G'day folks! This is a little something I thought up whilst pottering about my home, so it is a bit short, but please read and tell me your opinion; I'd love to hear it.

Also, this is meant as a secret history of sorts for a certain period in Tamrielic history, and as such it might not adhere scrupulously to the lore. I've tried to remain loyal where I could, but if I haven't, please don't crucify me for it Anyways, thanks and do please comment.


Prologue







Part 1

The next chapter. Feel free to comment!

Part 2

Nice nice I've only read chap 1 but I like it... keep up the good work

Part 3
Yet another day dawned over Chorrol, only the third one since Metharial had found himself abducted from an alleyway of the city. Time had moved slowly for the Breton since then; the journey back to Chorrol was less than a half a day from the old fort where Captain Dauvian had set up his headquarters. During his altogether pleasant march back to the city, Metharial had read his orders. In addition to directions, they provided him with background and explanation for the job. He had then burnt the sheaf of parchment, as instructed; he doubted that he would fair well if it fell into the wrong handsThe orders, however, troubled him. Not the killing, for certain ? he had long ago turned his back on conscience ? but rather the sudden and peremptory way he found himself subordinated to another. It was true that Metharial worked for others all the time, but he had always been able to keep his own council. Now, he was forced into a job he did not want. Well, that he had not sought out, at least; murder was really all the same, just the pay that varied. But no matter what the remuneration, Metharial hated the idea of not being his own man, of being just a pawn in some faraway king's game.For that was what this was, he had no doubt. Uriel VI was a young man still, he probably dreamed of restoring the glory days of Tiber Septim, and this Red Spearhead was only one card in his hand.
Metharial knew that there was time enough for reflection later though, when he did not have a deadline to meet, so the Breton went back to the task at hand. He was currently loitering about on the streets of Chorrol, reading the city paper, trying to find a window of opportunity. The Chapel of Stendarr loomed in front of him, and that was where his mark resided
Yes, he had been sent to kill a priest, the Primate of the Chapel of Stendarr, named Adrel Prosirus. When the Count, Countess and so many other powerful citizens of Chorrol had been slaughtered two years and three days ago,Prosirus had declared it an act of divine vengeance. He charged that the people of Chorrol had grown lax in their worship of the gods, and worried too much about money and things of the mortal plane. The people, reeling from the loss of all leadership, rallied to him. Almost the ruler of Chorrol at that point, Prosirus installed a puppet Count, the former Captain of the Guard. Now, Chorrol was ruled as a theocracy, with Adrel declaring that the Nine Divines surpassed all mortal authority, even the Emperor's.
This, of course, did not mesh well with Uriel VI's plans for Tamriel. Metharial's orders were to kill Prosirus and frame it on the puppet Count, who would be promptly deposed. With no senior Temple leader to step forth and no man of noble blood left in Chorrol, the Emperor would have a free hand in influencing the appointment of both a new high priest and a strong, pro-Imperial Count. Admittedly, that last bit had not been mentioned in the parchment, but it was easy to see that would be the result.
So Metharial had carefully prepared a few bits of parchment, planting one in the Count's boudoir and carrying another. These were central to his scheme. Now, having already cased the grounds, the only thing left to do was kill Prosirus and plant evidence. Inhaling deeply, the Breton set aside his paper and walked round to the rear of the Chapel. He was dressed unremarkably, and appeared to all onlookers as merely a man admiring the architecture of the imposing structure. Checking once to ensure no one could see, he leapt quick as a flash onto the wall and scrambled upwards. The building blocks made for easy handholds, and Metharial wore a pair of climbing gloves that increased his grip. A naturally agile man, even for a Breton, he was soon safely hidden amidst the spires of the Chapel.
Now to relax, and to wait. Metharial had survived for so long largely by his patience. The city guards were not out in force during the day, and the ones patrolling were not very vigilant for assassins and killers. After all, why would an assassin scale a building in the middle of the day? Everybody knows the night is the only time that killers strike.
To Metharial, such ignorance was golden. Certainly, he would only make his move in the evening, but it was always best to be in position much earlier, for observation. In order to facilitate the observation, the Breton opened a small trapdoor and climbed down into the Chapel's attic. The boards beneath his feet were ancient, and more than a few had warped in such a way that there were gaps between them, very handy for spying down on the congregation below.
For the next four hours, Metharial lay down and watched the comings and goings of the Chapel, waiting for one of the lower-ranking priests to close the Chapel doors for the night. At long last, a small man in a splendid blue tunic pushed each one of the doors shut, then headed back to the rear of the Chapel where the sleeping quarters were. The Breton held off for a few more hours, until night had truly taken hold, before he slipped stealthily down from the attic and down among the pews.
Without a sound, Metharial snuck into the priest's sleeping quarters. Two deacons slept here, but Prosirus dozed in the Primate's Chamber, located just beyond here. Taking out his lockpick, Metharial swiftly and expertly opened the door into Adrel's room. Leaving the portal slightly open, the Breton strode up to the sleeping form of Prosirus, drawing a silver dagger from out of his coat. In one smooth motion, Adrel's throat was cut. Cleaning his blade off on the blankets, Metharial surveyed the room quickly. He picked up a small pile of coin and slipped them into his purse, then grabbed a silver chalice.
Smiling, he dropped it purposefully. It made a satisfyingly discordant ring, and Metharial knew it had the desired effect by the sudden interruption in snoring from the sleeping quarters. The door flew open and a bright light magically burst forth from one of the deacon's hands. Shielding his eyes, Metharial froze, pretending as if he had just been caught in the act.
The deacon's eyes ranged over the room, from the fallen chalice, to the intruder, to the slain Primate. His eyes screwed up in rage, and his mouth fell open into a silent scream. Metharial made his move for the door. The priest jumped to stop him, but the Breton knocked him aside handily with an elbow. The second deacon swooped in though, tackling him to the ground. As he fell, Metharial strategically flung out the pieces of parchment he carried, then cracked his head on the flagstones.
The sharp pain made him decide to drop the act, and Metharial promptly flipped the priest off of him. Leaping to his feet, the Breton dealt a backhanded blow to the second deacon who came to his friends aid, and then ran. Now was the truly dangerous portion of his plan; the escape. Drawing attention to yourself is never a good idea, even if necessary, for the detriment to health can be quite severe if a guard's blade should find your belly. It was a risk Metharial was willing to take, however, mostly because he knew the quality of the Chorrol City Guard.
Bounding into the large main chamber of the Chapel with the priests crying out for help behind, Metharial ran to the main door and threw it open; no time for subtlety now, the Guard would be sure to have the Chapel surrounded before he could get on the roof. Taking the steps at a leap, Metharial deftly avoided the clumsy attempt of a watchman to hinder him. Now at a dead sprint, the Breton popped the cork out of a flask. Halting for a brief second, he downed the contents in a gulp, making a wry face at the horrible taste.
Still, there was no time to spare for dawdling, even though he was now invisible for a time. The cries behind him had picked up in number and intensity, and there was the sound of many feet running towards Metharial. He turned to the nearest section of wall now, preparing to climb, when he noticed that the gate guard was just standing, looking stupidly towards all the commotion. Ha! He's bloody drunk! The Nine praise their incompetence!
Metharial found the speed of his departure greatly enhanced by simply knocking out the gate guard and stealing from the town, quick as a shadow. The Breton now snickered as he ran, for the job had been so simple. Within a few minutes the town guard would be reading a note, ostensibly from the Count, ordering the death of Adrel. An enraged township would break open the doors of the Count's manor, and after searching through his private papers, find a note from the assassin detailing his wishes for payment. Metharial knew the mob mentality well, and they would not allow the man to escape with his life.
Smiling as he traveled the dark forest, Metharial thought that maybe working for the Empire would not be so bad after all.

This is great, I believe no one is posting either because they have not yet read your work or they see no reason to flaw this story with their posts.

Hmph. I concur with Heldwyn. I was thinking... even a small plot like that would make a good RP if you added some fluff to it.

Roleplays don't need fluff, only muscle.

'Fluff' can be considered a sly way to make your writing seem better than it is. 'Muscle' is pure writing.

Thanks for the kind words Christo, Heldwyn and Marn :hugs:

Here's Part Four, and comments, critiques or what have you are all welcome!

*****

Part 4

Metharial travelled all through that night, resting not at all. There were horseman pursuing him, heavily-armed guardsmen with long lances, who used dogs to track his scent. But he was resourceful, and plunged into a fast-moving stream, traveling down it for half a mile before coming out on the opposite bank. The Red Spearhead's base was near enough that Metharial was able to reach it before the Chorrol soldiers found his trail again.

He sighed with relief when the moss-covered stones of the tower were revealed to him. Panting only a little as he trotted into the courtyard, his Breton eyes swiftly picked out the half dozen figures lurking in the shadows opposite him. The moonlight was weak, but he could make out that the silhouettes were armoured Forcing a smile, he called out to them even while drawing his dagger. "Captain Dauvian, are you here to greet me?"

"Well well, Metharial, you have exceeded my expectations," said Dauvian levelly, stepping into a sliver of moonlight, "but have also brought a pack of incensed soldiery down upon us. You are ever so careless."

Metharial blanched at that last. Admittedly, he had not thought out the last part of his plan too well, but he had not expected the Chorrol guards to give chase so quickly. He tried to divert the conversation away from his blunder, "Is the Count dead then? You seem to know an awfully great amount about what has only recently happened."

Dauvian's smile could only be seen by the shadows on his face. "Yes, the Count is dead. The Empire has informants in many places, and near-instant communication with a select few of them."

"Mages' Guild members, then?" asked Metharial.

Dauvian ignored him, motioning to the men behind. They came up then, and Metharial saw that one carried a long, knobbly staff and wore robes rather than chain mail. The others backed away from him as he scratched a pentagram in the courtyard dirt, then draw a circle around that. Metharial could not make out his face, but silver braid on his clothing glowed as he began his incantations.

No one spoke a word, for it is most dangerous to interrupt a Mage, especially when they are attempting to create a teleportation circle. Dauvian walked silently over to stand next to Metharial, and silently handed him a sealed envelope. "Your new orders," he whispered, "but this time you will have full discretion timewise; there will be no deadline. Chorrol was merely a test to see if you could move fast under stressful circumstances."

Metharial glanced at the letter, then glared at Dauvian. He hated being the subject of experiments. At that moment there was a blinding flash of white light, and the Mage called out, "It's ready! Everybody, stand inside the circle and we're back in the Imperial City!"

"Not a moment too soon!" cried out another man pointing beyond the fort's gate.

Metharial turned to look, and sure enough he saw twenty horseman thundering for them. Dauvian ran to the circle with a hiss, and the Breton followed right after. The Mage stood at the center of the group, his staff elevated over the pointed hat he wore. The barking of dogs was now audible, and Metharial was able to pick out words that the horseman shouted.

"Hold on then, here we go!" shouted the Mage, and plunged his staff into the heart of the pentagram.

There was a jolt, and Metharial felt as if a gauntleted hand had slapped him cross the face. He stumbled into a pair of strong arms that pushed him forward again before he regained his balance. Pivoting on his heel angrily, Metharial came face to face with the man's chest. A booming voice came down at him, from the region where the fellow's head would be, "Hol' steady there, my li'l chappy, or we'll have a mighty fine accident on our hands!"

Metharial went very still. His eye twitched. No one had ever insulted him so much, with so little reason. Little chap! Baring his teeth, he craned his neck to see this fool's face. The only two discernable features were a pair of watery blue eyes and a shock of a Nord's red beard. Grimacing, Metharial put his hand to dagger, when Dauvian clapped him on the shoulder and gave him a half-smile.

"I see you've met Hoblin," said the Imperial, nodding to the bearded giant, "he's ever so offensive, but I am in need of muscle."

"Assassination is finesse, not brute force," replied Metharial, snorting, "you won't get far with him."

Hoblin chuckled, and said genially, "Tha's your opinion. I mysel' have seens what a claymore can do to a man, so I trust to strength."

Metharial rolled his eyes and gave up trying to talk to the man. Instead he glanced over the room they had teleported into, and the company he had come with. The new surroundings were not impressive; simply another unremarkable stone chamber, and it felt as if it were underground. Metharial's companions, however, were noteworthy.

The Mage was most obvious, a young man almost floundering in his elaborate robes, the peaked cap he wore was ridiculous beyond belief, but his staff emanated power. Next was a Dunmer, all in chitin armor and goggles meant to keep the Vvardenfell ash from his eyes. Metharial had never been to Morrowind, but he knew that the Mer from there were a wary, dangerous lot.

Last were three cloaked figures of average, their skin and faces completely obscured by the dark grey clothing. But each one of them had a sword or axe strapped over their shoulder, making for an altogether grim company. Dauvian must have been following his eyes, for his words spoke to Metharial's thoughts. "Wondering who these people are?"

Metharial nodded. "Well, I'm sorry to disappoint. It would be unwise of me to have all my asassins know who the others are, when I am still not sure of all their trustworthiness. Perhaps later on, after you have proven yourself more to me."

Dauvian then turned from the Breton and addressed the room. "Now, all of you; we are in the Imperial City, in a blocked-off portion of the sewers. This is the permanent headquarters of the Red Spearhead, as dictated by the Emperor. If you will all follow Georvy, he will show you to your quarters and then the layout of the premises."

The group began to file away, but Dauvian told Metharial and Hoblin to come with him instead. Moving at a hurried clip, they went down a long corridor and soon entered a spacious, richly decorated chamber. Tapestries and trophies lined the walls while a merry fireplace and luxurious rugs gave the place a luxurious, comfortable feel. Hoblin gave a low whistle at the wealth on display, and Dauvian's lips turned upwards. "This is the sitting room, where the servants of the Red Spearhead might relax. But right now it is deserted, so I feel comfortable in discussing your next job."

"Jobs, I think you mean," interjected Metharial, "for there are two of us."

"No, I am not mistaken," chuckled Dauvian, "both of you are to be sent out on this next mission, for it is too dangerous - and too difficult - for one man to accomplish."

Hoblin's chest swelled up at that, and Metharial ground his teeth. The Nord stepped forth, nearly shouting. "I've no need of a teeny tiny chappy like this 'un! I c'n fight an' win no matter the odds!"

Metharial too spoke his mind, loudly, "I won't be paired off with this great lump of stupidity! He'll get me killed within a day!"

The Imperial smiled faintly at them both, amusemant sparkling in his eyes. "You clearly underestimate each other, but I will not be swayed until you have at least heard the situation."

Nord and Breton alike exchanged glares, but said nothing. Dauvian took this for assent. "The Khajiit city of Rimmen is your destination, in Elsweyr. Rimmen has always been ruled by the most civilized elements of Khajiit society, elements which, although still bestial in nature, were at least able to be negotiated with."

"Ha! Dealin' with the cats is like tryin' to persuade a plant," roared Hoblin heartily, before a silencing stare from Dauvian.

"Anyways, for many years the Empire has managed to keep this city in line. But now, a warlord from the deep deserts of Elsweyr has emerged leading an army of nomads, and with stunning swiftness he deposed and executed the former ruler of Rimmen. He has promised to restore the lost Khajiit glory, and to retake the lands lost to them.

"This is most disturbing to the Emperor. Rimmen is located in a strategic area; a single strike could cut off Leyawiin from the rest of Cyrodiil, and if they took Bravil, they would gain a vital port onto the Niben Bay and could blockade the Imperial City. If ever that happened, and Khajiit struck such a blow to the Empire's heartland, fully fledged revolt would break out across Tamriel."

Metharial took advantage of Dauvian's pause, asking, "But surely the cat people don't have the capacity to wage war on Cyrodiil? I mean, the Legions would destroy them."

Dauvian's face took a grim turn as he replied, "Rimmen held a full compliment of Legionaries; one thousand men. They marched out to face this warlord in open battle, and within an hour they were routed, more than half of them dead. These deep desert cats are nothing like their city brethren; they are stronger, faster and more vicious. The Emperor could defeat, assuredly, but there would be a grievous loss of life."

Metharial nodded, thinking about those words, but Hoblin roared out with laughter once again. "You mean the finest of the Empire were sent running scared by a few kitties? Hahaha!"

"I'm sure the Nords would do much better," said Dauvian slickly, although Metharial noticed the ugly look in his eyes before it slipped away, "and that is why we are sending you two to kill the warlord. He leads an army of eight thousand, and is encamped just outside the walls of Rimmen. It will be difficult to kill him, but losing their leader will demoralize the army. Perhaps it will not disintegrate, but they will at least not attempt to attack Cyrodiil and the Emperor will be able to deal with them at his leisure."

"You're sure this warlord wishes to invade Cyrodiil though? It seems very rash," asked Metharial, "and what is his name, besides?"

"His name is T'Rav Sefirt, and my informants have already told me of talk amongst his soldiers; they believe that they march on Bravil within three weeks, as soon as supplies can be assembled."

The Breton nodded, looking sober. "So we have to kill him before his regiments enter the heartland. And he will have eight thousand bodyguards."

"Sounds fun enough, even if killing Khajiit is like slaughtering babies," said Hoblin, fondling his massive sword, "their armor is like cloth."

"You will find more specifics within the packet I gave you both," said Dauvian, "now get some rest. Yerum will send you to the Elsweyr border tomorrow evening. Then your hunt will begin."

Very well written and I applaud your decision to have the story venture outside of Cyrodiil. I look forward to your description of Elsweyr.

I'm loving the plotline, thus far. I really like this fanfic, and I'm eager to continue reading - if you are eager to continue writing.

Whew, part five already! I must say that I'm quite enjoying writing out this little story, especially the nice comments people are leaving Thanks Marn and Beniamus Revas! And Revas, you might not find a lot of description of Elsweyr in this chapter, but it's definitely going to feature more prominently later on. Anyways, keep 'em coming, and I'll keep this story coming along.

Part 5
Borderline

For Metharial, the following morning and afternoon were gloomy ones. After his most successful jobs he was in the habit of going out and swigging down a few pints of good ale, to get himself back into good spirits. And successfully knocking off not just one, but two leading figures of an entire city was a successful job, though Daedra tear his limbs off!

But Captain Dauvian had specifically forbade Metharial or Hoblin from leaving the hideout, so the Breton had been forced to satisfy himself with a bottle of Tamika in his own room. Hardly a fun time, although the wine was good despite being a young vintage. Then Metharial had been shaken awake at midday by Georvy, and told that the Mage would be transporting them away in an hour.

Midday! It was scandalous to be woken up at such an hour; these last few days, Metharial had gotten very little rest. Dauvian would not be dissuaded though, and it didn't help that Hoblin strode around the various rooms and hallways of the hideout, shouting out how eager he was to knock off some Khajiit heads.

That was how the Breton assassin found himself standing in the Mage's laboratory at one in the afternoon. Metharial rubbed his head where he had hit it in the scuffle with those priests, and looked over the room. It was not an overly occult setting, considering its owner, but the few shreds of cobweb and occasional calcinator lent it enough of an arcane feel to be legitimate. The Mage, Yerum, was got up in all his wizardly finery, and had chalked out the usual sets of diagrams for a teleportation circle. Dauvian was nowhere in sight, but the mysterious group of cloaked individuals that Metharial had seen the previous night now filed in through the door. Hoblin raised a shaggy eyebrow at them, and asked, loudly as always, "So, am I to babbysit e'en more children?

The grey figures ignored him and walked straight up to Yerum. After a few whispers between them he stepped aside, and they stepped into the teleportation circle. He glanced at Metharial and the Nord, shrugging. "Dauvian has them on a mission as well, and he's decided to send them off early. Don't worry, you'll be going right after them."

Hoblin twisted his lip at this slight and even Metharial stiffened a bit. It was quickly forgotten though, as the cloaked ones were zapped away and the two of them stepped into the transport ring. Yerum breathed in deeply, smiling at them. "Here's hoping I can send you two close to the right place. It's damnably difficult to do, when there's no circle on the other end to aim for."

Metharial opened his mouth, a little alarmed, but right then Yerum began the necessary chanting. The Breton closed his mouth; very unwise to bother a man about to teleport you several dozen leagues away.

A white flash, and Metharial was standing on light brown soil, with golden, parched grasses up to his ankles all around. A dry heat covered everything. Surveying the landscape from where he stood, all to be seen was dry, rolling hills. Metharial knew that within a dozens leagues even this arid land gave way to the burning sands of pure desert; it was there, just outside the dunes, that Rimmen stood. A shadow fell across Metharial, and he turned to see Hoblin squinting at his surrounding.

"Hmph, so this is Elsweyr? I don' see how any city can survive in this climate," the Nord said.

"Only part of Elsweyr is like this," said Metharial, "to the south there is much jungle, and grasslands before that, but nearly all the northern lands are desert. Or close enough to desert. Rimmen and cities like it survive by being at the crossroads of many trading routes, carrying goods to the south or north."

Hoblin shook his head. "Pfft, merchant towns. Nary a decent warrior in any one of 'em."

"Well there are eight thousand warriors in this town, I'm sure one might prove a challenge" Metharial said wryly, "but we only need to kill one of them, so let's go already."

The Nord nodded his assent and they set out, west, for Rimmen. Two days passed as they journeyed, and Metharial wondered the whole time. Wondered how, exactly, he could possibly make use of a Nord that stood out like a sore thumb. He had watched Hoblin closely, and could tell the man had no gift for stealth, and was too big for it anyways. This man was a warrior, meant to charge straight at the enemy and kill them two at a time, so how could he help in an assassination? It was a business that required silence and speed. Metharial could not help but feel that Dauvian had purposefully sent Hoblin with him so they would both die.

That was a problem, but Metharial had no time to deal with it. Early on the third day, however, the issue was forced. Trudging up a particularly steep rise of land, Hoblin and Metharial's eyes were gifted an amazing sight as they crested it. The sun was still low in the sky, and its brilliant rays reflected dazzlingly off the desert sands that stretched interminably before them. The white rooftops of Rimmen were visible now, and they glowed. Metharial had to blink a few times, and Hoblin shielded his eyes from the brightness. Laughing, the Nord shouted out, "Well, we've reached our destination and it is a bright spot! Let us go and kill this warlord then, and be done wi' it."

He would have marched straight down and tried it, too, had not Metharial jumped in front of him. "Don't be a fool, Hoblin. You see all those tents hiding in the shadow of the city walls? Those are soldiers, and we have to get by them before entertaining ideas of killing their leader."

Hoblin glanced at the considerable camp below and shrugged. "Well then, we'll ha' to kill a few before the warlord goes."

Metharial again jumped before him, blocking his path. "I don't think you understand, fool! There is eight thousand of them, and they destroyed a Legion, so they won't just stand there waiting for your bloody great sword to cut their heads off. We must be unnoticeable, and observe the situation until we can see an opporunity. Then, we will strike. But we will strike only at T'Rav, and not try to take on his whole army!"

The Nord stood for a moment, his face screwed up with the big thoughts roiling inside his head. Cautionary thoughts, sensible thoughts; thoughts that did not come naturally to a man of extreme action like Hoblin. The heat was becoming steadily more oppressive as the sun rose, and beads of sweat dewed on his face.

Finally, he nodded. "Very well, chappy, we'll try it your way. Now, what's your plan?"

"Don't have one at the moment," responded Metharial, but quickly went on as Hoblin was about to shout, "but I have a clear course of action that will lead us to a plan. Infiltrate the city, which should be simple, and then ask around the locals for where T'Rav is and whether he moves about."

Hoblin snorted, but said nothing. They waited until dusk, scouting out the fringes of the Khajiit camp and avoiding sentries, then Metharial led Hoblin through to the gates. It was a very simple, for the nomads had left the road into the city unguarded, the gate to the city unsecured and unclosed. It's like they don't care whether anyone comes or goes, thought Metharial, before he realized that they likely did not care. Cities are a symbol of all that weakens their people. Well, that is probably true, but I will make them pay for underestimating the importance of manning the gates.

Time to resurrect this story...if you have any thoughts or comments on it, go ahead and let me have it. Many thanks.

****

Part 6
Prying Some Nails Loose

The swiftest way to collect information, Metharial knew, was simply to take it. That ignored the consequences of such a course of action, but force was still often more rapid, more brutally effective, than finesse or espionage. In the short term, at least.

And Metharial was beginning to realize that that was the key to Hoblin's success. The Nord lacked mastery over the art of subterfuge, but he more than made up for it with the practical application of his fists. And his speed was so great that the lack of subtlety rarely hurt him; his quarry would have no time to react.

This, however, was international politics on a grand scale, with the fate of whole provinces up for grabs. Speed was of the essence, but any action that was too overt might precipitate alliances to shift and cost countless lives in a rising tide of warfare. If any of that happened, Metharial knew, it would jeopardize his payscale; an event to be avoided at all costs. Which was why Metharial's plan incorporated Hoblin's brawn only sparingly. Metharial could see the Nord's usefulness quite clearly now; he was a tool. More specifically, Hoblin was a hammer. Meant to pry and smash, but only at those places, on those nails, where he could make a difference.

*****

The sun radiated a stark, dry heat onto Metharial's head. A single bead of sweat rolled down his forehead and collected on the Breton's brow. He deftly flicked it off with his pinky. Metharial hated sweating; it wasted the body's moisture, moisture that might be vital only seconds later. But in this back alley, among these ramshackle huts of mud, Metharial doubted there would be anything to challenge him. In the two days Hoblin and he had been walking the streets of Rimmen, they had not seen a single weapon hanging from a belt, or in the display of a merchant. The Khajiit barbarians had been very effective in eliminating those who posed a threat to them, and now a deep fear suffused the whole city.

A crash came from the mud hut Metharial had his back to, and the Breton turned in time to see the back door of the place smashed to pieces. A Khajiit was thrown from it, landing on all fours. From the dark interior of the hut a huge figure came forth, having to stoop to pass beneath the low doorway. Straightening up and squinting his blue eyes against the sun, Hoblin glared down at the cat. "You listen here, laddy. Tell me what I want to know, or I'll put a boot up yer tail."

It only hissed back at him, it's yellow eyes mere slits. Metharial noticed that its face was swollen, almost certainly from the force of Hoblin's persuasion. He also noted, without surprise, that it was a female. The Breton smirked. "Having a little difficulty, Hoblin?"

Hoblin spared a dirty look for Metharial before turning his eyes back to the Khajiit. "This one is no so receptive to reason."

"Reason, Hoblin, is a very subjective thing," said Metharial, approaching the Khajiit, "but we've followed a half dozen leads so far, and all of them point to her. I must have this information."

Moving with a speed and agility that one would never guess from looking at him, Metharial got behind the she-cat and seized her throat. A dagger came out from beneath his robes, its blade dulled with greaze so that it would not flash in the sun. "Tell us, or its your life," he whispered," why do you protect them so?"

A gurgling sound came from her, and Metharial loosened his grip. Slightly. Her words could barely be heard. "Because those of the deep desert will make Khajiit strong again. Will kill humans."

"They'll kill your kind just as well," he reminded her, "you're city-dwellers, mere filth to them. Helping us will save you and those you love."

"You know nothing of me."

Metharial shook his head at the Khajiit's stupidity. At her ignorance. But he still knew a way that might make her talk. He hoped it would be enough. "Well, Khajiit. You've convinced me to stop trying. Now, I'm going to cut your tail off. And then burn your fur."

A whine came from the cat, almost too high-pitched for his Breton ears to pick up. She spat at him as best she could. "You would not dare. Every Khajiit within a hundred leagues would thirst for your blood, even T'Rav!"

Metharial smirked at her. "You underestimate my anger. If you had simply told me what I wanted to know, this could have been avoided. But now," he nodded to Hoblin, who drew his sword "you shall lose your ticket to the afterlife."

"Hold...hold on!" she squealed as the Nord took three swift steps and stood over her, his sword raised to strike off her tail, "T'Rav is in the crimson tent at the center of the nomad camp; gold paintings of his victories adorn the outside of it. The girls are brought before him at eight of the clock every evening, and his guards are sent away as he looks them over, until nine."

Metharial nodded curtly to Hoblin, who lowered his sword and returned it to his belt. "You've told us all we needed to know."

With a swift blow, the Nord incapacitated her. "Tie her up and conceal her," Metharial ordered, "T'Rav will die tonight. IT should teach him not to use a Madam from the city but leave her on a loose tether."

Part 7
Swift, Silent, Deadly

"Stop your sniggering, Hoblin."

"I'm sorra, laddie," chortled the massive Nord, his blue eyes misty with mirth, "but you're such a sassy lass..."

Metharial stuck his tongue out at Hoblin and twitched his shawl irritably, before realizing what he had done. The Breton's face went redder than a daedra's heart, and Hoblin's laughter doubtless could have been heard atop the White Gold Tower. Casting about the small hut they had leased, Metharial sought something to throw at the Nord. Finding nothing, he instead said, "Listen, you know that this is a necessary embarassment, so shove a pair of breeches into your mouth to keep quiet."

Hoblin managed to bring himself under control, but smiled cynically at Metharial's words. His hand reached behind his head, fingers brushing the pommel of his formidable claymore. "Necessary? I donna think so, laddie. This here is all that'd ever be necessary if you weren't here."

Checking that his long, flowing robes covered all his body, Metharial eyed Hoblin. The lug of a man actually thought that he could cut his way through to T'Rav, the single most powerful Khajiit warlord extant, and kill him without a hitch. He was either stupid, or - and this was what worried Metharial - he knew something that nobody else did. But there was no time for doubt now that a plan was in action. Only swift, decisive movement would pull off such a risky gambit. But that did not mean Metharial had to be happy about it.

Sighin, he pulled the cowl over hid head, making sure that his face was hidden in the shadows. He had been very careful in choosing his garments, and knew that his species was indeterminable at first look. A rope was tied round his waist to give the impression of a tail beneath the robes, and Metharial's own natural grace allowed him to perform a passable imitation of the Khajiit's gait. It was far from a perfect disguise, but the robes were the normal garb for T'Rav's companions; he did not want his troops to know he consorted with the females of the city. Considering that he publicly denounced all city Khajiit as soulless minions of the Emperor, it would be bad for his reputation.

His libido will be his downfall, mused Metharial. Taking one last look at his harlet's guise, the Breton was satisfied that it was as good as he could get it. "Remember, Hoblin, what to do when the signal is given."

"Aye, laddie. I will."

Inhaling deeply, Metharial opened the door to the hut. A blast of the night's air greeted him. It was dry, and rapidly losing the day's heat. The false Khajiit hurriedly made his way through the twisty streets, past dusty mud huts the cat people regarded as homes, and finally came to a particular junction. It was not really notable at all, really, but four large palanquins and bearers had chosen the spot to halt. The palanquin-bearers were slaves, clad only in loincloths. A half dozen Khajiit nomads were interspersed among them. They were sleek, golden-furred creatures, whose muscles had been hardened from a lifetime of hardship. Metharial took a close look at each one as he approached, assessing their threat.

Almost too late to see it step in front of him, Metharial spotted a seventh Khajiit guard. This one had been concealed along the road, lying in wait for the objects of his master's desires. Metharial stopped short of this one; its savage face indicated a creature who killed on a whim. It grinned at him, baring its fangs. "Hello, prrretty. You come from whom?"

Saying nothing, Metharial held out a scroll of parchment and then held his breath. The Khajiit growled deep in its throat, glaring at Metharial, but it unrolled the parchment. An orange light strobed from the surface of the scroll, and the cat's eyes went wide at it. As quickly as it had came, the light faded away, and the guard stood, stunned. Metharial let himself breathe. But there was no time to lose. Stepping up close to the cat, Metharial gave him commands in a swift, peremptory tone. "You will allow me entrance to T'Rav's quarters along with all the other wenches. You will say that Ilsyri sent me. You will not betray me to your companions, and you will not allow them to discover me."

The Khajiit's eyes were still wider than a Legionnaire's shield, but it nodded, obviously cowed. Metharial stepped back to a normal distance. A sharp inquiry came from the palanquins, "Hey, Sarcha, everything alright?"

The one called Sarcha turned around, shouting back, "This one is clear; Ilsyri sent her. Let her onto one of the palanquins and take her directly to T'Rav."

Metharial nodded to himself and set off for the nearest palanquin. Such an obvious enchantment might have been suicidally stupid anywhere else in the Empire, but a Khajiit's natural retardation when it came to magicka made it a worthy risk. The other guards barely paid him any attention to him as Metharial climbed onto the pile of cushions stacked within the curtains of the litter. But he allowed no satisfaction at the most gratifying way his plan progressed; there was still more than enough room for everything to go horribly wrong.

As the minutes passed, three more Khajiit maidens - although Metharial very much doubted their maidenhood - joined him on the cushions. Finally, he felt the palanquin lifted up onto the shoulders of the slaves, and they began to move. Metharial found himself counting time by measuring each step of the palanquin bearers - they marched in unison, a well-oiled machine. Doubtless oiled by their own blood, courtesy of the whip. Each step carried Metharial closer to his target, and each step increased the speed of his heart's beating. His awareness became focused, more intense. Each one of his faculties increased twofold in power. Countless moments passed, each an eternity to Metharial's heightened senses.

With such perception, he only needed a passing glance to categorize his companions, even with their concealing garments. None of them were worth a second look.

It was a long time before the litter was finally set down, and the curtains pulled back by the guards. Metharial allowed the others to exit before him, carefully noting where they were. Not that there was much to see; the slaves had set the litter down inside a large tent, and the tentflap was closed. Metharial was unperturbed by this, however; if the plan went off without a hitch, rescue would come to him. If it did not, then there was very little chance for survival in any event. "You there, get out from the palanquin."

The Breton came to his feet serenely, and glided by the scarred sentry. He joined the group of Khajiit women, who were now all removing their robes to reveal bare fur. And scanning the tent... there. Standing amidst a group of five barbarian guards, clad in crimson hunter's garb, stood the object of Metharial's dagger... T'Rav Sefirt. He looked every bit the part of a nomad warlord, savage and powerful. In that moment, Metharial began to doubt.

A damn fine story so far Darkynd.I salute you.

Keep up the good work,i'm enjoying this more than playing Oblivion itself.

Thanks for the kind words, Tim :goodjob: So here's the next update, and opinions on how I'm doing are welcome.

*****

Part 8
Senseless Violence

Metharial cursed his nerves a thousand times over as T'Rav walked farther into the tent. Self-doubt was perilous; more assassins died from that than any guard's blade. Remember, he told himself, this Khajiit is mortal just like any other. And so are his soldiers, hopefully...

Panic nearly set in right then, as it fully dawned on Metharial just how outnumbered he was. The guards escorting the palanquins had apparently left, for he saw none of them, but they had been replaced by a squad of nomads who looked to be doubly ferocious. There were seven of them, and each one clinked with chainmail hidden beneath their black desert robes. Broad scimitars were strapped across their backs, and axes hung from their belts. Metharial's silver dagger, sheathed in his dainty leather bots, suddenly felt inconsequential and insubstantial, like a wisp of cloud compared to a vast mountain. But T'Rav spoke just then, and Metharial thankfully refocused his mind on the target. The warlord's voice was gravelly, but unexpectedly thin. "These are indeed some of the most beautiful of our race...but Fresya, why is that one still robed?"

Metharial instantly felt seven sets of eyes switch their penetrating glares to him. A particularly tall Khajiit, a golden sash over its chest, growled at him. "You there, who they say Ilsyri sent. How do you dare to defy the wishes of T'Rav Sefirt, the Most Awesome and Ultimate?"

Most Awesome and Ultimate? At that, Metharial's doubts melted away. He hated pretension more than anything else, and this barbarian from the deep desert was the most pretentious creature he had ever heard of; a savage trying to style himself as a king.

Metharial pitched his voice upwards into a shrill, sqeaky sound as he responded, "Why, m'lord, I'm but a common serving girl, and I'm shy in front of royalty."

The last word came out as a snarl, and Metharial ripped his robes off in an instant; his dagger was in his hand before the Khajiit guards had even moved. But when they did move, it was with speed almost equal to his own. A scimitar flickered towards Metharial's throat, and the Breton twisted away with very little room to spare. The guards were trying to hem him in, he knew; surround him like a beast and assail from all sides. Metharial was having none of that, and lunged at the nearest soldier, feinting high with his dagger. The cat committed to the ruse, swinging its sword up to knock the Breton's sliver of a blade away.

Metharial ducked then, and sprang at the nomad's exposed midsection. The Khajiit's eyes widened briefly as the point of the dagger penetrated its chainmail and slipped into its heart, before Metharial shoved the now lifeless cat away and turned to deflect the incoming blow from a second guard. As he deftly turned the attack aside with a tap of his dagger, the cat named Fresya shouted out excitedly.

"Ha, this human is so fast, he might be a hairless Khajiit! At last a challenge from this accursed city!"

He snorted at the cat's words. It was a dance, he knew. Dancing away from death, dancing with his dagger. Silver blades sliced the air all around him, but Metharial was a master of combat, after his own fashion. He used his natural speed and finesse to avoid swift death, waiting for an opening to strike. But there were six of them, and Metharial's lungs were already beginning to burn. He needed to knock them off balance.

In a series of expertly executed dodges, deflections and bursts of speed, Metharial wove his way through the guards, coming to face Fresya. This one seemed to be a lieutenant of T'Rav's. Stepping out of the way of a clumsy slash, Metharial raised his palm to Fresya's face and summoned his inner strength...

Every Breton had the ability, the raw talent, to use magicka. Metharial had never fully exploited this ability, favoring steel over mysticism, but even he had developed a few skills over the years for use in tight situations. This was an undoubtedly tight situation, and the blazing red fireball he sent flying directly at the Khajiit soldier reflected that. Fear filled Fresya's feline features, the instinctive, paralyzing Khajiit fear of fire. It was that moment of hesitation that cost Fresya his life, as the fireball exploded on his jaw and disintegrated half his head.

Silence filled the tent, not a single soul stirred. Metharial allowed a moment for the sight to blazen itself firmly into the mind of each cat, then leapt. At that moment, the wenches started screaming. To that point, they had remained silent, even watched with interest. The usage of fire, however, made them realize the danger they were in. Those screams, coupled with the sight of their dead and charred lieutenant, slowed the reactions of the remaining soldiers. Metharial had a foot of steel through the nearest throat within a second, and moved toward a young-looking, crimson-furred Khajiit next.

The cat swung its axe at him, but the Breton sidestepped it effortlessly and flung his dagger out. Blood and other gruesome effluvium sprayed from a punctured eye, and the Khajiit's scream was painful to Metharial's ears.

"Halt! Stop this senseless violence!"

The voice was that of T'Rav, and Metharial was so incredulous that he actually did halt. The Khajiit guards, of course, ceased all movement immediately, a fact Metharial made sure of before he lowered his blade an inch. Looking at T'Rav, who had fled to the far side of the tent along with the wenches, the Breton said, "How is it senseless? I have been sent to kill you, to save the Empire. That is all the sense needed."

"It is senseless," responded T'Rav hoarsely, "because I am not seeking to destroy the Empire; I only wish to bring my race into a new era, an era free from oppression."

"And free from the presence of humans," noted Metharial cynically, "that's the part the Emperor seems to be having trouble with, you see."

T'Rav sneered at Metharial, his canines bared. "Your Emperor is a fool. I must use this guise of a barbarian to unite the tribes, to unite the Khajiit under my banner. Then, I shall establish a truly independent nation. Humans will be welcome, but they will not be the overlords."

The Breton paused for a moment, taking the time to gauge the reactions of T'Rav's soldiers. They did not seem surprised, not even remotely so. He spoke slowly, measuring out each word precisely, "Well, Sefirt, that is an...admirable thing, I suppose...your people have--"

It was then that he threw his dagger, straight and true. Metharial was quite proud of that throw; there was no extaneous motion to telegraph it, no changes in his voice to warn T'Rav. Now, the dagger protruded from the warlord's throat. The deed was done; it was time to escape. Roars of rage erupted from the surviving barbarians, but Metharial raised his hand to the sky. Fearful of more fire, they shied away.

Once again dipping into his reservoir of magicka, Metharial shot a white flare from his hand, which burnt through the ceiling of the tent and sailed upwards into the night sky. Seeing that nothing more deadly was forthcoming, the guards rushed him, eager for his blood.

Calmly, Metharial drew his second dagger from its sheathe on his thigh, skirted the blade of one Khajiit, and ran for the tentflap. A dozen more Khajiit broke through the flap, not wearing the black robes of T'Rav's personal guards but still armed to the teeth. One of them was in the middle of saying, "We know you told us not to disturb you on any account, my lord, but--"

Its voice faded away at the scene of carnage within the tent, was replaced by an unearthly hiss of horror and disbelief. Metharial darted away from the tentflap. He had not wanted to use the scroll inside, for it would be too easy for someone to jump on him, but there was no choice now. Pulling the scrap of parchment from his shirt, Metharial unrolled it hurriedly. Please Akatosh, let Hoblin have done his job well...

With that, the Breton activated his scroll of Divine Intervention. And someone did jump on him just as the magicka whisked him away.

Part 9
Being the Ninth Part

Hoblin was bored. Not a rare occurrence by any means; he viewed any moment in time not spent fighting, drinking, wooing or otherwise carousing as a moment not worth living. This was an especially boring moment, however, because he was not doing much of anything. Just waiting for a stupid flare to up.

As soon as the tiny little cross-dresser had left the hut, Hoblin had departed by the back door to go and procure some transportation. Horses were a rarity in Rimmen, what with the nomad army taking whatever it needed, but Hoblin's intimidating presence had been more than enough to secure two adequate mares. They were by no means prime racing stock, but they were strong and durable, good for a long journey. Hoblin had taken them to an empty courtyard, secured their bridles to a post, and began the wait. The courtyard was less than a half a furlong away from a not-quite-abandoned Imperial Cult shrine, which had been set up by the Imperial Legion to aid in the conversion of the Khajiit. Now the cultists were all dead, but T'Rav had set a guard of twenty on the building.

Metharial had told Hoblin that this was to catch any Imperial servants who attempted to evade his nomads by using a scroll of Divine Intervention, since such a scroll would transport them directly to this shrine; and into the waiting arms of the nomads. But it also served as a watchpost for T'Rav, as it was set atop a high hill on the western side of Rimmen, giving an unparalleled view of the entire city and the immediate countryside. And now, thought Hoblin to himself, it will serve as the consecrated burial grounds for a score of kitties! His Breton companion would have been amazed by the level of cognition evident in that thought, but Hoblin was always very intelligent when it came to violent humor.

A white light flamed up in the sky, from the direction of T'Rav's camp. The little laddy's flare! Hoblin realized, and a smile flitted across his ruddy features. This would be the first time in several days that he used his claymore. Gripping the hilt of the massive sword, Hoblin drew it in a blur of motion, then let out a primal war cry, meant to set the knees of the foe trembling. Rushing from the courtyard, he stormed up the avenue leading to the shrine, the moons overhead lending his eyes a deadly twinkle.

A Khajiit stepped from the shadows halfway from the Imperial Shrine, looking to find what the horrble racket was all about. He was met with the sight of a huge, roaring block of shadow with pinpoints of light for eyes and fifty inches of steel over its head. That Khajiit did not live long.

But its companions also heard the commotion, and ten of them emerged from their hiding places, curved swords drawn and axes out, thirsty for blood. Nine others, bunkered down in the shrine, drew their bowstrings taut, ready to send speedy death to this apparition from Oblivion. Hoblin roared again and rushed at the largest grouping of Khajiit. He was a Nord after all, descended from generations of warriors, people who only knew what fear was because they saw it in their enemies.

Just as the cat archers were about to release their arrows, a huge crack came from behind them in the shrine proper as air was forcibly expelled from the space it once occupied. Eighteen yellow eyes turned to see a Breton man, dressed in common if tasteful attire, and a scantily clad Khajiit maiden suddenly appear. The Breton twisted, and flung the female off of him before looking about, disoriented by the sudden translocation. One of the sentries, a captain by his sash, hissed at three of his subordinates. "You deal with this one, we shall kill the one from outside."

It was too late for their arrows to do much good, however. In the time it took for them to figure out what to do, Hoblin had closed with the group of nomads outside the shrine. Moonlight only dimly illuminated the desperate combat, but it was clear who the aggressor was, and who had the upper hand.

Within moments, two of the cats no longer had their heads attached, and the rest were being pressed hard. They tried to encircle the mad Nord, but the length of his weapon kept them at bay, forced them to assume the defensive. Hoblin gave another fiersome war cry and jumped at three Khajiit, standing close to each other as if to draw strength from the nearness. With the first sweep of his mighty blade their feeble weapons were knocked aside, and with the second sweep he spilled the guts of one of the cats. The other two scrambled to get away, but his blade severed the hamstring of one and then skewered the other from behind.

Pulling his claymore free, Hoblin faced another cat who leapt at his exposed rear. He swiped off the fingers that swung its scimitar, and with another blow, cleft the creature in twain. Now only four nomads remained standing, and Hoblin had pushed them back to the steps leading into the Imperial shrine. The Nord laughed at them. "C'mon me little kitties, show me your best already!"

A nomad gave a high-pitched scream and leapt at him, putting all of its weight behind an axe it swung with terrible ferocity. Hoblin knocked the axe away and cut the cat across its chest while another Khajiit was already at his side. Its scimitar sliced his arm badly, and Hoblin roared with satisfaction. Finally these creatures show some fight!

Leaving only his right hand on the claymore he grabbed the cat's head. It struck at his ribs, but its blade was foiled by Hoblin's mail. The Nord sent a blue pulse of magicka coursing down his forearm and into the Khajiit's head; the Cold Touch. He let go of the frozen, lifeless head and allowed the body to drop to the ground. Shaking from the blood pounding through his every vein, Hoblin grinned maniacally at the final two cats.

He took a step forward, and they fled back into the shrine. Chuckling, Hoblin bounded up the steps three at a time after them, shouting, "Run and hide, kitties, I'll hunt you down wherever you go!"

The shrine was not a very large or impressive building; just a square block of stones piled up into four walls. Its only windows were mere slits from which archers could fire, and the only other room besides the chapel was a small space behind the altar where the priests had once slept. As Hoblin entered the place he noticed that it was silent. Passing through the arched doorway, a cat jumped at him from both sides. With his claymore still in one hand he blocked the strike of the first, and with left hand he smote the jaw of the second.

The chainmail gauntlet he wore compounded the blow, and a satisfying crack sounded from the cat as it jerked from the sudden resistance to its leap. But Hoblin had not stopped its axe in time; the steel sheared away his shoulder's mail and bit deeply into him. Gnashing his teeth to hold back a cry, Hoblin blocked another attack from the Khajiit who still stood. Then an arrow embedded itself into his chest. Again his mail saved him, but not completely as the metal point drove half an inch into his flesh.

This time, the Nord allowed himself to scream, then beheaded his nearest adversary. His breathing was sharp as he looked into the chapel. Metharial was there, disarmed, badly bloodied and on his knees in front of a Khajiit captain. Six bodies lay around them, and what looked to be a maiden of the cats cowered close by. The two soldiers who ran from Hoblin now stood before their captain, one of them pulling his bowstring back to send another arrow at the Nord. The captain spoke, his voice quaking, "Listen, Nord, we have captured your fellow human. Lay down your weapon, and we shall allow you to live long enough to be judged by T'Rav Sefirt, the Most Awesome and Ultimate."

"Heh," sniggered Hoblin, "the fact that this human is here means that T'Rav is dead. You've got nobody to fight for now, kitty, and I've already slaughtered half your minions. How's about you surrender to me?"

The cat's features tightened with anger. "This one said much the same," it warned, pressing its blade against Metharial's throat, "and look where that got it. Put your sword down."

Hoblin cocked an eyebrow at the space behind the captain, and the cat turned its head in time to see the maiden pull a dagger from a thigh sheathe and slit its throat. The gurgling attracted the attention of the last two soldiers, and the archer let its arrow fly. But Hoblin expected it and dodged, sprinting at full speed for them. Within a few seconds, the only remaining Khajiit was the female.

Metharial stood up, rubbing his temple where he had been cut, and quickly retrieved a silver dagger from its resting place in one of the many corpses. He turned to maiden then, asking, "Why did you come with me, and why did you kill for me?"

"I didn't kill for you," she said angrily, "I killed so you would take me with you. That beast T'Rav were going to [censored] me, and if I stay here, they will surely kill me."

"Only because you helped us," responded Metharial, "but now is not the time for discussion. Hoblin, you have the horses?"

"Aye laddie," said the Nord, grinning once more, "and I see you've taken off your pretty robes. I must say, you looked more natural with them on."

"Shut up," Metharial growled, but his voice took on a more gracious tone, "although you deserve thanks; you did well with these barbarians. Now, we must leave; T'Rav's soldiers will know the scroll took me here."

Hoblin looked at the Khajiit, saw she was only a little more than a girl. "What about her?"

"She did save me," Metharial said, "so she'll come along with us, for now."

"You won't regret it," interjected the maiden excitedly."

"I'm sure we won't," said Hoblin, although his whole body screamed a warning which argued otherwise.

It's been a looong ol' time since I've posted here, but I'm back, and updating this here story. Tell me how ya'll like it!

*****

Part Ten

A Long Journey Short

Bravil! They had spent days traveling, with little rest. The Khajiit nomads had pursued them relentlessly, often drawing so close that Metharial could hear their voices. Had it only been Hoblin and Metharial, they would have been caught, and most likely have been killed. But fate had given them an unexpected boon; the maid, who they soon learned called herself Siraaj. Thinking back on it, Metharial was unsure what he had been thinking when the escape was planned -- how could he have expected a Nord and a Breton, alone in a hostile desert, to outrun and outwit Khajiit who had lived in the desert all their lives? Perhaps he had been thinking that the nomads would have been thrown into disarray by the death of their leader, and unable to mount a thorough pursuit.

That did not matter now; Siraaj had saved them. With her innate desert-sense, she had been able to guide them along the swiftest route while avoiding the majority of the nomad search parties. Admittedly, they were not too trusting of her at first. She had flown into a fury at their hesitation. "Do you think that I would be spared if they caught me? And even were I to be a traitor in your midst, you are like babes in the wilderness; you will not last long without help. So let me guide you, and take the chance that we might survive if I lead."

Not even Hoblin could say anything to that, so they had listened to her. Metharial was only half-surprised when they were soon across the border and into Cyrodiil, where the Imperial Legion was patrolling and the nomads would have to step carefully. And now, a day later, they were before the walls of Bravil. This Siraaj was clearly a creature of formidable will and had skills to match.

Metharial grinned like a fool as their horses clopped towards the gate; within a few short minutes they would be back in the Imperial City. The mission was done. Of course, he thought, there is the matter of Siraaj. He glanced to where she sat behind him, her muzzle held at a proud angle even with the sun beating down at full force.

She had long since discarded the revealing harem garments, and now wore Metharial's second suit of clothes. Even though the Breton was a man of average size, the clothes billowed on her slight frame, belying her graceful form. She had no weapon of any description, besides the fangs and claws inherent to a Khajiit. Jade eyes and blazing red fur marked her as a beauty among her own kind, and made for a striking countenance to any other race.

Siraaj noticed his scrutiny, and lifted her brow in unspoken question. Metharial shot her a toothy grin, saying, "Just gazing rapturously upon the face of our feline savior."

The eyes of deepest green narrowed at him for an instant, before Siraaj broke into a fit of laughter. "I hope not all Bretons are as disingenuous as you, else I be flattered to the point of extinction."

"Nay, madam," returned Metharial in his most gallant manner, " your features are so radiant as to elicit the most earnest prostrations from the most noble of Khajiit, whose solitary hope would be that you might look upon them with some small sign of favor."

Siraaj feigned bemusemant at such a compliment, while Hoblin trotted his huge steed closer to Metharial. "Laddie, your words are as genuine as I am a man much disposed towards philosophy."

"I never knew you were a philosopher, Hoblin," Metharial quipped, "to match that, you must be the grandest intellectual of Tamriel."

The Nord shook his head, perhaps not understanding explicitly, but receiving the tone correctly. He did not have to respond however, as they had soon arrived at the Mages Guild. Bravil, the Breton noticed, had passed by them on all sides without grabbing their attention even once. No small wonder considering the decrepit and dilapidated state it was in, but it still struck Metharial how unimpressive the whole town was. Even the castle simply stood in the background, making no impression whatsoever. He could only be thankful they would shortly be gone from it as their small party dismounted, tethering their horses loosely to a post.

Entering the Guild, Metharial found that it was more or less of the normal occult decoration, only slightly more poorly than any other guildhouse. A portly Imperial Mage in the standard blue robes encountered them almost immediately upon entrance, his sallow face pinched up in a most disagreeable expression. "How can we help you today?"

His tone implied that any amount of menial tasks would be more worthy of his time. Metharial would brook no contempt from a surly fellow like this though, and demanded that he be shown to the Mage Overon.

"I am he," replied the Imperial testily, "now tell me what you need already, there are a couple of mudcrabs who've just laid eggs and I need to perform some experiments...um...ahh."

Metharial had casually flipped out the coin of the Red Spearhead, threw it up in the air, and allowed it to land face-up in his palm so Overon could see. The Mage's impatient demeanor melted away. "I didn't realize...aha, best not to speak of such things. Now tell me, what do you desire of me?"

"Instant transport," said Metharial, "for the three of us, back to the Imperial City."

Overon regarded them all with calculating eyes, gauging the amount of power needed. "Any particular part of the City in mind?"

"The University Arcanum is fine, as long we are sent today."

"In that case, come right along to my apartments; you shall be sipping drinks in the Palace before an hour has passed."

*****

Now, imagine that there is a bird. A bird flying high in the sky, buffeted by air currents, heading over the tops of the Bravil's ragged homes and east. East, to Black Marsh!

Soaring over the Nibenay the land below it quickly turns into an explosion of vibrant greenery from the air. But swooping down to the ground, amidst the verdant flora, the picture is different. What appeared from the air to be so lush and hospitable is a watery, treacherous, swamp. The Empire has struggled to at least partially remove this blotch on Tamriel, hacking at it with blades and burning it with Mages' fire, but have only succeeded in taming Black Marsh's rampant nature at the utmost fringes of the province.

As the bird flies, flickers of Imperial civilization pass by; a hamlet here, a stone road there. However, it is clear that the Emperor's will does not reign supreme here; there are no way posts of the Legion, no soldiers patrolling the few thoroughfares. Instead there are keeps and towers who do not fly the Imperial standard, but their own individual sigils. These are the personal crests of those lords who had fought beside Uriel V, and were granted land in Black Marsh by the Elder Council as a “reward”. In such a hostile place, the Council assumed that these lords would soon falter and fail ? as many did. But those who did not fail forged alliances with the native Argonians, and extended their dominions. Most of all, they had nursed their hatred of an Empire that had abandoned them to a dark and treacherous land.

And suddenly, one of these lords' castles looms directly in front of the bird, its granite walls towering over the surrounding landscape. From the highest tower a forest green pennant with a golden bow and arrow blazoned upon it flutters with the wind. The bird lifts itself towards that pennant, its wings beating the air, when it is transfixed by an arrow not dissimilar to the pennant's. Like a stone, it drops.

Standing in the courtyard of this grey castle, a man dressed all in white lowers his bow, smiling. Turning to his companions, he says, “The Emperor is wishing to fly high as that bird did. But he shall meet the same fate.”

Part Eleven
Bloody Business

There were those in the Tamrielic Empire who claimed that the will and approval of the people was the only legitimate basis for authority. Baron Edral had one of those people on an iron table, strapped to heavy rings protruding from its surface by leather thongs. The man's entrails had long been separated from his body, and the man's life had followed only shortly after. But Baron Endral enjoyed the sight of mangled flesh, and he delighted even more in the exquisite expression of suffering on the man's face.

The man had no posed no threat, of course, even with his dangerous ideas. He had been a farmer of potatoes, nothing more. Endral had him tortured and killed nevertheless; it was not beseeming for a lord of Skyrim to tolerate cheek from a farmer. Sadly, Endral did not have the time to admire his handiwork, there were pressing matters at hand, foot and finger, all of which needed urgent attention.

Baron Endral departed his dungeon swiftly. Once he was past the forbidding door of oak and metal, the first matter found him in the form of his Captain, a typical, hulking Nord by the name of Magron. The man was clearly agitated, and when Endral approached him he bowed low from the waist and asked, in a strangely tremulous voice for such an imposing man, "My lord Endral, Kernick and his riders have been ambushed and slain, and the Count Bruma leads a force of five hundred men up Rainer's Valley."

Endral rolled his eyes at Magron. "Honestly, if you were any more of an oaf I might have you on my table. Did you think that I was unaware of these events? Pity poor you in your ignorance."

Magron blanched at the suggestion he should fall victim to the Baron's notorious fixation. "I?my lord, pardon my?but my lord, if you knew, why did you not tell me?"

Endral laughed at his Captain. "I tell you what you must know, that is all. And I have already made?arrangements for the Count and his 'army.'"

Captain Magron nodded. He knew that his Baron was a devious man, as well as a cruel one, and if the Baron said that he had made arrangements, then things were taken care of.

Baron Endral dismissed Magron and strode to the Main Hall of Castle Orbund. The Count Bruma was of no account, he knew; it was the Emperor he needed to worry about. The boy had been exceptionally troublesome of late, foiling the power plays of a few of Endral's friends. And one too many nobles opposed to the Emperor had disappeared in the past few months. Still, Endral knew that even southern Skyrim was mostly out of the Imperial reach.

Entering the Main Hall, lost in his thoughts, Endral did not notice his steward, Olrin, until he had nearly ran over him. Olrin made a small coughing noise, jerking the Baron from his reverie. "What is it, steward?"

The Breton surreptitiously scanned their surrounding, before hissing to Endral. "Lordship, the village elders from Stenton are back. They are demanding your lordship send troops to protect them from bandits, else your lordship find all the sheep to be stolen."

Endral found himself rolling his eyes again. "Olrin, I have no time for such petty concerns. Placate them somehow, tell them we have no men to send. Anything, so long as they leave and I do not have to kill them. That would look bad, would it not?"

Olrin shivered. "It always does, lordship."

"Then let us strive to avoid it. Get them away from the castle."

The Baron shoved past Olrin, his mind already onto other subjects. He had too many matters that required delicate attention...he could not be distracted by the small things now.

*****

The Count Bruma drew up his horse, signaling his guard to do the same. Off to his right, across a trickling brook, his men marched. The Count had taken a spot at the top of a low hill, however, to better his view of the valley. It was a narrow gash of greenery in the forbidding landscape of the Jerall Mountains. A perfect place for an ambuscade, but Rainer's Valley was one of only three ways to bring a large force up to the Castle Orbund, and the Count was confident that Baron Endral was not aware of his coming. What was more, the Count had received word that his Captain of the Guard had caught and executed the Baron's raiders back in Bruma, so his rear was safe as well.

Smiling with satisfaction, the Count Bruma cast his glance to a stand of trees to his left. For a moment, it looked as if there were figures in it. The Count dismissed it as fatigue and spurred his charger forward. Not a second later, a crossbow bolt punctured his steel briastplate, and battle was joined.

The Bruman soldiers never knew who it was who attacked them for certain, only that they were deadly accurate with their bows. After the initial shock, the column had formed a line facing the brook, where rows of grey foemen had replaced the Count Bruma at the top of the hill. Twice they charged, and twice were repulsed. On the third attack, the famed axes of Bruma cut down half of the grey strangers, and the unknown enemy broke and ran.

But the army had no stomach for pursuit. Their Count was long dead, and half their number lay with him. Nothing was left but to retreat to Bruma, and wait for the Baron Endral.