Fires of Akavir

[SansSword]

Ok, this is it, my time is up! Kill some time tonight while you wait =D

 

It isn't close to being finished yet so I will have to supplement it with serials every once in awhile--but till then, enjoy!

 

---------------------------------------------------------

 

Fires of Akavir

 

It was an uproar, a total uproar—But not the bad kind of uproar, the Emperor thought to himself—the day was joyous as the Emperor’s daughter was celebrating her birthday—citizens were out celebrating in the streets of Imperial City, ale was flowing, dancing and songs filled the air—the Princess’ processional rolled from street to street with onlookers filling the sides—the City Guard was doing its best holding people back but even they were strained—Bah, Emperor Yaro thought, this will take weeks to clean up! But . . . she’s having a fun day; she deserves a break from the royal tedium

From high up, Yaro’s perch along his castle’s wall allowed him to view the festivities beneath him—this was her day, he knew, and he didn’t want to detract from it by stealing away attention—he had planned to make an official announcement later in the day with his daughter at his side; with his people in front of him, that would suffice—even from up here, his daughter’s frantic waving and big smile could be seen amongst the myriad bright flowers adorning her carriage, the big horses dressed in their most regal wear

 

Part of him wished to be down among his people, to be with them rather than above them—but this was his destiny and despite the downsides, Yaro knew he had things pretty well

 

‘Excuse me, m’lord’ from behind him—Yaro turned to see Count Jathis, his defense minister standing there holding a scroll and looking somewhat nervous—‘This just arrived from Morrowind, from the Telvanni elders; it is somewhat . . . distressing’

 

Yaro would have none of this today—‘Distressing, Jathis? Really? Can it wait? I am enjoying my daughter’s parade, for the Nine’s sake!’

 

Jathis looked even more uncomfortable now but stammered out a reply—‘M’lord, just . . . please read it, sire,’ handing over the scroll and stepping back

 

Yaro sighed, eyebrows arched, and resigned himself to his duty—pleasure would have to wait—didn’t it always?

 

The official dispatch began as usual, in greeting according to the highest traditions of the Empire, of the Nine, and of the royal line—the letter stated raiders had been sighted along the coastline, landing and terrorizing various isolated settlements and sending residents into a panic—Yaro grimaced—there wasn’t much he could do except send blistering warnings to the local envoys in hopes they would post their own warnings, step up their local guards, and in turn demoralize the raiders—but Yaro knew the truth—raiders weren’t deterred by anything other than brute force; money spoke louder than words

 

‘Raiders! Pah! Filthy, immoral raiders,’ Yaro scoffed, ‘always willing to scare an easy coin from the populace—not to mention dealing with them draws forces away from legitimate threats to our land, such as. . . well, you know, Jathis. . .’

 

Jathis nodded quickly, 'The heartless Nords and troublesome Wood Elves, little buggers’

 

‘Indeed, Jathis, these groups are constantly fomenting rebellion and revolt, causing me endless heartache and my armies bloodshed when the only thing the Empire desires is a peaceful Empire!’ Yaro spat—‘Well, have the Telvanni increase seaborne patrols by two boats per region, the only thing we can do is try to squelch the raiders’ movement and catch them in the act’

 

Jathis nodded but didn’t say anything for a moment

 

Yaro glanced at him—‘Yes, Jathis? What else?’

 

Something down below had caught Jathis’ eye—‘M’lord, down on the street . . .’

 

Yaro turned downward—his daughter’s carriage had stopped, blocked by some sort of cart in front of it—the cart had toppled over, spilling its load of vegetables all over the cobblestones—the princess’s guards rushed over to deal with the incident

 

Suddenly Yaro caught sight of four dark-clad figures stealing up to his daughter’s carriage—they had swords drawn

 

Yaro shrieked, ‘JATHIS! My daughter! She’s under attack! What to, I don't, I can’t,' he stammered, 'go, do something! Help her now!’

 

Jathis tore his eyes away and rushed downstairs to street level, grabbing every guard he could on the way

Edited April 4, 2012 by SansSword

[SansSword]

Down on the street, three assassins were busily holding a perimeter around the carriage while the fourth jumped up inside, drawing the lacy curtains—now no one could see what was happening

 

Citizens screamed and ran, guards looked up at the disruption, drew their own swords, and ran at the attackers—they were promptly cut down by skillful strikes, their blood splashing on the pavement

 

Yaro was terrified; what could he do? He was not armed and was way up here—he had to do something—looking around him, he spotted a large loose stone that had fallen out of the castle wall—the horrified Emperor lifted the rock high above his head and threw with all his might

 

Down came the rock, smashing in the middle of the street, right near one assassin

 

The assassin looked up

 

The Emperor looked down

 

He thought he could make out a slight grin on the dirty villain’s face although it was partially shrouded inside his hood; Yaro couldn’t be sure but it made him even angrier—the villain twisted to strike down another onrushing guard, turned back up to the ruler of the land, made a rude hand gesture, and then went back about his work on the bloody street

 

Suddenly the assassin who had jumped inside the carriage was thrown out, backwards, bleeding profusely—he crumpled to the ground with a slash mark across his neck—Yaro’s daughter peeked out, holding a dripping ornate dagger in her hand—the other three rushed for the carriage but were stopped by a flurry of arrows let loose by bowmen who had just arrived—two assassins were cut down, multiple arrow wounds stopping their movement

 

The final assassin, the one who had disgraced the Emperor, grabbed a trinket from his robes, held it high, shouted something aloud, then with his sword literally drew in the air some foreign letters which seemed to alight like blood against the backdrop of gray walls and cobblestones—the letters hung there in the air, suspended with some sort of magic

 

The remaining attacker was finally cut down by a throng of Imperial swordsmen—he had not fought back; he simply stood there, arrogant, mocking, with his sword in the sky

 

Emperor Yaro saw Jathis now on the street with dozens of soldiers behind him, rapidly securing the area—the attacker’s bodies were double-checked, their weapons kicked away

 

As the bodies were being searched, a blue light arose from all four, enveloping the bodies and changing the physical aspect of them—guards staggered back, unsure of what was happening—the bodies actually shifted, changed out of the human forms they had previously inhabited into . . . humongous snakes?

 

Yaro couldn’t believe his eyes—he had heard of snake-people legends before but to see them with his own eyes? Impossible—he rushed downstairs

 

Appearing on the street, the Emperor of Tamriel hurried over to the carriage to embrace his daughter, who was shaking and bloodstained—‘Are you hurt? Did they hurt you? You’re not bleeding are you? Please tell me you’re all right!’—he broke down

 

The princess shook her head, beginning to cry as well—‘Father, I didn’t know what . . . I just thought . . . I did what you taught me, oh, oh, who is this, why . . .?’

 

‘Oh my dear, I’m so glad you’re all right, we must be more careful after this, this cannot be allowed to happen again, ever,’ he eyed at Jathis, standing nearby, watching—‘You need to go with the Guard Captain now, my dear, you need to leave this place, he will take care of you, we will talk later, go!’—Yaro watched as the captain escorted the princess from the scene, flanked by dozens of guards surrounding them both, to the nearest safe tower

 

Yaro turned back to the ugly scene—he saw his defense minister seemingly transfixed by the blood-red writing still hanging in the air above the last assassin’s green-scaled corpse—‘Jathis . . . what is this thing…’

 

‘Sire, I don’t know for sure but if legend serves me correctly, it is a Tsaesci’

 

‘A what?’

 

‘A snake-man, sire, from the east,’ Jathis turned back to the bloody mess

 

Yaro shook his head—‘We have no snake-men in Tamriel, Jathis, certainly none in Morrowind or Black Marsh that I know of, and they are the east!’

 

‘No, sire, the far east, the real east…Akavir’

 

Yaro’s blood ran cold at that word—‘Akaviri…? Here? But we haven’t heard a thing from them in centuries!’

 

‘I know, sire, this is most troubling—judging from the methods used, it does seem like it was a potential assassination attempt, not of you, of course, but of an heir, which is close enough’

 

Yaro gaped—‘An assassination . . . of my daughter? But why? Why on Nirn would they do something like that? I know our nations are historical enemies but . . . just out of the blue like this?’

 

Jathis yelled to a guard—‘Bring me an Akaviri cipher, right now’—in under two minutes, the minister was holding his cipher—he carefully studied the floating writing, checking multiple times before scribbling the message down on the back of a document he had been carrying

 

‘What does it say?’ Yaro could barely speak

 

By now a crowd of guards and civilians had gathered around the floating words, watching the defense minister translate the bitter omen—they, too, waited breathlessly

 

Jathis stopped writing slowly as the final word appeared on the parchment—dozens of pairs of eyes peeked over his shoulders:

 

The time has come; your time has come; prepare, prepare, for we have prepared

Yaro stopped—his eyes froze in place—the horror of the words washed over him as their significance rolled in—Akaviri—that means . . .

 

This was going to be a problem

 

‘Mobilize the regiments’

Edited February 1, 2012 by SansSword

[SansSword]

It was getting late—the shop had closed several hours ago but there was still so much work to be done—Hoffstaff looked around him at his tools and fires—various projects lay around, waiting to be completed: pikes for the Count’s Second Battalion, shields for the Chorrol garrison, odds and ends for his fellow citizens of Bruma, even a few helmets for a battlemage’s private militia in far off Highrock—Hoffstaff reflected on that—his reputation was becoming quite well-known based on the number and size of contracts he was receiving—the plaque on the wall said it all: “Best Smith in Bruma, 5E267”—Hoffstaff grinned, I am pretty good aren’t I? Best to put the ego to bed, though, have to finish those pikes tomorrow

 

Hoffstaff swung by the brew keg on his way to bed—he was a Nord, after all, and with no wife to say otherwise, a Nord enjoys his brew—Yes we do, he thought contentedly, yes we do—sleep came easily, as his manual labor always tired him

 

Next morning Hoffstaff rose early and restarted his fires—he ate breakfast while waiting for the heat to rise, then popped outside to survey the empty street—it was another cold morning with a few snowflakes riding the air— A beautiful morning, he thought, A good Nord morning

Hoffstaff said hello to the city guards posted at the nearby gate—they responded professionally but respectfully—Hoffstaff’s reputation as a master smith preceded him, especially in his own city

 

A messenger scuttled past, shouting and waving a Black Horse Courier pamphlet in his left hand, advertising the news of the day—‘Emperor calls up regiments, Emperor calls up regiments, read all about it!’ the boy touted—Hoffstaff took a copy and read the headline—sure enough, Emperor Yaro had called up all standing regiments of the Imperial province, effectively mobilizing them—troops were to report to their duty centers within ten days—Hoffstaff read further, intrigued—the article said that the already deplorable relations with the distant and hostile nation of Akavir had grown worse and that war was threatening—Hoffstaff tried to remember something of Akavir—It’s off to the east, isn’t it? Across the ocean?

 

It took some effort reaching back several decades to his prior military service in the Emperor’s armies—Hoffstaff had seen service at several posts in Tamriel, across several provinces—he had hung his shield at forts in Black Marsh, Morrowind, Hammerfell, and his people’s ancestral home of Skyrim—Black Marsh, like Morrowind, faced Akavir to the east, he remembered . . . and despite the land being primeval and swampy, it would still be prime ground for invasion, a relatively easy prize, if that ever came—Morrowind, on the other hand, was largely rubble from the devastation caused ages prior in the Fourth Era—the northern region was still scarred wasteland from Red Mountain’s eruption but the eastern coast and southern plains remained largely habitable and settlements there had been fully rebuilt

 

Hoffstaff turned and went back inside, trying to remember what happened next—luckily, there were books for that—he picked up a history book from a shelf—paging through, he found what he was looking for—Ah yes, after nearly six centuries of occupation the Argonians became overstrained, their army deteriorated, and couldn’t hold onto their gains in Morrowind, the classic overreach—led by a mysterious figure arising out of the never-ending conflicts in Skyrim, a patchwork crusade of many races was created and met the Argonians in battle, decisively defeating them and pushing them back to their southern swamps

 

Morrowind now cleared, its refugees returning from the island of Solstheim, the triumphant crusade began to rebuild what was left of the Tamrielic Empire according to the wishes of its leader, first starting in the place where it all began, Cyrodiil—piece by piece, year by year, the crusade fanned out and subjugated the old provinces through a mixture of force and cunning, its battle cry, ‘Reconquer, Rebuild’—led by the ingenuity of their battle-hardened warrior (whose name had been curiously lost over time), the crusade secured borders, roads, and passes from hostile defenders, thereby garnering the support of the locals, as well as making shrewd negotiations with the various rulers of the former provinces to recognize Cyrodiil as the head of a new Empire—the crusade’s veiled offer was that what happened to Morrowind could just as easily happen to their lands—in the face of an aggressive army on their doorstep, the rulers readily agreed to join the fledgling Empire as vassals with the Imperials assuming the rule of protector against future incursions—the new Empire would adopt a stated goal of pursuing peace and prosperity together as one nation united

 

Empire now complete, the crusade disbanded, with soldiers who desired it joining the ranks of the new Imperial Army—the Fifth Era of Men had begun—the war hero became head of the newly reformed Elder Council and kingmaker, paving the way for the present line of royal Septims, of which Emperor Yaro was current occupant

 

That was over two hundred years ago, things sure have changed, Hoffstaff marveled—Now things are like they were in the old days, way back in the Third Era, hah! Same Empire and everything—some things never change—as for this thing with Akavir . . . let’s hope it’s just nerves

 

Checking the fire, Hoffstaff got to work on the pikes—he only had a few left and he had to finish the fittings before they could be shipped to whatever carpenter had contracted to fit the pole handles—as he worked his mind began to wander, from the current issues back to his youth in the mountains around Bruma—his people were the mighty Nords of Skyrim, tough and hardy like statuesque golems, able to withstand tremendous blows and capable of such ferocity as to make a grown man shiver—the Nords were indeed mighty warriors, as the Empire well knew—Hoffstaff had let his hair grow long, a carryover from his rebellious youth as well as a traditional symbol of independence among his people—it also represented a visual insult to the Empire, a sore reminder that the Nords were a conquered people and subject to the will of the Emperor

 

Absentmindedly, Hoffstaff threw several pieces of wood in the stove, then as he was turning around, knocked a stack of wood into a set of jewelry he had been creating for some of his friend’s children—the pieces contacted several sticks of white hot iron that Hoffstaff had heating

 

The first explosive exothermic reaction in history ensued—burning fragments shot out in all directions at thousands of degrees

 

Hoffstaff staggered backwards, blinded, luckily escaping the fragments which would have burned right through his skin; a large metal net hanging over the anvil clanged loudly, catching many of the projectiles—a plume of smoke and steam erupted from the stove, splashing water from the cooling trough on the floor—the bellows coughed soot everywhere, blackening the air—the sound was deafening and the smith tripped on loose wood into the wall where he crumpled to the floorboards—several paper notices and permits by the door hung singed and smoldering; various weapons lay on the ground where they had clattered down—Hoffstaff opened his eyes in wonder at his wrecked and smoking shop

 

What in the world had happened?

[SansSword]

An arrow whizzed by, striking the center of the wooden target board, dead on—Zeel smirked, nodded in admiration

 

“Not bad, do it again”

 

Another arrow, this time splitting the shaft of the previous one, dead on

 

“All right, showoff, everyone knows you’re the best shot in the Brotherhood”

 

A third arrow was nocked, stretched, and released, this time directly towards Zeel’s head—he snatched it out of the air with practiced ease and mild disgust

 

“That’s slop work for a week, my dear!”

 

The guilty archer, a beautiful female Wood Elf named Tyria, gasped innocently—“What?? Me? I don’t know what you’re talking about”

 

Zeel stamped his foot—“You will after a couple days of it, now get outta here”

 

Tyria retrieved her elegantly crafted green fletched arrows with a soft smile toward Zeel and glided out of the practice room

 

Zeel shook his head—That arrogant wench . . . she’s good but she doesn’t know who she’s dealing with

 

Zeel had been an officer in the Dark Brotherhood for several months until being promoted to the status of Listener, the highest post in the Guild, for exemplary loyalty and duty—it was his duty to visit the guild’s Night Mother, a quasi-deific being who culled the voids for information and potential leads for the guild to pursue—he had decided to retain his day-to-day job which entailed reading spy reports, news releases, military intercepts, and generating written orders to the guild’s assassins—because that’s what the Dark Brotherhood is, he reminded himself, we are a professional assassin’s guild . . . and we have fun with it, he smiled

 

The devious Listener currently had a dozen trained assassins and killers working under him, with several hundred more semi-anonymous informants providing reliable eyewitness accounting throughout the provinces—the exalted Night Mother actually determined who and what it was the Brotherhood exterminated—no orders were ever created without the consent or agreement of the Night Mother; it was her Guild and she ran the show—of course, Zeel knew he and the other officers actually ran the day-to-day show, the spit-and-polish work of the guild’s operations; obtaining supplies, recruiting talent, bribing officials, reading and researching the daily briefs from the Brotherhood’s widely-flung spy network—she technically ran the show, but who was being technical? Zeel was content with letting someone else make the kill decisions—his job kept him busy enough . . . for now

 

Zeel picked up a parchment from a scout in eastern Morrowind—the paper said citizens there were getting very uneasy—stories from fishermen and traders berthing there from travels to eastern lands, including the gigantic yet mysterious Akavir, said tension was rising on both coasts—the peasants on the Morrowind coast felt very weak and vulnerable, so far from the center of Imperial power and defense—they envied their fellow Dark Elven nobles of Telvanni descent, the powerful wizards who lived in grand, twisting towers of meandering plant growth, hundreds of feet high—these fortresses, as they basically were, were nearly impregnable to enemy action, especially when supported by the powerful Telvanni enchantments and magical defensive structures built to support the area

 

Unfortunately, the Telvanni were too few in number to protect everyone, especially since most of them were clustered together on their own island chain to the extreme northeast—a few Telvanni resided along the eastern mainland coast, however, with each major settlement having but one tower—it was to this tower that the local commoners would flee to should a major incursion arrive—but once everyone had fled . . . the rest of the fertile coast would be free and open to destruction—houses and shops would be burned, cattle would be slaughtered or taken as supplies by the invaders, any valuables would surely be looted and stolen—just like every other major armed incursion in history, Zeel reminded himself, pure barbarism—but hey, it’s war, what are you gonna do

 

Zeel sighed and decided he needed a break from paperwork

 

“Hey tell Kromak I’m going out for a ride, be back later,” he shouted

 

“You got it Z,” came the reply

Edited November 29, 2011 by SansSword

[SansSword]

The woods around Cheydinhal were gorgeous, thick and majestic, so easy to get lost in—but that’s half the fun, Zeel thought as his horse kicked into the turf, sending flowers and grass flying—he had left the main road behind long ago—his expertise as a scout and navigator filled him with confidence to always be able to find his way, no matter where, no matter what weather

 

The ride was refreshing . . . but Zeel had an ulterior motive—a few days prior he had scheduled to meet an informant out in the woods today—the meeting would happen privately with only the trees listening in—this informant was responsible for western Morrowind as well as the mountainous border between Cyrodiil and Morrowind—the Velothi Mountains, as well as the more southerly Valus Range, climbed to 10,000 feet and spanned the entire border between the two provinces—they were the singular landform that protected the Imperial capital from anything hostile of an easterly origin—unfortunately, Morrowind and Black Marsh, the two provinces to the east, were coastal provinces and did not share this luxury—Zeel’s informant was to report on news he had retrieved regarding events in the east

 

His horse hesitated, sensing something—Zeel looked sharply about, his keen eyes seeking movement in the darkening surroundings—a shadow emerged slightly from behind a trunk—Zeel wheeled his horse to face the figure and gave his challenge

 

“Sisters of light . . .”

 

“. . . bow to the dying day” came the coded, gravelly response

 

Zeel dismounted and walked over to his informant—they clasped hands but the informant did not take off his black hood, remaining fully hidden under its shroud as was custom in the Brotherhood, for secrecy’s sake—were this a trap, the by-laws stated, and the informant escaped, their true identity would never be known to authorities—what was required, however, in addition to the passcode, was to show the superior a pair of burned-in tattoos on the back of the biceps—this cemented the gathering was legitimate

 

“What news, scout?”

 

The informant breathed deeply before responding—then a gravelly hiss, making his reptilian race known despite the head covering—“Newss of the easst, Lissstener—Akavir grows restless, its rulers edgy, itss people hungry for conquesst and conflict—the Akaviri Conglomerate readies an army, a masssive field army for battle—it marshals at thisss very moment”

 

Zeel paled but mentally steadied himself—“. . . Do you know where this force is destined to travel, scout?”

 

Another deep breath in the chilly air—“Atmora remains neutral as always; Yokuda abandoned, Pyandonea isssolated; there is but one place for this army to travel, Lissstener” the voice croaked

 

“Perhaps the Conglomerate is simply trying to intimidate some of its rebellious local islands, the ones who break away from time to time”

 

“No, Lissstener—this army is far too large, far too expensssive for such a trivial matter—such a thing would only require shrewd diplomacy, perhapss a well-placed assassination, no more—thisss is an army with one goal in mind: foreign conquesst”

 

Zeel looked past the informant to the eastern mountains rising ever sharply into the mists—the tops were snow-capped—he could not see beyond

 

“The only power left . . . is us”

[SansSword]

The bear was ambling down the mountainside, oblivious to the being stalking it—local ordinances allowed the killing of excess bears in the vicinity as they were a blight and a danger to local citizens—there were just too many of them—this provided the perfect setting for Hoffstaff to experiment

 

He was busy hunting this particular bear with . . . well, Hoffstaff didn’t really know what to call it—following the explosion in his shop a few days prior he had been intensely focused on making use of this seemingly divine act of benevolence—he had decided to make a weapon, a weapon using the explosive power he had accidentally witnessed coupled with his talents as a smith—with the increasing threat from Akavir, Hoffstaff figured it might just come in handy at some point . . . if it worked at all—so here he was, outside testing his new contraption on hostile targets

 

Hoffstaff peeked over the top of a rock he was behind at the bear, who was shifting through some hardy berries, still alive in the cold northern mountains—the bear was rather gaunt from the lack of food this far north at this time of year, this particular species fierce and ferocious as it stayed outside during the cold winter, making it even more vicious toward the local populace and bearing even more reason to hunt it down

 

Thirty feet away, the bear continued nosing through the trivial berries at its feet—the cold breeze was blowing into the Nord’s face; Hoffstaff wasn’t a total idiot—but he did know the bear could cover thirty feet in a microsecond, which explained why Hoffstaff’s clothes were doused in a cold sweat

 

Now or never, he thought, and raised the contraption to his shoulder—he aimed the barrel the same way he would aim a bow, took half a breath to contain his unruly thoughts, and pressed the ignition switch

 

Time stood still—the contraption erupted in flame and smoke, dousing Hoffstaff in a cloud as small bits of metal exited the front end—the flame seemed to last a long time to Hoffstaff, but the barrel held together—he distantly heard a roar of anguish and rage, followed by a series of short snuffles and the galloping of giant paws—Hoffstaff ducked behind the rock and grabbed his backup sword, ready for the worst

 

But the noise went the other direction and soon faded—Hoffstaff’s heart beat uncontrollably, and he waited a full minute before poking his head out the side—the cloud had mostly vanished by now and he could see a reddish trail leading across the mountainside, into the distance

 

He looked down at his contraption, hanging by a leather strap from his neck—it worked, he thought, I don’t believe it! Thank the Nine! It worked!!

[SansSword]

 

‘Jathis! Where are my estimates!?!?’

 

A week had passed since the initial troubling news from Morrowind and Emperor Yaro was preparing for the worst

 

Shuffling from the map room, Count Jathis hastily appeared holding several written estimates and maps

 

‘Here, m’lord, everything you requested—estimates for increased patrol cost, conscriptions, armaments, rations, fortifications, roads, and transportation’

 

Yaro gazed at the parchments one by one, noting various figures, calculating in his head—deep down he knew what was imminent; first the scouts and raiders appear, then forward patrols appear, then field armies appear . . . then what? Scorched cities? The Empire in ruins? Yaro didn’t want to think that far ahead—One thing at a time, old boy

 

‘Where is the most recent report we have from the Telvanni, Jathis—I need the most up-to-date information possible’

 

Jathis handed over the newly-sealed document, just two days old—Yaro quickly read what the Telvanni scouts had seen: increased activity along the coast, more boats, more raiding parties testing the waters—Yaro started—the next paragraph claimed Telvanni spies inside Akavir had counted over one hundred ships embarking and sailing west—troop ships, frigates, supply trawlers, as well as a motley assortment of mercenary craft contracted to fight for the Akaviri Conglomerate . . . and to secure a hefty share of the loot, Yaro was sure—these mercenaries could be the ones assailing his eastern shores at this very moment . . . cannon fodder for the eventual deluge

 

‘The Telvanni elders seem to think they can withstand a sustained assault for several weeks and claim to be able to endure a siege in their towers indefinitely—but that doesn’t help the rest of the land—a few isolated Dark Elf wizards holed up in their towers with the entire local populace in their basements doesn’t do a whole lot of killing enemies,’ Yaro mused, ‘that leaves the bulk of the killing to us, if it comes to that’

 

Jathis spoke—‘And it looks as though it is coming to that, m’lord’

 

‘Indeed Jathis, we must be ready—past Akaviri incursions have not been pleasant but we have weathered every one—I won’t have this era be tarnished by a defeat, much less lose the Empire to foreign barbarians’

 

‘A suggestion, m’lord’

 

‘Go ahead’

 

Jathis looked at a map of the eastern coast of Morrowind and Black Marsh—‘Perhaps it might be wise to buttress the garrisons of northeast Morrowind, at Necrom perhaps, and southeast Black Marsh at Archon for a potential backside ambush of the enemy—as the Akaviri head west across southern Morrowind, as any competent tactician would, these two garrisons could flood in from the rear, trapping the enemy against our main defensive armies in the center, cutting off their escape and plugging the hole’

 

A brisk nod from the Emperor—‘Do it,’ eager to leave the strategizing to someone else—Yaro’s main strengths lay in looking and acting regal for his people as well as negotiating profitable trade deals for the Empire; he was an Imperial, after all—most rulers relegated trade matters to underlings but Yaro had a passion for it—he had loved talking, cajoling, convincing, and bartering all his life—indeed, Yaro had focused on the study of speechcraft while in the royal academy and had received high marks in it—military strategy and tactics . . . he was not all too fond of although he recognized the need for at least a basic knowledge of the craft in order to be a ruler—Jathis, in this regard, had far more experience, having been a mounted knight in the Imperial Army for three terms, and thus possessed the knowledge of warfare that Yaro relied upon in such times

 

Suddenly Yaro had a thought—‘Jathis, would you also see if . . .,’ he paused, thinking this idea through a bit more, ‘if we might, ahh, rustle up some additional support from any local . . . groups?’ Yaro’s eyebrows went up as he said this

 

Jathis caught the subtle meaning, masking a brisk smile—‘Indeed, m’lord, I will send out messengers and print flyers to contact any interested . . . parties who might be willing to lend a hand with future endeavors’

 

Comforted, Yaro sat back in his overstuffed chair—Hah, the Akaviri, if they trouble with us, they’ll have a new thing coming . . . especially if we get the help I’m hoping for . . . the help we may need

Edited April 12, 2013 by SansSword

[SansSword]

The big orc squinted in the moonlight—Kontrakt unklear, what kontrakt mean? No brain splitting? Head in---takt? What intakt mean? Huff, must get Zeel teach Kromak more word, Kromak reading sukk

The big orc groaned a throaty grumble, clearly unsatisfied with the current ‘kontrakt’—he stood alone under an overhang in the center of Bravil, hooded and silent, trying to stay unassuming and undetected as a Dark Brotherhood agent would on a mission—Bravil guards passed by every so often on their evening circuits as Kromak pretended to read his ‘kontrakt’—what the guards were thinking, who knew, but it was possible they suspected something as just enough of the big orc’s face was visible under his hood and it was well-known an orc ‘reading’ something was as big of a joke as a friendly grizzly—prejudices aside, this orc could read, at least at a very ‘basik’ level, enough to know who it was he planned to assassinate in short order

 

Kromak waited till the street was empty of roaming guards, then slipped across to his target house—Jarrizha’s Collectibles, the hanging sign read, a lower-class shop/house complex like most of those in seedy Bravil—Kromak knew his appearance in the city wouldn’t arouse that much suspicion—Bravil was a rough town; anything went here apart from a direct threat to the ruling count or his assemblage of courtiers and staff, in which case was dealt with immediate and deadly consequences—That would be a job, Kromak supposed, Glad I not have go in kastle for kontrakt

Quickly and silently, Kromak fiddled with the lock until it clicked open—slipping inside the darkened shop, Kromak closed the door soundlessly and paused, listening and letting his eyes adjust—no movement, no sound—all seemed well—Kromak reached back under his cloak for his weapon du’jour, a huge ebony battle axe, blackened and scarred from forging and chipped all over from use—many a soul had he freed from its worldly constraints with this monstrosity, a beast wielding a beast, but ever so light and agile in Kromak’s hugely muscled grip

 

Eyes now adjusted adequately, Kromak looked about him—finding a large chair, he moved it over in front of the door to block egress—the big orc then moved towards the upward stairs, figuring that to be the likely place for his quarry—Kromak did not like stairs—they tended to creak under his weight—they got him into a lot of trouble—he remembered once setting fire to a mark’s house just to get the mark outside—he didn’t have to use the stairs that time, Kromak laughingly thought

 

Surprisingly, these stairs were apparently well-built and didn’t let out any noise as the big orc crept up them—reaching the top, Kromak looked around for evidence of his quarry—two doors lay in the short hallway, a fifty-fifty chance—both contained dark interiors as evidenced by no light coming from underneath the doors—undeniably, crashing through one would alert the mark regardless of if it was the correct door or not—Kromak chose the first, reasoning that even if it was the wrong one and the mark awoke to flee, he would have to still get past the big orc in the hallway first, something Kromak was intending to prevent—looking around him, the big orc lifted another chair to block access to the stairs, quietly setting it down and turning back to the doors

 

OK, time to do dis—Kromak patted his vial of Berzerk dangling from his necklace—he didn’t think he’d need it here but he always kept the long-secret orcish formula nearby—in this case the big orc needed silence and stealth more than noticeably loud wanton destruction

 

A swift kick from his boot flayed the door, swinging around on its hinges, the big orc charging in, axe over his shoulder—nothing, nothing but a storeroom—his battle instincts at a maximum, Kromak turned back into the hallway just as the second door opened, revealing a lithe, brightly-colored Argonian wielding twin daggers, alarm in its eyes

 

The two figures stopped for a moment, both assessing the other—no doubt, being awoken at midnight by a massive, intimidating, well-armed orc in his own house was not what Jarrizha desired

 

But Jarrizha knew his own history and so did Kromak—this Argonian was an ex-member of the Black Marsh Alliance, an anti-Imperial independence group trying to wrest control of their province from the Emperor—Jarrizha was a solid fighter, experienced in guerrilla warfare and like most Argonians, exceptional at living off the land while away on missions—retirement was his game now but he still held onto most of his skill

 

‘…and the reazzon for thissss intrusion Orc?’

 

‘Your wife,’ Kromak stated simply

 

Jarrizha frowned—‘My…wife?’

 

Kromak tried harder—‘Your…L L L Life’

 

Jarrizha smirked—‘Ah that’ssss better but that will not happen tonight, Orc’ and dashed forward, low, swinging his daggers like a horizontal windmill

 

Kromak lowered his axe to block the blows but he hadn’t prepared for the Argonian’s long tail—the tail blow struck Kromak’s legs, causing him to stagger back—Jarrizha took advantage of the distraction, flicking something towards the big orc’s midsection, something shiny . . .

 

Kromak felt a sudden sting as the throwing knife entered his side—he winced slightly but was too full of adrenaline to really focus on the pain—Must get this lizard, he thought, Kan’t… lose…too embarrassing

 

The big orc countered Jarrizha’s forward thrust with the brass handle of his axe, an uppercut to the lizard’s jaw—this knocked the Argonian back, stunned, with a broken mandible—Jarrizha howled in rage—this was the moment Kromak was waiting for, when blind rage overtook his enemy, conveniently allowing the big orc an advantage he otherwise would not have had—he knew as well as any warrior that rage indeed blinded, clouded judgment, judgment that any disciplined warrior should have—Kromak had it—but the Argonian’s battle judgment, living alone, away from fighters, had faded with time

 

The green lizard rushed forward, hissing with venom—Kromak kicked an end table into his opponent’s legs, causing him to stumble, then fall—both then knew it was all over

 

Kromak raised his axe high behind his back, looked down as the lizard looked up, rage and fear in his eyes, the sinking look of a vanquished opponent

 

The axe came down with jarring thunder, creating two beings where there had been one and forming a great dent in the wood floor—Jarrizha’s last moment came as he was falling apart, a half-hearted throw of a dagger towards the big orc’s feet—it clattered short, harmlessly

 

‘Sowwy buddy, just bidness,’ Kromak breathed—he next separated what was left of the lizard’s head from the body and stuffed it inside his rucksack as proof of completion—so he wouldn’t get full amount for the kill, oh well, these things happened

 

Next he checked his side—the wound was paining him now but wasn’t life-threatening—the throwing dagger had grazed him and fallen out—Kromak pulled a piece of cloth from his bag and applied some salve to it, wrapping it around his waste

 

On the way out Kromak grabbed an unripened apple from a basket downstairs—munching ‘kontentedly’, the big orc carefully exited the premises, then sauntered away down the street, a green beast devouring his second green target in as many minutes

 

Good thing ain’t Spring, Kromak chuckled, green overkill

Edited April 4, 2012 by SansSword

[SansSword]

It needed a name—the thing, the contraption, it needed a name—Hoffstaff was befuddled—he was a blacksmith, not a novelist, what did he know of creative practices? Spite? Burnshaft? Were those decent?

The tavern in Cheydinhal was only half-full—Hoffstaff sat by himself at the bar, sipping his ale slowly, contemplating the infernal name question—he had finished delivering an order here and planned to spend the night before catching the caravan back north to Bruma—Mary? Cynthia? A former loves’ name perhaps? Cynthia the Explosive Canister—Hoffstaff scratched his head

A figure glided behind Hoffstaff and took a seat a few spaces away at the bar, kitty-corner to the gruff Nord—he was hooded, which he kept on while he ordered—his bright red eyes were the only thing giving away his shrouded appearance—the eyes casually shifted over the interior of the dim room, taking in any and all—intelligence types needed to know, after all, and Zeel especially needed to know—and what did Zeel do when he wanted to learn? He struck up a conversation

‘Hail there, friend,’ Zeel smiled in Hoffstaff’s direction, ‘How ye doing tonight?’

Hoffstaff started, breaking his concentration—he looked at the speaker, surprised at seeing a ‘friendly’ Dark Elf and even more surprised this ‘friendly’ Dark Elf was addressing him in a pleasant tone—‘Oh, fair, I suppose’

‘You look a bit glum,’ Zeel prodded

‘Indeed, the beer house is a sanctuary to the glum’ Hoffstaff responded rhetorically

Zeel chuckled, ‘Quite right, my northern friend—heard any news of late?’ Time to get down to business

‘Only some uncertainty in the east—I’ve read Akavir may be up to no good—the Emperor’s called up the troops in case of a conflict’

Zeel grimaced inwardly—Old news, he thought—craftsmen and tradesmen were often good sources of news and gossip and this brute looked to be a craftsman of some sort, large brawny arms, a dirty face and hair, sweat streaks down the neck—Mason or potter perhaps? Smith maybe?

Pushing forward, Zeel asked ‘Where you from friend?’

‘Bruma, myself, parents out of Whiterun’

‘Ahh, I thought I sensed a true northerner in you,’ Zeel smiled self-assuredly

Hoffstaff posed his own query—‘Yourself? What do you do?’

Zeel gave his practiced response: ‘Kragenmoor, just across the border—and I am a merchant’—a merchant of deceit, he didn’t say

Hoffstaff harrumphed—‘Merchant eh, merchants usually wear much more elaborate clothing, trinkets and such—I’d have taken you for, well, an assassin or some such thing, no offense of course’

Zeel coolly regarded the pale brute—‘None taken, of course’ was the polite response—this brute was a bit smarter than the average Nord, that much was obvious—perhaps . . .

The Dark Elf changed topics—‘So are you a . . .’ gesturing to Hoffstaff’s outfit

‘Smith? Yes, best in all Bruma, to be sure—and I have the certificates proving it’ Hoffstaff’s eyes twinkled

‘What be ye working on, might I ask?’

‘Well, many things, actually—it’s just me at the smithy so I’m always busy doing some such thing for some such person—just dropped off some reinforced hide shields to a nobleman here in Cheydinhal, then the usual contingent of swords, axes, and spears, usual dribble—no armor for me, though, too labor intensive for a single-man operation’

‘Ahh,’ Zeel nodded sleepily, perhaps this man was not worth the trouble after all . . .

‘Then there’s my special . . . ahh, <cough>’ Hoffstaff trailed off uneasily, grabbing his mug and taking a long draw

Zeel’s ears perked up at this gaffe—the brute obviously went too far and was trying to cover his mistake; Zeel needed to circle carefully here, get what he could . . .

‘What was that?’

Hoffstaff stammered ‘Oh, well, just a little side project I’ve been working on, nothing too big really—a handy deterrent for local wildlife, is all,’ trying to downplay his verbal misstep

Zeel paused, then said ‘One of my side duties is the acting local animal control chairman and we would love to see this new project of yours in action, if you would concede to show us perhaps . . .’— acting is right . . .

Hoffstaff smiled at the mischievous Dark Elf’s attempt at subtlety, his previous sense that this figure was not all he claimed to be becoming all the stronger—‘Sorry friend, it is in no shape yet to be viewed—I have much perfecting to do yet before I can even consider showing it publicly—who knows, maybe I’ll just keep it to myself and not let it get out in the world’

Not if I have anything to do with it, thought Zeel, his mind working—a superbly talented smith working on something secret? The chance this random find could be something valuable to himself or his organization was a chance he could not pass up

‘Ah, that saddens me friend, hopefully some day you will feel up to showing the world your unquestionable mechanical genius, so that they may laud you and that you might assist others with your undeniable talent’— Guilt-trip might work . . . maybe…

Hoffstaff downed his mug, sighed heavily, and stood up, turning toward the would-be merchant—‘Perhaps that day will come but it is a long time ahead so I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were ye,’ his polite smile said—‘So long, friend Elf, and may the gods bless your sales,’ and walked out of the tavern

Zeel watched the Nord go, then sat fuming—that hadn’t worked out as he had hoped but one must be realistic in intelligence gathering; sometimes you came home empty-handed—he thought over his options: accost the man outside, demanding whatever information he had on his ‘side project;’ go around asking questions about the smith and his past, preferably in Bruma where he was more well-known, or…

Zeel nodded resolutely to himself, threw some coins on the bar, and walked out into the dark night

He would do what a good scout would do in order to gain firsthand information

He would pursue and watch

Edited April 12, 2013 by SansSword

[Maharg67]

Very excellent! Have not finished reading it but will do so as soon as I can. I hope you continue. Kudos! :thumbsup: :thumbsup: :thumbsup: