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]

Long time, no update. Still, eventually is better than never, right? This is a boring bit though, I just haven't had enough energy to redo it. A more interesting chapter should be up shortly.

Part Ten

A Long Journey Short

Bravil! They had spent days traveling, with little rest. The Khajiit nomads had pursued them relentlessly, often drawing so close that Metharial could hear their voices. Had it only been Hoblin and Metharial, they would have been caught, and most likely have been killed. But fate had given them an unexpected boon; the maid, who they soon learned called herself Siraaj. Thinking back on it, Metharial was unsure what he had been thinking when the escape was planned -- how could he have expected a Nord and a Breton, alone in a hostile desert, to outrun and outwit Khajiit who had lived in the desert all their lives? Perhaps he had been thinking that the nomads would have been thrown into disarray by the death of their leader, and unable to mount a thorough pursuit.

That did not matter now; Siraaj had saved them. With her innate desert-sense, she had been able to guide them along the swiftest route while avoiding the majority of the nomad search parties. Admittedly, they were not too trusting of her at first. She had flown into a fury at their hesitation. "Do you think that I would be spared if they caught me? And even were I to be a traitor in your midst, you are like babes in the wilderness; you will not last long without help. So let me guide you, and take the chance that we might survive if I lead."

Not even Hoblin could say anything to that, so they had listened to her. Metharial was only half-surprised when they were soon across the border and into Cyrodiil, where the Imperial Legion was patrolling and the nomads would have to step carefully. And now, a day later, they were before the walls of Bravil. This Siraaj was clearly a creature of formidable will and had skills to match.

Metharial grinned like a fool as their horses clopped towards the gate; within a few short minutes they would be back in the Imperial City. The mission was done. Of course, he thought, there is the matter of Siraaj. He glanced to where she sat behind him, her muzzle held at a proud angle even with the sun beating down at full force.

She had long since discarded the revealing harem garments, and now wore Metharial's second suit of clothes. Even though the Breton was a man of average size, the clothes billowed on her slight frame, belying her graceful form. She had no weapon of any description, besides the fangs and claws inherent to a Khajiit. Jade eyes and blazing red fur marked her as a beauty among her own kind, and made for a striking countenance to any other race.

Siraaj noticed his scrutiny, and lifted her brow in unspoken question. Metharial shot her a toothy grin, saying, "Just gazing rapturously upon the face of our feline savior."

The eyes of deepest green narrowed at him for an instant, before Siraaj broke into a fit of laughter. "I hope not all Bretons are as disingenuous as you, else I be flattered to the point of extinction."

"Nay, madam," returned Metharial in his most gallant manner, " your features are so radiant as to elicit the most earnest prostrations from the most noble of Khajiit, whose solitary hope would be that you might look upon them with some small sign of favor."

Siraaj feigned bemusement at such a compliment, while Hoblin trotted his huge steed closer to Metharial. "Laddie, your words are as genuine as I am a man much disposed towards philosophy."

"I never knew you were a philosopher, Hoblin," Metharial quipped, "to match that, you must be the grandest intellectual of Tamriel."

The Nord shook his head, perhaps not understanding explicitly, but receiving the tone correctly. He did not have to respond however, as they had soon arrived at the Mages Guild. Bravil, the Breton noticed, had passed by them on all sides without grabbing their attention even once. No small wonder considering the decrepit and dilapidated state it was in, but it still struck Metharial how unimpressive the whole town was. Even the castle simply stood in the background, making no impression whatsoever. He could only be thankful they would shortly be gone from it as their small party dismounted, tethering their horses loosely to a post.

Entering the Guild, Metharial found that it was more or less of the normal occult decoration, only slightly more poorly than any other guildhouse. A portly Imperial Mage in the standard blue robes encountered them almost immediately upon entrance, his sallow face pinched up in a most disagreeable expression. "How can we help you today?"

His tone implied that any amount of menial tasks would be more worthy of his time. Metharial would brook no contempt from a surly fellow like this though, and demanded that he be shown to the Mage Overon.

"I am he," replied the Imperial testily, "now tell me what you need already, there are a couple of mudcrabs who've just laid eggs and I need to perform some experiments...um...ahh."

Metharial had casually flipped out the coin of the Red Spearhead, threw it up in the air, and allowed it to land face-up in his palm so Overon could see. The Mage's impatient demeanor melted away. "I didn't realize...aha, best not to speak of such things. Now tell me, what do you desire of me?"

"Instant transport," said Metharial, "for the three of us, back to the Imperial City."

Overon regarded them all with calculating eyes, gauging the amount of power needed. "Any particular part of the City in mind?"

"The University Arcanum is fine, as long we are sent today."

"In that case, come right along to my apartments; you shall be sipping drinks in the Palace before an hour has passed."

*****

Now, imagine that there is a bird. A bird flying high in the sky, buffeted by air currents, heading over the tops of the Bravil's ragged homes and east. East, to Black Marsh!

Soaring over the Nibenay the land below it quickly turns into an explosion of vibrant greenery from the air. But swooping down to the ground, amidst the verdant flora, the picture is different. What appeared from the air to be so lush and hospitable is a watery, treacherous, swamp. The Empire has struggled to at least partially remove this blotch on Tamriel, hacking at it with blades and burning it with Mages' fire, but have only succeeded in taming Black Marsh's rampant nature at the utmost fringes of the province.

As the bird flies, flickers of Imperial civilization pass by; a hamlet here, a stone road there. However, it is clear that the Emperor's will does not reign supreme here; there are no way posts of the Legion, no soldiers patrolling the few thoroughfares. Instead there are keeps and towers who do not fly the Imperial standard, but their own individual sigils. These are the personal crests of those lords who had fought beside Uriel V, and were granted land in Black Marsh by the Elder Council as a “reward”. In such a hostile place, the Council assumed that these lords would soon falter and fail – as many did. But those who did not fail forged alliances with the native Argonians, and extended their dominions. Most of all, they had nursed their hatred of an Empire that had abandoned them to a dark and treacherous land.

And suddenly, one of these lords’ castles looms directly in front of the bird, its granite walls towering over the surrounding landscape. From the highest tower a forest green pennant with a golden bow and arrow blazoned upon it flutters with the wind. The bird lifts itself towards that pennant, its wings beating the air, when it is transfixed by an arrow not dissimilar to the pennant’s. Like a stone, it drops.

Standing in the courtyard of this grey castle, a man dressed all in white lowers his bow, smiling. Turning to his companions, he says, “The Emperor is wishing to fly high as that bird did. But he shall meet the same fate.”