SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE !!!!!! WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT !!!!!!!!!!!!

The Collector !!!!!!!!!!!!! OMG, I am jumping out of my seat now, MORE !!!!! MORE !!!!!!!

What a perfect quest for our avaricious Edward! Can there be a more lucrative quest in all of TES IV? Now if he can just survive the traps of Welke, Wendelbek, et al . . .

Yee Hah!

OH !!!!!! The valet could negotiate with that Khajiit on the hill...Edward would stiff him...and have another STALKER !!!!!!! WOOOOOOOOOT !!!!!!!!! I can't wait !!!!!!! The other stalker he had - I nearly broke my PC spraying it with coffee !!!!!

I wonder how badly Edward will get hurt and how many time his valet is gonna have to bail him out frm those ruins.... OMG... Edward and dungeondiving....

And Foxy: I really doubt this forum will let you formulate sentences that will get you kicked... even with your Dhirtee Innu Endo eeeuhmmm.... alter ego

QFT



That so perfectly captures Edward- and Rachel's wonderful way with words.

But the crowning achievement is Edward's concept of the sort of "services" creepy old Umbacano seeks.

Oh Rachel the Lovely, you have brightened my morning with these new additions. It will be such a joy to see Edward stumbling and bumbling and griping his way through Ayleid ruins.

Thanks, all! Glad you're enjoying the new chapters!!

@Foxy: Haha, you're right, there is a lot of potential here...don't worry, though, there's more to come.

@mALX: Thanks! I had meant to write this part earlier in the story, and then forgot about it/got distracted by other quests/etc. Then, when I was reposting, I decided to add it after all. (As for the Khajiit -- you're spot on, on both counts...the valet is reasonable enough to negotiate, and Edward would sign his own death warrant by double crossing him if given the opportunity. )

@haute ecole rider: Haha, surviving will be the difficulty. Not to give away too much...but Edward's courageous nature being what it is, I'm not going to be able to get him into too many ruins. There will be a few, though.

@Remko: I haven't kept count so far...but suffice it to say there will be more than one (time that the valet has to bail him out of danger).

@treydog: lol, thanks treydog, glad Edward's fumbling, bumbling and dirty mind made you laugh!!



The man who lives with grudges and hatred
Is slave to the past.

The man who forgets things gone by
Is slave to the past.

Wisdom is the middle ground of these two
Memory but not bitterness.

-- An excerpt from a piece translated in the scholarly work “Writings of Old, Dead People”


Chapter Forty-Two





Edward watched as his servant returned, eying the man with suspicion.

“I found some old, dry branches, sir,” the valet greeted, seeing Edward's eyes upon him. “I think they should last us the rest of the night.”

Ignoring this, Edward demanded, “Lord Umbacano...you said you worked for him, didn't you?”

The valet glanced over from setting down his burden. “That's right, sir. Back in the Imperial City.”

Edward frowned suspiciously. “Why didn't you tell me he was...you know?”

The other man stared at him, questioningly. “Sir?”

“Well, you know,” Edward repeated. The valet still looked puzzled, so he continued, “Interested in...you know.”

“Aleyid artifacts, sir?” the valet asked.

Edward's frown deepened. Was his servant really stupid enough to have missed what he'd picked up on in a few moments? Or was he embarrassed to admit that he had been employed in a profession like that vile Nord's that he'd met a few moments ago? “Artifacts?” he repeated.

“Yes sir,” the valet nodded. “And I did tell you. Don't you remember? That's why he fired me. Because he wanted to spend my wages on acquiring more artifacts.”

Deep frown lines creasing his forehead, Edward paused in thought before speaking. This all sounded familiar...indeed, the pervert had mentioned something about Aleyid artifacts too...at the moment he was wondering whether his servant was talking about the property of old dead guys, or was using some code word that he really didn't want to know about. “Oh?”

“That's right sir...he's an avid collector...he's got a huge collection.”

Edward's frown had lessened, but not disappeared. He still couldn't tell for sure what the other man was talking about.

“He's obsessed. He's got an entire room in his manor full of Aleyid things,” the valet shook his head. “He studies texts about the Aleyids all day long...his only friends are experts on Aleyid culture.” He shook his head again. “I actually feel sorry for him, sir.”

By now, the Imperial was pretty well reassured that his servant was indeed talking about one of the most boring topics in the world – history – and not his former master's sexual exploits and interests. “Well...” he said slowly, “suppose someone...acquired one of these artifacts...do you think he'd be interested?”

“Of course, sir,” the valet nodded. “When I stole that one from the castle...” Here he glanced up guiltily, but Edward was too curious to be annoyed by his thieving prowess. “When I acquired that statue, I thought of selling it to him...but I decided against it.”

“Why?”

The other man was silent for a moment, and then sighed. “I suppose it's petty, sir, really...but I know how much he likes them...and I guess I was being a little spiteful...”

“Would he have paid well?”

“Of course.”

“Better than your fence?”

“Most likely.”

Edward raised an eyebrow at his servant. “And you passed up the money just to spite him?!”

“Yes sir.”

“Why?!”

“He fired me, sir!”

Shaking his head, Edward clucked his tongue. “My good fellow, you must learn that holding grudges is entirely unhealthy and immature -- particularly when money is involved.”

Loyal like a dog,
And about as intelligent.

-- From the chapter “The Good Servant”, in A Nobleman's Musings on the Serving Class

Chapter Forty-Three

Having explained that he had “business in the City” that he'd delayed until after his Brotherhood mission was complete, Edward had altered their path for the Imperial City. His reward would wait in Cheydinhal, and so too would Antionetta Marie. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” he thought. “It'll do her some good to miss me for awhile.” Meanwhile, though he was still highly suspicious of Lord Umbacano, he was now fairly well convinced that his interest in him – his primary one, at least – was the acquisition of these statues. The fact that his servant had already acquired some of these artifacts made the idea that much more attractive to Edward...if his valet could get his hands on them, they must not be that difficult to find. And, if Umbacano was going to pay well for them...

Edward was grinning devilishly again when he felt the valet's eyes upon him. Wiping away his gleeful, anticipatory expression, the Imperial tried too to drive away thoughts of the mountains of gold he'd be able to gather through his own, and his servant's, moderate labors – to say nothing of the potential opportunities for theft that this arrangement would surely provide. Putting on a thoughtful air, Edward mused, “Tell me...what was Umbacano's collection worth, would you say?”

Raising an eyebrow, the other man asked, “Sir?”

“Your former employer,” Edward explained almost disinterestedly, “you said his collection of Aleyid artifacts was huge...I suppose it must have been worth a fortune?”

“Yes sir,” the valet answered slowly. “But may I ask why the sudden interest in my previous employer?”

Edward frowned. Wasn't it obvious? “Well,” he answered slowly, “I was thinking that it might be good...as you say, he is so obsessed...for his mental health to...relieve him of some of those artifacts...particularly the more expensive ones...all for his mental well-being, of course.”

He'd half expected the other man to whole-heartedly agree, even volunteer his services for this chance to get back at the man who'd fired him. Instead, much to his surprise, the valet reined his horse to a sharp halt. “Are you proposing that we rob Lord Umbacano, sir?”

Edward blinked, himself astonished at the man's clear astonishment. “Umm...yeah.”

The valet shook his head. “No sir,” he said. “You know I can have no part of this.”

Staring at his servant, Edward demanded, “What? Why not?”

“Because I was his valet, once. A master's trust in his valet is a sacred thing. I could never break that!”

The Imperial's eyes expressed the annoyance he was feeling. “But...but you know the security layout of his place...you know what sort of guards he has...you know...”

“Exactly, sir!” his valet agreed. “All of which information was gained while I worked for him. That's the trust of which I speak.” He shook his head. “No matter what, a servant can never betray that trust!”

Edward groaned. “Even if he fires you?”

“Yes sir.”

Nary a creature more vile or reprehensible
Than a man of leisure reduced to servitude.

-- From the chapter “The Worst Servant”, in A Nobleman's Musings on the Serving Class

Chapter Forty-Four

Having (falsely) assured his valet that he had given up on any and all schemes of robbing Lord Umbacano, Edward had been able to convince the other man to continue to the Imperial City. He'd thought it best to hide the real reason for this sudden diversion: Umbacano's job offer...not because he felt guilty about helping a man who had unceremoniously fired a perfectly loyal servant in order that he might acquire more junk, of course, but just because he didn't want to risk explaining away how he was violating any more unwritten tenets of servitude. At least, that's what he told himself.

Once they had arrived in the Imperial City, he had sent his servant to arrange for lodgings whilst he “took care of a few matters.” So it was that he stood, now, outside the comfortable home of Lord Umbacano, cursing his ill fortune that he was not one of the “rich bastards” able to wallow in fortune, but instead must earn his bread “like any common slob.”

Pushing these thoughts aside with a grimace, Edward knocked. After a moment, the door opened. “May I help you?”

The Imperial tried to ignore the fact that a man up to his eyeballs in cash would hire as his door opener one of the ugliest orcs he had ever had the misfortune to lay eyes upon. “I have an appointment with his Lordship. You may tell him that I've arrived.”

“I was unaware of any appointments today,” the orc frowned. “Your name, sir?”

“Edward,” he returned curtly.

“Are you sure your meeting was today?” the orc persisted. “At what time?”

“Of course I'm sure!” Edward snapped. Then, the question actually registering beyond the fact that this ghoulish orc was daring to question him, he paused. “Well, actually, no. There wasn't a time. He just...I'm just supposed to come...whenever.”

Her frown intensified. “One moment, sir,” she said. “I'll be right back.”

This said, the door closed on his scowl. After a moment, it reopened, and the Nord – “the pervert” – stepped into view. Edward felt himself as about as thrilled to see the other man as Jollring was to see him – not at all.

“Oh, so you decided to take up my master's offer after all?” he asked.

“I decided to hear it out,” Edward answered cautiously.

“Then your standards are perhaps not so 'high' after all?” he queried with the slightest hint of a sneer.

Edward glared at him. “Are you going to show me to the Count, or bore me to death with your talking?!”

“His Lordship is a Lord, not a Count,” Jollring corrected. “And, yes, you may as well come in...if your dignity does not object.”

Sniffing a little at this, Edward remarked that he “might as well”, and entered as he was bid. Having missed Jollring rolling his eyes, he took this comment at face value, and was somewhat pacified. The pervert, he thought, was at least attempting to make up for his past behavior.

Edward was awed by the finery around him as he was ushered through well furnished and expensively decorated rooms. Before entering the manor, he had made up his mind that, even if Umbacano's offer was of the less than legal or appealing nature that he had originally thought, this would not be a wasted trip – for he would use the opportunity to scout out the guards and treasures that would await a burglar. Alas, this grand plan was not to be; for, lost in admiring envy as he was, Edward took in none of the important details, and was only aware as they entered Lord Umbacano's sitting room that this man had very good taste in home décor.

“If you'll wait here, sir,” Jollring declared, indicating a seat, “I'll inform his Lordship of your arrival.”

Edward tried to ignore the leering quality of the other man's voice as he uttered the word “sir”, and instead concentrated on the collection of ancient artifacts about him. He had certainly never been one to take history seriously, or to care much for the work of the race of elves who had enslaved Imperials. But this...

He found himself speechless at the sight of such beauty, such finery, such craftsmanship, such wealth as adorned row upon row of shelves and cabinets. He hesitated to even begin calculating all the riches he saw about him, lest he die of envy on the spot. He understood now why Umbacano had fired his servant in order to collect more of these treasures; the man was a decent enough servant, but these...these were beyond superb.

He was lost in such admiring thoughts when a door behind him opened, and Jollring and another man stepped into view. “His Lordship, Lord Umbacano,” the Nord declared.

Edward tried to hide his appalled stare. The man might be a genius regarding his décor and collections, but he was a fool when it came to personal style. He was draped in fine silks and satins and gold braid – all of which were very nice; but, along with these fineries, he had mixed in rough animal furs, lending an unpardonably savage air to what had otherwise been noble attire. To further transgress the boundaries of good taste, the elf had somehow molded his rather lengthy hair into a horrendous vertical cone.

Trying to push aside the thought that Lord Umbacano should add his stylist to the list of those he'd fired, he bowed in a dignified sort of way. “Sir,” he spoke, “your servant tells me you have a matter of business to discuss?” He flushed, and hurriedly added, “Relating to acquiring Aleyid treasures, I believe?” He wanted to make sure there was no room for error or misunderstanding in their negotiations.

The Altmer motioned for him to sit down. “Indeed. I understand you recently sold a statue...” He paused, heading to one of the cases and removing a strange artifact of stone and gems. “This statue, in fact...to a merchant in Bruma. Yes?”

Edward shifted his weight nervously. “My servant sold it, yes...I believe it was that one...or one like it...”

“Your servant?” Lord Umbacano asked, a touch surprised. “But I was led to understand that you were...an adventurer who...acquired the item yourself?”

“Oh, yes, quite,” the Imperial hastened to explain. “Naturally. I just...entrust selling certain items to my servant.”

“Ah, I see,” the Altmer nodded. “He must be a good servant, then, if you can trust him so well.”

“Err, yes,” Edward nodded. “He's good enough, I suppose.”

The elf seated himself across from his guest. “As you know – and can see for yourself – I am an avid collector of Aleyid artifacts.” Edward nodded. “Some artifacts are easy to acquire.” He shrugged. “And some are less easy. That is why I depend on the work of enterprising adventurers such as yourself...men who are not afraid of a challenge, particularly when there is a good reward to be had out of it.”

Edward had hesitated at the “challenge” part, but he was all but sold by time the elf had reached the bit about a “good reward”. “Quite,” he nodded hastily.

I LOVE THIS QUESTLINE !!!!!! And I can't wait to see what Edward will do to it !!!!

More than likely lay a swath of absolute and mass destruction on those wonderful, creepy, deadly old Ayleid ruins! Pity the poor archeologists that will stumble upon the remains years later!

Rachel, I loved this: Considering my experiences meeting dogs who were smarter than their owners, I had to laugh at this. Quite the backhanded compliment!

And our perfect Emperor-to-be shows a streak of pettiness!

Watching Edward’s snail-like mental processes as he tried to decide whether “Ayleid artifact collector” was a code phrase….

And then the bit haute quoted was also superb. Another part of the Edwardian Philosophy- “Never let anything as petty as feelings get in the way of money. Nice, shiny money…”

And the valet’s admirable, obtuse, loyalty is am ingrained trait, extending even to his previous master. That is genius.

And your description of Umbacano’s collection, especially Edward’s reaction to it, is wonderful. So too, is your description of the odd Altmer himself.

Thanks, all!

@malx: " And I can't wait to see what Edward will do to it !!!!" Haha, couldn't have phrased it better!

@haute ecole rider: "More than likely lay a swath of absolute and mass destruction..." An accurate estimate of ANY quest that Edward is involved with!

@treydog: "Watching Edward’s snail-like mental processes as he tried to decide whether “Ayleid artifact collector” was a code phrase…." LOL, I grew up with four brothers, all of whom were younger than me by a couple of years minimum. I distinctly remember, as they were growing up, when they hit a certain stage where everything -- no matter how innocent -- could become some sort of dirty, giggle-worthy insinuation. I've tried to recapture some of that...genius.


Listen to him hiss and sputter,
Ever so indignant and affronted,
As his mind wallows in the gutter
Delusions never yet confronted.
-- Author's notes preceding The Song of Edward



Chapter Forty-Five





Edward strolled lazily into the Tiber Septim Hotel, trying to avoid the eye of the publican, Augusta Calidia. He hoped she didn't recognize him. It had not, after all, been so long ago that he had strolled in here with not a scrap of clothing beyond his loin cloth, and spun an incredible tale – one that he rather doubted his servant would believe, not the least of all as it was at odds with the account he'd given that man. That was the one difficulty with lying, wasn't it? You never knew who might hear a different lie than the one you'd told them...to say nothing of the trials of attempting to keep each falsehood straight...

Noting with annoyance that his servant wasn't around at the moment, Edward sifted through his pocket for the coin to purchase a drink. Stifling the curse that almost escaped his lips, he realized he had half the septims he needed. “Where is that fool?!” he wondered, thinking, of course, of his servant. He'd come here to rent rooms...and then what had he done? Didn't he realize his master would want a drink and maybe a bite or two to eat?

Sighing, he plopped down in one of the seats at the far end of the room. There were a few bottles of wine on the table, and he had half a mind to nonchalantly start drinking. If he was caught, after all, he could just instruct Augusta to put it on his tab.

Deciding this was a good idea, he popped the top on one of the bottles, and poured himself a glass. Then, draining it quickly and refilling, he thought of his conversation with Umbacano. All in all, he thought, things had gone exceedingly well. Umbacano had been very impressed with his acquisition of the Aleyid statue – at least, what Edward had led him to believe had been his acquisition. Apparently, his servant had managed a feat that no one else had been able to do in years in stealing that stupid statue. Edward sighed in annoyance. It irked him that his servant was such a good thief – even when that prowess as a thief directly benefited him, as it did now.

Pushing these annoyed thoughts out of his head, Edward's mind returned to his meeting of a few minutes earlier. Lord Umbacano had given him a copy of a key to some place called, “the High Fang”, or something to that effect. This, he'd told Edward, would likely be called something else now, for that was the name it was known by in the days of the Aleyids. The collector, however, did not know what its present name was. Nor, for that matter, did he know where it was. He had given the key along with a diagram, however, with the promise that, should Edward ever come across a carving like the one depicted, he would be paid handsomely for its retrieval. The Imperial sighed again. It was all well and good to be promised a lot of gold...but did the style-challenged elf really expect him to lug around a chunk of stone?

Alas, yes, for he'd been very insistent that it must be returned to him in one piece, undamaged. “The plaque should be easy enough to remove...understand that I need it intact to read what's written. And, of course, any trouble that that might cause will be amply paid for,” he'd said. Edward lapsed into another sigh, and drained his glass. It really was a long shot, he decided, the more he thought about it. He had never really planned to go traipsing about Aleyid ruins at all...much less so to discover one out of however many there were scattered about the countryside.

“Excuse me, sir,” a voice interrupted his thoughts. “You're sitting at a reserved table.”

Edward flushed, glancing up. It was Augusta Calidia who addressed him. “Oh...I...uhh...”

“And you're drinking someone else's wine.”

His flush deepened. “Umm...sorry, I didn't...”

“Which someone else paid for...”

At that moment, a voice cut in, “It's ok, Augusta...put it on my tab.”

The publican glared at Edward for a moment, then nodded at the newcomer. “Very well, Claude...if you say so.”

The Breton – for that is what the newcomer was – smiled, and replied, “Please. And...should we move?”

She shook her head. “No, that's ok...since you're already there.” Shooting Edward a final suspicious glance, she left.

Much to Edward's annoyance, the newcomer seated himself across from the Imperial without so much as being bade to do so. “I see you're Umbacano's newest plaything, eh?” he laughed. “Well met. I am Claude Maric. I always love meeting my rivals.” Noting Edward's horrified expression, but mistaking the meaning for this sudden contortion of the Imperial's features, he laughed again. “What, did you think you were the only one?” Pausing only to snort in laughter, he added, “Come, let's have a drink together.”

Edward tried to find his tongue as the man leaned over and filled his glass, but was unable to do. It seemed clear to him now that his original suspicion had been correct, and this man must have mistaken him for one of Umbacno's...what had he called them? Playthings?...rather than a hired treasure hunter. Edward sneered in disgust at the prostitute who, laughing all the while, filled their glasses. Did this base creature really think that he, Edward the Imperial, had to sink to selling himself?

“Now,” the Breton spoke again, “I propose a toast...may Umbacano's purse never run dry!”

Edward recoiled. Every word this disgusting Breton spoke filled him a deeper sense of revulsion. How could this vile creature sit here, talking to him as if he was one of his kind, a prostitute – and one so desperate that he would sell himself to an elf at that?! It might suit this Breton, aged and beginning to wrinkle as he was, to sink so low, but how could the fool of a man think that he – he! – had need of such base means of supporting himself?

Claude, however, seemed to take none of this in, for, downing his glass in one quick mouthful, he turned a more serious gaze toward Edward. “I should give you a piece of advice, though...I wouldn't take Umbacano at his word, exactly. Our mutual employer rarely tells us the whole story. But, he pays well.” His serious expression lightened again as he downed another glass. “Not that I should be giving advice to one of my rivals.” Edward cringed as the other man broke into laughter yet again.

“I don't know who you think you're talking to,” the Imperial spoke at last, his voice dripping with disdain, “but you may as well understand that I am not one of your kind. You are...are...well, repulsive! Whereas I am an adventurer!”

The Breton stared at him over his wineglass, an eyebrow raised. “What?”

“You heard me, you disgusting animal!” Edward snapped, rising. “Do not dare to put me in the same category as you and your vile, reprehensible...business...do you understand?! I have no need of your 'advice', nor your drinks, nor your vile company. Keep company with your 'master', and others of your ilk – but keep far away from me, lowlife!”

Lowering his glass, Claude Maric stared at the Imperial, angry bewilderment and ironic amusement written, in equal measures, across his expression. “Well, well,” he mused aloud. “A tomb robber who fancies himself a cut above his fellows.” He smiled, lifting the glass to his lips a final time and finishing its contents in one quick gulp. “Suit yourself, Master Edward. I'll not sully your afternoon by keeping company with you...although I will dearly love to see if you've the wits to figure out the task you're on, or the courage to pursue it.” His brow knitting, he finished, “I rather doubt it...but stranger things have happened.”

The mind given to learning,
The mind eager to know new things
The mind full of ideas
Is the best mind in the world.
-- An excerpt from a piece translated in the scholarly work “Writings of Old, Dead People”




Chapter Forty-Six

Edward was seated on a bench in the hallway outside of his room, his brow knit in a thoughtful manner, when his valet returned. He'd been sitting this way for some time – ever since he'd left the main room downstairs, and “the prostitute”, behind him – and he'd been pondering a monumental thought.

He considered himself no stranger to street slang; indeed, he flattered himself that his regular vocabulary was only just larger than his vocabulary of vulgarity. So, what, then, had the prostitute meant when he'd called him a “tomb robber”? In all his studying of slang, indeed, his mastering the art of foul language, he had never heard of a term like this one...in fact, none even remotely resembled it. So what, then, he had wondered all this time, had the repulsive Breton been insinuating?

Having arrived at no satisfactory answer – no answer at all, in point of fact – he determined that he would humiliate himself by asking this question of his servant. He hated to admit that there was some phrase that he, as world-wise and knowledgeable as he was, was ignorant of...but he hated worse not knowing.

“Good afternoon, sir. How did your business go?”

Ignoring this greeting and query, Edward sighed. He had no choice but to ask. “Tell me,” he asked, “what does it mean to call someone a 'tomb robber'?”

The other man blinked at him. “Sir?”

“Well?”

“Well, sir, it means...someone who robs tombs.”

Edward frowned. This terminology, too, was completely unknown to him. “Well, of course, but...that is...tell me what it means in plain words, man!”

“Someone who takes from the dead.”

“Takes from the dead?” Edward bolted upright, his face a mask or horror and disgust. “You mean, a necrophile?!” he demanded.

The valet stared at him. Then, a light of understanding shone in the other man's eyes.“Oh, you mean a necromancer, sir? Well, I suppose you could call them tomb robbers, because they are robbing the graves of the dead, but the general usage...”

“No! I don't mean necromancers!” Edward interrupted. “I mean...whatever 'tomb robber' means!”

His servant frowned at him. “I'm not sure I'm following, sir.”

Edward sighed in frustration. Either the man was so stupid that he couldn't understand him, or he was as clueless on the topic as he was – and either possibility annoyed him. The first for obvious reasons, and the second because, if his servant was unable to help, he'd just confessed his own ignorance for no good reason. “What I'm saying,” he snapped, “is that someone called me a 'tomb robber' earlier...now, what did he mean by that?!”

“Ohh,” the valet nodded. “I see. Well, he was probably insulting you, sir.”

“I knew it!”

“By insinuating that you'd stoop to plundering graves.”

Edward growled under his breath. How, he wondered, could his servant be so witless? It was clear, at any rate, that the other man would be no help...no, he'd just have to find the answer elsewhere. Maybe if he could find the latest copy of the Encyclopedia of Slang at First Edition, he might actually solve this mystery...

Thank the Divines so mighty for such knowledge,
The tomes and the tenets and wisdom of eras long expired
Rules to guide and ways to live and cures to know
And thank the gods that someone else cares enough to read them.
-- Unknown author


Chapter Forty-Seven



Edward traipsed into First Edition shortly after he'd parted company with his valet. He was still intent on finding out just what type of lowlife, exactly, Claude Maric took him to be.

He grimaced as he entered the doors. It was such an unpleasant, stifling place – there were books everywhere! “Almost as bad as a library,” he thought with a shiver.

“May I help you, sir?” a voice asked.

Edward glanced toward the speaker, a Redguard of forty or so. “Yes,” he sniffed. “I'm looking for a book...sort of a gag gift, actually.”

The Redguard nodded. “I've just the thing,” he declared, indicating a small, far shelf. “That bottom one, right there. You see it? It's full of false histories, slang dictionaries, crazy guidebooks to foreign provinces, parodies...”

Edward nodded. That was just the thing. Heading over quickly, he began to sift through the titles. “Trails of St. Alessia, a Hiker's Guide...Manual of Arms...” Edward frowned. That was a real book, wasn't it? Not that he had ever read it, but he could have sworn he'd seen the title before. Momentarily distracted from his purpose by curiosity, he drew out the volume.

This proved to be a mistake, however, for the cover was grotesquely illustrated to depict all manner of severed arms -- human, mer, daedra, etc. Yelping in disgusted horror, Edward thrust the book back, quickly, and tried to ignore the shopkeeper's snicker of amusement behind him.

Sorting through the titles brusquely, he again resumed his original purpose. “Lightest Lightness...Gods and Blasphemy...ah! Encyclopedia of Slang!” With this thought, he withdrew the volume, and eagerly flipped through the pages for entries beginning with 't'. Once he found this, he then moved down the page to the spot where 'tomb robber' should have been, had it, indeed, been a slang term.

Exhaling loudly in an expression of his annoyance, Edward slammed the book shut. Not even the Encyclopedia of Slang had 'tomb robber'.

“Are you buying that book, sir?” the shopkeeper inquired.

The Imperial snorted. “This outdated piece of junk? Not likely...”

“Then, perhaps, you might treat it with more care,” the Redguard pointedly suggested, “seeing as how someone else might want to buy it...”

Sighing, Edward put the book back on the shelf. He clearly wasn't going to get any help here. Rising, he winced as his knee impacted sharply with the bookshelf. Cursing, he withdrew, even as several books fell all around him. He could feel the glaring eyes of the shopkeeper boring into his back, and that, combined with the agony of his knee, only served to further annoy him.

Stooping to pick up the books, lest the Redguard expect him to pay for them, he growled into the thin air. One by one, he returned the books to the shelves, but froze as he lifted the last volume. “Cleansing of the Fane.” He frowned, trying to remember why that sounded so familiar. Then, it hit him. “Of course...it must be a stupid parody of that book that Umbacano said might be helpful, Cleansing of the Fang.”

Sighing, he cast a furtive glance at the still glaring Redguard, rose, and quickly absented himself from the bookstore. He was now more convinced than ever that booksellers, bookstores and books in general were utterly worthless, and a complete waste of his time. Even the Encyclopedia of Slang had fallen from its pedestal in his eyes. He sighed again, and set his footsteps toward the Tiber Septim Hotel.

Tomb robber? Or tomb raider?

What if Lara Croft in all her gravity-defying glory were to appear in front of Edward, say, in Malada?

Would Edward be able to figure out what tomb robber really means?

Hi Rachel. I was going to wait until I was fully caught up before I commented, but I just can’t help myself. I have just finished Chapter Twenty Three. You had me way back in the Imperial Subterrane when Edward burst through the door leading every rat and goblin in the Natural Caverns behind him. I could just imagine the look on Glenroy and Baurus’ faces! From there I followed Edward through his inspired bit of improvisation in the Tiber Septim Hotel, and his less than inspired treatment of poor Simplicia. His decision to lay the mallet to Snak gra-Bura only to pilfer the most ridiculous horse in the entire stable had me in stitches. The meeting with Lucien LaChance was almost as hilarious as the fact that the aforementioned horse knew his (or her, I don’t think it was ever established) way around Cyrodiil enough to bear Edward to the Inn of Ill Omen!

I think it might have been inside the Inn that Edward really found his stride. The execution of Rufio was exactly what I have come to expect, but his comments to the stalwart Mannheim (again, I am assuming) were absolutely sublime!

Now, after meeting with his wonderfully dysfunctional new family in the Dark Brotherhood, and after admirably playing his role as exterminator by killing one rat in the dungeons under Castle Cheydinhal, I have dutifully followed Edward to the Waterfront of the Imperial City where he is supposed to exercise his skill as an assassin by ridding the world of Gaston Tussaud. Too bad he chose to rest at the Bloated Float.

I’ll comment further once I have caught up. . . but, so far, I am loving this!

These three chapters were Awesome !!! Too many places to quote! The First Edition - SPEW !!! Cleansing of the Fang!!! Sitting down and drinking someone else's wine - and getting caught by Augusta Calidia!!! AWESOME !!!!! MORE!!!!

And then Claude Maric arrives to reinforce Edward’s misapprehension about Umbacano. The only thing that is more difficult than getting an idea into Edward’s empty head is to get one out once it has taken hold.

The whole scene with Claude brought tears to my eyes. You painted it so beautifully, Edward’s disgusted denouncement and Claude’s bewildered response.

“Tomb robber.” This one left me speechless.

And then you manage to out-do yourself with Edward’s unsuccessful mission in the First Edition. I can’t decide which I liked best- Lightest Lightness or Manual of Arms.

What fun to have completely new Edwardian idiocy to enjoy! Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Wow...it's been a long time since I've posted. (My work schedule has shifted, hopefully temporarily, so I'm working much later...which means I seem to get up, go to work, get home, go to sleep ... with no time for writing). However, getting over a stomach flu and feeling pretty sorry for myself because of said flu ( ), I somehow started thinking of Edward. There's no connection between the self-pity and thinking of Edward, I'm sure. ;P Anyhow, I started writing again, and here we go. But first, thanks to all who commented.

@haute ecole rider: lol, Edward will be meeting people at Malada alright, but they won't be Lara.

@Destri: I'm so glad you're enjoying this! I agree, I think it was around the time of the Rufio execution where I sort of figured out where Edward was going as a character. I hope you enjoyed the rest!!

@malx: Glad you enjoyed it! I sort of envisioned Edward's idea of "Cleansing of the Fang" something like brushing your teeth.

@ treydog: "The only thing that is more difficult than getting an idea into Edward's empty head is to get one out once it has taken hold." You are so right about that!! I'm glad you enjoyed the "Manual of Arms", too...I could just imagine Edward shrieking in horror as he pulled that out





It's Dawn that brings the light that shines,
The light that cleanses and heals,
The light that washes away the imperfections
The light that blinds the unbelievers,
And it's Dawn we aim to meet, my brothers and sisters!
-- Excerpt from a sermon by Mankar Camoran




Chapter Forty-Eight

Edward had just made up his mind to give up the whole scheme of working for Umbacano when he had an idea. He would ask his valet if he had ever heard of any "High Fang"...after all, the man had the odd talent of being useful here and there. This just might be one of those times. So, he asked, "I suppose being this close to your old employer's house is a little disconcerting for you...I mean, you used to live there, right? And here we are, just across the street."

The valet frowned at him. "Remember your promise, sir. No robbing him..."

It was Edward's turn to frown at his valet. "I wasn't proposing that we rob him, you stupid servant...I mean, my good man. I was just trying to be polite!"

"Oh...my apologies, sir."

"Never mind," Edward assured him quickly. There was no point making too much of this when he needed the other man's help. "Anyway, I suppose you must be rather an authority on Aleyid artifacts and ruins and whatnot, what with having worked for a collector for so long?"

The other man shrugged. "I know a little, sir, but not too much."

Edward sighed. All his pretense of friendliness had been wasted...his servant, yet again, had let him down.

"Why?"

"Never mind," he snapped. "I was just hoping you knew something about the High Fang."

"You mean, Fane?"

Edward glared at him. "That's what I said – Fang."

The valet frowned. "Are we talking about Malada, sir?"

"What?"

"The High Fane is what we used to call it, I believe, but we call it Malada nowadays. That is, if we're talking about the same thing?"

Edward nodded slowly. "You mean the ruin?"

"Yes sir...the one east of Bravil, I believe it is?"

The Imperial frowned. East, west, it was all the same to him; and, he supposed, regardless of where it was, it had to be some point relative to Bravil. And "east" sounded as good as any to his mind. "Err, yes, I believe that's the one."

"Right. What did you want to know about it?"

Edward frowned. Where did he start? "Well, how to get there, for starters. Could you show me the way?"

"I've never been there myself, sir, but I'm pretty sure I could find it."

Grimacing to himself, the Imperial tried to hide his annoyance. "You're 'pretty sure'?" he repeated. "How sure is 'pretty sure'?"

The valet frowned to himself and shrugged, as if trying to measure his degree of sureness. "Fairly confident...I've seen it on the map...just a matter of plotting the right course and..."

Edward groaned. The outcome of this adventure was looking bleaker by the moment. Not only was he in a race with a pervert to find an ancient, probably long-destroyed, carving, he was entrusting his life to his servant's doubtless flawed navigation abilities. Images of starving to death in the wilderness played in his mind, and he made a mental note to pack a concealable dagger; cannibalism wasn't his first choice, but if his valet was leading him to a death of starvation in the wilds, he would be prepared for any eventuality.

AWESOME !!!!!! YOU'RE BACK !!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I'm sorry to hear you have the stomach flu - but will wish it on your repeatedly if it brings updates !!!!!!

Awesome chapter !!!!!!!


YOU HAVE BEEN SO MISSED !!!!!!!!!

Thanks, mALX (even for the stomach flu part -- that made me laugh out loud!)! Glad you enjoyed the chapter. I'm planning to get a few more posted over the next couple of days, but here's another for now.


In days of old, when nights were cold,
They slept in homes made of ice
And thought their lives were pretty nice.
-- A Study of the Social Evolution, Customs and Building Practices of the Nordic Tribes, ordered by High Chancellor Cicero

Chapter Forty-Nine

Edward sighed. It was a hot day, and the air felt very still and oppressive. He and his valet had been riding, for days now, and they still had not arrived at the High Fang. The only bright spot in their entire trip was that he had been able to convince his servant that their journey was too pressing to allow for a detour to that putrid little cesspool known as Bravil. He'd never been there, of course, but he'd heard the stories about the town – a reprehensible quagmire of poor people, dilapidated shacks, and, of course, the swamp-loving reptiles known as Argonians. The only upside to the town, reportedly, was the Count, Regulus Terentius, who had managed, somehow, to bring a sense of classic Imperial charm to the County Castle and gardens; but, having no invitation from the Count, he had chosen to forgo the extremely dubious “pleasure” of visiting the squalid little settlement.

Unfortunately, however, this refusal had left the two men extremely short on supplies. Apparently, Edward's valet had planned to replenish their food store en route, and so had bought enough to get them from the Imperial City to Bravil, but not much more.

Edward sighed as he was pulled from these cheerless thoughts by an even drearier reality – the incessant buzzing and biting of mosquitoes, as they made a feast of him. He had long since given up trying to swat them away. They were too persistent for that, and he had not the energy to fight them. Instead, he began to ponder the injustice of his situation – that these worthless bloodsuckers were able to eat and thrive, while he faced the ever-increasing likelihood of starvation and death in the midst of a hellish wilderness.

Just as he sank into this depressing reverie, his servant spoke. “I think we should be there shortly, sir,” he said. Edward glared at him. “Within an hour or two, at any rate. Based on my calculations...”

“Your calculations?!” Edward snapped. “Then we're surely doomed!”

“Sir?” The other man seemed surprised at this outburst.

“Your 'calculations' about supplies didn't exactly turn out the best, did they? And what about these damned mosquitoes?! Where do they fit in your 'calculations?! How much blood do you think a man can lose, after all?! Or did you not bother to 'calculate' that?”

What had been a mere hint of surprise in the other man's face was now clearly that. “Well, sir,” he returned, “it was you who said we should continue on without getting supplies. If we had stopped in Bravil, we probably could have got some sort of spell or potion to ward off mosquitoes...and we'd have been able to replenish our food supply...”

Edward glared at him. His servant liked to do that, didn't he? Twist things around so they somehow seemed like they were his fault even though they clearly weren't. His mind turning to the dagger in his pack, he allowed himself a malicious sigh of relief. At least, if worst came to worst, he would have a final shot at escape from this wilderness nightmare – and the added bonus of revenge on his valet.

He settled into wondering how the other man would taste cooked over a makeshift campfire to distract himself from their present circumstance.

* * *

Feeling quite sure that he had been drained dry of blood, Edward sullenly, in a heat and thirst-induced sort of daze, glared into the afternoon around him. He and his servant hadn't spoken since his outburst, and he was sure the other man had not repented of his evil ways – he was far too busy consulting his maps and compasses for that, making a mark here, nodding in approval, glancing at some point of reference or a note here or there, and generally seeming quite satisfied with himself.

His demeanor darkened, and he wondered why he had ever been mad enough to put his life in this crazed servant's hands. What, he mused, could ever cause him to wander in this dank, stuffy, dreary wasteland? “Look at this place! It's completely barren...mosquitoes everywhere...even the ruins are overgrown and lacking in charm...look at that one! Hideous!”

“Aha!”

Edward started at this exclamation from his servant.

“There it is, sir!”

“What?”

“The High Fane!”

Edward frowned. His servant was pointing at the ruin he'd been staring at a moment earlier. “Where?”

“Right there, sir. The Aleyid ruin.”

Edward's frown deepened. All he could see was an old stone ruin; nothing fang-like. “Which one?”

“You're looking right at it, sir. Just there!”

“You mean, that old ruin?”

“Yes sir. Malada!”

“But...it looks nothing like a Fang!”

“No sir,” the valet returned. “Why would it?”

Edward's frown turned to the other man. The answer was obvious, wasn't it? It was an absurd name for a ruin that looked nothing like a tooth. “But,” he thought to himself, “I suppose it might have looked more fang-like before it was destroyed.”

SPEW !!!! He still thinks it's a fang !!!!! ROFL !!!!!! - And the mosquitos !!!! ROFL !!!!! Boy is it great to have you back !!!! You just don't know how missed you've been !!!!!

What! Edward the Imperial becoming Edward the Cannibal?

Knowing Edward, I suspect that if he was ever forced to resort to Cannibalism, he would first reproach the corpse for not having cooked itself before it died...

Welcome back, Rachel! Soo good to see you and Edward and the varlet valet again!

And Edward, if you just squint your eyes and tip your head slightly to the right, those broken arches of the High Fane do resemble fangs. Somewhat. Sort of. Try it!

We will just get the unseemly (and slow and arthritic) dachshund dance out of the way first.

Woo-Hoo! Shuffle, shuffle, creak, pop! Pant, pant, pant.

Ok that's all done.



That impeccable Edwardian sense of direction strikes again.

And of course, clever Rachel follows up by having the idiot question his valet’s own geographical ability.

Surprised the mosquitos find Edward's blood at all palatable- perhaps they like vinegar?



It is so good to have you back. You know, stomach flu is a serious matter; Dr. Treydog recommends at least 2 weeks of rest and recuperation… with something suitable to occupy the idle hours. Perhaps a bit of writing?

Dr. mALX agrees !!!!

@All: Thanks so much, your input is greatly valued!! It's good to be back -- and back in the Edward mode of thinking...or not, as the case may be.

@Foxy: Well, that would be terribly inconvenient, wouldn't it? One would expect a little more forethought...

@haute ecole rider: lol, that's a good point... see, Edward isn't such a dolt after all?

@mALX & Treydog: Thanks so much!! And let me hasten to obey the dictates of my medical consultants.

Clumsy as an ox, to say the least!
With the manners of a beast.
Living in cowardice, he's never ceased!
Surely, thou dost speak of Edward!
-- Author's notes preceding The Song of Edward

Chapter Fifty

After a momentary rush of euphoria, as the realization that they were not, in fact lost, had swept his senses and roused him from his mental and physical lethargy, a sudden flash of consternation assailed him. They were about to enter a ruin. What if the stories were true? What if zombies and apparitions and all manner of devilish evils lurked in the hidden passages of these old ruins? What if the famed Aleyid traps were still operable? What if – worse yet – the Aleyids hadn't actually all been wiped out? What if they still resided in these old ruins, waiting for innocent treasure seekers and adventurers like himself?

“Well, sir, are we going in then? I've tethered the horses, so I think we're set to go...”

Edward jumped at the sound of another voice, even one as familiar as his servant's. “Huh? Oh, uh, yes, of course. As soon as...”

“Yes?”

“As I...”

“Yes?”

Edward frowned. He couldn't think of a reason to delay; and yet he desperately wanted to do so now. “I just have one question.”

“Yes?”

“What do you know about these ruins?”

“Well, sir,” the valet shrugged. “It was a city...there's a long history to it.”

“No, no,” Edward interrupted. “I don't care about the history. I mean...are they haunted?”

Again, the other man shrugged. “They might be, sir. I've heard rumors that they are, but some people say tomb robbers spread those stories to keep all but the bravest from these ruins – so they can claim whatever treasure there may be inside.”

Edward nodded, feeling suddenly far more at ease. It made sense. He could easily see the pervert – or any of those other “tomb robbers” – lying like that. And, even had his servant made no mention of those low-lives, he would have still been sold on the idea at the mention of “treasure”.

Noticing an expression of concern on his valet's face, the Imperial realized that he was licking his lips eagerly. Pausing to clear his throat, he commented. “Chapped lips. Darned heat. Anyway. I think we should get moving, don't you?”

The other man nodded, and Edward headed toward the door. So eager was he to get inside and to find the treasure that he didn't notice the subtle rustle of dry grass on the plateau above the ruin, or the expression of suspicion on his companion's face. Only when his valet reached out and took hold of his arm did he stop – and then it was too late to note the subtle gesture for silence that the other man made. “What?” he blurted out. “What are you...huh? What?” Casting a furtive glance around him, his fear came ebbing back. “What is it?” he whispered hoarsely, in a tone so loud that it surely would have carried to anyone nearby. “What do you hear?”

Ignoring his questions, the valet headed for the hill overlooking the ruin. Edward vacillated momentarily between following and remaining by himself, opting at the last minute for following.

Tramping after his servant, he whispered noisily, “Wait up!”

The servant who is modest,
He is the most terrible of all
For modesty doth shroud cold ambition,
Kindliness conceal the deepest malice
And the smiling face distract from the poisoned glass.
-- Excerpt from The Trials of a Nobleman, First Edition





Chapter Fifty-One

Edward was panting heavily by time they reached the summit of the hill – or, at least, by time he reached the summit of the hill; his servant had already made the climb and was, it seemed, in the middle of a discussion with a beast creature.

Still panting, Edward paused to recoil in both fear and disgust – and to catch his breath. What, he wondered, was this Khajiit doing here? Surely his valet had not invited him?!

When, finally, he had recovered from this sudden burst of exertion, he drew himself up tall and swaggered forward. It seemed to him that, if his servant had invited this creature as a sort of bodyguard or companion, it was time to nip this arrangement in the bud; Edward the Imperial did not work with beast creatures. And, if this thing was stalking them, it was time to strike some fear into its heart; the beast folk, after all, responded to one thing and one thing alone – brute, animalistic strength. And if this creature was going to respect him, he would have to impress upon its feeble mind just how strong and fearsome he was. Otherwise, they would have a nasty fight on their hands; and he wasn't exactly feeling up to a fight at the moment. “Especially after that little 'jaunt' up the hill.”

So, chest puffed up and head at a heavenward angle, he headed forward. Before he reached the Khajiit, however, he saw his servant shake hands with (“Actually touch!”) the Beast, and then turn. Heading directly for him, the valet instructed, “Let's go,” and nodded for Edward to follow.

The Imperial stared, aghast, as his servant walked past after giving him a command; and then, he realized that he had somehow deflated, as it were – his puffed up chest was now hunched forward in sheer amazed stupefaction. For a moment, he considered defying his servant's presumptuous dictates and challenging the beast creature then and there; and then he thought better of it, for he had no desire to fight a Khajiit – let alone, by himself.

So, hurrying after his servant, he planned in his mind a scathing verbal chastisement for such unpardonable behavior.

Instead of pausing, or anything of that nature, when they reached the bottom of the hill, however, the other man continued toward their horses. Edward raced to keep up with his companion, cursing the man's impudence – not only did he wrong him, but, in scurrying about so, he tried to prevent a well deserved lecture on the topic. So caught up in feeling wronged as he was, he didn't even take note of the fact that his valet was removing a pack of supplies and an extra sword from their mounts.

“Sir,” the other man spoke in hushed tones when Edward finally caught up to him, “take this torch; and don't say anything. Follow me -- be quite and act naturally. I'm afraid we're in danger here.”

Edward let out a whimper as he numbly took the torch. Somehow, for all his annoyance and anger, he had sensed that there was something of that sort afoot. There always was, it seemed, when he put his trust in his valet.

“Toward the ruin, sir.” This said, the man walked briskly toward the ancient Aleyid city.

Gulping, and whimpering again to himself, Edward raced to follow.

* * *

The flicker of torchlight illuminated the ruin in a dancing sort of luminescence – made all the more uneven by Edward's shaking.

“Sorry about being so abrupt back there, sir,” his valet spoke now. “We were being watched.”

Edward gulped. “Watched?”

“Yes...that Khajiit I was talking to? He's one of a band of tomb robbers-”

Edward groaned. Ye gods. What had he gotten himself into?!

“A band of tomb robbers,” the valet continued, “that was waiting for us to come here. You remember the fellow you talked with, Claude Maric?”

Nodding in dismay, the Imperial despairingly wondered, “How could I forget him?”

“They're working for him. At least, S'razirr was...but not anymore.”

Edward stared suspiciously at his servant. “Why not anymore?”

“S'razirr owes me a favor,” the valet admitted. “Back when I worked for Umbaccano, I found out that Maric and a few of the other men were skimming some of his paycheck...not a whole lot, but some...it's hard for Khajiit to get employment in the City sometimes, so they figured he wouldn't make a big deal about it...”

Edward hissed. “Not hard enough,” he commented.

“Sir?”

“Nevermind, go on!”

“Well, anyway, when I found that out, they ended up having to repay him and all that...so he owed me one. As it was, S'razirr didn't realize they were waiting for us.”

“Who is 'they'?!”

“Maric, S'razirr, and two others...mercenaries, loyal to Maric.”

Edward groaned. “Tell me they're not all tomb robbers?”

His valet frowned. “I would guess they are,” he said. “That's who Maric works with, mostly.”

Edward groaned again, sinking to the floor in a despairing heap. He suddenly seriously regretted insulting Maric at the Tiber Septim Hotel. Now, he found himself alone, in the wilderness, with a pack of sex-crazed...tomb robbers...in pursuit of him. “Oh gods...” he whimpered.

“Once S'razirr found out that they were there to kill us-”

“Kill us?!” Edward shrieked.

Making a quick gesture for silence, his valet said, “Keep your voice down, sir! I'm not sure if there are any of them in here...”

“But...they want to kill us?!” Edward repeated, this time in a more managed volume.

“After we retrieve the carving.”

“What?”

“The carving. You know, the one you're here to get.”

“Then...why don't we just forget it, and go home, if they're going to kill us after we get it?” Edward wondered.

“Well, because they'll kill us anyway, sir.”

Edward frowned. “You mean...they want us to go through the work of finding the carving and then kill us too?” He couldn't help but feel that that wasn't very sportsmanlike.

“Apparently – if what S'razirr said was true.”

“If? But I thought you said he owed you a favor...”

“He does, sir. But he's a tomb robber, too, remember.”

Edward groaned. “That's right...”

“He did promise to help us, though. However...”

Edward cringed. He wasn't sure he wanted to know what the catch would be.

“I had to agree to giving him a quarter of your cut.”

Edward stood bolt upright. “A quarter of my gold?!” he thundered. “To a dirty cutthroat, and a tomb robber at that?! A Khajiit??”

“I thought, sir, given the odds of fighting all four of them – versus evening the odds, three to three – that a quarter of the gold was a cheap price to pay...”

Edward glared at him. “And how do you know the filthy Khajiit will even keep his word?!” he demanded.

“I don't,” his valet admitted. “However, if he doesn't and we die...well, we don't have to worry about it; and, if he doesn't and we have to kill him, then that was his choice...”

Edward's fury was so great that he said nothing – not least of all because he could find no flaw with this reasoning, as distasteful as it seemed to him.

“However,” the other man pressed on, “what I was saying was this...S'razirr wants us to go through with getting this carving. According to him, they plan to ambush us when we emerge with it. If all of this is true, we've been warned; if it's not, we could be walking into a trap in the ruin. They might have deliberately put S'razirr in place there to tell us that, knowing that he was indebted to me and hoping that I'd believe him because of that.”

Edward turned pale at these words. It seemed to have worked pretty well, if that was their plan; after all, they were inside the ruin, and on the tomb robber's orders...

“But,” his valet continued, “I know something that they don't. I know where the carving is...and I know how to get out of here – a secret way.”

Edward stared in astonishment at his servant. “You told me that you knew very little about this place!” he protested. “And now you know about secret exits and hidden carvings?!”

“Well,” his servant returned, “that's about the extent of my knowledge, sir. And this place is huge, with a tremendous history – a history that I only know a fraction of...”

“Yes, yes,” Edward interrupted. “Let's just get out of here, though!

What I can't wait to see is Edward in the final room in the Nenalata !!!! (I will cover my monitor and keyboard in plastic before reading it, too !!!!)

When you do scenes like the "As I..." ; 'Yes?" ; "Yes?" ; "As I" - I always wonder what exactly Martin is thinking when he is doing them !!! ROFL !!!!

AWESOME WRITE !!!!!!!! And AWESOME to have you back UPDATING AGAIN !!!!!!!!!!! (Finally !!!!)

lol, mALX, thanks for the comments...* anyone * who works with Edward has to have more than their fair share of "huh?" moments, that's for sure!!

Barbarians, to the core...
Barbarians, through and through,
Barbarians, ever more...
Barbarians, I'm afraid it's true.

-- A Study of the Social Evolution, Customs and Building Practices of the Nordic Tribes, ordered by High Chancellor Cicero

Chapter Fifty-Two

Sighing in discomfort, Edward shifted the saddle bag he was carrying. His valet had given him the choice of carrying the torch and supplies – which he'd taken “just in case” – or being ready to fight. Edward had chosen to carry the torch and supplies.

So, they were trudging through the dimly lit passages of the ruin, occasionally pausing to listen to what sounded like nothing at all to Edward, headed for a secret chamber of some sort. According to his servant, a famed treasure hunter of years past had sought out this carving; he had been attacked while retrieving it, but managed to hide the carving and escape through a secret exit – the same exit they planned on using. His servant, while researching Aleyid ruins, had stumbled across the treasure hunter's journal, and learned this; and, since his servant had never advertised the fact, he was, presumably, the only person living to know of its existence.

Nonetheless, Edward was not thrilled. They were skulking about in the veritable dark, in creepy, tomblike ruins, on the word of some old dead guy who might well have been stark raving mad, or drunk as a Nord, or otherwise unreliable, when he'd penned the entry about the High Fang. It really was not enough to inspire confidence.

“If my memory serves, sir, it should be just at the end of this hall.”

Edward groaned. That, too, was another difficulty. Even if the treasure hunter was the most reliable man to ever live, he still had to rely on his unreliable servant's unreliable memory.

“Look,” he wondered, “can't we just get out of here? I mean, if you know where the exit is, why not just leave?”

“Because this carving just might prove to be a crucial bargaining chip.”

Edward sighed. His servant had a darned infuriating obstinate streak in him – that was apparent. But now was not the time to take him to task for it. Sighing in impatience as he pondered these things, they came to a stop at the end of what seemed to be a dead-end hallway.

“There's a lever somewhere here he said...” his valet murmured.

Edward sighed again. Half of him still believed that they were good and truly doomed, and that his valet was on a wild goose chase. He was, therefore, quite startled when a whoosh of air emanated, it seemed, from nowhere, and the wall vanished before him.

Leaping backwards with a yelp of fright, Edward watched as his valet stepped into the newly revealed aperture.

“Aha! Here it is.” He stepped out a moment later, holding a small chunk of stone covered in ornate carvings.

Edward frowned at it. Was that stupid piece of rock really what all the fuss was about, he wondered. “People really are dumb,” he mused, “just look at Umbacano...sending all these thugs out here to pursue us over a tiny piece of rock. I mean, if people are going to die over something, at least let it be worth something...like gold. That makes sense to die over. But rocks? I'll never get that.”

“I said, we should move out, sir,” his valet's voice broke through his internal dialogue.

“Huh? Oh, yes, about time.”

“Yes sir...”

Frigid days and icy nights,
Summer is a concept wholly unknown
Men who live for fights
Mothers lucky to see their children grown.

-- A Study of the Social Evolution, Customs and Building Practices of the Nordic Tribes, ordered by High Chancellor Cicero

Chapter Fifty-Three

“It must be dark out already,” Edward protested.

“Not dark enough,” his valet contradicted. “Before we can get to the horses, it has to be pitch black out there.”

“Come on!” the Imperial insisted. “I'm freezing! And my legs are cramped from sitting on this rock.”

In the last flickering glimpses of torchlight, Edward could see his servant frown at him. “You know better than anybody, sir, that it's all part of the game – it can't all be assassinations and break-outs from Aleyid ruins. You have to have the waits and the traitors and whatnot too.”

It was the Imperial's turn to frown. His servant really was crossing some lines today. Not only had he told him what to do more than once, he was now reprimanding him. “This is the worst day of my life,” he grumbled to himself. “Not enough to eat...not enough to drink...carrying around saddlebags like a damned pack animal...”

His servant's irritated sigh sounded in the stillness of the ruin. “Alright,” he said, “if you really think it's time to go get the horses, we can do it now.”

Edward's first reaction had been one of celebration – he could finally stretch! – but at the word “we” it turned to consternation. “Wait...” he said. “You mean...both of us?”

His valet stared at him.

“I mean,” Edward explained hastily, “I don't know if it will be possible to make my way to the horses undetected lugging around these packs...and we need them, so...”

The other man nodded. “Good point sir. Alright, I'll stay with them if you like.”

Edward frowned. He didn't “like” – at all. “Well,” he hesitated, “the thing is...to be honest with you...perfectly frank...I have a problem sometimes...you know, with direction...in the dark...I'm not sure I'd be able to find the horses.”

“But we're coming out just south of them, behind that plateau...”

“There's no sense explaining to me,” Edward protested. “It won't make any difference. I can't find my way around...wilderness...caves...wastelands at night.”

“Oh,” his servant remarked. “That can't be convenient, in your line of work.”

“No,” Edward agreed hastily. “It's downright inconvenient. And embarrassing. Which is why I haven't mentioned it before.”

“No worries, sir. A master's confidence is safe with me.”

“You're very good.”

“Not at all,” the other man nodded.

“So, then, you'll...?”

“Yes sir. Of course sir.”

Edward smiled to himself, but aloud thanked his servant. This was the other man's plan, after all...why shouldn't he be the one to take the risks? Nevermind the fact that they were embarked on a mission of Edward's choosing. It just didn't seem right that he should creep out into the night – particularly if it wasn't fully dark out yet – to fetch the horses and bring them back, all the while remaining undetected, while his servant could his risk his neck doing it for him.

A land that civilized men cannot abide,
A land where even the best of Imperials would have died
Skyriim, they call that frigid wasteland
The horror of which civilized men cannot begin to understand.
-- A Study of the Social Evolution, Customs and Building Practices of the Nordic Tribes, ordered by High Chancellor Cicero

Chapter Fifty-Four

Edward was sighing to himself, not so much because he was frustrated – he was marginally so – as because he was nervous, and focusing on his annoyance proved a good distraction from his nervousness. “How long can it take?” he was wondering. “I mean, it's only around that hill, right?” He almost wished he had not lied about being directionally challenged...for half a moment, he could see himself out there in the wilds, creeping through the dirt, making his way bravely for the horses, while, lying in wait, the ever present tomb robbers...

And that, of course is where the fantasy broke off, for he recoiled from the thought in horrified disgust. He recoiled so far, in fact, that he backed into the stone wall behind him, smashing his elbow in the process.

“Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods,” he yelped, dropping the torch and hopping about in sheer agony. “That hurts. Oh gods that hurts!” He had, in a most unamusing turn of events, smashed his funny bone.

In an even less humorous twist, however, the room was all at once plunged into darkness. Edward froze, the agony in his arm suddenly long forgotten. He was alone, in an Aleyid ruin, at night, surrounded by killers and tomb robbers, without as much as a torch.

Whimpering, he collapsed to the ground in a heap. “Oh gods,” he repeated. Not being the overly religious type, he somehow still managed to find time in his life for the gods whenever he was excessively angry, and needed a powerful curse, or excessively frightened, and needed a comforting entity to appeal to. Lately, it seemed, he was finding himself spending time appealing to the gods from both motivations.

* * *

The valet paused. For a moment, he had thought he heard a muffled shriek; but then all was still again. Nothing had moved, and the mercenaries were all still atop the hills surrounding Malada, little black silhouettes in the night. He frowned. The voice had sounded very much like Edward's; but surely it was a trick of the night, or of his heightened senses. Surely, even if Edward had cried out, he couldn't be heard from behind the thick stone walls of Malada; and surely his call wouldn't have been so screechy, anyway.

Brushing the sound of as an imagination, he pushed on. The going was slow...he was creeping through the dirt, inching forward slowly so as not to make the smallest sound, and keeping low so that he did not provide the silhouette that his would-be assassins did atop their hilltops and against the night sky as they were.

The horses were near...he could hear them snorting and moving now and again to find a new patch of grass. Even from his current vantage, the glow of the tomb robber's campfire cast flickering spires of flame on him. It would only get worse as he neared...but there was no choice. It was a chance that had to be taken. And, worse come to worse, Edward would at least have the opportunity to escape from the secret exit undetected – even if Maric's men stormed the front entrance immediately, they might not find the other exit for days or weeks, if at all, and so they might think he was holed up somewhere in the city.

* * *

His back flat against the stone floor, Edward whimpered – and tried to ignore the clouds of dust that every fresh breath disturbed. The world seemed closing in around him, growing smaller and smaller; time seemed to unwind around him, falling away and away; everything was all at once near and terribly close. “Oh gods,” he repeated, “please don't let your hapless servant meet an end like this, dying of...well, anything, in these cold, terrible elven tunnels. Please...please...please...” His supplications broke off into whimpering for a time, and then they resumed. “Please don't let that treacherous servant betray me. Oh gods, please protect me from him. For all I know, he could have made a deal with that animal – I saw him shake its paw, didn't I? I wonder what price they put on my head. Oh gods, please take mercy on me. I know I've made some...mistakes here and there...and might not have been as good a follower as I could have been...but that can always change – if I'm alive. But, if I'm dead, I can't change my wicked ways and become a devout follower like you'd like. So please, give me the chance to serve you.”

* * *

Speaking soothingly to the horses, the valet – oblivious to Edward's imagined plight – held and cut their tethers. He moved slowly, nearing the saddle of the rightmost animal. His plan was to mount that horse, and stampede them out of the camp. They would circle past the plateau, pause for a moment for Edward to leap onto a mount, and ride like the wind out of the camp. The thieves would have two horses left – and, with any luck, S'razirr would take one of those. And, regardless, even if they were tracked down, the fight would at least be an even one.

* * *

Whimpering to himself and the gods, Edward was lost to the world – except when a strange, light ticklish wisp brushed his face. A chill dread stole over his body, and his limbs seemed to go almost numb as he placed this terror, this dark fear, this specter of all his nightmares.

He needed no light – which was fortunate, as he had none – to know what it was; instinct told him what that tendrily touch was – what it could only be. In the depths of despair, his plight had just worsened; a spider, probably picked up in his hair when he'd smashed into the wall, was crawling across his face.

* * *

The valet had just slipped one foot into the stirrup when a shrill wail of terror rent the evening. So high pitched, so indicative of mortal peril, was it that the horses, the mercenaries atop the overhanging hills, and he, all at once, as if of a single mind, leaped backwards. For a moment, the sound, eerie beyond words in the sheer horror it conveyed, was hard to place; and then he realized that it was Edward.

This paragraph says it all :




And it was a spider - GAAAAH!!! SPEW !!!! ROFL !!!!!! Unfortunately, I mirror Edward in this, but that is beside the point, lol.

Awesome Write !!!!!

mALX: Thanks. I've spent more hours than I want to admit writing today, LOL (we're basically snowed in, so there's not a whole bunch I can do otherwise, LOL), and finished the whole Umbaccano quest. Now to proof and post...

Where once would Aleyids roam
Now the dead call “home”
There the bravest of the brave may with impunity wander
But cowards would their lives only squander.
-- Excerpt from The Treasure Hunter's Song





Chapter Fifty-Five

The two men stood surrounded by their five attackers; at least, the valet stood. Edward was more leaned against the hillside in a heap than standing.

Claude Maric laughed. “More excitement than you could handle, eh? New blood.” His men chuckled with him. “They think this line of work will be a bed of roses.” His smile turned sour, and his eyes gleamed cold in the firelight. “Well, it's not. You're lucky I'm a merciful guy, Mr. High and Mighty. As it is, I'll spare your life...this time. Provided you hand over the carving.”

Edward made no response, except to whimper.

Maric sneered. “I can't quite make up my mind if you're putting on act to elicit sympathy – in which case it's not working – or if you really are as pathetic as you seem. Either way, it doesn't really matter. Take it or leave it...hand over the carving and walk away, or die here and now.” His suave smile returned. “Just business you know. Nothing personal.” Glancing at the valet, he added, “To you, at least. As far as this sewer rat's concerned, I wouldn't mind -”

But the other man interrupted. “I'm sorry, Maric, but it's not going to work that way.”

The Breton frowned. “Hold on...that voice...”

“Yes, I figured you'd remember me.”

“Umbacano's valet! The one who ratted us out...”

“That's right.”

“I figured he just reassigned you...you were too much of lapdog to let loose...”

Grimacing, the valet declared, “Come on, Claude. We can figure out a way for all of us to walk away from this in one piece.”

“I already gave you a way. Hand over the carving.”

Shaking his head, he said, “I'm sorry. That's not going to happen. Now...if you want to discuss an equal cut for everyone here...”

Maric laughed. “Not bloody likely.”

“It doesn't have to end with your men in pine boxes, Claude....”

The Breton repeated his familiar refrain of laughter. “Bargaining is for the weak. Or didn't you know that, valet? You should stick to polishing boots and preparing tables. That's what you're good at. This is a man's world. You and your friend there don't belong in it if you don't know how to play by the rules.”

The valet grimaced, nudging Edward, who was still in a half swoon. “If you force a fight, Maric, you'll be responsible for what happens to your men.”

Claude Maric sneered. “That's it then? It's you and your fainted friend against me and my four men?”

At that moment, the gravely voice of a Khajiit broke in. It was S'razirr. “Actually,” he said, “three.”

“What?”

“Well, I owe my friend one for turning you lot in, don't I? And, while we're on the subject, I owe you one as well for double crossing me. A double cross with a double cross. Seems a fair exchange, don't you think?”

“You dirty...”

Kicking Edward sharply, the valet nodded. “And, Maric?”

The Breton turned glaring eyes toward him. “What?”

“I never set tables.”

A coward's victory,
Is short lived.
But the hero's deeds
Live on for all time.
-- An excerpt from a piece translated in the scholarly work “Writings of Old, Dead People”

Chapter Fifty-Six

His servant's last kick had finally roused Edward, and he found himself greeted on his return to the world of consciousness by the sight of three glowering, armed warriors in front of him. To his eternal relief, however, his servant and even the beast creature he'd seen earlier were also standing with him.

“I think that's three to three, now, Maric,” S'razirr hissed in satisfaction. “Looks like you've lost the advantage.”

The Breton glared daggers at the Khajiit, but gestured at Edward. “That? You count that the equal of any of my men?”

The valet laughed. “You don't know what you're talking about, Maric. This man has seen more death in his life time than you've ever dreamt of.”

Claude Maric laughed, but his laughter seemed edged with nervousness. “I wasn't born yesterday, Norvayne. That lily-livered coward looked like he had just seen a ghost...”

“Worse!” Edward assured him. “You have no idea the horrors that infest those tunnels.”

The Breton shivered. The horrors Edward had in mind were clearly not the horrors that Maric imagined. But the effect was still there. “I'm giving you one last chance...” he began.

“Bargaining is for the weak, remember?” the valet reminded him. “We're not giving up the carving, and that's final. Now it's your move.”

For several moments, Maric stood still, clearly conflicted. Edward sneered at the man's cowardice. In normal circumstances, the Imeprial would have thought himself brave indeed to find himself in such a – comparatively speaking – mild state of cowardice as the Breton's. These were not ordinary circumstances, however. Indeed, at the present, Edward found himself full of an unknown courage, a mix of adrenalin and spent fear, for his fear and panic seemed exhausted by his horrendous ordeal in the Aleyid ruins, and, in comparison to that, an evenly match fight seemed pretty tame. And, besides, he was fairly sure Maric would bolt, and he'd be able to pretend to “chase” him...leaving his servant and the Khajiit to battle the other two, while he waited in safety.

At length, the Breton spoke. “I've been in this business long enough to know when to call it a day,” he said. “But you three had better watch your backs from now on.”

* * *

“That was well played back there, sir!” Edward's valet was telling him. “Did you see the look on Maric's face? He was really quite scared of the three of us.”

Edward sighed.

“And when you told him about the ghosts you had seen!” S'razirr put in. “He looked as if it was he who had seen them.”

Edward grimaced as the two men (“Well, one man, and one beast creature”) laughed.

“But, seriously, sir, what did you see?” the valet asked.

Edward's grimace disappeared into a momentary flash of panic. As horrifying as his encounter, in those dusty, forgotten stone passages, with the spider had been, he somehow doubted it would be the stuff of inspiration that these two were expecting to hear. “Well...it...I...umm...it was...awful. I...I'd rather not talk about it.”

“That bad, eh?” S'razirr hissed. “Scared to death, this one is, of the undead things.” The Khajiit shivered.

“At least, though, it's dead now, right?” the valet prompted.

“Oh yes,” Edward assured him. “Very dead.” This was true, for one or another of the haphazard blows he'd launched against his face to rid him of the thing had turned the spider into a mere spot on his forehead.

The other two men nodded admiringly, and the group settled into silence as they rode, victorious, into the dawn.

When days are hard, and nights are cold
When strength is spent, and purse emptied of gold
A friend will understand your sorrow without being told
Open his home and welcome you into his fold.
-- An excerpt from a piece translated in the scholarly work “Writings of Old, Dead People”

Chapter Fifty-Seven

“By the way,” Edward was asking his servant, “that tomb robber was calling you 'Norvayne' earlier...what the heck does that mean?”

The other man stared at him. “That's my name, sir.”

Edward recoiled in disgust. “Really?” he asked, mortified.

“Yes sir.”

“Ugh...no wonder you changed it.”

“I...didn't, sir.”

Edward stared at him. “Of course you did! Otherwise, why haven't I heard the hideous thing before?”

“Because...you didn't ask, sir?”

Edward blinked. Perhaps the other man was right. He shrugged. “Well, anyway, you should change it. It doesn't sound at all Imperial.”

“It's not, sir.”

Recoiling a second time, Edward stared at his servant. The man looked every bit an Imperial; and his speech, his mannerisms, and his vast knowledge all spoke of Imperial culture, class and refinement – of the serving class' breeding, at any rate. And here he was, advertising for all the world to know, that someone, somewhere in his family tree, had married some sort of barbarian? “Then...why have you not changed it already?!”

“It's...my name, sir.”

Edward sighed. There really was no explaining the peculiar sensibilities of the serving caste, was there?

Before the conversation could progress, however – and before Edward could further insult his manservant – S'razirr declared, “Here, this one will part company from his friends. Better, he thinks, to approach the city carefully. Maric will not be pleased to see him return, no.”

Norvayne nodded.

“He will wait for you to finish your business with Umbaccano; then, he will take his share, and find a new city to settle in.”

Edward grimaced, remembering his servant's promise; and a flash of consternation crossed his servant's face.

“Wait,” he said. “You mean...you are working for Umbaccano, too? You're not interested in the ruins personally, just looking for him?”

The Imperial flushed. He had forgotten that he'd never told his servant that part of the story. “Well...actually...as a matter of fact...”

“Of course,” S'razirr hissed. “Why do you think Maric hates him so much?” The Khajiit laughed a throaty laugh. “At last, the elf tires of Maric's cowardice, and sends a real tomb robber!”

Ignoring the beast creature's insult, Edward explained quickly to his servant, “He approached me to find this carving...”

“I should have known there was a reason for this sudden interest in Aleyid artifacts....but...Umbaccano?!”

Edward snorted in aggravation. How dare his servant question his motives? “One man's gold is as good as another's!” he snapped. “And it's my own damned business who my clients are, isn't it?”

“Not when you trick me into finding the carving for you.”

“You didn't...I didn't...what does it matter, any way? You're not working for him – you're working for me. So why do you care?”

The other man made no response, however, but set his jaw firmly and looked away. Edward glared at him, feeling rather furious. Truth to be told, he wasn't terribly upset by his servant's questioning; it was more the pangs of conscience, in working for someone who had fired a good, trustworthy worker – a friend, he would almost deign to admit – in order to increase his horde of treasures, that bothered the Imperial. So, naturally, he channeled his frustration at any hint of wrongdoing on his part into anger at another.

GAAAAH!!! Edward showed...human emotions? ARGH!!! That means...snow in july...hell freezing over...etc.


Lol, Great Write Rachel !!! I hope you are starting to feel better...wait...not really. I'm enjoying having you back too much to want you healed !!! (just kidding) ROFL !!!

Ill-bred barbarians! How dare they even THINK to intrude upon Edward so!

@mALX: LOL, thanks. I'm actually all better now...it's the snow storm you've got to thank for this last bout of writing, lol. I spent the weekend baking cookies, shoveling (blech), writing and drawing. None of which I had originally intended to do, but... As for Edward and his human emotions...well, don't get too used to it. He might succumb to being human every once in awhile, but that just means that he has to try harder next time.

@Verlox: LOL, barbarians indeed!! Edward's fortitude in dealing with them is really remarkable, the poor man.

Some men, a career of witticisms make;
For others, their path is heroism extraordinary;
But for him? Bungling unparalleled,
Coupled with arrogance indescribable.
-- Author's notes preceding The Song of Edward

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Edward, trying hard to control his uneven breathing, paused as he reached the top of the stairs. He hadn't realized just how heavy the carving was until he had to carry it up a flight of stairs. Jollring paused to look him over with an expression that conveyed only the slightest hint of disgust. “Sir? Is everything alright?”

Edward nodded, but didn't speak, opting to save his breath for the time being.

“Very well...then, shall we proceed?”

The Imperial nodded again.

Subtly rolling his eyes, the Nord opened the door to his master's chambers. “Sir, the tomb raider has returned,” he announced.

Umbaccano glanced up, and Edward noted that he was seated exactly where he'd seen him before, reading exactly the same book he'd been reading the last time he'd been in the manor. He cringed. He couldn't stand the academic types, with their nose always in a book. “Why doesn't he get off his duff and get these rocks himself?” he wondered. “Or spend some time fixing that ridiculous hair of his?”

“Ah!” the elf greeted. “It's you!”

Edward nodded. His breath still wasn't fully recovered, and he didn't want to give his employer the wrong impression of his fitness or ability by panting heavily after walking up a flight of stairs.

“I take it, then, that you've retrieved my carving?”

The Imperial nodded once more, producing the rock from inside of a bag. Umbacanno's eyes lit up at the sight of it, and he made a quick gesture to his manservant. Jollring stepped forward, handing Edward a little purse of Septims, as Umbaccano relieved him of his heavy burden.

Despite himself, the Imperial smiled. The coins were far less heavy than the rock – and they were gold, as opposed to old stone.

“Now,” Umbaccano declared, “you have proved yourself a reliable treasure hunter! How, then, would you feel about taking another job from me? This is a delicate one – one that I dare only entrust to my most trustworthy employee. That is why I would like you to take it, if you're willing.”

Edward preened at the compliment, and, with an excessively silly simper, declared, “Well, that, of course, depends on the nature of the assignment...”

“And the pay,” Umbaccano put in.

This frank statement of the very idea that he had in his mind caused Edward's confident, self congratulatory air to falter for a moment. But, in the next, he resumed his cool demeanor. “Of course, one expects ample remuneration for one's work...”

“Of course,” the elf nodded. “And it shall be made. One thousand septims up front, and one thousand Septims after the job is finished.”

* * *

Edward felt the flick of a wet cloth in his face – a very hard flick, in point of fact. He blinked and stirred, only to be greeted by a brusque slap. This caused him to sit upright with a start.

“I don't think you needed to hit him again...I think he was waking up already,” he heard a familiar voice.

“No, sir, I don't think he was,” another voice disagreed.

Edward stared into the faces of the speakers, who were Jollring and Umbaccano. For a moment, he wondered why he was seated on the floor, and they were leaning over him concernedly. “What...happened?”

“You seemed to collapse,” the elf informed him, “when we were discussing your payment.”

“I'm sure it was a faint, sir,” the Nord put in. “Probably after all the exertion of climbing the stairs.”

Edward threw a fleeting glare at the servant, but returned his full attention to the elf. “That's right,” he nodded, remembering now. In truth, he had fainted – but it had nothing to do with the stairs. He had collapsed at the prospect of two thousand gold Septims. “I was just agreeing to take the job, and you were telling me that it would pay two thousand Septims.”

“That's right,” Umbaccano nodded.

Edward leaped to his feet, brushing himself off. So eager was he to start, so anxious to lay his hands on the two thousand Septims, that he didn't even take time to be embarrassed by his fainting spell. “When do I start?”

“After you hear the details of the assignment might be a good time,” the elf smiled.

The ways of the barbarians, are barbarous indeed;
And the ways of the peasants, peasantinian* indeed.
-- Wisdom of the First Era

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Edward felt the purse of gold coins at his side a second time as he stepped out of Umbaccano's manor, into the afternoon sunlight. He couldn't believe it – he had almost fainted a second time at hearing the details of his assignment. The elf – madman that he was! – was paying him two thousand gold coins to speak to a collector about selling an old hat. He laughed to himself. It was a miracle that Umbaccano was still rich, when he threw his money away like that. It was almost cruel of him to take the job...and yet, it would have been criminal to throw away such a shot at wealth.

So caught up in feverish delight as he was, he didn't notice his servant approach. “Sir?” the other man greeted.

Edward started, a guilty feeling coming over him. He had agreed, earlier, that this would be his last job for Umbaccano...and here he was, presented with an opportunity that was simply too good to pass up. “Oh, uhm, what?”

“I bought the supplies for our return to Cheydinhal, sir.”

Edward frowned. “Cheydinhal?”

“Yes...you were en route to...” Here, the other man lowered his voice. “Your Dark Brotherhood contact.”

“Oh, yes,” Edward nodded. It seemed like a very long time ago, now. He enjoyed his work with the Brotherhood, of course...but they clearly did not pay anywhere near what he was worth – and could expect from Umbaccano. “However, there's been a...umm...slight delay in our plans.”

His servant eyed him with obvious suspicion. “Sir?”

“I need to visit someone...” he answered. “Here in town. It shouldn't take long, just a quick visit.”

The suspicion was now fullblown on the other man's face. “Who?”

Edward recoiled to show how deeply affronted he was by these questions. “Who are you,” he demanded, “to question me?”

The other man frowned. “Someone who knows Umbaccano, sir. There is a collector, her name is Herminia Cinna. They have been rivals for years, and there is a lot of...bad blood between them. Umbaccano is always trying to find someone else to bring into the quarrel, hoping to best her for this item or that.”

Edward's emotions cycled from shock to disinterest and back to shock again. He couldn't care less about the backstory, but he was amazed that his valet had been able to discern so quickly what his purpose was. “Well, so what?” he asked. “What do I care, as long as I'm paid?”

His servant frowned. “There's a reason Claude Maric has never done it, even when he offers huge bonuses for doing so,” he answered. “I don't know what, exactly, the details of their rivalry are...but I don't think it's a safe job, sir. Otherwise, even a coward like Maric would have scooped it up...”

Edward snorted. “Do you really think,” he demanded, “that I am going to let the fears of a coward stop me? Edward the Imperial is not ruled by fear – not his own, and certainly not a cowardly little Breton's!”

“Sir, please, I don't trust -”

“I don't care who or what you do or don't trust!” Edward snapped. “I am going! I am not going to let Maric's cowardice get in my way – or yours, for that matter.” He paused. “And, besides, what could possibly be dangerous about buying a hat?!”

His servant stared blankly at him. “A...hat, sir?”

“Yes!” Edward nodded. “He wants me to go talk to her about selling some old Aleyid king's hat, and -”

“You don't mean the Crown of Nenalata, do you?”

Edward blinked. That sounded familiar. “Yes, I think it was a crown,” he agreed.

“I should have known!” his servant exclaimed. “He's been after two pieces for years, sir – the carving you just gave him, and that crown. Now he's got one, and he wants the other. The Crown is supposed to be the Crown worn by the last King of the Aleyids. It's a very powerful magical device, sir – they say-”

Edward yawned. What was his servant babbling about? Did he really think Umbaccano hadn't already bored him to death with all of these irrelevant details about the Aleyid kings and cities and all the rest?

“And, if you understand the underlying magic, it can be a powerful weapon. I don't think...I don't think it should be in Umbaccano's hands, sir!”

Edward frowned at his servant. The man's attempts at getting him to leave the elf's employ really were pathetic. “Magic hats? Does he really think I'm going to fall for this junk?!” he wondered. Aloud, he said firmly, “That's all very well and good...but I'm still talking to her. If you're worried about it, go to the temple and ask for hat-dispelling blessings...”




* peasantinian (adj): 1. belonging to a peasant
2. of or characterized by distinctly peasant-like characteristics
3. poor or unrefined in appearance, breeding, or bearing

Examples of Peasantinian:
"He was a rough lad with an odd streak of refinement, peasantinian in his mannerisms but genteel in speech."
"The foremost peasantinian mode of travel: one's own two feet."
"It was an extraordinarily peasantinian hovel."

Origins of Peasantinian:
Imperial, peasantius, from Aleyid paysant
First known use: First era

Through mighty might and righteous right,
Bravely fighting the good, nay the best, fight,
The Imperials broke their chains and reversed their plight
And valiantly stormed the White Gold Tower that joyous night
Victory bound, immortalized for their courage and might
Riding the wave of conquest and history, hail the mighty Empire!
-- Excerpt from a grade school history textbook, chapter The Glorious Fall of the Barbarous Elves, and the Ascension of the Imperials as the Right and Just Rulers of Tamriel

Chapter Sixty

Edward stood, tapping his foot impatiently. The Cinna woman was gabbing ceaselessly with a beggar, who was complaining about some illness that seemed to make him weak and tired. The Imperial sighed. No wonder Umbaccano sent him on this tedious task – clearly the woman was a nitwit, if she preferred babbling with whiny beggars to actual business transactions.

“Take this in two doses – one now, and one in about twelve hours,” she was saying. “It should cure your problems.”

“Ohh, thank you, kind lady!”

“No need to thank me, Fralav. Just make sure you take both doses, and get some rest. You should feel fine in no time.”

“Blessings of Julianos upon you, kind lady!”

Edward rolled his eyes as Herminia dismissed Fralav. “These beggars never switch up their lines, do they?” he wondered.

Glaring down his nose at the other man as he passed, Edward headed over to Miss Cinna when she called, “Next.”

“Good afternoon,” he greeted, with as charming a smile as he could muster when thoroughly annoyed – as he was now, at having to wait as long as he'd had to wait.

She stared at him for a moment, an eyebrow raised. “Are you sure you're homeless?” she asked.

This unexpected and unflattering query took Edward completely aback. “Me? Homeless? What?”

“I'm sorry, sir, but this clinic is only for the homeless and waterfront district residents. You don't look like you're either of those...”

Despite himself, he felt a slight twinge of relief that – mad as she was – she could tell that he was not a lowlife like the creature who had just slunk out. “My dear lady,” he informed her, “I have no idea what you're talking about. Of course I am not homeless. And I most assuredly do not live in the hovels on the waterfront.”

She nodded. “Then this clinic isn't for you.”

He frowned at her. “What clinic?”

It was her turn to frown. “Aren't you here for the free Fredas clinic?”

“What?”

“Oh...I guess not. It's a service I provide to the poor in the Imperial City...free medicine and all of that, for whatever ails them.”

Edward frowned again, feeling annoyed that this crazy woman could have thought that he, Edward the Imperial, had come to beg aid from a batty old collector. “Yes, well, fascinating as that is,” he told her, “I am not here for the clinic. I am here to talk to you about your collection.”

“Ah.” Her eyes lit up. “Well, I would love to have that discussion with you. However, I'm afraid I'm unavailable right now.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I'm running my clinic...”

“But...but surely it can wait! This will only take...”

At that moment, the door opened, and a scraggly beggar walked in. Edward shivered and stepped back involuntarily at the sight of the dirty, bedraggled creature.

“Sorry,” she said. “Another patient. But, if you'd like, you can take a seat in the vestibule, and wait until we're done...”

* * *

Three hours later – and scratching, coughing and feeling himself remarkably lightheaded and short of breath – Edward hobbled over to Miss Cinna. Her clinic had finally ended, and she had declared that she was ready to talk. However, on seeing his approach, she raised an eyebrow. “What's wrong with you?” she asked.

“I think...I caught something,” he admitted. “I'm itching all over.”

She nodded. “It could be fleas or lice,” she told him. “After being exposed to patients with it, you might have picked up a few yourself.”

Edward felt his heart sink. “And...I have this lightheaded feeling. I feel like the room is spinning, and taking my strength with it.” He didn't care that his description of the ailment was exactly what Fralav's had been – he was sure that he had caught it from the filthy beggar, anyway.

She frowned. “It...could be Black-Heart Blight, I suppose. That's one of the symptoms...”

“And then,” he continued, “I have this cough.” He paused to demonstrate. “You see? And I noticed one of those beggars had the same thing. You don't suppose I could have picked it up?”

Her frown deepened. “I've never heard of Swamp Fever taking effect that quickly after exposure...”

“And my leg,” Edward continued, “it hurts, a lot. I can't walk on it. And I saw one of those beggars hobbling around too...”

“Fractured legs aren't contagious...” she informed him dryly.

SPEW !!! Wait till he sees Docada !!!! ROFL !!!!



[quote]
She nodded. “It could be fleas or lice,” she told him. “After being exposed to patients with it, you might have picked up a few yourself.”

She frowned. “It...could be Black-Heart Blight, I suppose. “

ROFL !!!! Edward with ... lice !!!! SPEW !!!!!

These were great! Ah, I have missed Edward and his valet !!!!

LOL, thanks, mALX -- my favorite part of Edward's hypochondria was the "contagious" fractured leg...I can just see him, sitting there bored, absently watching as people hobble by, scratching/coughing/wheezing, and imagining that he is coming down with everything they have.


Where women are concerned,
A true master of speech and subtlety
Will find it the easiest thing in the world
To bend them to his will.
-- Rough draft of a dating guide, penned by Edward

Chapter Sixty-One

“Fractured?” Edward repeated, standing up straight. “Oh. Well, that's...good...maybe mine isn't...fractured, then.”

“I'm pretty sure it's not,” she told him curtly. “Seeing as how you walked in here fine, and then spent the last two hours sitting...”

“Three,” he corrected.

“What?”

“It was three hours,” he told her. “Not two.” Her annoyed look was quickly becoming a glare. “Not that it matters, of course,” he hastened to add. “I love sitting around and listening to vagrants whine as they spread their germs.” This last part was said with what he hoped was a genuine-seeming smile, but, if her expression was anything to go by, it had missed the mark somewhat.

“What do you want?” she demanded. “You said something about my collection. What about it?”

Seeing that their conversation had quickly taken a turn for the worse, Edward decided it was time to apply some charm. “Well,” he simpered, “as an amateur student of the Aleyids, I have long desired to meet the most formidable, learned mind on the topic – your reputation is beyond compare. So, when I wanted to locate a particular Aleyid hat for my own private collection, I knew I had to come to you.”

Alas, but Edward's charm had rather the opposite effect than he'd hoped; for, rolling her eyes, she snorted, “Oh, gods, Umbaccano gets more pathetic by the day.”

Edward flushed, stammering. “Umbaccano? What? Who? I don't know what you mean!”

“Save your breath,” Herminia informed him curtly. “Umbaccano's tried every trick in the book to get my crown – except sending a blithering idiot. Until now, that is. It's not for sale. At any price. Now get.”

She gestured for the door, but Edward was too frozen in place by sheer stupefaction to make any move. “But...how did you...”

She sighed. “Look, kid, you're obviously new at this. So let me give you some advice. Don't play over your head. Umbaccano is over your head. I am over your head. He's sent guys a lot smarter and a lot more intimidating over here – and not one of them has had any more of a chance than you do. I'm guessing he sent you here hoping your naiveté and obvious cluelessness would achieve what their cunning could not. You might think this job is your lucky break, but you have no idea who and what Umbaccano is. You wouldn't be the first – and you won't be the last – he's sent to his death over petty treasures and rumors of relics. He's a cold, heartless son of a Dremora – and there is no way, come Oblivion or high water, that he is getting my crown.”

Edward stared at her, too shocked to process half of what she was saying. He was still too lost in his amazement that she had figured out that he wanted her crown to focus on too much else. “But...but surely you could just...”

“No,” she shook her head. “You must not be listening to what I'm saying. The Crown of Nenalata is not for sale. At any price. Ever. Go home, and tell Umbaccano that – for the ten thousandth time – if you will. Or, take my advice, and don't ever go back there at all.”

“But what's the big deal?” Edward persisted. “He's willing to pay an outrageous amount of Septims, and -”

Herminia's glare had returned. “It's not the Septims I'm concerned about. Are you even listening to me? The Crown of Nenalata is a powerful magical device.” Edward raised his eyebrows at her. His valet's madness seemed contagious. “In the wrong hand's – in Umbacanno's hands – it could wreak more havoc than you can imagine.”

Edward sighed. “Come on! It's a hat! What can a hat do?!”

“It's not a 'hat'!” she snapped. “It's a crown!”

“Hat, crown, whatever,” he pooh-poohed her. Herminia's glare was piercing now, but Edward was too annoyed to take note. “I mean, you wear it on your head, it's a hat. You can't seriously believe that the world is going to end because of a hat?!”

“You fool!” she snapped. “Have you no notion of Aleyid magic? This was not just a 'hat'! This was the crown of the last King of the Aleyids.”

Edward sighed. “Yeah, yeah, I know – Umbaccano told me. And so did my servant. I get it. It's a powerful guy's hat.”

“Aleyid crowns were imbued with the power of their kings, and their cities!” Herminia told him. “The last king of the Aleyids was reputed to have lived for hundreds of years; his power was beyond compare in the Aleyid world at that time!”

Edward snorted. “Well, his magic hat didn't do him much good when the Imperials rose up against them, did it?”

“You fool!” she repeated. “Do you know nothing of history? The Aleyids were not a central unit; they were a group of warring, bitter rivals. It was the Imperials' good fortune that they rose up at a time of such bitter enmity between clans...because it was the Aleyids' infighting that was at least as much to blame for their downfall as the revolts of their human slaves!”

Edward yawned. “Look, I'm really not interested in a history lesson, ok? I just need that hat...err, crown.”

Herminia Cinna seemed ready to explode, and at a loss for words all at once. At this last observation, Edward decided this was a good time to bring back the charm factor.

“Come on, honey,” he smiled. “You and I both know that Umbaccano is making an offer you can't resist. Sooner or later, you're going to give in...let's face it, the man is offering an obscene amount of gold for an old hat. No one can hold out against that forever.”

Herminia Cinna's face seemed to alternate hues of purple and red as she took several deep breaths. Edward tried to determine if this was a good or bad thing, and figured it was best to keep talking just in case his charm hadn't had its full effect yet.

“Think of it this way. You can take all the money he's going to pay you, and buy as many hats as you want with it – and, between you and me, our styles are much better than those elves anyway. I mean, you'd look pretty svelte in some of the new styles...but Aleyid hats? Old and stuffy. You need modern and sleek, to match you.” Deciding that he didn't want to overdo the charm aspect – not least of all because he had a hard time flattering such an “old bat”, as he considered her, seeing as how she was a good decade or so his senior – he switched tactics. “And you know Umbaccano's never going to give up – you've said as much yourself. So why not take the money, and save yourself the grief? Not to mention, you'd be doing me a big favor. Umbaccano's going to give me a big bonus if I get this right; and I could really use the money right now. My parents aren't doing so well, and my wife is expecting a kid in two weeks...and our landlord is threatening to evict us if we can't make the new rate...not to complain, or anything...but it sure would be a big favor if you could just sell that hat...”

Wisdom teaches, and the wise realize
Women are but pawns in a man's game
A little flattery, a few compliments
And she suddenly sees things his way.
-- Rough draft of a dating guide, penned by Edward

Chapter Sixty-Two

With every new word, a thousand responses flooded Herminia Cinna's mind. Did this crazy Imperial not realize what he was asking? Did he really think his cheap flattery – particularly said with such a forced expression – would persuade her to hand over one of the most powerful ancient artifacts to a man like Umbaccano, a ruthless artifact seeker with an unhealthy obsession with Aleyid power and glory?

By time Edward reached his improvised sob story, Herminia was ready to gag. One phrase, however, stuck in her mind. “Umbaccano's never going to give up.” Pathetic fool that this envoy of Umbaccano's was, he was right on that one point. Today, he might send a nitwit like this to harass her. But tomorrow? He had already resorted to bullying; his thugs had been there more than once, and left singed to prove the fact. She was a good mage, but she was not a great one. What if the next attempt was more successful?

Something else, too, worried her. She had heard that Umbaccano had stepped up the number of treasure hunters he had looking for the High Fane carvings; the fact that he was intensifying the pressure on her indicated that he must be close to finding what he needed. If the rumors were right...

She shivered. If the rumors were right, he would have the secret to unlocking the power of Nenalata – with that, and the crown, he could become the most powerful being on all of Nirn.

She was drawn from her thoughts by the idiot, who was at the moment prattling on about some fictitious wife and offspring.

“And what with little, erm, Timmy's lameness, things are...”

“Oh, that's terrible!” she interjected. Anything, to shut him up; but she couldn't resist adding, “You know, in cases like that, I'd always make an exception, and be glad to see little...what was his name? Timmy? At my clinic.”

Edward stammered out some excuse about not taking advantage of her kindness.

“Oh, not at all! But...”

“Yes?”

“I've been thinking about what you said...and you put it so masterfully, that I'm half inclined to agree. Umbaccano may be an old coot, but it is...just a hat, after all.” Edward nodded eagerly, but she spoke before he had the opportunity to prattle on. “And it is an ancient artifact; aside from me, no one has seen it in how many eras? Surely, even if it did hold power, no one would know how to unlock it...”

“Exactly!” Edward agreed. “You see, that's what I mean. It's just a hat, right?”

She nodded. “And it's been in my possession all this time, and hasn't caused me any harm. Those stories might have even been made up by the Aleyids, or later scholars frightened or ignorant of them.”

Edward nodded, although he seemed a little bored by her delving into any discussion of the historical aspects of the crown.

Smiling, she said, “Very well. I am in agreement with you and your master. I will sell the Aleyid crown.”

Edward was positively beaming, and stumbling out a mass of words to assure her that she was making the right choice and to thank her, all at the same time.

“Yes, well, let me go fetch it for you, will you? I trust, of course, you have the payment?” As he assured her that this was the case, she left for her quarters.

Bolting the door behind her, Herminia opened a heavy wooden trunk, and pulled out two Aleyid caskets. They were bulky, and looked as if they would weigh a lot; and yet they were light as air to lift. Herminia could feel the magic emanating from them, and took care to keep the two caskets away from each other. She had seen the results of placing them too near one another before; even with her skills as a healer, the burns on her hands had taken a week to heal.

Pulling a tiny key from the delicate chain about her neck, she opened one casket, and, with another key, the other. Staring at the two crowns, she smiled. It was a good plan. They were, for all intents and purposes, identical. There were slight decorative differences – with the Nenalata crown bearing more feather impressions than the Lindai crown – but these were subtle. Without the two artifacts side by side to compare, one would hardly know that they were not the same item. And, for all his obsession with the Aleyids, Umbaccano was fixated on Nenalata and its power. He would not have made a study of Lindai.

Too, after Umbaccano's constant harassment over the first crown, Herminia hadn't made the same mistake she made when she retrieved the crown of Nenalata; no one knew that she had gone to Lindai, and no one knew that she had this crown in her possession. Even if anyone took the time to find out that it existed, they would have no idea where it had went.

If Umbaccano was the harmless collector people seemed to believe, selling him the crown of Lindai would be the fulfillment of his lifelong wish; he would think that he held the crown of the last and most powerful of all the Aleyid kings, and that his collection – his obsession – was finally complete. And, if he was the power seeking blackguard that she believed him to be, he would not be able to unleash the monstrous powers of Nenalata, for he would have the lesser crown of Nenalata's rival, Lindai, and his command of the secrets of Nenalata would be useless.

She smiled again. It was a good plan indeed. And the clueless dupe downstairs would be the perfect one to enact it.

The fool believes himself wise in comparison to others,
And the wise man knows himself to be a fool compared to his peers.
-- An excerpt from a piece translated in the scholarly work “Writings of Old, Dead People”

Chapter Sixty-Three

Edward smiled congratulatory smiles to himself as he left Herminia Cinna's home. Things might have started out a little rough between them, but, in the end, yet another woman had succumbed to his charms; she had believed everything he'd said, hook, line and sinker. Not that, of course, his reasoning had been flawed; a hat is just a hat, after all, and there's certainly no sense getting all worked up about it – especially when someone is offering you as much gold as Umbaccano was offering!

Half of him almost regretted telling Herminia the stories about his imaginary wife and kids; judging by the way she'd reacted when he turned on the charm, he could see the promise of a future for the two of them. Not that he was keen on the idea of being with an older woman, of course...but...well, this one was not just your average older woman. She was rich – and that did wonders toward erasing the difference of a decade.

Alas, though, it was not to be, for she thought he was already married. “Oh well,” he mused, “at least I got my hat.”

His thoughts turning to the hat, Edward was seized all at once with a desire to see the thing. She had opened the casket, of course, but he had only caught a glimpse of what looked like a funnily decorated helmet.

Casting furtive glances about him, Edward ducked into a side alley. There, he pulled out the key Herminia had given him, and opened the casket. Staring in astonishment, Edward reached in to remove the item he saw inside.

“This?!” he thought to himself. “This ugly helmet with horns is what all the trouble has been about? And so much for my servant and the Cinna woman insisting this was a crown...look at it! Just an ugly, feathery-looking helmet.” Sighing in annoyance at how much trouble he gone through for such a stupid thing, Edward lifted the helmet to his head.

He started as the metal – as light as the casket itself – touched his brow; a sort of energy, or power, seemed to emanate from it. All at once, he didn't feel terribly annoyed, and his hunger seemed to vanish.

Realizing that he was too nice a person – as evidenced by his sudden lack of frustration by the needless hullabaloo over a horned helmet – Edward removed the crown and sighed. He really had to work at that, he decided – otherwise people would continue to take advantage of his kindness and walk all over him.

He felt his annoyance come ebbing back as he replaced the crown in its casket. “That's better,” he thought. He was sick and tired of people ordering him about and making life difficult for him; he certainly didn't want to forgo the right to be furious at them for it.

Stepping out of the alley, Edward set his feet in the direction of Umbaccano's manor. “The sooner I'm done with this absurd business,” he decided, “the better. This elf is really starting to annoy me...making all this trouble over such an ugly hat...and it's not even like he's going to be able to wear the thing – not with that big spike of hair he's got. Although, maybe he'll finally get a decent hair cut now that he's got this.” The idea made Edward chuckle.

Where night forever falls,
Where the sinister spider crawls
The tomb-like city of buried walls
The haunt of the Aleyids appalls!
-- On Unraveling the Secrets of Aleyid Ruins, Edition the First



Chapter Sixty-Four

The elf's eyes lit up as Edward stepped into the room, carrying the Aleyid casket. “Oh my...don't tell me that you have finally persuaded that old toad?!” he exclaimed, leaping out of his seat in pure joy.

Confirming to his employer that he had indeed, Edward remarked to himself that this was, in fact, the first time he had seen Umbaccano leave his seat. “Well, at least I know he's capable of it...” he thought ill-humoredly.

“Ohh!” the elf was practically frantic with delight as he took the casket from Edward's hands.

Watching with a measure of guarded disdain, Edward allowed his employer to take out the crown, examine and exclaim over this detail and that, the beauty of the Elven craftsmanship, the power emanating from the thing, and all manner of other trite collector-speak, before declaring, “Well, since I've procured for you this delightful hat...”

“Oh yes, your payment,” Umbaccano looked up long enough to signal Jollring. “Of course!”

The Nord stepped forward and handed the beaming Edward a bag of gold; so thrilled to touch another thousand Septims – the most money he had ever had in his hands – was he, that the Imperial didn't even notice the other man's expression of contempt.

“Well, if that's all,” Edward smiled, “I've got a fortune to go drink away!”

The Altmer looked up a second time. “Hold on!” he called, stopping Edward in his tracks.

“What?”

“I can't tell you how thrilled I am with this...how did you manage to get Herminia to hand it over?!”

Edward shrugged. “Well, you know...just explained it in a rational manner. And she couldn't refuse, especially with what you were paying.”

The elf nodded. “It was personal, then. I knew it. I figured it just took a fresh face.” Umbaccno smiled. “I thank you.”

Shrugging again, the Imperial declared with mock humbleness, “All in a day's work.”

“Yes...and...I know you want to enjoy the rewards of your labor...”

Edward cringed. The elf was going to offer him another annoying job that paid too well to turn down, wasn't he?

“But...I do have one last proposition, if you're interested.”

Edward sighed, but nodded.

“Good! Now that I have this crown, I need to go to Nenalata itself.”

“Why?” the Imperial asked with a frown.

“Because I am a scholar as well as a collector!” Umbaccano returned. “This crown, and the carving you retrieved, were the last pieces I needed to complete my research, and unravel the mysteries of the Last King of the Aleyids.”

Edward cringed. He hated history buffs. For a moment, he considered turning the offer down.

“I would be – we, if you agree to come as my guard – would be making our way to the throne room,” Umbaccano continued. “And that has not been disturbed for thousands of years...I am there for the history of the place, so whatever treasure you found would be yours...”

All thoughts of abandoning the elf's employ were suddenly as extinct as the Aleyids, and Edward, shaking from pure excitement at the idea of looting an ancient throne room, shook his employer's hand. “It would be a pleasure!”

GAAAH !!! It's almost here...Edward in Nenalata !!! I can't wait !!!

These two parts had me choking! :








Getting a new Edward quest from the early days before the valet is revealed - Awesome !!!!! I am loving this !!!!

Haven't caught up yet, but I wanted to comment so you know I am still loving every sigh, every snort, every moment of Edwardian idiocy.


Ah yes, Edward- stealthy as an elephant in a room full of rice paper.


Poor Edward- afraid he will be outraged by the “tomb robbers.” Of course, he tends to be outraged by just about everything.


And there it is. He would rather lose his… honor… than his gold.



The "Edward Doctrine" at work.






And he has a new title- Edward the Hypochondriac. “Fractured legs aren’t contagious.”

Where night forever falls,
Where the sinister spider crawls

Sinister spider!! Aren't they all.


I have been in stitches all morning catching up with Edward's adventures. Fractures aren't contagious, LOL!! Hilarious, I love it!

Edward, earthward! Down doo de dungeons!!!

Where he will step into, and make his own, doo-doo...

I can't wait!