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]

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."