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]

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.

*****

Part 5
Borderline

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.