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

[Rachel the Breton]

mALX: lol, thanks...I think Jauffre is my favorite character...or, at least, the difference between him and the original is my favorite change in the story. Can't wait until we get to the later chapters with him.


Where blood is let and lives are ended
Where wagers are made and lost
Where many aspire and few succeed,
The Arena!
-- Song of the Arena


Chapter One Hundred and Four

Edward was overjoyed to finally be within the walls of his beloved Imperial City , safe from the barbarian hordes and their fledgling outposts and primitive towns. So glad was he that he forgot aggravation with his valet, the terrible loss of his retirement, or any of the other myriad things that plagued his mind. "Now," he said to his valet as they strolled through the Market District, "We've just got to go hunt Valen Dreth down. Well, I've got to."

"Yes sir," the valet replied nodding. "But, before you do, do you mind if I run into this shop?" Here, he pointed to Jensine's "Good as New" Merchandise.

Edward frowned, feeling somewhat annoyed. "Why? Have some hot merchandise to unload?"

"No sir. Jensine isn't a fence. I heard a rumor about a warblade, however, and I wanted to check it out..."

Edward sighed in aggravation. "Oh hurry up, if you must!" he snapped. His return home had put him in too good a mood to quarrel. Nodding his thanks, the valet disappeared. Edward, still annoyed, hopped onto a wooden barrel near the shop to wait for his valet to return.

His aggravation soon ebbed, however, as he gazed about the city. He was, he told himself, a great adventurer, like those of old, who had endured trials and tribulations in far-distant corners of the world, suffering at the hands of barbarians and fiends...but now the hero had returned home to his beloved city. He sighed contentedly.

So lost in thoughts was he that he didn't notice the cracking sound underneath him. All at once, however, the wooden top of his barrel seat collapsed, and he found himself rudely jerked into reality as he plunged downwards. Before he knew what had happened, Edward found himself half inside and half outside of his barrel, his head, hands and lower legs protruding, while his torso and upper legs were securely, and most uncomfortably, wedged inside the barrel. Feeling a thousand painful sensations at once, Edward tried to scream; but his compressed lungs had had most of the air squeezed out of them. Instead of a shout, he managed a pitiful squeak.

Powerless to move, and having extreme difficulty even breathing, Edward felt panic rising in him. Circulation in his extremities protruding outside of the barrel seemed to be cut off, and the rest of him, stuffed into a small space without regard to the proper working of his spine and body structure, seemed alive with pain.

Suddenly, just as unexpectedly as the fall had been, he felt the barrel tip, and could only watch as it came crashing down. "You there? Are you alright?" he heard someone ask. He couldn't see the speaker, nor could he even respond as the limited air in his lungs had been knocked out of him a second time in the crash. "Hold on a second! I'll get you out!" the voice continued.

Gurgling in fright, Edward was powerless to do anything except watch as the barrel rose into the air, and tipped upside down. For a moment he stared at the cobblestones underneath him. Then, all at once, he felt the barrel fly upwards sharply. He gurgled again, just as the barrel came downwards. He flew downwards in a flash, sure that -- he knew not how -- he was being propelled face first into the cobblestones. Instead, however, just as suddenly as he'd gone down, he went up again.

Feeling his brain bouncing up and down in his skull in a most frightening manner, he was still somehow able to make limited sense of what was happening. Something -- surely it couldn't be a someone -- was shaking the barrel up and down in an attempt to oust him. This something had apparently not taken into account what he, Edward, could see only too clearly -- that, should he be shaken out, he would be propelled face-first into the cobblestones below. Each shake of the barrel knocking whatever breath he was able to gather out of him, however, he was unable to scream out for his would-be rescuer to desist.

It was no surprise, therefore, to him when the inevitable happened: after one particularly brain-jarring shake, he felt his body wrench free from its confinement and fly downward.

The next thing he was aware of was opening his eyes painfully, staring up into the blue sky overhead, the greenish face of an orc and the small, wedge-like face of a Bosmer. "Oh, great heavens," the Bosmer declared, "I thought Grul had killed you for sure!"

The orc flinched at the words. "Sorry about that," he said to Edward, shrugging apologetically. "You just looked like you needed help."

Edward blinked at them, slowly processing what had happened. "Who are you?" he asked at length.

The Bosmer gestured toward the orc. "This is Grul; Grul gro-Barak," he answered. "He's my servant. We were walking through town looking for...well, it doesn't matter. We were walking through town, and happened to see you fall into the barrel. Grul here tried to shake you out. Then you landed on your face and seemed to get a bit woozy. But now you're coming around."

Edward nodded slowly, wincing as the motion seemed to jiggle his already shaken-about brain painfully. In a warped way, things made sense to him now. "Who are you?" he asked the Bosmer.

"Name's Hundolin," the little man with bright hair answered. "I work at the arena." All of a sudden, staring at Edward, his eyes lit up. "I say, I think you're the one!"

Edward blinked. Maybe, he thought, he wasn't all there yet after all...how else could he explain what this little fellow was babbling about?

"I was going through town looking for...well, someone to fight in the arena."

"A champion," Grul enjoined.

"Yes, yes, a champion!" Hundolin agreed. "You see, we have a fight scheduled at the arena, but we ran out of-"

"Champions," the orc interjected hastily. "Great champions."

"Yes, exactly!"

Edward blinked again. He understood what the Bosmer was saying, but he failed to see how it related to him. "And?"

"And you're the one! The champion I was looking for!"

"I am?" Edward asked, feeling by now quite baffled.

"Of course! Look at that...that physique!" the Bosmer answered.

Edward glanced down at his still crumpled and cringing form.

"And the...the strength, the determination, the courage that just radiates from you!" the elf continued eagerly.

Edward blinked again. Did his inner character, his courage, his magnificence really shine forth so brightly, even when he was injured and weak, that this little Bosmer could recognize it so clearly, he wondered? He shrugged a little, as if embarrassed. "Well, I'm sure you're exaggerating," he replied, attempting modesty. His flattered, glowing tone, however, gave away the insincerity of his words.

The Bosmer exchanged a fleeting smile with the orc. "Not at all!" he hastily assured Edward, sounding only slightly more genuine in his praise than the Imperial had moments earlier.

"Indeed," the orc agreed. "Look at the way you handled falling into a barrel, with only your head and arms and feet sticking out!"

The Bosmer shot the orc a glaring glance of disapproval, but Edward didn't notice it. "The courage!" Hundolin hurriedly explained. "The steadfastness! Not a sound! Not a peep did you utter!"

"Not even when your face smashed into the cobblestone!" the orc agreed, earning himself a second glare.

But Edward was too lost in musing the Bosmer's words to notice. "Hmm," he said at length, "I suppose you're right...I do have that air of a champion, a warrior."

"A god amongst men!" Hundolin assured him.

Edward smiled. "I say, you're quite the intuitive chap!" he told the elf.

"Not at all," the other man assured him. "I only recognize greatness when I see it!" Edward's smile broadened, and he attempted to nay-say this praise in a most pompous manner. The elf ignored this, and pressed his advantage quickly. "So you will fight in the arena then?"

This post has been edited by Rachel the Breton: Mar 7 2011, 04:09 AM

[Rachel the Breton]

The vagabonds set on fame,
The fools who know not their own inabilities;
The criminal who lusts for blood,
These are the snared who are lured to the Arena.
-- From Arena & Contestants, Edition the First

Chapter One Hundred and Five

Edward blinked anew, this time in surprise. "The arena?" he asked incredulously. All this praise was one thing, but actually fighting?

"Of course!" Hundolin exclaimed in most animated tones. "I can see it now -- the new Grand Champion of the arena! You'll be a star! The city will cheer you, love you, adore you!" He paused, glancing at the orc, who was standing about in a terribly uninterested manner. "Can't you, Grul?"

"Oh, umm, yeah, definitely," the orc answered in a tone that conveyed at least as much boredom as his expression.

The Bosmer seemed annoyed, but hurried on with his tale of the grandeur that awaited Edward. "Imagine it! You will be the star of the Empire! You'll have fans following you non-stop, at your beck and call, worshiping you, doing your every bidding!"

Edward hesitated. This sounded very pleasant, after all...and maybe this elf knew what he was talking about. Maybe Edward had that Champion blood in him, born to greatness that had just, somehow, eluded him up until now, and disguised itself in embarrassing incidents like the barrel episode of moments earlier. "Well..." he mused. "Would there be any money in it for me?"

"Money?" the Bosmer repeated, scoffing as though the answer was obvious. "Of course! More money than you could use in a hundred life-times! Why, a Champion of your caliber would end up richer than...than the Emperor himself!"

Ignoring the fact that the Emperor was dead and buried, Edward thought about these words for a few moments. "Well, it does sound rather tempting," he said at length. "I mean, I know I have what it takes..."

"Of course!" Hundolin assured him. "And this -- this is the perfect time for you to make your entrance!"

"Why?"

"Well, because...because there are so many people who have already bet on this match, and our other pit dog-"

"Champion!" the orc interrupted.

"Yes, Champion...pit dog is...well, arena speak for Champion, you understand?" the elf explained.

Edward nodded.

"Anyway, our other Champion had a terrible accident and died."

Edward flinched. As appealing as this all sounded, he still didn't relish the possibility of accidents and death. "Died?"

"Yes, but it was a silly accident," Hundolin hurriedly explained. "He...he..."

"Jumped into a pit of minotaur lords!" Grul interjected.

"Yes, exactly," Hundolin agreed.

Edward grimaced. "Why would he do something like that?" he wondered.

"He was...drunk!"

"Ohhh, I see," Edward nodded.

"Anyway, as long as you don't get drunk and go jumping into the minotaur cages, you'll be just fine!" the elf continued. "And, since we have this match all set up -"

"And stand to lose a lot of money," the orc muttered, which earned him yet another furious glare from Hundolin.

"This would be the perfect time to make your debut," the Bosmer finished. "You see?"

Edward nodded excitedly. "Yes, yes I do!"

"Excellent!" Hundolin exclaimed. "Then we'll see you at the arena in...oh, about half an hour?"

Edward nodded again. "Yes indeed! I've just got to collect my valet, and we'll be right over!"

The elf and orc nodded and made their farewells, assuring Edward yet again that he was destined for greatness, fame and wealth. Then they turned and headed toward the arena, talking quietly amongst themselves. Edward, in his excitement, heard little of what they said, although he did catch Hundolin's voice saying, "There's one born every minute."

Edward, for his part, hoped that this was not true. "How will my greatness stand out if Champions are born all the time?" he wondered.

[Rachel the Breton]

Where fools become kings,
And the worst are the greatest
Heroes of which the bard sings,
Come, but only if you're a sadist.
-- Song of the Arena, continued

Chapter One Hundred and Six

Edward had excitedly dragged his astonished valet to the arena, explaining in rambling, self-congratulatory platitudes what had happened. Incredulous, the other man had questioned the veracity of Edward's story, pointing to his bruised features and wondering if, perhaps, the event had been a product of injury-induced hallucinations. This theory had been met with great disdain and annoyance by Edward, but, hurrying to his certain fame and glory, he'd had little time to set the miscreant servant straight.

Arriving at last at the arena, he was greeted by none other than the little Bosmer. "Ahh, the Champion approaches!" Hundolin exclaimed.

The valet stared at him open mouthed, but Edward took no notice. "Indeed, one Champion, as promised!"

"Excellent, excellent!" the elf returned. "They are waiting for you below!"

Edward nodded, and hurriedly headed in the direction the Bosmer had indicated. His valet trailed behind him, a confused expression on his face.

Edward's step was light, though he was still sore from his misadventures earlier. Suddenly, the world seemed very bright to him -- even if he was traversing a blood stained stone hall, that reeked in a most offensive manner. He would soon be a Champion, wealthy, respected and admired.

"Ahh, the new pit dog!" a burly Redguard greeted him as soon as he emerged into the dark, stuffy chamber below.

Nodding proudly, Edward declared, "You better believe it!"

The Redguard stared at him strangely, and then turned to an older Imperial woman. "It's illegal for us to send mentally challenged guys up there, isn't it?"

She shrugged. "Well, whose to say we knew? Hundolin sent him here, anyhow."

The Redguard grunted acquiescence, and then turned back to Edward. "Alright, pit dog, suit up." This said, he tossed him a suit of armor. A very heavy suit of armor.

Edward caught it, but, not expecting something so weighty, fell forward with it. Picking himself up gingerly, and laughing abashedly at his own clumsiness, he said, "Well, umm...that's a bit heavy, isn't it?"

"We're out of light armor," the Redguard sneered. "So you'll have to make due. Not that it's gonna matter anyway...you'll be dead soon enough."

Edward blinked at these words. "Dead?" he asked.

"What do you think?" the Redguard laughed.

"Wait, you mean...people die in these fights?"

The old woman and the Redguard exchanged glances again. "Maybe this is too cruel," she commented ponderingly.

"We've got a lot of money riding on this fight though," the man pointed out.

"True..." she mused.

"Wait, wait, wait!" Edward interrupted. "Nobody said anything about people dying!"

The two turned to him. "It's an arena!" the woman snapped. "Fights to the death!"

Edward balked. "To the...death?"

"Of course!"

"But...but I thought it was just...you know, until somebody surrendered."

The Reguard and the Imperial woman turned to each other again, bursting out in laughter simultaneously. "Surrender?" the Redguard managed to repeat through his laughter. "Nobody surrenders in these fights...you die, or you kill. Nothing more, and nothing less!"

Edward, meanwhile, had turned a chalky white. At this point, his valet interjected, "Look here, I believe my friend was misinformed about this arrangement. As he understood it, he was coming here to -"

"Don't figure it matters what he understood or didn't," the woman interrupted. "He's here, we've got a lot of money riding on this show, and we need a warm body up there."

Edward began to shake. "But they didn't say anything about dying!" he protested.

"That's right," the valet agreed.

The two Arena keepers shrugged. "So?"

"Well, my friend was lured down here under false pretenses, that's what!" the valet answered.

The Redguard laughed. "Look here," he said, "I don't give a sewer rat's tail about how he was or wasn't lured down here. After that last idiot got his brains pummeled fighting with the Yellow Team, we need someone in the show. So, unless you're volunteering to take his place, he'd better get up there -- and you'd better shut up!"

Edward's shaking renewed. "I won't go!"

"You'll go," the woman told him, rising and lifting a menacing looking sword.

"Or you'll die right here and right now," the Redguard finished, drawing a sword of his own.

[Rachel the Breton]

Taste the fear,
Fear the steel,
Steal the lives,
Live after the fight!
-- In the Arena!


Chapter One Hundred and Seven

The valet grimaced. He couldn't believe it. Not only had his master been foolish enough to get himself into a fix like this, but now he had to save his neck...again. At least, he thought, the arena keepers -- Owyn the Redguard and Ysabel Andronicus the Imperial -- had let them go as a team. Indeed, the suggestion had been met with surprised pleasure by the two, who had easily been able to convince the Yellow Team -- which, apparently, they were about to fight -- to throw another pit dog into the arena.

Half wondering if it wouldn't have been easier just to take on Owyn and Ysabel, he sighed. Even if they had fought the two battle hardened former gladiators, no one would have taken their word that they were being kept prisoner in the arena bloodworks. "Oh well," he thought, "this is the only way to do it I guess."

Meanwhile, Edward was shaking so forcefully that his armor was rattling in a sound reminiscent of chimes in a fierce wind. "We're going to die..." he was whimpering.

The valet sighed. "Of course we're not, sir. All we've got to do is win this fight, and then we'll be free to go."

Edwad shot him a disparaging look. "Well, in that case..." he mocked. Then, whining again, "We're going to die!"

"Only if we have attitudes like that, sir!" the valet cheerily returned. "I know this head-on combat thing isn't your forte, but all you've got to do is your best. There's only going to be two or three of them, and they're just pit dogs!"

"Just pit dogs!" Edward gasped. He still hadn't realized that pit dog was not, in fact, a compliment.

"That's right. So, we've just got to work together, and all will be well."

Edward felt faint and queasy. But there was no time to argue. All at once, a booming voice declared, "Good people of the Imperial City! Welcome to the arena! Today our entertainment is provided by two packs of pit dogs: on the Yellow Team, a Bosmer, an Imperial and an Argonian. And on the Blue Team, two Imperials. Can these two Imperials hope to stand against so many? We shall see! Let the games begin!" With that, the iron grate came down.

Edward stood, shaking, watching the Yellow Team combatants enter the arena. "Come on, sir," his valet whispered. "We can take them!" With these words the other man ran forward, his blade flashing.

Edward was too frightened to move. He could only watch as his valet charged valiantly into combat, ducking the fists of the Argonian and the blade of the Imperial. He saw him charge up to the Bosmer, who had loosed two arrows -- loosed, and missed both times -- and was fiddling with a third. He watched as his servant brushed aside the bow, and brought the hilt of his sword down upon the Bosmer's head with a heavy crash. Then he watched as the little elf collapsed to the ground, not dead -- so it seemed, at least -- but unconscious.

By now the Argonian and Imperial had advanced upon his valet, and Edward cringed as a heavy, scaled fist impacted with his teammate's side. The valet went down, but only in order to sweep the legs out from under his attacker. Somehow, this scene roused Edward from his indolence, and he found himself charging into battle. It might have been the fact that the Yellow Team had their backs to him, or it might have been some rare shred of courage or loyalty that prompted him to advance. Either way, advance he did, and before he knew it, he was in the thick of battle.

He was amazed to see that his valet was not fighting the Argonian, who relentlessly pursued him, but rather dodging his blows. Likewise, he was not attempting to kill the Imperial swordsman, but rather to disarm him. Scoffing, Edward readied his sword, and charged forward. He was not above killing these men, even if his foolish servant was willing to risk his life.

The Argonian, however, must have sensed his presence, because -- just as Edward was readying to plunge his sword into the other man's back -- he swung about, planting a hard fist into Edward's jaw. Edward's senses reeled, and then he went down.

[haute ecole rider]

First you enter Edward the bumbling fool into the Dark Brotherhood!

Then you send him to Nenalata! With Cadlew Priory as icing!

Then you sic him on the Sirens!

Now you ship him off to the Arena??? I think this is worse than Maxical! At least she had Fathis to pay for her damages!

[mALX]

ROFL !!!!

"And you're the one! The champion I was looking for!"

"I am?" Edward asked, feeling by now quite baffled.

"Of course! Look at that...that physique!" the Bosmer answered.

Edward glanced down at his still crumpled and cringing form.

I'm picturing a white doughy substance for Edwards skin, ROFL !!!

"It's illegal for us to send mentally challenged guys up there, isn't it?"

I nearly choked on this !!! ROFL !!!

and before he knew it, he was in the thick of battle.

GAAAAAH !!! Edward never fails to surprise me !!!


AWESOME !!! And what is most exciting of all .... I know Docada is coming soon into the story !!!!!!

WOOOOOOOOOOT !!!!!!!!


*

[Rachel the Breton]

@haute ecole rider: haha, that's a good point. And, although Edward can always rely on the valet to bail him out if he finds himself in too tight a scrape, Maxical can actually fight and defend herself. She is accident prone, but Edward is utterly inept, lol.

@malx: lol, quite true...to Edward's eternal mortification, Docada is coming soon. As far as the white, doughy substance, I think you're spot on there as well...he may be an Imperial, but I picture him with a nobleman's pallid, sun-starved complexion...even when he's out adventuring, only his face/hands would be exposed to the sun.


Fight, like you’ve never fought before.
Fight, if you want to fight some more.
Fight, because they’ll laugh if you die.
Fight, and don’t dare pause to ask why.
-- The Gladiator’s Song

Chapter One Hundred and Eight

When Edward awoke, he was back in the bloodworks. The Battle Matron was leaned over him, apparently tending a wound on his head. "Ahh!" Edward screamed at the sight of her. His only memories of the woman, after all, were her sending him to his death.

"Relax, pit dog," she was saying. "After what your friend did up there, I guess you've earned our respect."

"Friend? What?" Edward wondered. The last thing he remembered was a scaly fist impacting sharply with his jaw.

"Your friend...the one who spared the Yellow Team combatants. After that fight, half the team chickened out of their contracts and left the arena," she answered.

From somewhere to the side, he heard the Redguard laugh. "It will take them weeks to recover from that," he said.

Edward blinked uncomprehendingly. "Left? Why?"

"Because they saw how easy it was for a real fighter to kick their lily-livered behinds -- without even killing them," the matron answered. "Now, for the love of Talos, stay still! How am I supposed to clean your cuts out, if you don't?"

Edward groaned. He still wasn't sure of what had happened, but he'd got the general idea. But where was his valet now?

"And don't worry about him," she continued, "He made it out fine. He's talking with The Gray Prince now."

This was quite true, for, at that very moment, Edward's valet and the Arena Grand Champion, an orc known as 'The Gray Prince', were deep in conversation. "I have to say," the orc was saying, "I was quite impressed with you up there...risking your own neck to save those guys, instead of just taking them down when you had them at your mercy..."

The valet shrugged. "Well, I never intended to be an Arena fighter, you know. I didn't want to kill anyone or anything. Just to win the match and get out."

The Gray Prince nodded, watching the Imperial for a few minutes. "I say," he said, "you seem to be a good sort of person. Can I ask you to do me a favor?"

"Of course," the valet nodded.

"How would you like to fight me?"

"Fight you?" the Imperial repeated in surprise.

"Yes, fight me," the orc answered. "Not really...I mean, just go into the Arena, and pretend to kill me."

"Pretend to kill you?" the valet asked, his brow creasing perplexedly. "But...why?"

Agronak's eyes darted about quickly, as if he was afraid of being overheard, and he answered in a low, ponderous tone, as though he was choosing his words carefully. "I'm tired of...the fame. You know...media, screaming fans...all of that. I want to start my life over, in private. If the Gray Prince dies, Agronak gro-Malog can be reborn...a simple orc, living his life in private and quiet."

The Imperial frowned. "I see what you're saying," he said. "But won't they -- the fans and whatnot -- follow me instead?"

The Gray Prince shook his head. "No, no," he answered. "They follow me because I've spent years building my reputation as the Grand Champion. You'll just be a lucky lug who happened to get a good strike in."

The valet continued to frown in concentration. "Alright," he said at last, "I can't see any harm in doing it."

The Gray Prince positively beamed, and grabbed the other man's hand to shake it vigorously. "Thank you!" he declared. "Thank you very much!"

Meanwhile, lying still as a stinging ointment was applied to his wounds, Edward sighed inwardly. "Why," he wondered, "am I such a caring guy? Why do I always have to put my own life on the line for inept idiots like that servant of mine? When will I ever learn to ignore the peons in order to keep myself out of scrapes like this?!"

[Rachel the Breton]

Fame, oh joy and bane of man
Desired when not possessed
But despised when had
Fame, ye treacherous beast.
-- Song of the Champions

Chapter One Hundred and Nine

Edward was seated on a table in the bloodworks, glowering. His valet and The Gray Prince had just left to fight one another in the Arena, and -- having missed their conversation -- he was furious. "Who does that SOB think he is," he wondered, "running off and getting himself killed instead of being my servant?!" In Edward's mind, there was no doubt whatsoever that his valet would die in this match.

"Well, he better not look to me to take care of him if he comes out of there mutilated or half-dead," he decided. "He can go to Oblivion for all that I care, after turning his back on his sacred duty to serve me in order to fight for vain glory." It was for that reason that Edward had not gone into the Arena with the other spectators -- that, and that he'd have to bet on the championship to get in...and, while he wouldn't have minded making a quick buck betting on his friend's certain death, he'd somehow run out of money...again.

And yet, if only for the satisfaction of seeing his valet dragged, a bloody mess, back into the bloodworks, he'd decided to wait until after the fight to leave. He could hear the shouting, cheering and jeering overhead, and the booming voice of the announcer above all that. "Good people of the Imperial City ," it called, "today our match is epic! A pit dog -- that's right, ladies and gentlemen, a pit dog! -- has challenged The Gray Prince himself!" Uproarious laughter, more cheers and more jeers followed. Then the announcer continued. "This will be almost painful to watch...but, in his benevolence, our Grand Champion has obliged the suicidal pit dog. So, without further ado...let the match begin!"

Edward heard the grating of iron as the gates were lowered, but the rest was lost in the tidal wave of excited fans’ cheering. Edward sighed. Was it possible, he wondered, that he was actually worried about his servant? Was it possible that that was the reason that he was waiting?

Dismissing the idea with a scoff, Edward's glare intensified. He, Edward, did not worry about servants. Indeed, he had himself wanted to kill his valet on many occasions. So why then was this annoying fear gnawing at his stomach?

It was far beneath a man of his dignity to care what befell his servant, so these apprehensions -- even if he wouldn't acknowledge them -- were downright embarrassing to Edward. His glare and ill humor intensified with every bit of compassion and fear that he felt, so soon he outmatched even the dour Battle Matron and Blademaster with his excessive petulance.

It was impossible to tell over the cacophony of noise above what was happening, so Edward sat in ill-humored silence for several moments. Then, all at once, everything fell silent; and suddenly a collective gasp -- audible even to those in the bloodworks -- rose from the crowd of spectators.

Edward's expression grew darker yet. It was done, then, he assumed. His valet was dead.

And then, as suddenly as the silence had descended, an uproar of cheers and chanting filled the air. "Dragonheart! Dragonheart! Dragonheart!" the crowd seemed to be calling in unison.

Edward's frown shifted, but remained. "Dragonheart?" he wondered. "Who the oblivion is Dragonheart? What about that stupid Gray Prince, and my jackass servant?"

Then, almost in answer to his pondering, the announcer's voice declared, "Citizens...I am amazed! We are amazed! This upstart, the pit dog, has defeated The Gray Prince!" Edward leaped to his feet in sheer astonishment; but the announcer continued. "This has to be...well, the most spectacular fight I have ever seen, and the most unorthodox path a Grand Champion has ever followed...but...it is my pleasure to announce our City's new Grand Champion: Dragonheart!"

[Rachel the Breton]

A New Grand Champion Declared: Dragonheart!

With heavy heart for he who is passed, and eager admiration for he who has replaced him, it is our duty to report an unusual – nay, astonishing! – day at the Imperial Arena. The Gray Prince, whom we have all so long loved as Grand Champion, answered the challenge of a newcomer, a mere Pit Dog! These two met in the Arena this very afternoon, and, in a stupendous clash of daring and virility, the Grand Champion was felled, and the Pit Dog declared the winner – and our new Champion. Dragonheart – our Champion’s name – was seen leaving the Arena in the company of many adoring fans. Your correspondent was unable to speak with him, but will continue to attempt to do so in order that the public may ever remain abreast of the goings-on of our glorious city!

-- Black Horse Courier, Special News Bulletin

Chapter One Hundred and Ten

Edward was greatly annoyed as he and his valet left the Arena. Not only had he wasted his time -- not to mention, soiled his dignity -- worrying about a lowly servant, but the lowly servant hadn't even had the decency to die so that his sacrifice might be worthwhile! Instead, the lowly servant had somehow won the match, and become the new Grand Champion.

"Come on, sir," the valet was saying, "I know it was longer than you wanted to stay. But I had to do that!"

Edward shot him a disparaging look, but stepped aside so that his servant could open the door for him. The valet did so, and Edward stepped outside into the crisp early afternoon air, his head held high despite the internal sting of wounded pride.

To his horror, he found that he'd emerged into a swarm of buzzing, chirping, twittering fans, all screaming for their idol, the new Grand Champion. Edward's lip curled in disgust, and he sneered most disdainfully, "Be gone, vile insects!"

The vile insects, however, had no intention of complying. Instead, they shoved Edward aside and swarmed about his valet. His valet stood heads above the crowd, which seemed to be composed mostly of short Bosmer youth with brightly colored hair and odd hair styles. He, as Edward had been, was somewhat taken aback by the swarm. "Why, umm, thank you," he said as they shouted their salutations.

"Oh, by Azura, by Azura, by Azura!" one voice, higher than all the rest, called, "I can't believe it! It's the Grand Champion! Standing here, next to me!"

Edward, rising haughtily and glaring furiously at the backs of the brightly colored-heads -- which were, at this point, all that was really visible to him -- spoke. "Go away, you filthy children! Go pester someone else!" Still shouting their praises of his servant, the fans ignored Edward entirely. This was particularly horrifying to the Imperial, as he'd not only, most brusquely, been shoved aside in order that these monsters might worship his servant -- his servant! -- but now they completely ignored him, as if he did not even exist!

One voice in particular continued with fervent admiration. "Oh, great and mighty Grand Champion, I'm going to follow you and watch you and worship the ground you walk on!"

Edward pinpointed this voice to a short elf wearing a peculiar, poofy twist of bright yellow hair atop his head. "You! Ice-cream-head!" Edward called, poking the little fellow. "Get! You and your buddies!"

The Bosmer turned about fiercely at this nudge, shoving Edward away savagely. "Stay away from my god!" he snarled.

Edward recoiled a step, surprised by the vehemence of this strange, style-challenged elf. "He may be your god," he snapped, "but he's my servant -- and you're interfering with his duties!"

The Bosmer seemed to ignore his words as an inspired gleam lit his eyes. Spinning about quickly, he declared fervently, "Oh, Grand Champion, let me be your servant! Your slave! I will follow you everywhere, do whatever you require done, and worship you -- always worship you!"

This post has been edited by Rachel the Breton: Mar 24 2011, 04:55 AM

[mALX]

GAAAAAAAAH !!!! SHRIEK !!!! SQUEEEEEEEEEEEAL !!!!!! It's DOCADA !!!!!!!! WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT !!!!!!

[D.Foxy]

O Mama O Mama
Docada, Docada
goes Ga-Ga O ga-ga
Hey Ha-Ha Ho Ha Ha!

[haute ecole rider]

Well, I can't write poetry, that's for sure.

But I echo the Fox here. Docada is a welcome addition to this hilarious story! And I think this version is much better than the last.

Yet I wonder - did the Gray Prince want to fake his death to get rid of all of his fans, or just one certain Annoying Fan?

[Rachel the Breton]

@malx: one style challenged nerd, as promised.
@foxy: glad to see you're still reading this, Foxy!!
@haute ecole rider: thanks, I've tried to rework some of the dialog (mostly just rewording things here and there) to make it flow more smoothly. As for the Gray Prince...Docada would be the main motivation for flight, lol.



No ingrate so vile as the servant,
Who values not his master’s benevolence
And who respects not his years of service
Who forgets all he owes his gracious master.
-- Excerpt from The Trials of a Nobleman, First Edition

Chapter One Hundred and Eleven

Edward was trying hard, and failing miserably, to remain calm. It had been difficult, but he and his valet had managed to shake the eccentric crowd of fan boys and girls -- all but one. This one, the strange, yellow haired fan, had not relented in his pursuit. Both men, weary by running, dodging and ducking from their pursuers, had eventually given up attempting to shake him, figuring he'd eventually tire of his tedious endeavor.

So far, however, he'd done no such thing. Instead, he had prattled on nonstop about his joy at being near, so near, to his god, the Grand Champion. "Oh, I can't believe this!" he was telling Edward's valet. "You're the best, do you know that? The absolute best! What other Grand Champion would allow me -- me! -- to travel with him? Not that Gray Prince, I'll tell you that much. Oh no, he would chase me off, and threaten me, and he even accidentally pushed me off of a few cliffs...but even then, I never tired of being his happy fan! The Grand Champion needs a loyal subject, an eager, abject slave. And now that you're the Grand Champion, I'm so happy -- because you'll be more careful, won't you? I barely escaped that last accident, you know." Here, the fan broke off to take a deep gasping breath; but, the next moment, he'd continued his monologue.

The valet, however, ignored him as he prattled on, lost in thoughts of his own. "Hmmm..." he said aloud. "I wonder if he's the reason the Gray Prince asked me to fight..."

Edward stared at the other man. "I thought you challenged him?"

The valet glanced behind him discreetly, saw that the adoring fan was still prattling on excitedly and paying no mind to their conversation, and then shook his head. "No sir. He said he wanted to stage his own death...something about needing a break from the fame, and to get away from the fans...do you think it might have been...?"

"The annoying twit with the ice-cream twist hair-do?" Edward spit out. "No, you think so?"

His valet frowned. "I think you could be right, sir. But then he must have known that he'd start following me." Edward glared at him. "I wonder that he was so dishonest with me!"

Edward hissed in disgust. "What is with you?" he demanded. "Why must you always think that people are nice? Don't you get it? People are looking for the saps, the suckers, the morons -- morons like you, that they can bamboozle without difficulty!" His servant stared at him, but he continued, his tone laced with contempt for both his servant and people in general. "You don't look at life realistically. You see people as these nice creatures, out to do right by everybody. You don't see people for what they really are!"

"And what is that, sir?" the valet ventured.

"Disgusting, grimy, conniving, sticky-fingered, mealy-mouthed filth!" Edward spat out. "Always looking to make a buck at the cost of their fellow man, to advance themselves at the cost of another, to damn the world if it benefits themselves!" The fact that he might have been painting a self-portrait -- albeit a none-too-flattering one -- seemed to escape Edward, who continued in disgust, "They aren't to be trusted! You have to stop thinking that people mean what they say! They don't!"

The valet sighed. "Well, you might be right sir, in some respect anyway. Sometimes I do put too much faith in other people."

"That's an understatement!" Edward hissed. "It's a veritable disease with you!"

"Well, I don't know about that, sir..."

"It is!" Edward insisted. "It's a sickness! There's something wrong with you! You don't have those protective instincts, that natural intuition to mistrust and loathe your fellow man!"

The valet frowned. "Well, I don't think that's necessary, sir."

"Which is exactly why you end up in fixes like this," Edward declared haughtily, as if he had, in that single statement, won the argument.

The valet's frown intensified. "Well, sir, you end up in fixes too, sometimes."

Edward gaped at him. "Me? End up in fixes? When?!"

"Well, sir, this whole arena thing, for starters," the valet pointed out.

Edward glared at him. "I was lied to!"

"Well yes sir, I know that," the other man agreed. "But, still, you believed someone when they were lying to you."

Edward's glare intensified. "But I wasn't the one who wanted to stay around and play Mr. Hero with that filthy orc, was I?" he demanded. "And, anyway, everyone's bound to slip up once in awhile...but, unlike you, I don't make a habit of it!"

The valet frowned again. "Well, sir, actually, I think you've been in more fixes than I have."

Edward positively gaped at his insolent servant. "How dare you?!" he wondered at the man's impertinence. "How dare you lie to my face like that?"

"It's not a lie, sir," the valet answered. "In fact, I think, if you were to count the times, you'd agree that you've found yourself in trouble more often than I have."

Edward stared daggers at his companion. "I think not, Mr. Champion. Mr. Champion who owns a haunted manor, I might add!"

"Well, sir, not to put too fine a point on it, but let's not forget about those three women in Anvil..."

Edward's eyes bulged in horror. "Bringing that up is just...just fighting dirty!" he hissed. "Let's not forget that this is coming from the idiot who believed me all that time when I said that I didn't have the Amulet of Kings!"

The valet shrugged. "Not all the time, sir...I did have my doubts. And let's not forget that time..."

So it was that the trio passed through Green Emperor Way, Edward and his valet arguing heatedly about who was more prone to find himself in a fix, and the adoring fan babbling on with his praise as though they were actually listening to him.

[Rachel the Breton]

Over things large and small, disputes arise among us all,
Friend or foe, we are not immune.
The civilized employ words, in order to resolve their issues
And the uncivilized, they resort to violence.
-- Treatise on Quarrels, Father Agrid

Chapter One Hundred and Twelve

Edward and his valet’s disagreement had descended into a heated, shouted monologue – from Edward. At the moment, he was screaming profanities at his servant, and at the same time demanding an apology. Meanwhile, the adoring fan was furiously defending the Grand Champion, cursing Edward at least as well as Edward cursed the valet.

The only party of the trio not screaming was Edward’s valet, who was making efforts to silence them both. “Please!” he implored. “The Guard will come arrest us all for this racket!”

Edward shouted something at him, and then turned his attention to the fan. “You can take a flying leap off the White Gold Tower,” he yelled, his face a shade of deep crimson rage. “I’ll talk to my servant anyway I please, you disgusting elf. Go get a haircut, why don’t you?”

Even as the fan launched into a furious tirade at this remark, the valet – earning his title, Dragonheart, yet again for his courage in doing so – attempted once more to intervene.

“Sir, please,” he spoke, “I’m sorry. Please, just let it go!”

Edward was too engaged in his war of words with the Bosmer youth, however, to take note. He was screaming breathlessly, spittle flying from his mouth in a rather deranged fashion, as he exchanged profanities and threats of every sort with the yellow-haired elf.

Touching both men on the shoulder to draw their attention, the valet again implored reason. “Please, let’s just forget this whole unpleasant business!” he pleaded.

The fan, in a cringing, acquiescent manner, desisted immediately, and began to implore the Grand Champion that he might defend his honor; Edward, however, furiously slapped his servant’s hand away, declaring, “Don’t touch me, servant!”

This was too much for the fan, who began to shriek in a furious and affronted way, pointing at Edward as he did so, “Assault! Assault against the Grand Champion! This man struck the Grand Champion!”

A crowd quickly gathered as the little Bosmer continued screaming. The valet attempted to silence the fan, but the fan was too fervently engaged in defending his god’s honor to listen to what his god actually had to say at the moment. “Assault! Assault against the Grand Champion!!”

Edward, furious at the fuss made over so simple a thing, began once more arguing with the Bosmer. “Assault?” he asked. “That wasn’t assault! This would be assault!” He herewith slapped the valet, and hard. “Now there’s assault for you!”

All at once a collective gasp rose from the crowd of onlookers, and a cacophony of mingled voices began to join the fan’s. “Assault! He assaulted the Grand Champion!”

At that moment, a burly Imperial Guard pushed through the assembled crowd. “Who assaulted the Grand Champion?” he demanded furiously.

The crowd responded in unison, pointing at Edward. “He did!”

“It was no big deal,” the valet protested. “That's what I've been telling them, it was-”

“Nevermind that, my Champion!” the Guard declared reverently. “I’ll take care of it. You-” He pointed to Edward, and his tone took on an aspect of disgust and loathing. “Scum – you’re under arrest. We’ll see how much you like assaulting the Champion after some time in the Imperial Prison.”

Edward turned open-mouthed to his servant. “Tell him to piss off!” he demanded.

But a strange look had lighted the valet’s eye. “No…no indeed, I will not. The perfect place for you is prison!” A collective cheer rose from the crowd, and the Guard nodded in satisfaction as he surveyed the pleased faces about him. The valet, meanwhile, shot Edward a quick nod and wink, and mouthed “Valen Dreth!” to him.

Edward, however, saw none of this…his senses were too clouded by sheer rage for him to see straight, much less think straight. He lunged for his servant, his fists flying and his tongue lashing out with every curse and oath known to mankind. So great was his fury that it took half the crowd to actually pull him off of the Grand Champion before he was hauled away to prison.

[Rachel the Breton]

Assault on the Grand Champion!

No sooner than had our mighty, beneficent Grand Champion won his title and exited the Arena, on the very day of his victory, a fiend of the lowest and vilest order attacked him. To his credit, Dragonheart did not do what so many – including the horde of eager fans who had surrounded him, and your own correspondent – wished had been done – beat the miscreant low-life to within an inch of his miserable life for daring to lay a hand on our esteemed Champion. Instead, he handed the vile attacker over to the Imperial Guard, who swiftly carried out justice against the ingrate – who is now rotting in a dungeon, where scum of his ilk belong. Long live our illustrious Champion, and despair of the worst sort to those would dare to lay a finger on our magnificent fighter!

-- Black Horse Courier, Special News Bulletin

Chapter One Hundred and Thirteen

Edward screamed out a final barrage of the worst profanities he could think of as the heavy prison door scraped shut. Then he kicked his cell bars, wincing in agony as his foot impacted with the metal.

“Ohhhh, it’s you again?” a high voice asked.

Edward glanced behind him, still wincing in pain. He started as he saw the speaker. It was the snotty Dunmer who’d been stationed across from him during his first incarceration, so long ago. It was Valen Dreth, the very man he’d come to kill.

“And I see you recognize me as well.”

“Of course I recognize you,” Edward snapped. “Which is just another reason that this is one of the worst days of my life!”

“Ohh, poor little Imperial,” Valen laughed. “How’s it feel to be thrown into prison by your own kinsmen? You’re an embarrassment to them, you see…an embarrassment to the empire. And we know what happens to embarrassments to the empire, don’t we?” He laughed again.

Edward glared at him. He had heard all of this tripe the first time he’d been in prison. “Damned gods!” he cursed. “Not bad enough to be betrayed by my own servant – slimy ingrate that he is...but now to be the cell mate of this tedious elven beast? How dare they do this to me?”

Valen clucked his tongue mockingly. “Now, now,” he said, “if you’re so annoyed with the gods, it might just be that you’re praying to the wrong ones!”

Edward’s glare intensified. “What do you mean, ‘the wrong ones’?” he asked. “I’ve prayed to all of them! Talons, Macintosh, Julianna, Isabella, Maria, and…” he paused, frowning and counting mentally. “Well, all of them,” he repeated.

Valen shook his head, more amused than anything else. “Yes, well, aside from the slight confusion as to their names-” Here he coughed significantly. “ It’s possible that ‘Talons’, ‘Macintosh’ and the rest just aren’t the right gods for what you’re praying for.” Edward frowned at him, still not following. “Maybe you need to pray to a god…somewhat more diabolical.”

Edward’s expression lightened at this suggestion. “I say!” he exclaimed, suddenly considerably more cheerful, “that’s a very good idea! I should be praying to…” Here, he paused and frowned. “…you know the fellow, the one with lots of arms, who, well, hates humans…Marooned Dragon?”

“Mehrunes Dagon?” Valen suggested, sighing.

“Yes, yes!” Edward exclaimed. “He’s the one.”

Valen shook his head imperceptibly, but only said, “Well, I would not pray to Mehrunes Dagon unless I was serious about…” Then he paused, and a slight smile toyed with the corners of his mouth. “But then, what do I know? He is a Daedric Prince known for his benevolence to all of his followers, even the less than committed ones who don’t know how to pronounce his name.”

Edward nodded excitedly. “Excellent!” he declared. “Now, how exactly does one go about becoming a follower of this Marooned Dragon fellow?”

[Rachel the Breton]

There are many who serve the gods;
Some for fame, some for fortune;
Some for glory, and some for vengeance.
But few indeed are they who serve with sincerity.
-- Of the Followers of the Gods, Edition the Third




Chapter One Hundred and Fourteen

Edward knelt in front of a crescent of lit candles. The candles he’d acquired from Valen Dreth, whom he was currently disposed to think very well of. Dreth, it turned out, was in fact a worshiper of the Daedric prince of doom and despair, and was gladly giving him instruction in how to likewise become a follower.

Edward bowed low before the candles, chanting, “Oh great Prince, Marooned Dragon, hear my pleas, your humble slave awaits your favor. Let me serve you, oh Great One, that I may partake of your noble rewards.”

Valen Dreth, unseen by Edward, was shaking his head at this prayer; but the Imperial kept with it, repeating his supplications over and over. Finally, though, he turned to Dreth. “It’s not working!”

“What’s not working?”

“Well, he hasn’t answered!”

The elf raised an eyebrow. “Well, gods don’t generally just answer us.”

“Then how do we know they’re doing what we want?”

“Well, we see the results of their handiwork in our lives.”

Edward nodded. “So, then, I should experience great fortune soon?”

“Umm, yes, probably,” Dreth answered. To a more perceptive person than Edward, it would have seemed that the Dunmer was just waiting this one out, simply for the amusement of seeing what would befall his cell mate. Edward, however, not being so perceptive, nodded gleefully, and set about chanting a new prayer.

“Oh great Prince,” he prayed, prostrating himself before the flames, “please give me vengeance against my wayward servant! Please, let him suffer! Let him come to untold harm and agony and misery!”

Dreth shook his head, commenting under his breath, “Isn't it redundant to wish horrible suffering on someone who serves you?"

“Please, my mighty god, do for me what those disgusting, paltry gods would not. Let that servant suffer, please! Kill him for me – but not until after he has been made to pay for his insolence!”

Dreth cleared his throat. “Wow, you’re really upset at this servant, aren’t you?”

Edward’s eyes flashed. “You have no idea what he’s done to me!” he answered. “For months he has treated me with insolence and disdain. Then he tricked me into feeling sorry for him – him, a servant! – because he was going to die, and then he didn’t even die! But worse yet, he had me arrested, and thrown into prison!”

Dreth’s eyebrows rose at the telling, even as Edward’s complexion darkened into a fearful mask of anger and loathing. “And for that you want him to die?”

“Not just die,” Edward breathed maliciously, as if savoring the very thought, “but die terribly!”

Valen Dreth cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I totally get that.” Edward was about to return to his supplications, but the Dunmer, no doubt tiring of the sing-song repetition of his chanting, interrupted, “What is this servant’s name, anyway?”

Edward frowned at this question. “Hmm…” he said, thinking hard. “I don’t know, but I suppose he must have one. I never bothered to ask, but I'm sure he mentioned it once or twice.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter, what with him just being a servant and all.”

Dreth shook his head, and Edward returned to chanting. The Imperial's prayers continued for several minutes, but then a door overhead scraped open.

“Quick!” Dreth instructed. “The guards are coming! Hide the candles!”

Edward, eager to comply as to not risk further enraging the guards – insulting them, their gods, the dead emperor, their mothers, daughters, sons, fathers, priests, and family pets seemed as far as he should go, to his mind – gathered the candles quickly. Not bothering to extinguish them, he threw them under Valen’s bed, even as the tramping of armored feet grew nearer and nearer.

“You’re supposed to put the candles out!” Valen whispered angrily. But neither man could move now, as the Guards were in sight, and would see them with their contraband if they moved for them.

“Who cares,” Edward hissed back, “they’ll just run out of air and extinguish themselves!”

Valen glared at Edward, but said nothing. The guards, meanwhile, marched slowly down the hall, apparently inspecting the cells. Edward attempted to appear nonchalant as the men passed his cell. He was just about to breathe a sigh of relief, when one guard paused, his nose twitching. “What’s that?” he asked.

Valen and Edward exchanged worried glances. “What?” they asked.

The guard turned to them and seemed about to speak, but froze suddenly, a look of horror coming into his eyes. Edward stared back, puzzled, noticing with only fleeting interest the peculiar red hue of light that reflected on his armor. The guard, his eyes still transfixed on Edward’s cell, tapped a fellow guard, who likewise turned.

The second guard’s eyes bulged as the first’s had, but he seemed to find his voice. “Fire!” he screamed. “Quick, get those two prisoners out of there before they burn to death!”

Edward glanced down the hall, thinking with a feeling of excitement how interesting this all was. Who was it, he wondered, that had a fire in their cell? And how? He frowned as he glanced down the hall, cursing his misfortune that he was not at a proper angle to see the flames from his cell. That, at least, would have made his day a little more interesting.

He noticed only vaguely that the guards seemed to be headed in the direction of his cell, and that Valen Dreth was tugging incessantly at his sleeve. “What is it?” he snapped, spinning about to face his cell mate. “Can’t you see that I’m trying to find the…” He trailed off, a mask of fear covering his face. “Fire!!” he screamed, flailing his arms wildly. “Fire!!” Indeed it was, for the flames he sought were coming from his cell, and Valen’s bed.

[haute ecole rider]

Oh boy, this is great!

First Docada, the big prattler. Ah, that's why the Grey Prince wanted to get out!

So it was that the trio passed through Green Emperor Way, Edward and his valet arguing heatedly about who was more prone to find himself in a fix, and the adoring fan babbling on with his praise as though they were actually listening to him.

And it ends with fire! Marooned Dragon probably can't decide whether to laugh or cringe! He's probably thinking this s'wit will never find his hidden shrine. Riiight!

[mALX]

** he even accidentally pushed me off of a few cliffs...you'll be more careful, won't you? I barely escaped that last accident, you know...

** "Hmmm..." he said aloud. "I wonder if he's the reason the Gray Prince asked me to fight..."

** You don't have those protective instincts, that natural intuition to mistrust and loathe your fellow man!"

** We’ll see how much you like assaulting the Champion after some time in the Imperial Prison.”

** I should be praying to…” Here, he paused and frowned. “…you know the fellow, the one with lots of arms, who, well, hates humans…Marooned Dragon?”

** “Isn't it redundant to wish horrible suffering on someone who serves you?"

This episode had me dying laughing - and remembering Valen's fate in a later chapter!!! WOO HOO !!! I love this story !!!!!!

[Rachel the Breton]

haute ecole rider and malx: thanks for the comments, glad you enjoyed these chapters!!

From a little fire,
Big flames can grow.
And from a fool’s fire,
Well, who can know?
-- Song of Flame

Chapter One Hundred and Fifteen

The guards had, rather brusquely, pulled Edward and Dreth out of their cells, and shoved them aside. “Quick!” one guard was calling, “Get buckets of water!” Another was hastening to comply. Edward glanced about wildly, trying hard to master the panic that flared in him at the sight of the raging flames.

“There, on the table near the lanterns!” His eyes spotted a bucket of water, and his senses seemed to calm. He could help, after all. “Here,” he called, racing for the bucket. In a moment, he had taken hold of it and was racing back toward the flaming bed. “Stand aside!” he declared.

He heard Valen shout, “No!” but took no heed of him. The Dunmer, he thought, might be too frightened to take action, but he, Edward the Imperial, was not. The elf continued to shout, but Edward concentrated on his task.

So it was that he heard Valen shout, “It’s not water – it’s oil for the lamps!” But he didn’t process the meaning of the words until after he’d chucked the bucket’s contents onto the flames.

Two and half seconds too late, he gasped as the import of Dreth’s warning sunk in, and paused. For a moment, it seemed as if the bucket full of oil had managed to smother the flames. In the next, however, flames shot up anew, spreading across the floor and climbing the walls and ceiling – everywhere that Edward had splashed with oil. The wooden supports that lined the stone were already catching flame, and the fuel-covered stone was already alight.

Edward’s horror turned into full blown panic, and he began screaming wildly in the face of the flames. He could feel the intense heat of the fire from where he stood, several feet away, but he was too panicked even to move from the spot. He could only scream and flail his arms about madly.

He felt a hand pull him away, and he heard voices shouting for the prisoners to be released; for the building to be cleared; and for more water to be brought, as quickly as legs could go. But he was too lost in unthinking, unreasoning fear to do anything beyond scream.

It was only when a hard slap impacted with his face did he rouse himself from the blind horror. All at once, he realized that he was no longer in his cell, but an oddly familiar underground passage of some sort. He paused in his screaming to glance about him.

Valen Dreth was at his side, glaring at him. “You moron!” he said, “Are you trying to get us caught?!”

Edward blinked at him, trying to piece together what had happened during the lapse of his reasoning. The last thing he could remember was throwing a large bucket of oil onto the fire in their cell. Now, here he was in the underground passages leading from the prison, where he and the Emperor had traversed so long ago. He gasped out loud. “That’s it!” he said. “This is where we are, in the passage leading from that cell!”

Valen continued to glare at him. “Of course it is! Why do you think I dragged you down here? So we could escape!”

“Really?” Edward asked, somewhat taken aback. Here he had been sent to kill this elf, and the man was helping him to escape.

“Yes. You know how to get out of here,” Valen explained. “And I don’t want to go exploring on my own.”

“Oh, I see,” Edward nodded. Not as kind of him, then…but they still got out, at least.

“I was able to pull you out without the guards noticing, since they were so busy putting the fire out and getting the other prisoners away before they burnt to death. Of course, your screaming like a little girl didn’t help me any…”

Edward shifted in place, shrugging apologetically. “Well, sometimes I just…panic,” he explained.

The elf’s expression of disgust unchanged, he sighed but said, “Alright, let’s gets going. You lead.”

Edward swallowed hard. He could still remember the creepy, grabby, unwashed hands of the goblin creatures that infested these tunnels -- not to mention the assassins who seemed to materialize out of nothing. "Me?" he asked. "Are you sure you want me to lead?"

Valen glared at him again, demanding, "Yes! Now move!"

Sighing and shivering a bit, Edward gingerly stepped forward, peering into the scantily lit chambers and passages around him. They were, he reckoned, about half way through the tunnel...soon, they would reach the door that had been locked last time, and the underground, goblin-infested passage. "It's this way," he declared, pointing down the passage.

"Alright," Valen nodded. "Lead on."

Edward flinched, but -- truth to be told -- he was at least glad to have this elf with him as he traversed these lonely stone halls. "It's a shame I'm going to have to kill him," Edward thought. "He seems a nice enough chap to me."

[Rachel the Breton]

Goblins, goblins so sweet
Goblins, we love goblin meat
Goblins, goblins to eat
Goblins, send us goblins we entreat.
-- Song of the Goblins, popularized version of a favorite song of the inmates at Woodmeadow Lunatic Asylum

Chapter One Hundred and Sixteen

Edward and his companion had traveled together in silence, each dreading an encounter with anything -- man or beast -- that might inhabit the desolate passages they traversed. At last, however, they reached the wooden door that had, on Edward's last passage, been locked.

Testing the handle, Edward groaned.

"What is it?" Valen whispered, glancing about. "What's the matter?"

"The door is locked," Edward explained.

"Locked?" Valen gasped. "Well, what now? Oh, wait! There's a passage, over there. You see?" He pointed to the earthy opening in the stone walls.

Edward frowned, but then an idea struck him. "Oh, really?" he asked, his tone expressing surprise. "Well, why don't we check it out?" Staying back just long enough so that the elf would unconsciously take the lead, Edward smiled to himself. The last time he'd gone through this terrible, stuffy underpass, it had been heavily infested with goblins. This time, at least, someone else would take point.

Meanwhile, just as Valen and Edward were stepping into the musty caverns underneath the Imperial Prison, the Grand Champion was telling his adoring fan, "Now, I'm very serious. I have to go see my friend in prison!"

To which the style-challenged elf protested, "But, Great Champion, surely he does not deserve to bask in the glow of your presence after his insolence?"

The valet sighed. Aside from the impracticality of attempting to make the little Bosmer understand, he couldn't reveal his actual motivations in having Edward sent to prison, as that would endanger his friend. So, unable to explain that he'd been facilitating a Dark Brotherhood execution, he had to make due with convincing the fan that Edward was, in fact, worthy of his assistance. So, on this pretext, he told the Bosmer that he'd forgiven his friend, and so was going to plead with the Guards for his release. He did not doubt that his clout would win Edward's freedom, just as it had earned him imprisonment; so, a quick talk with the guards, maybe signing a few autographs or so, and Edward would be free -- and after he had an opportunity to scope out the prison, locate Dreth, and maybe already dispose of him.

"Now," Dragonheart told his follower, "let's have no more of this talk. I'm going. And, if you want to come too, you have to be polite. Do you understand?"

The fan sighed deeply, but said, "Yes, my Champion, for you, anything -- even be nice to that...that...that fiend!"

Rolling his eyes, the valet continued toward the palace, hoping that the fan would soon -- very soon -- tire of trailing him.

At the same moment, Edward and Valen were creeping through a damp, musty crawlspace. "Shhh!" Edward hissed. "I think I heard something!"

Valen froze, and they listened for several minutes in silence. Yet no sounds came to their ears. "You must have imagined it," the elf told him.

"No," Edward told him. "I don't think so. I think it was one of the goblins."

"Goblins?" Valen asked, turning horrified eyes toward him.

Edward flinched. "That's right," he thought, "I haven't told him about the goblins yet, have I?" Aloud, he said, "Umm, yes, goblins...don't you remember me telling you how they infested these tunnels?"

Valen glared at him. "No!"

"Oh...well, I did," Edward assured him, most insincerely.

"You liar!" the elf charged.

Edward stared at him in affected shock at this effrontery. "How dare you!?" he demanded. "I never lie, elf!"

Valen stared daggers at him. "Just wait until we're out of here, Imperial!" he growled. "You'll pay!"

Edward rolled his eyes, and shook his head in a taunting, mock frightened manner. "Since we're on the topic, elf, I've got a score to settle with you, too, once we're out of here."

"Good!" Valen sneered. "Now I'll have a chance to kick your -"

At that moment, both men froze as a pair of glowing yellow eyes peered into the darkness at them from the rear end of the tunnel. They turned at a peculiar angle, as if the head that contained them had pivoted in a quizzical manner. Then it cooed in a high, sinister way. Both men began to scream in hysterical, panicking tones. Valen started kicking and scrambling to be free of the passage; being in the lead, however, his kicks ended up finding their way into Edward's face and torso.

Furiously, frantically, meanwhile, the Imperial was grabbing and pulling, likewise attempting to crawl out of the damp, dark pass; his efforts, however, did little but hamper his companion’s ability to flee.