A Champion's Journey, The Imperial Simulacrum Options

[Verlox]

Prolouge

Ernand Leoriane was greeted to his first sight of the Imperial City as he, along with his escort, crested over Brena's Hill, giving them an unparalleled view of the expansive rain-forest of the Nibenay Valley. The colossal Whitegold Tower, its silvered spire shimmering in the sun, gave promise to splendor. As a Junior Councilman of the Elder Council, Ernand would soon be enjoying that most marvelous of settlements. But the Imperial City wasn't the only site to behold in the great valley of Nibenay. From his perch atop Brena's Hill, the young Councilman could make out splendid villas of alabaster and limestone that belonged to wealthy nobles and Senior Councilors. The great Lake Rumare and its artery, the River Niben, could also be gazed at.

Sir Renard Liseux, the captain of Ernand's guards, moved his horse alongside his master's. "Your Grace, Chorrol is only another hour's ride from here. Would it please you if we bedded down there for the night?" Looking up, Ernand could clearly discern Masser and Secunda, and a few of the brighter stars. The Sun was only visible as a sliver of light on the western horizon. Although he would have preferred if they continued on their journey, traveling by torch-light if need be, Ernand knew that while his men would follow him, they wouldn't like him very much afterwards.

"Chorrol should be fine, Renard." Ernand could tell Renard was pleased by the grin that spread across his face. Signaling to the men, Renard spurred his horse back into formation around Ernand, and they proceeded to Chorrol. A Colovian town, Chorrol was situated in the Highlands on the border with Hammerfell. Founded in the 2703 year of the First Era by Kantus Jerril, the town's first Count. The city itself was rustic, to Ernand resembling the town in High Rock he was born in. Its timber structures were simple, square buildings with one or two floors. Silver Mining was Chorrol's primary trade, but the sheep and goat trade was always booming.

Twilight came and went by the time Ernand and his guards passed through the gates of Chorrol. A sleepy guard pointed them in the direction of the town's inn. It was fortunate that Chorrol was a very simple town, and that the inn received such a prominent position; right off the square. Passing up through the lane, Ernand couldn't help but admire the massive oak-tree that overshadowed the largest of Chorrol's buildings. Dismounting and hitching his horse, Ernand watched his guards tramp into the taproom. He followed more slowly, taking a seat in a corner. After the bar-wench had brought him his beverage, he was joined by Renard. "This isn't exactly the finest of places, eh, Renard?"

"No, sir, it is not," Renard indulged his master, feeling that a Councilman would think any place is trash, "Reminds me of home though, does it not?"

"Aye, that's true. Kambria bears a strong resemblance to this place. Chorrol is certainly warmer, though!" Both men laughed. "Do you think it will rain tonight," Ernand asked as he took a sip of his craythur, "Those clouds looked rather mean."

Renard tapped his chin with his forefinger in thought. "It could. We did have a light sprinkle last night, so it wouldn't be strange if we got some of the water up here in the Highlands."

"Should I expect a delay in travel?"

Renard grimaced. He knew Ernand wanted to get to the Imperial City so he could begin his career, and live the life of Nibenean luxury. Damn...I would be impatient, too, Renard thought to himself. As an older man, however, Renard could look on luxury as a reward, where as he saw Ernand as wanting the luxury as an entitlement, he was a member of the Elder Council after all. "Ernand," Renard rarely used his master's Imperialized name, preferring the formal 'sir' or, in private, his given name of Lochlainn, "How old are you?"

Ernand raised an eyebrow, but answered. "Seven-and-Twenty. Why?"

"You got your whole life ahead of you. Don't let a little luxury spoil you to the rest of the world."

"What makes you think it will?" Indignant, a hard edge crept into Ernand's voice, "I can assure you, Renard, that a Nibenean lifestyle will not 'spoil' me, as you put it." He stood from his seat abruptly, "I must bid you goodnight, Renard. I expect to leave early tomorrow, so be ready to leave by sunrise." With that, Ernand turned on his toe and left the taproom, leaving Renard sitting alone.

"Of course, Councilor. Your will is my command."

*

His entrance into the Imperial City was even greater that he imagined it would be. At the bridge, Ernand and his escort were met by the other two members of High Rock's councilors. They greeted their new compatriot with much warmth, proclaiming that High Rock was well served by having the scion of the Leoriane as a member of the Elder Council. Ernand in turn acknowledged their greetings with a smile, but had to ask where his benefactor, Ria Silmane, was.

"She had business to do for the Emperor, Ernand. As you know, that traitor, Tharn, was executed some months ago. For a time, the position of Imperial Battle Mage was empty, left vacant by Tharn's death. Emperor Uriel, in his wisdom, had Madame Silmane appointed in his place. We hardly see her anymore; always off doing one thing or another for His Majesty." Ernand nodded that he understood, but inwardly he wished that Ria had been their to see his entrance into the Imperial City.

The councilors escorted Ernand and his guard through the streets, giving them a condensed tour of the Imperial City. With the air crisp and cold, the councilors cut the tour short when they arrived in the Elven Gardens District. They pointed out to him the location of the High Rock Councilor's Manor, and then left the younger man for their own villas in the country-side.

"Unpack our belongings," Ernand told his guards, "I'm going to have a rest." The manor was a small, but comfortable, building of three stories. The lowest floor was a large hall made from receiving guests and dining. The second floor was dedicated to housing the occupant’s personal guard. And the third floor was the Councilor's Chamber. It was here that Ernand found himself after he mounted the stairs.

The chamber was very spacious. A large, four-poster bed was against the wall for sleeping. There were numerous coffers and chests, and their was even a writing desk. It was a object on the desk that first drew Ernand's attention, and he moved to investigate. The object was a small letter written on tan paper. Picking it up, Ernand read--

To his most Esteemed Lordship, Councilor Ernand Leoriane
Greetings,

I apologize in advance for not being able to greet you on your entrance into the city. The Emperor had a very important matter for me to look into, and I was unable to get out of it. I promise that we will soon see each other. If not in private than in the Palace.

Your Friend,
Ria Silmane, Imperial Battle Mage

Dated Seventh of Sun's Dawn, 3E 395

Ernand smiled at Ria's letter and put it back onto the desk. Moving over to a nearby shutter, he flung it open to gaze out over the Imperial City. Things were good.

**

This post has been edited by Verlox: Mar 19 2010, 02:40 AM

[Verlox]

Chapter Ten: Spite Part I

Day dawned over Black Park, and all but the poor were still shut up in the homes. A storm had rolled in late the day before, and rain was still coming down. Merchants had taken their goods indoors, leaving empty booths scattered about the muddy square.

Locked up within Ethredor’s manor house, Ernand sat with the giant Bosmer as the elf droned on about the recent happenings within Tamriel. As a merchant, he could not be indifferent to news coming in from the other provinces, and he regaled his Breton guest with a tale from up north.

“And the Count of Bravil was executed for conspiracy to assassinate the Emperor,” Ethredor said after he drained another glass of Valenwood brew. “The executioner was ill, I heard, so the authorities had simply thrown Bravil into the lake to be devoured by slaughterfish. Nasty business that.”

Ernand grimaced at Ethredor’s story. While he wouldn’t put it past the count to conspire against the Imperial Crown, knowing that Tharn was impersonating the Emperor made him regret that the count was no tsuccessful. If Bravil had been, Ernand thought, he wouldn’t be sitting with a greedy little Bosmer, sharing a drink.

“Something wrong, Ernand?”

The Breton was jogged from his thoughts when Ethredor spoke.

“What? Oh, sorry. No, nothings wrong. You’re right, nasty business about Bravil. Do you think he was really planning to assassinate the Emperor?”

“Honestly?” Ethredor smirked a little between gulping down more of the brew, “No. It was a political execution. The Count of Bravil was a malcontent with a large Nibenean following. It makes sense to me that an Emperor can’t let a man like that live. I don’t understand why he didn’t do it sooner.”

I do. Emperor Uriel would have never condoned such an act, Ernand thought, he would have found another way. Chugging down his brew, Ernand grimaced at the taste. “I have ask, Ethredor, what is this? It tastes a lot like Nordic mead, but we’re too far south to find any of that.”

“Ah, this is a special Valenwood brew. Tree sap, some fruits, a touch of moon sugar, and then fermented under intense pressure and heat.”

“Isn’t moon sugar illegal?”

“Yes,” Ethredor grinned, “But who is going to stop us? If you hadn’t noticed Imperial garrisons now days are hardly anything to worry about.”

Ernand leaned forward in his seat, tilting his head to one side, “And that doesn’t strike you as odd? Not three months ago all the garrisons were at full-strength and cracking down on crime. What do you think made that change?”

Ethredor hummed and thought to himself for a minute before snapping his chubby fingers together, “That war up north, of course! Nasty business that.”

The Breton and the Bosmer passed a few more hours in discussion with each other before the rains finally let up around Noon. Instantly, Black Park seemed to spring to life as merchants and workers burst from their homes and began to set up tents and restock their booths. Ethredor had excused himself to go look in on his shop, leaving Ernand alone to pursue his own interest until the Merchant Fair started that night.

Getting up from his chair, Ernand left the den, stepping out into a hallway. Taking a right, he proceeded down until he reached Ethredor’s Foyer. There, the Breton stopped, and even took a slight step back. The large oaken door was flanked by the two Nord brothers who were Ethredor’s bodyguards. They regarded the smaller Breton with smirks on their faces. Neither of them carried their weapons, unlike Ernand who was armed, but they weren’t at all diminished by the lack.

Swallowing, Ernand stepped forward, and boldly said, “Excuse me, gentlemen. Business to attend to outside.” They didn’t move, and the older of the two brothers challenged Ernand.

“Did Lord Ethredor give you permission to leave, witchman?”

“No,” Ernand dropped his hand to rest on the pommel of his sword, “Unlike you and your oaf of a brother, I am not a servant of his. I may come and go as I please!” Ernand’s brash statement enflamed both Nords and they stopped lounging by the door and stepped towards him.

“You better apologize for that, Breton. If you do, maybe we won’t break all your bones!”

“Sure that’s a good idea?” Ernand asked contemptuously, “I don’t think Ethredor would be very pleased to find his honored guest mangled. He might even turn you two over to the authorities, and I’m sure the Bosmer would love to get their hands on a couple of Nords.”

The threat of an ancient hatred seemed to get through to the Nord brothers, and they slowly backed down from confrontation. As Ernand scornfully brushed by them and out the door, he heard one of the brothers call out, “You watch your back, Breton! Tonight I’ll have your head!”

Ernand frowned.

*

Tromping down the muddy lane the cut through Black Park, Ernand made his way from the manors of the rich merchants and into the settlement’s square. All around him was hustle-and-bustle as the merchants and workers labored to get ready in time for that night’s fair. The mud gushed under him as he continued on until he reached the town’s stables.

Ernand brushed the mud from his boots before stepping into the dimly lit building. The smell of horses was quite strong, and Ernand wrinkled his nose at it. The front of the stables shop was rather sparse; more of a sitting room than anything else, but the Breton knew that business would be conducted in the stable-proper. What he did notice was a long bell-rope dangling from above. Moving over to it, he pulled three times, the bell above clanging in tandem with his pulls, and then he waited.

Only a few minutes passed by before a wild-eyed Bosmer came bursting from a backdoor. “Well, hey-hi-howdy, sir! Sorry that took so long, was just getting finished shooing a big ol’ hoss. What can I help you with?”

“Ah, yes. I need a horse. Nothing special.”

The little Bosmer regarded the Breton with astonishment. “Sir,” he began, “You are the first person in this entire town to ask for something simple. Rich merchants are always here buying expensive, well-bred horses, so I stock quite a few of those. But since that’s not what you want, you and I may have to go do some looking. Follow me.” The Bosmer led Ernand out the backdoor and into the stables, where the smell of horse was most powerful.

Ernand spent the next hour with the Bosmer looking over numerous steeds. The Breton learned his name was Malgoth, but everyone just called him Moth because he could flit from one subject to another quickly. “Most people don’t care to look at the horse before they buy it. They trust me enough to do all the checking for them. Why do you think they’re like that?”

“Well,” Ernand brushed the back of his neck, removing some hay left over from having to dive into a hay pile to avoid a horse-kick, “They’re merchants. Fat merchants. They don’t want to leave the comfort of their homes to buy a horse.”

Moth laughed with Ernand. “I see you’ve met Lord Ethredor. I didn’t know we Bosmer were able to get that large.”

“I’m actually staying with that man until tomorrow. I’ve seen what he eats, and it doesn’t surprise he’s as fat as he is.” Ernand stepped in to another stall after Moth, this one containing a massive draught horse. “Now this is what Ethredor probably needs to get around, but it may also suit my purpose.”

“You going to be doing some hauling?” Moth asked.

“No, it’s for riding. But I need something that has endurance and strength.”

“Well, this creature may be just what you need.” Moth began by measuring the animal, the creature topping out at eighteen hands high at the withers. The speckled gray coat was healthy, and the well-muscled limbs showed off the steed’s great power. “So shall I start estimating a price, sir?”

Ernand stroked his chin, looking the animal up and down. After a few moments, he muttered, “Yeah. This is what I’m looking for. How much?”

“Well, demand for something like this is pretty low around here. And…Well, you seem like a pretty good person; a better person than a lot of the other Bosmer around here. And you seem to know your horses!” Moth grinned shyly as Ernand smirked. “So I think I can let it go for about nine-hundred, with an additional hundred for a day of stabling and feed. So a thousand total. Quite a deal if I do say so myself.”

“It’s acceptable.” Ernand reached down and took five pouches from his belt. “Each sack contains two-hundred septims.” Moth took the hefty pouches, holding them under his arms. He noticed that the Breton seemed to stand a little taller with that money gone. “So do you think business if going to be good for you during the fair?”

“Oh yes! All those merchants will needs new horses and wagons to transfer all their goods. There’s no better time for me, actually.” Ernand and Moth left the stables and back into the main room. The Bosmer noticed two his stable hands lounging in a couple of chairs, and he ordered, “Why don’t you two go take the horse to stall thirteen to the overnight stables. I want it fed and brushed down by tonight.”

After the stable hands left, Moth flopped down in a chair near the door. He motioned for Ernand to do the same, then asked, “So what brings a Breton down into Valenwood?”

Ernand shifted in his seat, “You know, just passing through.” His thoughts then jumped back to the trouble between Bragor’s Collective and Longvale. “I was employed down in Longvale. Things were getting nasty so I left.”

“I guess that would explain the elven armor,” Moth pointed out, “You don’t see that kind of stuff on many Bretons.”

“Indeed,” Ernand said slowly, “Altmer want their mercenaries to be well armed.”

Ernand and Moth passed a few more hours in conversation until a bell resounded loudly some distance away. Moth flicked his head up, and a grin crossed his face. “And that would be the bell calling us all to mass, I suppose?” Ernand joked.

“Nah; Merchant Fair. A lot like mass in Black Park, though.” Standing from their seats, Moth bade farewell to Ernand. Leaving the smelly stables, Ernand noticed that people were all over the place, drinks in the hands, and other haggling for wares. While they did not know it, the people of Black Park had sprung to life to pay homage to Zenithar.

Ernand’s mood swelled as he regarded the scene before him, and he soon was swept up into a passing crowd, propelling him to Black Park’s square where the main festivities were going on. There, numerous merchants were hawking their wares, straining their voices over the din of the crowd. While he was interested in their goods, Ernand forbore to take part in the economic side of the fair. Instead, he gravitated over towards the eastern quarter of the square where a small arena had been set up.

The Breton remember going to the Imperial Arena in Cyrodiil. The grandeur, and the pomp and ceremony, had always been his main draw. Safe within his balcony seat, the former councilor was well away from the blood, dirt, and sweat of the combatants. This was not so in Black Park. Here he had a front-row seat to the real violence of an arena. The grunts and howls of the fighters, coupled with a close-up view of savage beatings, actually made Ernand’s stomach turn. He was about to leave the scene when he felt a large hand clamp down on his shoulder. Turning his head, he winced when he saw Ethredor’s Nord guards.

“Good, you’re here. I was afraid we were gonna have to kill you in a alley or something,” the elder brother, a giant with a shaggy black mane and piercing blue eyes. Ernand tried to pull away, but the Nord’s greater strength held the Breton in place. “As soon as this fight’s done, me and you are gonna step into the ring.”

“You and I,” Ernand said dryly to cover up the hint of fear, “It’s not ‘me and you’, it’s ‘you and I’.” Seeing the Nord’s confusion, Ernand couldn’t help but dig further. “I suppose it makes sense that a savage like yourself—“ He was cut off when the Nord swung him around, pulled back his fist, and slammed it right into the Breton’s midsection, sending Ernand to his knees.

The crowd around the crude arena silenced, even the combatants stopped their fight when they saw another one brewing. The only sound that could be heard was the distant ruckus from the merchants, the wheezing sound of the Breton breathing.

“Teach you to make fun of me,” the Nord gloated as his brother guffawed, “And that’s just a taste of what’s coming.” Brushing past the toppled Breton, the Nord brothers began to threaten the Bosmer fighters in the arena to finish up quickly.

Meanwhile, Ernand was taking in shallow bits of air to get his breath back. The Nord’s punch had not only sent him to the ground, but knocked the wind out of him. He could hear the Nords making threats, and being a general nuisance. Unsteadily, Ernand got to his feet and turned to face the barbarians, whose back were turned to him as they harangued the Bosmeri fighters in the ring. The brothers were given a great deal of space by the other fair-goers, and a great space surrounded them. In that moment, Ernand knew what he had to do.

Raising his mailed hand, he outstretched his pointer finger. Focusing his magicka, he began to mutter to himself. Bosmeri eyes were on him now; their sight centered on the small, glowing orb that was shimmering at the tip of his finger. Slowly, it grew brighter and brighter until it was hard to look at directly. Finally, Ernand said, not loudly but forcefully, “Palava Rausku!” The orb seemed to convulse, becoming flat and elongated. The Breton’s magicka then sent the burning bolt soaring towards the Nords.

The Bosmeri mass cheered when the Breton’s spell connected with the elder Nord’s rear-end. The savage yelped, swatting at his butt in an attempt to put out the fire that was growing. His brother, panicking, did nothing. The fire was quenched before it could become any larger, but the spell had served the purpose of igniting another flame. One of anger. Twisting to face the Breton, who was grinning unrepentantly, the Nord’s fury spewed forth in a burst of profanity colorful enough to widen Ernand’s eyes.

“You sorry sack of guar dung!” the Nord howled, “I’ll get you for that. Sven!” He looked at his brother, “Clear those misbegotten elves from the arena. I’m tired of waiting to crush this witchman’s skull.” Sven complied with his brother’s command, wading into the arena to separate the Bosmeri fighters. The elder Nord them vaulted over the fence, calling out to Ernand, “We’re settling this now. You and me, Breton!”

With his wind back, Ernand drew his curved elven blade. The crowd was hushed as the councilor moved through them and into the arena. Sven had disappeared for a few moments, quickly materializing at his brother’s side with a hefty hammer.

Ernand knew he could expect no mercy from the enraged Nord. If he lost, he would die. Spreading his legs, Ernand lowered himself closer to the ground and raised his sword overhead, the blade shimmering in the sun that had burst through the clouds. His armor seemed gilded in light as Magnus’s rays shone upon it, and the Bosmer crowd was hard-pressed to look directly at the Breton.

The battle in the forest against the goblins was different than this, Ernand thought; it had been a surprise attack. But it was also carried out by significantly weaker opponents. This was different. The Nord was in peak physical condition, and he hefted his heavy weapon as if it was a small building hammer. In a toe-to-toe fight, Ernand knew there was no way he could win; if the Nord got a hold of him, his life was over. Magick, the Breton knew, would be the key to this battle.

Lets just hope Ria’s lessons are enough.


This post has been edited by Verlox: Jun 2 2010, 04:02 AM