On a scale of 1-10 for imagination, Rachel gets an 11.

First, the line that caused me to have to swallow a laugh:



Following on the heels of Edward's elaborate house of cards explanation for how his cowardice was all just an act, that terse reply was so perfect.

And then there is the blood simple Friar Jauffre- "heads is heads." Your description was so vivid, I could see him tramping about the Priory grounds, sword in hand, no doubt threatening the butterflies and swallows.

Jauffre is a maniac! I love it!

This line really stood out:


I love it!

(Thanks for the comments, everyone! I could see Jauffre in my mind's eye as I was writing that, and I'm glad that I was able to capture some of that in an amusing manner )

To bend a fool to one's will,
Is by no means a trifling matter.
For manipulation to be successful
One must be ever so cunning.

– An excerpt from a piece translated in the scholarly work “Writings of Old, Dead People”

Chapter Ninety-Two

Edward's legs felt as dead weights underneath him as he trudged towards Chorrol. His horse, apparently bored by the goings on with Jauffre, had abandoned him at the Priory, and returned to its stables outside of the city -- leaving Edward to walk home. Though it was not a long walk, it had taken Edward two hours; and still he was just outside the gates of the town.

One of the guards nodded a greeting, surveying him with concerned eyes. "Everything alright, sir?"

Edward grunted in response, though what his grunt was meant to signify was not clear, and passed through the gate that the guard held open for him. His eyes were glazing over with exhaustion, and he had half a mind to collapse on a bench or grassy knoll for the evening.

This thought, however, was put on hold by the excited voice of his servant. "Sir!" it called to him. "There you are!" The other man came running up, and Edward stared at him, lacking the energy to inquire what the excitement was all about. "Oh, sir, I'm so glad I found you! Quick! You must come with me -- there's not a moment to lose!" This said, the valet proceeded to practically drag Edward to the Oak and Crosier.

Once inside, he turned to his master again. "Quick sir, you've got to get your things together! We have to head out now!"

But Edward pushed past him, stumbling up the stairs and into his own room in just enough time to avoid collapsing from exhaustion in front of the establishment's other patrons. His valet, apparently realizing the extent of his fatigue, left him to the sleep that overwhelmed him until early the next morning.

Then, bursting into his room with packed bags, a hot breakfast and strongly brewed coffee, he woke Edward. "Alright sir," he said, "it's time to get up."

Edward groaned as the sun poured through suddenly opened blinds. The smell of food teased his senses and toyed with his empty stomach, as did the aroma of coffee. Yet sleep still tugged at his eyelids.

In the end, the Imperial's appetite won out, and -- though not at all pleased by the development -- Edward woke to eat. His valet hurriedly explained whilst he wolfed down the food set before him. "I am dreadfully sorry to get you up so early, sir, but there's not a moment to delay! My friend -- you remember I told you about her, Seed-Neeus? Her daughter -- Dar-Ma -- has gone missing, and we've got to find her!"

Edward glanced up at his valet, his mouth stuffed with eggs and toasted bread. "You mean," he managed through the mouthful, "the Lizard?"

The valet grimaced. "Yes sir, my Argonian friend."

Edward attempted an expression of disgust, but, with his mouth full as it was, the nearest he got was a toad-like simper.

"So you see," Dragonheart was continuing, "we've got to go find her! Seed-Neeus is frantic! She hasn't seen her in days."

Swallowing his mouthful, Edward sighed. He had absolutely no intention of getting drawn into the domestic troubles of lizards, and was appalled that his foolish servant would even posit such a course of action. "I'm afraid," he told his valet, "that I'm not interested."

Shock filled his valet's face. "But sir!" he protested. "This isn't like Dar-Ma! She was just making a delivery of goods to Hackdirt, and should have been back already. She's not the type to run off, or get waylaid by something unless it was important."

"Then why doesn't your lizard friend go herself," Edward asked, "if it's so important to her?"

"The same reason that she had Dar-Ma take the delivery up to Hackdirt -- she's been very ill lately, and barely able to manage her shop for a few hours a day!"

Edward frowned at his valet's clear concern for the Argonian. "Look here," he told him, his tone expressive of his distaste for the very idea, "I've not the faintest interest in the trials of the barbarian folk. I've got to get to the Imperial City, and you -- as my servant -- are going with me. The barbarians will have to look after themselves."

His valet's cheeks flushed, and then he straightened up very rigidly. "Very well sir. Well then, I'm afraid this is going to have to serve as my notice, effective as of now."

Edward blinked at the other man. "Notice? You mean...you're quitting?"

"Yes sir," the valet answered. "I'm afraid you've left me no choice."

Edward's eyes bulged with fury. "How dare you quit, you...you...you ungrateful servant?!"

"You've left me no alternative, sir. I cannot abandon my friend now, when she needs my help...and you're not going to assist, so I have no option -- though it pains me to do it -- but to say farewell."

Edward clenched his teeth. "She needs you? I need you too!" he snapped. "Who is going to wash and mend my laundry? Who is going to take care of my horse? Who is going to..."

The valet sighed. "I'm sure you'll be able to manage by yourself, sir. And, as trying as that will be, I'm afraid it doesn't compare with Seed-Neeus' troubles."

Edward's eyes blazed. He couldn't believe the insolence of his servant, nor could he stand the idea of fending for himself. The latter thought cooled the raging fury inside him, however. "Look here," he said, his tone more reasonable than he felt, "surely...I mean, can't she just..."

The valet shook his head. "Dar-Ma is her daughter, sir! She's worried sick about her! I've got to go find her." Then, his eyes lighting up, he added, "I'm sure it won't take long, sir. The trek to Hackdirt isn't very long, and I'm sure we'll find her along the way. She's probably been waylaid by some sort of injury or something, and is awaiting rescue."

Edward clenched his jaw in frustration. This was a degradation of the worst sort, being forced into helping a barbarian lizard...and yet it apparently was highly important to his wayward servant. "You wouldn't quit then?"

"Oh, no sir!" the valet exclaimed exuberantly. "Of course not!"

"Seeing as how important it is that I find the Emperor, and how your assistance makes it easier for me to concentrate on the task itself rather than trivial distractions?" Edward continued.

Dragonheart flushed guiltily. "Yes sir...and you know I would never distract you unless it was of the utmost importance."

Edward rolled his eyes, but acquiesced. "Alright, alright, I'll go," he sighed.

Though havoc he wreaks on my empire,
I rather enjoy watching him flounder,
And trudge about in his self-made mire
Gods, but he's such a no-good bounder.

-- Musings of the Ninth

Chapter Ninety-Three

A very displeased Edward and an ecstatic valet headed out of Chorrol later that morning. Edward was riding his own horse, who had greeted her master with about as much pleasure as he'd greeted her -- a snort of disgust from both. Dragonheart rode his horse, but pulled a second behind him. This was one sent by Seed-Neeus for her daughter, if need be. The valet and she had both expressed a hope that this was a simple delay, such as Dar-Ma's horse having come to injury...but their dark expressions had conveyed the fears that they sought to hide in their optimistic phrases.

"You do realize," Edward was telling his servant, "that if my business was not so pressing, and of such import, that I wouldn't put up with your threats."

"I know sir, it's just that-"

"If it wouldn't have taken me so long to sort through the myriad applicants who would flood my door upon hearing that I was looking for a new servant, I would never tolerate your insolence."

The valet cleared his throat tactfully. "No sir."

"And once my business is done, and I have more time..."

"You needn't fear," Dragonheart interrupted. "I would never -- have never -- will never! do something like that unless it is the direst of emergencies."

Edward grimaced. In his mind, there was nothing whatever dire about a barbarian going missing. This, however, he kept to himself.

"So, sir," the valet continued, tactfully changing the subject, "I take it by your dirt-covered clothes last night that you had met Friar Juaffre?"

Edward stared at him quizzically. How could the dirt on his clothes give that away, he wondered?

Dragonheart nodded. "Ahh yes...the little grave-digging ritual."

Edward's eyes opened wide. "What?"

The valet shook his head, explaining, "The man has a very peculiar philosophy about death, sir."

Edward grimaced.

"Although I suspect you've learnt something of it already."

"Unfortunately."

"Well, just be thankful you weren't studying to become a monk," Dragonheart continued with a shudder.

"A monk?"

"Yes sir. It's one of the initiation rituals with him. He says a good monk's got to be able to dig a good grave, so he can lay good men to good rest as well as the bad ones." The valet shuddered again. "It's a miracle anyone survives Friar Jauffre's training."

Edward sighed again, nodding in agreement.

"But I suppose, if you two ended up on such friendly terms as digging graves together, he must have told you something?"

Edward glared at his servant for characterizing his frightful relationship with the deranged little monk as "friendly". "Yes," he answered, "he did."

"Well?" the valet prodded.

Pursing his face, the pompous Imperial sniffed. "Nothing of interest to you," he answered, "servant."

The valet sighed. "Come on, sir. I might be able to help!"

Edward laughed; but, for all his sneering, he still answered, "He used to study with Friar Jauffre, but, after some freak studying accident, he left to work in the Imperial City."

The valet's expression had gone gray while he talked, but lit up as he finished. "Really, sir? And did Friar Jauffre give a name?"

Edward sniffed hesitantly again, this time to allow his mind to think. He remembered the monk mentioning a name, but couldn't recall what it had been. "Marcus?" he said at last.

Dragonheart's brow creased in thought. "Marcus...hmm...are you sure it wasn't 'Matthieus'?" he asked.

Edward frowned at the other man. "Of course I'm sure!" he snapped. Then, he added, "Why?"

"Because I don't think there was anyone studying with Jauffre at that time called Marcus, but there was a Matthieus -- and he left to work in the Imperial City."

Edward felt excitement swell in his briast, but he tried to look disinterested. "Oh?" he asked. "Well, I suppose it might have been Matthieus." The name sounded vaguely familiar to him, as did Marcus. "But how would you know, anyway?"

"Because," the valet answered, a flicker of pain crossing his face, "I was one of Jauffre's students, once. I was there when...the accident happened."

Edward stared at him open-mouthed. "You? Why didn't you say anything before?!" he demanded.

"I did, sir," the valet reminded him. "The first time you visited the Priory. Leastwise, I tried. But you shushed me."

Edward's face flushed, but he changed the subject. "So you were one of those morons?" he asked. "What happened? Jauffre said it was some sort of studying-session-gone-wrong."

Pain again flitted across Dragonheart's face. "Yes sir, that's right. We were...well, so devoted to becoming priests." He sighed, and Edward shuddered at the idea. "It seemed at the time such a noble calling, to do good for the world." The valet shrugged, adding, "Even after we met Friar Jauffre, we still held to our dream. But then..." He sighed again. "I'm sorry, sir, I'd really prefer not to talk about it."

Edward frowned deeply at him, thinking to himself, "Ye gods, what a bunch of idiots they must have been...and to think -- if this one lived through it, what must the others have been like?" Aloud, however, he said, "Yes, well, that's very tragic and all, but...what about Matthew, or whatever his name is?"

"Matthieus, sir," the valet corrected. "He was one of the students -- and actually a pretty good friend of mine."
Edward grimaced. "How pretentious," he thought, "of this trifling fool to pretend that an Emperor would deign to associate with him."

Dragonheart continued, "He had had a rough life of things, you know. His mother was a Nord who had married an Imperial. They'd lived up in Bruma, but the cold plagued his bones as a child. His mother died when he was young, and, a few years later, his father disappeared on a Legion mission."

Edward gaped. "You mean...our Emperor is a barbarian?!"

Feed the hungry souls,
Quench their thirst,
Wet the parched lips,
And pass the grog.
-- Excerpt from a translation of the "Bible of the Deep Ones"

Chapter Ninety-Four

"So, after the accident," Dragonheart continued, "it was too much for us."

Edward discreetly rolled his eyes, finding with dismay the words of Friar Jauffre coming to mind. "Weakling."

"We went our separate ways...Matthieus and I ended up in the Imperial City, searching for work. He ended up finding employment with a wealthy family in the city, and I started in service with Lord Umbacano. We stayed in contact for a long time, and came to realize that -- while not as noble as being a priest -- there was a definite nobility in our calling...after all, we were the ones who made it possible for great men to continue being, well, great!"

Edward rolled his eyes again, but said nothing. As far as he was concerned, being a subservient slave was about as appealing as ending up on one of Friar Jauffre's pikes.

"But then...well, when Lord Umbacano fired me..." The valet shook his head, lowering his eyes. "I was so ashamed...I couldn't face my friend after such a disgrace."

Edward frowned at him. "Why did he fire you, by the way?" he asked.

"I told you, sir," the valet answered, glancing up. "He wanted to save money to put to use acquiring pieces for his art collection."

Shaking his head, Edward sighed. His valet was a strange man, he thought.

"Anyway, after that disgrace, I left the Imperial City, humiliated. I found employ at the Inn of Ill Omen, which -- being so far out of the way -- seemed a good place to hide away in shame. Then...well, eventually you came along."

Edward sighed again, not in any way moved by his valet's words -- except moved to annoyance. "But, anyway," he said, "you know what this Matty fellow looks like?"

The valet nodded. "Of course, sir," he answered. "And I'll wager he's still hard at work in the City."

Edward nodded. "Then, as soon as we're done wasting time chasing wayward barbarians, we can get to work," he murmured.

"Sir?"

"Oh, nothing."

The other man accepted this explanation, and the two fell into silence as they rode, the valet keeping ever vigilant for the missing girl, and Edward daydreaming of what it would be like when Matthieus was dead, and the great Dragon made him Emperor.

The sun was setting by time Hackdirt came into sight, and Edward had just made up his mind that, after dragging him up here to this primitive little outpost, his wayward servant would be the first on his royal executioner's list after he became Emperor. The thought was only reinforced as they approached the drab little town, with its burnt out shells of buildings standing alongside residences, and its old, gloomy demeanor.

"Sir," his valet said, interrupting him from his thoughts, "we haven't seen hide nor hair of Dar-Ma on the way up here...so it's most likely that she got to town before vanishing. It's possible that she's still here, but...well, let's just be careful."

Edward glared at him. "Edward the Imperial is always careful," he shot back.

"Yes sir, I know that...that's not what I meant," Dragonheart hurried to answer. "I mean that...well, Hackdirt is a strange place, with a violent past."

Edward eyed him suspiciously. "How violent? And why are you only telling me this now?"

"Well sir," the valet answered, ignoring the second question altogether, "No one is quite sure...there are rumors...but rumors are just that."

"What rumors?"

"Well sir, all anyone knows for sure is that the Legion was called in here years ago...no one ever said what for...that was official Legion business, and it was kept very hush-hush." Edward frowned. "But the rumors hinted at...well, human sacrifice."

Edward's frown morphed into a wide-eyed gape. "Now you choose to tell me this?!" he demanded.

"I had hoped," the valet explained with a shrug, "that we wouldn't even have to come to the town."

Glaring at the other man, Edward toyed with praying to the great Dragon for ultimate revenge against such marked insolence. "Please, mighty Marooned Dragon," he whispered, "if this idiot ends up getting me killed...well, please exact terrible vengeance on behalf of your loyal slave!" He paused in prayer, a happy thought coming to him. "In fact, please send Friar Jauffre after him!"

"...stupor inducing rituals in which strange substances in various forms (liquid, solid and gaseous) were inhaled, ingested and imbibed, and also blood sacrifices of creatures large and small, animal mostly, but human if the inhabitants were able to lay their hands on anyone, were performed. We found no evidence of the creatures called 'the Deep Ones', but we found many so-called 'Brethren'. Due to the excess of hallucinogenics discovered in the caverns and the inebriated state of those discovered therein, it is the opinion of those present that the 'Brethren' ? who are the sole communicators with the 'Deep Ones' ? have either dreamt or invented the creatures..."

-- Excerpt from an Imperial Legion report, detailing the first destruction of Hackdirt

Chapter Ninety-Five

Edward felt his skin crawl as their horses rode into Hackdirt. "What kind of name is that for a town, anyway?" he wondered. The only image that the name conjured in his mind was grave digging with Friar Jauffre, and he had had quite enough hacking of dirt to last him a lifetime.

Dusk was so far progressed that all was now various hues of deep gray; and what little moonlight there was was often enough hidden behind the clouds.

"Alright, sir," his valet told him in hushed tones, "it doesn't look like anyone is going to come out to meet us. No worries, as it's said they don't take kindly to 'outsiders' here."

Edward grimaced. No worries indeed. He was only traipsing into a den of barbarian human sacrificers who hated strangers...why would he worry, after all?

"We should have a look around town to see if we can find anything...and then I guess head over to Moslin's Dry Goods, which is where Dar-Ma was headed with her goods."

"Are you sure we shouldn't...well, just head home and tell her mother that we didn't see her?" Edward asked, adding for the sake of his valet's conscience, "We wouldn't even be lying!"

The other man ignored his comment, however, and drew his and Seed-Neeus' horses toward an ally. Edward followed unwillingly, silently cursing his servant's insolence.

"Aha!" he heard Dragonheart exclaim.

Rolling his eyes out of sheer annoyance, he urged his horse forward to see what the other man was exclaiming about. Turning exasperated eyes toward him, he said, "It's a horse? So what?"

"It's Blossom, sir!" the valet answered. "Dar-Ma's horse!"

"Well, how fascinating..."

"Which means she must be inside."

"Which also means that we wasted this entire trip..." Edward growled.

"Maybe," Dragonheart answered musingly. "But let's go in to make sure, why don't we?"

Grumbling to himself, Edward dismounted, leaving his horse beside the other three. Despite the fact that he was not feeling cooperative, he would rather go with his obdurate servant than stay outside by himself after sunset in this gloomy little town.

Hurrying to keep up with Dragonheart's quick, determined step, Edward grimaced as the other man pushed open the door to a little shop, outside of which hung a sign that read "Moslin's Dry Goods". Edward watched his servant glance about before stepping inside, and then followed.

The shop was not terribly large, or terribly well stocked; nor, for that matter, was it terribly clean.

"Excuse me," the valet stated, approaching a dark-haired woman. "You must be Miss Moslin?"

"Etira Moslin," the woman replied, glancing up. To Edward's relief, she was an Imperial. "What business do you have in Hackdirt?"

Edward, grateful after all of his fears to see a friendly face -- or an Imperial one, at least -- stepped forward quickly, brushing past Dragonheart as he did so. "Ahh," he greeted, "my dear lady. We are here on an errand for a friend of my servant." He sighed. "It's a long story, so I'll skip the details about how we ended up on such a futile task...but we are here because someone was worried about a missing Lizard."

The valet cleared his throat and himself stepped forward. "What my friend means," he cut in quickly, "is that we are here on behalf of Seed-Neeus. As you must know, her daughter, Dar-Ma, was making her monthly delivery of goods here."

The woman scoffed. "How would I know? The little cheat never showed up! I've been waiting on her supplies all this time, and not a word from her."

Edward shook his head. "Barbarians," he sighed. "You can never trust them."

But his valet frowned. "I see," he answered, his tone clearly showing his disbelief. "That's a very odd claim, seeing as how the girl's horse is stabled behind your house."

Now, a perceptive set of eyes might have noticed an involuntary flinch in Etira Moslin; but Edward's saw only his foolish servant badgering a respectable Imperial in the mistaken service of a miscreant barbarian. "I'm sure you made a mistake," he told Dragonheart. "That must be her horse."

"Exactly!" Etira agreed quickly. "That's my horse...had her for years."

"See?" Edward smiled. "So the Lizard must have decided not to come."

"Well," the shopkeeper scoffed, "whatever she decided, I want my advance back!"

The valet grimaced, but said only, "I see. Well then, I guess we must have made a mistake. We'll be going now."

"Quite right," Etira agreed. "Strangers are nothing but trouble for Hackdirt."

The two men left the store and, stepping into the night air, Edward breathed a sigh of relief. All of his fears had been for naught. It was bad enough that his servant had dragged him up here for no reason, chasing a foolish Lizard who had taken it into her head to disappear for gods knew what reason; but he was glad to have the idea of barbarians engaging in human sacrifice put clean out of his mind.

Trust not what you know,
Nor dismiss that which you do not.
Fear not that which is unknown,
Nor fall into comfort with the familiar.
-- An excerpt from a piece translated in the scholarly work “Writings of Old, Dead People”

Chapter Ninety-Six

Having rented a dingy room from Vlanholder Moslin -- another Imperial, Edward was delighted to note -- the two men set about making ready for sleep. At least, that's what Edward assumed they were doing. It is easy, therefore, to imagine his surprise when he saw his servant arranging a bag of thievery tools, and sharpening the blade of a sharp little silver dagger.

Blinking in utter astonishment, he demanded, "What in Uriel Septim's name are you doing?!"

Dragonheart frowned at him. "Keep your voice down, sir," he whispered. "I'm getting ready to find Dar-Ma, and I'm not about to take chances." About to exclaim in exasperation at his servant's foolishness, Edward was silenced by a warning look from the other man. "I know for a fact that Itira lied to us. That is Dar-Ma's horse," he continued. "She raised the thing from a foal, and adores it. I could recognize it anywhere. So, Itira is clearly hiding something."

Edward blinked. "But surely...why would she?"

"I don't know, and that's what scares me. Dar-Ma's not the type of girl to make enemies, and -- while she worships the thing -- Blossom's hardly the sort of horse that someone would murder a person over." His brow was creased in thought, and his eyes bore a worried expression. "I'm not sure, sir, but something strange is going on. I'm going to sneak out, and have a look for myself."

Despite wanting to dismiss his servant's suppositions as hogwash, Edward felt a cold fear toying with him. Somehow -- perhaps it was Dragonheart's earnest concern -- he felt very alarmed. "Well...what am I supposed to do?" he wondered. "Just stay here and get murdered, while you go playing the hero for some Lizard?"

The valet frowned at him. "No sir. Just go to sleep."

"Go to sleep?" Edward gasped.

"That's right," the valet nodded. "That way they won't know I'm gone." Shrugging, he explained, "You snore loud enough for half a dozen men, nevermind two."

Edward glared at him, and watched with furious eyes as his servant opened a rear window a crack, then more, and, finally slipped through it into the black of evening.

Shivering as the night air creeping into the room assailed his body, Edward glanced about in frighten. Of all the predicaments he'd been into, surely this was the most insane, he thought. To think that he, Edward the Imperial, was left alone, shivering and frightened in a dusty, dimly lit bedroom that seemed alive with its own creaking and murmurs. "And all for some...some lizard!" This thought burning into his mind, Edward inwardly vowed revenge against his treacherous servant. This, he declared inwardly, was one indignity too many! He could not tolerate such mistreatment.

Suddenly, he started. He could have sworn that he heard a whispered laugh outside of his room. "He...hello?" he stammered.

This time, there was no doubt in his mind that he heard scurrying footsteps recede down the hall. The Imperial gulped fearfully, and turned instinctively to his valet for protection...except that the other man was gone.

Listening in silence as the footsteps and whispers returned, terror seized Edward. His mind seemed paralyzed by fright, and his senses slipped into a terror-induced, sleep-like lethargy. For it all, he could yet see and hear; but his mind seemed enveloped in a comforting, distancing mist; in fact, his entire body seemed enveloped in a mist of some sort. Still, cold, grasping fear seized his heart, seeming as real to him as if the icy fingers of death itself took hold of his organs. In the back of his mind, he wondered if the mist that seeped into his room from underneath the threshold might be laced with some sort of sleep-inducing drug...but his senses were too burdened to take note of the thought, and he slipped quietly into a heavy slumber.

Fools and friends
Friends of fools,
Fools for friends,
Drink to one, drink to all!
-- On Friendship and Life, by the Inebriated Odist

Chapter Ninety-Seven

When he awoke, Edward realized that he was no longer in the dusty inn surrounded by a peculiar haze; nor did his head feel light and disconnected from his body. Instead, his head throbbed mercilessly, to the point that he wished it was, indeed, somehow severed from the rest of him if only to spare him the agony. As for the rest -- where he was, why, and how he'd gotten there, the evidence of his eyes and reeling senses was so confusing that he found himself utterly discombobulated.

"Poor fellow!" the low hiss of an Argnonian roused him.

Jumping, he turned to see a young Argonian woman staring at him with concerned eyes. "Who...who are you? Where am I? How did I get here?" he demanded, his voice wavering with fear and confusion, and not at all sounding intimidating as he'd hoped.

"Don't be afraid," she whispered in gravelly tones, glancing up and down the apparently subterranean grotto in which they were enclosed. "It's just the effect of the drug...it disorients one."

He blinked. "Drug?"

"Yes," she answered, "they used it on me, too. Before I realized it, it was too late...I just remember the fog -- although I suppose it must have been a smoke of some sort -- and then losing consciousness."

This sounded vaguely familiar to Edward, so he nodded.

"I know your head hurts now, but it will clear up soon."

Edward grimaced. He hoped she was right, because, at the moment, the pain was so great that he was ready to pull it off to save himself the suffering.

"They said you had come to save me?" she continued. "I'm so sorry. I never expected this...and I guess you must not have either."

Finally, the unrealness of his situation hit him full force. Perhaps it was the slight lessening of the agony in his head that gave reign to the faculties of reason. "Who is 'they'? And how did you know how I came here?"

"The people here, the Moslins and Natch Pinder and Marlena Brussiner and all of them," the Argonian explained. "They drugged us, and brought us to these caverns or tunnels or whatever they are."

Edward glanced about him. Yes, they were certainly in a subterranean chamber of some sort. "Why?"

"Because..." She shuddered. "They plan to sacrifice us."

With a whimper of alarm, Edward fell backwards, once more lapsing into unconsciousness.

When he'd woken from his faint, a good fifteen minutes or so later, the Argonian was watching him. The sight of her strange eyes made him shiver anew. "Oh gods!" he appealed inwardly. "Please, this can't be happening! You can't let me, Edward the Imperial, spend my last moments of life locked in a cage with this barbarian Lizard, awaiting death at the hands of a pack of lunatics!"

"You ok?" the Argonian's voice interrupted his fretful prayer.

Her voice, for all the frightening 'lizard' aspects of it, somehow comforted him. At least, barbarian though she was, she wasn't trying to kill him. He nodded slowly.

"I am Dar-Ma, by the way," she continued. "Those men, they said that you came here to rescue me? You and your friend?"

Edward nodded glumly, an overwhelming urge to cry coming upon him. "This all could have been avoided," he thought, "if only that stupid servant hadn't taken it into his head to play Knight in shining armor to a filthy Lizard!"

"I'm sorry that they caught you," she told him. "I know my mother must be so worried...and now they've ensnared you." She shuddered. "I heard them talking...they said that they're going to find your friend, and then..."

"Then?"

"They're going to...to kill us all tonight."

Edward joined her in shuddering, but he took some small comfort in the fact that his servant was at least destined to share in his unthinkable fate.

Where to begin: "The Writings of Old, Dead People? Edward managing to make a farce out of HP Lovecraft?



I have just spent a happy Saturday morning with a cup of tea and a solid dose of the idiotic Edward.

(Treydog: glad you enjoyed! Cup of tea, eh? Hmm...that sounds good. Now I'm going to have to put some tea on, as soon as I finish posting )

When tales are sung of heroes bold,
When songs of mighty men retold,
When recounted glorious days of old,
Then his deeds indubitably extolled.
-- Tribute to a Hero

Chapter Ninety-Nine

Creeping through the sparsely lit chambers, the trio was retracing the valet's steps when a murmured laugh arrested their attention. Peering into the gloom that surrounded them, they at first saw nothing. But then three pallid, scantily clothed bodies emerged.

"The Brethren!" Dar-Ma gasped.

The three men charged at the sight of the escapees, and Dragonheart dashed out to meet them. Armed only with his dagger, he was somewhat outmatched by the weaponry of the others -- not to mention the numbers -- but he did not hesitate. Only when he was near to them did he notice the glazed-over look in the Brethren's eyes, and by then he was already engaged in mortal combat.

He could hear the Reptilian shrieking of Dar-Ma and the high-pitched wail of Edward behind him as a heavy mace flew at his skull. Stepping to the side, he planted his dagger between the arm and torso of his attacker, digging deep into the bare armpit. The Brother shrieked in agony and recoiled, just as a blade flew for Dragonheart's neck.

Quick footwork, a daring plunge forward and doubtless a helping of luck later, and another Brother was decommissioned. The final fighter, whose blows he'd only so far deflected, lunged forward heedlessly. Dragonheart grimaced as, despite his moving, a dagger cut through his side; but he grabbed the man's attacking arm in a lock. A heavy snapping sound preceded more agonized shrieking by only a moment, and the third of the Brethren retreated, his arm hanging limp at his side.

"Come on!" he called. "Up the ladder!"

Edward wasted no time, and was the first to emerge in Moslin's inn. Dar-Ma followed, and then Dragonheart. They rose, however, only to find themselves surrounded by the townsfolk -- in whose eyes there was not the peculiar hazy glaze that had so marked the expressions of the Brethren.

"There's no escape," Vlanholder told them sneeringly. "The Deep Ones thirst, and your blood must answer, must quench them!"

"Look here," the valet answered, and his tone sounded very authoritative and imperious despite the blood dripping from the wound in his side, "I'm going to give you one chance, and one chance only. I'll overlook your plans to murder my friends for now, and let the Legion deal with your villainy. But you had better stand aside without an instant's delay, do you hear?"

"The Legion?" Itera laughed. "They already burned our town to the ground. Not a second time, thank you very much!"

"You're making a mistake," the valet warned. "People in Chorrol know we were coming here. If we disappear, they'll send the Legion eventually."

"By then," a man wielding a mace declared, "the Deep Ones will have emerged, and it will be too late for you."

The valet's face hardened. "I'm going to give you one last chance," he told them. "Stand aside, and face the justice of the law, or I will have no choice but to bury every last one of you."

There were a few exchanged glances at this inexplicable bravado, but no one flinched.

"Very well," Dragonheart nodded, readying his dagger. "You've been warned."

What followed was a scene that might well have been drawn from the annals of most revered history, from the myths of mighty heroes and great deeds. For, at the end of a long, furious battle, there remained three living, and all the rest dead. These three were Dar-Ma, who hid in the far corner of the room, Edward, who cowered behind her, and Dragonheart, who, breathing haggardly from the fight, surveyed the scene. The residents of Hackdirt lay here and there, their swords, maces and other weapons beside them unstained with the crimson liquid that adorned the valet's dagger.

"You...you killed them!" Edward gasped, as amazed as he was relieved.

The other man nodded slowly. "I'm afraid they left me no choice, sir," he said; and gone was the authoritative air he'd used on the townsfolk, and in its place was the meek one that Edward knew so well.

Barbarians, one and all,
Barbarians, they must fall,
Barbarians, intellects so small,
Barbarians, nauseate and appall.
-- Barbarians, a poem penned by Edward

Chapter One Hundred

Tears of joy abounded as Dar-Ma safely re-entered her mother's home, and even Edward's stony heart could not suppress a gentle pull at the touching scene -- barbarians though they were. Then the valet and Dar-Ma had gone -- practically dragging Edward along as a witness -- to make a full report of what had occurred to the authorities, who promised to send a contingent to round up the "Brethren". Finally, Dragonheart had stopped at the local chapel, where the priests tended his wounds.

This done, Edward and his servant vacated Chorrol, heading for the Imperial City in search of their Emperor, Matthieus. The trek was an easy one, and they made good time. Even Edward's horse seemed cooperative on the journey, and all spirits were high as they reached the City. The valet, his mind full of noble ideas of heroism and adventure, and Edward, his thoughts running along a more sinister and murderous route, were happy to be so near the object of their searching, their long lost Emperor.

Both men passed the Imperial Guards at the entrance of the city with a cheerful nod, and Edward couldn't help but envision his entrance -- some day soon, he hoped -- as Emperor, after the great Dragon had set him up to rule Tamriel.

Dragonheart knew exactly where to find his friend, and so headed directly for the Green Emperor Way. Therein he found a tall, stately stone home, and knocked at the door. "Matthieus found work in the employ of Mr. and Mrs. Ebeneezer Smolet."

Edward frowned.

"They're a Breton family, living here in the Imperial City...they import goods from all over, and sell them to local merchants. Matthieus worked as a sort of secretary for Mr. Smolet."

Edward's frown increased, but it wasn't for the reason that his valet thought; his expression had naught whatever to do with the fact that the Smolets were Breton "barbarians". Instead, some distant thought was playing in the back of his mind. Something -- he couldn't put his finger on it -- was wrong with this.

"They're very respectable people, sir," the valet was continuing, "so please be polite to them."

Edward shot him a withering glance, and tried to ignore the obscured cogitation that was taking place in his head. He hated it when his mind did that to him -- distracting him with meditative thinking, rather than allowing him to focus on the moment. He was here, at the doorstep of his emperor, about to fulfill his duty to the great Marooned Dragon, and his foolish mind was thinking and worrying and distracting him!

"Sir?" his valet asked, interrupting his thoughts.

Edward started, realizing suddenly that a very annoyed expression had crossed his face. "Oh, right."

The door opened a moment later, and a tall woman appeared. She was, Edward was loathe to admit, a very beautiful woman, despite her barbarian lineage. Her hair was dark and full, and fastened behind her in an attractive manner; her features were refined and pretty, and her eyes were a brilliant blue-green, and full of keen intelligence. She glanced first at Dragonheart, and then threw an appraising look over Edward. Apparently, she was not pleased with what she saw, for she wrinkled her nose in distaste. Turning back to the valet, she asked, "Can I help you, sir?"

"Yes ma'am," he answered. "I am looking for a friend of mine, Matthieus." He smiled, adding, "Sometimes called Matthieus the Nord." Edward shuddered at this, but the woman's eyes opened wide.

"Matthieus?" she repeated. "You haven't heard, then?"

"Heard?" Dragonheart repeated.

"Yes. Matthieus is dead."

A gasp escaped the lips of both men, although for different reasons. For his own part, Edward was cursing his ill fortune that someone had beaten him to the kill -- and the gratitude of the Dragon. The valet, however, seemed genuinely affected. "Dead? But...how?"

"He was overseeing a shipment from Bruma," the woman answered, "and bandits attacked. They killed everyone, including Matthieus."

There were tears in the woman's eyes as she spoke, and a break in Dragonheart's voice as he returned, "Bandits? Did they ever find them?"

The girl shook her head, answering, "No...they disappeared into the mountains, and the Bruma guard could not find them. It was at the onset of last winter, and the snow had just begun to fall, so they didn't pursue the matter further."

Edward sighed, lost in his own selfish thoughts. How was he going to explain this to the Mythic Dawn? Would he still get a reward? He had tracked the Emperor down after all, hadn't he, so surely that merited a reward of some sort?

Dragonheart, however, spoke with a voice laden with grief. "But...but surely there were clues?"

"Yes," the girl answered. "There were clues." She paused. "You were a friend of his, you say?"

"Yes ma'am. We studied together at Weynon Priory."

The girl's eyes lit up. "Oh, you must the friend who worked for the elf...what was his name?"

"Lord Umbacano."

"That's right! Matthieus mentioned you many times. He feared that some harm had befallen you, because you vanished so suddenly." She stared at him quizzically.

He shook his head. "No ma'am, no harm...I just...well, I lost my job, and I was...well, ashamed."

Her blue-green eyes softened, and she opened the door and stood aside. "Come in," she told them.

Tremors of death,
A final gasping, ill-fated breath,
Whispers of demise,
A final retribution, and he dies.
-- A line from the popular play The Bloody Murder of He Who Was Murdered in a Most Bloody Fashion by a Cold-Blooded Murderer

Chapter one Hundred and One

The sun was low in the sky when Edward and his servant stepped out of the Smolets' home. The girl -- Felicity -- was the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Smolet, and had been engaged to Matthieus when the bandits murdered him; she and Dragonheart had spent the entire day pouring over the details of what they'd learnt of his death, and reminiscing about the time they'd spent with the Nord. The valet had not mentioned his royal lineage -- at this point, it was not necessary; but he had vowed to do everything he could to see that the murderers of Felicity's fiance and his friend came to justice.

Edward had sighed and shuffled and grimaced and groaned the entire time, but the two had ignored him. At last Ebeneezer and Matilda -- Felicity's parents -- had returned home from their business. Edward was pretending to sleep on a divan when they arrived, as he had no interest in meeting yet more barbarians; but, even through closed eyelids and ears as tuned out as he could get them, he could not but feel the warmth with which his servant was welcomed. This made him feel quite ill, and he couldn't help but feel what little respect he'd had for the man slipping away. Eventually his boredom had slipped into genuine sleep; and he'd been awakened only when it was time to leave. The family had tried to insist that they remain for dinner, but Dragonheart would not impose upon their hospitality; so, dragging a hungry, bleary-eyed Edward back onto the streets with him, he departed.

Edward was peevish and annoyed as they walked, but his valet was quiet and thoughtful. At length, ignoring Edward's cantankerous rambling entirely, he said, "We're going to have to tell Friar Jauffre about this, sir."

Edward flinched.

"He'll want to know," the other man continued.

"Well," Edward lied, "this is true, but...well, I've got very important business to attend first."

"Oh?"

Edward was prepared for this question, and shot back immediately, "Well, I've got to let the Brotherhood know about Motierre, don't I?"

The valet frowned. "I would think Jauffre's business supersedes..."

"No, no," Edward interrupted. "After all, Matthieus is dead, right? So, is he going to get any deader or less dead by Jauffre knowing?" The other man still seemed unconvinced, so Edward plowed onward, "If anything, the longer we wait the better...that way the poor man's body will be decomposed past the point that Jauffre will find him worth decorating his yard with." He ignored his valet's shocked expression at his irreverent words, and chuckled to himself; there was something downright amusing in the idea of an Emperor's head adorning one's lawn. Not a regular head, of course...that was just...well, vile. But an Emperor's head? The sheer magnitude of the statement that such an adornment would make seemed to lessen, nay, disperse, the vileness associated with the act to his mind.

"Well," the valet mused, "I don't know if..."

"And the Brotherhood has to know as soon as they can about that little...accident. Who knows what fall-out there might be!"

The other man nodded, saying, "I see what you're saying...and I have to say, sir, you're handling this very bravely...manning up to take responsibility for your own actions."

Edward glared at the other man. It had nothing whatever to do with taking responsibility for his own actions...his only concern was facing a homicidal priest with an affinity for accenting his yard decor with severed heads. The longer he could put off facing Friar Jauffre again -- forever, if he could help it -- the better; not even Vicente Valtieri and his bizarre threats of cannibalizing him frightened him as much much as the mad monk of Weynon Priory. For that matter, the entire Dark Brotherhood didn't frighten him as much as Jauffre.

"Well sir," the valet said, his tone uncommonly flat and depressed, "once we rent rooms, I think I'm going to take the evening off, if it's all the same with you."

Edward frowned at the other man, but, seeing as he had no real reason to keep him around acquiesced. Indeed, there was a shop in the City that he wanted to visit without his servant's presence; so, he said, "Very well." Of course, had he known what his servant intended to do, he never would have uttered those fateful words.



(Ugh, I never get the formatting right, LOL...I always have to go back and edit something )

Oh noes! Not Innsmouth! bliviongate:

The Shadow Over Hackdirt has always been one of my favorite quests in the game. It was so much fun to see Edward (he's not a vampire by chance is he?) and Dragonheart tackle the Cthultists.

Murder Most Foul!

It is with no lack of courage that our correspondent writes to tell us of the latest development in Cheydinhal, for he speaks to us of the workings of the mysterious world of underground crime. Recent revelations from that town tell us that a man in the employ of the Imperial Legion ? a "snitch", in the vernacular of the law ? was murdered in front of the very eyes of his loyal servant ? who was himself, our informant tells us, lucky that he too was not felled by the killer. The guard has been excessively obdurate in the face of our requests for information, so at present I fear we have nothing else to report. We will, as always, hasten to inform the public if any new information presents itself to us.

-- Black Horse Courier, Special News Bulletin

Chapter One Hundred and Two

Edward pulled a cloak closer about his body. He was headed to the shanty town on the Waterfront to follow up on a rumor. There was, it was said, a magician of sorts, a dark sorcerer from the Black Marshes, who had taken up residence in one of the abandoned shacks. His days, it was whispered, were spent roaming the country finding exotic alchemic ingredients; and his nights in blending and selling the rarest potions and charms. Some said that he was a sorcerer of the forbidden magics, who captured souls and bound them to items and elixirs to imbue the recipient with various qualities. Others whispered that he would produce curses and work spells for a cost. Some spoke of a trade in souls. And others laughed at the notion of this 'magician' and his spells, charms and curses, calling him a fraud and a charlatan.

As far as things sat with him, Edward was one part unruffled skeptic, and one part superstitious zealot. He had seen and he feared enough to make him a quivering believer; and yet he done and aspired to do so much that he hoped his beliefs were wrong -- except, of course, for the one in the great Dragon. Tonight, however, he was relying on the trusting portion of his mind, and putting aside the doubting part. He was heading to the lair of the Brotherhood, after all, and that meant one thing -- Marie Antionetta.

Shuffling his way through the crowds of dock-hands, vagabonds and lower-class shopmen and women, Edward felt downright nervous. He knew that this area was rife with pickpockets and cutthroats during the day; he dreaded to think how many of these low-lives infested the waterfront after dark. And yet, he would not abandon his purpose. So, pushing on steadily, he arrived in the shanty-town some little time later. Approaching a man dressed so poorly that he must surely be a beggar or pauper, he asked, "Excuse me, peasant."

He tried to keep the disdain from his voice, but, alas, he was less than successful. The other man looked up at this greeting, and returned, "Yes, your high and mightiness?"

While a discerning ear might have taken offense at the other man's tone, Edward smiled to himself that this man, low-life that he was, acknowledged his obvious superiority. "I'm searching for someone," he told the other man. "A...a shopkeeper of sorts. His name is Mist-Scales."

"Ah!" the beggar nodded, and a twinkle appeared in his eyes. "Well then, he's right over there." He pointed to an old, decrepit shack.

With a nod that was as pompous as it was appreciative, Edward passed the other man and stepped toward the shack. The beggar watched him, grinning and shaking his head; but the Imperial took no notice. Instead, arriving at the run-down little building, he knocked.

All was silent for a moment, but then a low hiss answered, "Come in!"

Edward pushed the door opened, and stepped into a single room dwelling, as frightful looking inside as it was on the outside. It was moderately lit, but the torches burned so deep and crimson that it seemed it was not the light of fire, but some strange thing that illuminated the room.

"You are looking for Mist-Scales?" the same hissing voice that had bid him enter inquired.

Edward looked to the speaker, who was a tall Argonian, bare-chested to reveal ample, gruesome tattoos on crimson scales, but also wearing a cape and hood that covered much of his face. Only two gleaming orbs, and a mouth full of large, white teeth were clearly visible beneath the fabric. The Imperial gulped. This Argonian seemed to embody all of the fears and prejudices he held about the barbarians and beast folk; and, in that instant, the skeptic in him was put to death. "Oh, great magician!" Edward breathed. "You must help me!"

"Magician?" the Argonian repeated, and his tone took on a questioning aspect. "Mist-Scales does not like this word. It is a construct of the limited mind, the mind that says 'magic' when one calls up the forces of the earth, 'devilry' when one summons the powers of the elements. No, no, 'magic' is a fool's concept. Mist-Scales is but a student of the world, and all of its powers; one who channels the unseen forces as well as the seen. If this is what you seek, noble traveler, then Mist-Scales is the one to whom you must speak."

Edward was at once mystified and entranced. The Argonian's way with words, his fervent belief, touched a chord deep within his soul; and yet, for the life of him, he couldn't figure out whether he was speaking about himself or some other creature. "I...I am seeking him."

"Ahhh," the Argonian hissed, nodding. "Such is a man that I will do business with, then." He smiled broadly, revealing a mouth full of long, sharp teeth.

Edward nodded, feeling now convinced that this must indeed be Mist-Scales. "Good."

"Now, let Mist-Scales take a look at you," the Argonian continued, advancing. He stared very intently into Edward's eyes, and the Imperial flinched under his scrutiny. Then he walked thrice around him in one direction, and thrice in the other. The combination of the other man's deep, guttural breathing, the strange flickering torchlight, and his own superstitious apprehensions were almost too much for Edward, who had to fight very hard to remain standing in place. At last, however, the hooded magician came round and stared him in the eye. "Mist-Scales sees sadness - yes! Loneliness, yes, loneliness."

Edward's expression, growing more shocked by the moment, confirmed his words.

"Someone who needs his help, yes!" the Argnonian continued, throwing his cloak back to reveal even more tattoos on a well-chiseled chest. "Now, tell Mist-Scales if he is not correct?"

"You...you are!" Edward whispered, fighting with his voice to make any sounds at all.

"Ahh...and my little friend is surprised," the Argonian sighed, shaking his head. "He comes to Mist-Scales, and wonders that he can see through the mists. Now, speak...pour out your heart, and let Mist-Scales listen. Then we will talk."

He wasn't sure how or why, but Edward found the words rushing off of his tongue in great waves. He told of his troubles with Antionetta, his rivalry with Vicente, and his trials at the hands of his servant. Through it all, the Argonian remained silent, watching him keenly.

When, at last, he came to a rambling halt, the other spoke. "Now Mist-Scales sees. The mist is drawn away from his eyes, and all is clear. The moon speaks to me, the sun whispers, and I see your path, Imperial."

Edward watched, transfixed, as the Argonian gestured him toward a little shelf laid out with vials of liquid and handfuls of trinkets.

Mist-Scales poured over his inventory, chanting and whispering and hissing in distracted tones that only further convinced Edward of his magical prowess. "Ahhh!" he exclaimed at last. Edward started at the suddenness of the proclamation. "Here he is." The Argonian retrieved a small bottle of deep green liquid. "And here." Then, he retrieved a strange black amulet. "These are what he needs."

Edward reached forward to take the trinkets that the other handed him, and he was surprised to feel a swirling energy flow through his hand as he did so.

The Argonian smiled at his expression. "He understands, he believes, yes?" he asked. Edward nodded acquiescence. "These -- this he must wear," the other continued, pointing to the amulet. "And this-" pointing to the elixir "-this he must drink."

"When?"

"When he goes to see his lady that so disturbs his heart," the Argonian answered. "Yes, then."

Smiling broadly, Edward gladly paid the sum requested of him -- which emptied his purse entirely, even after Seed-Neeus' generous rewards -- and stole away from the shop with a glad heart. Finally, with the aid of these items, he would woo Antionetta!

(SubRosa, it is a very good one...a little bit more complicated than some of the others ['fetch my potatoes', etc. ]. As for Edward being a vampire, no, he's just a dunce. )

Murder Most Fowl!

It is with no lack of appetite that our correspondent writes to tell us of the latest developments, for he speaks through a mouthful of tender, baked chicken. Recent revelations from his cook tell us that a chicken ? "dinner", in the vernacular of the carnivore ? was butchered in his very yard, in front of the duck ? who was himself lucky to escape the ax.

-- The Garlic (satirical news courier), Special News Bulletin

Chapter One Hundred and Three

Edward was not at all surprised when he returned and saw that his servant was nowhere to be found. "No doubt," he thought, "the fool is out getting sloshed because some pretentious Nord mongrel aspiring to be an Imperial ended up meeting his end. Well, if only he took the whole lot of barbarians with him." He paused from thought. "Except the Shaman, of course. I might need him again, especially when I become Emperor."

He pulled his newly found treasures out of a pocket, and gazed at them appreciatively. He had no idea what magic the Argonian wizard had used, but he didn't doubt its potency for a moment. The man had reeked of dark power, of the sorts of underworld magical abilities that the more powerful barbarians surely possessed; and he felt certain that now, finally, his difficulties with Antionetta were at an end. No more shyness, no more avoiding his gaze, no more refusing to speak to him; she'd be so overwhelmed with passion that she couldn't contain herself. He smiled, and felt his anxiety at telling the Brotherhood of his latest abysmal failure slipping away. "Who cares about Motierre," he thought, "when Antionetta's about to be mine!" These happy thoughts playing in his mind, he drifted smilingly into sleep.

For the most part, his rest was full of pleasant dreams. He envisioned himself striding into the Brotherhood headquarters proudly, wearing a set of shining silver armor. He had, he noted with surprised pleasure, gained a considerable bulk of muscle. "Probably from wearing all of this armor," he thought. Even his features had filled out and hardened a little, exchanging the soft, baby-faced look, for a slightly more warrior-like appearance. "But," he noted, "a sophisticated warrior...not like one of the legion grunts or barbarian Nords."

Edward the warrior-philosopher strode with a firm, unflinching step as he entered the sanctuary. Envious glances from the men of the Brotherhood abounded; Vicente in particular took his newly found maturity and impressiveness awry, gaping as his pale cheeks glowed a greenish hue. Ocheeva stared, open-mouthed, too, and while the predatory look in her eye matched Vicente's, their respective reasons were clearly different.

While Vicente champed his long, white teeth together in a rage-filled passion, Ocheeva hastened to Edward's side. He'd not even mentioned the incident with Motierre yet, when she said, "Oh, my dear Edward! Do come in!" Edward nodded as she ushered him to a more secluded area. Throngs of Brotherhood watched him pass with envious eyes, scrutinizing every feature of his now dashing face, every detail of his new armor, every angle of his newly chiseled torso; but he took no note of them. "You know, Edward," Ocheeva was saying, in her hissing way, "your talents have been underrepresented here. I am thinking of putting in a good word for you with the Black Hand."

"The Black Hand?" he asked, his brow wrinkling in concentration. He'd heard the name before, but couldn't place it."

Yes," she continued, apparently missing the question in his voice. "You deserve better than these paltry assignments you've been getting here. You are a man of greatness, a knight, a champion, a killer unparallelled."

Smiling in a conceited fashion even in his dream, Edward smirked. "Well, I just do what I can to the best of my abilities," he answered, "and it just so happens that my abilities are...well, unparallelled, as you put it."

"Yes, yes!" she hissed excitedly. "I will speak to Lucien myself for you, my dearest Edward."

Wrinkling his nose at this appellation rolling off the forked tongue of a Lizard barbarian, he froze as footsteps sounded behind him.

Ocheeva glanced up, and he turned about, in time to see Antionetta make an entrance that could only be described as astounding. Dressed in crimson silk, her hair pinned with jewels in an extravagant, but oh-so-breathtaking, manner, she seemed to glide or sail rather than actually walk. He could feel the trembling of his heart in his dream, the strange, wavering sensation that overpowered his reason whenever he caught sight of her. But she left him no opportunity to put his foot in his mouth this time. Rushing over to him, rebellious wisps of hair breaking free of the larger mass with her hurried motion, she threw her arms around him.

"Edward! Oh Edward!" she implored, looking up into his eyes. "I can't do this anymore! I can't keep pretending I don't see you or hear you! You have to know how much I care about you?"

There were tears glistening in her blue eyes as she spoke. Edward, for his part, was struggling with the quavering sensation in his soul, and trying to respond in some fashion. He wanted to be cool, distant, noncommittal in his response; but the words, if he could find the strength to speak them, would not be stopped.

He was saved from this agonizing decision, however, by the enraged shriek of a Breton voice. Glancing over Antionetta, he saw the flashing red eyes of Vicente. All at once, he was a fearless warrior; throwing his body in front of hers, he drew the long, silver sword that hung at his side.

"You'll never take her!" the Breton screamed, drawing a dagger. "She's mine, Imperial churl!"

Despite the superiority of his own weapon, Edward found himself squirming as Vicente's eyes caught his, and he saw the hell-fire that those red orbs emitted. Still, however, he did not panic for a moment; instead, he threw himself into combat fearlessly, and, with but a single stroke, the Breton was felled.

"Oh!" Antionetta's voice came to his ears, in an admiring murmur. "My hero!"

Turning, ready once and for all to take her in his arms and confess his love, Edward started in horror. In the place ? indeed, in the gown and jewels and make-up -- of the beautiful girl he loved, there stood a little Bosmer with a strange, ice-cream shaped poof atop his head. "Ah!" the Imperial cried, jumping backwards.

"Oh, you're the greatest!" the little Bosmer declared, his eyes glistening with admiration. "You saved me!"

"No!" Edward shook his head. "Not you! Antionetta!" His perplexity was too great for words as his eyes roamed the Sanctuary for his lady fair.

"You're the greatest Champion a fan could ever wish for," the elf continued, taking no heed whatever of his words. "I can't tell you how happy I am at the prospect of being with you!"

Edward backed up, a sick sensation coming to him. This wasn't right! He was supposed to spend the rest of his life with Antionetta. What was this disgusting little elf, his bright hair and pallid skin a ghastly contrast to the rogue and lipstick and sparkling jewels he wore, talking about?

"I'll go with you wherever you go, and follow you and worship you and love you," the Bosmer continued, apparently oblivious to his horror.

Shaking his head, Edward threw appealing looks about him; but the Brethren were stepping away, as if turning their backs on his plight. "Go away!" he yelled. All at once, he was no longer the confident knight that he had been upon entering the sanctuary, but rather the same cringing, baby-faced youth he was in real life.

His transformation, however, apparently made no difference to the elf, who began to follow as he retreated. Finally, spinning about and breaking into a full run, Edward loosed a yell of terror. The giggling, prattling apparition behind him, however, followed closely. The elf's words tumbled out nonstop, sweeping over him like a cascade.

"Antionetta!" Edward called. "Antionetta!" Suddenly, he was aware of a sharp movement, and everything disappeared into darkness. Blinking into the relative oblivion, the Imperial realized after a moment that he was awake and sitting up in bed, trembling and sweating profusely. Relief swarmed him at the realization, and he laughed out loud -- although it was a skittish laugh -- at his foolishness. Of course there were no Bosmer phantoms, no grotesque misrepresentations of his love interest, and no reason for alarm. He was set to head to the Dark Brotherhood sanctuary, where he would surely ignite the passion of Antionetta; and his servant's adoring fan was just one of many unpleasant memories.

This conclusion drawn, Edward sat in the darkness for several moments simply to compose his nerves after his fright. At last, however, the phantoms of dreamland were chased from his mind, and he was ready to return to sleep. One can, therefore, imagine the dismay with which his ears picked up the sound -- this time, no apparition's voice -- of, "Oh, you really are the greatest, my Champion!"

The Adoring Fan strikes again! Ieeee! As a foulness shall ye know him!

(sorry, I am still channeling HP Lovecraft after Hackdirt ).


One nit:
I think you wanted "rouge" here:

the rogue and lipstick and sparkling jewels he wore

Oh, hehe, you're quite right -- thanks!!

These last several make me happier than ever with my choice in the awards. You consistently entertain me, delivering equal parts surprise and humor.

Just a couple of the points that stood out:







I so enjoy those little touches that make this story unique.

Rachel, Rachel, Rachel (shaking head).

I have finally made it to the temporary end of the saga of Edward the Imperial. Priceless!

First, the tongue-in-cheek tribute to the awesome voice acting of Patrick Stewart, a fine Shakespearan actor in his own right. I enjoyed Emperor Uriel's muttered soliloquies in the subteranne tunnels, waiting for him to break into that infamous "To be, or not to be, that is the question."

Then all the screaming, running around, flailing of arms - shades of Monty Python! And the Valet!

And let's not forget Inspector Clouseau (Peter Sellers)!

And Friar Jauffre as the Gravedigger!

It is hard to write comedy. Between the laughter and the tears, I'm in awe at your wily interpretation of Oblivion!

Marooned Dragon, indeed!

I wasn't going to bug you while you were catching up with your reading, (and might I add, you read as fast as you write!) but now that you have - ARGH !!! (Pirate for where is the next chapter)

I actually have not caught up on yours yet, I am a much slower reader than you are - but I am getting there since you took a hiatus, so you can start warming up your pen/keyboard - you have been off TOOO long!!

(Thanks for your comments, everyone! I appreciate hearing from you...and sorry for being away so long...last month I was covering for most of my team while they were on vacation, and battling my ISP on and off [I have this outrageous notion that they should actually provide internet service ]...so I haven't had much time for writing or posting...and then, of course, I got into reading mALX1's story...which is soooo good...anyhow, I know, a lot of excuses. But, without further ado...here's more of your favorite twit and mine. )

Thoughts to think,
Teetering on the brink,
Cares to sink,
It's time to drink.
-- Time to Drink, by the Inebriated Odist

Chapter One Hundred and Four

Gasping and turning paler than even the ghastly Vicente Valtieri of his recent dream, Edward stared into the blackness.

"Hush!" he heard a whispered voice. "I told you, I have to speak with Master Edward before he knows you're here."

"Oh, never worry, my Champion!" the all-too-familiar voice returned. "I am here just to follow you!"

"Yes, well, please do it quietly," the first voice -- unmistakably, his valet's -- rejoined. "I warned you about pvssyring around him. He hates it."

"Oh yes," the fan answered, "quite, quite! Have no fear. It was kind of you to rent me a room, but you know that I would gladly have slept on a bedroll at your feet, or on a cot, or anywhere that you would have preferred, like a squire of old serving his knight -- just so long as I could be in your presence."

"I prefer this," the whispered voice answered. "Now -- I'm serious -- not another word! Get to bed, and don't wake Edward up. I'll talk with him first thing in the morning, and then we'll settle this."

"Yes, my champion! Anything that you say, my champion!"

Edward grimaced. Not even the amazement and horror he felt at the fan's sudden reemergence, and his servant's complicity in his appearance, could suppress or override the annoyance the Bosmer induced in him. There were few people in the world that could affect him so negatively, but the mere sound of the elf's voice grated on his nerves and set his features twitching in frustration. Growling, he dragged himself out of bed and headed toward his door.

Opening it just in time to hear another door close, Edward emerged into the upper story of his inn in only his night clothes. He didn't, however, care. His eyes instantly sought the miscreant servant and his companion, but found only the former. "You!" he demanded.

His servant, who was busily unlocking his own bedroom door, started. Glancing up, he flushed very guiltily. "Oh...sir...we didn't...wake you up, did we?"

Edward's furious glare was answer enough. "Did I...tell me I didn't! Hear that demon-spawn fan of yours!"

The valet shifted in place. "Well, sir," he said, "if you mean..."

"That vile little Bosmer!" Edward hissed.

"Well, I'm afraid sir that you did hear him."

Edward gaped. "What? Why? How could you?!" he sputtered.

"Well sir," the valet reminded him, "you will recall that it was you who promised on my behalf that I would find him when next I visited the Imperial city...so I was duty bound to do so."

Edward stared at him uncomprehendingly. The idea that anyone would subject themselves – and, more importantly, him – to the temperamental whims of a whiny, persistent devil like the Bosmer for any reason at all seemed so incomprehensible that he was, oddly, bereft of words.

Apparently taking his silence as acquiescence, the valet continued, “You see, sir, this poor kid doesn't really have a family of his own...his parents died years ago, and he lives with an aunt.” He shifted, as though choosing his words tactfully. “And she's not...well, not very good with kids, sir. She has no patience for him. So I thought it would be a wonderful idea for him to come with us – you know, to sort of be an understudy of yours. So that he could learn the tricks of adventuring.” He shrugged, as Edward was still to flabbergasted to speak. “I thought that change of pace would be good for him...remove him the city and the arena, shake him out of his indolence, get him out into the world, doing something positive.”

Finally finding his voice, Edward managed to choke out, “I'll give him something to do...dig your grave, because I'm going to kill you!!” This said, he lunged for his valet.

Rachel and Edward are back! :celebration:


And the Annoying Fan strikes again! I always love seeing Edward annoyed. It brings out the best in him!

(Hehe, thanks SubRosa...yes, aggravation does tend to have that effect on Edward, doesn't it? )

Impudence and calumny,
Baseness and the worst villainy,
Fiendishness and treachery,
What woes the master must face.-- Treatise on the Base Nature of the Serving Class, by the learned Count Wimpleton

Chapter One Hundred and Five

It had taken everyone residing at the inn, and an Imperial Guard as well, to pull Edward off of his valet. Even then, he'd broken two noses, proven himself immune to the calming spell of a powerful mage staying at the inn, and screamed out every curse imaginable in the shrillest tones before he was hoisted off of the other man.

In turn, it had taken some convincing, but, eventually ? after offering sufficient compensation for the injured noses of the two, and the injured pride of the mage ? Dragonheart had been able to soothe the tempers of all involved, and thereby keep the still seething Edward out of jail.

When the Imperial had finally been released, he was trembling with rage, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles were white, and sputtering with indignant fury.

"Now, sir," the valet told him, "I need you to calm down. You can't go doing things like that ? next time I may not be able to get you out of trouble so easily!" He frowned. "And I might have hurt you myself in self defense." Edward's glare grew more intense. "I understand that you are upset, but you really must work at expressing your frustration in a more mature and positive manner."

By this point, Edward was ready to lunge again; but the little yellow-topped head of his servant's fan poked out of its room just in time to distract him.

"Master," he said, glancing toward Dragonheart, "I know you told me to stay in my room...but I heard all the commotion, and I thought that my Champion might be in harm's way, and I thought that I could not leave him here without help; and then I thought that you are the Champion, and need no one's help. But then I supposed that it might be of comfort to you all the same to know that I was there, willing to risk anything, even death itself if necessary, to aid you. And then I thought perhaps you would be better pleased if I stayed in my room as you directed. But then..."

Edward's eyes were bulging with sheer fury, and the valet cut in quickly, "Yes, yes, I understand completely. Thank you for checking, but I'm fine. Go back to sleep."

But the little Bosmer stood in place, surveying his Champion and the furious Imperial. "So he-" he said, jerking a thumb in no greatly respectful manner in Edward's direction, "-already knows I'm here, right? So then I can follow you, yes?"

"No. Go back to your room."

"But Grand Champion," the Bosmer protested, "surely-"

The continued provocation was too much for Edward, who lunged at the little elf. Catching sight of the Imperial's movements, the Bosmer withdrew quickly, slamming and locking his door just before Edward reached him.

Colliding heavily with the iron-braced wooden door, Edward stumbled backwards, feeling blood trickling from a fresh wound on his lip. Catching sight of the murder in his eyes, the valet hastily enjoined, "Now, sir, remember what I told you about handling frustration in a mature fashion."

Aha! This is still alive and fun reading! And... almost time to start Thread Two!