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 to everyone who's been reading this. And I know this isn't posted in the "critical reviews" subforum, but if anyone has something a bit more in-depth they want to share with me about this story, I welcome that.

Part Twelve
Counsel

“You brought a Khajiit back with you. I suggest you explain yourselves.”

Metharial did not bother hiding his surprise. Dauvian sat behind his desk in a high-backed chair, his face perfectly impassive. Hoblin drew breath sharply, his huge paws clenching into fists. “How do ya know?” the Nord said.

“Because I know.” Dauvian’s response was cold, but the rest of his words were colder, “Explain yourselves now, or I will bring in this Khajiit and have her explain while you two contend with the snake pit.”

Hoblin snarled and his hands twitched towards his sword, but he was stayed by the sound of rasping metal close by. Turning his head slightly, Metharial spied Georvy, the giant mute, standing behind them with a naked blade. Behind Georvy, there was Yerum the mage, his staff glowing red. Metharial looked back to Hoblin. “Hob, I think we’d better just explain.”

The Nord relaxed, shaking his shaggy head. Metharial began to explain to Dauvian the process of acquiring Siraaj, how she had helped them escape to Bravil, and how they had brought her back with them to the Imperial City. He neglected to tell him the name of the inn they had put her up in, but Dauvian must already have known that. The Imperial seemed to know everything.

As the story unfolded, Dauvian remained impassive. The lack of any expression made Metharial just as nervous as outright anger or consternation would have. Dauvian could have been thinking anything, and the Breton would never be able to tell.

Metharial finished, and Dauvian placidly tented his fingertips on the desk. His eyes bored into Metharial, then his gaze shifted to Hoblin. He sighed and leaned back in his chair. “You two are very lucky. This Siraaj is - was – the daughter of an important merchant in Rimmen. She will be a useful pawn.”

“A pawn?" Metharial did not like the sound of those words.

"Yes," Dauvian replied, "a pawn. We shall use her as we see fit to manipulate events in Elsweyr. Until then, she shall remain where you took her."

"So…we’re excused for bringing her back to the city?”

“Excused?” Dauvian’s voice was filled with anger, tightly controlled but undeniably there, “I never said that you were excused for this error. Allowed to live, yes, but I will most certainly not forget how you jeopardized the Red Spearhead. The two of you should consider yourselves on warning; another misstep and it will not go well.”

Metharial swallowed. This man was beginning to scare him, and Metharial was not easily frightened. The precision of his control over expressions and emotions was unnatural; if Metharial had not spent most of his life learning to read people, he might never have picked up on the few clues he had. Being an assassin meant you had to be able to analyze people and understand them quickly, and Metharial could not do that with Dauvian. It had never happened before.

Dauvian noticed his stare. The half smile Metharial hated so came to his lips. “Something you want to ask, Metharial?”

The Breton started to shake his head, but suddenly remembered an oddity in their conversation. “Do you actually have a snake pit, Dauvian?” he asked.

The Imperial’s half smile widened slightly. “Be thankful you have not had occasion to find out.”

“And now,” he continued, “we turn to the details of your next mission…”
_____

It was the dusk of the third day after T’Rav’s assassination, and the highest room of the White Gold Tower was only illuminated by moonlight. Emperor Uriel VI reclined on his sofa, his mind cluttered with so many troubles. To the north, Baron Endral and the Count of Bruma were practically at war. In Morrowind, the Dunmer houses were unusually restless. High Rock was in turmoil, as was Hammerfell; there were too many lords with too many armies and not enough land. Elsweyr, despite the death of T’Rav, was in absolute chaos. The nomads were attacking everywhere, furious at what they believed was an assassination perpetrated by the city Khajiit. And Black Marsh...well, Uriel did not even want to think on Black Marsh. That place was a mystery to him, a fact which made the Emperor very uncomfortable.

As a matter of fact, the only areas that could be considered ‘peaceful’ were the Summerset Isles and Valenwood. Uriel VI shook his head. The damnable Elder Council had allowed the Empire to fragment and splinter, wasting the labors of his father. Uriel had decided many years ago that no one could set it right but him, the Emperor. That was why he had ordered the creation of the Red Spearhead.

Uriel sat up suddenly, ideas blossoming in his head. One of his guardsmen stepped out of the shadows. “Emperor, is everything alright?”

Uriel VI shot a glance at the white-clad soldier. He had personally selected every one of his guards, and paid them a handsome wage from his own pocket, so he trusted them as much as he could trust anyone. “I’m fine, Perelius. Send for Dauvian; I have a mission for him.”

Perelius bowed and moved off to relay the Emperor’s summons. Uriel leaned back onto his sofa and began to refine his ideas. After a few minutes – a remarkably short time for the distance the man had to cover – Dauvian entered. He presented himself before the sofa, kneeling. Uriel bid him rise, saying, “We are beyond the point where you must bow to me Dauvian, at least in private.”

Dauvian nodded. “What do you require of me, my Emperor?”

“Well, I need information on Black Marsh. That place is an enigma; I must know who there is on my side, and who must be gotten rid of. What is more, I need a situation in the north dealt with. I’m sure you’ve heard of it; the Baron Endral is seeking to topple the Count Bruma and install his nephew. It is a legitimate claim, so I cannot officially intervene…but your men can. Resolve it in the cleanest way possible.”

Dauvian nodded again, but his stance was agitated. Uriel raised an eyebrow at him. “Something you wish to say,?”

“My Emperor, Baron Endral is a powerful man, and a vengeful one. If this mission goes awry, we might have the whole of Skyrim up in arms against your reign. Might it be better to allow the situation to work itself out?”

The Emperor shook his head. “Endral must be halted before his influence is allowed to spread. Send your best to deal with him, and ensure that nothing goes wrong.”

Dauvian nodded, his acquiescence clear. “What of the Hammerfell mission?” Uriel said.

“Successfully accomplished. Marone’s mercenary force has dissolved without its captain.”

Uriel smiled with satisfaction. His plans were working to perfection, even with the long odds against that. “Very well Dauvian, well done. Carry out my orders; Endral must be dealt with soon. And your report on Black Marsh must be thorough.”

Dauvian bowed and departed. Uriel wondered, not for the first time, how history would remember his reign. As the Emperor who had united Tamriel and given it new strength, or as the cold-blooded killer who had caused the dissolution of the kingdom? He was determined it should be the first, but so much rode on a knife’s edge. Sighing, the Emperor of Tamriel closed his eyes and went to sleep.