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]

Alright, new chapter! And another one soon to come, I can tell you. Comment! I command thee!

Part Fourteen
Welcome, Welcome



The town of Vilnar was an exercise in contradiction, as Metharial saw it. It was a fairly large place, but an abjectly poor one, but commanded some of the strongest trade in Black Marsh. It was surrounded by nothing but swamp, there were no rival lords within a hundred miles and bandits were nearly extinct around here, yet the whole town was surrounded by a strong palisade and the forbidding stone tower housed a sizeable garrison. The only thing Metharial saw that really made sense was the golden bow and arrow on all the guards’ green tabards. He had it on good faith – which, in these parts, meant any faith at all – from a farmer that the ruling lord of Vilnar extorted the people and used the wealth to fund his great army while keeping the commoners in poverty.

Of course, that could have been a lie, since the farmer had gone on to say that the army had more men than there were stars in the sky, and that vampires were killing off his cattle, and an incubus had deflowered his daughter, and the gods were not favoring his crop this season and a hundred other things little better than superstition. The character Metharial portrayed, however, invited such confidences; he was a pilgrim of the Nine, come to see their holy shrines even in the darkest of dark places like Black Marsh. People respected pilgrims for their asceticism and the fact that one likely would not stab them for a gold piece. They confided in them since a holy man would never betray their thoughts. They gave them cheap lodging and free food, too, something Metharial never turned his nose up at.

So Metharial trudged into Vilnar a bewildered assassin, but the world saw his raggedy grey robes, sandaled feet and necklaces devoted to the Nine and knew him to be a trustworthy, humble pilgrim. Who most certainly did not have several blades secreted about his person. The guards at the gate into Vilnar did not even seek to question him about his destination; they simply nodded their helmeted heads at him and dipped their halberds in a show of respect. Metharial smiled at both of them and then lifted a necklace devoted to Akatosh to his lips and murmured to himself. The guards assumed he was praying. He was actually just moving his lips.

Metharial walked down the main street, although it was more of a trudge as he sank ankle deep in mud with every step. There was not a cobblestone in sight, and the heavy humidity made everything damp and clammy, even when the sun shone straight down, as it did now. Lining the street were a few run down shops with chipped signs and two double-storied inns whose doors were hanging on the hinges. Several patrols of green clad soldiers marched past Metharial, and more soldiers were standing guard in pairs every few dozen paces. Down the cross streets Metharial could see dozens of houses – if you could call them that. They were more like hovels. Ramshackle, ragged and ready to collapse were the words to describe Vilnar’s dilapidated state. The Breton shook his head, wondering how any man could be as insensitive to the suffering of others as the Lord who ruled this place was.

Those were thoughts for less pressing times, however. Metharial ducked into the nearest inn, its sign announcing to all the world in faded letters that the Merry Flagon was the best for rest. Inside, the Merry Flagon did not live up to its name. The common room was crowded, but the men hid behind their drinks and their conversation stopped when Metharial entered. After looking him over for a few moments, the publican came up to Metharial. He was a dark-skinned, fat fellow who had many wrinkles at the corners of his eyes from squinting suspiciously at people. He was not squinting now, because Metharial was obviously a pilgrim. Metharial said as much to him, and the man relaxed completely. The conversation that had ceased picked up again. He invited the Breton to have a cup of wine for no charge, and offered him lodging for what he claimed was a reduced rate.

The publican led Metharial to a table set slightly apart from the rest of the common room and put out a small clay cup of red wine. Metharial smiled at him and made a holy sign in blessing of his host. Metharial supped at his wine silently and slowly, taking in the occupants of the inn. Most appeared to be townsmen interspersed with the leathered countenances of farmers. Each and every one had a hunted look about him, and when they spoke to each other it was in low voices, the exact words indiscernible. Their clothing was universally tattered and dirty. These people had next to nothing, Metharial saw, and what little they did have was used in this inn to try and wash away their troubles for a while.

It was sad. The purpose of this journey was not to report on the state of the peasants, however. Metharial put on his most pious face and motioned over the innkeeper. He came over quickly, even disregarding a few of his other customers. “Yes, pilgrim, how can the Merry Flagon serve you?”

“I must ask about the state of spirituality here, and you seem to be the most knowledgeable,” said Metharial, lowering his voice, “perhaps you can tell me about the leaders of Vilnar? For, it is well known, the character of a leader affects the character of the followers.”

“Ah,” breathed the publican, lowering himself into the chair next to Metharial, “well, you have a good eye, pilgrim. I hear everything, and remember it all. Nothing gets by Jafur Morolin of the Merry Flagon they say!”

Metharial nodded gravely. “I believe it is so, Jafur. So, tell me about Vilnar.”

“Well, it is a good thing you've come by,” said Jafur conspiratorially, “things are in a bad way here. My customers are losing their faith.”

“Why is this?” said Metharial feigning surprise, although that tidbit of information would have shocked nobody. It did help to explain his unusually cordial reception by the inkeeper, though; men of faith were most in demand in times of crisis.

"Because...we are poor. They are poor. I am poor. There is no wealth, no prosperity."

Metharial nodded knowingly, fingering his holy necklace. "Tell me why this is."

Jafur wiped his brow and his eyes flicked across the room. "Not my place, pilgrim. I could lose my inn if I said something wrong."

"But Jafur," said Metharial, leaning in closer to the pudgy fellow, "I am a servant of the Nine. I must know the truth so that I may beseech the gods for a truthful answer. And I will not - I cannot, for my vows prevent me - betray what you say to me.

"If you have any faith at all," Metharial continued, his expression turning accusatory, "you will answer my questions. Not to do so is a most grievous sin."

That did it. The people of Black Marsh clung to the Nine like a babe to its mother; they had nothing else to cling to. That was why they had accepted Metharial as a pilgrim with so few reservations, and that was why Metharial could bully this man into spilling his guts.

Jafur moaned just a little, before nodding his head. “No one will ever call me a faithless man, so...Our lord is Jedethai Etlund, and he is a great man, the Nine bless his soul. But his officers, especially the governor here in Vilnar, are harsh men who treat us like or cattle. They’re used to giving orders and having them followed to the letter, if you get me, and when they aren’t followed to the letter, they…react badly.”

“Badly? What do you mean?”

“Ha, what do I mean?” asked Jafur, “well, an example...three weeks ago, Kedan Erom didn’t bow low enough to Captain Seifert – they have us bow when an officer approaches, you know, like they’re royalty or something! – and Captain Dirulis had him flogged to within an inch of his life in the town square.”

Metharial shook his head sadly. “Why don’t you appeal to Lord Etlund?”

Jafur laughed briefly. “All appeals to Etlund must go through the Governor here in Vilnar, and Governor Porenum would have us flogged to within an inch of our loves for making such an accusation.”

“Not a good situation, then,” Metharial observed, and Jafur shook his head in agreement. “Why are there so many soldiers about, Jafur? I must have seen two dozen in two dozen steps.”

The publican shook his head. “I don’t know, pilgrim. More and more men bearing the Golden Bow have been flowing into Vilnar the past month, but Governor Porenum pretends as if nothing has changed. Even Commander Tebilus was seen coming into town, although he went straight to the Tower.”

“Commander Tebilus?”

“Lord Etlund’s second-in-command. Rumors say that Lord Etlund has ordered the Commander to assemble an army here for an offensive…but there’s no one to take the offensive against!”

“You said Tebilus went to the Tower? What is the Tower?” asked Metharial. This was the information he was really seeking.

“The Tower? Oh, yes, it’s the only stone structure in town. You must have seen it as you came into Vilnar. The Tower towers over everything, aha.”

Jafur sat back, pleased with his pun. Metharial smiled indulgently, before leaning back and yawning expansively. The innkeeper leaned in closely, his face concerned. “Are you tired, pilgrim? You must have traveled a long way.”

“Yes, I have come quite the distance,” Metharial said, “I must apologize, but I am very tired. Might you show me to bed?”

“Of course, of course,” laughed Jafur, “you should have said something and not have let me prattle on like some goodwife. Tobur!”

A freckled redhead teenager popped up at Jafur’s elbow suddenly, flashing his gapped teeth in a subservient grin. “Yessir, Mister Morolin?”

“Show the pilgrim to one of the good rooms, and hop to it! He needs rest.”

Tobur nodded and bowed profusely before beckoning Metharial to follow him. Just as the Breton moved to do so, Jafur grabbed him by the sleeve and beckoned him to bend down. "Good sir, say nothing of what I've told you to anybody. It is the truth, but the truth is not well-received by some ears.

Metharial smiled and patted Jafur on the shoulder as he straightened up. Raising his voice loud enough so that most of the room could hear, he said, "Jafur Morolin, you are a man close to the heart of the Nine. They smile upon you with their grace."

Jafur beamed at his blessing. Metharial then allowed Tobur to lead him to the back of the common room and towards a set of rickety stairs when a gust of wind and a loud banging announced a new entry to the inn. Metharial turned out of curiosity, and paused when he saw a tall, golden-haired, green-clad soldier bearing Etlund’s sigil on his chest. His blue eyes gazed with determined scorn wherever they rested. In a sharp, commanding voice, he spoke. “The honorable Lieutenant of the Lord’s Horse, Norvis Feurile, approaches! Pay your respects!”

Instantly, the entire common room was on its feet and bent at the waist in a deep bow. The blond soldier turned to face the doorway and bowed as well, although not as deeply. Metharial quickly emulated the rest.

The door opened again, swinging wide, and another golden-haired, blue-eyed soldier came in. But this one did not wear a green tunic. Rather, he wore a brilliant white tabard, and the helmet held at his side was silver in composition, made in the likeness of two birds’ wings nestling around a cylindrical cap. His chest still bore the bow and arrows, but the emblem was of such brightness that it overwhelmed the eyes even in the inn’s dim light. At his belt hung a sword more beautiful than any Metharial had ever seen. Its pommel was set with a magnificent diamond which broke the light hitting it into a dozen different rays. The scabbard was dotted with milky white jewels and laced with silver. His armor was silver as well. Apart from his eyes and the sigil, everything about him was silver or white.

Very hard on the eyes, thought Metharial wryly, he could almost be an angel. The “angel” seemed to float into the room, regarding the occupants with a regal glare, as if they had no right to be in his presence. Behind him, another half dozen green soldiers filed in, looking much less angelic and much more battletested. Their leader turned to his announcer. “Ardel, let them sit down. I hate to see them on their feet in my presence.”

Ardel straightened up, his face pale. “Take your seats, commoners, at the order of Norvis Feurile!”

“And tell somebody to serve us wine. If I must sleep here I might as well drink here, no?” added Norvis Feurile.

“And bring us wine, at the order of Norvis Feurile!”

Tobur turned to Metharial. “We had best be getting you to your room sir. It’s said that Sir Feurile’s men tend to fight wherever they go, and that Sir Feurile loves to watch.”

They slipped up the stairs unnoticed, and Tobur showed him to a small room with a small cot. The boy ducked his head respectfully before leaving Metharial alone. He waited a few minutes, listening carefully to the hallway outside his door, before taking off his small haversack and pulling out a change of clothes. It was a normal, dark colored suit for night work, one providing complete freedom of movement and complete silence, unlike the pilgrim’s robes he wore.

After putting these new clothes on, Metharial contemplated his next move. The obvious choice was infiltrating the Tower and rummaging through Commander Tebilus’ personal belongings, maybe even interrogating the Commander himself…but that was an inordinately risky move. Even walking these streets was risky, with so many soldiers around. Another option had presented itself, however: Norvis Feurile.

He was a Lieutenant, a fairly high position, and his obviously noble background must allow him privileged access to his superior’s confidence. It was possible that he knew why so many soldiers were being rallied in Vilnar. Metharial decided; he would get Sir Feurile.

He settled back to wait. The sun was only just going down; the sky was a beautiful crimson. He slept for a few hours, restoring his energy. When he awoke it was just past midnight. Slipping stealthily from his room Metharial climbed down the steps into the common room. It was abandoned now and the torches were burning low in their sconces. The Breton noticed that some of the chairs and tables were broken where they had been whole before, and a smear of blood was on the floor. Metharial tiptoed to the door he had marked as leading to the kitchen and opened it without a sound.

In the kitchen, he found Tabur snoring on a mattress of burlap sacks next to the furnace. Drawing his dagger, Metharial bent down and jerked the sleeping boy up jerkily, hand over his mouth. Tabur kicked and tried to scream, but all motion stopped when the Breton placed his chilly foot of steel on his throat. “Now, Tabur,” growled Metharial in his most threatening tone, “you will tell me where Sir Feurile is sleeping. When I uncover your mouth, I don’t want to hear you whimper, or scream, or do anything but tell me where he’s sleeping, or I’ll cut your throat, you understand? Nod if you understand.”

Tabur nodded. Metharial moved his hand off his mouth. Gulping, the boy said, “On the s-second floor, the f-fourth door on the right. B-best room in the i-inn.”

Metharial belted him over the head, knocking the boy out cold. If he kept his mouth shut, Tabur could probably avoid getting involved. Metharial hoped he had enough sense to see that.

This post has been edited by darkynd: Jul 17 2008, 05:25 PM