Lorundil, On the road to Evermore.

He had been travelling for some time now. The boat trip wasn’t too bad. It went by pretty fast and without any events and atleast he got to sit on something else than a bloody horse saddle. There was a reason he preferred to travel through daedric shrines and mage guild portals. But since daedric worshipping wasn’t really accepted and the mages guild had been disbanded years ago he had no choice but to go on boat and horse.

He was sure the knights and lords sitting on their horses all had a hurting back and buttocks, just as he had the second day. Luckily for him he was able to remedy it without much effort and as soon as that problem was out of the way he had enjoyed the long ride up to a certain point. That enjoyment ended after the third day. He was happy when he saw the first parts of the city of Evermore on the horizon.

He turned his horse towards the princes and moved it between the knights guarding her. He didn’t explain himself, nor did they ask him what he was doing. They all knew him well enough that if he wanted to ride next to Elissa, he’d rid next to her. If her guards wanted it or not.

He peeked in the same direction she was looking and noticed the knights of Northpoint pushing past the Daggerfalian chevaliers. What seemed to look like it was going to turn out into a battle seemed to be ended quickly by two men he recognized as ser Barron and ser Garrett and another person though. Not much later an Altmer came towards them.

He bowed from up his horse to Elissa. “Next time I’ll make sure to travel by carriage, my lady. “He said. “You actually have one you can use and you still ride your horse. I’m afraid I don’t understand.” He gave her a small smile and looked back at the arguing knights. “Sometimes I think men are only testosterone and no intellect.” He then saw the altmer got closer. “We have company.”

The altmer bowed before her and spoke, “You Wished to speak to me your highness?”

Hector Salford, Evermore

Hector turned the page of his book Fryssa’s Red hair falling over his chest as she rested her head on Hectors shoulder Hector watched through his spectacles at her watching her chest rise and fall as she breathed “What you reading” She murmured sleepily Hector kissed her on the brow “History my fierce spear-maiden” He whispered back lovingly she chuckled and whispered something best left in Nordic love ballads “I think this carriage is too small for that” he whispered back the carriage stopped “I had best be seeing what is happening” Hector said slotting a bookmark into his book before kissing Fryssa on the lips passionately before sliding his blanket over onto his wife to give her some more warmth she snuggled into the new warmth, hector turned and stepped out the carriage.

As he descended the steps Three dragons guard knights rode past “Damned boys playing at soldiers” Hector muttered, he looked up to his driver Eduard “What seems to be the situation” Hector called up, Eduard replied “The administration of high rock has gone to oblivion it seems milord ” Hector laughed before asking “Fancy a duel?” Eduard grinned at hector “Of course milord”, a few moments later and the two were circling each other thin blunted long swords in hand Eduard swung at hector who merely parried one hand behind his back the duel had attracted a small crowd Eduard launched a barrage at hector who merely blocked each stroke before feinting by swinging to the left then suddenly sweeping upwards knocking Eduards sword into the air catching it and said the words “Yield” Eduard groaned before nodding a voice interrupted them.

Still a master I see father” Hector turned to see his son Jaime a knight of the order of the dragon speaking to him “What’s the situation” Hector quipped towards him, Jaime lazily replied “The Northpoint host attempted to break through our host, resulting in the lord-marcher and the lord-commander of the dragons guard plus to other Dragons guard knights being sent to resolve the situation, your old friend Julius Scipion was the only one to turn up to represent Northpoint the two other knights from Northpoint arrived” Hector thought of a reply and started “How’s it going at playing sol-“.

“Hector” A voice like birdsong to hectors ears spoke he turned to see Fryssa descending the steps of their carriage she wore a green dress with a v-neck it highlighted her feminine figure her red hair was behind her shoulders and her emerald green eyes sparkled in the sunlight,as did her Ruby encrusted golden amulet and circlet atop her head she slipped her arm through hectors “What your father means to say is how is questing treating you” Jaime replied “Very well mother” Hector spoke up “I Suppose we could do with a ride my dear” Kissing Fryssa on the cheek, Eduard led two horses to them a White mare Which hector helped Fryssa mount before in turn mounting his black stallion “Come my dear a leisurely ride will be good” they set of at a slow pace they passed the king, they both dismounted Hector bowed, Fryssa curtsied “Your majesty” Hector began “ I wish to know if any more Iron ore is needed my mines are brimming and my soldiers are ready and fully equipped” He finished bowed and waited for a reply.

((http://www.gamesas.com/topic/1343716-of-princes-and-power-chapter-i-a-game-of-pawns/page__view__findpost__p__20320335, required reading for this to make any sense at all)

Meldorn Lariat, Beneath Northpoint, 2nd Heathfire 4E 28

Now stood the deathly Prince, sword in hand, gore-splashed, standing over his victim. The Prince's wide eyes were transfixed, stuck on the man who had been his jailer. The murder he had just committed shocked the Prince to his very core. It was not as if the young Prince had never killed a man before, but it had always been on horseback: he'd ride away triumphant in a flash, lance raised proud. Or a throat had been slashed and on he'd dance through he battlefield, red mist carrying him from the drawn-out aftermath. Oh, but this was different. This killing had been intimate, and laborious, and slow. The jailer had struggled, and gurgled, gasped and kicked and screamed. They had wrestled for a dank eternity, and the Prince could not have counted how many penetrations that cruel, Nordic sword had made in the writhing body of his former tyrant.The drawn out brutality of it reminded him of the slaughter and skinning of a game-animal, and took the Prince back to his youth. And then the Prince found himself already on his knees, skinning the corpse of the dead man like that of a rabbit, automatically. The Prince dropped the sword in horror at himself, staggered into the corner of his cell and vomited. The young Prince wretched emptily for minutes, but nothing came out but a thin, pale goo. There was naught for his stomach to produce. The Prince looked back at his jailer's corpse, and the corpse looked back at him, face half gone. He stayed there crouched, staring at his victim. Stuck in time. Dimly he heard the rattling of bars and hollering of the other inmates, up and down the dungeons. They all knew what had happened, and they thrashed like caged apes in their cells. But the Prince was too transfixed with the corpse of his jailer, too trapped in the moment of the killing. He was forgetting Shornhelm again. He was spending too much time with the body. The Prince crouched like this, in the darkness, for more than an hour without moving.

But it came back to the young Prince. That there had been a way home, once. There was a road, and a Kingdom, and in it he had been human. More than that, a Prince. Unthinkable had been his fall. Who was he now to walk down that road, back to sweet Shornhelm, and sully the halls of his proud Uncle? The Prince had fallen too far, shed everything that had made him Meldorn Lariat, and Shornhelm was another universe. But one thing connected him like a thread to that place. There was a road. And yes, he remembered his name now; Meldorn Lariat. A proud name. A road, and a name. This would have to suffice, for now.

Meldorn Lariat gathered his aching bones from the dungeon floor and looked one last time at the corpse of his Jailer, hating it. He staggered over to the body and fell back onto his knees. With a blank mind and empty, red eyes he took the key from the jailer's ring, undid his own shackles and moved to undress the body, taking everything that was not stained with blood, and swapped clothes with his jailer. The Prince stood again, a shaggy skeleton dressed in ill-fitting guard's armour. He bent down, numb fingers groping at the grip of the Nordic blade on the ground, and cleaned it on his old clothes. Meldorn returned the blade it its sheath, now loose around his waist, and turned one last time to the wall outside his cell. He did all this without thought, or deliberation. Everything was automatic now. Slowly, a humming left his ears, and he heard again the rattling and shouting of all the other in-mates. They were still screaming like animals in their ages. Half-hunched over with a hunger that had long ago forgot its name, the Prince staggered out of his cell for the first time in a year, and made his way, clunking through the shadows, past each and every one of those cells.

No-one -save the Jailer's wife, knew anything amis had happened that night. No-one visited the jail the next day, nor the day after. When finally a notice was made of the Jailer's absence at court, and his wife with two guards came down those long, dank steps to the dungeon, and discovered the Jailer's naked, split open body, it had festered for two days. And the Prince of Shornhelm was many miles away, lost on the way back home.

Varth, Kingdom of Evermore

Castle Evermore. Its grandeurous spires, arches, and battlements washed away the discomfort of Varth’s aching thighs, instead filling him with an odd mixture of relief and elation. The journey to the Kingdom of Evermore was a long one, and made even longer due to the horrendous application of his horse’s saddle, which was loose and wobbly. Needless to say, the trip was too long, though it did give the Dunmer sorcerer some time to reflect on his plans.

His crimson eyes refusing to leave the pretentious, towering structure that dominated the distance, Varth began to recollect what intelligence he had gathered out Evermore and its nobility. Its queen was apparently a rather liberal fan of fine arts, philosophy, architecture, and wealth, among other more indecorous things. In addition, she was also an Altmer, which sad oddly with Varth, for he didn’t understand how a High Elf would come into possession of a Bretonic Kingdom.

Regardless, he had to go with what he had. If this queen was as much of a [censored] as it was rumored to be, Varth might just try his hand at seduction. Not just for the fun adventures that would surely be had with one of High Rock’s most illustrious rulers, but mainly for certain… advantages to be had later on.

The more Varth considered this route, the more it appealed to him. He hadn’t had any sixual adventures in a while, and having an outside ally seemed to be beyond helpful. It wasn’t like the dunmer wasn’t dressed for success, either. Outfitted in an exquisite dark attire (not exquisite to the point of a king or duke, mind you. His outfit reeked of simplicity and elegance) with a new classy and unkempt hairstyle to match, Varth looked very rouge-like, and brimming with class. Tonight he would try his luck in the bedchambers of Queen Syllawen.

The caravan he was traveling with slowly made its way towards the city gates, Varth all the while admiring the Telvanni-esque architecture of the castle, and considering its military advantages in his mind. The group made it through the gates with several other royal caravans, each with their own royal and pretentious guards and knightly orders. The amount of gold, silver, steel, and emblem embodied cloaks almost made Varth sick.

“So this is the magnificent Evermore, m’lord?” said Varth as he maneuvered his steed next to Arniel, who was situated at the head of the column. “It’s just like others have described it! Except they seemingly forgot to mention the filthiness of the citizens and infrastructure, as well as the profligates who inhabit its streets…” he continued sarcastically. In truth, Evermore was just another city- a breeding farm for the worthless and inept.

OOC: Crappy post, but it works well enough, I suppose.

Sir Tiberius Valerius Aquila, Temple of Talos in Castle Evermore, Early Morning on the 11th of Frostfall, 4E28

Silence filled the room. The cold haunted the room imperiously, revealing the breath of the men within. The white marble embraced the cold like a gift but the torches clearly struggled against its encroaching presence. The warrior-monks of Talos gathered around a hoisted bull, the sound of its struggle beginning to penetrate the silence. Gathered were all the members of the Order of Talos, twenty-four warriors and five priests. Vibius, once a great warrior, sat restlessly in his cold stone throne. Old age had sapped the Imperial's strength and reduced him to a shrivelled shadow of his former self. He coughed violently as he turned to face Tiberius who stood nobly beside him.

"Remember the battle for Gauvadon....?" Vibius struggled for breath as he laboriously spoke to his old friend. "Titus had ordered our column to charge behind the cavalry... isolated from the rest of the army... into their front line. Oh that charge was glorious Tiberius... their arrows and magic no target as the horses blocked their view... and us centurions... little more than a dozen... clattered straight into their centre and routed hundreds!"

Tiberius chuckled as he remembered the great battle. "We kept killing and kept advancing until we found ourselves with no more men left to advance into! Their army thinly split and confused, Titus turned the infantry on the flanks and they routed within the hour.... by god we could fight then."

"Titus was a great leader... a leader fit for the Empire. That man had dragon's breath, shared his tongue with Talos even...." Vibius spoke with a certain sadness.

"Titus lives on through our Queen, comrade, as we ourselves live to protect her." The loyalty of Tiberius was unshaken as he sensed cynicism within Vibius. The decrepit monk merely coughed in response.

The bull groaned loudly as the leather straps were tightened further by the Imperials circling it. The Festival of Peace loomed over the heads of each warrior. In a few hours, total concentration and dedication would be expected from each man as they protected their Queen and the party from assassination and disruption. Lords and Ladies schemed the downfall over one another, merchants would conspire plots to invade business and monarchs themselves would conspire plots to invade nations. The festival would mark the beginning of a new age for High Rock as war and conflict loomed over the split province. The bull, when killed, would serve as a sacrifice to Talos to ask for invincibility against any foes the Order would find, which would most likely be numerable. The blood of the bull would serve symbolically as a signature of their strength as warriors as it was smeared across each monk's face.

One of the priests signalled for Tiberius to come forward. The Colovian tapped the shoulder of Vibius as a farewell and slowly stepped towards the altar the bull was hoisted above. The steps of the warrior echoed around the room as the bull felt its approaching doom. The priest spoke to the Pontifex-Maximus, ignoring the intensifying struggle of the animal. "Draw your sword Pontifex, blade of the Dragonborn." The steel glimmered in the torchlight and made the cattle yet more nervous. "Stormcrown, heir to the seat of Sundered Kings, we gather here today on this auspicious date for the slaughter of this beast. May you bless your servants swords with unstoppable power, may you bless your servants shields with impenetrable defence. May you bless your servants with invincibility and great strength. May you continue to enslave the mythic as your own and enforce your authority over the divine. We kill for you, Rebel King."

Upon the final word, Tiberius slit the throat of the bull and sent its blood streaming straight into the Colovian's face, anointing the monk. The other twenty-three warriors drew their Gladii and sent their blades into the cattle's body, drawing blood at every opportunity and welcoming it across their faces and armour. Tiberius lifted his blade into the air as the blood continued to shoot out of the bull's throat. "We fight for the one true Emperor and all he lives through! We must not forget our oath: that we shall die to put a strong man back on the throne of Tamriel!"

And so finished the ritual of the Order of Talos, on the morning of the Festival of Peace.