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

*****

Part 4

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