Slipping into Shadow, Portia had stolen from Mehrunes Dagon, and he wasn't about to let Options

[Ornamental Nonsense]

Chapter 1: The Job

The room was dark but for the faint glow of the fire that burned atop a central column. The unearthly, red flames danced without fuel, and the light that they cast lent a menacing quality to the room’s angular design. Shadows arched and curved in every direction, and it was in their paths that a lone thief crouched and hid. Her soft leather boots made no noise on the black marble floors, and a chameleon spell overlaid her dark clothing. Everything here seemed unnaturally black, from the walls to the statues, to the occasional dremora that roamed the halls in daedric armor. There was, of course, also some red. If she looked closely, the thief noticed that red runes covered the polished walls from floor to ceiling, but she could not read the ancient symbols. Nor could she understand how Oblivion had come into possession of the silky, crimson curtains that draped over the impossibly tall windows, but it hardly mattered.

However Mehrunes Dagon wanted to decorate his home was his own business. She just had to find that one artifact, and then she could leave. Unsure of herself, the thief placed a hand to her belt and made sure that the spell scroll was still there. Without it, she had no way out of this god-forsaken land, and she couldn’t imagine what would happen to her if she were caught. Damn them all—the daedra and the Imperials. In the disturbing silence of this dark manor, she rained curses down upon anyone and everyone who might have had a hand in sending her here, yet she continued on.

Her hands gently pushed against an ebony door, the wood surprisingly cool in the warm, stifling air of this place, and it mutely swung inward. Where was she now? There was a four-post bed, and a massive one at that, which dominated the room. Its dark frame was lavished in blood-red blankets and curtains that almost appeared to shimmer purple depending on the angle from which one looked at them. The floor was so smooth and polished that it reflected the ceiling like a mirror, and the braziers lining the edge of the circular room sent light flickering across the stones. It was a beautifully regal sight in its own way, and the thief was hesitant to enter, but then her eyes landed on the table.

There was a large table at the foot of the bed, and its surface was strewn with artifacts. Some of them glittered with enchantment, but others appeared as ordinary as rocks, and those were probably the most powerful ones. She stepped closer while scanning the collection for a simple, black necklace. It would look like a plain piece of onyx on a gold chain, but it was also very small. Where…? The thief’s breath caught as she located the prize where it lay half-hidden behind a skull. Now she could go home.

“What do you think you’re doing, human?” Pure panic—that’s what her reaction to that low, rumbling voice could be called. The verbal threat had appeared from nowhere, and she froze in fear as a dark presence descended upon the room. When instincts finally kicked in and told her to grab the necklace and run, it was too late. Pain erupted in her body—a searing sensation that made concentration impossible. She was being burned alive. Akatosh’s mercy, but this was the end, and she wanted it to end as her nerves were consumed by scorching heat. She closed her eyes in preparation for death, not wanting to see the victorious face of her opponent.

“I won’t make it so fast, mortal,” the same voice as before stated, and then the pain lessened.”You’ve intruded where you don’t belong.” Breathing heavily, the thief felt a hand grip her tunic and hoist her up from the ground where she had fallen in anguish. The lingering effects of the destruction spell still had her head reeling, but she was quite aware of being suspended in the air. “Open your eyes!” her captor harshly ordered.

Don’t, but a claw ran down the side of her face, breaking the skin and causing her to gasp. Eyelids flew open, and she suddenly found herself face-to-face with the last being that she wanted to see: Mehrunes Dagon. She didn’t even have time to take in his appearance, for his black eyes were sucking her into their depths. Gods above, but how could eyes be so black and bottomless? For a moment, she forgot how to breathe, and her gaping, terrified expression made Mehrunes Dagon laugh. The deep, throaty sound filled the room, and then she was falling, his mocking laughter the only sound chasing her into unconsciousness. And the pain—gods, but the pain was unbearable.

Portia Augustine woke up screaming, the sheets beneath her damp with sweat and blood, and the lone candle on the bedside table flickering with the breeze coming through her opened window. She lurched forward into a sitting position, head clutched in her hands, and chest heaving. It had felt so damn real, like she was there again, like a normal dream shouldn’t have been able to accomplish. Four weeks and she was still having these nightmares, and no mage or priest had been able to do anything to stop them.

“Damn it!” she yelled, not caring if anyone heard. The pain in her right hip had returned, as she’d known it would, and the nightmare lingered with the tenacity of Mehrunes’ malicious spirit. His eyes…she shuddered and stood, one hand gingerly touching the wound on her side. Blood had soaked through her nightgown, and she slowly rolled up the white fabric to reveal a strange, angular symbol carved into her flesh. The priests had warned that it might not ever fully heal, and she believed them. The wound was unnatural in the utmost, and bleeding almost always accompanied her troubled dreams. She never lost enough blood to be endangered, but it still hurt, and it was a reminder of who was after her.

Was he after her?

Hell, she didn’t think that he’d actually leave her alone, not after what she had done.

You’ll always carry this reminder, human. You are mine! The memory of Mehrunes’ parting words made her face pale, and she rushed into the washing room to clean herself of the bloodshed that he visited upon her. His angry visage had promised revenge when she’d escaped his grasp, but he could not touch her here in the capital. There were warding spells on the house, and the daedra lord was currently busy trying to conquer Tamriel. So she might feel trapped by his threats, but at least she was safe for now, perhaps forever.

Really?

Portia ran a shaky hand through her long, brown hair and prayed to Akatosh for protection. With a flask of brandy in hand, she sat on the edge of her bed, the smell of the alcohol comforting her as memories played before her eyes…

***********************

Four Weeks Previously:

The curtains gently billowed as wind swept up over the fortress walls and along the parapets, carrying with it the familiar scent of lilac and the muffled chatter of the market. It was a calming sensation, and one which was sorely needed at the moment, for Portia Augustine had just received what promised to be the toughest assignment of her life. She stood with hands braced against the windowsill, palms pressed hard against the cold stone, and eyes mindlessly roaming across the shoppers below. For such a seemingly normal day, her world was being flipped on its head.

“You’re sure that you can’t find someone else?” she asked, voice flat. She heard the man behind her shift, but she knew that it wasn’t in discomfort. This man had no remorse for what he was doing to her.

“The job is too delicate to be assigned to someone else,” he stated in a voice that left no room for argument.

“Assigned?” Portia nearly spat. “I am no longer under your watch, sir. In case you forgot, I left the guard two years ago.” And I left for a reason, she mentally added.

“Be that as it may, someone has to do this.” They lapsed into silence, and Portia finally turned away from the window. The burgundy curtains grazed her thighs as she stood there, framed in the sunlight. She was facing a man in his late forties, perfectly polished armor encasing his tall frame, and short brown hair tucked behind his ears. His face was beginning to show the lines of age and stress, but he held himself like a man in control. Hell, he was a man in control. Arelius was captain of the guard, held a near perfect record, and was known for being entrusted with delicate matters. Portia had once been privy to his privileged, inside information, for she had been a fellow member of the Blades, but not anymore, and so when he had shown up at the foot of her bedroll yesterday, she had known that it didn’t bode well. She had been enjoying her little sojourn into the wilderness…

“Portia,” he said. “I have my orders to see this task finished, and you’re the only one who even has a shot at success.”

“It’s suicide,” she sharply replied.

“Not if it’s done properly,” came the immediate response. “You always handled your assignments with a stealth more suited to the Thieves’ Guild than the guard. That’s why I recruited you to the Blades, and that’s why you’ll succeed.” Portia smiled and shook her head in wonder.

“You’ve always had a talent for this,” she mused. “Whenever I wanted to back out, you always convinced me that I could get the job done…but not this time, captain. I left my duties behind, and I don’t want to come back. I doubt that I’m welcomed anyway.”

“You’ll be working alone,” Arelius assured. “You don’t need to see the others, and they’ll keep their hands to themselves if I tell them to.” Portia focused on the hilt of his sword, the familiar eagle carved along its edge conjuring memories of being a new recruit. Back then she had envied him his sword and the respect that its sight commanded. He had been the model, and she had been the newbie earning her way up the ladder before accidently murdering a fellow Blade. She could still imagine the blood running through her fingers and the look of disbelief on the man’s face. Damn, but she had mistaken him for an assassin. What had he been doing lurking behind her in the shadows?

Arelius noted the sudden intensity of Portia’s face and his expression softened.

“Let it go,” he ordered. “No one blames you.”

“Are we through here?” she demanded. She was not discussing this with him.

“No.”

“And why not?”

“You will be doing this job, whether you like it or not.” He grimly passed her a slip of paper. “I didn’t want to resort to this, but my hand isn’t the only one behind this mission. The Elder Council won’t accept ‘no’ for an answer.” Portia examined the piece of paper, and her eyes suddenly widened in comprehension. They couldn’t press charges against her for involvement with the Grey Fox. She had…she would never…the nerve of those men!

“If I’m found guilty?” she probed.

“When you’re found guilty, you’ll be executed.”

“That's BS, and you know it.”

“Like I said: not my choice.” But his eyes showed no remorse; they never did. This man lived for the empire and the Septim line, which was why there would be no reasoning with him. He expected her to do this, even if she failed to see how she could survive an encounter with Oblivion. She had heard the rumors of Kvatch, for news of an entire city’s destruction spread quickly, and according to Arelius, that wasn’t the only incident of concern. She believed him when he said that Oblivion was preparing for total war, and it scared her like nothing had in a long time. The emperor and heirs assassinated, daedra roaming the roads, people disappearing in the wild…the empire was going to hell.

“What exactly am I supposed to do?” she warily asked, accepting her fate.

“Go into Oblivion,” Arelius answered, and his cool tone annoyed Portia.

“I know that. What I mean is: what am I expected to do there? What the hell can I do that will make the slightest bit of difference?” Arelius stared her down in a nonverbal reprimand for raising her voice toward him, and she slowly relaxed her glare. Antagonizing this man might not be the best idea given her predicament.

“Dagon and his followers are responsible for the assassinations and the attack on Kvatch. Gates to Oblivion are appearing throughout the countryside and giving his armies access to our world. If it can’t be stopped, he may well finally accomplish his dreams of ruling mankind, and so far, all we can do is wait for a gate to open and fight whatever comes out. It’s damn frustrating, and this recent attack on Kvatch…well, he got more out of the attack than we bargained for, and that’s where you come in.” Portia nodded, showing that she was listening, every dreadful sentence filling her ears and mind.

“General Achires was at Kvatch and was killed in the fighting. As you know from being in the Blades, he was entrusted with the protection of a powerful artifact.”

“Sable,” Portia sighed, now realizing the extent of their problems.

“Yes, Sable,” Arelius grunted. “The pendant of vision. Achires used it to locate wanted criminals, but imagine what Dagon could do with it. He could hunt down the last heir. All he needs is a name, and he can pinpoint a location and send every dremora and beast at his command to end our hope. We need to reclaim that pendant, Portia. If Dagon finds the last heir before we do, we’ll have lost before the real fighting even begins.”

“So you’re asking me to sneak into the Deadlands and steal from right beneath Mehrunes Dagon’s nose? You’re giving me too much credit. As soon as I step foot in his realm, he’ll know there’s an intruder. His eyes and ears will be everywhere.”

“He would know if you entered through one of the major gates, but you’ll travel through a small dimensional loophole courtesy of the Mages’ Guild. The master has assured us that he’s found a way to do it, so no one could possibly be monitoring your arrival.”

“So that means that I’m leaving…what? Now?” The captain smiled, and Portia’s frown deepened.

“How very astute of you,” he joked. “Gather what you need, and meet me at the Arcane University in thirty minutes. Time is even shorter now that it took over a day to find you.”

“I didn’t want to be found,” Portia grumbled, but there was no slinking back to her small campsite now. Either she went to Oblivion and helped protect the citizens whom she’d once served, or she’d be executed as a common criminal and disgrace her name and family. She would take the former over the latter, and who knew, maybe luck was on her side. She was born under the Thief after all, and she had been extraordinarily sneaky for a guard. That was why she’d been chosen for this impossible task, for she could remain undetected until the last moment, yet she had the combat skills of a soldier. She could just imagine some of her former comrades trying to secretly move about Oblivion, and it was laughable. Yes, she was a good choice compared to the other options, and she had never regretted it more. Her life expectancy had just plummeted.

This post has been edited by Ornamental Nonsense: Aug 3 2010, 05:59 PM

[Ornamental Nonsense]

Chapter 7:

"Casperian, be careful not to throw yourself off balance!" Portia called from the sidelines of the training room. The large, grassy yard was enclosed by white walls and a colonnaded walkway that provided shade for some of her pupils as they rested their aching limbs. They were seated on benches or the broad steps that led into the yard, and of course they were clustered around the fountain that protruded from the wall closest to the storage room. Water spouted from the glacial face of a stone maiden to splash into a circular bowl, and in typical, Imperial style, the woman was looking outward with her head held high. Her porcelain skin and graceful pose stood in contrast to the wooden practice dummies that hung scattered about the yard, as if she did not quite belong here amidst sweat and blood.

“That's enough rest, boys,” Portia stated. “Pick up your swords, and get back out there.”

This yard was part of the palace grounds, and had been used by upcoming noblemen for decades. Portia had never before openly roamed this area or cared about doing so, but she found that being able to stroll as she pleased with her new title of swordswoman was pleasant. Open access to most of the palace was proving a real advantage in contacting Arelius' allies as well, for most of them worked here, and so her position facilitated the passing of information.

"Parry left!" she called. Too late. The kid got a crack across the head with a wooden sword. "No. Try again, and do it the way that I showed you." The practice continued for another hour before Portia dismissed her pupils and packed up the training gear. Locking it inside of a storage room off of the yard, she moved toward her favorite part of the palace: the library loft, which was another perk of her new position. The place was a small and seldom-used sitting room in an elevated nook of the library, and to reach it, one had to climb a narrow flight of stairs hidden by shelves that toward over the tallest of visitors. In such a place she was left alone to research Oblivion and its lord without threat of interruption, and Gilthan was helping her in that respect, for he had already sent a runner by Arelius' house to drop off a book on ancient languages.

“Spying on old, grumpy Dagon, huh? Brilliant. Fantastic. But about these strange vibes that you're feeling...”

Portia thought back to her morning routine, and she too wondered whether she was perhaps pushing the limits of safety. She had been walking to the palace when she'd first heard the voice, its tone disembodied and almost recognizable. Then the burning had started, building from a pinprick of energy to a roaring inferno. It hadn't caused any damage, but it had made her body throb in muted pain, and the power surge had shot through her system with such force that she'd stumbled and nearly fallen. Never had she felt such overwhelming power, and then her vision had flashed red, affording her a view of Mehrunes' dark palace, and then the prince himself before everything had gone black. It was a wonder that she wasn't left a crispy piece of flesh, and not knowing what the artifact had been doing gnawed at Portia's mind.

Akatosh guard her, but she hadn't told Gilthan about that yet, and the elf was already worried. He didn't like that the chaos sphere sometimes made her feel warm and sleepy, as if beckoning her toward Oblivion, and here she was, getting the rush of a lifetime on a street in broad daylight. She didn't like it either, but her course was set, and she was both prepared for and dreading a worsening of her condition. At least she had yet to suffer physical harm. What was happening now was far less painful than what had transpired when she'd actually been in Oblivion at any rate, and so she would use another draught tonight, even if she was nervous. Her last encounter with Mehrunes had given her doubts about seeing him again. If looks could kill...but she had to do this.

Here it is.

Portia sat down in her favorite armchair and cracked open the large tome that she'd slid beneath it. The ancient letters inside no longer appeared as unintelligible squiggles, but she was still a long way from easily reading them. She was searching for the page that she'd left off on when her hip gave a sharp stab of pain. She didn't need to look to know that the chaos sphere was glowing, for this had started yesterday—a pulling sensation and an internal burning that triggered pain in her hip.

Gilthan warned that it might be an unavoidable effect of the sphere's presence, but Portia had a feeling that it was more than that, for when the warmth began to spread, she could feel Mehrunes' mood. Sometimes she sensed that he was angry, and sometimes he simply seemed to be channeling power. The draw was almost unstoppable either way, but it never lasted long. She'd be left in a cold sweat but otherwise whole in the aftermath, and then her hip would seep redness.

"Damn body," Portia muttered, forcing herself to focus on the page before her. Her eyes scanned the angular letters, and she stifled a yawn. She had forgotten how much energy it took to run Blade business late into the night and rise early for a regular job. Thank the gods that Arelius didn't ask her to work every night, but if he did, she would do it. There was nothing to temper her dedication, and there never had been.

Sitting in the library, Portia thought back to how she had lost her parents and been kicked off of their property as a teenager. Afterwards, she'd been searching for something to make her life less empty and groundless, for with no home and no one to take her in, she'd been miserable. Service to the empire had promised to change that, and as she thought about her past decision, she realized that if she'd never accidently killed that man, she probably would have turned into a younger version of her mentor. Her entire identity had been centered on her occupation at that point in her life, and she supposed that without it, she really had lost part of herself—a part that she hadn't been able to find outside of her role as a Blade. Funny, how it had taken Oblivion and the most painful and dangerous event of her life to make her realize that.

Portia yawned again, and her eyes briefly drifted shut. She had been up most of the night, and teaching all morning. Perhaps a nap would be a good idea, but what if someone saw what she was reading? She didn't want anyone to know, especially when she and Gilthan had been so careful thus far. And that mage--what did Gilthan call him? Traven the Tyrant. Yes, him. He was watching Gilthan so closely that Portia only contacted the elf by short messages passed along by a servant. The cleaners tended to be overlooked by the Arcane University. Well then, it was settled: no sleeping.

Portia gathered her belongings and headed straight for Arelius' home, where she could study in relative privacy.

****************************

The bell rang a second time, and Gilthan rolled his eyes. This customer needed to learn some patience, and that thought was reaffirmed as he ran eyes over the male Imperial beside him. The man embodied blue blood and the attitude that accompanied it, his nose even sporting the slight kink that was distinctly Imperial. Hair slicked back over a high forehead, and olive skin perfectly smooth, the man reached for the bell yet again. Such arrogance, but the high elf had long suspected that it was mostly for show. Surely these people couldn't maintain such a facade in the confines of their own homes.

"This shop is open, isn't it?" the man sarcastically asked. Then again, maybe he was just a jerk. Gilthan was accustomed to their sort, and while he mostly brushed such people off, he sometimes couldn't help making a comment or two. After all, his cheerful disposition allowed him to get away with statements that would usually offend or earn a reprimand. Even when he was caught breaking the rules, he tended to laugh it off in such a way that his superiors merely shook their heads in exasperation. There were advantages to being seen as a guar of a different color.

"I believe that the owner is fetching me some stinkhorn caps," Gilthan told the Imperial. Why did his boss need the fungus? He didn't know, and he didn't particularly care. The details of the project always eventually made their rounds, and in the meantime, it was a lovely day for a walk through the city. Plus the alchemy shop that he now stood in smelled heavenly—like research, rare ingredients, and careful preparations, all of which he respectfully adored as his eyes ran over the drying plants that hung from the low ceiling.

"I ordered ahead for my supplies," the Imperial continued. Well aren't you special? Gilthan smiled to himself. Then it occurred to him that it was odd that this man should be doing his own shopping. Perhaps the Imperial wasn't as high born as he acted...? Gilthan looked the man over again, and noticed the slightly worn edges of his doublet and the scuffed toes of his boots. This man was definitely out and about on a regular basis, and so he couldn't be at the top of the class ladder. There were plenty of Imperial families that were prestigious but whose old money had dried up, and he figured that this might be one of them. Then again, perhaps the man was simply a bit different from his social comrades.

"I'm coming!" an annoyed alchemist shouted from the back room when the Imperial rang the bell for the tenth time. An old, wrinkled Altmer emerged from a nearby doorway with a huff of indignation. She was stooped with age, and her dark eyes flashed in anger when she saw the Imperial. Gilthan could only imagine her thoughts, for here she was, a notable professional and easily twice as old as this impatient customer, and the Imperial had the nerve to disrespect her. He stood there with his sleek, black hair, brown eyes, and fine if worn clothing, and stared at his elder like she was there to serve him. Coming from Summerset Isle, the action irked Gilthan, who had been taught to respect older Altmer—wise advice since elders could often throw spells about with little thought.

"Sir Pantrov," the storekeeper scowled. "You will kindly wait your turn like every other customer in my shop." Gilthan nearly choked to prevent himself from laughing at the Imperial's bored expression. The arrogant ones had a tendency to do that: look indifferent when they realized that they couldn't get their way. Now, Gilthan didn't normally associate with people like that, but he had it on good report from other mages that some noblemen had perfected boredom to such an extent that you could start humping their leg and they'd barely bat an eyelash. Few as those Imperials were, he did not doubt their existence, and the fact that they so closely resembled a high elf when they cast such expressions amused him. This Imperial would even give his Altmer father a run for his money.

"Ah, Gilthan," the alchemist greeted when she saw him. "I was expecting you. Here you are," and she handed him a bag of stinkhorn caps. "I'll charge your boss for it, but I'm afraid that he has a rather long tab running. You'd best remind him that I'm starting to charge interest." She gave him a stern look, and Gilthan grinned.

"I'll tell him, but he's not likely to listen to this humble messenger." The Imperial wasn't even looking at them, although Gilthan sensed the man's attention. "I'm going to look at your mushrooms over here," Gilthan told the shopkeeper. "Maybe you'd best take care of fancy pants," he added in a softer tone, but not so soft that the Imperial would miss the comment. He then turned his back on the scene and pretended not to be eavesdropping.

"Here's your daedra heart," the shopkeeper was saying. Daedra heart? That was an interesting need. Gilthan didn't recognize the Imperial, and he knew every skilled alchemist in the city by name and face, so why would this man need an ingredient usually reserved for upper level potions? Now his interest was piqued. Coins exchanged hands, and he listened for the Imperial to leave before turning around.

"Who was that?" he asked, and the old woman placed hands on her hips.

"Horace Pantrov," she answered. "He's a real class act."

"I wouldn't have guessed," Gilthan said, face turning serious. "Why did he need a daedra heart?" If an amateur tried using the recipes that called for that ingredient, it could spell disaster. He'd once seen a friend's face burned off by an exploding potion.

"You'd have to ask him, but good luck. The man is only a minor noble, but he likes to lord it over us commoners on his bad days. He's polite and even winning if he feels like putting forth the effort, but..."

"He obviously wasn't in the mood today?" Gilthan guessed.

"Clearly. It's a shame too, but I suppose that a diplomat can't keep up the act all the time. I hear that he's less condescending and demanding with his fellow aristocrats, but what can you expect? He's not the big fish in the pond when he's at the palace. Everyone's got a place, but get him around a few beggars and it's a massacre. He's verbally ripped Simplicia the Slow apart to the point where she cries. Makes me want to throw a potion at him some days, but some days he'll turn on that Imperial charm, and he's got it; trust me. Half the time I hate him, and half the time I forget that he's a prick."

"Hmmm," Gilthan mused. "I suppose that people act differently for the audience. Although I am fairly consistent."

"No, you're inconsistent to the point where it becomes consistency."

"That makes sense...in a strange way," he mused. "I must be going now, but I will keep my promise to sing for you one day."

"Oh, get out of here. I've had enough of you for the day. You talk terrible nonsense for an Altmer! Your parents must be embarrassed."

"Oh, they are, and your wish is my command." And Gilthan left with a chuckle. Daedra heart...Well, if the man blew himself up, it might at least impart some humility. He whistled as he moved along, thinking of returning to work and his current experiment. He might have found the Imperial interesting, but he did not dwell on the matter as he walked, and so he did not see the man moving in the opposite direction of himself. If anyone had been looking, they might have noticed that Horace Pantrov was testier than usual, and that had everything to do with the heart clutched in his hand...

***********************

He did not appreciate these Mythic Dawn members having him run their errands like some lackey, but it was rather inevitable since they couldn't risk being seen, and they needed this heart for some kind of ritual. Horace assumed that it had something to do with Mehrunes Dagon's arrival, but they'd only told him that he would know in a few days. He wasn't surprised by their curtness, for they were much higher in Dawn rank than himself, but he had expected some appreciation for allowing them access to his stores. They were a damned nuisance, and yet part of him was impressed with their leader, Ruined Cloak.

Don't ask him what kind of a symbolic name that was, but the man was the same enigma who'd visited him before, and just as cooly taunting. Still, the fetcher had earned Horace's grudging respect by proving himself cunning, for he had been the onsite ringleader in executing the emperor, and, as it turned out, the first one to suggest that Horace be admitted into the Mythic Dawn. Horace handled the man well enough, and he gave all three visitors the proper formalities, but he didn't have to like it. His master ordered it, and serving his master had always been his priority...or most of time at least. When Dagon grew weaker in this plane, he tended to shift his attentions elsewhere.

In truth, Horace had his doubts about whether Dagon would be successful in his bid for power, but it didn't matter. He played his part well but kept it hidden, ensuring that he'd come out unscathed no matter who won. He might sometimes seem like a mere pawn, and he might boss someone around only to bow to someone else within a span of minutes, but he knew what he was doing. He stood to the side and watched other chess pieces moving, even Ruined Cloak, and his mind was always turning, judging his next step. It really wasn't much different from what he'd been doing his entire life, whether going to Skyrim to broker deals or down to Black Marsh to assure the lizards that no more land would be taken. The difference was that he usually won the respect or at least the camaraderie of his fellow Imperials, but the Mythic Dawn ignored such distinctions. To them he was only a nobleman who might earn a piece of the pie.

He entered his house and thought about grabbing some wine, but resisted the urge. He was attending a dinner later tonight, and he didn't need to drink so much, even if he felt driven to it. Instead, he moved down to his basement and threw open a heavy trapdoor. He hated the filth, and more than that, he hated getting it on himself, but he would survive. He descended a ladder into a stone room sealed off from the rest of the sewers by a heavy, iron door, and found himself standing in the faint light of a fire that produced no smoke. As he had learned, Ruined Cloak was an accomplished mage.

"Here's your heart," Horace stated, holding out the bag for one of the cloaked figures to take. Two of them wore robes that appeared blood red in the firelight, but Ruined Cloak wore solid black. Three shadowy faces turned toward him in acknowledgment.

"Were there any difficulties?" the tallest figure, Ruined Cloak, asked. The man carried such a beast-like name, yet his voice didn't sound like it hailed from Black Marsh of Elsweyr.

"None at all," Horace replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Is there anything else that you require for this ritual? I've already sent a servant for the bonemeal." That, at least, could be handled by a regular servant. The daedra heart had been too delicate an issue to delegate in such a manner, for it would have raised questions since he was no alchemist. The bonemeal, on the other hand, was readily available from certain poor peddlers who sold the ashes of the buried as goodluck charms against disease. Silly belief, but useful at the moment.

"Our lord will be pleased," one of the figures stated.

"One can hope," Horace commented before giving a curt bow of his head. "I shall see you at some later time. Your food will be left in the usual place." He turned to go, anxious to leave these figures behind, and not hearing the whispered conversation at his back. They sounded excited about something, but about what, Horace didn't care. He was far too occupied with wondering if his accommodations would suit the lord of Oblivion. He had a lot to live up to in the next few days.

This post has been edited by Ornamental Nonsense: Aug 7 2010, 09:27 PM