The Roots of Svelkreen, Shards of a Broken Empire Options

[Uleni Athram]

The Posting Order


Ahrenil -> Jack Cloudy -> Uleni Athram -> Saqin -> Grif11 -> Dantrag -> Lord Revan -> TheTrueCaboose







Licensed fools and madmen, tumbling maniacs and demented entertainers. They danced to invinsible flutes, sang without words. Their noise of celebration echoed in the barren halls of the Royal Palace of Cyrodiil, where the political tension is thick and the Emperor innerly ravaged with some unknown turmoil. The Elder Council, in a rare display of affection towards their ruler, hired this troupe to thin the miasmatic fog that gripped the Palace from out of nowhere.

Of course, they might've also hired this troupe to simply hide the fact that the Mulberry Smiler, an assassin with some reknown, was among them.

The Mulberry Smiler, aptly named because of his/her blue-red-green costume, splitted away from the main group. He/She brandished a box from his/her inventories, a box with intricate carvings of birds and dragons. He/She held it to the air with reverence, held it in the air so the feasting nobles may see it.

The rest of the troupe all lined up in two lines beside the Emperor, making way as the Smiler now took steps towards Martin, who looked on with amusement. That amusement grew with curiousity as the Smiler kneeled before him, head bowed, box held out for the Emperor to take. He indulged in the act and took the box. The troup began to jitter and chatter wildly and excitedly. The Smiler made an eager motion and the young Emperor opened the box.

Its contents was a silky paper with the words 'I accept' written by a fluent hand. A smile lit up the Emperor's features as the Smiler now danced with abandon, the rest of the troupe doing the same.


And then the door opened, mercenaries and hired thugs entering.

This post has been edited by Uleni Athram: Oct 7 2011, 09:04 AM

[Uleni Athram]

The mercenaries filed in, their gears marking them aliens in contrast to the nobles' clothing, and silence befell the austere Grand Hall. The blue-bloods and the politicians looked at the hired swords with confusion, contempt and disgust. Some, showing their bravery, openly discussed their opinions within an earshot of the mercenaries. In return, they had murderous stares. The surmounting tension was thick in the air. Clearly, this was unexpected. The Elder Council silently stared at the Emperor, who now wore an expressionless face as he took in the sight of the mercenaries he hired. Each and everyone of them was of some reknown. The task he would heave upon their shoulders would rely on their skills. And they must succeed. They simply must. With a sigh that spoke of an old age, Martin Septim stood from his throne. Speeches never really agreed with his quiet, scholarly voice.

"Ah," he said, his voice as sharp as an arrow penetrating a fog. "So you have finally arrived. On behalf of the Empire, I welcome you all. No doubt your travels that lead you here has sunk its fangs on your body; please, sit and feast. As you are all now to my employ, I would not have you all be worn out." He gestured to the clothed tables laden with fruits, meats and other gastronomical delights. Servants and helpers went to and fro, busy as ants as their duty now increased tenfold at the Emperor's words. But as he was just about to sit down and let the sellswords have their repast, a golden-masked figure clad in chainmail and hefting a humongous axe on his shoulder pushed through the throngs of mercenaries ( eliciting some forms of insults and glares), emerging in front of the Emperor's throne. The Blades hidden among the nobles suddenly had a newfound interest in this particular person and watched his every move, ready to strike him down if he had any sinister intentions.

The Emperor looked at him with wary interest, just as he would with a brightly colored snake.


"My lord," the masked-man said aloud, loud enough to silence the whole room, his Breton voice filtering mechanically and giving it a slight echo. It also held a significant amount of confidence, one might say arrogance. "I did not come from High Rock to this Empire just so I would stalled by your promise of dirtcakes and dogpiss." At this, some nobles cried out in dismay at this brute's manners. Some yelled for him to beg for forgiveness. Whether he gave it his attention, his mask hid it all.

The Emperor meanwhile, was taken aback from such a rash response. A split-second later, he gathered himself. No use showing weakness in a pit of cobras. With eyebrows raised, he said,

"What is your name, Breton?"

"Celdryn Mon'Cheri, formerly of the Daggerfall knights and was once a personal guard to an old Lord, Emperor. And I request an explanation of why I have been summoned." This one's white-hot opinion, openly showed by his mocking words, on authority was beginning to frazzle Martin's nerve. He could have his Blades execute him on the spot. He could have him dragged off to the Imperial Dungeons and have him taste unendurable pain. But he would not. Politics would view that action only from a weak leader that takes offence from mere words. And a weak leader is not worthy and needed in times like these.

"Then Celdryn of Daggerfall, a knight of your standing should understand that the matters of which you have been called upon to do is not meant for," here he gestured at the nobles, "their ears and their hearts?" He did not say that there are probably spies among them, too. But a Breton has an invinsible sensor to matters such as that. Celdryn the Golden Masked should have that, if he truly was a knight that served a 'Lord'.

He did. And after a moment of silence, bowed his encased head slightly, in penance and begrudging submission. He fell back, like a retreating snake and disappeared into the crowd. The hidden Blades eased themselves and went back to their cover of socializing. Making sure that there would no more interruptions, Emperor Martin Septim eased down and sat. He watched at this gathering. And then he made a motion from his hands. From the shadows, an Imperial with royal features bedecked in ebony armor emerged and stood vigilantly at Martin's side. The Emperor beckoned him, the Champion leaned in and Martin whispered. What words passed between not even the most hawkish of ears can grab, but it was very important for the Champion to have such a serious expression.

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The Smiler ignored the clamour this brazen Celdryn made. His/Her sharp eyes, magnified with the magick in his/her mask, detected a silvery bulk hiding in the shadows and he/she was instantly suspicious. That is until it was revealed to be the Champion himself, inside his Imperial Dragon Armor. The Smiler watched with hidden curiousity as the two legends conversed, and while the Smiler's sharpened hearing did not catch a trace of any words said, he/she determined that it was a serious matter. He/She stored that thought away from later use and continued his/her earlier juggling of balls of jelly infront of a group of nobles. An oddity was among them. An ashen skinned elf with blue eyes. Halfblood, perhaps. The music, the laughter, the conversation all turned into a buzzing cacophony of feasting. As usual.


Until the Smiler felt eyes descending on him/her. The juggling finished with each of the jelly balls landing on top of the watching nobles' heads, particulary on a muscled Redguard-looking Breton dressed in fine robes and jewelry. Even the Halfblood's face was lightly stained. The Smiler's lean shoulders shook with silent laughter, and some of the blue-bloods nearby openly laughed. With a final, mocking bow the Smiler disengaged from the group (ignoring some of the curses thrown his/her way) and made for the tables with bowls of fine wine. Just as he/she was about to reach for a glass, a firm hand clasped his/her shoulder. The Smiler then felt something infiltrating one of his/her costume's many pockets and just like that, the presence disappeared in the clanking of boots. The Smiler fished the object out and came up with another envelope, similar to the one he/she received in Valenwood from a Blade.

Its contents revealed a scratchy paper with the directions to a nearby room and the orders to go there. It was signed by the fluent hand of Martin Septim himself. Curious, the Smiler searched for the Champion and saw him do the same to numerous other people.

A wild-looking Breton, a Khajiit, an Orc, the Halfblood and the Noble, an Argonian and a Bosmer.

This was beginning to stir up quite a lot of confusion on the Smiler's mind. The only thing that would clear this up and make sense was to follow the directions on the paper. Like a trooper, the Smiler marched with purposeful strides to aforemention roomed and entered the oaken portal. The room was spartan with little decorations and lots of room and pragmatic furniture, the sort one would get by entering a Legate's office. Which it was. Two occupants were already here: a bear of a man in the silver armor of an Imperial Legatus and the other the-

"The false simulacra will not last forever," Martin said, sitting and resting his elbows on the mahogany desk in front of him. "And so I shall have to make this quick."

The Smiler simply stared motionless. The Legatus guffawed at his/her reaction, and it was a guffaw that could only come from the gravelly earth. That guffaw stopped when the three heard many footsteps approaching. Martin gave a tight smile to the Smiler.

"They are here, then. The rest of the company is here."