fury was redirected long enough for him to make his getaway...
Vicente blinked at this defense, demanding, "Kill him? Kill who?"
"The Emperor," Edward explained. "Well, the heir to the throne."
Vicente's eyes opened wide. "What in blazes are you talking about?" he demanded.
The blood drained from Edward's face a second time. Was it possible, he wondered, that Vicente was speaking of some other transgression, and not his plot to murder the Emperor? But what? Certainly he had committed his share of misdemeanors and crimes in his day, but few -- except for his plot to kill the Emperor -- amounted to treason. "Well," he thought, "maybe stealing the Amulet of Kings could be construed as such...but could he possibly know about that?"
"Well?" Vicente prompted.
Edward seemed to shrink with every word the Breton spoke, and he wanted this interview to be over with as soon as possible. He was, to put it bluntly, scared nigh unto death. "I...I have no idea," he lied. "I just...what are you talking about?"
"Your stunt in the Imperial City!" Vicente roared.
Edward blinked in surprise. "Is that all?" he wondered to himself. Aloud, he said, "Look, I'm really sorry about that, but the provocation was too great...and, seriously, it's not like it's a big deal." Vicente's pallor seemed to redouble for instant, and then the Breton flushed red with fury. "I mean," Edward hurried to explain, "that's what I thought then...but now I see how, umm, wrong I was."
"Gods know," Vicente muttered under his breath, "if there was even the faintest technicality, I'd make short work of you..." His tone reaching a more audible note, however, he said, "But you completed your contract, and broke none of the tenets. So I've no choice but to give you the pay you were promised."
Edward took the bag of gold he was offered, but frowned. "Don't I get...like a bonus or something?" he asked. If it was true that he hadn't broken any rules, then it only seemed fair that he be rewarded accordingly. Vicente Valtieri's eyes flamed a shade of red that might well have come from the deepest reaches of Oblivion, and Edward at once fell to trembling. "Just kidding!" he yelped hurriedly.
"Let me make something clear to you," the Breton growled, "if you ever, ever do something like that again -- rules or no rules -- I'll personally drain you of the last drop of your blood, you worthless maggot!"
Edward blinked at the sheer fury the other man displayed. This really was too extreme, he thought -- but wisely kept to himself -- for something as simple as slapping the Grand Champion about a bit. Aloud, however, he said, "Yes sir. Now, as far as a new contract?"
"You'll be dealing with Ocheeva from here on out," he returned through clenched teeth. "I'd just as soon make a meal of you as not, but she says I can't...still, I'll have nothing further to do with you."
Knowledge is crucial to man's success
Without it, he is ignorant.
But wisdom is more important yet
For without it, he is a fool.
– An excerpt from a piece translated in the scholarly work “Writings of Old, Dead People”
Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Six
A very depressed Edward slunk out of the Dark Brotherhood shortly after his meeting with Vicente. His conference with Ocheeva had gone little better than that with the Breton, although, at least, the Argonian didn't threaten to eat him. She had brusquely told him that his "reprehensible behavior" had put him in a bad spot with the Brotherhood, and -- should it ever happen again -- something "unpleasant" was sure to befall him. That said, she had given him his next contract, noting that he had officially been one mission away from working with her full-time, but that his actions had disgusted Vicente so much that he refused to work further with him.
So, given the details of his latest assignment -- to fake a death -- he left quickly. He hadn't, he noted sadly, even seen Antionetta.
His valet was waiting patiently for him at their inn, and was surprised to see the glare with which he was greeted. To Edward, of course, that made perfect sense -- because, in his mind, he was being castigated for striking his servant, the Grand Champion, rather than burning down the White Gold Tower, which he was utterly unaware that he had done.
"Back already, sir?" the valet greeted, deciding it was best to ignore the ill-humors of his master. "I take it then you must have a new contract?" Edward merely growled at him. "Well then, are we going to be spending any time here, or are we setting out at once?"
As much as he wanted to ignore his servant, this question gave Edward pause. The day was still young, and they had plenty of time to head out...but the thought of lazing about for a day or two was also an alluring one. "But the Dragon's business cannot be delayed," he told himself. By which, of course, he meant Mehrune Dagon's business. "Alright," he snapped, "we're heading out."
"Ahh, very good thing that I didn't rent us rooms yet," the valet observed. "I saw that the place was mostly deserted, so figured I'd wait..."
"And what in Oblivion makes you think I care?" Edward interrupted. "Do I tell you the details of my business? No! So what makes you think I want to hear the details of a servant's business? Just do your job, and shut up -- and we'll both be happier!"
The other man blinked at these venomous words, but, clearing his throat, returned quickly, "Yes sir. Of course sir. My apologies."
Edward glowered again. He hated that polite, up-tight attitude his servant took on when he was being...well, unreasonable. He said nothing, however, and the two trudged toward the city stables in silence.
At last, however, Dragonheart interrupted the gloomy quiet. "So, sir, where are we headed?"
"Chorrol," Edward snapped.
"Oh, very good!" the other man returned, his tone cheery. "So you decided to go there after all, sir?"
Edward snorted. "I didn't decide...that's where my next contract is. Plus, I have a few more questions for that stupid monk."
"Friar Jauffre, you mean, sir?"
"Yes, him."
"Ahh...you mean to aid you in your quest for..." Here, he glanced about and whispered in a conspiratorial tone, "the long lost heir?"
Edward glared at him. "Yes."
"How exciting!" the valet commented, apparently forgetting or ignoring the other man's glum mood. "I suppose, for starters, you'll want to know his name?"
Well, I must admit that I never imagined this being made into satire. I love it! Edward's sarcasm and responses are funny and engaging. I have only just read the first chapter, but I enjoyed it and will continue to read more.
@malx, I hear you, sometimes when I'm writing I hear the voices of the actors in those period pieces saying the character's lines, lol. Glad you enjoyed it!! ![]()
@haute ecole rider: hehe, glad you're enjoying Edward's bungling ![]()
@Lady Syl: welcome to the thread -- I hope you continue to enjoy the story! ![]()
Of Cyrodiil and Tamriel we sing
Of merchants, seafarers and a king,
Of thieves, cutthroats and criminal sorts
Of legionnaires and Blades in their forts.
-- Excerpt from Song of Tamriel
Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Seven
It was a bright, sunny day when the pair arrived in Chorrol. Edward's mood had, through the course of their travels, brightened a tad. He had even deigned to share with his valet the details of his task -- that from the Brotherhood, of course, and not that from his god.
He was, he'd told the other man, supposed to pretend to kill a fellow named Motierre. He'd even been given a special knife for the task, which he showed to his companion. "They said it's covered in something that will cause a sort of paralysis that resembles death," Edward explained. "So I stab him with this in front of the other assassin -- who is really planning to kill him -- and it looks like he dies. And, before I stab him, he's going to act like he's really afraid of me. Then, once he's been put in the crypt and everyone thinks he's dead, I use this-" Here, he produced a vial of liquid. "Which is a counteractant that will revive him."
The valet frowned. "But why this charade, sir?"
"Because, it turns out this Motierre fellow was an underground criminal, but, for the right price, he turned, and has since been working with the Imperial Guard as an informant against some rather sinister characters. Now they want him dead. So I pretend to kill him in front of the assassin they've hired, and the assassin doesn't kill him because thinks he's already dead. Consequently everyone thinks he's dead. They just assume I was an assassin hired by someone else he'd informed on -- and, because he's acted afraid of me, the other assassin reports this to his employers. And then Motierre picks up his life somewhere else. You see?"
"I say, that's very clever," the valet agreed. "And, I suppose a bit risky for you, eh? I mean, if that other assassin figures out that you're a fake...or if he wants vengeance since he thinks you took out his mark?"
Edward shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. He hadn't really thought about it like that before. "Well," he replied hesitantly, "I suppose that could happen."
The valet nodded. "Yes sir. Very brave of you to take on a fellow assassin!"
Edward's expression morphed into a glare. Somehow, his servant always had a way of annoying him. "He must do it on purpose," Edward thought. "That innocent nonchalance must be a pretext."
"So, when are you going to do this?" Dragonheart continued.
"As soon as I can get over there," Edward answered. "The Brotherhood had caught wind of a hit placed on him two days before they gave me the assignment. Which means our assassin will be here anytime."
"And if he's watching the house?" the valet mused. "Won't he see you enter?"
"So?"
"Well, won't that weaken your story? I mean, especially if he waits awhile, and you wait until the real assassin arrives to 'kill' him?"
Edward frowned. He didn't like to admit it, but there was some sense in the valet's words. "Hmm..." he said meditatively. "I suppose it might."
The two men walked in silent contemplation for a few minutes, each thinking of solutions to this poser. For his own part, Edward was lost. As it was, if he waited to enter, he'd need to find a quick, sure way to get into the house. What was he supposed to do, he wondered with a scoff...leave getting into the house to chance, and just hang around waiting for the bad guy to show up?
"I've got an idea!" the valet piped up suddenly, interrupting him from his unproductive reverie.
Edward groaned. "Of course he's got an idea..." It was bad enough that his servant could generally come up with a solution to any puzzle thrown their way...and it was worse that it was always a good one.
"Why don't I go to Motierre's house, tell him who I am and how I work for you and how you're working for the Brotherhood and all of that."
Edward rolled his eyes, contenting himself with criticizing the rambling structure of his servant's excited sentences in face of the inevitably good plan that he was about to put forth.
"Then," the valet continued, "he pretends to hire me as his valet, and I start to work for him. This way, when the real assassin breaks in, I can defend him if necessary, and let you in to play your little charade."
Edward frowned. He was searching for some sort of loophole -- anything really -- with which to fault this plan. So far, however, his efforts were meeting with no success. "Well, what if...I mean, suppose..." He growled. "Alright, fine," he said through clenched teeth. "It sounds like a decent plan. I guess."
One must impress, but never overdo it;
Show interest, but never too much;
Make her laugh, show off your wit;
And if better than the truth, lie, but just enough.
– Rough draft of a dating guide, penned by Edward
Chapter One Hundred and Twenty Eight
Edward glanced out the window. It had been two days since his valet had gone into the 'employ' of Francois Motierre...two long, tedious days of getting himself up in the mornings, fetching and pressing his own clothes, ordering his own food, and, of course, paying for his own room. It was, in a way, amazing to him to realize how much he had come to rely on the services of his valet – the services, and, of course, the ready stream of cash, as the other man had long since ceased asking Edward for money of any sort, and had just made it a habit to pick up the tab or bill wherever they went. These, apparently, he had no difficulty paying, doubtless thanks to his secondary employment in the Thieves Guild.
For his own part, Edward had been staying at the Oak and Crosier inn, which was a nice enough establishment – and not terribly pricey, which suited the stingy Imperial very well indeed. Even the fact that it was run by a barbarian Khajiit hadn't bothered Edward too greatly, for Talasma – the publican – had greeted him with courtesy and remarked on his sophistication and breeding. “I suppose I am a bit overwhelming, compared to the barbarians she must be used to,” he'd thought to himself at the time.
Of course, the reason he was at this particular inn was that it was directly across from Francois Motierre's home, so provided him with a terrific view of the comings and goings of the skittish little Breton. Two wearying days having passed already, Edward had grown less assiduous in his task, going so far as to take long mid-afternoon naps, or grow engrossed in heated discussions and drunken debates with the locals – a “lot of primitive commoners,” as he termed them. At the moment, however, he was engaged in shamelessly flirting with a Breton woman, Estelle Renoit.
“You know,” he was telling her, “you'd almost pass for an Imperial.”
“Oh, umm, thanks,” she nodded, inching a bit further away from him on her stool.
“You don't have all of the features,” he continued, “but you're still a lovely woman.”
“Umm, thanks,” she repeated, edging yet further away.
“And I just can't believe you're still single,” he told her, repeating himself for at least the third time. “I guess it's just because in this little place there's no strong Imperial knight to sweep you off your feet?”
She groaned as he simpered.
“Well, don't you worry about that anymore,” he continued.
Estelle continued her creeping escape, but, all at once, she yelped in surprise as her stool tilted precariously. Reaching out, she grabbed Edward. But it wasn't enough to stop her falling backwards; it just meant that he fell, too.
Too lost in planning his next comments, Edward was just as surprised as she, and went down like a ton of bricks. “Ye gods!” he yelped, falling painfully onto his companion's barstool. “Ouch. That stings.” But, clenching his teeth, he tried hard not to show the pain he was feeling. He rightly suspected that crying wouldn't help him woo his lady-fair.
Rising, she turned to him furiously, and commanded, “Oh, get out of here!”
Still picking himself up, he blinked. “What?” he managed to ask, though it sounded as if he was being strangled in the attempt.
“Go away! I don't care if you think I look like an Imperial! I don't care if you're a knight! I don't care if the Emperor knighted you himself! I don't care how much land you own and how much your estates make a year,” she answered, repeating the lies Edward had told her. “And I couldn't care less if you're single, either!”
“But...but...” the thunderstruck Imperial stammered. “Don't you...I mean, aren't you....?”
“Oh! Idiot!” she growled, brushing past him and storming out of the inn.
He watched her go, his face a picture of astonishment. He had used the best compliments he could think of, going so far as to say that she – Breton though she was – looked like an Imperial; he had told some of his best lies and used his best lines; he had, in essence, done everything right, and still the foolish woman scorned him.
“Excuse me,” the gravely voice of a Khajiit interrupted his astonished reverie, “but please don't do that.”
He glanced behind him to see Talasma. “What?” he asked.
“Drive the customers away by harassing them,” she replied matter-of-factly. “It's not very good for business.”
He clenched his teeth, fighting back a furious remark. He was still staying here, after all, so he thought it better to hold off on insulting his hostess until he was leaving. “I wasn't harassing her!” he told her instead.
“Hmm...” the Khajiit muttered disbelievingly. “Well, whatever you call it, let's not have it happen again, shall we?”
It is said 'Never leave a child to his own devices'.
But we say 'Never leave a fool to his own devices'.
For see the harm he's inflicted when not left on his own?
What more if we'd left him to his own devices?
– Official clarification from the Nine, commenting on why they chose Edward to ward off the Oblivion Crisis
Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Nine
Edward sighed. He had stomped out of the Oak and Crosier Inn in a huff half an hour earlier, and was now seated on a bench by the tree known as “the great oak of Chorrol”. His mood was dark, and his thoughts ran in the same vein. “I am so sick of barbarians,” he was thinking to himself. “If I was Emperor, I'd banish them all.” Then, glancing at the tree whose branches reached up overhead, he growled. “And what a stupid idea....to build your entire town around a stupid tree. If I was the Countess...well, a Count...I would cut it down, and have a bonfire.” The idea of burning the symbol of Chorrol to ash cheered him a little, and he began to build up fanciful scenes in his mind of how this might be achieved. “I suppose,” he was thinking, “an arsonist might even get away with it...perhaps come by at night with some oil and a torch.”
He was positively grinning now – a broad, toothy, malicious grin – when a passing, patrolling Chorrol guard cleared his throat and asked, “Excuse me sir...everything alright?”
Edward flushed guiltily. “Of course!” he snapped. “I'm just sitting here...enjoying the sunlight.”
“Ahh, yes...beautiful day, isn't it?” the guard answered.
“It could be,” Edward returned, his mind still following the thoughts of a few seconds ago.
“Could be?”
"Uhh, is,” he hastened to correct himself.
“Yes indeed,” the guard nodded. “Well, you have a fine day then, sir.”
Edward nodded and returned to his malicious reverie, when all at once he saw the door to Francois Motierre's home open. He bolted upright as his servant's head poked out, and then an arm gesturing for him to enter hastily.
Racing across the plaza, Edward nearly tripped over his own feet as he dashed into the building. His valet jumped back just in time to admit him, but another man – who he did not at first see – was not so fortunate. Edward careened into him, and both fell to the floor in a heap.
“Hey!” a lizard-like hiss exclaimed. “Who are you?”
Edward jumped to his feet to see a scaly Argonian – the individual with whom he'd collided.
“I am...” Suddenly, he paused. What cover story was he going to give? He and his valet had never really discussed that...just that he would pretend to kill Motierre in the other man's presence. So, he settled for the truth. “I am Edward, and I am an agent of the Dark Brotherhood. Go away – he's my victim.”
The lizard sneered. “Ohh, Motierre, you have been a naughty boy, haven't you? Oh well...as much as I'd love to see someone slit this treacherous filcher's belly open, I'm afraid I'm the one who has to do it, Imperial.”
Edward cringed at the description of the death the Argonian had prescribed, but, mustering all his pomposity, declared, “I'm afraid you're not. I was sent here to do a job, and I shall do it.”
“Look here, Imperial,” the Argonian retorted, clearly annoyed, “Hides-His-Heart does not take to being trifled with. He's no disagreement with the Brotherhood, so go in peace and live.”
Edward frowned at him. “What do I care for Hides-His-Heart? I'm talking to you!”
The Argonian grimaced. “I am Hides-His-Heart, fool.”
Edward's frown deepened. “Don't refer to me as a fool, insignificant lizard. Now, go away before I skin you and make a pair of boots out of your hide. I've business with this cockroach!” With that, he spun around to face his valet and another man, who he recognized from his surveillance efforts as Francois Motierre. Drawing the poisoned dagger from a sheath in his belt, Edward sprang forward. The little Breton gasped as the knife plunged deep into his heart; and then he fell forward, quite dead.
Edward smiled triumphantly, and at the same time heard his servant and Hides-His-Heart gasp. Turning to face the Argonian, he said, “Now, have you anything else to say, lizard?”
Hides-His-Heart cringed, and replied quickly, “No, no, nothing at all. It will be enough for my employers to know that he is dead after his betrayal. As I said, Hides-His-Heart has no quarrel with the Brotherhood.” Saying this, he quickly absented himself from the premises.
Edward grinned triumphantly. “Well,” he thought, “I taught that Argonian to mind his manners when addressing an Imperial, didn't I?” Then, turning to his valet, he said, “That turned out rather well, don't you think?”
He was surprised to see the other man had grown ashen white.
SPEW !!! ROFL !!! Stabbed him in the heart, leave it to Edward to do the right thing the wrong way !!!! ROFL !!!!
I miss you TONS Rachel, and I miss Edward and his mess-ups! Come home, dear Rachel !!!!! <3
Thank you for bringing this to my attention mALX with your latest comment!
I had absoloutley no idea this existed, but seeing as the last chapter had me in absoloute hysterics methinks I might need to read the whole thing
I love this story, and I've thought about it lots. mALX is right, this humor presents a choking hazard! Put down that drink!
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