[h3]The Huntmaster[/h3] with Hank [I]15th Midyear, 4E208 Three Crowns Hotel, Gilane Midday...[/I] The flies, it was always the flies. None of the bodies had been collected after the slaughter, left long enough for the heat and carnage to seep into the minds of those who would oppose the Dwemeri war machine, and now Razlinc Rourken stood in front of the corpse that belonged to Derak Mashad, the Poncy Man. One of the patrons of the Merchant’s Guilds, he had gone underground shortly after the invasion and few of his counterparts would say what became of him. He was never seen in public, at least until now; no one knew who the Poncy Man was, and it had kept him safe. Until now. The Governor had kept an eye on the Three Crowns Hotel for some time, having agents keep an eye on the coming and going of individuals, and it didn’t take long to figure out that many of its patrons were insurgents. It was a long game, finding out patterns, who reported to who, who was responsible for what. She had planned for the attack to coincide with Daro’Vasora’s speech, maybe draw her people out to spare them, and have them in easy reach if they did something stupid. Unfortunately, they did something very stupid. Something unforgivable. It wasn’t the attempt on her life that bothered her, it was the callous disregard for life that Gregor had shown, using her people as morbid meat puppets and his audacity to gloat to her like they weren’t people he destroyed the souls and very essence of. Him and his damned group would reap the rewards of such cruelty, just as Irranhu cell found out during their brazen attack on the palace. The Centurions made short work of almost all of them, their leaders and a small handful of other insurgents escaped the slaughter. Reports said they turned on Daro’Vasora’s group, which interested her greatly. However, she had other matters to attend to, as she stared into the dead, fly encrusted eyes of the Poncy Man and the pools of blackened blood that had long since dried up in the heat. “You move quietly of one of your stature, Maulakath.” Rourken observed. “Sharp ears for a city dweller,” the hulking Orsimer countered. He did not bother with honorifics or titles, even though he was speaking to the governor. It was beneath him. “The Breton girl and her Nord guardian are gone. The Redguard rogue has been captured. And then there’s this,” Maulakanth reported and held up the decapitated head of Mortalmo. “Refused to be taken alive. Powerful conjurer. Had to put him down.” Rourken regarded the head impassively; it was morbid, sure, but nothing outside of what she’d expected. He had hundreds of years to get used to the death of her own people, a terrorist with cathartic, in a way. “You’ve done well, a fine instrument of my will. I have a final task for you, if you’ll have it.” she turned to look at him headlong, looking up at him with a stern gaze. “The group you had targeted has an Imperial necromancer in their midst. I believe they’ve disappeared somewhere into the desert, pursuing a quest I do not readily know.” she admitted, looking back to the Poncy Man. “You are to kill all of his companions, and bring him to me, if you can. He will be used as fuel for my own enchantments, as will his lover, Raelynn. It does not matter what condition they are in when they arrive, so long as they are alive. Is that understood?” Maulakanth scoffed. “[i]If you can,[/i]” he repeated in a poor imitation of Rourken’s voice. “Do you always insult your men like that? Of course I can. It will be done.” He shook his head before he remembered what he was going to ask her. The Orsimer cleared his throat and took a step closer. “Rumor has it that one of them is an Orsimer. A woman. White tattoos, wields a spear and a bow. That true?” Rourken did not rise to the bait; Maulakath was insolent, yes, but he always did what was asked of him. Instead, she nodded, not moving as he stepped closer. She did not fear him, nor did he fear her. It was not an even partnership, but one nevertheless. “From accounts, an Orsimer fits that description. She arrived in the city gates not long after this Samara Cell entered the city via the ports. They joined together by coincidence, it seems, and she was a part of the force that assaulted the palace.” she paused, raising a brow. “A rather specific bit of details that coincided exactly with someone we’ve monitored. What’s the relation?” Like the territorial growl of a sabre-cat with its hairs raised, a thrumming, guttural sound reverberated in Maulakanth’s massive chest. “Sister. Has to be. She turned her back on me years ago. It won’t be a problem, but I had to know.” “I see.” Rourken said. She didn’t, not really, but she knew better than to pry into what the bad blood was. “Regardless, you do this for me, you will be free of your service. What is it your heart desires? I should like to have you remain a part of my service, but of your own will and with its own rewards. Land, a title, perhaps? You have been a friend to my people, let us be a friend to you.” Maulakanth didn't hesitate for a second. “Orsinium.” That prompted her to blink slowly. “You wish for the resources to conquer Orsinium for yourself?” “And through me, for you.” Maulakanth tossed Mortalmo’s head aside, careless of where it landed, and slammed his fist into his open palm. “I was the Hand of Mauloch. War-chief. The king exiled me because he was afraid of what I could do. He is a coward but he believes himself to be proud. Orsinium will not bend the knee without an orc on the throne that tells them to. The only way to [i]goltragga tarask,[/i] to take the throne, is by right of conquest,” he explained. He was usually not much of a thinker but he’d had weeks to formulate this plan. “Control Orsinium and you control the mountains.” That gave Rourken something to consider, she thought on it, resting her chin on a finger. “And why would you turn Orsinium over to me? Why would you wish to see your people under my rule?” she asked, genuinely curious. “Are you proposing you wish to rule a client state?” “Yes,” Maulakanth said, once again without hesitation. “The Bretons and Redguards have razed Orsinium more times than we can remember. Too much history there. Every time we prosper, they feel threatened, join together in one big club of puny cowards and swarm us like rats.” He hacked up some phlegm, spat it out on the floor and touched his collarbones with his fingers. It seemed ritualistic. “But everything is different now. They’re scattered and weak. In the world of the Dwemer, Orsinium can finally have the place it deserves.” Something gleamed in his black eyes. [i]And I can be king.[/i] Ah, and there it was. Rourken smiled, extending a hand. “Orsinium is not the domain of the Dwemer, but Clan Rourken will stand by it should anyone challenge its sovereignty. I would prefer our peoples joined together as friends, not under the rule of strangers. Volenfell was never going to accept my people without hard measures, but difficult choices were made to best unify both the Redguards and ourselves. Now we are established, I would like to try a different tact. A military, cultural, and trade alliance between Volenfell and Orsinium. We will defend one another against the threats against our peoples’ existence as equals. Are these conditions agreeable?” she asked. After a few seconds, Maulakanth shrugged. He didn’t understand why Rourken was voluntarily relinquishing the opportunity to control Orsinium herself. She was sacrificing power in return for… nothing, as far as he could see. “If that’s what you want, fine by me. Get me into the king’s longhouse and you’ll have all the trade and shocktroopers you want. Oh, and the culture too.” His lip curled up and he laughed, which sounded a little like a giant smashing two boulders together, as if she’d told the funniest joke he had heard all week. “We got a lotta that going on, for sure. You’re gonna love it.” And with that, Maulakanth took the offered hand and shook it, restraining himself so he did not accidentally break her fingers. He may not have noticed her cast ebonyflesh upon herself prior to the gesture. “All I wish for is my people’s ancestral homelands, and a place within Tamriel, not a sprawling empire. I do not wish to subjugate others, like the other Clans seem intent on doing. Truth be told, Maulakath, there may be a time I will have to call upon your people for help navigating this strange land and making the most of the experience yours have with mining and locating resources. I may need your warriors against other Dwemer, or the races of Men.” The Governor explained, shaking her head as she gestured to Derak Mashad’s brutalized corpse. “This is but one of the many, many leaders who have risen up against my rule since taking residence back in my family home, and hardly the last. A wise strategist never bites off more than they can chew when holding lands. Great conquerors seldom take huge swaths of land without dealing with insurgencies, agents of resistance to change. My people are powerful, but we are limited in number. The fact I chose to enlist the help of foreigners such as yourself was not a coincidence.” she said. She met Maulakath’s gaze once more. “My people hold the greatest military power Tamriel has ever seen, but it does not mean we are infallible or infinite in number. If granting you the assistance you require to take Orsinium and formalize an alliance with my people is what it takes to solidify my control over the lands my ancestors once held, then it is a price I will gladly pay.” Finally, Rourken stopped talking. Maulakanth had seriously begun to wonder if her speech would ever end. “That’s a lot of words to say ‘we could use the help’,” Maulakanth said and laughed again. “My people have no love for the Redguards, the Nords or the Bretons. You can always count on Orsimer if there’s a good scrap to be had. And if you need help against other Dwemer…” Maulakanth paused and shrugged again. “Same thing, really. Just as long as I can hold you to what you said about protecting our sovereignty.” “This is where the cultural exchange could be of assistance, Maulakanth. As a king, you may be required to make long-winded speeches to your own people and emissaries.” She gestured to the head of the Altmer on the ground. “That will not be your only feasible solution, understand. Orsinium has been razed time and time again, I understand, because of the races of Men fearing your people to be savage raiders. Here’s your chance to prove me wrong, earn your mantle.” the Dwemeri Governor cautioned. Her back straightened with a nod. “My word is law. I give you it in good faith; the Orsimer will have an unshakable allegiance with Clan Rourken so long as I stay in control of my lands, and you live up to your promises.” Maulakanth resisted the urge to say ‘whatever’, as even he realized that now was not the time for petulance. He’d gotten her to promise what he wanted, on perfectly acceptable terms. This was a great personal victory. “Good,” he growled and pressed his clenched fist to his heart. “Malacath take me if I fail. Now then. I have a necromancer to catch.” A rare gesture of respect, Maulacanth inclined his head in something that could be construed as a bow and left. Rourken didn’t watch the Orc march off, like a thunderstorm leaving the valley. He was crude, and perhaps a bit uncultured, but she felt him to be trustworthy as far as intent went; there would be time yet to groom him into someone worthy of the mantle he so greatly yearned for. Knowing what his prize was, and the naked ambition he shared with her, it made them unlikely but promising allies, so long as he retained her council. The Dwemer looked upon the Poncy Man one final time before departing herself, her assistant waiting in the wings for her meeting to be concluded. It pleased her to see him staying by her side, loyal even after their shared experience. She would reward him well. “Assign four Centurion Assassins to Maulakath; make sure they are programmed to follow his orders. He is to be considered an officer of the Dwemeri forces. Additionally, see to it he is provided all of the supplies he needs for his quest. One does not hunt a boar with merely a knife.”