Leidenschaft Member
Relax, only half-dead
- Last Seen: 6 days ago
- Old Guild Username: OlNoSoul
- Joined: 13 yrs ago
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- Leidenschaft 13 yrs ago
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I come back and I'm a unicorn. I don't know what to say.
The Docks, Rihad…
Sevari woke with a start in his office’s bed. A hand rested on his shoulder and Sevari snatched the wrist up, jumping up from his bed but finding himself falling to his side, growling in pain that came from all over his body. His vision began to blur but through sheer will and anger he forced himself through the pain, standing and stumbling backwards to gain distance from his opponent. It was a peculiar thing when he saw Sorosi standing where his potential killer was. The perplexity shown on his face as he looked her up and down before forcing his tight muscles to move his legs painfully back to the bed. He sat, or fell, onto the edge of the bed, letting out a heavy sigh. How long had he been out? Where was that Redguard fellow from before?
“How long?” Sevari muttered, feeling the familiar itch of bandages wrapped around his midsection.
“Hours. It’s dark out now, the Dwemer have been kicking in doors all night. Vorosien and Balaan are stressed out. What are we going to do if they kick in our door? Two Dunmer and a Khajiit, that won’t look suspicious, definitely,” she said with noticeable sarcasm with an undercurrent of worry, “We’ll die here, Sevari, for a cause I’m starting to lose faith in.”
“You put too much weight on faith. Finding a lost cause does not mean you’ve found a cause, Sorosi,” Sevari began, feeling the bandages beneath his clothes, slipping out of his robes to move his arms and torso, he flinched before sitting back down, “It means that you’ve found a lost cause.”
Sorosi watched Sevari’s eyes close, his head hanging down as his ears drooped. She moved to sit next to him, resting on the edge of the bed and draping an arm around his shoulders, “Do you think we’ll die here? We’ve made it through so much, that skooma deal gone wrong, Praetorians hunting Vorosien and I, you were in the Siege of Storms. Maybe we’ll die here, Sevari.”
Sevari didn’t move, but he felt Sorosi’s hands slip around his. He didn’t mind, his eyes only opened a sliver and looked at Sorosi’s light blue fingers intertwining with his. He wondered if she could feel the calluses, how rough his hands were beneath that fur of his. She never seemed to mind seeing his scars whenever they found each other in the same bed years ago before Sevari had met Zaveed. Those years ago, Sorosi was the only one who had gotten some semblance of love out of Sevari, even if it did hurt and it was a bit rough. But, then again, the two were angry in those days, and anytime they could have gone to a headsman’s block.
“Maybe.” Sevari finally responded.
The two sat that way for a while, Sorosi’s hands caressing the muscles on Sevari’s back and shoulders, her other hand tangled with Sevari’s, her head resting on his shoulder, red eyes looking down at their feet, nestled together. Sevari didn’t seem to care. He was off in his own world, like he always was when Sorosi knew him as Sevari the ruthless skooma kingpin, but also the part-time lover.
Sevari was busy feeling a bit useless. His body would not let him move without sending gripping hands of pain to squeeze and rip every muscle from his legs to his back. He wouldn’t be able to fight, he could barely damned walk. He felt an anger welling up inside of him that quickly faded when he felt Sorosi’s head nestle closer to his neck. The Khajiit sighed, “I have a wife.”
“I know. We’re not on top of each other.” Sorosi cooed playfully, her hand moving from his to rest on his inner thigh.
Sevari grumbled, wrapping fingers around her wrist and gently placing her hand away from his legs. Sorosi only giggled, getting up from the bed and walking to the door. As she closed it behind her, Sevari looked about the room for the sword his father had given him, finding relief taking some of the edge off when he saw it on his desk in the office.
“Balaan is here to see you. Some fellows rowed into the warehouse and I’m stuck between killing them or letting them get off their boats.” Vorosien said, his head peeking in from outside.
Sevari only growled, getting to his feet and limping to get his sword. The tip of the sheathe touched the ground, his hand on the pommel as he walked along with it as his cane. He was only thirty years on Nirn and he was already walking with a cane. He made his way out of his office, looking not too welcoming as he descended the stairs and walked towards the area of water kept enclosed with the large wooden doors into the warehouse from the sea. As he looked onto the rowboat, he saw barefoot sailors in breeches and tattered shirts, some foregoing shirts altogether. One among them stood out, dressed in a flowing robe and the elegant trappings of a mage. Her golden skin showing sparingly and her gaze was one of command.
The other man in the rowboat next to the Altmer’s stood in the clothing of a distinguished captain in the Imperial Navy or perhaps had been given the clothes as gifts in service to one of the Kings in High Rock. It may have been the case, as the man was clad in porcelain skin, contrasted by black hair and curled mustache. Everything about him told Sevari what he needed to know, that he was a Captain. Perhaps the other was too, but the man showed it more readily.
“I would like to speak to the man or mer that supervises this warehouse. I’ve sailed from Wayrest under orders of my employer and my men need drinks.” The Altmer woman said.
“I need supplies. I’ve a voyage ahead and this is the closest friendly port this side of Stros M’kai. It wouldn’t hurt to have drinks, either.” The man added.
“You are looking for me.” Sevari said, pushing past Vorosien, Balaan and their contingent of hired guards for the warehouse.
“Good, I need permission to dock my schooner here. The sooner I get that, the sooner we can make sure to stay out of each other’s ways.” The Altmer said.
“I won’t let an altmer bitch stay in my warehouse without knowing her name first.” Sevari spat.
“Captain Loria Elsinien.” She spoke, showing no hint of insult or offense at Sevari’s remark.
“And you, you look like a captain.” Sevari pointed with his chin towards the man.
“Captain Alaire St. Tarley, Mister…” The man answered, waiting for a name to put to his host.
“Sevari, Captain Alaire. I hope we will not have any troubles with you saying that you shared space with a Hero. Many people are searching for me, many people have died.” The Khajiit smiled with narrowed eyes.
“Quite so, Mister Sevari, quite so. I can assure you that after I get supplies and a few night’s rest-”
“Both of you may stay. Captain Alaire will leave in two days. Dock your schooner and make sure not to draw attention. Most of the Dwemer forces are in the heart of the city. No one will notice two more ships in the harbor. Pray to your Gods that they do not take notice of you, for you will be the first to die.” Sevari growled, turning and leaving to his office.
Sevari woke with a start in his office’s bed. A hand rested on his shoulder and Sevari snatched the wrist up, jumping up from his bed but finding himself falling to his side, growling in pain that came from all over his body. His vision began to blur but through sheer will and anger he forced himself through the pain, standing and stumbling backwards to gain distance from his opponent. It was a peculiar thing when he saw Sorosi standing where his potential killer was. The perplexity shown on his face as he looked her up and down before forcing his tight muscles to move his legs painfully back to the bed. He sat, or fell, onto the edge of the bed, letting out a heavy sigh. How long had he been out? Where was that Redguard fellow from before?
“How long?” Sevari muttered, feeling the familiar itch of bandages wrapped around his midsection.
“Hours. It’s dark out now, the Dwemer have been kicking in doors all night. Vorosien and Balaan are stressed out. What are we going to do if they kick in our door? Two Dunmer and a Khajiit, that won’t look suspicious, definitely,” she said with noticeable sarcasm with an undercurrent of worry, “We’ll die here, Sevari, for a cause I’m starting to lose faith in.”
“You put too much weight on faith. Finding a lost cause does not mean you’ve found a cause, Sorosi,” Sevari began, feeling the bandages beneath his clothes, slipping out of his robes to move his arms and torso, he flinched before sitting back down, “It means that you’ve found a lost cause.”
Sorosi watched Sevari’s eyes close, his head hanging down as his ears drooped. She moved to sit next to him, resting on the edge of the bed and draping an arm around his shoulders, “Do you think we’ll die here? We’ve made it through so much, that skooma deal gone wrong, Praetorians hunting Vorosien and I, you were in the Siege of Storms. Maybe we’ll die here, Sevari.”
Sevari didn’t move, but he felt Sorosi’s hands slip around his. He didn’t mind, his eyes only opened a sliver and looked at Sorosi’s light blue fingers intertwining with his. He wondered if she could feel the calluses, how rough his hands were beneath that fur of his. She never seemed to mind seeing his scars whenever they found each other in the same bed years ago before Sevari had met Zaveed. Those years ago, Sorosi was the only one who had gotten some semblance of love out of Sevari, even if it did hurt and it was a bit rough. But, then again, the two were angry in those days, and anytime they could have gone to a headsman’s block.
“Maybe.” Sevari finally responded.
The two sat that way for a while, Sorosi’s hands caressing the muscles on Sevari’s back and shoulders, her other hand tangled with Sevari’s, her head resting on his shoulder, red eyes looking down at their feet, nestled together. Sevari didn’t seem to care. He was off in his own world, like he always was when Sorosi knew him as Sevari the ruthless skooma kingpin, but also the part-time lover.
Sevari was busy feeling a bit useless. His body would not let him move without sending gripping hands of pain to squeeze and rip every muscle from his legs to his back. He wouldn’t be able to fight, he could barely damned walk. He felt an anger welling up inside of him that quickly faded when he felt Sorosi’s head nestle closer to his neck. The Khajiit sighed, “I have a wife.”
“I know. We’re not on top of each other.” Sorosi cooed playfully, her hand moving from his to rest on his inner thigh.
Sevari grumbled, wrapping fingers around her wrist and gently placing her hand away from his legs. Sorosi only giggled, getting up from the bed and walking to the door. As she closed it behind her, Sevari looked about the room for the sword his father had given him, finding relief taking some of the edge off when he saw it on his desk in the office.
“Balaan is here to see you. Some fellows rowed into the warehouse and I’m stuck between killing them or letting them get off their boats.” Vorosien said, his head peeking in from outside.
Sevari only growled, getting to his feet and limping to get his sword. The tip of the sheathe touched the ground, his hand on the pommel as he walked along with it as his cane. He was only thirty years on Nirn and he was already walking with a cane. He made his way out of his office, looking not too welcoming as he descended the stairs and walked towards the area of water kept enclosed with the large wooden doors into the warehouse from the sea. As he looked onto the rowboat, he saw barefoot sailors in breeches and tattered shirts, some foregoing shirts altogether. One among them stood out, dressed in a flowing robe and the elegant trappings of a mage. Her golden skin showing sparingly and her gaze was one of command.
The other man in the rowboat next to the Altmer’s stood in the clothing of a distinguished captain in the Imperial Navy or perhaps had been given the clothes as gifts in service to one of the Kings in High Rock. It may have been the case, as the man was clad in porcelain skin, contrasted by black hair and curled mustache. Everything about him told Sevari what he needed to know, that he was a Captain. Perhaps the other was too, but the man showed it more readily.
“I would like to speak to the man or mer that supervises this warehouse. I’ve sailed from Wayrest under orders of my employer and my men need drinks.” The Altmer woman said.
“I need supplies. I’ve a voyage ahead and this is the closest friendly port this side of Stros M’kai. It wouldn’t hurt to have drinks, either.” The man added.
“You are looking for me.” Sevari said, pushing past Vorosien, Balaan and their contingent of hired guards for the warehouse.
“Good, I need permission to dock my schooner here. The sooner I get that, the sooner we can make sure to stay out of each other’s ways.” The Altmer said.
“I won’t let an altmer bitch stay in my warehouse without knowing her name first.” Sevari spat.
“Captain Loria Elsinien.” She spoke, showing no hint of insult or offense at Sevari’s remark.
“And you, you look like a captain.” Sevari pointed with his chin towards the man.
“Captain Alaire St. Tarley, Mister…” The man answered, waiting for a name to put to his host.
“Sevari, Captain Alaire. I hope we will not have any troubles with you saying that you shared space with a Hero. Many people are searching for me, many people have died.” The Khajiit smiled with narrowed eyes.
“Quite so, Mister Sevari, quite so. I can assure you that after I get supplies and a few night’s rest-”
“Both of you may stay. Captain Alaire will leave in two days. Dock your schooner and make sure not to draw attention. Most of the Dwemer forces are in the heart of the city. No one will notice two more ships in the harbor. Pray to your Gods that they do not take notice of you, for you will be the first to die.” Sevari growled, turning and leaving to his office.
Jesus. I don't even think I would have fun shooting that.
Major Kerztar Stungnthamz of the Dwemer High Government's Ministry of Order
<Tell me, Lieutenant, why do you think we won the war?> Colonel Kerztar asked, looking out at the forested coast and high-peaked mountains framing the blue sky.
<Our superior technology, Sir. These people run at us with their swords and armor, none of that means anything to us. We simply shoot them down,> Lieutenant Razgulf took his eyes from the pistol he was toying with to look at his commanding officer, <Sir.>
<The civilians,> Kerztar spoke in a hushed manner, most of his attention watching a hawk circle overhead, he smiled at this, <The civilians, the noncombatants, Lieutenant. They won the war for us. Once you make sure a Kingdom's people do not support a war, you've already won.>
Sandwiched between the Corten Mont mountains and the sea was the narrow and rocky road to Roseguard. A small fishing village that had grown through the years. This is where the carriage driven by an old man who had agreed to take them on this trip carried the infamous Major Kerztar Stungnthamz and his men, all the way to Roseguard. A week ago, a local informant had notified an Authoritarian patrol that he had seen fishing boats returning from a trip with more people than they had left with. These men were also strangely very different looking, Cyrods, more than Redguard. The Major knew already what was happening, he had heard that the arrogant Altmer had decided to invade Cyrodiil to depose an Empire in its weakest moments. It did not concern him, as these Altmer had done no wrongs to any Dwemer controlled territories along the Jeralls. What did concern him on this very day, though, was the fact that fishermen in this village were illegally harboring refugees, enemies of the state and, by extension, enemies of the people.
The carriage came to a stop, the door was opened by a Dwemer soldier and Major Kerztar Stungnthamz stepped out of the carriage, looking like the very epitome of what it was to be an officer in the Dwemer High Government's employ, the wine red tunic with gold trim, the purple sash, sword and pistol at the hip. The one thing he forwent, unlike most other mer in the Dwemer army, was a long beard, preferring to keep his chin and cheeks bear, permitting those who looked upon him to notice his strong jaw, angular chin and pointed nose. A handsome mer in uniform, but they would dread his face today, not admire it. The hot sun was a bit more bearable when an itchy beard did not do its part to heat your face. Major Stungnthamz's boots stood upon the grassy ground around Roseguard and its quaint stone houses and quaint beaches with their resting quaint boats. The same quaint boats that had carried the illegals into Volenfell. When the local informant came running up to Major Kerztar in his tattered shirt and breeches, cracked and dry leather sandals and thin, patchy beard, Major Kerztar simply asked, <So, which boats did you see returning with the illegals?>
"All of them," the thin man panted, trying to catch his breath, "I saw every one of them come back with at least one."
<I see, and you know the men who captain these boats?> Major Kerztar asked, clasping his hands behind his back. The wiry man nodded vigorously, pointed his finger towards the town and thrusting the finger out a few times, telling him to follow as he started a bouncy jog towards the village. Major Kerztar followed behind the informant at his own leisurely place, nodding to a woman hanging up clothes to dry, smiling to a group of children running around with wooden swords and sticks that looked vaguely like the pistols carried by Major Kerztar and other officers. Their mother hurried them into their house with weary eyes and wary glances.
The informant waved him to Major Kerztar to keep following, to where he brought them to a house at the top of a small hill that led down to the rest of the village and then the sea beyond. The informant stopped at the door and nodded as he did before, rapping his knuckles on the wooden frame. An elderly man stood in the doorway, hunched over with white hair, wrapped in a simple brown robe and leather sandals, "Yes, sir, what business brings you to this village?"
Major Kerztar bowed his head with a smile, looking back up to the man, he said, <My name is Major Kerztar Stungnthamz, I am the Commandant of the Southern Volenfell Cohort of the Dwemer High Government's Ministry of Order. I am here to address a recent issue that has come to light for us,> The Major offered his hand for a shake, which the old man took, <May I come inside, Mister...?>
"Malif Sheif AKham, is my name, sir. Please, by all means, share my home with me as if you had been living here as I was." Malif said with a practiced smile. Kerztar felt like this hadn't been the first time this man had had to deal with the Ministry's agents. The two men took a floor cushion at the man's table, his wife already pouring tea into not just one cup, but two, bringing them to the table with a smile that Major Kerztar returned, taking a sip of it and nodding, raising a hand.
<Simply delicious tea, where did you get it, may I ask?> Major Kerztar asked, returning the cup to the table and folding his hands in his lap.
"It was a gift, from a friend, traveling abroad. I am glad that you like it, I'm the only one who drinks it in my house. My wife doesn't like tea but she buys too much of it when she goes into town for food." The man laughed. The two men took another sip of tea, savoring the taste. Major Kerztar's tongue was hard at work trying to figure out where he had tasted this tea before in the past.
<I'm sure it is only because she cares about you and does not want you to run out. She thinks of you, that is a mark of a good wife. I applaud your choice in women, Mister AKham.>
"Thank you, young sir, but you're almost making it sound so good that I have doubts you're talking about my wife." The man laughed once more, he really did love to laugh. Major Kerztar smiled and nodded along, taking another sip of the tea.
<Now, Mister AKham, I have a question for you to answer, and I want you to look deep into your memories for anything that you can remember, am I clear?> Major Kerztar asked with a friendly smile.
"Anything, please. Ask away, young sir." The old man bowed his head with a bit of a chuckle.
<Now, I am sure that you are aware of who I am, before I ask this question, just so we can establish just what this will be about and who you are talking to, as to avoid any mistakes, lapses in judgment and to perhaps rekindle some memories so as not to forget any parts of them.>
"You are Major Kerztar of the Dwemer High Government's Ministry of Order, of course. You said this earlier."
<Yes, that is my official title. Though, are you familiar with what some in the Authoritarian Cohorts have taken to calling me?> Major Kerztar asked, a slight smile crossing his lips as he waited for an answer.
"You are the Huntsman." Malif answered again, though a bit quieter and with something akin to hesitation.
<Yes, I am the Huntsman. Do you know how many Enemies of the State one has to execute or send to the arena to get a title such as that, and become a Major, no less?>
"Many, many men." Malif almost whispered, clearing his throat, he shifted nervously.
Major Kerztar reveled in his own laughter before clearing his throat, his demeanor not changing, <Now, Mister AKham, it has come to my attention that your village has been reported by an anonymous informant to be sheltering Enemies of the Dwemer State of Volenfell. What is the truth to this?>
Malif only became more nervous, "There have been a few examples of thievery not seen before from my village's own, I suppose this could be from your Enemies of the Dwemer Sta-"
<Your village has been reported, with sufficient proof to incriminate you, to be sheltering Enemies of the Dwemer State. Your villagers are not doing it unknowingly by supplying midnight thieves to snatch their food scraps, my informant saw your fishermen bringing more than their catch that day. I suspect that you know where they are hiding, and I know that they are hiding somewhere in this village.>
"I assure you, I don't-"
<You were expecting me. This tea is not just a gift from a friend, Mister Al-Kham, but it is from Cyrodiil. Even if your wife went to town, she would not be able to find tea with ingredients from Cyrodiil, as we have forbade the importation of foreign products from territories not owned by the Dwemer High Government and their subordinate Governors. You received this tea as a gift from a refugee, knowing full well that owning this tea was the crime of owning contraband items, as we've burned all foreign imports from Cyrodiil and the southern Provinces> Major Kerztar rose from the floor cushion, his voice becoming more severe, <Sheltering the people who gave you this tea is the crime of Sheltering an Enemy of the Dwemer State of Volenfell. Where are you hiding them, Mister Akham?>
"Please, don't hurt my wife. Just don't-"
<Your wife is safe, as far as you know. If you do not tell me where these Enemies of the State are hiding, I will sentence you to immediate execution for the crime of sheltering enemies of the state, your wife will be alive, as far as you know. I could also send you off to the arena with a sentence of fifty fights, though I doubt you will last one at your age, again, your wife will be alive as far as you will know, being so far away from her,> Major Kerztar clasped his hands behind his back, <I will ask you once more, where are you hiding these Enemies of the State?>
With a heavy heart, Malif began to cry, his lip quivering and his breath becoming ragged and uneven. The sound of his wife sobbing in the bedroom could be heard as Malif rose the shakiest hand the Major had seen so far in his years. These Enemies of the State were hiding upstairs then. Well enough. He would not have to chase them. Major Kerztar walked to the doorway, opening the door and letting his men in. He pointed to the stairs and the soldiers bounded up the steps. Major Kerztar looked at Malif and his sobbing face, the Major nodded formally right before a resounding staccato of cracks from the rifles of the soldiers upstairs made Malif jump and his wife scream. From the other side of the door, a new soldier showed up, quickly saluting before handing Kerztar a letter, sealed with the Minister of Order's own seal. He hastily broke the seal and opened the envelope, his hurried eyes taking every written letter in before he packed the letter back up, giving it back to the messenger, who saluted and quickly left the same way he had come, quickly, without words and on a horse.
He was to make haste to Rihad for an assignment of the utmost importance on behalf of Governor Razlinc herself. Something about the Heroes of Tamriel. Major Kerztar clasped his hands behind his back, drew a breath and nodded to Malif, <Thank you for your cooperation today. The Minister of Order thanks you for doing your part in keeping order in Volenfell. Goodbye and have a nice day.>
Kerztar looked to the skies, spying the hawk swoop down near the road and carry away its prey. A content smile crossed his lips.
<Tell me, Lieutenant, why do you think we won the war?> Colonel Kerztar asked, looking out at the forested coast and high-peaked mountains framing the blue sky.
<Our superior technology, Sir. These people run at us with their swords and armor, none of that means anything to us. We simply shoot them down,> Lieutenant Razgulf took his eyes from the pistol he was toying with to look at his commanding officer, <Sir.>
<The civilians,> Kerztar spoke in a hushed manner, most of his attention watching a hawk circle overhead, he smiled at this, <The civilians, the noncombatants, Lieutenant. They won the war for us. Once you make sure a Kingdom's people do not support a war, you've already won.>
Sandwiched between the Corten Mont mountains and the sea was the narrow and rocky road to Roseguard. A small fishing village that had grown through the years. This is where the carriage driven by an old man who had agreed to take them on this trip carried the infamous Major Kerztar Stungnthamz and his men, all the way to Roseguard. A week ago, a local informant had notified an Authoritarian patrol that he had seen fishing boats returning from a trip with more people than they had left with. These men were also strangely very different looking, Cyrods, more than Redguard. The Major knew already what was happening, he had heard that the arrogant Altmer had decided to invade Cyrodiil to depose an Empire in its weakest moments. It did not concern him, as these Altmer had done no wrongs to any Dwemer controlled territories along the Jeralls. What did concern him on this very day, though, was the fact that fishermen in this village were illegally harboring refugees, enemies of the state and, by extension, enemies of the people.
The carriage came to a stop, the door was opened by a Dwemer soldier and Major Kerztar Stungnthamz stepped out of the carriage, looking like the very epitome of what it was to be an officer in the Dwemer High Government's employ, the wine red tunic with gold trim, the purple sash, sword and pistol at the hip. The one thing he forwent, unlike most other mer in the Dwemer army, was a long beard, preferring to keep his chin and cheeks bear, permitting those who looked upon him to notice his strong jaw, angular chin and pointed nose. A handsome mer in uniform, but they would dread his face today, not admire it. The hot sun was a bit more bearable when an itchy beard did not do its part to heat your face. Major Stungnthamz's boots stood upon the grassy ground around Roseguard and its quaint stone houses and quaint beaches with their resting quaint boats. The same quaint boats that had carried the illegals into Volenfell. When the local informant came running up to Major Kerztar in his tattered shirt and breeches, cracked and dry leather sandals and thin, patchy beard, Major Kerztar simply asked, <So, which boats did you see returning with the illegals?>
"All of them," the thin man panted, trying to catch his breath, "I saw every one of them come back with at least one."
<I see, and you know the men who captain these boats?> Major Kerztar asked, clasping his hands behind his back. The wiry man nodded vigorously, pointed his finger towards the town and thrusting the finger out a few times, telling him to follow as he started a bouncy jog towards the village. Major Kerztar followed behind the informant at his own leisurely place, nodding to a woman hanging up clothes to dry, smiling to a group of children running around with wooden swords and sticks that looked vaguely like the pistols carried by Major Kerztar and other officers. Their mother hurried them into their house with weary eyes and wary glances.
The informant waved him to Major Kerztar to keep following, to where he brought them to a house at the top of a small hill that led down to the rest of the village and then the sea beyond. The informant stopped at the door and nodded as he did before, rapping his knuckles on the wooden frame. An elderly man stood in the doorway, hunched over with white hair, wrapped in a simple brown robe and leather sandals, "Yes, sir, what business brings you to this village?"
Major Kerztar bowed his head with a smile, looking back up to the man, he said, <My name is Major Kerztar Stungnthamz, I am the Commandant of the Southern Volenfell Cohort of the Dwemer High Government's Ministry of Order. I am here to address a recent issue that has come to light for us,> The Major offered his hand for a shake, which the old man took, <May I come inside, Mister...?>
"Malif Sheif AKham, is my name, sir. Please, by all means, share my home with me as if you had been living here as I was." Malif said with a practiced smile. Kerztar felt like this hadn't been the first time this man had had to deal with the Ministry's agents. The two men took a floor cushion at the man's table, his wife already pouring tea into not just one cup, but two, bringing them to the table with a smile that Major Kerztar returned, taking a sip of it and nodding, raising a hand.
<Simply delicious tea, where did you get it, may I ask?> Major Kerztar asked, returning the cup to the table and folding his hands in his lap.
"It was a gift, from a friend, traveling abroad. I am glad that you like it, I'm the only one who drinks it in my house. My wife doesn't like tea but she buys too much of it when she goes into town for food." The man laughed. The two men took another sip of tea, savoring the taste. Major Kerztar's tongue was hard at work trying to figure out where he had tasted this tea before in the past.
<I'm sure it is only because she cares about you and does not want you to run out. She thinks of you, that is a mark of a good wife. I applaud your choice in women, Mister AKham.>
"Thank you, young sir, but you're almost making it sound so good that I have doubts you're talking about my wife." The man laughed once more, he really did love to laugh. Major Kerztar smiled and nodded along, taking another sip of the tea.
<Now, Mister AKham, I have a question for you to answer, and I want you to look deep into your memories for anything that you can remember, am I clear?> Major Kerztar asked with a friendly smile.
"Anything, please. Ask away, young sir." The old man bowed his head with a bit of a chuckle.
<Now, I am sure that you are aware of who I am, before I ask this question, just so we can establish just what this will be about and who you are talking to, as to avoid any mistakes, lapses in judgment and to perhaps rekindle some memories so as not to forget any parts of them.>
"You are Major Kerztar of the Dwemer High Government's Ministry of Order, of course. You said this earlier."
<Yes, that is my official title. Though, are you familiar with what some in the Authoritarian Cohorts have taken to calling me?> Major Kerztar asked, a slight smile crossing his lips as he waited for an answer.
"You are the Huntsman." Malif answered again, though a bit quieter and with something akin to hesitation.
<Yes, I am the Huntsman. Do you know how many Enemies of the State one has to execute or send to the arena to get a title such as that, and become a Major, no less?>
"Many, many men." Malif almost whispered, clearing his throat, he shifted nervously.
Major Kerztar reveled in his own laughter before clearing his throat, his demeanor not changing, <Now, Mister AKham, it has come to my attention that your village has been reported by an anonymous informant to be sheltering Enemies of the Dwemer State of Volenfell. What is the truth to this?>
Malif only became more nervous, "There have been a few examples of thievery not seen before from my village's own, I suppose this could be from your Enemies of the Dwemer Sta-"
<Your village has been reported, with sufficient proof to incriminate you, to be sheltering Enemies of the Dwemer State. Your villagers are not doing it unknowingly by supplying midnight thieves to snatch their food scraps, my informant saw your fishermen bringing more than their catch that day. I suspect that you know where they are hiding, and I know that they are hiding somewhere in this village.>
"I assure you, I don't-"
<You were expecting me. This tea is not just a gift from a friend, Mister Al-Kham, but it is from Cyrodiil. Even if your wife went to town, she would not be able to find tea with ingredients from Cyrodiil, as we have forbade the importation of foreign products from territories not owned by the Dwemer High Government and their subordinate Governors. You received this tea as a gift from a refugee, knowing full well that owning this tea was the crime of owning contraband items, as we've burned all foreign imports from Cyrodiil and the southern Provinces> Major Kerztar rose from the floor cushion, his voice becoming more severe, <Sheltering the people who gave you this tea is the crime of Sheltering an Enemy of the Dwemer State of Volenfell. Where are you hiding them, Mister Akham?>
"Please, don't hurt my wife. Just don't-"
<Your wife is safe, as far as you know. If you do not tell me where these Enemies of the State are hiding, I will sentence you to immediate execution for the crime of sheltering enemies of the state, your wife will be alive, as far as you know. I could also send you off to the arena with a sentence of fifty fights, though I doubt you will last one at your age, again, your wife will be alive as far as you will know, being so far away from her,> Major Kerztar clasped his hands behind his back, <I will ask you once more, where are you hiding these Enemies of the State?>
With a heavy heart, Malif began to cry, his lip quivering and his breath becoming ragged and uneven. The sound of his wife sobbing in the bedroom could be heard as Malif rose the shakiest hand the Major had seen so far in his years. These Enemies of the State were hiding upstairs then. Well enough. He would not have to chase them. Major Kerztar walked to the doorway, opening the door and letting his men in. He pointed to the stairs and the soldiers bounded up the steps. Major Kerztar looked at Malif and his sobbing face, the Major nodded formally right before a resounding staccato of cracks from the rifles of the soldiers upstairs made Malif jump and his wife scream. From the other side of the door, a new soldier showed up, quickly saluting before handing Kerztar a letter, sealed with the Minister of Order's own seal. He hastily broke the seal and opened the envelope, his hurried eyes taking every written letter in before he packed the letter back up, giving it back to the messenger, who saluted and quickly left the same way he had come, quickly, without words and on a horse.
He was to make haste to Rihad for an assignment of the utmost importance on behalf of Governor Razlinc herself. Something about the Heroes of Tamriel. Major Kerztar clasped his hands behind his back, drew a breath and nodded to Malif, <Thank you for your cooperation today. The Minister of Order thanks you for doing your part in keeping order in Volenfell. Goodbye and have a nice day.>
Kerztar looked to the skies, spying the hawk swoop down near the road and carry away its prey. A content smile crossed his lips.
Psyker Landshark said
Cairo you bastard what the shit that was Bambi's mom
Nothing is holy here, Psyker. You should know this by now.
My influence spreads.
Vanq said
What? >.><.<
Oooooooh, you haven't seen them have you? Cairo is a pretty cool guy. Eh writes fanfics about our RP characters and doesn't afraid of anything.
Vanq said
Soul.....give me your approval. I neeeeeed it.
k.
You're like, approved n' stuff. *flips hair, chews gum loudly and goes back to filing nails*
Throat-Singing's pretty rad stuff. Also, posted.
Off the Coast of Hammerfell…
It could be said that the great Captain Alaire St. Tarley loved a very few number of things. These things being his mother, his ship, his crew, and a clear day- universally known by sailors worldwide as a good day to sail. Today was one such day, and Captain Alaire St. Tarley breathed every breath with an almost ceremonial type of care. He took caution not to sniff, nor grasp, nor would he wheeze. Just quiet, full breaths that took in the cold air, the smell of the sea, it was very much indeed a great day to sail. It was made all the more treasured by the Captain at the fact that most of his crew had made it off of the Isle of N’Gasta alive. Although, multiple attempts were made by the Captain to get his crew to talk of what they had seen on the isle, none were willing to divulge their experiences. What they had been through must have been quite the spectacle if they were not willing to tell even their Captain.
Alaire made note of this, and would tell King Hilaire back in Wayrest. Indeed, the fact that his men were unwilling to divulge the atrocities they had seen was a clear sign that Cleric Krieger was all the deranged lunatic that every other man saw him to be. Hilaire, for whatever Talos-damned reason, had decided to keep the Sorcerer in his court. Alaire told him he didn’t want to serve the King known as Hilaire the Foolish. Now that Krieger had stormed off from Wayrest, Hilaire could well be called Hilaire the Heirless now, that damned foolish seadog. Gorzath, Elayna and Wets-His-Blade had already rowed ashore with the rest of their comrades and Alaire had wished them luck before they left. He was under strict orders by King Hilaire to only stay for as long they needed to find Krieger. Sterling and Lana were indeed in need of saving, as Alaire and Adalard thought.
Francis and Vendel, who Alaire had met in a tavern on a rainy Wayrest night two years ago, were sent in to get them back with Gorzath and they did do just that. Adalard, Francis, Vendel, Sterling and Lana were among the numbers who outright refused to speak of the things they saw in Krieger’s lair, something that perplexed Alaire and teased his curiosity endlessly. Reports had made it to not only the Lord of Stros M’kai’s ears, but learned firsthand by Alaire as he took his crew onto his ship once again. Even if he did not know the exact happenings, it was a sure thing that Alaire’s mission was a success. With the help of Gorzath, Elayna and Wets-His-Blade, Francis and Vendel were able to retrieve Sterling and Lana for King Hilaire and managed to kill the so-called Cleric named Krieger for his crimes against the Pirate Republic of Wayrest.
Known only to the wayward vagabond Francis and the select few to go ashore and into the mausoleum, Krieger’s army of otherworldly creations of solidified hate and malice had lost all direction after the death of their creator and had taken to aimlessly wander the halls, but still holding enough of a mind to kill every man and mer follower that Krieger had attracted, a bloodbath that Francis, Vendel and Gorzath’s group had managed to survive and escape. It is unknown what has become of the magical creations, but Krieger’s followers have once again been scattered. The few that had survived managed to make it back to Stros M’kai, retreating into the mountains or paying for passage to High Rock, or even being employed by the captains of ships heading south to challenge the Dominion navy blockading Cyrodiil.
The ones who had made it into the mountains are rumored to have formed a coven, one day hoping to grow strong enough to retake the Isle of N’Gasta from the rogue creations and their terrible rending tendrils of solidified shadow. Their numbers are few but their clashes with the fractured Goblin tribes keep them in check and ensure that if there were a time where they were once again powerful and threatening the time would not be soon for either party. And so, the forbidden knowledge within Krieger’s library remains untouched, his corpse-bride sits, destitute in his study and his creations now wander his halls without true purpose. The giant golem of Dwemer origin and the mystery surrounding it remains buried under the wet soil of The Mausoleum and the piece of the puzzle that is the Dwemer’s return remains locked away in the metaphysical vault of Krieger’s creation. Francis just wishes that he could forget the things he saw there.
“Farewell and adieu, to you Breton ladies, farewell and adieu, to ye ladies ashore,” Came the singing voice of Adalard, “How fares thee, my Captain?”
“Well enough, I suppose. A good wind blowing North, clear skies and gentle seas,” Alaire said, a small smile that raised the corner of his lips upon his face as he looked out on the sea, he looked at his Quartermaster with the same smile, “My men sing their shanties, they make good time finishing their good work and I am happy because of all of this. I am also curious, my friend.”
“I knew you would be, Captain. I already told you that I refuse to divulge the sights I saw on the isle,” Adalard paused as he saw his Captain nod and turn to accompany his helmsman, he spoke up before his Captain left and closed his ear to his words, “But I will say this, sir. It was unnatural, evil in its purest form. Krieger is dead, his servants scampered off with no leader after the fight. Francis told me of one thing, though.”
“And what is this thing, my friend?” Alaire said, clasping his hands behind his back and turning around to look at his friend.
“A library of knowledge not known to most. They might bear secrets that our King Hilaire might like to know. Or Leo-”
“I do not speak of Mister Leo on my ship, Mister Adalard,” Alaire snapped, throwing up a hand to quiet his friend before continuing like nothing had occurred, “Knowledge, you say? The Synod may pay a great deal for knowledge, but only if they do not already possess it. The College of Whispers would pay double for it, if only to keep it out of the hands of the Synod, those petty fools.”
“Rich petty fools, sir,” Adalard added, “There was something else he saw, as well, Captain.”
“Well, tell me.” Alaire spoke.
“A huge statue. A golem, maybe, like in the old tales of Tiber or the Nerevarine.” Adalard near whispered.
Alaire stood in silent contemplation at those words, the cogs of his mind visibly turning. This was news that was definitely worth telling. If he decided to bury the hatchet and send a letter to Leo, the two could be rich if they found anything of use in Krieger’s library. If Francis was telling the truth about this golem, well… Who knew what could come of it?
“Thank you, Mister Adalard. Tell the men to get wind in our sails and set course for Northpoint. I’m going to see an old friend.” Alaire ordered as he walked towards the helm.
“Sir, we’ve been away from home for two years. Our boots haven’t graced the streets of Wayrest for a longer time than I, or the men, would have liked.” Adalard pleaded.
“You are a sailor, Adalard, our life is at sea. As your Captain, not your friend, I command you to order our men to get this ship underway and sail a few weeks more.” Alaire said more sternly and with none of the friendly tone he had moments before.
Adalard frowned deeply for a moment before sighing as he narrowed his eyes at his friend’s back. He turned towards the crew and bellowed out his orders to them, “Standby to wear ship!”, and the crew went to work furling the trysail. Shanties once again filled the air around the ship as it came alive with the sounds of the men singing and the officers giving out orders to the crew as they rushed about on the topdeck. Gradually, the orders were cried and carried out and the Golden Gale would sail northwards.
It could be said that the great Captain Alaire St. Tarley loved a very few number of things. These things being his mother, his ship, his crew, and a clear day- universally known by sailors worldwide as a good day to sail. Today was one such day, and Captain Alaire St. Tarley breathed every breath with an almost ceremonial type of care. He took caution not to sniff, nor grasp, nor would he wheeze. Just quiet, full breaths that took in the cold air, the smell of the sea, it was very much indeed a great day to sail. It was made all the more treasured by the Captain at the fact that most of his crew had made it off of the Isle of N’Gasta alive. Although, multiple attempts were made by the Captain to get his crew to talk of what they had seen on the isle, none were willing to divulge their experiences. What they had been through must have been quite the spectacle if they were not willing to tell even their Captain.
Alaire made note of this, and would tell King Hilaire back in Wayrest. Indeed, the fact that his men were unwilling to divulge the atrocities they had seen was a clear sign that Cleric Krieger was all the deranged lunatic that every other man saw him to be. Hilaire, for whatever Talos-damned reason, had decided to keep the Sorcerer in his court. Alaire told him he didn’t want to serve the King known as Hilaire the Foolish. Now that Krieger had stormed off from Wayrest, Hilaire could well be called Hilaire the Heirless now, that damned foolish seadog. Gorzath, Elayna and Wets-His-Blade had already rowed ashore with the rest of their comrades and Alaire had wished them luck before they left. He was under strict orders by King Hilaire to only stay for as long they needed to find Krieger. Sterling and Lana were indeed in need of saving, as Alaire and Adalard thought.
Francis and Vendel, who Alaire had met in a tavern on a rainy Wayrest night two years ago, were sent in to get them back with Gorzath and they did do just that. Adalard, Francis, Vendel, Sterling and Lana were among the numbers who outright refused to speak of the things they saw in Krieger’s lair, something that perplexed Alaire and teased his curiosity endlessly. Reports had made it to not only the Lord of Stros M’kai’s ears, but learned firsthand by Alaire as he took his crew onto his ship once again. Even if he did not know the exact happenings, it was a sure thing that Alaire’s mission was a success. With the help of Gorzath, Elayna and Wets-His-Blade, Francis and Vendel were able to retrieve Sterling and Lana for King Hilaire and managed to kill the so-called Cleric named Krieger for his crimes against the Pirate Republic of Wayrest.
Known only to the wayward vagabond Francis and the select few to go ashore and into the mausoleum, Krieger’s army of otherworldly creations of solidified hate and malice had lost all direction after the death of their creator and had taken to aimlessly wander the halls, but still holding enough of a mind to kill every man and mer follower that Krieger had attracted, a bloodbath that Francis, Vendel and Gorzath’s group had managed to survive and escape. It is unknown what has become of the magical creations, but Krieger’s followers have once again been scattered. The few that had survived managed to make it back to Stros M’kai, retreating into the mountains or paying for passage to High Rock, or even being employed by the captains of ships heading south to challenge the Dominion navy blockading Cyrodiil.
The ones who had made it into the mountains are rumored to have formed a coven, one day hoping to grow strong enough to retake the Isle of N’Gasta from the rogue creations and their terrible rending tendrils of solidified shadow. Their numbers are few but their clashes with the fractured Goblin tribes keep them in check and ensure that if there were a time where they were once again powerful and threatening the time would not be soon for either party. And so, the forbidden knowledge within Krieger’s library remains untouched, his corpse-bride sits, destitute in his study and his creations now wander his halls without true purpose. The giant golem of Dwemer origin and the mystery surrounding it remains buried under the wet soil of The Mausoleum and the piece of the puzzle that is the Dwemer’s return remains locked away in the metaphysical vault of Krieger’s creation. Francis just wishes that he could forget the things he saw there.
“Farewell and adieu, to you Breton ladies, farewell and adieu, to ye ladies ashore,” Came the singing voice of Adalard, “How fares thee, my Captain?”
“Well enough, I suppose. A good wind blowing North, clear skies and gentle seas,” Alaire said, a small smile that raised the corner of his lips upon his face as he looked out on the sea, he looked at his Quartermaster with the same smile, “My men sing their shanties, they make good time finishing their good work and I am happy because of all of this. I am also curious, my friend.”
“I knew you would be, Captain. I already told you that I refuse to divulge the sights I saw on the isle,” Adalard paused as he saw his Captain nod and turn to accompany his helmsman, he spoke up before his Captain left and closed his ear to his words, “But I will say this, sir. It was unnatural, evil in its purest form. Krieger is dead, his servants scampered off with no leader after the fight. Francis told me of one thing, though.”
“And what is this thing, my friend?” Alaire said, clasping his hands behind his back and turning around to look at his friend.
“A library of knowledge not known to most. They might bear secrets that our King Hilaire might like to know. Or Leo-”
“I do not speak of Mister Leo on my ship, Mister Adalard,” Alaire snapped, throwing up a hand to quiet his friend before continuing like nothing had occurred, “Knowledge, you say? The Synod may pay a great deal for knowledge, but only if they do not already possess it. The College of Whispers would pay double for it, if only to keep it out of the hands of the Synod, those petty fools.”
“Rich petty fools, sir,” Adalard added, “There was something else he saw, as well, Captain.”
“Well, tell me.” Alaire spoke.
“A huge statue. A golem, maybe, like in the old tales of Tiber or the Nerevarine.” Adalard near whispered.
Alaire stood in silent contemplation at those words, the cogs of his mind visibly turning. This was news that was definitely worth telling. If he decided to bury the hatchet and send a letter to Leo, the two could be rich if they found anything of use in Krieger’s library. If Francis was telling the truth about this golem, well… Who knew what could come of it?
“Thank you, Mister Adalard. Tell the men to get wind in our sails and set course for Northpoint. I’m going to see an old friend.” Alaire ordered as he walked towards the helm.
“Sir, we’ve been away from home for two years. Our boots haven’t graced the streets of Wayrest for a longer time than I, or the men, would have liked.” Adalard pleaded.
“You are a sailor, Adalard, our life is at sea. As your Captain, not your friend, I command you to order our men to get this ship underway and sail a few weeks more.” Alaire said more sternly and with none of the friendly tone he had moments before.
Adalard frowned deeply for a moment before sighing as he narrowed his eyes at his friend’s back. He turned towards the crew and bellowed out his orders to them, “Standby to wear ship!”, and the crew went to work furling the trysail. Shanties once again filled the air around the ship as it came alive with the sounds of the men singing and the officers giving out orders to the crew as they rushed about on the topdeck. Gradually, the orders were cried and carried out and the Golden Gale would sail northwards.
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