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]

Trust me Steve, you won't be disappointed...

This was the most difficult chapter to write so far, what with all the action going on. I'd really like some feedback on how I did. Thanks in advance!

*****

Part 9
Being the Ninth Part

Hoblin was bored. Not a rare occurrence by any means; he viewed any moment in time not spent fighting, drinking, wooing or otherwise carousing as a moment not worth living. This was an especially boring moment, however, because he was not doing much of anything. Just waiting for a stupid flare to up.

As soon as the tiny little cross-dresser had left the hut, Hoblin had departed by the back door to go and procure some transportation. Horses were a rarity in Rimmen, what with the nomad army taking whatever it needed, but Hoblin's intimidating presence had been more than enough to secure two adequate mares. They were by no means prime racing stock, but they were strong and durable, good for a long journey. Hoblin had taken them to an empty courtyard, secured their bridles to a post, and began the wait. The courtyard was less than a half a furlong away from a not-quite-abandoned Imperial Cult shrine, which had been set up by the Imperial Legion to aid in the conversion of the Khajiit. Now the cultists were all dead, but T'Rav had set a guard of twenty on the building.

Metharial had told Hoblin that this was to catch any Imperial servants who attempted to evade his nomads by using a scroll of Divine Intervention, since such a scroll would transport them directly to this shrine; and into the waiting arms of the nomads. But it also served as a watchpost for T'Rav, as it was set atop a high hill on the western side of Rimmen, giving an unparalleled view of the entire city and the immediate countryside. And now, thought Hoblin to himself, it will serve as the consecrated burial grounds for a score of kitties! His Breton companion would have been amazed by the level of cognition evident in that thought, but Hoblin was always very intelligent when it came to violent humor.

A white light flamed up in the sky, from the direction of T'Rav's camp. The little laddy's flare! Hoblin realized, and a smile flitted across his ruddy features. This would be the first time in several days that he used his claymore. Gripping the hilt of the massive sword, Hoblin drew it in a blur of motion, then let out a primal war cry, meant to set the knees of the foe trembling. Rushing from the courtyard, he stormed up the avenue leading to the shrine, the moons overhead lending his eyes a deadly twinkle.

A Khajiit stepped from the shadows halfway from the Imperial Shrine, looking to find what the horrble racket was all about. He was met with the sight of a huge, roaring block of shadow with pinpoints of light for eyes and fifty inches of steel over its head. That Khajiit did not live long.

But its companions also heard the commotion, and ten of them emerged from their hiding places, curved swords drawn and axes out, thirsty for blood. Nine others, bunkered down in the shrine, drew their bowstrings taut, ready to send speedy death to this apparition from Oblivion. Hoblin roared again and rushed at the largest grouping of Khajiit. He was a Nord after all, descended from generations of warriors, people who only knew what fear was because they saw it in their enemies.

Just as the cat archers were about to release their arrows, a huge crack came from behind them in the shrine proper as air was forcibly expelled from the space it once occupied. Eighteen yellow eyes turned to see a Breton man, dressed in common if tasteful attire, and a scantily clad Khajiit maiden suddenly appear. The Breton twisted, and flung the female off of him before looking about, disoriented by the sudden translocation. One of the sentries, a captain by his sash, hissed at three of his subordinates. "You deal with this one, we shall kill the one from outside."

It was too late for their arrows to do much good, however. In the time it took for them to figure out what to do, Hoblin had closed with the group of nomads outside the shrine. Moonlight only dimly illuminated the desperate combat, but it was clear who the aggressor was, and who had the upper hand.

Within moments, two of the cats no longer had their heads attached, and the rest were being pressed hard. They tried to encircle the mad Nord, but the length of his weapon kept them at bay, forced them to assume the defensive. Hoblin gave another fiersome war cry and jumped at three Khajiit, standing close to each other as if to draw strength from the nearness. With the first sweep of his mighty blade their feeble weapons were knocked aside, and with the second sweep he spilled the guts of one of the cats. The other two scrambled to get away, but his blade severed the hamstring of one and then skewered the other from behind.

Pulling his claymore free, Hoblin faced another cat who leapt at his exposed rear. He swiped off the fingers that swung its scimitar, and with another blow, cleft the creature in twain. Now only four nomads remained standing, and Hoblin had pushed them back to the steps leading into the Imperial shrine. The Nord laughed at them. "C'mon me little kitties, show me your best already!"

A nomad gave a high-pitched scream and leapt at him, putting all of its weight behind an axe it swung with terrible ferocity. Hoblin knocked the axe away and cut the cat across its chest while another Khajiit was already at his side. Its scimitar sliced his arm badly, and Hoblin roared with satisfaction. Finally these creatures show some fight!

Leaving only his right hand on the claymore he grabbed the cat's head. It struck at his ribs, but its blade was foiled by Hoblin's mail. The Nord sent a blue pulse of magicka coursing down his forearm and into the Khajiit's head; the Cold Touch. He let go of the frozen, lifeless head and allowed the body to drop to the ground. Shaking from the blood pounding through his every vein, Hoblin grinned maniacally at the final two cats.

He took a step forward, and they fled back into the shrine. Chuckling, Hoblin bounded up the steps three at a time after them, shouting, "Run and hide, kitties, I'll hunt you down wherever you go!"

The shrine was not a very large or impressive building; just a square block of stones piled up into four walls. Its only windows were mere slits from which archers could fire, and the only other room besides the chapel was a small space behind the altar where the priests had once slept. As Hoblin entered the place he noticed that it was silent. Passing through the arched doorway, a cat jumped at him from both sides. With his claymore still in one hand he blocked the strike of the first, and with left hand he smote the jaw of the second.

The chainmail gauntlet he wore compounded the blow, and a satisfying crack sounded from the cat as it jerked from the sudden resistance to its leap. But Hoblin had not stopped its axe in time; the steel sheared away his shoulder's mail and bit deeply into him. Gnashing his teeth to hold back a cry, Hoblin blocked another attack from the Khajiit who still stood. Then an arrow embedded itself into his chest. Again his mail saved him, but not completely as the metal point drove half an inch into his flesh.

This time, the Nord allowed himself to scream, then beheaded his nearest adversary. His breathing was sharp as he looked into the chapel. Metharial was there, disarmed, badly bloodied and on his knees in front of a Khajiit captain. Six bodies lay around them, and what looked to be a maiden of the cats cowered close by. The two soldiers who ran from Hoblin now stood before their captain, one of them pulling his bowstring back to send another arrow at the Nord. The captain spoke, his voice quaking, "Listen, Nord, we have captured your fellow human. Lay down your weapon, and we shall allow you to live long enough to be judged by T'Rav Sefirt, the Most Awesome and Ultimate."

"Heh," sniggered Hoblin, "the fact that this human is here means that T'Rav is dead. You've got nobody to fight for now, kitty, and I've already slaughtered half your minions. How's about you surrender to me?"

The cat's features tightened with anger. "This one said much the same," it warned, pressing its blade against Metharial's throat, "and look where that got it. Put your sword down."

Hoblin cocked an eyebrow at the space behind the captain, and the cat turned its head in time to see the maiden pull a dagger from a thigh sheathe and slit its throat. The gurgling attracted the attention of the last two soldiers, and the archer let its arrow fly. But Hoblin expected it and dodged, sprinting at full speed for them. Within a few seconds, the only remaining Khajiit was the female.

Metharial stood up, rubbing his temple where he had been cut, and quickly retrieved a silver dagger from its resting place in one of the many corpses. He turned to maiden then, asking, "Why did you come with me, and why did you kill for me?"

"I didn't kill for you," she said angrily, "I killed so you would take me with you. That beast T'Rav were going to rape me, and if I stay here, they will surely kill me."

"Only because you helped us," responded Metharial, "but now is not the time for discussion. Hoblin, you have the horses?"

"Aye laddie," said the Nord, grinning once more, "and I see you've taken off your pretty robes. I must say, you looked more natural with them on."

"Shut up," Metharial growled, but his voice took on a more gracious tone, "although you deserve thanks; you did well with these barbarians. Now, we must leave; T'Rav's soldiers will know the scroll took me here."

Hoblin looked at the Khajiit, saw she was only a little more than a girl. "What about her?"

"She did save me," Metharial said, "so she'll come along with us, for now."

"You won't regret it," interjected the maiden excitedly."

"I'm sure we won't," said Hoblin, although his whole body screamed a warning which argued otherwise.