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

[Ahrenil]

((OOC:I Believe it is now my turn, so here goes))

Blaiddalen

The feast was not to Blaiddalen's liking, the nobles stood like children, whsipering their secrets and their lies to each other while planning and plotting for their own gain. They saw the collected mercenaries as an oddity, a folly perhaps. It was as if they didn't realise that every time they pay their gold, sign their forms, send men to do their bidding there was always the end of the chain who had to get up and do it. It made Blaiddalen sick with shame for his fellow man.

The food itself was alien as well, with strange delicacies from strange cultures amidst the true hearty fare of roasted meats. But even these seemed strange, spiced and salted until the meat's actual taste was almost all but gone. The Imperials cooked, it seemed, like they did everything else. Trying to hide their true nature through trinkets and baubles and losing themselves in the process.

Only a short time after the feast had begun Blaiddalen felt a letter press into his palm, opening it with a sigh he was delighted to find it written in the flowing script of his people, something that must not have been easy to find at all. After reading through it twice the Breton tore it up and dropped the pieces into a nearby candle, feigning distaste. A few short moments later he was gone from the meeting hall, a few choice phrases spoken often and loud ensured that the few nobles who had paid him any attention thought him gone of the city in disgust. In reality, he was now seated with the rest of the mercenaries, silent and keen eyed, waiting for the emeperor to speak. A nearby Nord spoke up and the Breton ignored him, when the Clanfather called for you it was not right to interrupt his business, and especially when such business was urgent enough to put forward this much effort.

Urzul

Urzul watched the feast with a mixture of disgust and fascination. Everywhere she could see Nobles bordering on the obese, walking disasters who ate better than any who were under them, and this feast was just the tip of the provebial iceberg. Even more nobles even now would be setting up similar banquets to try and imitate the emperor and curry favour, to try and jostle for position amongst themselves with sweet smiles and sweet meats.

The Champion was moving by now, and she noticed that several guests were drifting off, some obviously just leaving because they had too, but there was an air of uneasiness about some that just seemed off. When the Champion was done with his round amongst the guests he began to inspect the guards, noting on their uniform, joking with some, criticising others.

As he stopped before Urzul he mentioned how uncommon it was to see a woman guarding the Palace, how good it was to see an Orsimer standing to high in the chain of command, how he himself had worked for many other orcs and whether she knew of them or had some advice for making them less rough. By the end of the conversation she felt like she truly knew the sword of the Empire. It took her a minute to notice the letter stuffed under her chestplate, and another moment to realise she'd just essentially been groped by the right hand of the Emperor.

Picking her target wisely Urzul waited until a particularily chubby noble stumbled away from his table, staggering with the weight of drink and food. Stepping forward she caught the mans arm and began to steer him to the door, quietly muttering about holding his drink and the dangers of over eating. As she left him by the door to the Palace's public(ish) bathroom she continued on, winding through the warren of corridors until she stood before the Emperor once more, though in a much more private room. With a salute to the Legate and the Emperor she removed her helmet, trying not to catch the chinstrap on her tusks, and sat down with a loud metal clank on a seat near the door.