fellowknight
The Devil In The Details
A few minutes after the team's first duel...
Somewhere in the now enlarged Talos District, carelessly hidden among the filth, an esquire of Imperial guardsmen hauled a nordsman to his unknown fate. He was bloodied and brusied and had been beaten into submission, his escort providing a crude display for those who happened to be around. Another victim to the city who had gone too far, crossed the line, and needed to be disposed of. The thought that this city had been drawn to such depths stirred Baroth's quite damaged stomach. What unsettled him even more was the irony in where he knew they would take him.
For the past few weeks, Baroth had been observing the rather immense increase in crime, famine, and poverty following the newly elected emperor, Frigus. Not only had he enlarged the city to two times it's size, but now rumors had spread that he was funding the renovation and reconstruction of the arena. Though this activity alone wasn't what drew him to investigate. Over the past millennia, Baroth traced, and in some cases personally tampered with, the success of several businesses and service-based companies. While his involvement with the East Empire Company brought jobs to many poverty-strucken Nords, it was short lived following Frigis' rule. Baroth knew he was outsourcing the company, but what he didn't know was why.
And when he arrived, he'd realized it was worse than he thought.
The situation with the Emperor's two daughters was the hardest thing to dig into. Not only was their location kept a secret, but the security regarding the palace had near tripled in size. Though having practically the whole city after the daughter's heads was beneficial enough to hide his efforts, drawing security to the palace left the districts lightly guarded. And that gave criminals an ample breeding ground. After conducting said digging, a few interviews of laid-off captains and unemployed shop owners, Baroth was certain the funneling the funds from within the city, but that could only be added up as a fraction of the cost.
Eventually, Baroth had been forced to bribe one or two of the Arena Guardsmen to leak a couple bits of information regarding the going abouts of the Arena itself. He didn't get much, however, as later that day, that same man had his throat slit and was tossed into the market district. Someone blew the horn, and decided enough was enough. And if being beaten and pumped with crackling electricity wasn't evidence enough, Baroth was just really unlucky. In this city, in accordance with the arrest records he was able to obtain, it was no longer a secret where lowlifes and traitors ended up.
The carriage ride there was unforgiving, especially without his padded steel armor to shield his several wounds. And no shortage of thanks to the uneven roads. The trip did give him time to reacquaint himself, somewhat, and patch up his bruises. Even so, the sore spot on the small of his back would need to heal in its own time. At least I broke the bastard's nose, Baroth thought both fondly and haphazardly. Maybe not such a great idea, though.
"He's here." A man stated. Baroth guessed he was imperial, his voice was rough and deep.
"So that's him, huh? He'll make for a good show... Bring him in." The other man behind the door almost whispered in finish. Definitely an Imperial. The smug tone of his voice was a dead giveaway.
The next thing he knew, he'd been shoved into a large room and had the bag removed from his head. To his right, against the wall, was a long feast-table, occupied by several small crowds of finely-dressed people. They spoke in hushed whispers, gathered at the center of the table, some pointing to him occasionally, raising their coinpurses to each other, laughing. Others were dressed in gladiator-type armors of varying colors, most of them with their arms crossed, dully engaging in conversation with one another.
The crowd that seemed to be the most official-like, garbed in lush robes and tucked tunics, stood with their back straight and their brows lowered, surveying the muscled behemoth of a Nord before them.
It was clear where Baroth was and why he was here. They were testing him, to see how reacted to forced confinement and, by the looks of the room, perhaps even combat. He looked down to where he was standing. Sand. Sixteen-feet circle diameter of it. He nuzzled his booted foot down into the grains of rock, until he felt the bottom. One foot deep. He glanced to his left, and saw three weapons racks adorned with just about any weapon he could identify, with one weapon per type and material. They were sharpened, all of them. Even the arrows. To the left of those three racks of weapons were similar sets, only more dull and less lethal. Another test. Either way, all of the weapons, lethal or not, were quite expensive. Especially ebony.
One of the men who identified himself and those closest to him as evaluators, a man roughly in his forties sporting a plump gut, raised a hand, calling quite loudly for silence as he began to speak.
"Allow me, on Behalf of our esteemed gamblers," He gestured to his right, his chunky face forming a smug expression. "And our team leaders," He again gestured to his left. "To welcome you to the Arena, Pride and Soul of Cyrodiil! Now, choose your weapons."
Just as Baroth began moving towards the weapons, the man once again called out.
"Oh, and if I were you, Baroth, I wouldn't try anything hasty. This room alone has two guards for every one of us. And even if, by some astounding miracle, you could escape this room unharmed, you'd never make it out of the halls. Let alone fight your way out, with the guards hounding you every second of the way."
Baroth froze at the mention of his name, relieved that he was facing the wall and not the people behind him. He ran possibilities through his head, and frowned slightly as none of them worked out. He had no idea how they knew who he was. Or at least, his name. He left no trace of himself, and never dug so deep as to draw attention to himself. Which meant they were watching him just as much as he was watching them.
Silent, he reached and grabbed a steel sword and a steel shield from the sharpened rack, returning to the center of the sand, all the while boring his cold gaze into the man, who seemed unaffected by it.
Then suddenly, the doors opposite him opened, and out walked three men, in a lagging line as they approached cautiously. They were armored in black-dye cloth with their faces uncovered as they closed in. Baroth quickly surveyed their weapons; from left to right, one man wielded a heavy iron longsword, the middle held a wooden bow with what looked like steel arrows, and the one on the far right wielded two identical ebony swords. Their eyes, their facial expressions, and their statures were all strikingly similar, such to the point that they nearly walked at the same pace and in the same way. Baroth knew what to expect when he found that he'd been taken the Arena and this wasn't it. This was different.
These men were professionally trained killers. Assassins. Sent by...him.
They came to a halt around the sand circle, evenly spread out by their weapons and waited for their evaluator's command. The fact that they waited for the evaluator's command and even took up tactical positions with their swordsmen in closer and the archer placed further back only proved his analysis correct. The man had let the silence drag on for a few more seconds, before raising a hand and giving the order for the blood-letting to start. This was, in his opinion, the most interesting part. The Nord seemed attentive enough to at least keep them entertained for a few minutes.
"Begin." He said idly, as if the word meant nothing to him. He reached a hand down and grabbed his gold goblet of wine, sipping loudly as the three assailants honed in on their prey.
And in an instant, the two swordsmen charged forward into flanking positions as the bowman notched an arrow, aiming for the kill.
The young Breton woman to his right, Sira, was mate to one of those executed and nearly had her own head cleaved off trying to save her lover. From what he gathered, she was diverse in archery and had a certain love for reading. And she was a terrifyingly accurate shot. Her slim stature and nimble movements attributed to theses deadly skills. Though, she did have trouble handling any longswords or axes or any type. Daggers were another story, though she had more trouble swinging them than throwing them. Baroth took note of how she had a tendency to anchor herself in place when she started to fire arrows in more quick successions. Even before the execution, she was quiet and seldom left her cell without her mate. Together they were a collaborative team with strong communication and connected battle movements, inseparable. After her mate was executed, Baroth could only guess Sira would heal on her own and would soon become a force to be reckoned with. If he absolutely had to, and couldn't defeat her in combat, he'd use the memory of her mate against her to throw off her focus . Other than that, she'd prove to be a useful ally if he was given more time to connect with her on some levels.
The orc across the table from him, Tugog, was one of the few in his cell block to have nothing to do with the stabbing. He looked to be a loner who had no qualms with putting down anyone who got in his way of rising to fame in the Arena. And he took this goal very seriously. Every second he had to himself was spent by himself, exercising every inch of his body in some way, and improving on his excellent sword skills. Given his sharp muscle tone and quick reaction time, this was natural to him by now. But, he had a habit of being jumpy in combat and often anticipating the next move of his attacker. If Baroth could get in close and stage a feint, he'd go for it and leave himself exposed. Besides that, Baroth might be able to consider him an ally, if he could best him in a match.
And then there were the two twins whose names Baroth hadn't caught yet. They in themselves were a mystery to Baroth still, even after the stabbing. All he could tell clearly from them is that they also work in a team, with one as a spearman and the other as a rogue in the shadows. If he could catch one off guard and eliminate him, the other might lose control and attack without thinking clearly. Besides that, Baroth was unsure of how they'd turn out as allies. He'd have to keep tabs on them in the meantime.
Thankfully, Baroth hadn't been arrested and transferred to many large prisons. But in the few cases he had, he gathered that things like this were how the prisoners relieved their stress a little and got intoxicated to the point that they saw unicorns playing cards with the goblins. It was their own little tradition, he concluded, and would remain so for a very long time.
One group of inmates gathered at a table where a fight of some sort had broken out between two prisoners, though the nearby guards seemed less than interested in breaking them up as they drank ale and watched with interest. Another group of inmates a few tables over laughed loudly and angrily shuffled cards as they gambled with intent expressions.
A rather loud roar of a nearby crowd caught Baroth's attention and he looked to see a bulky orc easily outmatching several prisoners in arm wrestling matches. Considering how most of the competitors were similar in brawn when compared to the orc and had still lost let Baroth know the orc was a heavy-hander who was fond of using heavy weapons. While an axe was Baroth's main accusation, he left the matter open to be looked into later on. He could become a possible ally in the hellhole. He took note of the orc's facial features and armor.
On a side-note, Baroth took note of the odd guard patrols and the tails following him since he arrived in his cell block. Though they managed to remain incognito thus far, Baroth had a right mind to know they were still watching him.
Baroth shifted in his chair, gaze searching the room for other points-of-interest as he idly rubbed his bruised knuckles. He crossed the sight of two men a few feet away, looking around the room the same as he was, occasionally leaning in to talk about something. One, with a hood thrown over his head, stood in such a way as if he was injured. Likely thanks to his evaluators. The other leaned against the kegs, making idle conversation with the other. Observers.
The second man's hood lead him to believe he had a good reason for hiding his face. Maybe he was just a thief. But what was clear to Baroth was that these two men were searching for something in the room. Or someone. They could've been working together by themselves, or were on part for a larger group. Either way, Baroth refused to wait and find out. Lunch would be over soon and they'd be sent back to their cell lots. He knew for a fact they weren't in his, so this was practically the only time they'd be able to communicate freely. Otherwise, they'd meet in the Arena eventually, and there never was too much talking in there.
Casually, Baroth reached over and grabbed a large pint of wine someone had left on the edge of the table and carefully poured it into his mug. When the two heard the sound and the injured one turned to study the group, Baroth put the pint down and offered his semi-full mug to the man.
He nodded to the man's ale bottle. "Trade you. Wine for ale ain't such a bad deal on your part. Personally, I prefer ale over wine anyways. Unless it's Red Wine. Then we might have a different story." As the man was about to reply, Baroth added to his offer. "Or.." He pushed the chair in front of him out towards the hooded man, offering him a seat. He caught the leg of another chair at the table by him and swung it into the space in front of him, offering the other man a seat as well. "We can talk about what's in these damn drinks. Good antidote for a bad day. And it looks like both of you have had about the same. Well.." He looked the hooded man over. "Maybe not exactly the same." He then looked about the room and saw the liveliness of both the prisoners and the guards was waning, if only slightly. "But I will say that if you want that talk, we had better do it now while we have the time. You're not in my block and I'm not in yours, so we won't see each other again for a while, depending on the Arena's daily schedule. Unless we meet in the Arena itself. And we all know what happens up there." He put the mug down and slid it towards the hooded man, signifying his offer. He nodded, shifting slightly in his chair. "Your move."
Somewhere in the now enlarged Talos District, carelessly hidden among the filth, an esquire of Imperial guardsmen hauled a nordsman to his unknown fate. He was bloodied and brusied and had been beaten into submission, his escort providing a crude display for those who happened to be around. Another victim to the city who had gone too far, crossed the line, and needed to be disposed of. The thought that this city had been drawn to such depths stirred Baroth's quite damaged stomach. What unsettled him even more was the irony in where he knew they would take him.
For the past few weeks, Baroth had been observing the rather immense increase in crime, famine, and poverty following the newly elected emperor, Frigus. Not only had he enlarged the city to two times it's size, but now rumors had spread that he was funding the renovation and reconstruction of the arena. Though this activity alone wasn't what drew him to investigate. Over the past millennia, Baroth traced, and in some cases personally tampered with, the success of several businesses and service-based companies. While his involvement with the East Empire Company brought jobs to many poverty-strucken Nords, it was short lived following Frigis' rule. Baroth knew he was outsourcing the company, but what he didn't know was why.
And when he arrived, he'd realized it was worse than he thought.
The situation with the Emperor's two daughters was the hardest thing to dig into. Not only was their location kept a secret, but the security regarding the palace had near tripled in size. Though having practically the whole city after the daughter's heads was beneficial enough to hide his efforts, drawing security to the palace left the districts lightly guarded. And that gave criminals an ample breeding ground. After conducting said digging, a few interviews of laid-off captains and unemployed shop owners, Baroth was certain the funneling the funds from within the city, but that could only be added up as a fraction of the cost.
Eventually, Baroth had been forced to bribe one or two of the Arena Guardsmen to leak a couple bits of information regarding the going abouts of the Arena itself. He didn't get much, however, as later that day, that same man had his throat slit and was tossed into the market district. Someone blew the horn, and decided enough was enough. And if being beaten and pumped with crackling electricity wasn't evidence enough, Baroth was just really unlucky. In this city, in accordance with the arrest records he was able to obtain, it was no longer a secret where lowlifes and traitors ended up.
The carriage ride there was unforgiving, especially without his padded steel armor to shield his several wounds. And no shortage of thanks to the uneven roads. The trip did give him time to reacquaint himself, somewhat, and patch up his bruises. Even so, the sore spot on the small of his back would need to heal in its own time. At least I broke the bastard's nose, Baroth thought both fondly and haphazardly. Maybe not such a great idea, though.
"He's here." A man stated. Baroth guessed he was imperial, his voice was rough and deep.
"So that's him, huh? He'll make for a good show... Bring him in." The other man behind the door almost whispered in finish. Definitely an Imperial. The smug tone of his voice was a dead giveaway.
The next thing he knew, he'd been shoved into a large room and had the bag removed from his head. To his right, against the wall, was a long feast-table, occupied by several small crowds of finely-dressed people. They spoke in hushed whispers, gathered at the center of the table, some pointing to him occasionally, raising their coinpurses to each other, laughing. Others were dressed in gladiator-type armors of varying colors, most of them with their arms crossed, dully engaging in conversation with one another.
The crowd that seemed to be the most official-like, garbed in lush robes and tucked tunics, stood with their back straight and their brows lowered, surveying the muscled behemoth of a Nord before them.
It was clear where Baroth was and why he was here. They were testing him, to see how reacted to forced confinement and, by the looks of the room, perhaps even combat. He looked down to where he was standing. Sand. Sixteen-feet circle diameter of it. He nuzzled his booted foot down into the grains of rock, until he felt the bottom. One foot deep. He glanced to his left, and saw three weapons racks adorned with just about any weapon he could identify, with one weapon per type and material. They were sharpened, all of them. Even the arrows. To the left of those three racks of weapons were similar sets, only more dull and less lethal. Another test. Either way, all of the weapons, lethal or not, were quite expensive. Especially ebony.
One of the men who identified himself and those closest to him as evaluators, a man roughly in his forties sporting a plump gut, raised a hand, calling quite loudly for silence as he began to speak.
"Allow me, on Behalf of our esteemed gamblers," He gestured to his right, his chunky face forming a smug expression. "And our team leaders," He again gestured to his left. "To welcome you to the Arena, Pride and Soul of Cyrodiil! Now, choose your weapons."
Just as Baroth began moving towards the weapons, the man once again called out.
"Oh, and if I were you, Baroth, I wouldn't try anything hasty. This room alone has two guards for every one of us. And even if, by some astounding miracle, you could escape this room unharmed, you'd never make it out of the halls. Let alone fight your way out, with the guards hounding you every second of the way."
Baroth froze at the mention of his name, relieved that he was facing the wall and not the people behind him. He ran possibilities through his head, and frowned slightly as none of them worked out. He had no idea how they knew who he was. Or at least, his name. He left no trace of himself, and never dug so deep as to draw attention to himself. Which meant they were watching him just as much as he was watching them.
Silent, he reached and grabbed a steel sword and a steel shield from the sharpened rack, returning to the center of the sand, all the while boring his cold gaze into the man, who seemed unaffected by it.
Then suddenly, the doors opposite him opened, and out walked three men, in a lagging line as they approached cautiously. They were armored in black-dye cloth with their faces uncovered as they closed in. Baroth quickly surveyed their weapons; from left to right, one man wielded a heavy iron longsword, the middle held a wooden bow with what looked like steel arrows, and the one on the far right wielded two identical ebony swords. Their eyes, their facial expressions, and their statures were all strikingly similar, such to the point that they nearly walked at the same pace and in the same way. Baroth knew what to expect when he found that he'd been taken the Arena and this wasn't it. This was different.
These men were professionally trained killers. Assassins. Sent by...him.
They came to a halt around the sand circle, evenly spread out by their weapons and waited for their evaluator's command. The fact that they waited for the evaluator's command and even took up tactical positions with their swordsmen in closer and the archer placed further back only proved his analysis correct. The man had let the silence drag on for a few more seconds, before raising a hand and giving the order for the blood-letting to start. This was, in his opinion, the most interesting part. The Nord seemed attentive enough to at least keep them entertained for a few minutes.
"Begin." He said idly, as if the word meant nothing to him. He reached a hand down and grabbed his gold goblet of wine, sipping loudly as the three assailants honed in on their prey.
And in an instant, the two swordsmen charged forward into flanking positions as the bowman notched an arrow, aiming for the kill.
...............
After an unsettling few minutes in what one guard called one of the "most out of control lots in the prison" and an oddly pleasant meal in the mess hall, Baroth sat back in his chair and looked about the thick of drunks and brawlers, looking for events of interest. Now that the alcohol had hit and the prisoners had indulged themselves, they'd gathered and migrated to tables from across the mess hall, indulging in further alcohol and various activities. The group gathered at his table were rather quiet, since the stabbing in their lot that resulted in a live execution of three of their own.
The young Breton woman to his right, Sira, was mate to one of those executed and nearly had her own head cleaved off trying to save her lover. From what he gathered, she was diverse in archery and had a certain love for reading. And she was a terrifyingly accurate shot. Her slim stature and nimble movements attributed to theses deadly skills. Though, she did have trouble handling any longswords or axes or any type. Daggers were another story, though she had more trouble swinging them than throwing them. Baroth took note of how she had a tendency to anchor herself in place when she started to fire arrows in more quick successions. Even before the execution, she was quiet and seldom left her cell without her mate. Together they were a collaborative team with strong communication and connected battle movements, inseparable. After her mate was executed, Baroth could only guess Sira would heal on her own and would soon become a force to be reckoned with. If he absolutely had to, and couldn't defeat her in combat, he'd use the memory of her mate against her to throw off her focus . Other than that, she'd prove to be a useful ally if he was given more time to connect with her on some levels.
The orc across the table from him, Tugog, was one of the few in his cell block to have nothing to do with the stabbing. He looked to be a loner who had no qualms with putting down anyone who got in his way of rising to fame in the Arena. And he took this goal very seriously. Every second he had to himself was spent by himself, exercising every inch of his body in some way, and improving on his excellent sword skills. Given his sharp muscle tone and quick reaction time, this was natural to him by now. But, he had a habit of being jumpy in combat and often anticipating the next move of his attacker. If Baroth could get in close and stage a feint, he'd go for it and leave himself exposed. Besides that, Baroth might be able to consider him an ally, if he could best him in a match.
And then there were the two twins whose names Baroth hadn't caught yet. They in themselves were a mystery to Baroth still, even after the stabbing. All he could tell clearly from them is that they also work in a team, with one as a spearman and the other as a rogue in the shadows. If he could catch one off guard and eliminate him, the other might lose control and attack without thinking clearly. Besides that, Baroth was unsure of how they'd turn out as allies. He'd have to keep tabs on them in the meantime.
Thankfully, Baroth hadn't been arrested and transferred to many large prisons. But in the few cases he had, he gathered that things like this were how the prisoners relieved their stress a little and got intoxicated to the point that they saw unicorns playing cards with the goblins. It was their own little tradition, he concluded, and would remain so for a very long time.
One group of inmates gathered at a table where a fight of some sort had broken out between two prisoners, though the nearby guards seemed less than interested in breaking them up as they drank ale and watched with interest. Another group of inmates a few tables over laughed loudly and angrily shuffled cards as they gambled with intent expressions.
A rather loud roar of a nearby crowd caught Baroth's attention and he looked to see a bulky orc easily outmatching several prisoners in arm wrestling matches. Considering how most of the competitors were similar in brawn when compared to the orc and had still lost let Baroth know the orc was a heavy-hander who was fond of using heavy weapons. While an axe was Baroth's main accusation, he left the matter open to be looked into later on. He could become a possible ally in the hellhole. He took note of the orc's facial features and armor.
On a side-note, Baroth took note of the odd guard patrols and the tails following him since he arrived in his cell block. Though they managed to remain incognito thus far, Baroth had a right mind to know they were still watching him.
Baroth shifted in his chair, gaze searching the room for other points-of-interest as he idly rubbed his bruised knuckles. He crossed the sight of two men a few feet away, looking around the room the same as he was, occasionally leaning in to talk about something. One, with a hood thrown over his head, stood in such a way as if he was injured. Likely thanks to his evaluators. The other leaned against the kegs, making idle conversation with the other. Observers.
The second man's hood lead him to believe he had a good reason for hiding his face. Maybe he was just a thief. But what was clear to Baroth was that these two men were searching for something in the room. Or someone. They could've been working together by themselves, or were on part for a larger group. Either way, Baroth refused to wait and find out. Lunch would be over soon and they'd be sent back to their cell lots. He knew for a fact they weren't in his, so this was practically the only time they'd be able to communicate freely. Otherwise, they'd meet in the Arena eventually, and there never was too much talking in there.
Casually, Baroth reached over and grabbed a large pint of wine someone had left on the edge of the table and carefully poured it into his mug. When the two heard the sound and the injured one turned to study the group, Baroth put the pint down and offered his semi-full mug to the man.
He nodded to the man's ale bottle. "Trade you. Wine for ale ain't such a bad deal on your part. Personally, I prefer ale over wine anyways. Unless it's Red Wine. Then we might have a different story." As the man was about to reply, Baroth added to his offer. "Or.." He pushed the chair in front of him out towards the hooded man, offering him a seat. He caught the leg of another chair at the table by him and swung it into the space in front of him, offering the other man a seat as well. "We can talk about what's in these damn drinks. Good antidote for a bad day. And it looks like both of you have had about the same. Well.." He looked the hooded man over. "Maybe not exactly the same." He then looked about the room and saw the liveliness of both the prisoners and the guards was waning, if only slightly. "But I will say that if you want that talk, we had better do it now while we have the time. You're not in my block and I'm not in yours, so we won't see each other again for a while, depending on the Arena's daily schedule. Unless we meet in the Arena itself. And we all know what happens up there." He put the mug down and slid it towards the hooded man, signifying his offer. He nodded, shifting slightly in his chair. "Your move."
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