My, it's been a while since I've posted here! But my comp went down and the story I was working on was lost, so until I get that back on track here's a separate one that I'm working on intermittently.

Prologue


In Tamriel of olden days, after the defeat of Uriel V and the long regency that followed, the upper levels of society were uncomfortably crowded. There were too many nobles with too much power, wallowing in the freedom that the Elder Council allowed them so long as they paid tax. All too often, this led to struggles for power, both big and small, and varying in intensity. Cities would devolve into armed camps, generals of the Legion would challenge the rightful lords of the land for supremacy and all manner of small villages would be caught up in petty disputes then be ruined. These struggles were universally detrimental to the running of society and to the maintenance of the Empire, and when the Emperor Uriel VI finally ascended to the throne as a fully-fledged monarch, his greatest power of state was little more than a veto, something akin to slapping the wrist of a bear. There was a point when Uriel sent out a call for troops to defend the nation from marauders and bandits, and it was all but ignored. Only the Orcs, seeking status and respect among the 'civilized' races, answered.


In that moment, the Emperor realized that his country was riding a knife's edge, ready to slip into a morass of chaos and disorder unseen since the War of the Red Diamond. And he also realized that that eventuality must be avoided at all costs, by all means, no matter how unpleasant. For Tamriel is the center of all civilization, and should it fall, the world would soon follow. Not to mention, the Emperor likely would be the first to get the axe.


So it was with a heavy heart and a reluctant hand that Emperor Uriel VI signed the Order of Balancing, a secret mandate creating a cadre of assassins meant to serve the Empire by readjusting the scales of society. Or, in simpler terms, to kill those who the Emperor deemed troublesome. This is the story of the most well-known member of this shadow organization, a man who, by his sheer efficiency, toppled kings and rearranged border lines.


He was known to cartographers as the "Damnable Scourge of Our Profession," but history knows him by the name "Anvil."



Part 1



The Third of Heartfire began with a brilliant sunrise, golden rays daintily painting the rooftops of Chorrol and not a cloud in the blue sky. Not too long after the citizens of the fair city came out of their houses, and set about their day's work with unusual reserve for such a glorious morning. They toiled, ate and drank in silence, only exchanging infrequent, ominous glances. For the third day of Heartfire is Tales and Tallows, a day where the spirits of the dead are most active, seeking to enter a living host. And on that night the dead will even walk once more, in the shadows.


Of course, in many parts of Cyrodiil all of that was laughed off and ignored as superstition, the people instead choosing to make merry the whole day through. But the city of Chorrol did not; they knew that it was true. Only two years past, the Count, the Countess and all the Guild house leaders were found dead the following morning. So all the people stayed silent for fear of drawing the dead's ire, and did not celebrate.


All the people that is, save one. In the tavern this fellow sat, drinking and laughing with anyone who would stay near him for more than a moment. His face was red and jolly with alcohol, and he had no truck with any spirits but those he found in his mug. A drunkard and a fool he was called, but only by those who did not know him. The select few that did know him called him Metharial. This name, doubtless, was some affectation to give the Breton a semblance of class, but he refused to go by any other.


The innkeeper who waited on him, however, did not care what his name was. And he didn't care what currency the drunken man paid in either, for the boisterous stranger was causing such a ruckus that every specter and phantom within a hundred miles would converge on the inn. With every bottle of wine the Breton grew louder, until at last Metharial turned to the publican, and muzzily ordered another drink.


"Sod off, you drunken oaf!" half-whispered the innkeeper, still afraid of ghosts, "you've drank enough, now go walk it off, preferably a thousand leagues from here!"


Metharial was taken aback, and glared briefly at the Imperial before forgetting what, exactly, he was glaring about. Then he remembered the publican's harsh words, and decided that he would no longer grace this establishment with his noble presence. Staggering from his chair, he headed for the door, knocking several chairs over on the way. As he reached the wooden portal, he stumbled round to face the innkeeper once more, his head held high to allow the sunlight filtering in to reflect off his golden-brown hair. "And don't expect me to ever return, swineherd!"


The publican flushed, gesticulating madly for the stranger to just leave him be. Metharial obliged him and left, not without fumbling at the door handle a bit.


Now out in the bright sunlight, the Breton regretted suddenly the copious amounts of mead and wine and ale he had imbibed. Stumbling about - much to the disapproval of all onlookers - Metharial finally found a shady alley to hunker down in and sober up. He had indulged himself since early this morning, in the warm glow of a job well done. What exactly his profession was, well you'll soon know, but let it suffice to say that he was a well known figure among his peers. And as such, he garnered much attention from many parties.


One of those attentive parties was watching him at that very moment, though he was unaware. Metharial had always assumed that since he wore a cloak and hood, his identity was more or less secret. But there are few secrets to the kind of person who watched him as he slept off his celebration. Very few indeed. So Metharial the Breton was more than a little startled when he woke up some time later in a pitch black room.

Wow! I've never read a story about some time in the past during another emperor's reign. Ofcourse, I haven't read that many!

I hope the addition comes out soon!!!

A promising start. You definitely write your stories in a "story-telling" way. It's enjoyable and a nice change of pace.

What the others said. It is a good start you've got here, already full of mystery.

Thanks for the comments, guys, they mean a lot to me Even if Steve's comment almost seems sarcastic... Alnd I'm not quite sure what you meant, Metal Mallet, by writing in a "story-telling" way.

Anywho, I already have a few chapters up that I've posted elsewhere, so I'm going to catch this thread up to where I am currently in the story. Don't despair though, my updates are always relatively short...




Besides the blackness, the first thing Metharial noticed was his completely clear head. He had been frequenting pubs since he was just a lad, and he knew that feeling normal after a keg or more was not entirely natural. So, he had been sobered up by someone, likely enough the same someone that had placed him in this room. And he was laying on a bed. How considerate.

Testing his night vision, Metharial waved a hand in front of his face, and could not see it for the life of him. Feeling around his body, Metharial found no blood or tender spots, so he supposed the abduction had been peaceable. More alarming, however, was that his daggers, strategically hidden throughout his clothing, were gone. For a man of Metharial’s profession, daggers are tools of the trade, and also one of the few defenses against death. The Breton swallowed, and began to know fear.

At that moment, a door was opened and bright light poured in over him. Wincing from the sudden exposure, Metharial tried to cover his eyes but still get a glance at the newcomer.“You are Metharial, yes?”

“Well you’re the bloke who kidnapped me, why don’t you tell me?” said Metharial, his eyes finally accustomed to the light.

This new man was tall, his skin fair and hair blonde. He would have been the perfect candidate for an officer of the Empire, and judging by his armor, he was. A rather high ranking one as well, telling by the katana hanging from his belt. Metharial regarded him wearily; getting kidnapped by the government was never a good sign.

A corner of the Imperial’s quirked upwards at his prisoner’s obvious discomfort, and he waved his hand in a vaguely reassuring gesture. “I can tell you, Metharial, that you are in no immediate danger. We have simply brought you here to tell you about a proposition. A business opportunity that we are sure a man of your caliber would be more than interested in.”

“A business opportunity?” asked Metharial, not trusting his own ears but still laughing all the same, “Do you know what my business is?”

“We are well aware of what you do for money,” responded the soldier evenly, his mouth once again quirking into a half-smile, “and we would normally have no part in it. But times, they are changing, and now is the moment when all good citizens of the Empire must serve in their own way. Now follow me.”

The Imperial turned, and walked out of the room. Metharial was on his feet in an instant, padding silently and swiftly for him. Turn your back on me, eh? I’ll teach you—

He was stopped dead by a huge hand swinging straight into his face. Metharial’s head managed to stay in the same place, but the rest of his body kept moving forward and he found himself flat on his back. The Imperial officer’s voice floated back to him, “I see you’ve met Georvy. Don’t bother complaining, he’s a mute. Now come along and don’t try to kill me again, else I arrange it so you spend a few decades in the torture chamber.”

Rubbing his jaw, Metharial pushed himself to his feet and glared at the small mountain of a man that had poleaxed him. Then he remembered he was in no position to glare at anybody, and instead took stock of his surroundings.

The place he found himself in resembled a typical barrack of the Imperial Legion; stone décor, with the occasional carpet thrown over the granite to give a sense of homeliness. Sad little torches sputtered away in their sconces. Metharial sighed; places like this always depressed him. To avoid that, he hurried after his captor, into a small office furnished with two chairs and a desk. The Imperial circled round the desk and sat, leafing through the scattered sheaves of parchment littering the mahogany surface. Metharial was given no direction, so he plopped down into the other chair, a hard oaken affair.

There was silence then, save for the heavy breathing of Georvy as he stood guard outside the office and the shuffling of documents by the officer. The Breton had began to think that they’d forgotten him when the Imperial spoke again. “Have you ever heard of the Red Spearhead?”

Metharial blinked. The Red Spearhead was the legendary group of assassins employed by the Emperor; their existence was denied at every opportunity, and no one believed in them anyways.

“I see that you have,” chuckled the man, “and at any other time I would be telling you most vehemently that there is no such thing as a group of assassins that go about, killing in the name of the Emperor.”

He paused, looking intently at Metharial with that odd half-smile - which the Breton was really coming to hate - playing about his lips. Metharial shifted under his gaze, struggling to wrap his mind around what this man was – or really, wasn’t – trying to say. “So, there is a group of assassins that go about, killing in the name of the Emperor?”

“Perhaps,” answered the Imperial, nodding, “and it might just so happen that this organization has not previously existed, and really has only been a figment of the public’s imagination. But as I said before, the times have changed, and the needs of the Empire have changed with them. As such, we are in need of men with your talents.”

“Hired killers?” asked Metharial wryly.

“Hired killers with tact,” was the swift reply, “these are called assassins. You will not be seen, you will not be heard, you will carry out your orders to the letter. You will be compensated handsomely, well above the free market price for your services.”

“Hm, what now? I don’t remember ever agreeing to this,” said Metharial, getting a little angry at the Imperial’s presumption, “I am my own man, and will not be forced into service.”

The Imperial leaned forward in his chair, peering at the Breton. “We will simply dispose of you if you refuse. So acceptance is your only logical course of action. Remember as well, that we found you once; we could just as easily do so again. You will serve the Empire.”

“The Emperor, you mean,” corrected Metharial.

“Assuredly, they are one and the same?” said the man.

For a long moment, Metharial looked this Imperial straight in the eye. He saw no irony there. Slowly, the Breton nodded. “Very well, I shall serve the Empire.”

“Excellent!” the soldier shouted, almost jubilant, “we shall start you immediately. Ah--”

He extended his hand. “My name is Dauvian. Captain Dauvian of the Blades.”

Metharial shook the extended hand, and when he came away the Breton found a coin in his palm. Looking down, he saw that it was a golden septim. On the side opposite of Tiber Septim’s face, however, there were three spearhead all pointing to a central locus.

“That is your identification as a member of the Red Spearhead,” Dauvian explained, “there are a few throughout the Empire who are instructed to give its bearer all the aid they can provide, although none know its true meaning. You are really and truly alone now, except for us.”

Smiling, Dauvian selected a sheaf of parchment from a neat pile. He handed it carefully to Metharial. “This is your first task. You know the town of Chorrol?”

“Yes, naturally,” said the Breton, regretting ever leaving the inn now.

“That is where you will go.”

A satchel was plopped down on the desktop, chinking nicely with the sound of coin. “For expenses. Georvy will return your weapons and escort from the premises. I expect to hear of your success or death within one week.”

Metharial stowed the money in his coat, smiling wanly. At least he was being paid well. Glancing at Dauvian, he saw the Imperial was busily marking paper. He had been dismissed. Standing, Metharial left the office and collected his possessions from the silent Georvy.

After finally tucking his daggers back into their sheaths and stowing the few choice poisons he carried in his secret pockets, Metharial turned to Georvy once more. To find out where the bloody exit was.

This post has been edited by darkynd: Jan 5 2008, 06:11 PM

Here is the third part of Metharial's adventures, and the portion which I'm most dissastisfied with. But I'm not quite sure why, so please tear it apart and give me some insight.

There's one more chapter that's already been published, but I'll save that to post until later on this afternoon, to give everyone a bit of time to digest what I've just added.





Yet another day dawned over Chorrol, only the third one since Metharial had found himself abducted from an alleyway of the city. Time had moved slowly for the Breton since then; the journey back to Chorrol was less than a half a day from the old fort where Captain Dauvian had set up his headquarters. During his altogether pleasant march back to the city, Metharial had read his orders. In addition to directions, they provided him with background and explanation for the job. He had then burnt the sheaf of parchment, as instructed; he doubted that he would fair well if it fell into the wrong hands.

The orders, however, troubled him. Not the killing, for certain – he had long ago turned his back on conscience – but rather the sudden and peremptory way he found himself subordinated to another. It was true that Metharial worked for others all the time, but he had always been able to keep his own council. Now, he was forced into a job he did not want. Well, that he had not sought out, at least; murder was really all the same, just the pay that varied. But no matter what the remuneration, Metharial hated the idea of not being his own man, of being just a pawn in some faraway king’s game.

For that was what this was, he had no doubt. Uriel VI was a young man still, he probably dreamed of restoring the glory days of Tiber Septim, and this Red Spearhead was only one card in his hand.

Metharial knew that there was time enough for reflection later though, when he did not have a deadline to meet, so the Breton went back to the task at hand. He was currently loitering about on the streets of Chorrol, reading the city paper, trying to find a window of opportunity. The Chapel of Stendarr loomed in front of him, and that was where his mark resided

Yes, he had been sent to kill a priest, the Primate of the Chapel of Stendarr, named Adrel Prosirus. When the Count, Countess and so many other powerful citizens of Chorrol had been slaughtered two years and three days ago,Prosirus had declared it an act of divine vengeance. He charged that the people of Chorrol had grown lax in their worship of the gods, and worried too much about money and things of the mortal plane. The people, reeling from the loss of all leadership, rallied to him. Almost the ruler of Chorrol at that point, Prosirus installed a puppet Count, the former Captain of the Guard. Now, Chorrol was ruled as a theocracy, with Adrel declaring that the Nine Divines surpassed all mortal authority, even the Emperor’s.

This, of course, did not mesh well with Uriel VI’s plans for Tamriel. Metharial’s orders were to kill Prosirus and frame it on the puppet Count, who would be promptly deposed. With no senior Temple leader to step forth and no man of noble blood left in Chorrol, the Emperor would have a free hand in influencing the appointment of both a new high priest and a strong, pro-Imperial Count. Admittedly, that last bit had not been mentioned in the parchment, but it was easy to see that would be the result.

So Metharial had carefully prepared a few bits of parchment, planting one in the Count’s boudoir and carrying another. These were central to his scheme. Now, having already cased the grounds, the only thing left to do was kill Prosirus and plant evidence. Inhaling deeply, the Breton set aside his paper and walked round to the rear of the Chapel. He was dressed unremarkably, and appeared to all onlookers as merely a man admiring the architecture of the imposing structure. Checking once to ensure no one could see, he leapt quick as a flash onto the wall and scrambled upwards. The building blocks made for easy handholds, and Metharial wore a pair of climbing gloves that increased his grip. A naturally agile man, even for a Breton, he was soon safely hidden amidst the spires of the Chapel.

Now to relax, and to wait. Metharial had survived for so long largely by his patience. The city guards were not out in force during the day, and the ones patrolling were not very vigilant for assassins and killers. After all, why would an assassin scale a building in the middle of the day? Everybody knows the night is the only time that killers strike.

To Metharial, such ignorance was golden. Certainly, he would only make his move in the evening, but it was always best to be in position much earlier, for observation. In order to facilitate the observation, the Breton opened a small trapdoor and climbed down into the Chapel’s attic. The boards beneath his feet were ancient, and more than a few had warped in such a way that there were gaps between them, very handy for spying down on the congregation below.

For the next four hours, Metharial lay down and watched the comings and goings of the Chapel, waiting for one of the lower-ranking priests to close the Chapel doors for the night. At long last, a small man in a splendid blue tunic pushed each one of the doors shut, then headed back to the rear of the Chapel where the sleeping quarters were. The Breton held off for a few more hours, until night had truly taken hold, before he slipped stealthily down from the attic and down among the pews.
Without a sound, Metharial snuck into the priest’s sleeping quarters. Two deacons slept here, but Prosirus dozed in the Primate’s Chamber, located just beyond here. Taking out his lockpick, Metharial swiftly and expertly opened the door into Adrel’s room. Leaving the portal slightly open, the Breton strode up to the sleeping form of Prosirus, drawing a silver dagger from out of his coat. In one smooth motion, Adrel’s throat was cut. Cleaning his blade off on the blankets, Metharial surveyed the room quickly. He picked up a small pile of coin and slipped them into his purse, then grabbed a silver chalice.

Smiling, he dropped it purposefully. It made a satisfyingly discordant ring, and Metharial knew it had the desired effect by the sudden interruption in snoring from the sleeping quarters. The door flew open and a bright light magically burst forth from one of the deacon’s hands. Shielding his eyes, Metharial froze, pretending as if he had just been caught in the act.
The deacon’s eyes ranged over the room, from the fallen chalice, to the intruder, to the slain Primate. His eyes screwed up in rage, and his mouth fell open into a silent scream. Metharial made his move for the door. The priest jumped to stop him, but the Breton knocked him aside handily with an elbow. The second deacon swooped in though, tackling him to the ground. As he fell, Metharial strategically flung out the pieces of parchment he carried, then cracked his head on the flagstones.

The sharp pain made him decide to drop the act, and Metharial promptly flipped the priest off of him. Leaping to his feet, the Breton dealt a backhanded blow to the second deacon who came to his friends aid, and then ran. Now was the truly dangerous portion of his plan; the escape. Drawing attention to yourself is never a good idea, even if necessary, for the detriment to health can be quite severe if a guard’s blade should find your belly. It was a risk Metharial was willing to take, however, mostly because he knew the quality of the Chorrol City Guard.

Bounding into the large main chamber of the Chapel with the priests crying out for help behind, Metharial ran to the main door and threw it open; no time for subtlety now, the Guard would be sure to have the Chapel surrounded before he could get on the roof. Taking the steps at a leap, Metharial deftly avoided the clumsy attempt of a watchman to hinder him. Now at a dead sprint, the Breton popped the cork out of a flask. Halting for a brief second, he downed the contents in a gulp, making a wry face at the horrible taste.

Still, there was no time to spare for dawdling, even though he was now invisible for a time. The cries behind him had picked up in number and intensity, and there was the sound of many feet running towards Metharial. He turned to the nearest section of wall now, preparing to climb, when he noticed that the gate guard was just standing, looking stupidly towards all the commotion. Ha! He’s bloody drunk! The Nine praise their incompetence!

Metharial found the speed of his departure greatly enhanced by simply knocking out the gate guard and stealing from the town, quick as a shadow. The Breton now snickered as he ran, for the job had been so simple. Within a few minutes the town guard would be reading a note, ostensibly from the Count, ordering the death of Adrel. An enraged township would break open the doors of the Count’s manor, and after searching through his private papers, find a note from the assassin detailing his wishes for payment. Metharial knew the mob mentality well, and they would not allow the man to escape with his life.

Smiling as he traveled the dark forest, Metharial thought that maybe working for the Empire would not be so bad after all.

Reassuring guy, isn't he? I'll expect to hear of your success or your death. Well, at least he doesn't kid around.

Sorry if I sounded Sarcastic!
I really wasn't; just I really like some parts of the history of the Empire and I had wished some time before that a story be written in the past. Then you come along with this story...

but this story is nice. It almost sounds like a quest you would do in Oblivion. Plant evidence that makes it seem someone else killed them and then kill them!

Maybe you seem unsatisfied with your latest update because you made the mission surprisingly easy? That's the only thing that I could find. The mission itself, despite being a "relatively" simply task could've been made more difficult because the timeline pressure, the getting used to being use, etc. Those type of emotions could've caused him to make mistakes he normally wouldn't have.

Of course, you know your character better than I do, so if you know he deals with pressure well and can stay cool and collected while on the job, the results of this update seem suitable.

Overall, I found this update and the one prior to it quite enjoyable. I also must add that it's probably the tense that you write in that gives me that "story-telling" style of writing I mentioned earlier.

That's probably it. I think what I tried for was to make his first mission quick to display his skill, but it came off a little clumsily. I can always deal with that later though, for now I'll focus on the chapters I'm writing.

This post has been edited by darkynd: Jan 6 2008, 02:25 AM

Here's the next chapter I believe I promised. Your thoughts welcome, as always!






Metharial travelled all through that night, resting not at all. There were horsemen pursuing him, heavily-armed guardsmen with long lances, who used dogs to track his scent. But he was resourceful, and plunged into a fast-moving stream, traveling down it for half a mile before coming out on the opposite bank. The Red Spearhead's base was near enough that Metharial was able to reach it before the Chorrol soldiers found his trail again.

He sighed with relief when the moss-covered stones of the tower were revealed to him. Panting only a little as he trotted into the courtyard, his Breton eyes swiftly picked out the half dozen figures lurking in the shadows opposite him. The moonlight was weak, but he could make out that the silhouettes were armoured Forcing a smile, he called out to them even while drawing his dagger. "Captain Dauvian, are you here to greet me?"

"Well well, Metharial, you have exceeded my expectations," said Dauvian levelly, stepping into a sliver of moonlight, "but have also brought a pack of incensed soldiery down upon us. You are ever so careless."

Metharial blanched at that last. Admittedly, he had not thought out the last part of his plan too well, but he had not expected the Chorrol guards to give chase so quickly. He tried to divert the conversation away from his blunder, "Is the Count dead then? You seem to know an awfully great amount about what has only recently happened."

Dauvian's smile could only be seen by the shadows on his face. "Yes, the Count is dead. The Empire has informants in many places, and near-instant communication with a select few of them."

"Mages' Guild members, then?" asked Metharial.

Dauvian ignored him, motioning to the men behind. They came up then, and Metharial saw that one carried a long, knobbly staff and wore robes rather than chain mail. The others backed away from him as he scratched a pentagram in the courtyard dirt, then draw a circle around that. Metharial could not make out his face, but silver braid on his clothing glowed as he began his incantations.

No one spoke a word, for it is most dangerous to interrupt a Mage, especially when they are attempting to create a teleportation circle. Dauvian walked silently over to stand next to Metharial, and silently handed him a sealed envelope. "Your new orders," he whispered, "but this time you will have full discretion timewise; there will be no deadline. Chorrol was merely a test to see if you could move fast under stressful circumstances."

Metharial glanced at the letter, then glared at Dauvian. He hated being the subject of experiments. At that moment there was a blinding flash of white light, and the Mage called out, "It's ready! Everybody, stand inside the circle and we're back in the Imperial City!"

"Not a moment too soon!" cried out another man pointing beyond the fort's gate.

Metharial turned to look, and sure enough he saw twenty horsemen thundering for them. Dauvian ran to the circle with a hiss, and the Breton followed right after. The Mage stood at the center of the group, his staff elevated over the pointed hat he wore. The barking of dogs was now audible, and Metharial was able to pick out words that the horsemen shouted.

"Hold on then, here we go!" shouted the Mage, and plunged his staff into the heart of the pentagram.

There was a jolt, and Metharial felt as if a gauntleted hand had slapped him cross the face. He stumbled into a pair of strong arms that pushed him forward again before he regained his balance. Pivoting on his heel angrily, Metharial came face to face with the man's chest. A booming voice came down at him, from the region where the fellow's head would be, "Hol' steady there, my li'l chappy, or we'll have a mighty fine accident on our hands!"

Metharial went very still. His eye twitched. No one had ever insulted him so much, with so little reason. Little chap! Baring his teeth, he craned his neck to see this fool's face. The only two discernable features were a pair of watery blue eyes and a shock of a Nord's red beard. Grimacing, Metharial put his hand to dagger, when Dauvian clapped him on the shoulder and gave him a half-smile.

"I see you've met Hoblin," said the Imperial, nodding to the bearded giant, "he's ever so offensive, but I am in need of muscle."

"Assassination is finesse, not brute force," replied Metharial, snorting, "you won't get far with him."

Hoblin chuckled, and said genially, "Tha's your opinion. I mysel' have seens what a claymore can do to a man, so I trust to strength."

Metharial rolled his eyes and gave up trying to talk to the man. Instead he glanced over the room they had teleported into, and the company he had come with. The new surroundings were not impressive; simply another unremarkable stone chamber, and it felt as if it were underground. Metharial's companions, however, were noteworthy.

The Mage was most obvious, a young man almost floundering in his elaborate robes, the peaked cap he wore was ridiculous beyond belief, but his staff emanated power. Next was a Dunmer, all in chitin armor and goggles meant to keep the Vvardenfell ash from his eyes. Metharial had never been to Morrowind, but he knew that the Mer from there were a wary, dangerous lot.

Last were three cloaked figures of average, their skin and faces completely obscured by the dark grey clothing. But each one of them had a sword or axe strapped over their shoulder, making for an altogether grim company. Dauvian must have been following his eyes, for his words spoke to Metharial's thoughts. "Wondering who these people are?"

Metharial nodded. "Well, I'm sorry to disappoint. It would be unwise of me to have all my asassins know who the others are, when I am still not sure of all their trustworthiness. Perhaps later on, after you have proven yourself more to me."

Dauvian then turned from the Breton and addressed the room. "Now, all of you; we are in the Imperial City, in a blocked-off portion of the sewers. This is the permanent headquarters of the Red Spearhead, as dictated by the Emperor. If you will all follow Georvy, he will show you to your quarters and then the layout of the premises."

The group began to file away, but Dauvian told Metharial and Hoblin to come with him instead. Moving at a hurried clip, they went down a long corridor and soon entered a spacious, richly decorated chamber. Tapestries and trophies lined the walls while a merry fireplace and luxurious rugs gave the place a luxurious, comfortable feel. Hoblin gave a low whistle at the wealth on display, and Dauvian's lips turned upwards. "This is the sitting room, where the servants of the Red Spearhead might relax. But right now it is deserted, so I feel comfortable in discussing your next job."

"Jobs, I think you mean," interjected Metharial, "for there are two of us."

"No, I am not mistaken," chuckled Dauvian, "both of you are to be sent out on this next mission, for it is too dangerous - and too difficult - for one man to accomplish."

Hoblin's chest swelled up at that, and Metharial ground his teeth. The Nord stepped forth, nearly shouting. "I've no need of a teeny tiny chappy like this 'un! I c'n fight an' win no matter the odds!"

Metharial too spoke his mind, loudly, "I won't be paired off with this great lump of stupidity! He'll get me killed within a day!"

The Imperial smiled faintly at them both, amusement sparkling in his eyes. "You clearly underestimate each other, but I will not be swayed until you have at least heard the situation."

Nord and Breton alike exchanged glares, but said nothing. Dauvian took this for assent. "The Khajiit city of Rimmen is your destination, in Elsweyr. Rimmen has always been ruled by the most civilized elements of Khajiit society, elements which, although still bestial in nature, were at least able to be negotiated with."

"Ha! Dealin' with the cats is like tryin' to persuade a plant," roared Hoblin heartily, before a silencing stare from Dauvian.

"Anyways, for many years the Empire has managed to keep this city in line. But now, a warlord from the deep deserts of Elsweyr has emerged leading an army of nomads, and with stunning swiftness he deposed and executed the former ruler of Rimmen. He has promised to restore the lost Khajiit glory, and to retake the lands lost to them.

"This is most disturbing to the Emperor. Rimmen is located in a strategic area; a single strike could cut off Leyawiin from the rest of Cyrodiil, and if they took Bravil, they would gain a vital port onto the Niben Bay and could blockade the Imperial City. If ever that happened, and Khajiit struck such a blow to the Empire's heartland, fully fledged revolt would break out across Tamriel."

Metharial took advantage of Dauvian's pause, asking, "But surely the cat people don't have the capacity to wage war on Cyrodiil? I mean, the Legions would destroy them."

Dauvian's face took a grim turn as he replied, "Rimmen held a full compliment of Legionaries; one thousand men. They marched out to face this warlord in open battle, and within an hour they were routed, more than half of them dead. These deep desert cats are nothing like their city brethren; they are stronger, faster and more vicious. The Emperor could defeat, assuredly, but there would be a grievous loss of life."

Metharial nodded, thinking about those words, but Hoblin roared out with laughter once again. "You mean the finest of the Empire were sent running scared by a few kitties? Hahaha!"

"I'm sure the Nords would do much better," said Dauvian slickly, although Metharial noticed the ugly look in his eyes before it slipped away, "and that is why we are sending you two to kill the warlord. He leads an army of eight thousand, and is encamped just outside the walls of Rimmen. It will be difficult to kill him, but losing their leader will demoralize the army. Perhaps it will not disintegrate, but they will at least not attempt to attack Cyrodiil and the Emperor will be able to deal with them at his leisure."

"You're sure this warlord wishes to invade Cyrodiil though? It seems very rash," asked Metharial, "and what is his name, besides?"

"His name is T'Rav Sefirt, and my informants have already told me of talk amongst his soldiers; they believe that they march on Bravil within three weeks, as soon as supplies can be assembled."

The Breton nodded, looking sober. "So we have to kill him before his regiments enter the heartland. And he will have eight thousand bodyguards."

"Sounds fun enough, even if killing Khajiit is like slaughtering babies," said Hoblin, fondling his massive sword, "their armor is like cloth."

"You will find more specifics within the packet I gave you both," said Dauvian, "now get some rest. Yerum will send you to the Elsweyr border tomorrow evening. Then your hunt will begin."

This post has been edited by darkynd: Jan 6 2008, 04:43 AM

Hmm it appears as if this'll be another test. This time they wanna see how two completely different assassins will work together.

After quite a long sabbatical (most of it forced by yet another crash of my computer) I give you the fifth update of my story...with the sixth soon to follow.





For Metharial, the following morning and afternoon were gloomy ones. After his most successful jobs he was in the habit of going out and swigging down a few pints of good ale, to get himself back into good spirits. And successfully knocking off not just one, but two leading figures of an entire city was a successful job, though Daedra tear his limbs off!

But Captain Dauvian had specifically forbade Metharial or Hoblin from leaving the hideout, so the Breton had been forced to satisfy himself with a bottle of Tamika in his own room. Hardly a fun time, although the wine was good despite being a young vintage. Then Metharial had been shaken awake at midday by Georvy, and told that the Mage would be transporting them away in an hour.

Midday! It was scandalous to be woken up at such an hour; these last few days, Metharial had gotten very little rest. Dauvian would not be dissuaded though, and it didn't help that Hoblin strode around the various rooms and hallways of the hideout, shouting out how eager he was to knock off some Khajiit heads.

That was how the Breton assassin found himself standing in the Mage's laboratory at one in the afternoon. Metharial rubbed his head where he had hit it in the scuffle with those priests, and looked over the room. It was not an overly occult setting, considering its owner, but the few shreds of cobweb and occasional calcinator lent it enough of an arcane feel to be legitimate. The Mage, Yerum, was got up in all his wizardly finery, and had chalked out the usual sets of diagrams for a teleportation circle. Dauvian was nowhere in sight, but the mysterious group of cloaked individuals that Metharial had seen the previous night now filed in through the door. Hoblin raised a shaggy eyebrow at them, and asked, loudly as always, "So, am I to babbysit e'en more children?

The grey figures ignored him and walked straight up to Yerum. After a few whispers between them he stepped aside, and they stepped into the teleportation circle. He glanced at Metharial and the Nord, shrugging. "Dauvian has them on a mission as well, and he's decided to send them off early. Don't worry, you'll be going right after them."

Hoblin twisted his lip at this slight and even Metharial stiffened a bit. It was quickly forgotten though, as the cloaked ones were zapped away and the two of them stepped into the transport ring. Yerum breathed in deeply, smiling at them. "Here's hoping I can send you two close to the right place. It's damnably difficult to do, when there's no circle on the other end to aim for."

Metharial opened his mouth, a little alarmed, but right then Yerum began the necessary chanting. The Breton closed his mouth; very unwise to bother a man about to teleport you several dozen leagues away.

A white flash, and Metharial was standing on light brown soil, with golden, parched grasses up to his ankles all around. A dry heat covered everything. Surveying the landscape from where he stood, all to be seen was dry, rolling hills. Metharial knew that within a dozens leagues even this arid land gave way to the burning sands of pure desert; it was there, just outside the dunes, that Rimmen stood. A shadow fell across Metharial, and he turned to see Hoblin squinting at his surrounding.

"Hmph, so this is Elsweyr? I don' see how any city can survive in this heat," the Nord said.

"Only part of Elsweyr is like this," said Metharial, "to the south there is much jungle, and grasslands before that. But nearly all these northern lands are desert, or close to it. Rimmen and cities like it survive by being at the crossroads of many trade routes, stopover points for goods heading south or north."

Hoblin shook his head. "Pfft, merchant towns. Nary a decent warrior in any one of 'em."

"Well there are eight thousand warriors in this town, I'm sure one might prove a challenge" Metharial said wryly, "but we only need to kill one of them, so let's go already."

The Nord nodded his assent and they set out west for their destination. Two days passed as they journeyed, and Metharial wondered the whole time. Wondered how, exactly, he could possibly make use of a Nord that stood out like a sore thumb. He had watched Hoblin closely, and could tell the man had no gift for stealth, and was too big for it anyways. This man was a warrior, meant to charge straight at the enemy and kill them two at a time, so how could he help in an assassination? It was a business that required silence and speed. Metharial could not help but feel that Dauvian had purposefully sent Hoblin with him so they would both die.

That was a problem, but Metharial had no time to deal with it. Early on the third day, however, the issue was forced. Trudging up a particularly steep rise of land, Hoblin and Metharial's eyes were gifted an amazing sight as they crested it. The sun was still low in the sky, and its brilliant rays reflected dazzlingly off the desert sands that stretched interminably before them. The white rooftops of Rimmen were visible now, and they glowed. Metharial had to blink a few times, and Hoblin shielded his eyes from the brightness. Laughing, the Nord shouted out, "Well, we've reached our destination and it is a bright spot! Let us go and kill this warlord then, and be done wi' it."

He would have marched straight down and tried it, too, had not Metharial jumped in front of him. "Don't be a fool, Hoblin. You see all those tents hiding in the shadow of the city walls? Those are soldiers, and we have to get by them before entertaining ideas of killing their leader."

Hoblin glanced at the considerable camp below and shrugged. "Well then, we'll ha' to kill a few before the warlord goes."

Metharial again jumped before him, blocking his path. "I don't think you understand, fool! There are eight thousand of them, and they destroyed a Legion, so they won't just sit on their hands waiting for your bloody great sword to hack them limb from limb. We must be unnoticeable, and observe the situation, looking for an opportunity. Then, we will strike. But we will strike only at T'Rav, and not try to take on his whole army!"

The Nord stood for a moment, his face screwed up with the big thoughts roiling inside his head. Cautionary thoughts, sensible thoughts; thoughts that did not come naturally to a man of extreme action like Hoblin. The heat was becoming steadily more oppressive as the sun rose, and beads of sweat dewed on his face.

Finally, he nodded. "Very well, chappy, we'll try it your way. Now, what's your plan?"

"Don't have one at the moment," responded Metharial, but quickly went on as Hoblin was about to shout, "but I have a clear course of action that will lead us to a plan. Infiltrate the city, which should be simple, and then ask around the locals for where T'Rav is and whether he moves about."

Hoblin snorted, but said nothing. They waited until dusk, scouting out the fringes of the Khajiit camp and avoiding sentries, then Metharial led Hoblin through to the gates. It was a very simple, for the nomads had left the road into the city unguarded, the gate to the city unsecured and unclosed. It's like they don't care whether anyone comes or goes, thought Metharial, before he realized that they likely did not care. Cities are a symbol of all that weakens their people.Well, that is probably true, but I will still make them pay for underestimating the importance of manning the gates.

Part 6
Prying Some Nails Loose

The swiftest way to collect information, Metharial knew, was simply to take it. That ignored the consequences of such a course of action, but force was still often more rapid, more brutally effective, than finesse or espionage. In the short term, at least.

And Metharial was beginning to realize that that was the key to Hoblin's success. The Nord lacked mastery over the art of subterfuge, but he more than made up for it with the practical application of his fists. And his speed was so great that the lack of subtlety rarely hurt him; his quarry would have no time to react.

This, however, was international politics on a grand scale, with the fate of whole provinces up for grabs. Speed was of the essence, but any action that was too overt might precipitate alliances to shift and cost countless lives in a rising tide of warfare. If any of that happened, Metharial knew, it would jeopardize his payscale; an event to be avoided at all costs. Which was why Metharial's plan incorporated Hoblin's brawn only sparingly. Metharial could see the Nord's usefulness quite clearly now; he was a tool. More specifically, Hoblin was a hammer. Meant to pry and smash, but only at those places, on those nails, where he could make a difference.

*****

The sun radiated a stark, dry heat onto Metharial's head. A single bead of sweat rolled down his forehead and collected on the Breton's brow. He deftly flicked it off with his pinky. Metharial hated sweating; it wasted the body's moisture, moisture that might be vital only seconds later. But in this back alley, among these ramshackle huts of mud, Metharial doubted there would be anything to challenge him. In the two days Hoblin and he had been walking the streets of Rimmen, they had not seen a single weapon hanging from a belt, or in the display of a merchant. The Khajiit barbarians had been very effective in eliminating those who posed a threat to them, and now a deep fear suffused the whole city.

A crash came from the mud hut Metharial had his back to, and the Breton turned in time to see the back door of the place smashed to pieces. A Khajiit was thrown from it, landing on all fours. From the dark interior of the hut a huge figure came forth, having to stoop to pass beneath the low doorway. Straightening up and squinting his blue eyes against the sun, Hoblin glared down at the cat. "You listen here, laddy. Tell me what I want to know, or I'll put a boot up yer tail."

It only hissed back at him, it's yellow eyes mere slits. Metharial noticed that its face was swollen, almost certainly from the force of Hoblin's persuasion. He also noted, without surprise, that it was a female. The Breton smirked. "Having a little difficulty, Hoblin?"

Hoblin spared a dirty look for Metharial before turning his eyes back to the Khajiit. "This one is no so receptive to reason."

"Reason, Hoblin, is a very subjective thing," said Metharial, approaching the Khajiit, "but we've followed a half dozen leads so far, and all of them point to her. I must have this information."

Moving with a speed and agility that one would never guess from looking at him, Metharial got behind the she-cat and seized her throat. A dagger came out from beneath his robes, its blade dulled with greaze so that it would not flash in the sun. "Tell us, or its your life," he whispered," why do you protect them so?"

A gurgling sound came from her, and Metharial loosened his grip. Slightly. Her words could barely be heard. "Because those of the deep desert will make Khajiit strong again. Will kill humans."

"They'll kill your kind just as well," he reminded her, "you're city-dwellers, mere filth to them. Helping us will save you and those you love."

"You know nothing of me."

Metharial shook his head at the Khajiit's stupidity. At her ignorance. But he still knew a way that might make her talk. He hoped it would be enough. "Well, Khajiit. You've convinced me to stop trying. Now, I'm going to cut your tail off. And then burn your fur."

A whine came from the cat, almost too high-pitched for his Breton ears to pick up. She spat at him as best she could. "You would not dare. Every Khajiit within a hundred leagues would thirst for your blood, even T'Rav!"

Metharial smirked at her. "You underestimate my anger. If you had simply told me what I wanted to know, this could have been avoided. But now," he nodded to Hoblin, who drew his sword "you shall lose your ticket to the afterlife."

"Hold...hold on!" she squealed as the Nord took three swift steps and stood over her, his sword raised to strike off her tail, "T'Rav is in the crimson tent at the center of the nomad camp; gold paintings of his victories adorn the outside of it. The girls are brought before him at eight of the clock every evening, and his guards are sent away as he looks them over, until nine."

Metharial nodded curtly to Hoblin, who lowered his sword and returned it to his belt. "You've told us all we needed to know."

With a swift blow, the Nord incapacitated her. "Tie her up and conceal her," Metharial ordered, "T'Rav will die tonight. IT should teach him not to use a Madam from the city but leave her on a loose tether."

HA! What an addition.
It's good to see this will be continued. I really enjoy this story.
Metharial's attitude is just marvelous. And that Nord is a buffoon!!! lol
Though I won't guess how they reach the leader. I have a guess which I hope happens. It would be funny! lol

Thanks for the kind words Steve, I'm glad you enjoy the story.

As for your guess, I think I might know where you're going with that...here's hoping I can pull it off!

Part 7
Swift, Silent, Deadly

"Stop your sniggering, Hoblin."

"I'm sorra, laddie," chortled the massive Nord, his blue eyes misty with mirth, "but you're such a sassy lass..."

Metharial stuck his tongue out at Hoblin and twitched his shawl irritably, before realizing what he had done. The Breton's face went redder than a daedra's heart, and Hoblin's laughter doubtless could have been heard atop the White Gold Tower. Casting about the small hut they had leased, Metharial sought something to throw at the Nord. Finding nothing, he instead said, "Listen, you know that this is a necessary embarassment, so shove a pair of breeches into your mouth to keep quiet."

Hoblin managed to bring himself under control, but smiled cynically at Metharial's words. His hand reached behind his head, fingers brushing the pommel of his formidable claymore. "Necessary? I donna think so, laddie. This here is all that'd ever be necessary if you weren't here."

Checking that his long, flowing robes covered all his body, Metharial eyed Hoblin. The lug of a man actually thought that he could cut his way through to T'Rav, the single most powerful Khajiit warlord extant, and kill him without a hitch. He was either stupid, or - and this was what worried Metharial - he knew something that nobody else did. But there was no time for doubt now that a plan was in action. Only swift, decisive movement would pull off such a risky gambit. But that did not mean Metharial had to be happy about it.

Sighin, he pulled the cowl over hid head, making sure that his face was hidden in the shadows. He had been very careful in choosing his garments, and knew that his species was indeterminable at first look. A rope was tied round his waist to give the impression of a tail beneath the robes, and Metharial's own natural grace allowed him to perform a passable imitation of the Khajiit's gait. It was far from a perfect disguise, but the robes were the normal garb for T'Rav's companions; he did not want his troops to know he consorted with the females of the city. Considering that he publicly denounced all city Khajiit as soulless minions of the Emperor, it would be bad for his reputation.

His libido will be his downfall, mused Metharial. Taking one last look at his harlot's guise, the Breton was satisfied that it was as good as he could get it. "Remember, Hoblin, what to do when the signal is given."

"Aye, laddie. I will."

Inhaling deeply, Metharial opened the door to the hut. A blast of the night's air greeted him. It was dry, and rapidly losing the day's heat. The false Khajiit hurriedly made his way through the twisty streets, past dusty mud huts the cat people regarded as homes, and finally came to a particular junction. It was not really notable at all, really, but four large palanquins and bearers had chosen the spot to halt. The palanquin-bearers were slaves, clad only in loincloths. A half dozen Khajiit nomads were interspersed among them. They were sleek, golden-furred creatures, whose muscles had been hardened from a lifetime of hardship. Metharial took a close look at each one as he approached, assessing their threat.

Almost too late to see it step in front of him, Metharial spotted a seventh Khajiit guard. This one had been concealed along the road, lying in wait for the objects of his master's desires. Metharial stopped short of this one; its savage face indicated a creature who killed on a whim. It grinned at him, baring its fangs. "Hello, prrretty. You come from whom?"

Saying nothing, Metharial held out a scroll of parchment and then held his breath. The Khajiit growled deep in its throat, glaring at Metharial, but it unrolled the parchment. An orange light strobed from the surface of the scroll, and the cat's eyes went wide at it. As quickly as it had came, the light faded away, and the guard stood, stunned. Metharial let himself breathe. But there was no time to lose. Stepping up close to the cat, Metharial gave him commands in a swift, peremptory tone. "You will allow me entrance to T'Rav's quarters along with all the other wenches. You will say that Ilsyri sent me. You will not betray me to your companions, and you will not allow them to discover me."

The Khajiit's eyes were still wider than a Legionnaire's shield, but it nodded, obviously cowed. Metharial stepped back to a normal distance. A sharp inquiry came from the palanquins, "Hey, Sarcha, everything alright?"

The one called Sarcha turned around, shouting back, "This one is clear; Ilsyri sent her. Let her onto one of the palanquins and take her directly to T'Rav."

Metharial nodded to himself and set off for the nearest palanquin. Such an obvious enchantment might have been suicidally stupid anywhere else in the Empire, but a Khajiit's natural retardation when it came to magicka made it a worthy risk. The other guards barely paid him any attention to him as Metharial climbed onto the pile of cushions stacked within the curtains of the litter. But he allowed no satisfaction at the most gratifying way his plan progressed; there was still more than enough room for everything to go horribly wrong.

As the minutes passed, three more Khajiit maidens - although Metharial very much doubted their maidenhood - joined him on the cushions. Finally, he felt the palanquin lifted up onto the shoulders of the slaves, and they began to move. Metharial found himself counting time by measuring each step of the palanquin bearers - they marched in unison, a well-oiled machine. Doubtless oiled by their own blood, courtesy of the whip. Each step carried Metharial closer to his target, and each step increased the speed of his heart's beating. His awareness became focused, more intense. Each one of his faculties increased twofold in power. Countless moments passed, each an eternity to Metharial's heightened senses.

With such perception, he only needed a passing glance to categorize his companions, even with their concealing garments. None of them were worth a second look.

It was a long time before the litter was finally set down, and the curtains pulled back by the guards. Metharial allowed the others to exit before him, carefully noting where they were. Not that there was much to see; the slaves had set the litter down inside a large tent, and the tentflap was closed. Metharial was unperturbed by this, however; if the plan went off without a hitch, rescue would come to him. If it did not, then there was very little chance for survival in any event. "You there, get out from the palanquin."

The Breton came to his feet serenely, and glided by the scarred sentry. He joined the group of Khajiit women, who were now all removing their robes to reveal bare fur. And scanning the tent... there. Standing amidst a group of five barbarian guards, clad in crimson hunter's garb, stood the object of Metharial's dagger... T'Rav Sefirt. He looked every bit the part of a nomad warlord, savage and powerful. In that moment, Metharial began to doubt.

Lol, that's what I thought he would do!
Cool, though, five guards is going to be tough. And I don't think he can convince them he's a Khajiit anymore! lol

I eagerly wait for the next update!

This is definitely a unique duo you got going on here. You got brains and grace and brawn and ignorance. Hopefully the combination of both will prove to be useful. Problem is, brains is by himself right now and it appears he's surrounded by brawns. The next update should prove to be interesting.

Thanks for all the comments guys, I'm enjoying writing this story and your comments only encourage me. But if you have any criticisms as well, don't be shy about telling me, I won't be hurt. But now, the exciting almost-conclusion of the mission!

*****

Part 8
Senseless Violence

Metharial cursed his nerves a thousand times over as T'Rav walked farther into the tent. Self-doubt was perilous; more assassins died from that than any guard's blade. Remember, he told himself, this Khajiit is mortal just like any other. And so are his soldiers, hopefully...

Panic nearly set in right then, as it fully dawned on Metharial just how outnumbered he was. The guards escorting the palanquins had apparently left, for he saw none of them, but they had been replaced by a squad of nomads who looked to be doubly ferocious. There were seven of them, and each one clinked with chainmail hidden beneath their black desert robes. Broad scimitars were strapped across their backs, and axes hung from their belts. Metharial's silver dagger, sheathed in his dainty leather bots, suddenly felt inconsequential and insubstantial, like a wisp of cloud compared to a vast mountain. But T'Rav spoke just then, and Metharial thankfully refocused his mind on the target. The warlord's voice was gravelly, but unexpectedly thin. "These are indeed some of the most beautiful of our race...but Fresya, why is that one still robed?"

Metharial instantly felt seven sets of eyes switch their penetrating glares to him. A particularly tall Khajiit, a golden sash over its chest, growled at him. "You there, who they say Ilsyri sent. How do you dare to defy the wishes of T'Rav Sefirt, the Most Awesome and Ultimate?"

Most Awesome and Ultimate? At that, Metharial's doubts melted away. He hated pretension more than anything else, and this barbarian from the deep desert was the most pretentious creature he had ever heard of; a savage trying to style himself as a king.

Metharial pitched his voice upwards into a shrill, squeaky sound as he responded, "Why, m'lord, I'm but a common serving girl, and I'm shy in front of royalty."

The last word came out as a snarl, and Metharial ripped his robes off in an instant; his dagger was in his hand before the Khajiit guards had even moved. But when they did move, it was with speed almost equal to his own. A scimitar flickered towards Metharial's throat, and the Breton twisted away with very little room to spare. The guards were trying to hem him in, he knew; surround him like a beast and assail from all sides. Metharial was having none of that, and lunged at the nearest soldier, feinting high with his dagger. The cat committed to the ruse, swinging its sword up to knock the Breton's sliver of a blade away.

Metharial ducked then, and sprang at the nomad's exposed midsection. The Khajiit's eyes widened briefly as the point of the dagger penetrated its chainmail and slipped into its heart, before Metharial shoved the now lifeless cat away and turned to deflect the incoming blow from a second guard. As he deftly turned the attack aside with a tap of his dagger, the cat named Fresya shouted out excitedly.

"Ha, this human is so fast, he might be a hairless Khajiit! At last a challenge from this accursed city!"

He snorted at the cat's words. It was a dance, he knew. Dancing away from death, dancing with his dagger. Silver blades sliced the air all around him, but Metharial was a master of combat, after his own fashion. He used his natural speed and finesse to avoid swift death, waiting for an opening to strike. But there were six of them, and Metharial's lungs were already beginning to burn. He needed to knock them off balance.

In a series of expertly executed dodges, deflections and bursts of speed, Metharial wove his way through the guards, coming to face Fresya. This one seemed to be a lieutenant of T'Rav's. Stepping out of the way of a clumsy slash, Metharial raised his palm to Fresya's face and summoned his inner strength...

Every Breton had the ability, the raw talent, to use magicka. Metharial had never fully exploited this ability, favoring steel over mysticism, but even he had developed a few skills over the years for use in tight situations. This was an undoubtedly tight situation, and the blazing red fireball he sent flying directly at the Khajiit soldier reflected that. Fear filled Fresya's feline features, the instinctive, paralyzing Khajiit fear of fire. It was that moment of hesitation that cost Fresya his life, as the fireball exploded on his jaw and disintegrated half his head.

Silence filled the tent, not a single soul stirred. Metharial allowed a moment for the sight to blazen itself firmly into the mind of each cat, then leapt. At that moment, the wenches started screaming. To that point, they had remained silent, even watched with interest. The usage of fire, however, made them realize the danger they were in. Those screams, coupled with the sight of their dead and charred lieutenant, slowed the reactions of the remaining soldiers. Metharial had a foot of steel through the nearest throat within a second, and moved toward a young-looking, crimson-furred Khajiit next.

The cat swung its axe at him, but the Breton sidestepped it effortlessly and flung his dagger out. Blood and other gruesome effluvium sprayed from a punctured eye, and the Khajiit's scream was painful to Metharial's ears.

"Halt! Stop this senseless violence!"

The voice was that of T'Rav, and Metharial was so incredulous that he actually did halt. The Khajiit guards, of course, ceased all movement immediately, a fact Metharial made sure of before he lowered his blade an inch. Looking at T'Rav, who had fled to the far side of the tent along with the wenches, the Breton said, "How is it senseless? I have been sent to kill you, to save the Empire. That is all the sense needed."

"It is senseless," responded T'Rav hoarsely, "because I am not seeking to destroy the Empire; I only wish to bring my race into a new era, an era free from oppression."

"And free from the presence of humans," noted Metharial cynically, "that's the part the Emperor seems to be having trouble with, you see."

T'Rav sneered at Metharial, his canines bared. "Your Emperor is a fool. I must use this guise of a barbarian to unite the tribes, to unite the Khajiit under my banner. Then, I shall establish a truly independent nation. Humans will be welcome, but they will not be the overlords."

The Breton paused for a moment, taking the time to gauge the reactions of T'Rav's soldiers. They did not seem surprised, not even remotely so. He spoke slowly, measuring out each word precisely, "Well, Sefirt, that is an...admirable thing, I suppose...your people have--"

It was then that he threw his dagger, straight and true. Metharial was quite proud of that throw; there was no extaneous motion to telegraph it, no changes in his voice to warn T'Rav. Now, the dagger protruded from the warlord's throat. The deed was done; it was time to escape. Roars of rage erupted from the surviving barbarians, but Metharial raised his hand to the sky. Fearful of more fire, they shied away.

Once again dipping into his reservoir of magicka, Metharial shot a white flare from his hand, which burnt through the ceiling of the tent and sailed upwards into the night sky. Seeing that nothing more deadly was forthcoming, the guards rushed him, eager for his blood.

Calmly, Metharial drew his second dagger from its sheathe on his thigh, skirted the blade of one Khajiit, and ran for the tentflap. A dozen more Khajiit broke through the flap, not wearing the black robes of T'Rav's personal guards but still armed to the teeth. One of them was in the middle of saying, "We know you told us not to disturb you on any account, my lord, but--"

Its voice faded away at the scene of carnage within the tent, was replaced by an unearthly hiss of horror and disbelief. Metharial darted away from the tentflap. He had not wanted to use the scroll inside, for it would be too easy for someone to jump on him, but there was no choice now. Pulling the scrap of parchment from his shirt, Metharial unrolled it hurriedly. Please Akatosh, let Hoblin have done his job well...

With that, the Breton activated his scroll of Divine Intervention. And someone did jump on him just as the magicka whisked him away.

This post has been edited by darkynd: Mar 30 2008, 09:22 PM