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]

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.

Part 3

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.