Metharial: The Anvil, Murder, intrigue and ego. Options

[darkynd]

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.

[darkynd]

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...

Part 2

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