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Tamrielic Gazette: "The finest reports read by kings and emperors, since 2E 137."

Middas, 9th of Sun's Height, 4E 205.

In this fine week, our journalists traveled far and wide to bring you these news.
Skyrim: Rumors surrounding High King Jartod’s death was confirmed by one his guards. The guard, fearing for his exposure, refused to share any details regarding the Dragonborn’s sudden demise.

Molag Volen, Morrowind: Azarkan was destroyed in a horrific explosion, killing Yagrum Bagarn and many Dunmer engineers.

Narsis, Morrowind: A group of Argonians started a recruitment campaign for mercenary works in Black Marsh, these individuals disappeared the next day, after the sight of a ordinator detachment passing by their recruiting center.

Cyrodiil: Angela Venarius, an accomplished Colovian alchemist, discovered a cure for the Cyrodiilic Disconnect. However, she demanded expensive payment from the count in order for the distribution of her medicine. After the count’s attempt to force her into sharing her recipe, Venarius fled to Daggerfall for asylum.

Summerset Isle: The lunar magicka started to show disrupting effects to the Crystal Tower, cracks appeared in the crystal lattices and mages reported interference against their castings.

Elsweyr: The Khajiit recruitment campaign showed progress, enlistment numbers have gone up steadily, though many of these new recruits had little prior combat experience.

Topal bay: The infamous pirate lord Dupont have surfaced again, he and a new group of outlaws seized islands in the Topal Bay area and started to attack ships from Cyrodiil, Black Marsh and Elsweyr. So far, only two minor attacks were reported and no large ships were taken.

High Rock-Hammerfell border: A group of armed fighters, primarily Argonians answering the Hist’s call and several hired mercenaries, were detained by Redguard border patrol. Low level members of the group were deported back to High Rock while their leaders were last seen in Skaven’s jail.

Gideon, Black Marsh: Hundreds of foreign Argonians flocked to the city, ready to fight for the Hist. Though one of their ships were attacked and looted by Dupont’s pirates, causing some of them to arrive with no weapons.
Hidden 10 yrs ago Post by GreivousKhan
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Imperial Captial
25th of Midyear, 4E 205



“Oh but the gods did give me other gifts, the gift of sword singing, the thrill of battle, Frandar Hunding's Book of Circles, THE WAY OF THE SWORD.”


Ciralen had remained seated in a rather large waiting room, one greatly decorated and polished. Imperial sensibilities in architecture might not have been on par with his peoples, but it certainly held a rather defined kind of taste to it. Ciralen counted the minutes as he waited, noting sourly that the dirt of the road still clung to his tunic and pants; a rather un-dignifying way to meet with an Emperor.

After two turns of the hourglass however, a man followed by two imperial guardsmen, entered the chamber to inform him the emperor would now see him. He nodded and rose, though frowned as the man informed him he would have to remove his blade. However, he recovered quickly enough and reluctantly surrendered the sword. Did they really think him mad enough to strike out at the Emperor? He supposed after the assassination of the last, they felt like taking more precautions of late.

"Thank you, the Emperor will see you know."

The Emperor had come down from the chambers above in his regal clothing, with his sword still at his side. The doors opened and the two guardsmen escourted the redguard into the Elder Council Chambers beyond. Large imperial banners hung down from the pillars, and at each pillar stood a member of the Blades, named in homage to the old order that defended the Septims and now hunted dragons in cold of Skyrim.

Given that the room was currently mostly empty, save for the Emperor, his guards and two Councillors who were scribbling away at a draft for a legislative proposition in hushed whispers, it could easily be gathered that the council was not in session, which was probably for the best given how much noise an Elder Council meeting can make.
The Emperor rose from his throne as he heard the door creak open, and quickly looked the Redguard up and down, noting his dirt-ridden clothes and crossed the room to meet him. The Two councillors looked up from the paper they were scrutinizing to glance at the newcomer before looking back down and returning to their whispered debate.

"Well met, Redguard" The Emperor said as he walked around the master stone table to reach him “I trust you are here to negotiate?"

Ciralen gave a tight bow. "And well met to you Emperor Gaius Triarius the First, it is an honor to meet with you in person." He then smiled as he added, "And you may call me Ciralen, current Knight Captain of the Order of the Lotus. I have arrived to act as any envoy to Vanquisher Temijen, as you have already guessed. I come to formally cement our deals made during the Summit in black marsh."

"As you may already know, a mutual defense pact was put forward to be established between the Empire and Hammerfell. As well as trading rights and military access within reason in the event one side is declared war upon. The details of the agreement must still be formalized however, and I fear that such a pact might be tested quicker then we'd like, if reports of altmer ships sailing across Hammerfell waters is to be believed. "

"The Dominion? I trust the good king Aelid actually took word of the peace with the Empire, and the alliance between Hammerfell and the Empire, home. His word means nothing then." The Emperor said, folding his arms "Well Knight Captain, it would seem best that we hurry along the negotiations for this, then. We don't want to be standing around a table while the Thalmor steals people’s homes."

“I could not agree more, with that in mind I shall get to the point quickly then. As agreed upon, the Empire will have trade rights, along with access to Hammerfell controlled ports for resupply, which to that effect will include the ports of Haven and Woodhearth that the Bosmer had ceded to us. Temijen has also decided to offer the empire the southern coastline of Strid River. Redguard honor demands that the land your warriors have fought for be given to those who spilled blood for it, even if it is a small piece. I am sure you have long since learned of the agreement between Vanquisher Temijen and the Bosmer Keeper.”

“Temijen hopes this gift will be a show of his continued commitment to peace between this new Empire and his people. “ He paused for only a moment before adding. “I would personally suggest as well, considering the recent moves thus far of the Dominion. That they no doubt seek to break the treaty of Stros M’kai, which will only reveal to the rest of Tamreil what we all know to be true already, that the mer have no intention of keeping peace, and are as trustworthy as a two faced fork tongued serpent. We might do well to consider in preparing for the worse, while praying to the gods that the mer are merely flexing their muscles in a vain attempt to frighten us. Still, Hammerfell must know, should the Altmer come against use, will the Empire stand with us?”

"That aside, we thank you for such, and we have indeed learnt of the Agreement. A master stroke, I must admit, the Thalmor must have hated that. It may have undermined my own peace treaty with the Aldmeri Dominion, but Temijen is not a psychic, he had no way of knowing I had made such a treaty at the time. The Imperial navy is inferior to the Altmer navy so I cannot help you at sea or on surrounding islands, but if the Thalmor try to land forces on Mainland Hammerfell, the legions will help to push them back into the sea."

"But as for the sea and any surrounding islands, I cannot commit the navy to help. I have to do what I can to ensure a continued peace between the Aldmeri dominion and the Empire, High Rock trades with them and a war would thus be bad for the Bretons."

"A war would be bad for us all Emperor, but to allow the high elves free reign of the Abecean Seas could be disastrous. We will simply have to trust the Empire will know when the time is right for force projection in the western seas. However, there is one request Hammerfell will ask of the empire. It is understood that the Empire captured several vessels of altmer make in their reconquest of Valenwood. We would ask for just 10 of these ships, to be escorted to Rihad at the Empries leisure. We have some of the finest ships in Tamreil, but even they pale to altmer war vessels, if we can study these ships, we can find weaknesses and perhaps improve our own craft."

"Indeed, I believe so. We did indeed capture a few dozen of the Elven Craft, I'd be glad to give you some. We should try to end the Aldmeri's Dominance of the sea's... without that, they'll be the Dominion of nothing." The Emperor said, before pausing and speaking a few moments later "I shall have them escorted as soon as we are done here, it will be wise for us to uncover the secrets of Altmer vessels, and indeed I was already planning such."

Ciralen smiled glad they were of the same mind. "Excellent, I am glad we are of the same accord, and should the Empire wish it, we will be open to sharing our findings. My people are master ship builders and seafarers, and the Empire has a found understanding of enchantments. There is much we can learn from one another I am certain."

The Emperor nodded "I agree, let us combine our strengths to uncover the secrets of the Altmer vessels. Whatever they are made from, I am certain that we can replicate it, and then the Aldmeri Dominion will finally be irrelevant and everyone can sleep easier at night."

"Very well then, it seems it is all arranged then, should the empire ever have need of the blades of Hammerfell, know that we will aid you. We only hope that when a time of need ever comes upon Hammerfell, we can count on the support of the legions."

"You will have the legions, my friend, may any future discussions be as useful" The Emperor said, nodding as he turned around to leave the room "Tribune, send word to Anvil at once, have them take 10 of the Altmer vessels to Rihad, bring the rest to the Imperial City, and inform the University that I want their enchanters scouring them" The Tribune nodded and half marched out of the room, while one of the guards approached to escort the Redguard out of the Council Chambers, offering him his weapon back now that the Emperor had left.
Eight Leagues West of Verkath City
4th of Sun’s Height, 4E 205


The column of men was almost like a slow moving tidal wave of bodies, not unlike a hoard of ants swarming over the corpse of a long dead dog. The wind swept pass was just large enough to permit the rather large force to travel in a fairly wide sea of Ra-gada. Armor glistened in the high sun, the click and clank of armor or sheathed weapons skipping about at ones waist echoed up from the pass along the thousand and one other sounds a marching column of men produces while on the move. Outriders came back and forth now and again as the passage was continually scouted, despite being so far within friendly territory the Lance Defenders, the allied formation of Hammerfells many knight orders, were taking no chances. Local guides had even been enlisted to guide sentry parties through the rocky terrain the main body could not travel.

Astrid his destrier Ortho'Velve Azzast, Supreme Knight General and otherwise known as Anointed Blade of Vanquisher Temijen’s Lance Defenders in Hammerfell, watched the columns of men march in ordered fashion. Azzast was among the few who could fully appreciate the sight before his eyes, primarily having to do with his esteemed position. Atop his steed, a light grey charger, watching from an elevated patch of land and rock, he was offered a grand view of the moving force. It was a heartening sight for a variety of reasons, first and foremost was the simple fact that he was seeing a marching army at all, for just ten years ago Hammerfell possessed no standing army let alone a centralized government of any sort to put forth a proper armed force. Knight Orders had previously filled the gap, used as a defense force or sometimes even to police the roads and cities, perhaps clear out a bandit lair or two. They had never been able to fully cooperate however, thus the full might of Hammerfells resources had never once been brought to bear.

Vanquisher Temijen had changed all that however, building from almost nothing the foundations of a stable and formidable, if yet not fully tested, force; its primary purpose buried within its name. Azzast could also not help but a feel a glimmer of pride as well, for he had been the man entrusted with leading these brave men and women. Gilded in an exquisite piece of heavy plated mail forged from dwarven metal, and armed with his favored and beloved blade, an orichalc weapon fashioned by one of Hammerfells most masterful swordsmiths; Singer Atakwon G’ye Matani was a true master of his craft of that there was no doubt.

The sound of hooves slowly increasing in volume behind him forewarned him of his approaching messenger. He turned ever so slightly in his saddle enough to look back across his shoulder. A man in long robes of a sandy brown shade astride a mare of marble white neared, galloping then stopping short several feet away from Azzast.

“Hail, M'ejer. Of what news do you bring?”

M'ejer took a moment to catch his breath while he removed the face cloth of his headdress from around his mouth. “Well met Anointed blade, I fear I bring some interesting if troubling news, reports have it large scores of orcs moving north… towards Orsinium.”

“What? Are they certain?” Azzast tone becoming a mix of surprise and worry, such implications did not bode well.
“They followed them for a day now, and they have not turned from the path, more so from what they have overheard, it seems their destination is assuredly Orsinium.”

“Well then, that is…troubling news…” Azzast mushed, though perhaps not so unsurprising. The tension between the orcs and redguards of the Dragontail Mountains was as old as the first days of the Yokudan’s coming to this new continent. The timing could not be more inconvenient all the same. “Send a messenger back to Sentinel; we will continue marching to Elinhir but settle in the region until further orders.”

The scout nodded, saluted in the old ra-gada fashion of, making a fist before ponding it to his chest to then extending his arm to Azzast before turning his aside horse and galloping back down the path to deliver his generals orders. Azzast spat in the dirt before turning back to regard the marching column. He had been tasked with assembling an army as he marched from Totambu, their rally point, through Skaven, then Dragontail to eventually amass in Taneth then Rihad. Now it seemed that was no longer going to happen if the orcs were seeking to steer up trouble. If nothing else a full-day rest would also be the best time to redistribute the daily rations, change the marching passwords, and perhaps to snatch a little time for drills.

Events were fast moving, all the same and it seemed only one thing was certain in the days to follow; War was coming, and many were going to die.

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Oravos the Nerevarine
Molag Volen, Vvardenfell
9th of Sun's Height, 4E 205.

Massive bulks of smoldering iron scattered on the halls, ash mixed with blood drying up, and a body of a lifeless Dwemer laid before the feet of Oravos. "What happened here" he said, while inspecting the corpse of Yagrum Bagarn. "Azarkan couldn't contain the soulstone of Almalexia.. Yagrum was there trying to siphon out the energy when Azarkan exploded.." Neloth replies, while dragging his fingers on a spot on the floor that sparkled with the remains of the soulstone he was referring.

"I see.. I want Yagrum's corpse moved to the royal catacombs, but have his body preserved like what he wanted. We owe him at least his last wish to be preserved." Oravos said to Neloth who nodded slowly in response before suddenly speaking. "If its alright.. can I keep the remains of Azarkan? I'd like to conduct further studies about it."

"Do as you wish, you deserve at least its remains." He replies before kneeling close to Yagrum and grabbing a small pocketbook stuck on the Dwemer's burnt clothing. "I'll leave everything here under your supervision now, make sure the construction of the other golems won't be stalled again." He says after pocketing the small book.

After speaking, Oravos turns to the entrance of the room, and sees one of his aides rush inside. "Muthsera! the Grand Council wishes your urgent presence on the capital for a meeting. I tried to tell them that you do not want to be disturbed, but they insisted..."

"Seems like the news spread quicker than we've expected." Neloth comments. "I'll have to take my leave.. Neloth, when I return I expect this facility is functional again." Oravos strides out of the room, followed by his aide who was bowing as he walk.

--- A few hours later ---

Grand Council Meeting Hall, New Vivec

".. and the Argonians are fleeing back to their swampland, don't you see how this all pieces up together? its them that caused all this!" says the Sadras representative speaking for the Grand Councilor of Sadras who is still imprisoned. Oravos knew it wasn't the Argonians that caused Azarkan's destruction, but the soul of the once Tribunal god Almalexia. He wanted to reveal the true reason behind Azarkan's destruction, but doing so would deteriorate the support of the High Priests; who values relics of the False-Tribunal sacred to a degree.

Suddenly, when everything seemed to have cooled down, a voice he rarely heard during the past meetings blared inside the room. It was the Telvanni Grand Councillor Saden Droryn, who always kept his silence and only spoke when his opinion is required.

"I vote for every race other than our own to be sent away from Morrowind. The Argonians had no reason to flee to the marshes when we've accepted and treated them kindly on our land. Doesn't that scream of suspicion? The Argonians are just proving themselves as the dishonorable slaves they a-"

"ENOUGH!" Oravos shouted, cutting off Saden from finishing the insult he was about to say. "I will not tolerate any snide insinuations in this hall."

Saden slowly rose from his seat, and spoke in a gentle manner, hoping not to incur the wrath of Oravos with what he has to say further. "My apologies muthsera, I didn't wish to insult the Argonians, its just that I find it infuriating that their actions are being overlooked, when history dictates us that they cannot be trusted. Having no other races in Morrowind other than our own, doesn't just ensure the safety of our people, but the preservation of our race as well. Without other races in our land, we can serve justice without inciting thoughts of racial discrimination, and any attacks from within, just like what the Argonians just did."

"Our actions in their history gives them every right to hate us and take revenge, if it was our people who got enslaved for thousands of years, wouldn't you seek any form of revenge to those who oppressed you? You're implying that Morrowind can prosper without the help of others, when it was the Nords that sheltered our people in their time of need." The king said, making Saden gulp in silence, not wishing to answer the king back.

Oravos looked at the faces of the Councillors sitting around the table, each one of their faces expressed support to what Saden said, making him doubt if he could control the council much further. Denying their request might lose their support, but doing so with certainly displease the other races in Tamriel. This decision making wouldn't have come if those blasted Argonians didn't just started to leave, and Azarkans sudden misfortune.

"I understand your concerns, each one of you, and I share the amount of concern you have, tenfold even. But I cannot just send every non-Dunmer out of Morrowind just because a race, which we have no concrete evidence even, sabotaged Azarkan. But as your king, I have decided to make a compromise with your wishes. Vvardenfell, from this day onward will be strictly for the Dunmer's occupation only, all other races that will be staying on Vvardenfell must receive the blessing and deliberation of the high priests and the council, or face public execution."

The group of Dunmer seated around the table suddenly began to look at each other, nodding in agreement with what their king has proposed. One of the Councillors nodded only to Oravos, instead to the other Councillors around him. It almost seemed like it was planned all along in Oravos' mind, and he fell for it.
Captain Neros, 3rd Ashland Armiger Chapter
Blacklight, Morrowind
10th of Sun's Height, 4E 205.

News of the Kamals taking over Windhelm was the main discussion of the Armiger troops in Blacklight. They weren't staying on Blacklight for long, and every news about Skyrim was as important as any battle strategies if they're to move into the land.

"We leave at sunrise men, make sure you've taken a hearty meal before we leave, it'll be mushroom soup and saltrice till the end of this campaign." Neros said to the men before going back inside the officer barracks within the military district of the city. He eventually finds his way to one of the rooms, where the other captains discussed logistics for the campaign.

"Most of the men that we've brought stayed in Skyrim before being called back to Morrowind. They can handle themselves in the cold, but facing Nords might be a problem for some." says one of the adjutants inside the war room Neros entered. "We received order from the king himself to spare any Nord civilians we encounter, who doesn't pose a threat to our forces. We maybe supporting the Akaviri, but we are not going to murder each Nord we find, King Oravos values the honor of the Nords for giving us Solstheim that he won't let out forces become war criminals." Neros adds to the conversation before taking a seat. "So, what's the plan so far?"

"Our first objective is to support the Akaviri in Windhelm, they might experience a retaliatory attack from the Nords soon, giving us a chance to prove our fighting capability to the Akaviri forces. Once that's done or we arrive in Windhelm without any encounters, we will coordinate with the Akaviri to deploy the Ordinator team to slip into Skyrim for a mission from the High Priests. From there, we'll support the Akaviri campaign till we are recalled back to Morrowind." says the captain of the 5th Armiger Chapter.

"Sounds good to me, do you have any estimates to how long will this last?" Neros says, trying to change the topic, hopefully to a lighter subject. "...Unfortunately, until we are called back, relieved by other chapters, or corpses... we are to remain in Skyrim.."

The looks on the faces of the officers in the room appeared grim, but they knew that duty is what makes the Dunmer stronger than any other races in Tamriel. Giving up wasn't a thing for the Armigers, Morrowind relies on them, and they will do anything they can for their homeland.
High Priest Deodec
Ald'ruhn, Vvardenfell
10th of Sun's Height, 4E 205.

"Make sure those barriers are set up, the King will inspect the defenses himself when he arrives, so makes sure you cast it right!" Everyone in the area surrounding Skar was either casting spells or deploying fortifications, except for Deodec, who was trying to manage every mage and worker. "The Ordinators have formed a defensive perimeter around Skar, and are waiting for further orders High Priest." says an Ordinator captain assigned to guard the Emperor Crab.

"Excellent, if things go well with our new found Maormer friends, Skar will be roaming the lands of Morrowind again." Deodec pauses, casting a fireball towards one of the barrier pillars set up around Skar. "Let's hope these defenses are satisfactory for our King."

The Ordinator captain nodded and went back to his post. If there's something that the Dunmer learned from what happened to Azarkan, it would be that everything shouldn't be taken for granted. Precaution was now a mandatory word for the Dunmeri people, and it will take a long time to forget such a thing.
Telvanni Magelord Seleyna Drothi
Orsinium
12th of Sun's Height, 4E 205.

The Silt Strider carrying Seleyna finally arrived at the gates of Orsinium, a bit weary from travel, but nothing the large insect can handle. The city wasn't as she expected it to be, but then again, cultures of other always fails assumed impressions. "Don't unpack everything yet Doblic, I'll still have to grow my citadel here, and I don't want to get used to the place they'll lend me."

"Yes master, Doblic will wait here, I'll take care of the other slaves while you do your..stuff." Doblic replies while he drops down the Silt Strider by using a rope. "Alright ya lazy N'wahs, start unpacking Master's clothes, she'll be needing those among other things." The slaves varied from Dunmer to Khajiit, with even a lone Orc adding to the mix who surrendered himself freely into service to Seleyna.

The trip from Morrowind to Orsinium was a lengthy one and very tiring. The Imperials inspected the group so many times that Doblic even forgot how many times they got inspected; but then again, Doblic isn't a smart Mer, so he probably forgot when it went more than five. Bandits tried to halt the Telvanni Magelord, only to be set on fire, and be cleaved by Seleyna's Orc slave. The trip was somehow fun for Seleyna, now she hopes her stay in Orsinium would be better.
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22nd of Mid Year
Stormhold
Everard III The Bastard of Wayrest


Everard entered the room casually enough, although his eyes scanned the welcoming sight of Orcish warriors that looked to be fashioned from bedrock. Brother Mathieu went for his sword but Everard slapped a gauntlet to his. He understood. He was wary himself, but he knew bloodshed during a summit of peace would look bad for either party. Hopefully the Orcs knew it too. Even so, he sketched a good court bow, even if these Orcish tribals didn’t have a mind for proper noble courts and chivalry, Everard did. A kinslayer, a bastard, an exile, but he’d grown up in court.

“What shall I call thee? Your majesty? Your Lordship?” He waited for an answer, head bowed.

2nd of Sun’s Height
Shornhelm, Greater High Rock
Prince Narcisse Septim-Vincens


The craggy peaks and valleys of the Normar region found their borders along Shornhelm’s walls. The men born and bred in Shornhelm looked at as rough, jagged and mean as the land that spit them out, so it was no wonder why Shornhelm had a history of supplying fighting men both for the Imperial City’s arena teams and any mercenary Free Company roaming High Rock or Hammerfell for blood and coin. Four such men dressed in their uniforms, flammenschwert at their sides, led him to the Vice-Duke’s throne room.

“Your Grace.” He knelt before Egan Strongarm.

“Stand, man. You’ve been called here by one of the sons of King Jean Valois, yes?”

“Yes. I’ve come to answer the call to arms. Already, another usurper stands with his army outside of the gates of Wayrest.” Narcisse said, rising to his feet and brushing back his long mane with a hand.

“You remember them, then? When your mother and father were still alive and you were under the tutelage of Gerald Valois?” Egan laughed softly and nodded his head, “You’ve grown to be like him, you know? Gerald? Enough of the ramblings of an old man. I’m to tell you the truth about all of this, Prince.”

Narcisse cocked his head, “The truth?”

“Aye, each of you has been called to Shornhelm to march with Crown-Prince Ancelin. Antoinne and Hrolfr have already been told and they’ve come to terms with it.” Narcisse could feel his knuckles whitening with the tension, “Ancelin is dead. He was slain by Orcish marauders at Ghast’s Pass, his host cut down, he being one of the first to fall. So are the fates of the other sons that managed to escape, and the daughters too-”

“We all know their fates, your Grace, please, tell me whatever truth needs to be told.” Narcisse grew impatient.

“The only living son of the Valois son is Everard.”

“The bastard?” Narcisse gasped, letting his shoulders droop.

“The bastard. Even so, he has a stronger claim to the throne than Ferrand’s son, Avery. Even his muddied blood holds more royalty than Ambrose’s.” Egan said.

“Why?” Narcisse asked, almost a whisper.

“Why use the name of his eldest half-brother? Because, he knew the fecking royalty of the other realms wouldn’t come to the aid of a bastard. I was the only with sense in me, for when Everard crawled into my hall, his host in tow, I knew he wanted justice and was gathering pieces for the game we all play in High Rock. I was more than happy to lend myself to be on the board on his side. Will you swear loyalty to the cause? Sensford, Bhoriane, Alcaire, Menevia, their lords all have taken their shields and swords from the wall and stand ready to rise in defiance.”

Narcisse gave it thought. A bastard for King? It was ludicrous, but he knew that Everard was their only hope of getting justice and keeping Ferrand from putting his son on the throne to puppet for his own gain. He bowed his head, “I hereby give my sworn alliance to Crown-Prince Everard of Wayrest, third of his name.”

“Might as well be King, Prince Narcisse. Maybe we can win this with a Septim on our side, however watered down the Emperor’s line may be by now.” A voice came from the far end of the hall.

Narcisse looked to its source and he saw a tall man, long dark hair like his own and sharp features. He was flanked by two men he recognized, Sir Roderic Gaines of the Knights of the Rose and Montyard, student of the late Spymaster of Wayrest.

“You’re a mute now?” Everard asked, a dangerous looking smile on his lips.

“I thought you were dead. Slain on the roads.” Narcisse said.

“It’s never been part of my plan to be killed by nameless men on dirt roads, Narcisse.” Everard walked away to the other end of the hall to some other room, “I intend to be King of Wayrest by my birthday next week. By next year, High King.”
==========

Actions
-Everard meets Yagurz
-(off-text) Siege of Wayrest ongoing
-Dissent grows against Ambrose and Ferrand in Wayrest, Camlorn, Shornhelm and Jehanna.
-Upon his return, Everard lies in wait for the best time to strike.
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Senchal
The Mayor had refused to answer, as a result, Ab'Farahn had him executed. Ab'Farahn entered an operations room in which Ta'fel stood. Ta'fel looked up at Ab'Farahn and said "Ab'Farahn, the recruitment has gone rather well, however, they are untrained and many are young and inexperienced.".
"Ab'Farahn sees." Ab'Farahn replied "Has the training started."
"It has, this one has his best men working on it." Ta'fel opened the window which revealed a back courtyard. In the courtyard, many recruits were being trained by veterans.
"Good. Soon we will have regained our strength and will have enough to defend ourselves with."
"Soon... Soon..."
Ab'Farahn watched the recruits. They were sparing, listening and overall learning quite well. Ab'Farahn was pleased with the recruitment. He left the room to observe them more closely. When he entered the courtyard there was a lot of shouting and communication, so it was hard to focus on one Khajjit's voice, but the recruits seemed to be able to hear over the noise and understand their trainers. Ab'Farahn stood and watched them, trying to pick out who seemed to be the best. It was too hard for Ab'Farah to decide, he was tired and he needed rest. He headed to one of the chambers to rest. Perhaps another day he will test them, to find who is the best.
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Outside of Orcish Stronghold Narzulbur
10th of Sun’s Height
Lieutenant Eviake
Lieutenant Eviake sat atop of his Nanouk, a two thousand kilogram, silver-furred, eight-legged bear. Nanouks were the staple of Kamal riders, they were often the vanguards that charged into the Thousand Isles, in a time before the alliance. The expeditionary forces only had a limited stock of these fearsome creatures, as the tight quarters of ships were inadequate for transporting and maintaining animals.

There was a series of structures ahead of him, structures that were different from the typical Nordic types the Kamals encountered. There was a longhouse on the mountain side, surrounded by small huts and enclosed within wooden palisades. There was no mistaken it, it was a stronghold.

And a stronghold was something they are prepared against. Behind Eviake and his line of Nanouk riders were a dozen of Farismes. The Farismes were magical constructs unique to the Kamals, they were essentially four to eight ice wraiths bonded together with alteration and soul gems. The wraiths’ cryo effects created an ice field in between them, on top of which held shard canons.

Though they were equipped to take down a fortification, Eviake was explicitly instructed to not do so as his initial action. Instead, Hakkeam told the lieutenant to offer their enemies a chance to surrender, as they can be useful as prisoners and their homes might hold supplies to prolong the Kamals’ campaign.

“Prisoner,” Eviake called forward a short Nordic man, a local hunter before the invasion. “What manner of place is that?”

“That is Narzulbur,” the small man trembled as words blurted from his mouth. “The Orcs live inside.”

“Orcs? Are they armed?” to Eviake’s question, the man only nodded in fear. “They will want to read this letter, unless they hope for the complete annihilation of their pathetic village.”

Like his superior’s challenge to Windhelm, Eviake wrote a similar message to Narzulbur. The Orcs had full day to make a decision between three outcomes. They could ignore the message and be destroyed, answer Eviake’s challenge to a one on one duel or surrender without bloodshed.

“Off you go prisoner, give these Orcs their final warning.”
Windhelm, Skyrim
11th of Sun’s Height
Hakkeam
It was not one, but three individuals. In hindsight, the group made sense. This was not a task for a single person, but rather, something for a group of accomplices. There were two human females and one Argonian male. One of the human, someone called Vendicci, was the author to a page of notes, which three copies were made. To Hakkeam, the Tamrielic letters were nothing but a mix of rubbish, however, there were important informations contained within.

“To Carcello Vedicci in Camlorn,” the Kamal translator read off the page. “Foreign forces have taken Windhelm, and we are held in its slums. I have already sent messages to the Emperor and High King of Skyrim, and I am also sending this to the Company’s headquarters along with another copy to the Tamrielic Gazette. The invaders numbered in the thousands and are extremely powerful, they are nothing we have seen. Please be careful. Your cousin, Adelaisa.”

Hakkeam’s hands trembled with rage, how could they let not one but two letters pass their watch? If it were not for the Tsaesci mage, they would have let through three more. His fury translated into the magicka of frost, encasing the page in ice and shattering it with a clutch of his fist.

“And her accomplices?” Hakkeam demanded, voice full of anger.

“Another human female, Viola Giordano is her name, a busybody eavesdropping on our troops .” the translator answered. “And an Argonian, the lizard creature, I believe his name was Scout Marsh. He was caught swimming up the White River, seems his kinds are natural swimmers.”

“Round these three up,” Hakkeam pointed to the dungeon. “I want a public execution tomorrow, mid day and all the locals there to witness it. In the meantime, double every guard details, make sure there are at least two attornachs at each entrance.”
Refugee’s Rest, border between Morrowind and Skyrim
12th of Sun’s Height
Watch Foreman Tliskev
The first light of dawn revealed a long line of bone armored soldiers extended into the deepest mountain pass his eyes can see. The Dunmers’ armors did not look as protective as the Kamal’s, though their smaller size would prohibit these elves from wearing massive adamantium plates.

“Hail,” Tliskev waved to the leading soldier. “Welcome to Skyrim, it probably looks different then before. Commander Hakkeam have barracks setup inside and around Windhelm, if your men make haste, they might just catch our public execution.”
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Gideon, Black Marsh
10th of Sun’s Height, 4E 205
Sha’zeek
The Warclaw of the An-Xileel stood at the docks of Gideon, examining the hundreds of refugees that had come at the behest of the Hist. She had been reading up on a number of hidden documents that discussed the Oblivion crises more than two centuries ago, and she was not sure what was going to come next. The Hist had called its children home, to be sure: but to what end? Was another generation of Argonians going to be thrown into chaos and disarray because yet another force would not simply let the Lizard folk be?

Sha’zeek’s warrior blood boiled at the thought of the invaders. Every Argonian of note was aware that Thorn had fallen, and those that made up Rules-With-Claw’s inner council knew that the threat came from the east. What they didn’t know was how the crew had managed to sneak past the other east-coast nations: Morrowind in particular. She was sure that the Shadowscales would uncover those particular details after a bit of exploration, but Sha’zeek knew who she suspected. The Dunmer had gotten bolder since the return of their false-demigod. The re-establishment of slavery had been him spitting in the Argonian’s faces, and the only reason that Rules-With-Claw had avoided going to war over the issue, which was Sha’zeek’s suggestion no less, was that no other nation even murmured disapproval at the situation.

”Fine. Let the men and the other mer learn what it is to suffer the indignation of slavery.”

She spat on the floor as she came to a particular ship’s passengers: who were all weapon-less. They told a tale of the pirate, Dupont, and Sha’zeek could do little more than swear at the situation. They hadn’t the time, nor the resources, to deal with the Pirate fool through major force.

Thankfully, there were other ways that Argonian’s employed to deal with threats like Dupont.

“You…” She indicated at a young looking Argonian that wore the rags and the smell of a dock-worker. “…Take a message to the Hist-speaker. Inform him that I want 5 Shadowscales dispatched to bring Dupont a message. Tell him that if he attacks an Argonian ship again, it will cost him more than a finger…And ask them to take his left index finger: nothing too important.” Sha’zeek’s chosen messenger nodded, understanding the brutality behind the message. There were few Argonians worse than Sha’zeek to piss off, for her retribution and taste for revenge is as merciless as her time in the arena.

“Get ready to move out. Most of you are moving out to Archon within the hour!”
Stormhold, Black Marsh
4th of Sun’s Height
Stalks-The-Stars
When the blood moon took hold, Stalks-The-Stars knew what would come soon. He chose not to sleep for the night, as he feared what might happen in his dreams. Instead, he began to pack a few belongings into a rucksack, and ordered the dispatching of a messenger to Ornisium. He had hoped to make some use of the respect that he and his father had won from the orcs for one particular favour: one that might prove invaluable.

On the noon-sun’s zenith, Stalks-The-Stars handed control of Stormhold to the resident Hist-speaker, and ordered him to order both a strict curfew and the closing of all gates. War had overcome Black Marsh, and Stalks-The-Stars knew what that Stormhold was the second capital of Black Marsh. No one accessed Helstrom without risk of disease and the threat of the indigenous species that were truly frightening for even the Argonians.

After that though, He left the marsh with the Spear of the Hunter in one hand and a rucksack in the other. He had enough resources to spend a considerable amount of time away from the city, and he intended to use them. The Ring of Hircine felt heavy on his finger: and the call of his master felt heady and intoxicating. The blood moon was Hircine’s time, and even if it wasn’t his summoning date, it was a day to respect: none the less.

A few miles inside the Marsh of Argonia, Stalks-The-Stars abandoned his normal visage and embraces Hircine’s gift. Six foot of Argonian was soon replaced by Twelve feet of Werecrocodile and, perhaps most terrifying of all, the beast still held the Spear of the Hunter, having proportionately grown with the blessed champion of Hircine. It looked like the missile from a ballista more than a speak, but in the hands of Stalks-The-Stars, it was a deadly and agile weapon.

The transformed Stalks-The-Stars made his way towards Thorn, intent on beginning his own campaign of terror upon any invaders inside the marsh. He doubted he would have the logic or sense to spare any non-Argonian in the days to come, for Hircine would surely demand the hunt be bloody, for one so long.
Helstrom Magus Academy, Argonia.
6th of Sun’s Height, 4E 205
Maraan’a
The Archmagus had been somewhat aware of the potency of the Hist-Sap, but even he had not expected such miracles to come at the purified sap’s behest. He had wondered just how best to test the sap’s capability when things first fell into place: the invaders at Thorn provided the archmagus a perfect field to test his newly-given powers. How would he crush the foes: Maybe mass Illusion magic or perhaps a devastating Fire-Storm that would shame the Red Mountain? So many choices were at the Archmagus’ claw tips.

And then the Blood Moon came.

It gave him a wicked idea indeed, the kind that any self-respected innovator could not ignore. He didn’t know what fool had artificially created a Blood Moon, but Maraan’a could kiss them for it. Such perfect chances do not come often, you see.

So Maraan’a gathered a number of skilled mages to the top of the Helstrom Castle, and he locked the doors with only a simple message given to the Hist speaker to pass on to both the Hist-ee and to Rules-With-Claw

“The ritual will take two weeks. When it has come, we will deliver sweet irony upon those that have wronged us.”
The Deep Marshes, Argonia
8th of Sun’s Height, 4E 205
Rules-With-Claw
To see the ruler of Argonia desperate was not something that any living being could admit to. Yet to be where he was, the only explanation was that he must be desperate. The deep marshes had been known as the home of the Naga for a great many years, and none dared venture into the hulking examples of Argonian evolution lightly. The Naga were considered violent brigands more often than not: creatures that raided the farmers of Argonia and who pillaged from the hard work of others.

Yet, physiologically, they were impressive. They each possessed an evolutionary strength that dwarfed the Argonians, at the cost of the wit and speed others had. Some claimed Rules-With-Claw must have Naga heritage in his blood, although it hardly mattered. He was a huge Argonian, but he was no Naga.

Yet, inside the Naga halls, he was greeted with a reasonable respect. Even the Naga seemed to respect the acheivements of Rules-With-Claw, and the leader of the Naga met with him for the discussion he sought: the integration of the Naga into his military. They would be his shock troopers; the hulking vanguard that left his enemies destroyed.

Now he just had to convince them…Not an easy task, to be sure.
Marshes near Thorn, Argonia
7th of Sun’s Height, 4E 205
Sha’eek
The Shadowscale Mistress had been careful in the guerrilla warfare she’d unleashed on any invaders who left Thorn. The Argonian resistance attacked near the water or in the trees, making use of wooden javelins at range and conserving arrows where possible. What was most useful about the javelins was the trees contained no shortage of diseases and pathogens that would wreak havoc upon the invaders. One of the most potent defence mechanisms in the Marsh was the ecosystem itself. Diseases that would cripple other species could be ignored by the Argonians and lived with, Sha’eek was both aware of these poisons and thankful of them. They had stopped Tiber Septim once, now they would stop the eastern invaders.

Deep inside the Marsh, near a particularly large swamp, the survivors of Thorn had made a readily disposable camp. The trees were watch towers and the hundred or so Argonians kept a vigilant patrol around the camp. Of that one hundred Argonian force, only half of those were competent fighters. She knew that the invaders wouldn’t be stopped by such a meagre force, only slowed. No doubt her fellow leaders had plans of their own to stop this threat, for even she could feel the call of the Hist. The Argonian people knew what was happening: all of them were ready to fight off the invaders.

Sha’eek had to admit she missed the comfort of warmth somewhat. Thorn had been such a vibrant city: so warm, despite its status as a place that guarded the borders. Out in the Marsh, they couldn’t even light a fire. It was so damp and humid that any attempt was almost snuffed out, and they dared not waste good wood on a fire: most of which would be damp anyway. Fire was nearly impossible in Argonia, unless until you got to the Cities, at least.

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9th Sun's Height

The citizens of Pyandonea were in a religious harmony. For an entire era they'd been pushed – directed by Orgnum and his government – into a collective state of mind that thirsted for expansion. For bloodshed. Uldondil almost envied the Grand Priest for being allowed to show his vigor openly. At least he could be honest. Instead, the High Admiral kept a blank face. He hated parades. He hated peasants. He hated families, parents, and children. Uldondil had a pet once: his friend at the time cooked and ate it. Orgnum was giving a speech. He'd already known the particulars, and what weighed more on his mind was Hierdan's account of agreeing to another war. Two fronts and two allies. Undondil couldn't help but disagree, although he did look forward to leading the men into Hammerfell.

Relieved when it was over, he confronted Irweni. Ho'Okioi. Vampires with leashes. She couldn't even go into public, and only three knew of her presence and order. Her unnatural rainbow coloured eyes gave Uldondil's raging stare a target.

“Elsweyr.” He rarely said more than necessary.

Irweni spoke with a raspy and shrill hiss instead of a voice. “Little to be gained there. The citizens of Tamriel already did our work for us.”

He nodded slightly and moved on. Irweni already knew anything he would have told her about Black Marsh and Hammerfell. Maybe more. He hated spies.

Entering the war room, he issued his final orders to the fleet leaving for Alinor. Merchant ships were among them. Merchant ships. To Alinor. He'd go there himself to ensure the Altmer didn't try anything. Altmer sails could be reverse engineered given time, probably quickly knowing the Altmer magicks. He hated Altmer.

The High Admiral faced his subordinate in command of the fleet leaving for Black Marsh. There was still doubt about how to successfully occupy the place.

“Black Marsh is a pit. There will be no occupation. Archon, Lilmoth, Soulrest. Burn everything.”

He turned on his heel and set out for Alinor, a message already before him to inform the wretched Altmer of his arrival. There they would finalize plans for Hammerfell.
T’Mol was progressing nicely. Orgnum has made use of its communication facilities to aid his journey to Morrowind. As of now it was one of few final pieces which were not completed. He stared at it hungrily when he could, either in person or from a magical viewing apparatus in his temple. Ageless as he was few things stirred him but T’Mol practically sent his emotions into frenzy. It would change warfare. His pupils narrowed into slits as he stared, his tongue forking as it tested the air. Even from across the continent he could taste it. Taste them. And they were so very delicious.
In contrast to Orgnum’s nearly palpable single hunger, the Shipbuilding Guild was bustling with minds centered on joy, determination, and ambition. The Bard’s Guild had been contracted to help ease the long hours everyone was working, mostly by volunteer, to bring all of Pyandonea’s dry docks to functional status again. Families which had made a name for themselves in shipsbuilding came out of retirement, resenting the scaleback they’d suffered under nearly a decade before. Eager families and young elves whom had never been of age or sufficient training joined the fray to seek their glory.
There were few ways a Pyandonean could move up in the world, to break his place in life permanently. Many elves were placed in their station by birth, serving to perfect their craft in Orgnum’s name. No family was impoverished any longer, not since the Holy Coffer was recovered, but elevation in wealth only made honour and fame more valuable. To serve in Orgnum’s Holy Temple was the highest honour one could attain, and secured superiority in history. Great warriors could serve in the temple. Great designers drafted for the King himself. There were few ways a Pyandonean could move up in the world. Shipsbuilding was one of them.
In Morrowind, among the myriad of other detachments being trained in the Akaviri and Dunmeri ways of warfare, the Sand Boots had a particularly skilled pale elf. This Lieutenant Commander of Pyandonea’s specialized marine forces had exhibited great prowess in fighting, and exceptional leadership qualities. In training exercises her men dominated land engagements, but she suffered on the waters. This had kept him from attaining a command rank of any significance. Friwama intended to bring the Sand Boots to greater fame than merely a highly trained and effective raiding force.

In her training she was devoted entirely. Between sessions the Sand Boot studied every military history she could get her hand on. The continental nations had a fascinating military history: each one kept an army separate from the navy. This was in contrast with Pyandonea, whose land forces were under command of the naval forces, and she saw why: no foreign forces had ever landed on Orgnum's beaches. Having lived this history gave her a somewhat unique outlook on Tamriel's armed forces, but only as an outsider.

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Meridian Palace of Heavenly Might, Tsaesic Kingdom, Akavir
5th of Sun’s Height (Akavir local time)
Potentate Esthera-Vash
“Just place your hands on the sphere and close your eyes.”

“I know what is suppose to be done, let me be.”

“Of course, your excellency.”

The mage scurried away, leaving Esthera alone in the chamber. The room was dominated by one table, a wooden furniture containing similar items to an enchanter’s workbench. But it was different in one major aspect, the large green orb on its center. The orb casted a a mythical glow around it, and to trained users, it sent out tingles to their minds.

Such device was how Tsaesci communicated across long distances, an ancient but effective invention. The westerners called it the Dreamsleeve, another dimension existing parallel to Mundus. To the Tsaesci, a race of great arcane achievements, it was a line of thoughts connecting individuals over any distance. Only trained mages were capable of communicating through the Dreamsleeve without assistance. In the case of Esthera, she was not one of those people. Instead, the orb translated her thoughts and soul gems transmitted them to another orb that had been setup similarity.

Taking a deep breath of steady her mind, the Potentate rested her hands upon the orb and shut off her eyelids. Within seconds, faint whispers reverberated from the deep recesses of her mind. The whispers were initially undecipherable, but each consecutive sound was more audible than the last, until finally, a clear voice could be heard.

“Esthera," General Abasi-Kil’s voice materialized in her thoughts, his words was just slightly warped by the device. “It has been some time.”

“Likewise Abasi,” Esthera’s own voice responded. Though it was not a spoken sound, her thoughts were made into such to facilitate her speech. “Is the campaign successful?”

“Our vanguards broke through immediately, they never had a chance. Though I have to inform you, we made contacts with several unexpected allies.”

“Oravos?”

“Indeed, and another, the Maormers of Pyandonea.”

To say Esthera was surprised was an understatement, she was nearly broke contact with Abasi from her shock. The Maormers were no more than legends to the Tsaesci, who’s last contact in the second era was seen by many as nothing more than fictional stories. But now, they have surfaced again, with their powerful navy, Esthera thought, they are not ones to be trifled with.

“An emissary had a brief conversation with the Tang Mo commander,” Abasi continued. “He passed the message me, they requested an audience with our rulers.”

“That was rather unexpected,” Esthera commented. The Maromers’ navy, many times more powerful than the Tsaesci’s and all other’s, could spell the doom of their invasion. Alternatively, they could also become valuable allies and demolish all oppositions on the waves. “Very well, I shall speak to them. Our ships depart on the next dawn, we will be at Ynslea in two weeks.”
Swamps near Thorn, Black Marsh
8th of Sun’s Height
Matiyahu-Zvi
The moon was bleeding, a bright scarlet aura radiating from Secunda’s surface. It was not a natural occurrence, nothing of such was seen on Akavir. Of that, Matiyahu was sure the lunar phenomena was the work of these lizards. To what effect they aimed for was unknown to him, but whatever they have planned, there was nothing he can really do. Majority of their mages were deployed in the north, leaving the Southern forces a skeleton crew of magic users.

In addition, the local resistance was more than frustrating. For a species primitive enough to use only sticks and stones, the Argonians put up a surprisingly stiff resistance. In the end, Matiyahu did have some respect for his adversaries’ futile but resourceful attempts. The lizards coated their flint tips with various types of poison, a would-be effective tactics against opponents other than the Tsaesci and Tang Mo. For the easterners, they were no strangers to poison. The Tsaesci possessed natural snake blood, making them immune to such underhanded methods. Similarly, the Tang Mo, being natives to the dangerous island jungles, were also highly resistant to any natural or alchemical toxins.

All in all, what bothered the Dragonguard captain was the how fast the Argonians could disappear and reappear. Sure, he wasn’t facing competent fighters. No, there were merely small shadows of movements, compact groups of fighters that would throw their sticks and mostly failed to connect with anything other than dirt. It was clear that their intent was not to launch a counter-offensive, they were stalling for reinforcements. Therefore, it made eradication of the resistance paramount to Xing and Matiyahu.

Today, his luck finally played to his favor. The mixed group of Dragonguards and Tang Mo caught sight of a large camp. The camp itself was difficult to find, there was no fire, smoke or any tell-tale signs of the living. It was by pure coincidence that the group stumbled upon this location. Within minutes, the Argonian overwatch was dispatched, leaving no indication of the easterners’ arrival.

Now, the combined Tsaesci/Tang Mo force encircled the camp. A hand signal for the Tang Mo clan master made clear of their readiness. They were in position to attack, and Matiyahu will lead with his Kiai.

Three words, lost to most in the ages and unknown to everyone but most elite of all Dragonguards, sang for Matiyahu’s lips. This was the ancient language of Dragons, creatures that had not existed in Akavir for millenniums. Yet, knowledge was passed down. The Dragonguards long held the secret of scared words, and in the cases of a adept such as Matiyahu, his Voice was a weapon more devastating than the most powerful of eastern canons.

Indeed, the only worthy translation to a godly language were the very forces of nature itself. Matiyahu’s Kiai was a lightening storm, as bolts of electricity slammed through whatever weak barricades the Argonian hid behind and shock waves danced between the group. Rest of the eastern fighters took this chance and attacked, in the wake of Matiyahu’s destruction, almost a hundred Argonians were slaughtered within minutes.

No enemies were spared, all except for one. The female Argonian, the very individual that started this resistance and the one that Matiyahu swore as his nemesis, was making a final stand. Her fighting style was different from the others, it was not a reckless charge, instead, they were calculated moves executed with cold efficiency.

“Put down your weapons now!” Matiyahu warned as ten eastern soldiers surrounded the lizard. Just as he expected, the Argonian did not comply. She spoke something in Tamrielic, words unknown the the Dragonguard captain.

That was the last straw for Matiyahu. His sword, a peculiar quicksilver blade nicknamed Impulse, lashed out from his hand. It was a literal transformation into a chain whip, as segments of quicksilver coiled apart, connected by thin, flexible metal strands. The snake-like sword wrapped itself tightly around the Argonian, rendering her immobile. The Tang Mo clanmaster was quick to act, spells of paralysis flew from his hands and found their mark on the lizard.

“Get her back to Thorn,” Matiyahu commanded his subordinates, as they stood above the Argonian’s paralyzed body, Matiyahu snorted in distain. “She’s going to have a serious talk with me.”
Thorn, Black Marsh
9th of Sun’s Height
Xing
Despite their rivalries, Xing allowed himself a small grin at the sight of Matiyahu’s return. For almost a week, the female Argonian named Sha’zeek, as told by a prisoner, and her resistance annoyed him to the upmost degree. Now, with the lizard shackled in Barkaan’s conveniently build maximum security dungeon, they would be clear to proceed with the next stage of invasion.

“Commander Xing,” Ildoryn said as he entered Xing’s office, the former room of Barkaan himself. “My men have departed from Tear, they will arrive within a week’s time.”

“Excellent,” with Dunmer reinforcements, Tang Mo and Tsaesci forces could further their assaults inland and down the coast. “Have you met our newest prisoner? The last ruler of this city held many cruel instruments. I believe captain Matiyahu is in the dungeon right now, introducing this “Sha’zeek” to Barkaan’s spikes.”
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Imperial Capital
12th of Sun's Height, 4E 205


The messenger barely glanced aside as he tore through the small town on the outskirts of the Imperial City, driving his exhausted mount hard across the brilliant white bridge that led to the city gates. When he reached them, he paused only long enough to dismount and brandish the letter he carried, sealed with the sigil of the Penitus Oculatus. He was admitted immediately, and though he himself was as exhausted as his horse, ran as fast as his legs could carry him to reach the doors of the white-gold tower. The letter granted him admittance there as well, and he was escorted directly to the Emperor's chambers by the Imperial Guard. He didn't know what was in the letter, only that the agent that had given it to him had died to make sure it was delivered, making it important enough for the messenger to run three horses to their deaths and be forced to steal seven others, simply to ensure his journey was as quick as possible.

Once in the Emperor's chambers, he dropped to his knees and offered up the letter, not daring to lift his eyes from the floor. The letter was taken from his hands, and he heard the seal being broken, then long silence as he assumed it was being read. His eyes began to drift closed while he waited to be dismissed, and he jerked with a start when a voice addressed him. "You did well, bringing this as quickly as you did. You shall be commended for your bravery, as the journey was no doubt a harsh one. Go now and rest, you will be given food and a room here in the tower." He tried to stand, but collapsed back to his knees, unable to muster the energy. Now that he had stopped moving, the enormity of his exhaustion slammed into him like a brick wall.

"Apologies, Sire." He tried again, and this time the guards helped raise him to his feet and support him out of the room.

When he was gone, the Emperor also left the room and proceeded directly to his offices, sending messengers to summon his advisors, aides and administrators with all haste along the way. When all were gathered in the room, he looked each one in the eyes before sighing heavily, as men are prone to do when a great burden is suddenly thrust upon them, and began to speak. "Has the delegate from Hammerfell left the city yet?" One of the aides nodded. "Very well. We shall have to do it ourselves. Find the nine fastest messengers still in the city, and send three each to the legion at High Rock, High King Bellemont, and the ruler of Hammerfell. It is of the utmost importance that they be informed of what has transpired in Skyrim. Go now, I will have the missives ready when you return."

The Aide scurried off and the Emperor turned to another. "Go to the University and request an audience for me with the head researcher. I have something I wish to discuss with him as soon as possible." The second aide nodded and left, and the Emperor turned to the head of the Penitus Oculatus that were stationed in the imperial city, one of his most trusted advisors. "Send agents into Morrowind as soon as you can gather them. This business in Cheydinhal must be investigated further, and all leads point to Morrowind. Go." The man bowed and excused himself, and the Emperor's attention was yet again redirected, this time to the Head of the Imperial Legion in the city. "Send the eighth legion north to Skyrim, and begin the mustering of two additional legions. If the attack on Skyrim is as severe as I have reason to believe, they will be needed there." When the Emperor finished, the officer saluted, then turned on his heel and marched out of the room. It was only then that the Emperor seemed to relax, sitting back in the chair behind his desk. This did not bode well for the fragile treaties that had been crafted at the summit in Black Marsh, but if he had any say left in the world he would not let his beloved Tamriel fall to these invaders.
Actions:

-The eighth legion musters and begins the trip north toward Skyrim.

-The Imperial Army begins the mustering of two of the auxiliary legions.

-Messengers are sent to High Rock and Hammerfell carrying letters from the Emperor.

-Spies are dispatched to Morrowind following leads gained in the investigations in Cheydinhal.
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10th of Sun’s Height
Shornhelm, Greater High Rock
Everard III


Everard had found sleep easily enough. In such tense moments, sleep usually was the last thing to come to come to him. He was to be king by force, to take back what was his by blood and steel. For now though, he was to sleep, and in a bed, no less. For the first time, he felt silk sheets wrap him in comfort’s cloak, the cushion of the bed forming around him and that was the last memory he had before he awoke seemingly seconds later. Where one would open their eyes to the daylight streaming in from windows, the morning chill making the curtains dance hauntingly, his sight begat only darkness in its gaze. The search for any light was hopeless, as it seemed the darkness surrounded him, almost was him. The darkness enveloped him more thoroughly than his skin, which he felt none, nor legs or arms to move or a head to turn.

Slowly though, these things came back to him. His eyes first, then body and hands and fingers which he held in front of his face as if not trusting his hands to be real. He looked down to see himself stark naked. No wind blew though, it was still all around and he felt unnerved. This was not like any dream or nightmare he had ever experienced. He felt as if this was a real place and he felt as any other day. Under his naked feet though, the floor seemed to be liquid, blood upon a few moments of inspection. A sea of blood. The blood gave way to a slick, black walkway. Ebony, he thought.

After which, his thoughts almost seemed to be hijacked, a voice inside his own head spoke in a woman’s voice, deep as it was and it sent chills down his spine, “Walk.”

And he did. His first few steps were slow, but he felt pushed and so his steps came more frequent. He looked around himself and noticed the same darkness as when he arrived in this place. From thin air, appearing like smoke before taking a form, came the face of his father. The voice spoke again, “This is the man who fathered you. A warrior on a throne of whalebone, the great beast speared by his kinsman long ago.”

The face exploded into smoke before reforming into the face of Ambrose Mackin, “This is the man who slew him, Amber-Skin, King of Pirates. Warlord of common blood,” the voice said, “Amber-Skin was born in mud and filth and he rose to be a leader of men, to be Captain and then King. The will to power is the coal that burns in men’s hearts. Those who have no will do not earn my favor, and those that have more will than their kin earn my favor two-fold.”

“Why do you bring me here, Dream-Witch?” Everard spoke angrily, to which his head jerked aside and the pain of a slap simmered on his cheek.

“The weak have no right to demand the strong. Tell me, who had more will- your father with all of his army and a true claim to the Ivory Throne or the Reachman?” The voice spoke again.

“My father. He left his enemies in his wake-”

“All his enemies but one,” The voice interrupted and Everard’s voice found itself absent, “Listen, mortal, though the shit of weakness festers in your ears; I ask, who is Crowned and who is dead?”

Once again, his voice was returned to him, “My father is dead, Ambrose rules now.”

“And why is it that you want the throne, Breton bastard?” Her words heated him and his hands hungered for a blade and a throat with which to cut.

His hands convulsed and he felt the tiny bones in his hands shifting painfully, a shrill cry came from him as he fell to his knees, “An appropriate position for the weak,” She said, “Answer.”

“Justice.” He said, looking up and rubbing his hands as the pain faded, his eyes scanning for the witch who had trapped him here.

His throat and tongue began to burn and he tasted blood, “Because I am a bastard!” And the pain stopped as sudden as it came.

“Your answers grow truthful. They are close to the truth, but close can be the difference between cutting a throat and finding only air. Answer again.”

“Because others said I could not have it.” He gasped, struggling to rise, fists clenched.

“And you would live such that the words of others push you this way and that like a boat at sea.” It was not a question, “Men are apt to be swallowed by the waves sooner or later. A weakling you are, should you stay in this mindset. I leave you tonight to meditate and I will visit again. Make your answers true, or I will be less than pleased.”

Everard awoke in the guest chambers of Duke Egan’s walled fortress-city. He came to with a gasp, his hands finding the dagger beneath his pillow as his eyes looked to every corner for the witch who had invaded his dreams. He did not like being made the weakling, and such an incursion on his very dreams was an affront of the highest kind. He sighed, pushing old anger back down. His feet found the floor and he stood to dress himself for the day to come. He remembered the witch’s words, “You would live such that the words of others push you this way and that like a boat at sea. Men are apt to be swallowed by the waves sooner or later.”

He looked at his hands, remembering the pain and the shifting and grating of bone under his skin. He closed and opened a fist to test his hands and found nothing wrong. Letting his hands return to his side, he looked out of his bedroom window and out of the walls beyond his own. The words returned to his lips again in a whisper, “Who is crowned and who is dead?”

A seed of a question that bore another as he thought for a moment, and he felt a feeling of epiphany hold him, “Why is one crowned and one dead?”

He sat thinking for a few moments before he shook his head. His mind would not be polluted by the ramblings of a Dream-Witch, not while he held it. He continued to dress himself and stood, not knowing what to do with himself. A strange pull took him to the window and he looked out into the night sky. Stars, the void, but the moon. The moon bled.

12th of Sun’s Height, Night
Roads around Grand Duchy of Northpoint, Greater High Rock
Watch Sergeant Baelion


Baelion had given the order for his troop to dig in for the night. None of the men had nighteye spells or potions handy and torches and lanterns were apt to get them spotted. They were in the business of killing brigands, not shooing them away. Even so, the dark night was pushed back by a few torches milling about the camp. Their awareness was low but being so close to Camlorn on the edges of the Normar wastes meant that there were a scarce number of criminals that could pose a threat. Meeting a patrol from Camlorn was a threat in itself though. Baelion knew that if there were any patrols nearby they’d most likely have heard of the cease fire between the Northern States in light of some important something the Grand-Duke and a few others disappeared for and even if they didn’t they’d be settling down just like him and his men.

Two campfires had been made in the camp and the men huddled themselves around the pair of flames. One could always tell the veteran from the newblood by two things, how much they talked about killing, how shiny their armor was and never spending time around a campfire at night if bandits or other nasties were a threat. One such man stood at the edge of the camp, back to a large boulder. Even if he hadn’t moved a muscle, Baelion knew he had heard him coming.

“Listening for wings, Engle?” The giant-bats, the Echkin, were particularly active at night, crawling from their holes in the mountains to wreak havoc on whatever they could find. They were far enough away from the mountains to not have to worry about it.

“Can’t sleep, Bael.” He said, keeping his watch as he talked.

Baelion knew Engle was as tough a soldier as one could hope to have in their troop but he’d never known Engle to skip sleep. He’d never run the chance of being caught tired the next day if his axe was needed. The Sergeant rested his back against the boulder, shoulder-to-shoulder with the gray-templed soldier, “Something got you up?”

“Dreams. Bad ones. No good is to come of the future.” Something must have had to spook him if he was speaking like this. Baelion had never known Engle to be superstitious.

“Just dreams-”

“Vaermina. I think it’s from Vaermina,” He interrupted, “I wouldn’t put much stock into dreams if I didn’t feel I needed to.”

Baelion cocked his head at Engle. He was surprised to see one of his men acting like this, especially Engle. Baelion didn’t know what to say but the night stole any chance of saying it from him. Somewhere out in the distance, a scream sounded, followed by what sounded like a cacophony of…something. The voices were not of men. All around the camp, the rasp of blades clearing sheaths and murmured whispers was heard. Fires were smothered and the tension ran thick as old blood. Silence took the camp and it stayed that way. The night was still. No bugs, and the bleeding moon they noticed did not help the situation. Baelion and his men had noticed it one night and sworn it off from conversation. The looming unnaturalness in the sky did not help.

“I want nightwatches. We sleep in shifts tonight and check it out in the morning. I have no interest on meeting whatever that was in the dark but if we must then sleep lightly.” Baelion commanded.

He looked at Engle. He understood his fear now.
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At the heart of THE WAY OF THE SWORD, young students, lies one simple precept: The warrior who knows himself perfectly cannot be defeated. You cannot predict where you will fight or what weapons you will find close at hand, or how your enemies will strike at you. But you can prepare yourself for that moment through constant practice, study, and reflection. Conquer your own body, mind, and spirit, and you cannot help but be victorious over your enemies. From this basic premise stem three distinct roads. She who embarks on the path of physical mastery becomes a warblade—one of the most skillful and dedicated warriors in Nirn. Fierce and uncompromising, the warblade knows no fear. The Sword Saint is a warrior who seeks victory through the discipline of the spirit, the path that ultimately seeks to master Shehai Shen She Ru. Devotion, piety, and zeal are her weapons. A Sword Saint becomes a living vessel of the unnamed god of wars will—an instrument of justice or vengeance who can overcome the most insuperable of obstacles with only the sheer power of her faith and the strength of her arm. The third road is the path of the swordsage—the road I have followed for most of my life. The swordsage, or spellswords as many call them, seeks to know his own mind, and to perceive and act with perfect clarity, and are the most attuned to the magicka that runs through our world. It is clearly the best of the three approaches—but then, I am a swordsage. What else would you expect me to say?
—Knight Marshal Saffara, Sword Sage


Sentinel
10th of Sun’s Height, 4E 205


Harika approached the tower with equal parts anticipation and trepidation. The anticipation part was straightforward: She’d suffered through countless tests, examinations, and demonstrations to earn a place at the Sentinel Academy of war, Uhi-Tuktu, a dojo outdone in fame only by the The Hall of the Virtues of War. As the firstborn daughter of Knight Commander Vorelus “Horseshoe” Kraal, Harika was taking an important step in her family’s destiny by enrolling in the junior knight regiment today. But the trepidation wouldn't go away.

What if she washed out of the academy? A third of first-year knights don’t come back to Sentinel for the second year. Eight years ago, Harika’s uncle Wultram volunteered to fight on the eastern front in Temijen’s expansions to retake Dragonstar and Elinhir after his first year at the academy—and the family always whispered that he volunteered because he was on the verge of flunking out. Well, he proved himself in Nimbel Moor, Harika thought. The family could use more Uncle Wultrams. Harika spent the hot summers morning standing at attention, waiting for Lance Defender clerks to inspect her entrance papers. Figuring that the long wait was just another test, Harika concentrated on maintaining her posture and breathing, trying to keep her anticipation and trepidation from showing. If the morning was devoted to standing at attention, the afternoon was an exercise in line-waiting: lines for uniforms (the plain tan of Sentinel warriors), lines for books (chief among them an annotated Book of Circles by Frandar Hunding himself), and lines for armor and weapons.

It was at the end of the last line that Harika’s trepidation went away, completely overwhelmed by anticipation. Harika took the sheathed scimitar from the supply sergeant, suppressing a gasp when she saw the Lance Defender insignia, an “H” scripted in filigree, on the pommel. Just like Father has, and just like Uncle Wultram had. Soon I’ll show everyone how well Knight Blade Harika wields this sword, she thought.

Sentinel
7th of Sun’s Height, 4E 205


Temijen marched a slow path through the seemingly evergreen and flush flora that made up most of the Palaces garden. He found it was an excellent place to think on matters of import, and also granted him some freedom from nagging lords and arse kissing officials that so plagued his everyday. The cool air held the faint scent of salt form the harbour even this far away. Something Temijen always noted immediately whenever he walked the perimeter of the gardens just adjacent to the Courtyard. Aside from the stables this was among his favored spots in Sentinels inner keep. At times like these, finding peace in seclusion, Temijen often wondered why he felt ever driven to claim a greater throne, a heavier crown.

With the strong aroma of flowers in the air, the peaceful artwork of the garden around him, and the sweet refreshing breeze upon his skin to take his sweat away, finding an answer to such questions seemed difficult at best. His fingers found the answer for him, in the form of a pendant he wore always. He pulled the jeweled babble from under his tunic and marveled for a moment at its artistic beauty. The pendent was more then a simple work of silver and metal, it was a promise. A promise he had made almost twenty-five years ago to the only man he could have called a father.

"Temijen my son, stand before the old gods and swear...from this day until your last..You will always be an enemy of the Thalmor."

Breathing in a steady breath Temijen took that moment to affirm to himself his true goals. His true purpose. Even here in his most peaceful of sanctuaries, his uncles words still found him. Those words still stroked a fire in his heart like no other, a fire that would only be quenched in death or victory. He told himself ultimately that should he succeed, it would be a truly new beginning for his people. Never again would they face the uncertainty of defeat and shame. Yet, though he knew his duty, he still felt as though he was running still from his true course, for what man could easily call his people to war without at least some hesitance? If you must run however, have something to run toward, so it feels less like cowardice. And if you must run to something, why not make it an empires throne? Something suitably distant and perhaps utterly unattainable. After all, getting everything you wish for is nearly as dire a curse as having all your dreams come to fruition. Still, it seemed that his oath was not something that would allow itself to so easily be abandoned. War had come to him even as he would seek to avoid it. In a way, perhaps he should thank the altmer for reminding him of his path. Though he doubted they would like what they had brought upon themselves. The sounds of footsteps alerted him that he was no longer alone, and he calmly stowed his uncles pendent back under his tunic and turned to greet his unwelcome guest.

It was Khasta, wearing his usually easy smile and demeanour, though it seemed more measured now as if he carried something uneasy. “Temijen - I thought I'd find you out here,” He said as he neared, stopped beside him and placing his hands on his hips as he cast a gaze over the orchards of the garden.
Temijen nodded as he too turned back to the garden, saying nothing for now as his thoughts had left him in a rather somber mood. Perhaps sensing this Khasta enjoyed a moment of serenity with him before jumping into the topic that had brought him there.

“Would seem our friends in the east are steering up trouble.”

Temijen raised an eyebrow at that. “The Nords?” He wondered out loud, it seemed unlikely though perhaps not unprecedented. The northmen had descended into eastern Hammerfell many times in the past such as the conflict known as The War of the Bend'r-mahk.

Khasta however merely shook his head. “A fear it's a littler closer to home.”

“The orcs? Odd timing,” Temijen mused crossing his arms across his chest in thought.

“Perhaps their working with the Dominion?” Khasta offered.

“Not impossible, though such vast distances between their nations would make coordination almost impossible.” Scratching his beard in contemplation Temijen sighed. “We shall send them an envoy, perhaps learn the meaning behind their actions.”

“Assuming Orc's are capable of reason you mean.”

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Illiac Bay
11:30 PM, 13th of Sun’s Height
Blaise Dupont
---
Nearly every pirate on Tamriel flew the black flag, with the exception of Hussain the Grey Terror, who’s grey banner inspired fear in the hearts of every Redguard sailor in the late Third Era. Dupont was no exception to that, his flagship La Parfait often hanged a giant jolly roger on its central mast. It was a sight that most sailors dreaded to see, in the last twenty years of his career, Blaise Dupont was simultaneously one of most hated and feared name on the oceans. Everyone that crossed path with him (and had the luck of surviving) knew one thing, this Breton “captain” bowed down to no one but himself.

Dupont shook his head when he thought of his current situation, something of irony to what he was before. Gone was the days of his prime, both his “fleet”and his youth were taken away, piece by piece. Perhaps he was destined for downfall, his ambitions always took his actions too far. In the case of Stros M’Kai, he challenged the whole of the Yokudan Navy, an analog for suicide to his peers. He paid for his recklessness dearly, as his ships and their crew were caught in the crossfire between two naval giants, destroying more than half of his inventory. Dupont would not have thought of this an year ago. Furthermore, he would have snapped when someone mentioned of partnering with a giant sabre cat, no, never in his wildest dreams would he be pleading with a Pahmar-raht for help.

“The Commodore” was a rare individual to outsiders of Topal Bay, Dar’nakhet was simply unheard of. However, only a handful of people would know that the two were simply one person, or to be specific, one Khajiit pirate. He was a Pahmar-raht, a large quadruped feline resembling the sabre cats of Skyrim and clad in several worn out pieces of elven armor plates. While his appearance portrayed a feral predator, Dar’nakhet was in fact intelligent and cunning. The Commodore founded his group of Topal Bay pirates, who were simply a collection of water-borne outlaws united in similar pursuits. Dupont’s first impression of them was depreciation, he saw only small boats and nameless raiders, not renowned sailers, operating in a fertile environment. But his impression was soon changed, smaller vessels meant faster traveling and the incognito sea bandits had greater success snatching loots while evading capture.

The Commodore’s ships and sailors were vital to Dupont’s plan. Actually, the plan was largely formulated by the Pahmar-raht and his men, which Dupont hated to admit. Sure, it was Dupont who first mentioned the legendary exploits of Ambrose Mackins, when they stumbled upon a stack of the Tamrielic Gazette while raiding a coastal village. It took a lot of convincing for Dar’nakhet to accept Dupont’s proposal, even so, he still questioned risking ships and sailors for some buccaneer turned politician. To make matters worse, they severely underestimated their opposition. Hundreds of lights dotted the distant waters, they were the silhouettes of military ships and they were the obstacles between Dupont and Ambrose.

“Walk me through the plans again.” The Commodore’s accented Tamrielic resembled a roar more than common speech.

“Breaks-the-tides is swimming under the blockade as we speak, he will give the letter to Ambrose Mackins before daylight.” Dupont explained, he pointed to the far right of the Breton fleet. “Once that happens, we’ll start breaking through. Most of our ships will be disguised as merchant vessels, they will make contact with that cluster of ships, and attack in the confusion. We will take the rest of our ships and go through the gap. If everything goes to plans, we can haul Ambrose’s old bones out before midday.”



“Ambrose’s arrogant, greedy but a damn fine pirate.” Dupont continued. “He knows what he’s doing and surely will come to his senses. If he doesn’t, he’ll regret this.” Pausing for a brief second, Dupont mumbled under his breath. “I might regret this”
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Imperial Capital
21st of Sun's Height, 4E 205


Argoth Mellin, head researcher at the arcane university, walked purposefully down the corridors of the imperial palace, his confident stance doing much to hide the anxiety he felt inside. He'd been awoken in the middle of the night to find a pair of Imperial guards, the same two that now escorted him, pounding on his door as though the safety of the very empire depended on reaching him. Then again, with a summons from the emperor in the small hours of the morning, it very well could. He had hastily dressed himself before opening the door, and was thankful of his preparation when they ushered him out of his rooms without another moment's notice. Whatever this was about, it had to be important.

Or he was in serious trouble... Could they have found out about the necromancy? Surely not. He'd been extremely careful about keeping his experiments small and quiet, as well as outside the city. He was certain no one had followed him to the cave, but what if it had been discovered independently and they had a way to connect it to him? He didn't want to lose his position at the university, but even more than that, he didn't want to lose his head. He'd heard of necromancers in other parts of the empire being executed for their practices, and at the time he'd thought it ironic. Now, with the threat of discovery looming so close, he only found it terrifying.

It was with a regal bearing that he allowed himself to be ushered into the Emperor's offices, and the first thing he noticed was that apart from a few guards and the emperor himself, the chamber was devoid of people. His mood instantly brightened at that, realizing that if there were no magistrates or city guardsmen then he very likely wasn't going to be arrested and executed.

"What do you know of ravens?"

The question, posed by the emperor, caught him off guard.

"Ravens, my lord? They are a medium-sized bird with black feathers and a reputation for intelligence, and have been used by the empire for message delivery for centuries. If it's not above my station, may I ask why my lord is inquiring?"

"That's correct." The emperor said, ignoring the question portion of the man's answer. "But they only work if the message is being sent from one single location to one other location, and the raven must be very specifically chosen and trained. That has always been their downfall. We have never been able to send a raven messenger to an army on the march or a city they do not know. I wish to change that. I need you to discover a way to guide a raven to a location of our choosing, or a person that is on the move. Horse messengers have their uses, but ravens are far quicker and if they can be made reliable would give the empire an advantage in both politics and war."

The emperor paused and looked straight at him. "Can it be done?"

Mellin stood watching the floor intently as the possibilities flowed through his head, various spells and potions and enchantments that could be used for the various effects required and even the inclusion of soul gems to power them. It would be a taxing project indeed, but he believed it could be done.

"It can, my lord. I will begin work immediately."
Actions:

-Research begins on a way to guide ravens for the rapid delivery of important missives.
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Dragontail Mountains

9th of Sun's Height, 4E 205

The recently crowned king of Orsinium, Gogron gro-Shargakh stood on his study leaning against the window. It was a starless night as he looked in the direction of Hammerfell, he wouldn't admit it but he was tense about the future. His predecessor had stoked their people's appetite for war and bloodshed, and now he was sending their troops to attack their old enemy, the Redguards; he didn't knew if the fury he felt was from thinking of those who had contributed to Orsinium's destruction three times or if it was by remembering his predecessor Burkash "Malacath damn his soul" He muttered angrily, he had checked the plan a dozen times and it was a sound one; make as much damage as possible and then retreat to the mountains were a counterattack from Hammerfell would be ineffectual, but still he felt tense.

He breathed in the cold night air to calm his nerves, there was nothing that could be done now. The first troops -a scouting party- would arrive tomorrow and shortly after that would do the rest of the main force. Yet, he still disliked the plan, Burkash had never taken into consideration that Hammerfell could call upon their old allies -the Breton's of High Rock- to attack them once again; which brought him to his next problem, based on what little information he had gathered pointed to the legitimate heir of High Rock being dead. This presented him with an opportunity, civil war was obviously going to occur -which would weaken the kingdom- and so it would obviously stop Hammerfell to being able to count on High Rock's full strength if they asked for their help in attacking Orsinium but he could also take advantage of the situation and support one of the contenders for the throne he could secure himself an ally in them.

That had been one of the reason's he had deposed Burkash, the former king of Orsinium -in his opinion- didn't had the capacity to be a good leader. How could you expect to be a good leader if you couldn't resolve a conflict that was of such importance as that of the spirituality of your people with nothing but violence. After all most great leaders in the history of Tamriel had been able to successfully balance being conquerors and diplomats. HE sighted, realizing that there was nothing that could be done save to try and do his best so that his people could have a secure future that wouldn't banish into the air and went to the shrine of Malacath to pray to the Daedra Prince that his followers would find victory in battle against the hated foe.

Hammerfell-Orsinium border

10th of Sun’s Height, 4E 205

General Carzog gro-Marad stood on a small encampment, his group was only a scouting one and they had been sent to do a quick analysis of what spots would be the most destructive to attack. He knew however that they not-so-small group would attract attention. He awaited impatiently for that moment, to be able to finally make the people of Hammerfell pay for the many times they had scattered the orc people to the four winds and though this attack hadn't that objective, Carzog had to take what he could in this life. If he was honest with himself, when the old king Burkash was deposed he feared that the new king would call off the attack, but to his great delight that hadn't happened; truly Malacath must have given his blessing to this enterprise, for how it could be explained that a king who had defied the previous one in matters such as those regarding the very essence of Malacath had followed on such a plan? Maybe the new king's ideas held some merit after all.

It was in this state that he was found by one of the scouts of the group "Carzog, sir" Said a young orc, Azuk was his name, as he snapped a salute, a chest-bump, which he returned shortly after "What is it Azuk?" Asked the older orc as he leaned against a tree, spiked war-hammer rested against a nearby rock "It's the Redguard sir, they seem to be sending an envoy" Said Azuk, slightly nervous. Zarzog remained silent for a few seconds, tapping his tusk with his index finger as he did so "We'll do nothing" He said, a savage grin on his face "For now" He finished the sentence, taking the hammer and giving it an experimental spin on his hand "Meanwhile, split the men and have half of them hide themselves nearby" He said as he rested the weapon again "The other half will stay with me to act as some sort of guard and to deceive them into complacency, if things go well we'll trick them and say that we got lost during some exercises and that were were coming here to buy some supplies" He said, savage grin still on his face "Then, we will do that and turn away for a few days, we are ahead by some time so we have to spare, and then we'll make a surprise attack and if things don't work we kill them" HE said and then watched as half of his party hid themselves, he then sat and began polishing his weapon as he wait for the Hammerfell envoys.
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14th of Sun’s Height
Pirate-Lord Ambrose Mackin
Wayrest, Greater High Rock

---
“Five-thousand?” Hjalsten asked, just as exasperated as the first time he’d said it, which was three times ago.

“Five-thousand.” Mackin said, “Five-fucking-thousand. I should have expected this. We were foolish for doing what we did.”

Hjalsten nodded, unseen from behind Ambrose. Ambrose had taken Hjalsten and a few others away from the castle, those eager to leave and survive doing what they were meant to do instead of playing royalty. The others wouldn’t leave, thinking they had a right to stay because they took from the strong. Ambrose wasn’t quite as zealous about the situation as some others, so he took Hjalsten, Clotaire and Hali-el and made for the docks the day that a ghost from his past handed him a letter written by another.

The cloaked group stood at the docks, waiting for the swift and small blockade runner to make port. It could not come fast enough. Ambrose knew that Ferrand wouldn’t attack the walls until his siege engines arrived or a white flag was hoisted. Knowing those who were staying, there would only be the oh-so-poetic jolly roger flying high and proud over their bloody corpses. Ambrose knew that would be the fate that would become of him if he stayed. Dupont, as slippery a snake the bastard was, he was also someone Ambrose could trust. Seemed quite the contradiction, but men are made of such opposites.

“Hurry the hell up, Dupont.” Ambrose tapped his foot and folded his arms underneath his cloak, impatience itching beneath his skin.

“Hurry the hell up, Dupont.” Dar’nakhet roared, he stood on his hind legs in order gain better sight. “Almost an hour now and we still have three frigates after us.”

Dupont shook his head in disappointment. “Let’s see you take the wheel, oh wait, your paws don’t fit.”

The Commodore cursed in Ta’agra as the ship shifted towards its starboard, knocking him back on all fours. The small and nimble blockade runner wasn’t something Dupont used to sail, his flagship was a refurbished destroyer, a vessel unfaltered by the waves of Iliac Bay. But waves are exactly what they capitalized on, the frigates behind them had trouble keeping up in today’s unusually strong winds and distance between them grew longer and longer.

“Tack the sails and hold on tight,” Dupont yelled across the deck, he stole a quick glance behind his shoulder before twisting the wheel two turns around. The ship veered off to its port side and cut straight through a high tide, their pursuiters wasn’t so lucky, as two of three frigates were knocked off course and one of them collided with another of Dupont’s blockade runners. The last of the frigates was now a safe distance behind and the docks of Wayrest appeared within their sights.

“Damn nice Dupont,” The Commodore laughed. “Rochirion and his ship will keep that frigate busy. Get ready for landfall now.”

Somehow, after a blind gamble, Dupont actually survived his insane maneuver, maybe he will actually visit the temple of Kynareth for the favorable winds.

“Ambrose Mackin!” He shouted to the docks. “Your salvation is here!”

“And a saved man I am, Dupont!” Mackin smiled.

Clotaire sketched a good court bow, Hali-el drew his lips tight and nodded and Hjalsten raised his middle finger to the siege camps beyond their view. The four of them hopped onto the brigantine, The Pekoud, its nameplate shined in the sun and the name rang in Ambrose’s mind like a lover’s. Speaking of which, he could use a woman about now.

“How was Stros M’kai? If I’d known it was you causing trouble for my little spit of land I’d have sent an invitation, not a warship. Man’s got to keep the peace though.” Mackin spat off the side of the ship.

“Palaces of gold and fountains of wine. Ha, bet my arse that’s what it was.” Dupont gestured sarcastically. “Tell you the truth, I had a couple of Yokudan ships with their ballistas on my tail while Altmer ships with their glowing sails and arcane canons on the other side. I think we lost two-third of our fleet there, but hey, I did learn something-”

“Alright folks, let’s cut the chatter for now and focus on getting out alive.” The Commodore stalked into the scene. “So you’re this Ambrose man Dupont always muttered about, well, do you have the coins?”

“Should be here soon,” As he was finished talking, Ambrose’s old cabin-boy was seen running along the docks with a chest in tow, “I should have given the boy some help.”

Heaving and panting, The cabin-boy let loose a hollow grunt and the chest pounded onto the deck of the brigantine. Ambrose nodded to the rather peculiar tiger-man. He couldn’t say he’d ever seen one of those and he had to restrain himself from pointing out just how peculiar Dar’nakhet was. Instead, he settled for a slight bow of the head, “Your gold. Couldn’t say I expected any salvation from Dupont to be free, ye ol’ seadog.”

“Just like old times huh?” Dupont chuckled at the sight of the large chest. “Not bad for someone playing king. But The Commodore here expects a lot more for a man of your reputation. Have you heard of the rumors surrounding Torval?”

“Do you Bretons ever shut your mouth?” Dar’nakhet fumed. He gave Dupont a sharp glance, reminding him that the Khajiit was ultimately in charge here. “There were three frigates chasing us, probably a dozen out there now. Let’s get going and you old lovers can have your drawn out conversations on the ship.”

“Eh, he can get really unpleasant sometimes.” Dupont noted to Ambrose and his subordinates. He motioned for a large Nord sailor, who carried the chest onto The Pekoud. “But, that cat has surprisingly sharp wits and tough guts.”
---
Later that day
---
The Pekoud, surronded by three other blockade runners, sailed at its top speed out of the waters of Wayrest. They have already lost one ship to the frigates of Daggerfall and another taking in an unhealthy amount of water in her hull. The small group of ships now faced another line of military ships, about a dozen smaller vessels ranging from corvettes to frigates led by a Manowar. Dar’nakhet screamed at the top of his lungs, telling the sailors to prepare their sails and those below to row at a faster rate. Even so, The Pekoud was rapidly approaching the middle of a frigate and a corvette.

“Do what you did before Dupont!” The Commodore ordered, much to Dupont’s distain. The Breton pirate kept his course straight, seemingly closer to being sandwiched by the blockade. At the last second before collision, he spun the wheel sharply towards the smaller corvette. Although the blockade runner lacked mass or a heavily reinforced bow, its rapid speed was enough the knock the corvette off course. Unfortunately, they were not able to avoid the frigate, whose hull scraped The Pekoud, sending sparks and wooden splinters onboard.

“They are trying to board us!” Dar’nakhet wasted no time before leaping into action. As a wave of arrows and spells flew from the ship of Daggerfall onto the smaller runner, the boarding party also latched onto their deck. The Pahmar-raht pounced onto the first Breton raider, his claws found their marks on his opponent's neck and dug three wide bloody trenches.

“Here we go Ambrose, get these bastards off my boat. I hope you haven’t forget how to swing a sword.”

“Yeah, me too.” Ambrose said.

Hali-el let forth a roar of anger and summoned a cloak of flame around himself, walking towards one of the ropes and burning it where his hand gripped it. The grappling hook burned white as he tossed it back at the deck of the frigate. Ambrose drew his sword, a shining cutlass, and lunged towards the first uniformed sailor that stepped close enough to him, skewering the man to the hilt. Pulling the sword free, he roared as he smacked a blade off course with his own and riposted, landing a downward strike onto the man’s skull and cleaving his face in two.

Clotaire drew his bastard sword and joined Ambrose in the fray, hoping the old bastard wouldn’t throw out his back ripping the throat out of some Daggerfall landlubber, “Was there ever a day you thought a time like this would come?”

“Yes, actually,” Ambrose said, felling another man by slipping his blade between his ribs and puncturing his heart, “The day that sonofabitch Brutus smashed the skull of the Valois guy. I would have let them go, but Brutus was always,” He grunted in exertion landing a hard blow to another Breton bastard’s jaw before kicking him away and shoving his sword in his gut, “Brutus was always too bloodthirsty for my tastes. Couldn’t make an omelette without wading waist-deep in the blood of chickens.”

“We were young and stupid.” Clotaire said.

“You still are. I’m still trying.” Ambrose roared a curse as he broke the knee of a Daggerfall sailor and buried his cutlass’s edge in the man’s neck, “Dupont, if I don’t make it, I’ll haunt you!”

For the most part of the battle, Dupont busied himself in attempt to distance the runner and the frigate. And for the most part, he wasn’t able to go anywhere. Looking down at the carnage, he saw Dar’nakhet ripping out a poor sod’s arms with his fangs. Beside him, Ambrose and his crew cut down a good amount of their foes.

“Dupont, if I don’t make it, I’ll haunt you!” Ambrose’s voice, mixed with the sounds of clashing steel, reached Dupont’s ears.

“You’re not going to haunt anybody, not yet anyways.” He gave a desperate pull on the wheel but met no significant movement. Dupont spun to his backside and looked over the edge, just as he predicted, a piece of their rudder was now in the water behind them. He grunted in anger, whatever fortune they had earlier was now misfortune. This blockade runner was already battered during its collision, a broken rudder combined with damaged hulls meant that they were dead in the water.

But the frigate was still relatively well. If they can use their ship, Dupont thought, they will take their enemy’s.

“Change of plan here,” Dupont ducked under a fireball as he descended the wheel house. “We’re not going anywhere, and they still can, so we’ll take their ship.” He drew his own cutlass and threw a grappling hook across their starboard.

Ambrose wasted no time in helping the members of the crew of The Pekoud throw their own grappling hooks onto the frigate. Ambrose and his crew were among the lucky ones who made it onto the deck without getting their ropes hacked loose by axes. It was a hard fight, but many of the crew of the frigate were already dead and those who were alive were losing morale at the sight of being counter-boarded. They’d cornered the crew and Ambrose looked to Dar’nakhet to offer an ultimatum to the survivors, as per the rules and traditions of piracy. He could name off a few of his own crew that had come from the Imperial Navy and Hali-el was a former Dominion sailor himself.

Dar’nakhet growled at the survivors, he issued an ultimatum in Ta’agra, to which most of their foes only replied with confused stares. Dupont repeated the same sentence in common Tamrielic, which most of his opponents adhered to. Blades dropped to the deck and spells were put out, Dupont smiled briefly, they survived in one piece.

“Looks like Rochirion didn’t make it.” Dar’nakhet concluded. The blockade was comfortably behind them, the captured frigate sailed with two battered blockade runners behind it. “Karina and Farid got through, they even sunk one of Daggerfall’s corvettes.”

“What now? We need to get rid of those prisoners and resupply.” Dupont said.

“I know a village on the coast of Valenwood, there is someone that can sell us food and wine. As for these sailors, let’s just say an old Dunmer friend of mine specialises in ‘human resources’.”

Dupont nodded. If it were up to him, he would offer his captives a chance to join him on the high sea. Alternatively, those that don’t pose a threat would be given a chance to return to their homes. But his decision was still subordinate to The Commodore’s, and he could see benefits, though cruel even to his own standards, of selling slaves.

“Not bad after sitting on the throne for all this time,” Dupont patted Ambrose on the shoulder. He also inspected Hjalsten, Clotaire and Hali-el, a trio of impressive fighters to him. “And to all of you as well.” Even Dar’nakhet nodded his feline head in approval, a hard-earned gesture of respect.

“Now, I still haven’t finished what I said before.” Dar’nakhet was gone to manage his new frigate, leaving Dupont and his guests from Wayrest. “You see, there was an attack on Torval by gods know who. We did hear some rumors though, that these people sailed ships made from bug shells and supposedly more powerful than the Dominion Navy. The Commodore thinks you’re going to help us snatch a chitin boat, but I think he’s on the skoomas. What say you on this?”

“A chitin boat? I wouldn’t count on Dunmer being this far south and the only other people I can think of-” Ambrose stopped abruptly.

“Shor’s bones, you’re not thinking what I am, are you?” Hjalsten stepped forward, looking at Dupont and Dar’Nakhet.

“The fucking Maormer. I’d heard rumors coming from some of the crews in Stros M’kai spreading any direction away from there but I didn’t believe them. The Dominion too.” Ambrose said, Hali-el turned his head and spat off the side of the brigantine.

“First the Thalmor burn away the livelihoods of dissidents like my mother and now an alliance with the Maormer.” Hali-el grumbled.

“You want me to help you take a ship from you-know-who?” Ambrose asked incredulously.

“I was as surprised as all of you when I first heard this,” Dupont explained, Dar’nakhet was nowhere in sight, probably helping himself to the previous captain’s wine reserve. “My great-great-grandfather was a captain in the combined fleet, he saw Orgnum’s ships burned and Maormer sailors killed to the last man. Now here’s what The Commodore told me, people’s been seeing not one, but small fleets of Pyandonean ships. They apparently recovered well enough to return, possibly an invasion. You know what one of these chitin-hulls can do? My great-great-grandfather barely defeated one with six Imperial warships, now imagine us sailing one of those…”

“Almost helps with the pain of knowing that that Ferrand bastard is going to burn my ship. I had twenty gods-damned cannons imported from a guy in Stros M’kai. I also a got a fair bit of moonsugar, skooma and some other things, but those twenty cannons cost me a fortune. I wouldn’t have had Wayrest without those cannons.” Ambrose said, “About this chitin ship though. How in Oblivion are we going to steal one of those things if your ancestor had a hard time with of it? According to you there’s small fleets. I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Ah Ambrose, always the skeptic.” Dupont shook his head. “You are missing out to world while sitting in your castle. The Argonians are getting antsy for some reason and the Khajiits just finished their little kitty-fights. The South is weak, I sure you know what happened in Valenwood. The Maormers are coming, I’m sure of it. Torval was the prelude, a scouting mission I believe. When Pyandonea does strike, they will be focused against their enemies on land, we can attack while they are not aware, take their ships while docked. Think about it Ambrose, imagine Ferrand facing down whatever Orgnum has to offer.”


“If they get to High Rock they can get to the Reach, Dupont. As much as I like the prospect of easy wins, I don’t want to turn a blind-eye while Orgnum enslaves any human he can get his snares around. I’ll help you steal a ship- to Oblivion with it- I’ll steal a fucking fleet if it meant I could run free with only wooden ships manned by men to worry about. Better the enemy you know than the one you don’t. I don’t like the sound of Maormer trolling the waters anywhere near Tamriel.” Ambrose said, jabbing a finger into Dupont’s chest, “Your great-great-gran’pa earned a name for himself killing Maormer so at least the only enemies he’d have to worry about were the gold-skins in Alinor and regular, ordinary men. You can toss me overboard right now if you think I’ll let Maormer traipse around anywhere near my beloved Reach and the only thing I’ll do is make off with my tail between my legs on one of their ships.”

“Ambrose, calm yourself” Dupont took a step back and raised his hand. The Ambrose in front him was not the same Ambrose five years ago. There was an old saying of power changing the composition of people, in Ambrose’s case, ruling Wayrest definitely changed him. “We’re just going on conjectures right now, nothing serious. We had a long day behind us, why don’t we rest up so we can think better? And by the way, we have some ships waiting for you to captain back in Topal Bay.” He turned on his heels to leave but stopped for a brief second. “Welcome to your new life.”
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15th of Sun’s Height
Ferrand Bellemont
Siege Camp outside Wayrest, Greater High Rock


Ferrand’s flowing cloak billowed behind him, purposeful steps bringing him towards the tent designated for meetings between the lords-marshal and their subservient captains. Word had come to him by messenger boy that the lords and fighting-ladies and their captains had come up with something ingenious to speed up the process of sieging Wayrest and getting Gregory Bellemont onto the throne. With no living heir to the Valois holdings, their annexation into Daggerfall’s realm would be seen more as something of necessity that the High King of Greater High Rock simply must do to keep stability in the realm and who better to put up as Lord-Protector than his own son, whose skill as a ruler had been instilled in him by Ferrand himself? It all made sense.

And that was what he wanted. His musing ended as he stepped through into the confines of the tent, his steely eyes being cast upon the lords and ladies of the realm who had taken up sword and shield when he called. He took his seat at the head of the table and still, they remained quiet before Ferrand cleared his throat and spoke, “I am told that those in this room have something of great importance to tell me. So, out with it.”

“Your Highness,” Lady Vivienne was the first to open up, “The gates will not open for us, we know that much, and even if our blockade captains tell us that Ambrose had escaped, the brigands inside the walls have likely chosen a new leader. We cannot capitalize on a power vacuum if there is not one, but we know of a way to get the gates open.” Lady Vivienne smiled, looking to Captain Ingvar, a mercenary captain from Skyrim, to continue.

“Corkwood. Vests of corkwood, lightly armored men, leather, no metal. They won’t be able to open the gates if they sink and they won’t be able to get inside if they’re clinking and clanking about. Padded cloth and leather, corkwood, they swim to the docks at night, deal with the sentries and slip in dressed like the enemy. Simple task, my men can do it.”

“Very well,” Ferrand smiled ever-so-slightly, “When can this be done?”

“A week, we are having the vests made and they will be done and ready for wearing about that time. Ten men are quieter than an army, m’lord.” Ingvar said.

“Well, justice will be done in a week,” He said, “For Crown and People.”

“For Crown and People!” They all responded as Ferrand rose and left on other business.

15th of Sun’s Height
Everard III
Road to Wayrest from Shornhelm, Greater High Rock


“I hope that Witchman shit didn’t leave the place too untidy.” Everard mused, cleaning his fingernails with the point of his knife.

“I would hope he didn’t,” Narcisse said, “It would give me reason to be even more furious at the man. They say time heals all wounds but all it did to mine was make them nastier.”

“I can relate, O Prince of Camlorn. Had my brothers survived their involuntary exile, I would have joined them in their return, but lo and behold, fate has left only me to take what should be mine,” Everard held the point facing towards the window, appreciating the sharpness of the blade, “I have royal blood, and not just any royal blood, but Valois blood. A little muddy, yes, but Talos became an Emperor and he was probably just a shit shoveler before.”

“He was a general, sire.” Sir Roderic piped in, a lack of armor seemed not to impact the severity of the man’s presence.

“Yes, yes.” Everard waved his blade in the air as if shooing off Roderic’s words.

The caravan made quite an impressive sight on the road, to be sure. Shornhelm’s banners raised high and five-hundred fighting men, knights and men-at-arms as well as footmen and bowmen. A small army under Duke Egan’s command and anyone who’d seen him suited up in his old armor could tell you that not even the Ghost Sea was as wide as his smile. Egan was always a fighting man and before he took the throne, he served as his father’s marshal. Not a whisper of dissent from anyone could be heard when Egan was the marshal and in charge of everything lawkeeping. Most men would have jumped at the chance to be Duke but Egan never wanted anything to do with ruling. He was perfectly happy on the road and in the saddle, armored from head to toe with sword and lance.

Everard would need men of such conviction, men who wanted to kill for him. He’d take anyone who wanted to kill period, so long as he could point them in the right direction. A man has to play his pawns. Although, he thought he was lucky to have his band of merry men when he was trudging through the dirt, cursing Ambrose’s name, but now he was at the head of five-hundred men who were born and bred in Shornhelm to want nothing more than to rip the heads off of anyone unlucky enough to have them pointed in their direction. Everard had a damned wide grin of his own when he first looked out at his retinue.

Now, a few days’ march out from Wayrest, Everard had more to show than plotting and anger.
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