Edward an Imperial's Story, Coward, bounder, thief, murderer...and hero? Options

[Rachel the Breton]

AWESOME !!!!!! YOU'RE BACK !!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I'm sorry to hear you have the stomach flu - but will wish it on your repeatedly if it brings updates !!!!!!

Awesome chapter !!!!!!!


YOU HAVE BEEN SO MISSED !!!!!!!!!

Thanks, mALX (even for the stomach flu part -- that made me laugh out loud!)! Glad you enjoyed the chapter. I'm planning to get a few more posted over the next couple of days, but here's another for now.


In days of old, when nights were cold,
They slept in homes made of ice
And thought their lives were pretty nice.
-- A Study of the Social Evolution, Customs and Building Practices of the Nordic Tribes, ordered by High Chancellor Cicero

Chapter Forty-Nine

Edward sighed. It was a hot day, and the air felt very still and oppressive. He and his valet had been riding, for days now, and they still had not arrived at the High Fang. The only bright spot in their entire trip was that he had been able to convince his servant that their journey was too pressing to allow for a detour to that putrid little cesspool known as Bravil. He'd never been there, of course, but he'd heard the stories about the town – a reprehensible quagmire of poor people, dilapidated shacks, and, of course, the swamp-loving reptiles known as Argonians. The only upside to the town, reportedly, was the Count, Regulus Terentius, who had managed, somehow, to bring a sense of classic Imperial charm to the County Castle and gardens; but, having no invitation from the Count, he had chosen to forgo the extremely dubious “pleasure” of visiting the squalid little settlement.

Unfortunately, however, this refusal had left the two men extremely short on supplies. Apparently, Edward's valet had planned to replenish their food store en route, and so had bought enough to get them from the Imperial City to Bravil, but not much more.

Edward sighed as he was pulled from these cheerless thoughts by an even drearier reality – the incessant buzzing and biting of mosquitoes, as they made a feast of him. He had long since given up trying to swat them away. They were too persistent for that, and he had not the energy to fight them. Instead, he began to ponder the injustice of his situation – that these worthless bloodsuckers were able to eat and thrive, while he faced the ever-increasing likelihood of starvation and death in the midst of a hellish wilderness.

Just as he sank into this depressing reverie, his servant spoke. “I think we should be there shortly, sir,” he said. Edward glared at him. “Within an hour or two, at any rate. Based on my calculations...”

“Your calculations?!” Edward snapped. “Then we're surely doomed!”

“Sir?” The other man seemed surprised at this outburst.

“Your 'calculations' about supplies didn't exactly turn out the best, did they? And what about these damned mosquitoes?! Where do they fit in your 'calculations?! How much blood do you think a man can lose, after all?! Or did you not bother to 'calculate' that?”

What had been a mere hint of surprise in the other man's face was now clearly that. “Well, sir,” he returned, “it was you who said we should continue on without getting supplies. If we had stopped in Bravil, we probably could have got some sort of spell or potion to ward off mosquitoes...and we'd have been able to replenish our food supply...”

Edward glared at him. His servant liked to do that, didn't he? Twist things around so they somehow seemed like they were his fault even though they clearly weren't. His mind turning to the dagger in his pack, he allowed himself a malicious sigh of relief. At least, if worst came to worst, he would have a final shot at escape from this wilderness nightmare – and the added bonus of revenge on his valet.

He settled into wondering how the other man would taste cooked over a makeshift campfire to distract himself from their present circumstance.

* * *

Feeling quite sure that he had been drained dry of blood, Edward sullenly, in a heat and thirst-induced sort of daze, glared into the afternoon around him. He and his servant hadn't spoken since his outburst, and he was sure the other man had not repented of his evil ways – he was far too busy consulting his maps and compasses for that, making a mark here, nodding in approval, glancing at some point of reference or a note here or there, and generally seeming quite satisfied with himself.

His demeanor darkened, and he wondered why he had ever been mad enough to put his life in this crazed servant's hands. What, he mused, could ever cause him to wander in this dank, stuffy, dreary wasteland? “Look at this place! It's completely barren...mosquitoes everywhere...even the ruins are overgrown and lacking in charm...look at that one! Hideous!”

“Aha!”

Edward started at this exclamation from his servant.

“There it is, sir!”

“What?”

“The High Fane!”

Edward frowned. His servant was pointing at the ruin he'd been staring at a moment earlier. “Where?”

“Right there, sir. The Aleyid ruin.”

Edward's frown deepened. All he could see was an old stone ruin; nothing fang-like. “Which one?”

“You're looking right at it, sir. Just there!”

“You mean, that old ruin?”

“Yes sir. Malada!”

“But...it looks nothing like a Fang!”

“No sir,” the valet returned. “Why would it?”

Edward's frown turned to the other man. The answer was obvious, wasn't it? It was an absurd name for a ruin that looked nothing like a tooth. “But,” he thought to himself, “I suppose it might have looked more fang-like before it was destroyed.”

This post has been edited by Rachel the Breton: Dec 6 2010, 04:09 AM

[mALX]

SPEW !!!! He still thinks it's a fang !!!!! ROFL !!!!!! - And the mosquitos !!!! ROFL !!!!! Boy is it great to have you back !!!! You just don't know how missed you've been !!!!!

[D.Foxy]

What! Edward the Imperial becoming Edward the Cannibal?

Knowing Edward, I suspect that if he was ever forced to resort to Cannibalism, he would first reproach the corpse for not having cooked itself before it died...

[haute ecole rider]

Welcome back, Rachel! Soo good to see you and Edward and the varlet valet again!

And Edward, if you just squint your eyes and tip your head slightly to the right, those broken arches of the High Fane do resemble fangs. Somewhat. Sort of. Try it!

[treydog]

We will just get the unseemly (and slow and arthritic) dachshund dance out of the way first.

Woo-Hoo! Shuffle, shuffle, creak, pop! Pant, pant, pant.

Ok that's all done.

The Imperial frowned. East, west, it was all the same to him; and, he supposed, regardless of where it was, it had to be some point relative to Bravil. And "east" sounded as good as any to his mind. "Err, yes, I believe that's the one."

That impeccable Edwardian sense of direction strikes again.

And of course, clever Rachel follows up by having the idiot question his valet’s own geographical ability.

Surprised the mosquitos find Edward's blood at all palatable- perhaps they like vinegar?

"But...it looks nothing like a Fang!”

“No sir,” the valet returned. “Why would it?”

It is so good to have you back. You know, stomach flu is a serious matter; Dr. Treydog recommends at least 2 weeks of rest and recuperation… with something suitable to occupy the idle hours. Perhaps a bit of writing?

[mALX]

It is so good to have you back. You know, stomach flu is a serious matter; Dr. Treydog recommends at least 2 weeks of rest and recuperation… with something suitable to occupy the idle hours. Perhaps a bit of writing?

Dr. mALX agrees !!!!

This post has been edited by mALX: Dec 9 2010, 01:05 AM

[Rachel the Breton]

@All: Thanks so much, your input is greatly valued!! It's good to be back -- and back in the Edward mode of thinking...or not, as the case may be.

@Foxy: Well, that would be terribly inconvenient, wouldn't it? One would expect a little more forethought...

@haute ecole rider: lol, that's a good point... see, Edward isn't such a dolt after all?

@mALX & Treydog: Thanks so much!! And let me hasten to obey the dictates of my medical consultants.

Clumsy as an ox, to say the least!
With the manners of a beast.
Living in cowardice, he's never ceased!
Surely, thou dost speak of Edward!
-- Author's notes preceding The Song of Edward

Chapter Fifty

After a momentary rush of euphoria, as the realization that they were not, in fact lost, had swept his senses and roused him from his mental and physical lethargy, a sudden flash of consternation assailed him. They were about to enter a ruin. What if the stories were true? What if zombies and apparitions and all manner of devilish evils lurked in the hidden passages of these old ruins? What if the famed Aleyid traps were still operable? What if – worse yet – the Aleyids hadn't actually all been wiped out? What if they still resided in these old ruins, waiting for innocent treasure seekers and adventurers like himself?

“Well, sir, are we going in then? I've tethered the horses, so I think we're set to go...”

Edward jumped at the sound of another voice, even one as familiar as his servant's. “Huh? Oh, uh, yes, of course. As soon as...”

“Yes?”

“As I...”

“Yes?”

Edward frowned. He couldn't think of a reason to delay; and yet he desperately wanted to do so now. “I just have one question.”

“Yes?”

“What do you know about these ruins?”

“Well, sir,” the valet shrugged. “It was a city...there's a long history to it.”

“No, no,” Edward interrupted. “I don't care about the history. I mean...are they haunted?”

Again, the other man shrugged. “They might be, sir. I've heard rumors that they are, but some people say tomb robbers spread those stories to keep all but the bravest from these ruins – so they can claim whatever treasure there may be inside.”

Edward nodded, feeling suddenly far more at ease. It made sense. He could easily see the pervert – or any of those other “tomb robbers” – lying like that. And, even had his servant made no mention of those low-lives, he would have still been sold on the idea at the mention of “treasure”.

Noticing an expression of concern on his valet's face, the Imperial realized that he was licking his lips eagerly. Pausing to clear his throat, he commented. “Chapped lips. Darned heat. Anyway. I think we should get moving, don't you?”

The other man nodded, and Edward headed toward the door. So eager was he to get inside and to find the treasure that he didn't notice the subtle rustle of dry grass on the plateau above the ruin, or the expression of suspicion on his companion's face. Only when his valet reached out and took hold of his arm did he stop – and then it was too late to note the subtle gesture for silence that the other man made. “What?” he blurted out. “What are you...huh? What?” Casting a furtive glance around him, his fear came ebbing back. “What is it?” he whispered hoarsely, in a tone so loud that it surely would have carried to anyone nearby. “What do you hear?”

Ignoring his questions, the valet headed for the hill overlooking the ruin. Edward vacillated momentarily between following and remaining by himself, opting at the last minute for following.

Tramping after his servant, he whispered noisily, “Wait up!”

This post has been edited by Rachel the Breton: Dec 10 2010, 05:26 AM

[Rachel the Breton]

The servant who is modest,
He is the most terrible of all
For modesty doth shroud cold ambition,
Kindliness conceal the deepest malice
And the smiling face distract from the poisoned glass.
-- Excerpt from The Trials of a Nobleman, First Edition





Chapter Fifty-One

Edward was panting heavily by time they reached the summit of the hill – or, at least, by time he reached the summit of the hill; his servant had already made the climb and was, it seemed, in the middle of a discussion with a beast creature.

Still panting, Edward paused to recoil in both fear and disgust – and to catch his breath. What, he wondered, was this Khajiit doing here? Surely his valet had not invited him?!

When, finally, he had recovered from this sudden burst of exertion, he drew himself up tall and swaggered forward. It seemed to him that, if his servant had invited this creature as a sort of bodyguard or companion, it was time to nip this arrangement in the bud; Edward the Imperial did not work with beast creatures. And, if this thing was stalking them, it was time to strike some fear into its heart; the beast folk, after all, responded to one thing and one thing alone – brute, animalistic strength. And if this creature was going to respect him, he would have to impress upon its feeble mind just how strong and fearsome he was. Otherwise, they would have a nasty fight on their hands; and he wasn't exactly feeling up to a fight at the moment. “Especially after that little 'jaunt' up the hill.”

So, chest puffed up and head at a heavenward angle, he headed forward. Before he reached the Khajiit, however, he saw his servant shake hands with (“Actually touch!”) the Beast, and then turn. Heading directly for him, the valet instructed, “Let's go,” and nodded for Edward to follow.

The Imperial stared, aghast, as his servant walked past after giving him a command; and then, he realized that he had somehow deflated, as it were – his puffed up chest was now hunched forward in sheer amazed stupefaction. For a moment, he considered defying his servant's presumptuous dictates and challenging the beast creature then and there; and then he thought better of it, for he had no desire to fight a Khajiit – let alone, by himself.

So, hurrying after his servant, he planned in his mind a scathing verbal chastisement for such unpardonable behavior.

Instead of pausing, or anything of that nature, when they reached the bottom of the hill, however, the other man continued toward their horses. Edward raced to keep up with his companion, cursing the man's impudence – not only did he wrong him, but, in scurrying about so, he tried to prevent a well deserved lecture on the topic. So caught up in feeling wronged as he was, he didn't even take note of the fact that his valet was removing a pack of supplies and an extra sword from their mounts.

“Sir,” the other man spoke in hushed tones when Edward finally caught up to him, “take this torch; and don't say anything. Follow me -- be quite and act naturally. I'm afraid we're in danger here.”

Edward let out a whimper as he numbly took the torch. Somehow, for all his annoyance and anger, he had sensed that there was something of that sort afoot. There always was, it seemed, when he put his trust in his valet.

“Toward the ruin, sir.” This said, the man walked briskly toward the ancient Aleyid city.

Gulping, and whimpering again to himself, Edward raced to follow.

* * *

The flicker of torchlight illuminated the ruin in a dancing sort of luminescence – made all the more uneven by Edward's shaking.

“Sorry about being so abrupt back there, sir,” his valet spoke now. “We were being watched.”

Edward gulped. “Watched?”

“Yes...that Khajiit I was talking to? He's one of a band of tomb robbers-”

Edward groaned. Ye gods. What had he gotten himself into?!

“A band of tomb robbers,” the valet continued, “that was waiting for us to come here. You remember the fellow you talked with, Claude Maric?”

Nodding in dismay, the Imperial despairingly wondered, “How could I forget him?”

“They're working for him. At least, S'razirr was...but not anymore.”

Edward stared suspiciously at his servant. “Why not anymore?”

“S'razirr owes me a favor,” the valet admitted. “Back when I worked for Umbaccano, I found out that Maric and a few of the other men were skimming some of his paycheck...not a whole lot, but some...it's hard for Khajiit to get employment in the City sometimes, so they figured he wouldn't make a big deal about it...”

Edward hissed. “Not hard enough,” he commented.

“Sir?”

“Nevermind, go on!”

“Well, anyway, when I found that out, they ended up having to repay him and all that...so he owed me one. As it was, S'razirr didn't realize they were waiting for us.”

“Who is 'they'?!”

“Maric, S'razirr, and two others...mercenaries, loyal to Maric.”

Edward groaned. “Tell me they're not all tomb robbers?”

His valet frowned. “I would guess they are,” he said. “That's who Maric works with, mostly.”

Edward groaned again, sinking to the floor in a despairing heap. He suddenly seriously regretted insulting Maric at the Tiber Septim Hotel. Now, he found himself alone, in the wilderness, with a pack of sex-crazed...tomb robbers...in pursuit of him. “Oh gods...” he whimpered.

“Once S'razirr found out that they were there to kill us-”

“Kill us?!” Edward shrieked.

Making a quick gesture for silence, his valet said, “Keep your voice down, sir! I'm not sure if there are any of them in here...”

“But...they want to kill us?!” Edward repeated, this time in a more managed volume.

“After we retrieve the carving.”

“What?”

“The carving. You know, the one you're here to get.”

“Then...why don't we just forget it, and go home, if they're going to kill us after we get it?” Edward wondered.

“Well, because they'll kill us anyway, sir.”

Edward frowned. “You mean...they want us to go through the work of finding the carving and then kill us too?” He couldn't help but feel that that wasn't very sportsmanlike.

“Apparently – if what S'razirr said was true.”

“If? But I thought you said he owed you a favor...”

“He does, sir. But he's a tomb robber, too, remember.”

Edward groaned. “That's right...”

“He did promise to help us, though. However...”

Edward cringed. He wasn't sure he wanted to know what the catch would be.

“I had to agree to giving him a quarter of your cut.”

Edward stood bolt upright. “A quarter of my gold?!” he thundered. “To a dirty cutthroat, and a tomb robber at that?! A Khajiit??”

“I thought, sir, given the odds of fighting all four of them – versus evening the odds, three to three – that a quarter of the gold was a cheap price to pay...”

Edward glared at him. “And how do you know the filthy Khajiit will even keep his word?!” he demanded.

“I don't,” his valet admitted. “However, if he doesn't and we die...well, we don't have to worry about it; and, if he doesn't and we have to kill him, then that was his choice...”

Edward's fury was so great that he said nothing – not least of all because he could find no flaw with this reasoning, as distasteful as it seemed to him.

“However,” the other man pressed on, “what I was saying was this...S'razirr wants us to go through with getting this carving. According to him, they plan to ambush us when we emerge with it. If all of this is true, we've been warned; if it's not, we could be walking into a trap in the ruin. They might have deliberately put S'razirr in place there to tell us that, knowing that he was indebted to me and hoping that I'd believe him because of that.”

Edward turned pale at these words. It seemed to have worked pretty well, if that was their plan; after all, they were inside the ruin, and on the tomb robber's orders...

“But,” his valet continued, “I know something that they don't. I know where the carving is...and I know how to get out of here – a secret way.”

Edward stared in astonishment at his servant. “You told me that you knew very little about this place!” he protested. “And now you know about secret exits and hidden carvings?!”

“Well,” his servant returned, “that's about the extent of my knowledge, sir. And this place is huge, with a tremendous history – a history that I only know a fraction of...”

“Yes, yes,” Edward interrupted. “Let's just get out of here, though!

[mALX]

What I can't wait to see is Edward in the final room in the Nenalata !!!! (I will cover my monitor and keyboard in plastic before reading it, too !!!!)

When you do scenes like the "As I..." ; 'Yes?" ; "Yes?" ; "As I" - I always wonder what exactly Martin is thinking when he is doing them !!! ROFL !!!!

AWESOME WRITE !!!!!!!! And AWESOME to have you back UPDATING AGAIN !!!!!!!!!!! (Finally !!!!)

[Rachel the Breton]

lol, mALX, thanks for the comments...* anyone * who works with Edward has to have more than their fair share of "huh?" moments, that's for sure!!

Barbarians, to the core...
Barbarians, through and through,
Barbarians, ever more...
Barbarians, I'm afraid it's true.

-- A Study of the Social Evolution, Customs and Building Practices of the Nordic Tribes, ordered by High Chancellor Cicero

Chapter Fifty-Two

Sighing in discomfort, Edward shifted the saddle bag he was carrying. His valet had given him the choice of carrying the torch and supplies – which he'd taken “just in case” – or being ready to fight. Edward had chosen to carry the torch and supplies.

So, they were trudging through the dimly lit passages of the ruin, occasionally pausing to listen to what sounded like nothing at all to Edward, headed for a secret chamber of some sort. According to his servant, a famed treasure hunter of years past had sought out this carving; he had been attacked while retrieving it, but managed to hide the carving and escape through a secret exit – the same exit they planned on using. His servant, while researching Aleyid ruins, had stumbled across the treasure hunter's journal, and learned this; and, since his servant had never advertised the fact, he was, presumably, the only person living to know of its existence.

Nonetheless, Edward was not thrilled. They were skulking about in the veritable dark, in creepy, tomblike ruins, on the word of some old dead guy who might well have been stark raving mad, or drunk as a Nord, or otherwise unreliable, when he'd penned the entry about the High Fang. It really was not enough to inspire confidence.

“If my memory serves, sir, it should be just at the end of this hall.”

Edward groaned. That, too, was another difficulty. Even if the treasure hunter was the most reliable man to ever live, he still had to rely on his unreliable servant's unreliable memory.

“Look,” he wondered, “can't we just get out of here? I mean, if you know where the exit is, why not just leave?”

“Because this carving just might prove to be a crucial bargaining chip.”

Edward sighed. His servant had a darned infuriating obstinate streak in him – that was apparent. But now was not the time to take him to task for it. Sighing in impatience as he pondered these things, they came to a stop at the end of what seemed to be a dead-end hallway.

“There's a lever somewhere here he said...” his valet murmured.

Edward sighed again. Half of him still believed that they were good and truly doomed, and that his valet was on a wild goose chase. He was, therefore, quite startled when a whoosh of air emanated, it seemed, from nowhere, and the wall vanished before him.

Leaping backwards with a yelp of fright, Edward watched as his valet stepped into the newly revealed aperture.

“Aha! Here it is.” He stepped out a moment later, holding a small chunk of stone covered in ornate carvings.

Edward frowned at it. Was that stupid piece of rock really what all the fuss was about, he wondered. “People really are dumb,” he mused, “just look at Umbacano...sending all these thugs out here to pursue us over a tiny piece of rock. I mean, if people are going to die over something, at least let it be worth something...like gold. That makes sense to die over. But rocks? I'll never get that.”

“I said, we should move out, sir,” his valet's voice broke through his internal dialogue.

“Huh? Oh, yes, about time.”

“Yes sir...”

[Rachel the Breton]

Frigid days and icy nights,
Summer is a concept wholly unknown
Men who live for fights
Mothers lucky to see their children grown.

-- A Study of the Social Evolution, Customs and Building Practices of the Nordic Tribes, ordered by High Chancellor Cicero

Chapter Fifty-Three

“It must be dark out already,” Edward protested.

“Not dark enough,” his valet contradicted. “Before we can get to the horses, it has to be pitch black out there.”

“Come on!” the Imperial insisted. “I'm freezing! And my legs are cramped from sitting on this rock.”

In the last flickering glimpses of torchlight, Edward could see his servant frown at him. “You know better than anybody, sir, that it's all part of the game – it can't all be assassinations and break-outs from Aleyid ruins. You have to have the waits and the traitors and whatnot too.”

It was the Imperial's turn to frown. His servant really was crossing some lines today. Not only had he told him what to do more than once, he was now reprimanding him. “This is the worst day of my life,” he grumbled to himself. “Not enough to eat...not enough to drink...carrying around saddlebags like a damned pack animal...”

His servant's irritated sigh sounded in the stillness of the ruin. “Alright,” he said, “if you really think it's time to go get the horses, we can do it now.”

Edward's first reaction had been one of celebration – he could finally stretch! – but at the word “we” it turned to consternation. “Wait...” he said. “You mean...both of us?”

His valet stared at him.

“I mean,” Edward explained hastily, “I don't know if it will be possible to make my way to the horses undetected lugging around these packs...and we need them, so...”

The other man nodded. “Good point sir. Alright, I'll stay with them if you like.”

Edward frowned. He didn't “like” – at all. “Well,” he hesitated, “the thing is...to be honest with you...perfectly frank...I have a problem sometimes...you know, with direction...in the dark...I'm not sure I'd be able to find the horses.”

“But we're coming out just south of them, behind that plateau...”

“There's no sense explaining to me,” Edward protested. “It won't make any difference. I can't find my way around...wilderness...caves...wastelands at night.”

“Oh,” his servant remarked. “That can't be convenient, in your line of work.”

“No,” Edward agreed hastily. “It's downright inconvenient. And embarrassing. Which is why I haven't mentioned it before.”

“No worries, sir. A master's confidence is safe with me.”

“You're very good.”

“Not at all,” the other man nodded.

“So, then, you'll...?”

“Yes sir. Of course sir.”

Edward smiled to himself, but aloud thanked his servant. This was the other man's plan, after all...why shouldn't he be the one to take the risks? Nevermind the fact that they were embarked on a mission of Edward's choosing. It just didn't seem right that he should creep out into the night – particularly if it wasn't fully dark out yet – to fetch the horses and bring them back, all the while remaining undetected, while his servant could his risk his neck doing it for him.

This post has been edited by Rachel the Breton: Dec 13 2010, 12:04 AM

[Rachel the Breton]

A land that civilized men cannot abide,
A land where even the best of Imperials would have died
Skyriim, they call that frigid wasteland
The horror of which civilized men cannot begin to understand.
-- A Study of the Social Evolution, Customs and Building Practices of the Nordic Tribes, ordered by High Chancellor Cicero

Chapter Fifty-Four

Edward was sighing to himself, not so much because he was frustrated – he was marginally so – as because he was nervous, and focusing on his annoyance proved a good distraction from his nervousness. “How long can it take?” he was wondering. “I mean, it's only around that hill, right?” He almost wished he had not lied about being directionally challenged...for half a moment, he could see himself out there in the wilds, creeping through the dirt, making his way bravely for the horses, while, lying in wait, the ever present tomb robbers...

And that, of course is where the fantasy broke off, for he recoiled from the thought in horrified disgust. He recoiled so far, in fact, that he backed into the stone wall behind him, smashing his elbow in the process.

“Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods,” he yelped, dropping the torch and hopping about in sheer agony. “That hurts. Oh gods that hurts!” He had, in a most unamusing turn of events, smashed his funny bone.

In an even less humorous twist, however, the room was all at once plunged into darkness. Edward froze, the agony in his arm suddenly long forgotten. He was alone, in an Aleyid ruin, at night, surrounded by killers and tomb robbers, without as much as a torch.

Whimpering, he collapsed to the ground in a heap. “Oh gods,” he repeated. Not being the overly religious type, he somehow still managed to find time in his life for the gods whenever he was excessively angry, and needed a powerful curse, or excessively frightened, and needed a comforting entity to appeal to. Lately, it seemed, he was finding himself spending time appealing to the gods from both motivations.

* * *

The valet paused. For a moment, he had thought he heard a muffled shriek; but then all was still again. Nothing had moved, and the mercenaries were all still atop the hills surrounding Malada, little black silhouettes in the night. He frowned. The voice had sounded very much like Edward's; but surely it was a trick of the night, or of his heightened senses. Surely, even if Edward had cried out, he couldn't be heard from behind the thick stone walls of Malada; and surely his call wouldn't have been so screechy, anyway.

Brushing the sound of as an imagination, he pushed on. The going was slow...he was creeping through the dirt, inching forward slowly so as not to make the smallest sound, and keeping low so that he did not provide the silhouette that his would-be assassins did atop their hilltops and against the night sky as they were.

The horses were near...he could hear them snorting and moving now and again to find a new patch of grass. Even from his current vantage, the glow of the tomb robber's campfire cast flickering spires of flame on him. It would only get worse as he neared...but there was no choice. It was a chance that had to be taken. And, worse come to worse, Edward would at least have the opportunity to escape from the secret exit undetected – even if Maric's men stormed the front entrance immediately, they might not find the other exit for days or weeks, if at all, and so they might think he was holed up somewhere in the city.

* * *

His back flat against the stone floor, Edward whimpered – and tried to ignore the clouds of dust that every fresh breath disturbed. The world seemed closing in around him, growing smaller and smaller; time seemed to unwind around him, falling away and away; everything was all at once near and terribly close. “Oh gods,” he repeated, “please don't let your hapless servant meet an end like this, dying of...well, anything, in these cold, terrible elven tunnels. Please...please...please...” His supplications broke off into whimpering for a time, and then they resumed. “Please don't let that treacherous servant betray me. Oh gods, please protect me from him. For all I know, he could have made a deal with that animal – I saw him shake its paw, didn't I? I wonder what price they put on my head. Oh gods, please take mercy on me. I know I've made some...mistakes here and there...and might not have been as good a follower as I could have been...but that can always change – if I'm alive. But, if I'm dead, I can't change my wicked ways and become a devout follower like you'd like. So please, give me the chance to serve you.”

* * *

Speaking soothingly to the horses, the valet – oblivious to Edward's imagined plight – held and cut their tethers. He moved slowly, nearing the saddle of the rightmost animal. His plan was to mount that horse, and stampede them out of the camp. They would circle past the plateau, pause for a moment for Edward to leap onto a mount, and ride like the wind out of the camp. The thieves would have two horses left – and, with any luck, S'razirr would take one of those. And, regardless, even if they were tracked down, the fight would at least be an even one.

* * *

Whimpering to himself and the gods, Edward was lost to the world – except when a strange, light ticklish wisp brushed his face. A chill dread stole over his body, and his limbs seemed to go almost numb as he placed this terror, this dark fear, this specter of all his nightmares.

He needed no light – which was fortunate, as he had none – to know what it was; instinct told him what that tendrily touch was – what it could only be. In the depths of despair, his plight had just worsened; a spider, probably picked up in his hair when he'd smashed into the wall, was crawling across his face.

* * *

The valet had just slipped one foot into the stirrup when a shrill wail of terror rent the evening. So high pitched, so indicative of mortal peril, was it that the horses, the mercenaries atop the overhanging hills, and he, all at once, as if of a single mind, leaped backwards. For a moment, the sound, eerie beyond words in the sheer horror it conveyed, was hard to place; and then he realized that it was Edward.

[mALX]

This paragraph says it all :

a shrill wail of terror rent the evening. So high pitched, so indicative of mortal peril, was it that the horses, the mercenaries atop the overhanging hills, and he, all at once, as if of a single mind, leaped backwards. For a moment, the sound, eerie beyond words in the sheer horror it conveyed, was hard to place; and then he realized that it was Edward.

And it was a spider - GAAAAH!!! SPEW !!!! ROFL !!!!!! Unfortunately, I mirror Edward in this, but that is beside the point, lol.

Awesome Write !!!!!

[Rachel the Breton]

mALX: Thanks. I've spent more hours than I want to admit writing today, LOL (we're basically snowed in, so there's not a whole bunch I can do otherwise, LOL), and finished the whole Umbaccano quest. Now to proof and post...

Where once would Aleyids roam
Now the dead call “home”
There the bravest of the brave may with impunity wander
But cowards would their lives only squander.
-- Excerpt from The Treasure Hunter's Song





Chapter Fifty-Five

The two men stood surrounded by their five attackers; at least, the valet stood. Edward was more leaned against the hillside in a heap than standing.

Claude Maric laughed. “More excitement than you could handle, eh? New blood.” His men chuckled with him. “They think this line of work will be a bed of roses.” His smile turned sour, and his eyes gleamed cold in the firelight. “Well, it's not. You're lucky I'm a merciful guy, Mr. High and Mighty. As it is, I'll spare your life...this time. Provided you hand over the carving.”

Edward made no response, except to whimper.

Maric sneered. “I can't quite make up my mind if you're putting on act to elicit sympathy – in which case it's not working – or if you really are as pathetic as you seem. Either way, it doesn't really matter. Take it or leave it...hand over the carving and walk away, or die here and now.” His suave smile returned. “Just business you know. Nothing personal.” Glancing at the valet, he added, “To you, at least. As far as this sewer rat's concerned, I wouldn't mind -”

But the other man interrupted. “I'm sorry, Maric, but it's not going to work that way.”

The Breton frowned. “Hold on...that voice...”

“Yes, I figured you'd remember me.”

“Umbacano's valet! The one who ratted us out...”

“That's right.”

“I figured he just reassigned you...you were too much of lapdog to let loose...”

Grimacing, the valet declared, “Come on, Claude. We can figure out a way for all of us to walk away from this in one piece.”

“I already gave you a way. Hand over the carving.”

Shaking his head, he said, “I'm sorry. That's not going to happen. Now...if you want to discuss an equal cut for everyone here...”

Maric laughed. “Not bloody likely.”

“It doesn't have to end with your men in pine boxes, Claude....”

The Breton repeated his familiar refrain of laughter. “Bargaining is for the weak. Or didn't you know that, valet? You should stick to polishing boots and preparing tables. That's what you're good at. This is a man's world. You and your friend there don't belong in it if you don't know how to play by the rules.”

The valet grimaced, nudging Edward, who was still in a half swoon. “If you force a fight, Maric, you'll be responsible for what happens to your men.”

Claude Maric sneered. “That's it then? It's you and your fainted friend against me and my four men?”

At that moment, the gravely voice of a Khajiit broke in. It was S'razirr. “Actually,” he said, “three.”

“What?”

“Well, I owe my friend one for turning you lot in, don't I? And, while we're on the subject, I owe you one as well for double crossing me. A double cross with a double cross. Seems a fair exchange, don't you think?”

“You dirty...”

Kicking Edward sharply, the valet nodded. “And, Maric?”

The Breton turned glaring eyes toward him. “What?”

“I never set tables.”

[Rachel the Breton]

A coward's victory,
Is short lived.
But the hero's deeds
Live on for all time.
-- An excerpt from a piece translated in the scholarly work “Writings of Old, Dead People”

Chapter Fifty-Six

His servant's last kick had finally roused Edward, and he found himself greeted on his return to the world of consciousness by the sight of three glowering, armed warriors in front of him. To his eternal relief, however, his servant and even the beast creature he'd seen earlier were also standing with him.

“I think that's three to three, now, Maric,” S'razirr hissed in satisfaction. “Looks like you've lost the advantage.”

The Breton glared daggers at the Khajiit, but gestured at Edward. “That? You count that the equal of any of my men?”

The valet laughed. “You don't know what you're talking about, Maric. This man has seen more death in his life time than you've ever dreamt of.”

Claude Maric laughed, but his laughter seemed edged with nervousness. “I wasn't born yesterday, Norvayne. That lily-livered coward looked like he had just seen a ghost...”

“Worse!” Edward assured him. “You have no idea the horrors that infest those tunnels.”

The Breton shivered. The horrors Edward had in mind were clearly not the horrors that Maric imagined. But the effect was still there. “I'm giving you one last chance...” he began.

“Bargaining is for the weak, remember?” the valet reminded him. “We're not giving up the carving, and that's final. Now it's your move.”

For several moments, Maric stood still, clearly conflicted. Edward sneered at the man's cowardice. In normal circumstances, the Imeprial would have thought himself brave indeed to find himself in such a – comparatively speaking – mild state of cowardice as the Breton's. These were not ordinary circumstances, however. Indeed, at the present, Edward found himself full of an unknown courage, a mix of adrenalin and spent fear, for his fear and panic seemed exhausted by his horrendous ordeal in the Aleyid ruins, and, in comparison to that, an evenly match fight seemed pretty tame. And, besides, he was fairly sure Maric would bolt, and he'd be able to pretend to “chase” him...leaving his servant and the Khajiit to battle the other two, while he waited in safety.

At length, the Breton spoke. “I've been in this business long enough to know when to call it a day,” he said. “But you three had better watch your backs from now on.”

* * *

“That was well played back there, sir!” Edward's valet was telling him. “Did you see the look on Maric's face? He was really quite scared of the three of us.”

Edward sighed.

“And when you told him about the ghosts you had seen!” S'razirr put in. “He looked as if it was he who had seen them.”

Edward grimaced as the two men (“Well, one man, and one beast creature”) laughed.

“But, seriously, sir, what did you see?” the valet asked.

Edward's grimace disappeared into a momentary flash of panic. As horrifying as his encounter, in those dusty, forgotten stone passages, with the spider had been, he somehow doubted it would be the stuff of inspiration that these two were expecting to hear. “Well...it...I...umm...it was...awful. I...I'd rather not talk about it.”

“That bad, eh?” S'razirr hissed. “Scared to death, this one is, of the undead things.” The Khajiit shivered.

“At least, though, it's dead now, right?” the valet prompted.

“Oh yes,” Edward assured him. “Very dead.” This was true, for one or another of the haphazard blows he'd launched against his face to rid him of the thing had turned the spider into a mere spot on his forehead.

The other two men nodded admiringly, and the group settled into silence as they rode, victorious, into the dawn.

[Rachel the Breton]

When days are hard, and nights are cold
When strength is spent, and purse emptied of gold
A friend will understand your sorrow without being told
Open his home and welcome you into his fold.
-- An excerpt from a piece translated in the scholarly work “Writings of Old, Dead People”

Chapter Fifty-Seven

“By the way,” Edward was asking his servant, “that tomb robber was calling you 'Norvayne' earlier...what the heck does that mean?”

The other man stared at him. “That's my name, sir.”

Edward recoiled in disgust. “Really?” he asked, mortified.

“Yes sir.”

“Ugh...no wonder you changed it.”

“I...didn't, sir.”

Edward stared at him. “Of course you did! Otherwise, why haven't I heard the hideous thing before?”

“Because...you didn't ask, sir?”

Edward blinked. Perhaps the other man was right. He shrugged. “Well, anyway, you should change it. It doesn't sound at all Imperial.”

“It's not, sir.”

Recoiling a second time, Edward stared at his servant. The man looked every bit an Imperial; and his speech, his mannerisms, and his vast knowledge all spoke of Imperial culture, class and refinement – of the serving class' breeding, at any rate. And here he was, advertising for all the world to know, that someone, somewhere in his family tree, had married some sort of barbarian? “Then...why have you not changed it already?!”

“It's...my name, sir.”

Edward sighed. There really was no explaining the peculiar sensibilities of the serving caste, was there?

Before the conversation could progress, however – and before Edward could further insult his manservant – S'razirr declared, “Here, this one will part company from his friends. Better, he thinks, to approach the city carefully. Maric will not be pleased to see him return, no.”

Norvayne nodded.

“He will wait for you to finish your business with Umbaccano; then, he will take his share, and find a new city to settle in.”

Edward grimaced, remembering his servant's promise; and a flash of consternation crossed his servant's face.

“Wait,” he said. “You mean...you are working for Umbaccano, too? You're not interested in the ruins personally, just looking for him?”

The Imperial flushed. He had forgotten that he'd never told his servant that part of the story. “Well...actually...as a matter of fact...”

“Of course,” S'razirr hissed. “Why do you think Maric hates him so much?” The Khajiit laughed a throaty laugh. “At last, the elf tires of Maric's cowardice, and sends a real tomb robber!”

Ignoring the beast creature's insult, Edward explained quickly to his servant, “He approached me to find this carving...”

“I should have known there was a reason for this sudden interest in Aleyid artifacts....but...Umbaccano?!”

Edward snorted in aggravation. How dare his servant question his motives? “One man's gold is as good as another's!” he snapped. “And it's my own damned business who my clients are, isn't it?”

“Not when you trick me into finding the carving for you.”

“You didn't...I didn't...what does it matter, any way? You're not working for him – you're working for me. So why do you care?”

The other man made no response, however, but set his jaw firmly and looked away. Edward glared at him, feeling rather furious. Truth to be told, he wasn't terribly upset by his servant's questioning; it was more the pangs of conscience, in working for someone who had fired a good, trustworthy worker – a friend, he would almost deign to admit – in order to increase his horde of treasures, that bothered the Imperial. So, naturally, he channeled his frustration at any hint of wrongdoing on his part into anger at another.

[mALX]

GAAAAH!!! Edward showed...human emotions? ARGH!!! That means...snow in july...hell freezing over...etc.


Lol, Great Write Rachel !!! I hope you are starting to feel better...wait...not really. I'm enjoying having you back too much to want you healed !!! (just kidding) ROFL !!!

[Verlox]

Ill-bred barbarians! How dare they even THINK to intrude upon Edward so!

[Rachel the Breton]

@mALX: LOL, thanks. I'm actually all better now...it's the snow storm you've got to thank for this last bout of writing, lol. I spent the weekend baking cookies, shoveling (blech), writing and drawing. None of which I had originally intended to do, but... As for Edward and his human emotions...well, don't get too used to it. He might succumb to being human every once in awhile, but that just means that he has to try harder next time.

@Verlox: LOL, barbarians indeed!! Edward's fortitude in dealing with them is really remarkable, the poor man.

Some men, a career of witticisms make;
For others, their path is heroism extraordinary;
But for him? Bungling unparalleled,
Coupled with arrogance indescribable.
-- Author's notes preceding The Song of Edward

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Edward, trying hard to control his uneven breathing, paused as he reached the top of the stairs. He hadn't realized just how heavy the carving was until he had to carry it up a flight of stairs. Jollring paused to look him over with an expression that conveyed only the slightest hint of disgust. “Sir? Is everything alright?”

Edward nodded, but didn't speak, opting to save his breath for the time being.

“Very well...then, shall we proceed?”

The Imperial nodded again.

Subtly rolling his eyes, the Nord opened the door to his master's chambers. “Sir, the tomb raider has returned,” he announced.

Umbaccano glanced up, and Edward noted that he was seated exactly where he'd seen him before, reading exactly the same book he'd been reading the last time he'd been in the manor. He cringed. He couldn't stand the academic types, with their nose always in a book. “Why doesn't he get off his duff and get these rocks himself?” he wondered. “Or spend some time fixing that ridiculous hair of his?”

“Ah!” the elf greeted. “It's you!”

Edward nodded. His breath still wasn't fully recovered, and he didn't want to give his employer the wrong impression of his fitness or ability by panting heavily after walking up a flight of stairs.

“I take it, then, that you've retrieved my carving?”

The Imperial nodded once more, producing the rock from inside of a bag. Umbacanno's eyes lit up at the sight of it, and he made a quick gesture to his manservant. Jollring stepped forward, handing Edward a little purse of Septims, as Umbaccano relieved him of his heavy burden.

Despite himself, the Imperial smiled. The coins were far less heavy than the rock – and they were gold, as opposed to old stone.

“Now,” Umbaccano declared, “you have proved yourself a reliable treasure hunter! How, then, would you feel about taking another job from me? This is a delicate one – one that I dare only entrust to my most trustworthy employee. That is why I would like you to take it, if you're willing.”

Edward preened at the compliment, and, with an excessively silly simper, declared, “Well, that, of course, depends on the nature of the assignment...”

“And the pay,” Umbaccano put in.

This frank statement of the very idea that he had in his mind caused Edward's confident, self congratulatory air to falter for a moment. But, in the next, he resumed his cool demeanor. “Of course, one expects ample remuneration for one's work...”

“Of course,” the elf nodded. “And it shall be made. One thousand septims up front, and one thousand Septims after the job is finished.”

* * *

Edward felt the flick of a wet cloth in his face – a very hard flick, in point of fact. He blinked and stirred, only to be greeted by a brusque slap. This caused him to sit upright with a start.

“I don't think you needed to hit him again...I think he was waking up already,” he heard a familiar voice.

“No, sir, I don't think he was,” another voice disagreed.

Edward stared into the faces of the speakers, who were Jollring and Umbaccano. For a moment, he wondered why he was seated on the floor, and they were leaning over him concernedly. “What...happened?”

“You seemed to collapse,” the elf informed him, “when we were discussing your payment.”

“I'm sure it was a faint, sir,” the Nord put in. “Probably after all the exertion of climbing the stairs.”

Edward threw a fleeting glare at the servant, but returned his full attention to the elf. “That's right,” he nodded, remembering now. In truth, he had fainted – but it had nothing to do with the stairs. He had collapsed at the prospect of two thousand gold Septims. “I was just agreeing to take the job, and you were telling me that it would pay two thousand Septims.”

“That's right,” Umbaccano nodded.

Edward leaped to his feet, brushing himself off. So eager was he to start, so anxious to lay his hands on the two thousand Septims, that he didn't even take time to be embarrassed by his fainting spell. “When do I start?”

“After you hear the details of the assignment might be a good time,” the elf smiled.

[Rachel the Breton]

The ways of the barbarians, are barbarous indeed;
And the ways of the peasants, peasantinian* indeed.
-- Wisdom of the First Era

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Edward felt the purse of gold coins at his side a second time as he stepped out of Umbaccano's manor, into the afternoon sunlight. He couldn't believe it – he had almost fainted a second time at hearing the details of his assignment. The elf – madman that he was! – was paying him two thousand gold coins to speak to a collector about selling an old hat. He laughed to himself. It was a miracle that Umbaccano was still rich, when he threw his money away like that. It was almost cruel of him to take the job...and yet, it would have been criminal to throw away such a shot at wealth.

So caught up in feverish delight as he was, he didn't notice his servant approach. “Sir?” the other man greeted.

Edward started, a guilty feeling coming over him. He had agreed, earlier, that this would be his last job for Umbaccano...and here he was, presented with an opportunity that was simply too good to pass up. “Oh, uhm, what?”

“I bought the supplies for our return to Cheydinhal, sir.”

Edward frowned. “Cheydinhal?”

“Yes...you were en route to...” Here, the other man lowered his voice. “Your Dark Brotherhood contact.”

“Oh, yes,” Edward nodded. It seemed like a very long time ago, now. He enjoyed his work with the Brotherhood, of course...but they clearly did not pay anywhere near what he was worth – and could expect from Umbaccano. “However, there's been a...umm...slight delay in our plans.”

His servant eyed him with obvious suspicion. “Sir?”

“I need to visit someone...” he answered. “Here in town. It shouldn't take long, just a quick visit.”

The suspicion was now fullblown on the other man's face. “Who?”

Edward recoiled to show how deeply affronted he was by these questions. “Who are you,” he demanded, “to question me?”

The other man frowned. “Someone who knows Umbaccano, sir. There is a collector, her name is Herminia Cinna. They have been rivals for years, and there is a lot of...bad blood between them. Umbaccano is always trying to find someone else to bring into the quarrel, hoping to best her for this item or that.”

Edward's emotions cycled from shock to disinterest and back to shock again. He couldn't care less about the backstory, but he was amazed that his valet had been able to discern so quickly what his purpose was. “Well, so what?” he asked. “What do I care, as long as I'm paid?”

His servant frowned. “There's a reason Claude Maric has never done it, even when he offers huge bonuses for doing so,” he answered. “I don't know what, exactly, the details of their rivalry are...but I don't think it's a safe job, sir. Otherwise, even a coward like Maric would have scooped it up...”

Edward snorted. “Do you really think,” he demanded, “that I am going to let the fears of a coward stop me? Edward the Imperial is not ruled by fear – not his own, and certainly not a cowardly little Breton's!”

“Sir, please, I don't trust -”

“I don't care who or what you do or don't trust!” Edward snapped. “I am going! I am not going to let Maric's cowardice get in my way – or yours, for that matter.” He paused. “And, besides, what could possibly be dangerous about buying a hat?!”

His servant stared blankly at him. “A...hat, sir?”

“Yes!” Edward nodded. “He wants me to go talk to her about selling some old Aleyid king's hat, and -”

“You don't mean the Crown of Nenalata, do you?”

Edward blinked. That sounded familiar. “Yes, I think it was a crown,” he agreed.

“I should have known!” his servant exclaimed. “He's been after two pieces for years, sir – the carving you just gave him, and that crown. Now he's got one, and he wants the other. The Crown is supposed to be the Crown worn by the last King of the Aleyids. It's a very powerful magical device, sir – they say-”

Edward yawned. What was his servant babbling about? Did he really think Umbaccano hadn't already bored him to death with all of these irrelevant details about the Aleyid kings and cities and all the rest?

“And, if you understand the underlying magic, it can be a powerful weapon. I don't think...I don't think it should be in Umbaccano's hands, sir!”

Edward frowned at his servant. The man's attempts at getting him to leave the elf's employ really were pathetic. “Magic hats? Does he really think I'm going to fall for this junk?!” he wondered. Aloud, he said firmly, “That's all very well and good...but I'm still talking to her. If you're worried about it, go to the temple and ask for hat-dispelling blessings...”




* peasantinian (adj): 1. belonging to a peasant
2. of or characterized by distinctly peasant-like characteristics
3. poor or unrefined in appearance, breeding, or bearing

Examples of Peasantinian:
"He was a rough lad with an odd streak of refinement, peasantinian in his mannerisms but genteel in speech."
"The foremost peasantinian mode of travel: one's own two feet."
"It was an extraordinarily peasantinian hovel."

Origins of Peasantinian:
Imperial, peasantius, from Aleyid paysant
First known use: First era

This post has been edited by Rachel the Breton: Dec 14 2010, 04:32 AM