Azzhlan, High King of Hammerfell—or, of the Na-Totambu and the Ra Gada, to use the official title—pondered the scroll that he held in his hands as he sat in his study.  It was a report from those he had tasked with seeking out the mysteries of the Ansei, and it was good.  The project, though he hesitated to refer to it with such a dispassionate term, was progressing well, and the warriors involved were hoping for success in the near future.  This coincided with the rumors that had filtered through of what the Moth Priests of Cyrodiil had prophesized.
As usual, thoughts of Cyrodiil turned to thoughts of the Empire, and his expression soured.

        “Is there a problem?”  Azzhlan turned his head to the speaker, one of his guardsmen—an old friend from his days in the Fighter’s Guild.

        “The news is good, Avik, but my thoughts turned to the Empire.”  At Azzhlan’s words, Avik spat.  “Precisely.  It is maddening.  I don’t doubt that we could take them, spent as they are in Skyrim, but we would need the whole of our might.”

         Avik grimaced, “And then the Dominion would pounce.”

         “Yes.  Revenge should wait, I think.  But the Empire will suffer for its betrayal, and it will be sweet in its coming.”  Azzhlan sighed, setting the scroll aside, “Talib!”

         The High King’s personal aide, another Redguard lightly garbed and possessing a runner’s build, entered the study and kneeled.  “Yes, my Lord?”

        “I have decided that we can afford to wait no longer, and I feel in my gut that things shall soon begin to move very quickly.  Send word out that our current state of preparedness is to be maintained at the least, and heightened if possible.  I shall leave it to the discretion of local governances whether or not to raise more troops, but the skills of every soldier must be kept sharp.”  Azzhlan paused to allow Talib to write down what he had said.  “Furthermore, I have orders for you that re more… covert, in nature.”

        “Whatever you command, my Lord.”

        “The Direnni are staunchly opposed to the Dominion, and I have heard tell that they are beginning to form a coalition against them.”

Talib dropped his quill. “…my Lord, are you suggesting that–“

	Azzhlan raised his hand for silence, “It I true, they are technically an Imperial Vassal.  As many of my subjects seem to forget, they unofficially sent us aid when we were fighting the Dominion from our lands.  As far as I am concerned, it is beneath their dignity to serve Titus Mede.”  Avik spat again, and he heard several others through the open door, as well as the muttering of the guards stationed without.  Talib’s face suggested that he would spit as well, were there not parchment in the way.  “Nevertheless, the threat of the Dominion is far more pressing revenge for that grievous betrayal, and we will not forget to deliver it when the threat is passed.  Perhaps,” Azzhlan added with a smile, “we could even help the Direnni draw all of High Rock out of the Empire’s grasp.”  Grins spread on the faces of the three men within the study, and chuckling could be heard from without.

	“As well, send a missive to the Stormcloaks in Skyrim.  Tell them that if they can take the Pale Pass, cutting the Imperial forces off from supplies in Cyrodiil, that shipments heading north may encounter an unprecedented number of pirate attacks.  Furthermore, if they could secure means by which we could send them supplies without drawing the Empire’s eye, we would be more than willing to do so.”  As much as he wished to do so overtly, discovery might draw the Empire’s eye to his plans with the Direnni, and potentially bring ruin to his plans in Skyrim.  

	Azzhlan turned to Avik and nodded.  The guardsman, who had been fidgeting with his weapon immediately stormed out the door and made sure the guards without knew not to spread what they heard.  With numerous threats and much swearing.  Avik had never been a gentle commander, but he had led the palace guard superbly.

	“I need not say, Talib, that these missive must not enter into Dominion or Imperial hands, sans the Direnni, of course.  Though, it may be too early to speak of independence to them.” 

        With a nod, Talib rose to his feet.  “By your leave, my Lord.”

        “One last thing.”  Azzhlan stood, crossing over to one of the bookshelves that line the walls of his study.  “Our merchants have brought in news of something stirring in Anvil.  Something to do with a book.  I believe both are called [i]Res Publica[/i],” he drew a book from its place, a treatise attributed to one of his ancestors—but almost certainly written by someone else—on the history of Cyrodiil during the Interregnum, when some still called it Ald-Cyrod, “I desire a copy, and any information on the what’s going on that can be safely acquired.”

Talib bowed, “It shall be as you command.”

“You may go.”