[h3]The Board Sets[/h3]

[I]Three Crowns Hotel, 1st Midyear, 9am…[/I]



The Poncy Man was almost too fixated on the view of the cityscape and the harbor beyond to notice the door creaking open. Even as he registered it, he only remained sitting with his back to whoever had entered, hand swirling a cup of wine, the only thing helping him calm himself from the news. His sigh brought the smell of sea to his senses, closing his eyes and letting the sound of the harbor’s bells and the seagulls fill his mind. His mentor had always taught him to take his time in all matters of importance. Choices that would shape the future ought to be treated with the weight they deserve.

“We’ve come.”

Which was why he’d waited so long to send for his most trusted people. “Good, HoonDing has at least granted me relief in one thing.”

“What matter troubles you that you’ve sent for us both?” The voice spoke again.

Finally, the Poncy Man stood from his seat at the window and took the few steps to get to his desk, upon which sat the reports from the debriefings. Only one task of the three he’d given had yielded good results. One managing to fail so spectacularly that the broken bookshelf still stood in the corner, a testament to why he tried to keep his nerves in all things and a reminder that he was all too human to do such. “Perhaps I have become too trusting and generous in my age.” He began, “Associates of an associate of mine took refuge within this hotel of mine. By all accounts, they were men and women good for the work I had given them. I’ve relied on hearsay for the last time.”

A few moments of silence swept into the room before Hassan spoke, “So, that is why.”

“Yes.” The Poncy Man nodded. He turned to the other person in the room, “My dear friend, have you misplaced your tongue since the last time we’ve been together?”

The woman wore a snakeskin cloak that concealed her form, but the Poncy Man knew that beneath the concealing leather was one of the most powerful and talented assassins he had in his employ, if not most of Hammerfell. Her short spear was seldom ever without poisons, and she could throw a blade with as much precision as any archer could loose an arrow. Beneath the veil of her cloak gazed a pair of yellow eyes that might as well have belonged to a serpent themselves.

“Words will not sway the course of this discussion. What is the mission?” she asked. Always to the point.

“Keep them in your sight. They’ll never leave it, they will live their days in Hammerfell under it.” The Poncy Man took another sip of his wine, swishing it around his mouth before finally swallowing it, “Hassan may act as my liaison to them, the hand I outstretch before them.”

He nodded to Hassan, always the more visible of the two, but no less deadly with his blade. A student of the ancient Yokudan arts of the sword both long and short. His gaze once again settled on Nadeen, “The hand they will not see, though.” His face grew grim, “You know the purpose of why I summoned you of all my people to sit here. Am I understood?”

She offered a single slow and grave nod. There was only ever one reason she was summoned, and it was justice without a voice. The cause was simply too dire to leave to chance; her authority on the matter was absolute. 

“It will be painless, should the time come.”




[hr]
[I]The Governor’s Palace…[/I]

A cloud hung over Gilane, even though the skies were clear. Razlinc Rourken stared down upon the city like an eagle might, seeing only the resplendor and beauty of the rooftops, and not the filth that accumulated in the streets below. 

It seemed only appropriate that her attempts to govern with a fair and loose hand was allowing something dangerous to fester below. This insurgency was getting bold, and already too many of her people had died by the hands of those who could not tolerate coexistence. She gritted her teeth in annoyance; so be it. The city and its people needed security, and this order of chaos that shed blood without care and let rapists and murders back into the streets would need to be extinguished. The Dwemer would see to it; they were a people renown for utmost efficiency. 

“Upon the table behind me is a list of those who arrived by ship on the 30th, the [I]Intrepid.[/I] The customs officer was kind enough to provide that documentation after reports of insurgent activity were linked to individuals matching the description of several on board. Is your taskforce prepared, Major?” Razlinc asked the only other individual in the room. 

A mer dressed in a flowing longcoat adorned with epaulettes that denoted his high rank within the Secret Police’s Counterinsurgency and Counterintelligence division sat calmly in his seat opposite Razlinc’s. He forwent the traditional beard, preferring instead to bear his chiseled jaw to the world and thin lips sipped at a cup of tea. “Only give the word, Madam Governor.”

“It is given. Do what you must, report your findings and actions taken at your leisure. You have my utmost confidence.” She turned to face her most trusted agent. “Your experiment, however… the conscripts and outsiders, are you certain it is wise to use them instead of our own?”

Kerztar smirked, he’d always used the most unorthodox means and he’d always remained the most trusted and competent officer of the High Command’s Secret Police all the while. “East of here, in the Reach, when our supply caravans were being raided by Nords I took the Reachmen clans and flushed them out of the mountains to be killed or captured in the open.” He took another sip of tea, “Before that, I wanted the trust of the Reachmen clans against the Forsworn and I gave them the locations of the Forsworn’s redoubts and Dwemer weaponry and now they wield them in our name as protectors and keepers of the peace in that region.”

Kerztar nodded, “These people know the lands and the cultures as they have changed since our absence better than we ever will in the foreseeable future. The people don’t bat an eye at my outsiders.” Kerztar folded his hands on his lap, “Responding to this incident with an iron fist and storming the streets with our own will only strengthen the insurgency’s cause. We will seem as what they want us to seem, a hammer poised to smash their way of life.”

“My outsiders and I are the scalpel.” Kerztar sipped at his tea once more.

Razlinc nodded, setting herself down in her seat. “Our objective has always been different from the other clans. If we are to remain in Volenfell and Tamriel at large, we need to maintain a level of trust and respect from the populace. It’s what the other clans simply do not seem to grasp.” She said, pouring herself a cup of her own tea. “You’ve long served my agenda and shared my vision, Kerztar. I trust you will do this thankless task with distinction and secure a future for our clan.” she looked down at the sheet. “This Khajiit and Breton in particular. If you do find them, bring them here. I suspect we may have an unfinished conversation.”

“The peace kept is thanks enough for an officer of the Secret Police. Recognition is failure.” Kerztar leaned forward to peer at the document Razlinc was looking at, studying the portraits, “You’ve had them here before?”

 “I believe so.” She replied thoughtfully. “The inspector took note of this Daro’Vasora’s attire and journals being documents about our people, and she possessed some of our ancient craftsmanship. The next day, she arrives in our cultural center and was sent to me for a quick chat, you know how I am about people who have an interest in our civilization. She seemed quick witted and knowledgeable, it was her bodyguard that raised some suspicion, an Imperial man. He made an outburst that would suggest his sympathies are not with us. Raelynn Hawkford, the Breton, seemed to be something of an intermediary of the two. It was a curious encounter, not one I paid much heed to, but eye witness accounts tell of three individuals who sound cautiously similar to them at two separate raids. I should like to find out for myself if they are one in the same.”

“Then you will.” He stood and saluted, “By sundown, my men will be ready. I’d like to take the Captain of this vessel in custody and learn what he knows. We will both have a clearer picture of all these little coincidences soon enough.” Kerztar smirked.

[hr]

[I]11pm, Gilane Docks…[/I]

It had been a rather tense meeting with the Poncy Man earlier.

Roux was seated at his desk, going over his ledger, and wondering exactly what Vasora and her friends had done that had sent bloody Hassan to speak to him directly. The Redguard was always cordial and polite, but anyone who knew of the man’s reputation knew that him taking an interest in you was akin to having a mark of death hovering over your head; people simply disappeared if they crossed him or the Poncy man, and while the latter certainly had empathy and compassion, he wasn’t above cutting away the fat if it was causing the cause to choke.

Roux was starting to feel like the fat.

[I]The Intrepid[/I] would set sail in two days’ time after resupplying and his crew was entirely accounted for, and hopefully he’d be able to find some more willing recruits to bring into the cause. The insurgency was becoming a numbers game; they really weren’t willing to risk their own when foreign labour could pay the ultimate sacrifice for them, it seemed like. A lot of people he’d brought to this city had died along the way, he knew. Most of them did their jobs well and didn’t stick out. So why did he bring Daro’Vasora to this place? Despite their history, he had a fondness for her, and he knew it was going to be dangerous. But she seemed so eager to help? 

“I’m a piece of shit.” he muttered to himself, grabbing his glass of wine and deciding to step outside for some air. How long could he do this for, he wondered as he opened the door.

His eyes fixed on a prone form on the ground; Rutherford was dead, a crimson gash across his throat. Roux felt his own tighten at the sight, slamming the door and slipping the cross bolt in place. “Intruder! We’ve got an intruder!” he shouted, running to gather his blade back in the study.

Villaume was awoken from a dead sleep in the armory to the sound of the crew rushing around in a panic. He was confused, standing groggily and flinching when the rum bottle rolled off his lap and onto the floor. He ran as steadily as he could to the doorway that led into the hall, grasping a sword up on his way. “What’s this about?” He called, then once more when no answer came, “What’s this rushing for? Are we under attack?”

“Intruders, sir!” A crewman finally answered.

“How many? From where?” He asked, only growing more confused.

“I’ve no idea, sir.” The crewman said.

“Rally around me, you lot!” He yelled over the hubbub of cursing sailors. He’d finally gotten a group of eight together and they set to the task of securing the rooms. The first few were empty until they’d made it to some of the bunks, those crew who were sleeping there all had their throats opened. Villaume stumbled back, wide-eyed.

How could intruders have made it onto the ship without anyone noticing and wreaking this much death with impunity? “To the Captain’s quarters,” he said, before continuing louder, “Follow, now!”

He raced past his own men to the topdeck and there they found a scene no less gruesome than the last. Bodies hanging over the gunwales with open throats or crossbow bolts in their heads, corpses sprinkled here and there like broken dolls.

There wasn’t even a sign of a fight. No corpses of men he didn’t recognize, no blood that wasn’t pooled around a man that died where he stood without a clue. He feared the worst of Captain Roux. Villaume and his men rushed to the door of the Captain’s quarters but found it was still locked. “Captain! Captain!” He called, but no answer.

He turned to his men and pointed to the one with a boarding axe, “I want that door down now!”

The huge man only nodded, stepping up to the door and raising his axe above his head. He brought it down with a roar and splintered the door off its hinges. A good kick had the thing clattering on the ground. Villaume saw that the candlelight that usually lent Roux’s quarters a warm glow had been extinguished, leaving only pitch-dark shadow. “Captain!” Villaume called.

“I’m in here! Quick!” He heard Roux’s voice. Villaume waved to the others to follow him.

“Captain?” Villaume said in the darkness, voice lone amongst the shadows. Of a sudden, the door slammed shut behind him and some of the others, and there was a terrible raucous outside. The sound of men dying before all was silence once more. “A light, I need a light-“

He was startled by the feeling of air being displaced just next to him. The following second, he felt something hot speckle him followed by a choking from somewhere in the room. At another place, somebody grunted and then the sound of a heavy slam, twice, the second wetter than the last with the crack of bone. A white light enveloped the room, the suddenness of it forcing him to cover his eyes for a few seconds. Once his eyes adjusted, he dropped his hand to see Roux and a couple others trussed up on the ground, then the inevitable corpses just made seconds ago. The third thing he noticed was something sharp poking the side of his neck, giving him pause.

Through the doorway strode a figure sporting a pair of blooded Dwarven axes about his hips, a pair of pistols strapped to his chest, and Roux was surprised to see that the newcomer was a Khajiit; in fact, all of the attackers seemed to be of anything but Dwemeri stock. This new Cathay had granite-coloured fur with black stripes and ice-blue eyes and a mohawk of a black mane that gave him a rather daring and commanding appearance, say nothing of the two axes that his hands rested easily upon. He strode up to the table, plucking up the ledger to observe it, as if the occasion was completely mundane and normal. “My apologies, friend; did we interrupt something?” he asked, his voice was smooth and lacked a lot of the infliction he’d come to associate with Khajiit from Elsweyr, although his accent suggested he was original from there. 

“What the fuck do you want?” Roux demanded, feeling far more defiant than he should have, considering the circumstances.

“Oh, it’s not what I want, but rather the job my employer wishes me to do. Mine has me running about the city, finding those responsible for that delightfully bloody terror cell that’s been running amok, and yours presumably wish for you to find more bodies to throw into the pyre that is their fanaticism.” The Khajiit said, carelessly tossing the ledger back on the table before crouching before Roux, a dangerously sharp claw lifting his chin so their eyes could meet. “Your friends have been rather busy in such a short time, no?” he asked.

“I have no fucking idea what you- [I]urghk![/I]” Roux tried to say, but the claw had pierced the soft skin just behind his chin. The Khajiit grinned widely, offering the Breton a wink. 

“Now, my instructions were to bring the captain in alive, and anyone else who seems like they do more than shovel shit buckets overboard and chops rotting vegetables, but my employer isn’t too keen on how they arrive. Spells can fix most wounds, but mental anguish?” he clucked his tongue. “That takes some time to undo. I would know; I’ve been at this a while.”

“This is fucking preposterous! We passed our customs check-Oof!” Villaume was silenced by a hard right hook to his solar plexus, a blow that had him double over and fall to the floor.

“All of you have been gutless during this entire raid, let’s keep it that way.” The other’s voice came, deep and with the inflection of someone who was bored of this. The Khajiit’s comrade looked more racially ambiguous than anyone Roux had ever seen. It was only after a good look that Roux decided he was Ohmes-Raht, clad in the trappings of a Redguard warrior, a duo of even more foreign looking swords than the scimitars the Redguard carried sheathed on his back, elegantly curved. He’d an oddly curved dagger in hand dripping fresh blood and a pair of cold, flat eyes if all else failed. “We walk you off this ship and onto our carriage without further violence. A peep out of turn and I’m taking teeth away.”

The Ohmes started in earnest, sheathing his dagger and grasping up Villaume’s shirt in both fists, hauling him up though he was still gasping like a fish from the earlier blow. He held him up through the coughing and slapped a pair of iron shackles on his wrists.

Sensing the defiance was making way to the terrible reality of it, the Cathay stood upright with a spring, stretching his arms out and yawning loudly. “You must really see Sevari’s tooth collection, it jingles when he walks.” He said, staring down at Roux as the other Khajiit jingled one of a few pouches on his belt. “To your feet, while you still have them.”

The Breton reluctantly stood, glancing uncertainly between the two. “Why are you doing this, working for them?” he asked daringly. 

The first Khajiit rolled his eyes and turned away for a moment. Suddenly, he turned back, axe in hand, and the spiked back end drove into Roux’s shoulder, prompting the man to scream out in pain. He was pulled towards the smiling Khajiit, who grasped his throat roughly. “You may wish to save your words for someone who has the patience for them, yes? Now come, you have a long life ahead of you.” he said, yanking on the axe and forcing Roux to follow, the spike still imbedded in his arm. Even through the blinding pain, the Breton knew that stopping or showing any form of resistance would only result in more pain and suffering.

He felt ashamed that fear stopped him from trying to fight back, and so he dutifully walked after the Khajiit, the deadly axe yanking him along like a leash. Villaume was no worse for wear, being led by a fist in his hair and a knife at his back. The empty night streets made their footsteps echo off the walls of the buildings. A carriage waited for them not but a short walk from the gangplank on which a lone Redguard man snored softly. The two Khajiit shoved their prey into the back of the carriage and the Ohmes slammed the door after them. The Redguard jerked awake in a small panic. “Keep your damned eyes open and get us home, Saffi.” The Ohmes said, taking a seat next to him.

“Home? Hrm. Wouldn't that be a welcome surprise?” the axe-wielding Khajiit murmured, heading to the back of the wagon and hopping up to grab a handhold and stand on the rear platform as the horses began to kick off into the night.