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]

Thanks for all the comments guys, I'm enjoying writing this story and your comments only encourage me. But if you have any criticisms as well, don't be shy about telling me, I won't be hurt. But now, the exciting almost-conclusion of the mission!

*****

Part 8
Senseless Violence

Metharial cursed his nerves a thousand times over as T'Rav walked farther into the tent. Self-doubt was perilous; more assassins died from that than any guard's blade. Remember, he told himself, this Khajiit is mortal just like any other. And so are his soldiers, hopefully...

Panic nearly set in right then, as it fully dawned on Metharial just how outnumbered he was. The guards escorting the palanquins had apparently left, for he saw none of them, but they had been replaced by a squad of nomads who looked to be doubly ferocious. There were seven of them, and each one clinked with chainmail hidden beneath their black desert robes. Broad scimitars were strapped across their backs, and axes hung from their belts. Metharial's silver dagger, sheathed in his dainty leather bots, suddenly felt inconsequential and insubstantial, like a wisp of cloud compared to a vast mountain. But T'Rav spoke just then, and Metharial thankfully refocused his mind on the target. The warlord's voice was gravelly, but unexpectedly thin. "These are indeed some of the most beautiful of our race...but Fresya, why is that one still robed?"

Metharial instantly felt seven sets of eyes switch their penetrating glares to him. A particularly tall Khajiit, a golden sash over its chest, growled at him. "You there, who they say Ilsyri sent. How do you dare to defy the wishes of T'Rav Sefirt, the Most Awesome and Ultimate?"

Most Awesome and Ultimate? At that, Metharial's doubts melted away. He hated pretension more than anything else, and this barbarian from the deep desert was the most pretentious creature he had ever heard of; a savage trying to style himself as a king.

Metharial pitched his voice upwards into a shrill, squeaky sound as he responded, "Why, m'lord, I'm but a common serving girl, and I'm shy in front of royalty."

The last word came out as a snarl, and Metharial ripped his robes off in an instant; his dagger was in his hand before the Khajiit guards had even moved. But when they did move, it was with speed almost equal to his own. A scimitar flickered towards Metharial's throat, and the Breton twisted away with very little room to spare. The guards were trying to hem him in, he knew; surround him like a beast and assail from all sides. Metharial was having none of that, and lunged at the nearest soldier, feinting high with his dagger. The cat committed to the ruse, swinging its sword up to knock the Breton's sliver of a blade away.

Metharial ducked then, and sprang at the nomad's exposed midsection. The Khajiit's eyes widened briefly as the point of the dagger penetrated its chainmail and slipped into its heart, before Metharial shoved the now lifeless cat away and turned to deflect the incoming blow from a second guard. As he deftly turned the attack aside with a tap of his dagger, the cat named Fresya shouted out excitedly.

"Ha, this human is so fast, he might be a hairless Khajiit! At last a challenge from this accursed city!"

He snorted at the cat's words. It was a dance, he knew. Dancing away from death, dancing with his dagger. Silver blades sliced the air all around him, but Metharial was a master of combat, after his own fashion. He used his natural speed and finesse to avoid swift death, waiting for an opening to strike. But there were six of them, and Metharial's lungs were already beginning to burn. He needed to knock them off balance.

In a series of expertly executed dodges, deflections and bursts of speed, Metharial wove his way through the guards, coming to face Fresya. This one seemed to be a lieutenant of T'Rav's. Stepping out of the way of a clumsy slash, Metharial raised his palm to Fresya's face and summoned his inner strength...

Every Breton had the ability, the raw talent, to use magicka. Metharial had never fully exploited this ability, favoring steel over mysticism, but even he had developed a few skills over the years for use in tight situations. This was an undoubtedly tight situation, and the blazing red fireball he sent flying directly at the Khajiit soldier reflected that. Fear filled Fresya's feline features, the instinctive, paralyzing Khajiit fear of fire. It was that moment of hesitation that cost Fresya his life, as the fireball exploded on his jaw and disintegrated half his head.

Silence filled the tent, not a single soul stirred. Metharial allowed a moment for the sight to blazen itself firmly into the mind of each cat, then leapt. At that moment, the wenches started screaming. To that point, they had remained silent, even watched with interest. The usage of fire, however, made them realize the danger they were in. Those screams, coupled with the sight of their dead and charred lieutenant, slowed the reactions of the remaining soldiers. Metharial had a foot of steel through the nearest throat within a second, and moved toward a young-looking, crimson-furred Khajiit next.

The cat swung its axe at him, but the Breton sidestepped it effortlessly and flung his dagger out. Blood and other gruesome effluvium sprayed from a punctured eye, and the Khajiit's scream was painful to Metharial's ears.

"Halt! Stop this senseless violence!"

The voice was that of T'Rav, and Metharial was so incredulous that he actually did halt. The Khajiit guards, of course, ceased all movement immediately, a fact Metharial made sure of before he lowered his blade an inch. Looking at T'Rav, who had fled to the far side of the tent along with the wenches, the Breton said, "How is it senseless? I have been sent to kill you, to save the Empire. That is all the sense needed."

"It is senseless," responded T'Rav hoarsely, "because I am not seeking to destroy the Empire; I only wish to bring my race into a new era, an era free from oppression."

"And free from the presence of humans," noted Metharial cynically, "that's the part the Emperor seems to be having trouble with, you see."

T'Rav sneered at Metharial, his canines bared. "Your Emperor is a fool. I must use this guise of a barbarian to unite the tribes, to unite the Khajiit under my banner. Then, I shall establish a truly independent nation. Humans will be welcome, but they will not be the overlords."

The Breton paused for a moment, taking the time to gauge the reactions of T'Rav's soldiers. They did not seem surprised, not even remotely so. He spoke slowly, measuring out each word precisely, "Well, Sefirt, that is an...admirable thing, I suppose...your people have--"

It was then that he threw his dagger, straight and true. Metharial was quite proud of that throw; there was no extaneous motion to telegraph it, no changes in his voice to warn T'Rav. Now, the dagger protruded from the warlord's throat. The deed was done; it was time to escape. Roars of rage erupted from the surviving barbarians, but Metharial raised his hand to the sky. Fearful of more fire, they shied away.

Once again dipping into his reservoir of magicka, Metharial shot a white flare from his hand, which burnt through the ceiling of the tent and sailed upwards into the night sky. Seeing that nothing more deadly was forthcoming, the guards rushed him, eager for his blood.

Calmly, Metharial drew his second dagger from its sheathe on his thigh, skirted the blade of one Khajiit, and ran for the tentflap. A dozen more Khajiit broke through the flap, not wearing the black robes of T'Rav's personal guards but still armed to the teeth. One of them was in the middle of saying, "We know you told us not to disturb you on any account, my lord, but--"

Its voice faded away at the scene of carnage within the tent, was replaced by an unearthly hiss of horror and disbelief. Metharial darted away from the tentflap. He had not wanted to use the scroll inside, for it would be too easy for someone to jump on him, but there was no choice now. Pulling the scrap of parchment from his shirt, Metharial unrolled it hurriedly. Please Akatosh, let Hoblin have done his job well...

With that, the Breton activated his scroll of Divine Intervention. And someone did jump on him just as the magicka whisked him away.

This post has been edited by darkynd: Mar 30 2008, 09:22 PM