[center][h3][b]The Hand of Mauloch[/b][/h3][/center]
[i]13th of Midyear, 4E208
Somewhere outside of Gilane, Hammerfell
[sub][@Leidenschaft] and [@Father Hank] made this[/sub][/i]

It took only three strikes, quick attacks in rapid succession, before Maulakanth had disarmed the Dunmer he was sparring with yet again. He hadn’t even meant to do it this time, but the Dunmer had simply dropped his blade and hissed with pain as he clutched his hand. The Orsimer’s strength was too much, and his bastard swords were too heavy. “That’s enough,” the Dunmer snapped, a mixture of resentment and humiliation in his crimson eyes. Towering over him, the hulking shape of Maulakanth shifted slightly as he laughed in return; a low, thrumming reverberation in his chest, nothing more. 

They were in the space of the sanctuary that had been designated as the practice room, though it was hard to guess what the Dark Brotherhood had used it for. The Dunmer -- he had not bothered to remember his name -- retreated back to the common area and Maulakanth watched him go, his deep-set amber eyes fixed on his back, idly wondering where he would strike if he wanted to break the Dunmer’s spine most effectively. He shook his massive, tusked head and placed his twinned orichalcum blades on the table unexpectedly gingerly for such an enormous beast-mer. He looked up again when the door opened and another, different elf stepped into the room. Maulakanth straightened to his full height and nodded; it was the closest he would ever get to giving a salute. 

He said nothing, his face set in the same scowl that seemed to be permanently fixed there, and merely looked at Kerztar expectantly. The Dwemer may have regarded the huge Orsimer without a change of expression, but he never got used to the vast sight of him. “I’ve need of you.”

As much as Maulakanth's sizable tusks would allow, he smiled. He lifted a glass vial from a holster at his waist, uncorked it and downed the contents in one go, tilting his head back to do so. Whatever it was, it seemed to do the trick as he rolled his shoulders and grunted in approval, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. 

“I'm ready,” Maulakanth said. His voice sounded like a cave bear trying to talk.

“With Zaveed indisposed and Sevari’s arrest, we’ve scoured intelligence from them both on the whereabouts of Poncy Man’s Insurgency.” Kerztar spoke, “We finally have enough evidence to take a step further. We need you to head a sizable detachment of soldiers in conducting a raid on the Three Crowns Hotel.”

“I don’t think I need to remind you that this isn’t Al-Aqqiya. The ghost town might stand as a reminder of why you shouldn’t finance insurgent smuggling operations but, well,” Kerztar shook his head, “The collateral damage was a travesty. Something of that caliber can not be as readily covered up when it takes place in such a metropolitan area. I’m sure there’ll be enough fools willing to stand and fight to please you.”

“Right,” the Orsimer growled. Al-Aqqiya had been the mission that had given him his fearsome reputation throughout northern Hammerfell but its outcome had been… divisive. He still disagreed with his detractors but he was done making a fuss about that. “What's the objective? Capture, dispersion, intimidation?” While he talked, he started walking around the room, clenching and unclenching his fists and twisting his neck this way and that. The contents of the vial had been potent, that was much was evident. He suddenly turned his sights back to Kerztar and laughed again. “I heard something else regarding Zaveed’s [i]indisposition,[/i] by the way. Was it the games he played with the girl? I bet it was,” Maulakanth continued and forcefully cracked his knuckles. “Coward.”

“The task at hand, Maulakanth.” Kerztar sighed, “He’s a good officer, good at what he does, just too loose. You’re good at what you do, let us focus on that. In a days time, we will have elements from the Redguard city watch and our military, as well as Ministry Agents from other teams staging a full lockdown of the city blocks around the Hotel.”

“You’ll be the first in, leading a team through the front door while the other Ministry agents enter through different entryways.” Kerztar smirked then, a little hubris of his own, “I heavily lobbied for you as the vanguard over Kagrenn’s or Krinnec’s teams. I’m sure you remember them from Al-Aqqiya. Wholly too savage for my tastes but Krinnec was always a bastard that had the tactical and strategic prowess of a rhino.”

Maulakanth found himself nodding along with everything that Kerztar said. “Oh, I remember,” he grunted and scratched his chin. “It [i]will[/i] be Al-Aqqiya all over again if those things are set loose. No, you came to the right Orc,” he added and slammed a clenched fist to his chest, which looked, for all the world to see, to be even larger than usual, like a preening rooster. It seemed that Kerztar’s flattery had struck the right chord with the immense Orsimer. He had already forgotten all about Zaveed. “Quick, decisive, clean. Scare them into submission, kill the ones that resist, forge a path for the, uh… Ministry Agents. That sound about right?” he asked, grinning. 

Kerztar nodded, “Violence of action, we put down a few of them quickly and with extreme prejudice, the rest will be too stunned to do anything before we’ve got them in shackles.”

After thinking about that for a few seconds, Maulakanth picked his blades back up and tested their weight. They were long, heavy swords, slightly curved in the way that Orsimer smiths prefer, but extraordinarily thick, even by their standards. Maulakanth could drive the orichalcum tip straight through steel plate and out the other end, he knew. “The thing about fanatics,” he said at length, “is that they’re fanatical. They might fight to the death. I know you want to avoid another massacre but they might force our hand just to make you look bad.” The Orc looked up from his weapons and one might say that his brutish features even managed to look inquisitive. “Have you thought about that?”

“Intelligence on the hotel’s staff puts them mostly at auxiliary staffing and a few guards. The rest are foreigners.” Kerztar said, “It’ll be a short fight, brutal and short. Be ready, we leave at first light.”

The Orsimer broke out into a tusky grin as soon as Kerztar uttered the word ‘foreigners’. That was good -- he tired of killing Redguards only. He was aching for a new challenge. “I was born ready,” he growled and gave the Dwemer another curt nod.