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 7
Swift, Silent, Deadly

"Stop your sniggering, Hoblin."

"I'm sorra, laddie," chortled the massive Nord, his blue eyes misty with mirth, "but you're such a sassy lass..."

Metharial stuck his tongue out at Hoblin and twitched his shawl irritably, before realizing what he had done. The Breton's face went redder than a daedra's heart, and Hoblin's laughter doubtless could have been heard atop the White Gold Tower. Casting about the small hut they had leased, Metharial sought something to throw at the Nord. Finding nothing, he instead said, "Listen, you know that this is a necessary embarassment, so shove a pair of breeches into your mouth to keep quiet."

Hoblin managed to bring himself under control, but smiled cynically at Metharial's words. His hand reached behind his head, fingers brushing the pommel of his formidable claymore. "Necessary? I donna think so, laddie. This here is all that'd ever be necessary if you weren't here."

Checking that his long, flowing robes covered all his body, Metharial eyed Hoblin. The lug of a man actually thought that he could cut his way through to T'Rav, the single most powerful Khajiit warlord extant, and kill him without a hitch. He was either stupid, or - and this was what worried Metharial - he knew something that nobody else did. But there was no time for doubt now that a plan was in action. Only swift, decisive movement would pull off such a risky gambit. But that did not mean Metharial had to be happy about it.

Sighin, he pulled the cowl over hid head, making sure that his face was hidden in the shadows. He had been very careful in choosing his garments, and knew that his species was indeterminable at first look. A rope was tied round his waist to give the impression of a tail beneath the robes, and Metharial's own natural grace allowed him to perform a passable imitation of the Khajiit's gait. It was far from a perfect disguise, but the robes were the normal garb for T'Rav's companions; he did not want his troops to know he consorted with the females of the city. Considering that he publicly denounced all city Khajiit as soulless minions of the Emperor, it would be bad for his reputation.

His libido will be his downfall, mused Metharial. Taking one last look at his harlot's guise, the Breton was satisfied that it was as good as he could get it. "Remember, Hoblin, what to do when the signal is given."

"Aye, laddie. I will."

Inhaling deeply, Metharial opened the door to the hut. A blast of the night's air greeted him. It was dry, and rapidly losing the day's heat. The false Khajiit hurriedly made his way through the twisty streets, past dusty mud huts the cat people regarded as homes, and finally came to a particular junction. It was not really notable at all, really, but four large palanquins and bearers had chosen the spot to halt. The palanquin-bearers were slaves, clad only in loincloths. A half dozen Khajiit nomads were interspersed among them. They were sleek, golden-furred creatures, whose muscles had been hardened from a lifetime of hardship. Metharial took a close look at each one as he approached, assessing their threat.

Almost too late to see it step in front of him, Metharial spotted a seventh Khajiit guard. This one had been concealed along the road, lying in wait for the objects of his master's desires. Metharial stopped short of this one; its savage face indicated a creature who killed on a whim. It grinned at him, baring its fangs. "Hello, prrretty. You come from whom?"

Saying nothing, Metharial held out a scroll of parchment and then held his breath. The Khajiit growled deep in its throat, glaring at Metharial, but it unrolled the parchment. An orange light strobed from the surface of the scroll, and the cat's eyes went wide at it. As quickly as it had came, the light faded away, and the guard stood, stunned. Metharial let himself breathe. But there was no time to lose. Stepping up close to the cat, Metharial gave him commands in a swift, peremptory tone. "You will allow me entrance to T'Rav's quarters along with all the other wenches. You will say that Ilsyri sent me. You will not betray me to your companions, and you will not allow them to discover me."

The Khajiit's eyes were still wider than a Legionnaire's shield, but it nodded, obviously cowed. Metharial stepped back to a normal distance. A sharp inquiry came from the palanquins, "Hey, Sarcha, everything alright?"

The one called Sarcha turned around, shouting back, "This one is clear; Ilsyri sent her. Let her onto one of the palanquins and take her directly to T'Rav."

Metharial nodded to himself and set off for the nearest palanquin. Such an obvious enchantment might have been suicidally stupid anywhere else in the Empire, but a Khajiit's natural retardation when it came to magicka made it a worthy risk. The other guards barely paid him any attention to him as Metharial climbed onto the pile of cushions stacked within the curtains of the litter. But he allowed no satisfaction at the most gratifying way his plan progressed; there was still more than enough room for everything to go horribly wrong.

As the minutes passed, three more Khajiit maidens - although Metharial very much doubted their maidenhood - joined him on the cushions. Finally, he felt the palanquin lifted up onto the shoulders of the slaves, and they began to move. Metharial found himself counting time by measuring each step of the palanquin bearers - they marched in unison, a well-oiled machine. Doubtless oiled by their own blood, courtesy of the whip. Each step carried Metharial closer to his target, and each step increased the speed of his heart's beating. His awareness became focused, more intense. Each one of his faculties increased twofold in power. Countless moments passed, each an eternity to Metharial's heightened senses.

With such perception, he only needed a passing glance to categorize his companions, even with their concealing garments. None of them were worth a second look.

It was a long time before the litter was finally set down, and the curtains pulled back by the guards. Metharial allowed the others to exit before him, carefully noting where they were. Not that there was much to see; the slaves had set the litter down inside a large tent, and the tentflap was closed. Metharial was unperturbed by this, however; if the plan went off without a hitch, rescue would come to him. If it did not, then there was very little chance for survival in any event. "You there, get out from the palanquin."

The Breton came to his feet serenely, and glided by the scarred sentry. He joined the group of Khajiit women, who were now all removing their robes to reveal bare fur. And scanning the tent... there. Standing amidst a group of five barbarian guards, clad in crimson hunter's garb, stood the object of Metharial's dagger... T'Rav Sefirt. He looked every bit the part of a nomad warlord, savage and powerful. In that moment, Metharial began to doubt.