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 Eleven: Spite Part II and Fang Lair Revealed

Terror. That feeling of overwhelming fear that strikes at the worst of times. When one’s flight or fight system chooses flight, but is unable to run. Chills go down the spine, and focus is impossible. The feeling when a hammer wielding savage, intent on crushing your skull, is charging at you with a blood-curdling yell.

Ernand had known fear before. The revelation that Jagar Tharn had killed Ria and was impersonating the Emperor, and he the only current one able to do anything about it, hadn’t exactly filled him with positive thoughts. But that was a far-off goal, one that could be accepted during the passage of time. An angry Nord wanting to kill him, though, made the Breton’s legs quiver.

Helm, as Sven had called his older brother, had no finesse. But what he lacked their, he made up in sheer ferocity. Due to the weight of the hammer, and Helm’s lack of skill, Ernand didn’t find it incredibly difficult to dodge a swing aimed at his head. Ducking to avoid the blow, the Breton struck with the hilt of his sword at the Nord’s left knee. Howling in pain, Helm wavered for a moment. Time bought, Ernand danced away to the opposite end of the small arena.

Distance achieved, Ernand extended his finger, muttering, “Palava Puhkaista,” and a dart of faint flame shot from it, striking Helm at the small of his back. Ernand winced when he noticed the spell only served to enrage the Nord further.

Excellent, Ernand thought, I’ve turned a angry Nord into a maddened killing machine. No sooner as the thought entered his mind that Helm was on him again. Unable to get away, the Breton was forced to accept the blow. Luckily, in his enraged state, Helm was targeting the Breton’s torso. The Nord’s hammer crashing against the elven mithril made all sorts of noises, but the crunching of bones was not among them.

Recovering from the beating, Ernand flicked his sword out, slashing along the Nord’s unprotected torso. Reeling back, Helm clutched at his chest, blood welling up in his fingers. Not willing to endure the fight anymore, Ernand raised his sword again.

The sun flashed on the blade as it went down, blinding those following it. The next thing the spectators heard was an animalistic roar, and the clunk of a heavy object falling onto the ground. The crowd of Bosmeri fair-goers had fallen silent as they gazed at the sight before them. Helm had collapsed to his knees; his bloody hand that was once at his chest was now clutching the bleeding stump where his right hand had once been. The Breton victor was slouched, the tip of his sword resting on the ground. His breaths were coming in heavy gasps, and he seemed on the verge of falling down. His once glistening armor was dull, covered in the blood of his defeated foe, and the dust kicked up during combat.

Sven, seeing his defeated brother, roared and bounded over the arena fence. The crowd screamed when it seemed that the other Nord was going to tackle the Breton. In the short time Ernand had to respond, he managed to raise his blade. But he never got the chance to do anything.

“Kantamus!” The cry came from behind the crowd. A bolt of blue energy flew towards Sven, striking him fully. He screamed as he crashed to the ground, sending dust into the air. “Alright, everyone shows over. Go somewhere else.” The edge of authority was within the voice of this newcomer, and the people grudgingly left the scene of the brawl, muttering in discontent. When the crowd had dispersed, the three fighters all stared in shock at the remaining man, the fat merchant Ethredor.

“So, Ernand, I leave you alone for a few hours and this is how you amuse yourself. Maiming one of my employees.”

“Ethredor? How did you—what is going on?”

The merchant laughed shrilly, his chin-fat jiggling as he did. “Did you think I wouldn’t hear about this?” Ethredor saw Ernand’s face drop, “Black Park isn’t very big, and there is little that happens here that I don’t know about. Actually,” the merchant raised his plump fingers to his chubby chin, “It was Malgoth, the Stable Master, who alerted me to this ruckus. Are you hurt bad?”

Ernand shook his head. “I don’t think so. I might be severely bruised, but I think I’ll live.”

“Good!” Ethredor nodded. “Why don’t you head back to the manor; get yourself cleaned up. I’ll deal with these two ruffians.” Ernand nodded in agreement and silently left the scene. He hadn’t bothered to sheathe his sword, and it dragged on the ground as the Breton stumbled up the lane back towards the manor quarter.

Ethredor’s eyes followed the receding form the Ernand until the Breton at last disappeared as he rounded a corner. Nodding, he casted his eyes about, assuring himself no one was about. When this was done he turned blazing eyes back towards Helm and Sven. “Idiots,” he growled, “What were you fools doing challenging that Breton? I thought I made it clear to you both that you weren’t to pick fights anymore!”

Sven, still be crushed into the ground by Ethredor’s burden spell, squeaked, “He insulted us! Called us fools!”

“You are fools!” Ethredor put his fingers to his temples and rubbed slightly. “Do you two even understand the possible consequences of what you’ve done? This could very well lead to an investigation!”

“But,” Helm gasped in pain as he tried to speak, “Didn’t the Master say—say that we would not be looked into?”

“There’s always one amongst the guards who is an idealist,” the Bosmer scoffed, “And though guards love gold, they love fame even more.” Ethredor’s eyes then locked onto Helm’s severed hand. “For Dagon’s sake, pick it up and go see if a healer can reattach it.”

“Of course, Lord Asuul—,” Helm’s words were cut off when he too was crushed into the ground when Ethredor cast a burden spell on him.

“Idiot oaf! King of Fools! I ordered you to never address me by that name in public!” A white orb began to form in Ethredor’s hand, and soon a swirling ball of electrical energy was trembling there. “You will never call me that again, whelp!” The orb flew from Ethredor’s hand and struck Helm’s prone body. Screams of intense pain erupted from the Nord’s mouth, and then were suddenly silenced. When the electricity stopped bouncing over his body, smoke began to rise from Helm.

“You—you killed him….” Sven turned his head from his brother to Ethredor with much difficulty, and he gazed at the fat Bosmer in total alarm, “You slew my brother. Why?”

“I do not suffer fools gladly. Nay, I do suffer them at all!” Ethredor waddled over to the smoking corpse of Helm and kicked it a few times with a stubby foot. He then glared at Sven, “Be sure you—,”

“What’s going on?”

Ethredor’s sight snapped to the location of the new voice. Up the lane which Ernand had taken stood the small form of Bosmer Stable Master, Malgoth. “Master Ethredor?”

“Ah, Mr. Malgoth…Uh, ahem…Well this is an odd situation isn’t it?” Ethredor smiled at the Bosmer, whose eyes were now locked on the smoking corpse of Helm. “Oh, no need to stare at this,” Ethredor said as he stepped between Moth and the body, “The man wouldn’t see reason, you see. I had to put him down.”

“You murdered my brother!” Sven sobbed into the dirt, “Murderer!”

“I’m—I’m going to go get the watch.” Moth took a few steps away from the now frowning merchant, then turned on his heel and attempted to flee. He only got a few feet before he heard “panna vankilaan,” and he felt something hit his back. Instantly, his body lost function, and his paralyzed body keeled over backwards, his eyes staring up into the sky.

“You know, you could have avoided this.” Moth could hear the merchant’s heavy footfall next to his ear. “You could have just accepted my story, and cared no more for the matter. So a Nord died. Personally, I think that would have pleased an elf like you.” Slowly, Moth’s body rose back to standing, completely still as if he was a statue. “But you wouldn’t accept that.”

“Yo—you—you aren’t Ethredor,” Moth managed to croak.

“Well, there was never an Ethredor to begin with.” Gradually, Moth could see the fat merchant’s visage chance. He started to grow taller and the fat disappeared from his body. The jolly Bosmer face was replaced with one almost skeletal in appearance, and the merchant’s fine clothes were replaced with extravagant green robes. The face grinned at Moth, revealing sharp pointed teeth. “There is no Ethredor,” it growled, “There is only Pergan Asuul!”

No scream ever escaped Malgoth’s mouth.

*

“Ahhh; oh yeah. This feels good.” Submerged in the steaming water, Ernand moaned in contentment. The soothing water eased the pains of his body, just recently battered by a Nord’s hammer.

The bathroom was quenched of all but a few candles. It was dark and serene, and Ernand would have had it no other way. Moments of peace had been rare for the Breton the last weeks, and he seized the chance to forget his troubles. Forget Tharn. Forget the Emperor. Forget Ria—Ernand snapped his head up, his brow creasing and a disturbed look on his face.

No, I must not forget, he thought, Ria is dead. Emperor Uriel, imprisoned. And that apostate, Tharn, sits on the throne. I must not forget.

These revelations sapped much of the enjoyment Ernand was getting out of his bath. The water was still warm and comforting, but his thoughts were clouded with foreboding. Cursing silently to himself, Ernand reached under the water, his hand scraping along the well-sanded floor of the tub for the drain plug. The bath had gone on long enough, and Ernand saw no more point in continuing.

Popping the plug, the Breton stood from the rapidly draining tub. Stepping out, he searched for a towel. The bathroom wasn’t very big, and he had little trouble spotting the leaf-green cloth, even in the scant light. Patting himself dry, he wrapped the towel around his naked waist then moved over to the door.

Opening it slightly, Ernand peeked his head out. The bathroom door opened out into a long hallway. Unlike the bathroom, the hallway boasted large windows at both ends, filling it with light. He could hear the bustle of Ethredor’s servants, but there were none about the hall. Stepping lightly, Ernand left the bathroom and proceeded to the chamber that had been put aside for him.

He was almost there when the towel around his waist slipped. “Damnation,” he swore as he scooped down to pick the object up. As he latched onto the towel, he heard the shutting of a door then a loud intake of breath. Craning his neck from his bent over position, he spotted one of Ethredor’s servants, a pretty Bosmer girl. “Oh jeez…Um, hi there,” the servant just stared at the naked Ernand, “I’m just—uh—just heading back to my chamber. Um, y’know, just going—going…um---excuse me!” Hastily wrapping the towel around his waist again, the Breton fled from the paralyzed Bosmer.

Flinging the door to his chamber open, Ernand stomped in, fuming. “Idiot,” he growled to himself, “How hard can it be to secure a damned towel!” Ernand sighed as he sat down on the feather bed. Turning his head to look at the inviting pillow, he realized how tired he really was. “Yeah…Sleep is probably what I need right now. A short nap ought to do me some good.” Stripping off the towel and throwing it to the floor, he crawled under the sheets of the bed. Resting his head on the pillow, he shut his eyes and was soon asleep.

*

A swirling mist surrounded the Breton, making it difficult to make out his surroundings. To Ernand, it felt as if he were floating. As he swam through the fog, he was soon stopped by an unseen force. The mist began to thicken, and began to form itself into a shape. Afraid, Ernand sought to swim away, but turning to flee only accomplished him running into another invisible wall.

Do not be afraid, Lochlainn. It is I, your friend, Ria. I see you have managed to get into trouble since your escape from Tharn’s grasp. I congratulate you on that. But now is not the time for praise. From out of the mist, Ria stepped forth. She looked no different than the time he appeared to him in prison and Ernand stopped trying to flee. Raising her hand, she began to swirl the vapor around her until it coalesced into the form of a great fortress high among the clouds.

This is the Fang Lair, once the home of the Rourken dwarves. Here, Tharn has hidden a piece of the Staff of Chaos. I do not know the ruin’s exact location, I only know that it sits high above a great desert. I am sorry I can’t tell you more.

Ernand awoke with a great gasp. Cold sweat was dripping off him, and his breathing was light and fast. The chamber lay under a blanket of shadows, and the Breton deduced his short nap had gone on much longer than he had anticipated.

“Fang Lair,” he whispered. The words brought back his dream of Ria to crystal clarity, her words being burnt into his mind. “It seems I must make for Hammerfell.” Ernand sighed and flopped back onto his pillow. “Why couldn’t Ria find a staff piece a little closer?”


This post has been edited by Verlox: Jun 2 2010, 04:03 AM