Unnoticed by the other prisoners, an Imperial had knelt, face and features hidden inside a long white cloak, in a dark corner of the cell in complete silence. His involvement in the brawl had been minimal, having no desire to get swept up in the mistakes of drunkards and rioters, but something had told him not to resist the the city guards when they had swept through the tavern -- the same impulse that had brought him to the Imperial City and its festivities that day in the first place, and to the fight in the Arena before that. The Imperial had come quietly and spoken not a single word during his arrest. He had filed into the cell with his head bowed and wrists crossed in submission. After the creaky cell door had shut behind them and the others around him had begun talking amongst themselves as soon as the guards were gone, he sank to his knees in the furthest corner and ever since merely remained where he was. 

Not the entrance of the gigantic Khajiit, the conversations between the half-Redguard and the Argonians, the confrontation between the wild woman and the foppish scholar, nor the jokes and stories of the groundskeeper had roused him from his apparent reverie. In the shadows of his cowl, unseen to all, his lips had been slowly moving silently, mouthing prayers that only the Eight and One could hear, while practiced ears caught snatches of dialogue from all around him and filtered it for useful information. None provided itself. These were truly an unruly bunch. And yet, the man sensed something imminent. Something important. For years, years of hard work, peril, and great personal sacrifice, he had been watching a vague and disparate pattern of shadows like a hawk, unable to make sense of the shapeless clues and formless warnings. Now it was as if the sun had nearly finished its agonizingly slow crawl across the heavens to reach the right place, and a crystal clear umbral lattice was on the cusp of revealing itself. The city above him was tearing itself to pieces, the rule of law unraveling while the Septims were present in great numbers for the engagement of one of their own. Surely, there was a purpose? If everything was happening over his head, why did he feel so strongly that he was meant to be down here? 

Then... it happened. Sounds of combat and shouting came down the corridor. The Imperial's lips suddenly froze and he stirred slightly, raising his head to peek between the throng to see what was happening with eyes as bright as sea ice. Underneath plate and mail, his heart quickened, and adrenaline flooded his body. This was it. [i]This was it.[/i] The Enemy was about to reveal itself. It was pity that he was unarmed, but he would make do. He always did. The gods were with him. He tensed and prepared himself for combat. 

To his absolute and undivided astonishment, several Blades appeared in the tochlight's half-shadow instead. Legendary dragonkillers and bodyguards of the Emperor Himself. At the sound of Captain Renauld's voice and the sight of her distinctive Akaviri armor, the Imperial rose to his feet. He had been uncertain of what to expect, or what it was exactly that he had been hunting in Cyrodiil, but this was something else. Subconsciously, he was holding his breath, for if the Blades were here, that could only mean one thing. 

Emperor Uriel Septim revealed himself. Not unlike several other prisoners, some of whom fully prostrated themselves, the Imperial instinctively sank to one knee and bowed his head at the sight of his Emperor. His thoughts raced, barely hearing what Renault, Glenroy and Baurus were saying, but he arrived at the only logical conclusion nonetheless: they were trying to kill the Emperor, whoever [i]they[/i] were. Were these the machinations of Mehrunes Dagon, that the astrologers had seen in the stars? It seemed logical. Everything was falling into place. The Imperial had seen the robed and armored man in the hallway, and he recognized a Daedric cultist when he saw one. The stench of conjured armor still lingered in the air. 

"Your Emperor and his Blades is in need of moving through your cell, and in his benevolence is bestowing a pardon of all crimes to each of you, but either move up the stairs or down the tunnel. Make your choice, but know there is danger no matter which direction you go," came the voice of Baurus. The choice was immediately made. The Imperial man fell in line with the others that departed from the prison cell, still choosing to keep his counsel and say nothing yet. He briefly made eye contact with the Emperor and wondered, as the rest of the prisoners probably did... was it [i]his[/i] face that the old monarch had seen in his dreams? 

Then came the tunnel, and the priest and the guardsman returned with the lockboxes carrying all their belongings. The Imperial waited for most of the others to have grabbed their things, then walked forwards and rearmed himself -- dagger, shield, hammer, claymore. They were all there. He wrapped the sling of the claymore's scabbard and the shield around his torso, carrying them on his back, while the hammer was returned to his belt loop and the dagger was sheathed on his other hip. With his weapons on his person again, the man felt complete. Lastly, he bent over and picked up his greathelm from the chest, looking at the steel visage for a moment before hanging it on another belt hook. He might have need of it later. 

Slowly, Hector Sibassius reached up and threw back his hood, revealing his face, and the very air around him suddenly seemed heavy with his presence. His golden hair shimmered in the sharp light cast by the magelight, and his sapphire eyes reflected the light brightly, a resolute expression on his features. With a few gentle touches and whispered apologies, he moved to the front of the group, close to Kiffar, gaze fixed on the backs of the two Blades that were advancing into the sewer complex ahead of them. 

Then, for the first time, he spoke, in a voice that carried across all the seas. [color=fff79a]"Oh sacred Talos,"[/color] he intoned, words echoing sharply off the encramped space. [color=fff79a]"We give thanks unto you for the graces you have given us. Chosen amongst all men and destined for power, you realized the Empire. By your will alone was Cyrodiil restored. Great Talos, guide the Emperor along the road of righteousness. Show mercy to the just and show vengeance to the wicked. Oh Lord of Cyrodiil, whose eyes are likened unto the sky, grant peace of your kingdom and favor to her rulers."[/color]

Hector drew his weapons, the steel warhammer sliding into his hand and the shield being lifted from his back. [color=fff79a]"Glory be Thine Forever."[/color] He looked aside, at the witch-woman Deia, and nodded his assent. Whatever she had sensed, through whatever means, he was sure that she was right. [color=fff79a]"They are coming,"[/color] he said gravely.