Sovi3t said
What would the plot need more, Orsimum or Skyrim..
*Orsinium.
And I agree with LimeyPanda. Skyrim would be more involved in the plot.
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*Orsinium.
And I agree with LimeyPanda. Skyrim would be more involved in the plot.
Many of the formations had broken after the Redguard charge. Very few could blame them and after the display of the Dwemer crab blowing his comrades to pieces with some kind of invisible magic, Francis couldn’t count himself among those few. Francis himself was still a bit shocked from the display, only to be snapped out of it by Vendel. As he stared at the Nord’s chest at face-level, his large and heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder and shook him hard.
“Stop daydreaming about the dead before you join them, damn it! I don’t plan to see Sovngarde any time soon, Francis!” Vendel said, snapping to give attention to the Redguard soldiers behind him.
Francis watched as Vendel parried an attack from one, thrusting his big shield’s rim into the armpit of the Redguard’s sword-arm and pushing his big blade effortlessly through the Redguard’s throat. With a mighty roar, Vendel ripped the blade out through the side and caught the blade of the other Redguard. Francis was taken from the bloody view, not having seen his friend in such a light, and thrust into a skirmish of his own. The Redguard yelled something in Yoku and Francis stepped back, casting stoneflesh, not trusting in the strength of mere chainmail seeing what it couldn’t do against Vendel’s ferocity. The Redguard came in quick, eager to steal Francis’s life away from him. Francis let the curved blade glance off his own, the blade catching on the crossguard and Francis taking advantage of the bind.
Francis half-sworded, bringing his lead foot rearward and twisting, putting all his weight and force into a pommel strike to the Redguard’s head. The Redguard stumbled back, clutching his helmet and, still half-swording, Francis stuck the point of his sword through the Redguard’s neck. He brought the blade out with a spatter of blood and took a moment to observe how surprisingly much a human could bleed through a hole in the neck. He’d never been in battle so thick, more accustomed to small bar brawls at the biggest and most intense. Those could get violent but he never remembered a time where a machine like the crab was present at one. That would have risen the stakes considerably, the Breton thought. He saw a group of Khajiit and a slightly overweight Argonian attacking the crab, somehow able to dismantle one of the pipes on the thing.
He’d never seen such a machine in all his travels and the things he saw in Hammerfell took him by surprise. The thunder-staffs, these machines, gods-damned Dwemer. He’d heard rumors from traders in the Iliac and corsairs come to Wayrest from distant travels but he never thought the whispers were true, just the gibbering of old sea captains or news distorted by distance and being passed on from too many mouths. This was definitely something to do, alright.
“Vendel!” Francis called, a bit taken aback to see his comrade in his current position.
The Nord was filling the cacophony of battle with his own deep and terrifying warcry as he kneeled with knees on the arms of a Redguard, rendering the man helpless at the hands of this terrible monster, hands enveloping his head. Francis’s mouth hung agape in astonishment at what muscle and strength could do, the Redguard slapping and clawing at the towering Nord before a sickening crack and a spray of blood added some color to Vendel’s face and chest. The Nord stood with heaving shoulders, seeking out his big sword and shield on the battlefield.
“Vendel!” Francis called again as Vendel found his weapons among the bodies around where he was fighting.
Francis rose an eyebrow, seeing that Vendel had brought an end to two more men in the span of time it took him to vanquish one foe, “What!” The Nord responded.
Francis only pointed to the crab, trying to recover from the attacks from the Khajiit and the peculiar Argonian. Vendel nodded, “We kill it!”
“We kill it!” Francis echoed a confirmation, conjuring a flame in his hands from what rudimentary skills he’d learned in the battlemage corps of the Camlorn army and letting loose a pillar of flame from his palm.
Vendel had sheathed his sword and grabbed a large Warhammer. It did not seem so large when it was wielded by Vendel. The crab turned to Francis and his pillar of fire, the Breton strafing so as to offer a harder target. Before the machine could lift its only working staff-arm up to fire, Vendel stepped in and swung the Warhammer in a devastating arc, catching the arm and damaging whatever mechanism it used to move the appendage. The staff still worked, it seemed and a crack filled the air. Francis felt a hard punch and stumbled onto his back, fumbling over himself with his hands and hearing Vendel’s roaring NO, followed by a series of ringing brought by metal pounding on metal.
Meanwhile, he’d found a hole in his robes and ripped the fabric open to expose the shattered chainmail underneath. Despite the stoneflesh, some of the pieces of steel had embedded themselves into his skin not deep enough to be anything but an annoyance. The truly disconcerting part was the hole in his stomach. He knew if he didn’t find a healer, he’d die, but slowly and painfully, as with all gut wounds. His hands became less sure of themselves along with his legs as he struggled to get to his feet. Not having time to think, he hastily swung at a Redguard guardsman only to have his sword parried. The Redguard wasted no time in stepping in close, dropping his own sword and grabbing Francis’s own by the pommel and section of blade closest to the crossguard.
Twisting counter-clockwise, the Redguard disarmed Francis and took the Breton to the ground. Something said in Yoku before a dagger was taken into the Redguard’s hand and made to plunge into Francis’s neck. Francis blocked it with his forearms. The blade still sank towards his throat and Francis slightly whimpered, knowing the shock brought on by being wounded by the mysterious weapon the crab wielded was sapping his strength away. Francis heard the roar of Vendel a distance off and more clangs of metal. Francis remembered his friend’s words on his unwillingness to die here and something took hold in Francis as he took hold of the dagger’s long blade. Some form of wildness flooded into his eyes and an incomprehensible anger wrapped its fingers around his heart.
Francis gritted his teeth and squeezed the blade in his stonefleshed hand, slowly turning the point away from his neck and towards his shoulder. Francis snarled as the Redguard pushed down with all his strength- more than Francis’s. Francis made the sacrifice and let the dagger bury itself in his shoulder about what felt like an inch- a very painful inch- in. With a roar, Francis wrapped a hand around the Redguard’s throat and with his other stonefleshed hand, bludgeoned out a few of the man’s teeth and broke his jaw from the sound of it. The Redguard made some noise that was much less fierce than he was a moment ago as Francis rolled on top of him. With one hand holding his throat and head in place, he began bringing the bottom of his fist to pound the Redguard’s face not unlike a hammer.
A broken nose, lost front teeth, Francis had only seen a collapsed cheekbone once and Vendel had done it to the sailor in Wayrest, bloody eye and then silence. Francis crawled on all fours away from his kill, not used to ending a man so gorily. He looked at his hands, no longer that of a handsome and cunning duelist but now something akin to those grim-faced brigands he’d seen on the roads and in the taverns. Something not unlike Vendel. As much of a friend Vendel was, he was a beast, and Francis told himself he’d never wanted to be that. He’d let Vendel be that because someone needed to, someone needed to be the one who had the guts to kill like he did and not rely on rules and honor.
He surveyed the battlefield, watched guardsmen cleaving citizen, citizen cutting open guardsmen, fathers cradling bleeding sons and the same men being cut down. A citizen fumbling at his own gut-rope, trying to push it back into place. Francis noticed that there were no rules here, no chivalry, no sense of honor. Only violence and blood and death. Perhaps every time he’d taken on a job with, ‘it’s something to do,’ he’d not been taking anything seriously. He’d been insulting those with a cause they believed strongly enough in to die for. He’d been insulting the men and women dying around him. Francis looked at his hands again, fingers and palm coated in crimson, some not his own. This wasn’t a duel, that was for sure. This wasn’t roughing up an unsuspecting man for not paying someone their due, this wasn’t a Pas d’Armes in the road to Helgathe.
This was battle, not a fight, but a damned bloody battle and Francis grabbed the hilt of the dagger buried in his shoulder and ripped it free with a gritted-teethed growl. He reclaimed his sword from the ground and stepped with purpose towards a skirmish. He wasn’t going to die today, but he wasn’t going to run either. Not while Vendel wouldn’t and friends don’t abandon each other, he remembered the big Nord saying. Francis roared, catching another blade in his own in a bind and adding a little more crimson to his robes.
“Stop daydreaming about the dead before you join them, damn it! I don’t plan to see Sovngarde any time soon, Francis!” Vendel said, snapping to give attention to the Redguard soldiers behind him.
Francis watched as Vendel parried an attack from one, thrusting his big shield’s rim into the armpit of the Redguard’s sword-arm and pushing his big blade effortlessly through the Redguard’s throat. With a mighty roar, Vendel ripped the blade out through the side and caught the blade of the other Redguard. Francis was taken from the bloody view, not having seen his friend in such a light, and thrust into a skirmish of his own. The Redguard yelled something in Yoku and Francis stepped back, casting stoneflesh, not trusting in the strength of mere chainmail seeing what it couldn’t do against Vendel’s ferocity. The Redguard came in quick, eager to steal Francis’s life away from him. Francis let the curved blade glance off his own, the blade catching on the crossguard and Francis taking advantage of the bind.
Francis half-sworded, bringing his lead foot rearward and twisting, putting all his weight and force into a pommel strike to the Redguard’s head. The Redguard stumbled back, clutching his helmet and, still half-swording, Francis stuck the point of his sword through the Redguard’s neck. He brought the blade out with a spatter of blood and took a moment to observe how surprisingly much a human could bleed through a hole in the neck. He’d never been in battle so thick, more accustomed to small bar brawls at the biggest and most intense. Those could get violent but he never remembered a time where a machine like the crab was present at one. That would have risen the stakes considerably, the Breton thought. He saw a group of Khajiit and a slightly overweight Argonian attacking the crab, somehow able to dismantle one of the pipes on the thing.
He’d never seen such a machine in all his travels and the things he saw in Hammerfell took him by surprise. The thunder-staffs, these machines, gods-damned Dwemer. He’d heard rumors from traders in the Iliac and corsairs come to Wayrest from distant travels but he never thought the whispers were true, just the gibbering of old sea captains or news distorted by distance and being passed on from too many mouths. This was definitely something to do, alright.
“Vendel!” Francis called, a bit taken aback to see his comrade in his current position.
The Nord was filling the cacophony of battle with his own deep and terrifying warcry as he kneeled with knees on the arms of a Redguard, rendering the man helpless at the hands of this terrible monster, hands enveloping his head. Francis’s mouth hung agape in astonishment at what muscle and strength could do, the Redguard slapping and clawing at the towering Nord before a sickening crack and a spray of blood added some color to Vendel’s face and chest. The Nord stood with heaving shoulders, seeking out his big sword and shield on the battlefield.
“Vendel!” Francis called again as Vendel found his weapons among the bodies around where he was fighting.
Francis rose an eyebrow, seeing that Vendel had brought an end to two more men in the span of time it took him to vanquish one foe, “What!” The Nord responded.
Francis only pointed to the crab, trying to recover from the attacks from the Khajiit and the peculiar Argonian. Vendel nodded, “We kill it!”
“We kill it!” Francis echoed a confirmation, conjuring a flame in his hands from what rudimentary skills he’d learned in the battlemage corps of the Camlorn army and letting loose a pillar of flame from his palm.
Vendel had sheathed his sword and grabbed a large Warhammer. It did not seem so large when it was wielded by Vendel. The crab turned to Francis and his pillar of fire, the Breton strafing so as to offer a harder target. Before the machine could lift its only working staff-arm up to fire, Vendel stepped in and swung the Warhammer in a devastating arc, catching the arm and damaging whatever mechanism it used to move the appendage. The staff still worked, it seemed and a crack filled the air. Francis felt a hard punch and stumbled onto his back, fumbling over himself with his hands and hearing Vendel’s roaring NO, followed by a series of ringing brought by metal pounding on metal.
Meanwhile, he’d found a hole in his robes and ripped the fabric open to expose the shattered chainmail underneath. Despite the stoneflesh, some of the pieces of steel had embedded themselves into his skin not deep enough to be anything but an annoyance. The truly disconcerting part was the hole in his stomach. He knew if he didn’t find a healer, he’d die, but slowly and painfully, as with all gut wounds. His hands became less sure of themselves along with his legs as he struggled to get to his feet. Not having time to think, he hastily swung at a Redguard guardsman only to have his sword parried. The Redguard wasted no time in stepping in close, dropping his own sword and grabbing Francis’s own by the pommel and section of blade closest to the crossguard.
Twisting counter-clockwise, the Redguard disarmed Francis and took the Breton to the ground. Something said in Yoku before a dagger was taken into the Redguard’s hand and made to plunge into Francis’s neck. Francis blocked it with his forearms. The blade still sank towards his throat and Francis slightly whimpered, knowing the shock brought on by being wounded by the mysterious weapon the crab wielded was sapping his strength away. Francis heard the roar of Vendel a distance off and more clangs of metal. Francis remembered his friend’s words on his unwillingness to die here and something took hold in Francis as he took hold of the dagger’s long blade. Some form of wildness flooded into his eyes and an incomprehensible anger wrapped its fingers around his heart.
Francis gritted his teeth and squeezed the blade in his stonefleshed hand, slowly turning the point away from his neck and towards his shoulder. Francis snarled as the Redguard pushed down with all his strength- more than Francis’s. Francis made the sacrifice and let the dagger bury itself in his shoulder about what felt like an inch- a very painful inch- in. With a roar, Francis wrapped a hand around the Redguard’s throat and with his other stonefleshed hand, bludgeoned out a few of the man’s teeth and broke his jaw from the sound of it. The Redguard made some noise that was much less fierce than he was a moment ago as Francis rolled on top of him. With one hand holding his throat and head in place, he began bringing the bottom of his fist to pound the Redguard’s face not unlike a hammer.
A broken nose, lost front teeth, Francis had only seen a collapsed cheekbone once and Vendel had done it to the sailor in Wayrest, bloody eye and then silence. Francis crawled on all fours away from his kill, not used to ending a man so gorily. He looked at his hands, no longer that of a handsome and cunning duelist but now something akin to those grim-faced brigands he’d seen on the roads and in the taverns. Something not unlike Vendel. As much of a friend Vendel was, he was a beast, and Francis told himself he’d never wanted to be that. He’d let Vendel be that because someone needed to, someone needed to be the one who had the guts to kill like he did and not rely on rules and honor.
He surveyed the battlefield, watched guardsmen cleaving citizen, citizen cutting open guardsmen, fathers cradling bleeding sons and the same men being cut down. A citizen fumbling at his own gut-rope, trying to push it back into place. Francis noticed that there were no rules here, no chivalry, no sense of honor. Only violence and blood and death. Perhaps every time he’d taken on a job with, ‘it’s something to do,’ he’d not been taking anything seriously. He’d been insulting those with a cause they believed strongly enough in to die for. He’d been insulting the men and women dying around him. Francis looked at his hands again, fingers and palm coated in crimson, some not his own. This wasn’t a duel, that was for sure. This wasn’t roughing up an unsuspecting man for not paying someone their due, this wasn’t a Pas d’Armes in the road to Helgathe.
This was battle, not a fight, but a damned bloody battle and Francis grabbed the hilt of the dagger buried in his shoulder and ripped it free with a gritted-teethed growl. He reclaimed his sword from the ground and stepped with purpose towards a skirmish. He wasn’t going to die today, but he wasn’t going to run either. Not while Vendel wouldn’t and friends don’t abandon each other, he remembered the big Nord saying. Francis roared, catching another blade in his own in a bind and adding a little more crimson to his robes.
WittyReference said
Man, do you know how much trouble a Cub follower would be? Just imagine telling him to wait in Riften while you do Thieves' Guild stuff only to find out later he got bored and wandered to Fort Dawnguard to pet the huskies.
I'd totally love a follower like that. I really like the followers that you can sometimes find on the Nexus that act like fleshed out characters and not just barbie-faced beasts-of-burden to gawk at.
Also: Posted.
Sundered Echo said
And a Reigenleif post too.
OOOOooooooooh, let's check it out.
Oh, a Jenno post, sweet. And now, we wait for Nyxie...
Nyxella said
So we'll be freelancing in the square now? Gotta backspace a whole lot but can make it work. Sorry to see you go, Shon'. Still typing up for this epic riot. Thankfully the pipes and stuff were detailed pretty well. For the sake of asking, who are our PC's? NoSoul's in it, sorta thought Cairo' was but still uncertain. Anyone else?Ol' GM will keep throwing loads of violence at you, Volt. With love. He likes to do that.HAI DERVAKIIN
Looking forward to this upcoming fight. I often forget that Francis is capable of a few very rudimentary destruction spells, so those will probably come in handy. I hope Sion doesn't GOTTA GO FAST after seeing the bloody display the Crab put on for everyone, because those spells of his are going to be handy.
Summit at The Isle of Balfiera!
The Emperor stood around the table for the summit, running his hand along it's freshly cleaned surface. His aides, two members of the Elder Council from Cyrodiil, stood next to him, speaking into his ear of the rumours of the day as they waited for the other atendee's of the summit.
"Do not expect this to be easy, my Emperor, the Bretons are divided and the Redguards have no reason to trust anything we say" The political minister said as he pointed to Hammerfell on the map, but the Emperor waved him off and spoke.
"They'll see reason, the Aldmeri have to be stopped before they can rebuild their power, or we will be fighting the great war a second time... And this time we won't last a month." Triarius sighed as he lent over the map "If we can get their support, we might have the nessercairy forces to take the Summerset Isle... Maybe. Pirates haven't made it easy for us, I have no doubt the Redguards will be giving the glare across the table for that, even if it wasn't Wayrests fault. Once they arrive, I'll make the speech and try to sway them that way..."
"If you aim for an appeal to tradition, it's hardly going to work."
"I don't, I aim for an appeal to reason. After that we can hold negotiations and maybe settle the Bretons internal conflicts down and at least redirect some of the Redguard hate away from us for the time being." The Emperor stood upright again, and began to rub his chin slowly as the General pointed to Valenwood
"If all goes to plan, we'll have Valenwood, my liege, and then the Thalmor will have no foothold on Tamriel. But if you cannot gather the naval forces required, it'll have all been for nought"
"I know that, I'm not a fool."
Prince Narcisse Septim-Vincens was the first to arrive of the four monarchs, flanked by his two advisors, a silver-maned but stout old man and a dainty looking young woman, looking more accustomed to a ballroom than the political courts of Tamriel. That was the Bretons, though, always betraying assumptions. Liars, thieves, backstabbers. They would never let an ally down, of course, unless the request required them to be truthful, guileless and noble.
Prince Narcisse took his place at the table, just a random spot with the only thought to his placing being to sit where Triarius was sure to hear him. As much as Triarius may have hoped the possible last surviving remnant of the Septim dynasty to applaud him and his Triarian-Dynasty Empire Narcisse would be more than happy to remind Gaius that it was the Septims, the Dragonborn emperors who made Cyrodiil great. Not pretenders. Not Medes. Septims.
"Gaius." Narcisse said, simply.
"Ah, High Rocks representive... I was begining to worry no one would come, the word of the Empire carries little weight now... A stuffed olive has more influence than the races of men, it could choke someone important and change history" The Emperor sighed as he turned to him "Your Narcisse, yes? Supposed last of the Septims. Well met." He gave a short smile. Whether the two agreed or not would be irrelevant to him. He had met a Septim, one of those of the line which built an Empire. An Empire he was tasked with rebuilding. An Empire he had to remain loyal to, even if it's rulers were dead and it had technically become his.
"I am but the first of five. The Pirate-Lord is rumored to be on his way here. I haven't met him," Narcisse poured himself a glass of water after waving away one of the servant girls, "Have you met him? I hear he's a cutthroat." Narcisse sat back down and took two long gulps of the water before wiping his mouth on his sleeve. A simple white cloth shirt unlike his advisor, not an inch of clothing on him pointed to him being the Crown Prince of Camlorn, "Narcisse, yes. Septim-Vincens, last of the line, last I heard. How do you think I'd look with those oh-so-fancy Emperor's Robes on me, hm?" He laughed at that.
"Now we wait for the Redguards and Nord and perhaps we can achieve what we set out here for" The Imperial General said as he took a message from one of the Imperial Legionairres, who whispered something in his ear. He turned his head towards the Emperor "The action has started in Valenwood, sir." The Emperor merely nodded in response, and gave a short 'good' as an answer
Narcisse's brow rose at that, "Anything you'd like to share, my Emperor?" The title bogged down with the weight of sarcasm rather than authority. At that, the doors flung open yet again and none other than King Ferrand Bellemont himself, as well as his advisor, in all of his dyed silken splendor and crown'd glory did he step into the room, the sound of him walking permeating the hall, each step a King's. His name held the most weight in all of High Rock, and King Frithjolf trailed behind him, indifferent to Ferrand's charms in lieu of his furs and rugged beard set below those hard eyes of his. A warrior's eyes, and not too given over to fearing bits and baubles and titles of authority. He'd killed two Kings.
As Frithjolf, advisors in his wake, gave a polite nod- more a gruff movement of the neck with him- he wondered how many Kings he'd have to kill to equal one Emperor. No matter what Kingdom you went to after the Great War, each had a story to tell about the Empire's injustices done. It is said that Bretons have a long memory and their rulers have the longest.
The Emperor shot a glance like daggers at Narcisse at the tone he gave when he mentioned his title, but he didn't say anything. Maybe it was respect for the now dead line, or maybe he just didn't want to turn this into a massive mess "My legionairres have invaded Valenwood. I managed to turn the Wood Elves against the Thalmor, they should be tossing them out as we speak. If all goes according to plan, then we'll see the Aldmeri Dominion confined to Alinor... and that will be the final battlefield in this war. One I obviously need assistance for, or I wouldn't be calling a Summit." The Emperor quickly turned his head to the doors as they crashed open, and looked the approaching Breton, and then the Nord, up and down before giving a quick smile and nodding "Well met, join us, please. We're still waiting for the others so feel free to eat or drink whatever the servants have for us." He took a drink from from the goblet that had been set on the table before him for what seemed like an age without being touched, before adding quitely to the General beside him "After all, if the Thalmor get their way we'll all be working in chains and eating gruel."
"Speaking of," King Ferrand spoke from his seat, his hand busy toying with the goblet in front of him, "The Redguards are somewhat indisposed by privateers and corsairs. Everyone knows who pays the pirates in the Abecean. Stros M'kai has been being harrased and their merchant ships are being relieved of their load."
"A shame," Narcisse laughed, just a slight blow of air through the nose and a smile, "You'd think they'd be able to handle it in a few days, the way they speak of themselves. Warriors all, weaklings none."
"Odd, you scoff at them in their absence, Narcisse." Ferrand said with a raised brow.
"Apologies, I dislike those who are too sure of themselves." Narcisse gave a sour look, to which Ferrand only gave a thin smile.
"Now, if we may get to the summit at hand-"
"I have arrived." Ferrand was interrupted by Beralt and Ambrose entering the room.
"As have I. I am honored to be in the presence of such esteemed men." Ambrose said, the two new arrivals finding their seats.
"If we may get on with this summit." Ferrand once again spoke with a raised voice, one that commanded obedience and respect.
The Emperor stood around the table for the summit, running his hand along it's freshly cleaned surface. His aides, two members of the Elder Council from Cyrodiil, stood next to him, speaking into his ear of the rumours of the day as they waited for the other atendee's of the summit.
"Do not expect this to be easy, my Emperor, the Bretons are divided and the Redguards have no reason to trust anything we say" The political minister said as he pointed to Hammerfell on the map, but the Emperor waved him off and spoke.
"They'll see reason, the Aldmeri have to be stopped before they can rebuild their power, or we will be fighting the great war a second time... And this time we won't last a month." Triarius sighed as he lent over the map "If we can get their support, we might have the nessercairy forces to take the Summerset Isle... Maybe. Pirates haven't made it easy for us, I have no doubt the Redguards will be giving the glare across the table for that, even if it wasn't Wayrests fault. Once they arrive, I'll make the speech and try to sway them that way..."
"If you aim for an appeal to tradition, it's hardly going to work."
"I don't, I aim for an appeal to reason. After that we can hold negotiations and maybe settle the Bretons internal conflicts down and at least redirect some of the Redguard hate away from us for the time being." The Emperor stood upright again, and began to rub his chin slowly as the General pointed to Valenwood
"If all goes to plan, we'll have Valenwood, my liege, and then the Thalmor will have no foothold on Tamriel. But if you cannot gather the naval forces required, it'll have all been for nought"
"I know that, I'm not a fool."
Prince Narcisse Septim-Vincens was the first to arrive of the four monarchs, flanked by his two advisors, a silver-maned but stout old man and a dainty looking young woman, looking more accustomed to a ballroom than the political courts of Tamriel. That was the Bretons, though, always betraying assumptions. Liars, thieves, backstabbers. They would never let an ally down, of course, unless the request required them to be truthful, guileless and noble.
Prince Narcisse took his place at the table, just a random spot with the only thought to his placing being to sit where Triarius was sure to hear him. As much as Triarius may have hoped the possible last surviving remnant of the Septim dynasty to applaud him and his Triarian-Dynasty Empire Narcisse would be more than happy to remind Gaius that it was the Septims, the Dragonborn emperors who made Cyrodiil great. Not pretenders. Not Medes. Septims.
"Gaius." Narcisse said, simply.
"Ah, High Rocks representive... I was begining to worry no one would come, the word of the Empire carries little weight now... A stuffed olive has more influence than the races of men, it could choke someone important and change history" The Emperor sighed as he turned to him "Your Narcisse, yes? Supposed last of the Septims. Well met." He gave a short smile. Whether the two agreed or not would be irrelevant to him. He had met a Septim, one of those of the line which built an Empire. An Empire he was tasked with rebuilding. An Empire he had to remain loyal to, even if it's rulers were dead and it had technically become his.
"I am but the first of five. The Pirate-Lord is rumored to be on his way here. I haven't met him," Narcisse poured himself a glass of water after waving away one of the servant girls, "Have you met him? I hear he's a cutthroat." Narcisse sat back down and took two long gulps of the water before wiping his mouth on his sleeve. A simple white cloth shirt unlike his advisor, not an inch of clothing on him pointed to him being the Crown Prince of Camlorn, "Narcisse, yes. Septim-Vincens, last of the line, last I heard. How do you think I'd look with those oh-so-fancy Emperor's Robes on me, hm?" He laughed at that.
"Now we wait for the Redguards and Nord and perhaps we can achieve what we set out here for" The Imperial General said as he took a message from one of the Imperial Legionairres, who whispered something in his ear. He turned his head towards the Emperor "The action has started in Valenwood, sir." The Emperor merely nodded in response, and gave a short 'good' as an answer
Narcisse's brow rose at that, "Anything you'd like to share, my Emperor?" The title bogged down with the weight of sarcasm rather than authority. At that, the doors flung open yet again and none other than King Ferrand Bellemont himself, as well as his advisor, in all of his dyed silken splendor and crown'd glory did he step into the room, the sound of him walking permeating the hall, each step a King's. His name held the most weight in all of High Rock, and King Frithjolf trailed behind him, indifferent to Ferrand's charms in lieu of his furs and rugged beard set below those hard eyes of his. A warrior's eyes, and not too given over to fearing bits and baubles and titles of authority. He'd killed two Kings.
As Frithjolf, advisors in his wake, gave a polite nod- more a gruff movement of the neck with him- he wondered how many Kings he'd have to kill to equal one Emperor. No matter what Kingdom you went to after the Great War, each had a story to tell about the Empire's injustices done. It is said that Bretons have a long memory and their rulers have the longest.
The Emperor shot a glance like daggers at Narcisse at the tone he gave when he mentioned his title, but he didn't say anything. Maybe it was respect for the now dead line, or maybe he just didn't want to turn this into a massive mess "My legionairres have invaded Valenwood. I managed to turn the Wood Elves against the Thalmor, they should be tossing them out as we speak. If all goes according to plan, then we'll see the Aldmeri Dominion confined to Alinor... and that will be the final battlefield in this war. One I obviously need assistance for, or I wouldn't be calling a Summit." The Emperor quickly turned his head to the doors as they crashed open, and looked the approaching Breton, and then the Nord, up and down before giving a quick smile and nodding "Well met, join us, please. We're still waiting for the others so feel free to eat or drink whatever the servants have for us." He took a drink from from the goblet that had been set on the table before him for what seemed like an age without being touched, before adding quitely to the General beside him "After all, if the Thalmor get their way we'll all be working in chains and eating gruel."
"Speaking of," King Ferrand spoke from his seat, his hand busy toying with the goblet in front of him, "The Redguards are somewhat indisposed by privateers and corsairs. Everyone knows who pays the pirates in the Abecean. Stros M'kai has been being harrased and their merchant ships are being relieved of their load."
"A shame," Narcisse laughed, just a slight blow of air through the nose and a smile, "You'd think they'd be able to handle it in a few days, the way they speak of themselves. Warriors all, weaklings none."
"Odd, you scoff at them in their absence, Narcisse." Ferrand said with a raised brow.
"Apologies, I dislike those who are too sure of themselves." Narcisse gave a sour look, to which Ferrand only gave a thin smile.
"Now, if we may get to the summit at hand-"
"I have arrived." Ferrand was interrupted by Beralt and Ambrose entering the room.
"As have I. I am honored to be in the presence of such esteemed men." Ambrose said, the two new arrivals finding their seats.
"If we may get on with this summit." Ferrand once again spoke with a raised voice, one that commanded obedience and respect.
gcold said
The world suddenly seems big without phones and internet. Still waiting for Scarend's Elsweyr and the summit.
Speaking of the summit, I did say I was down for posting the cliffhanger just to move things along with it. Is that still on the menu?
All well and good. I look forward to any interactions, though, High Rock and Argonia are pretty much a continent apart.
LimeyPanda said
I got the Argonia post up. Feel free to PM me if you disagree or want to dispute anything. A tl;dr is Argonians want in on the politcal intrigue, but didn't get invited to any conference.
Woop woop, new player on the field. Still waiting on that Orsinium bro, though...
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